#this ended up a bit stream of consciousness

[maryloohoo]

Live-action Hiccup as a reflection of neurodivergent childhood: a soliloquy

I really wanted to write this post like an essay, with a thesis supported by points, but every time I tried to do it like that, it came out wrong. This point is better explained as a journey of discovery - observations made, thoughts had, and revelations that made everything click into place. So, that's how we're doing it. Strap in, gang.

(Also, it should be noted, this is largely a cleaned-up and slightly-augmented transcription of a verbal spiel I went on the other day. It's not an exact one-to-one, but if anyone would prefer this in audio format, hit me up. And also this is gonna read like a stream-of-consciousness speech. Because it is. :P )

A bit of context just regarding me and where I'm coming from: The animated movie has been my favorite movie since 2010 when I first saw it. I can recite it almost from memory. I have seen the live-action movie twice (and I plan on seeing it as many more times as I can before it leaves theaters). Also I have ADHD.

ALSO ALSO. This is not about headcanoning either version of Hiccup as neurodivergent. This is about how Hiccup's experiences in the live-action HTTYD greatly resemble things that a lot of undiagnosed neurodivergent kids go through. He does not, himself, have to be neurodivergent for that to be the case (however, I totally believe that he is and I will pop off with the headcanons about it if anyone gives me attention and probably even if they don't :P). Alright. Here we go.

SO, watching the live-action movie, Hiccup felt different, obviously, in a lot of ways. And some of it was, at first, a little bit disappointing, I'm not gonna lie. Hiccup's snarkiness is sort of one of his defining features in a lot of ways, and since there was less of it, I was like, "oh, that's sad", you know? Even knowing that a lot of it was just Jay Baruchel improvising, so it's not like Mason Thames could have done it, 'cause it was somebody else's improv. Like, he got to keep in the "Thank you for nothing, you useless reptile" line, 'cause he suggested it, but like the "Excuse me, barmaid, I'm afraid you brought me the wrong offspring!!!" and all of that stuff, I'm pretty sure that was Jay improvising, so Mason didn't do it in this movie.

But, as I watched, even if it wasn't exactly the same Hiccup that I remembered, there was still a congruity to all of Mason's choices that made me love him just as much, and made me go "Oh, that's still Hiccup. Like, that's very Hiccup." And the point where I was like "Oh yeah, that's Hiccup! Definitely!" was sort of closer to the end. There was a confidence in the way he was speaking, and a charisma, and, you know, a sort of leaderly quality that I recognized from, honestly, not as much the first HTTYD, but from all of the later installments in the franchise, including the TV shows. And I remember the second time I watched the movie, noting a specific point, and going "Oh, wow, look at that! That's where it starts." There's a moment after Romantic Flight when Hiccup and Astrid are on Toothless, and she's like, "Oh, what are you gonna do? you have to kill [a dragon] tomorrow". And he replies something like "Well, you kind of blew our escape plan, so I'm gonna need a minute." And the way he said that, particularly the "I'm gonna need a minute" part, was so much more confident than he really said anything else up to that point (like, to another human being). There was an edge to his voice, not mean, not harsh, just firm, that hadn't been there before. And I was like "Oh, look at this confident boy, where did he come from?" And then I was like, "Oh, it's 'cause, you know, he's the one in control of the situation. He's on a dragon. And he knows that Astrid is now on his side, so he can have that confidence as he's speaking." And then, even later on, when Toothless wasn't there anymore and he was speaking to the rest of the teenagers [the scene as they're all about to head into the arena grab the dragons so they can go save help the adults], the confidence was back, the leaderly quality was back, all of that nonsense. And I was like, "Oh, it's because Astrid's on his side still, so he can carry the confidence off of the dragon." And I remember thinking that that's really weird and interesting. That's what makes this Hiccup different, in this movie, is that you actually see his confidence grow over the course of the movie, whereas animated Hiccup, he's confident [or at least visibly projecting an air of confidence, but I still think that more of it is true than just a projection] right from the beginning. And then I watched an interview with Mason Thames, who plays Hiccup (and Nico Parker who plays Astrid). And they were talking about differences between Jay Baruchel's performance and Mason's, and Mason says this:

"Me and Dean had a lot of time to talk about new things we wanted to explore, like a darker side of Hiccup, and sadder, lonelier side. Because, his whole village despises him. His father is not proud of him. And, you know, the amount of stress, and, kind of, what that would do to a kid, you know?"

And that made something click in my brain. The sadder, lonelier side is definitely visible in the way that Mason plays everything. And it makes sense. This Hiccup is a lot more...beaten down, I suppose, by the circumstances of his existence pre-Toothless. And so, then, watching that journey of him going from being very, very not confident, watching the confidence grow as he goes along in the movie, makes sense, because of how different he is in the beginning. There are other examples that I really, really like in terms of the acting choices that Mason made and other actors made that show it even more, that lonelier, sadder side of Hiccup. You might think, well, how does that even work? It's almost exactly the same script. How do they do that?

Hiccup is less snarky. That's just how it is. He's less snarky when he responds to people; he's less snarky with Gobber, which is very interesting. In the animated movie, Gobber snarks at Hiccup, Hiccup snarks right back. In live-action, Gobber's actually a lot more...gentle with him. He is, like, visibly saddened by a lot of Hiccup's behavioral responses to things. There's the part where Hiccup says "I just wanna be one of you guys" and then goes inside his house, leaving Gobber outside. And after Hiccup's closed the door, Gobber just says, very quietly and sadly to himself, "I know you do". It's very much like he can tell that Hiccup is internally beating himself up for not being like everybody else. The way that Hiccup interacts with people around him is a lot less confident and a lot more like...not nervous, but there's definitely something apologetic, like a "Oh, I'm so sorry. I know I suck, believe me, I know" underpinning his words. There's a part that he has, a new scene where he's talking to Astrid, that animated Hiccup does not have, where he says something like "You're the kid [my dad] always wanted. Instead he got stuck with all this." And it's all very "Yeah, I suck", and it's all played very sincere. And that's...not really an attitude that animated Hiccup ever had? Animated Hiccup knew what he was, knew what he was capable of, and knew how he could use that to be a Viking; to do all of the things that his dad and his village wanted him to do. They just wouldn't let him. Nobody would listen to him, and because it wasn't the way things were done, he couldn't do it.

But in all of that, narratively, that's a problem with society. That's not something wrong with Hiccup, and Hiccup did not act like there was something that wrong with him, you know? [To clarify what I meant by this; there's a difference between thinking that you're a square peg in a round hole, and thinking that you're a stripped screw. One just needs a different environment to flourish, the other is ultimately useless any way you slice it]. He was like, yeah, I know I'm small, but look at all this stuff I can do. I know it's not really a Viking way to do things, but like, it can be used to do Vikingy things. I could kill a dragon with this frickin like ballista or whatever. The bolas launcher.

That's animated Hiccup, and he's very different from live-action Hiccup. And animated Hiccup, as much as I love him, does not really allow for the same sort of reflection of a very neurodivergent experience as live-action Hiccup. Not that he doesn't at all. There is certainly an element of that, as there always is in stories where it's something about somebody being othered. And I mean, you know, you've also got Stoick saying that whole bit about like "from the time he was born, he's been different", "I take him fishing and he goes hunting for trolls", "he has the attention span of a sparrow", etc. and everybody points and goes "ADHD!" and, like...valid of them, but you know. It's different, obviously, saying "Oh, this seems like a character has ADHD" and "Oh, the thing that this character experiences in this movie is very, very reflective of the autistic or ADHD experience".

The thing that made it all click and made me go, "Oohhhhhh; that's why that makes sense", is that the thing that is making Hiccup so ✨different✨ changes from animated to live-action. That was explained in an interview with Dean DeBlois, who was the director of the original animated movie and also this live action one. And he said this:

"Hiccup was designed to be a pipsqueak in his world. And so, production design-wise, in the animated film, we made everything larger than life, you know. The buildings, the trees, the people. Everything just seemed to outsize little Hiccup. But, I think as we were narrowing in on our casting of Hiccup, and we realized, like, Mason, though he's 15, is not a pipsqueak. He's an average kid at 15. That meant we didn't have to lean into, as heavily, this idea that he's a tiny, a tiny kid in an oversized world. We, we leaned more into his otherness, like, he is a misfit. He doesn't follow the Viking creed. He's not- he's just always thinking differently, and therefore is treated as somebody who is very different."

And that is what makes live-action Hiccup representation of a neurodivergent experience in the way that animated Hiccup is not, and [knowing explicitly where the director was coming from] makes it very easy to read it in a lot of Mason's acting, too. Like, animated Hiccup is different because he's small. That's not something he can change; that's just how he is, and it's really, really annoying that his society doesn't like that, but it's also not something that he has any control over. So, naturally, he responds to all of the dislike and the derision and all that stuff with like "Ugh. Come on." Like, when somebody says, "Stop being all of this", and he says, "You just gestured to all of me", he sounds annoyed about it. He's like, "Really? Like, all? There's not one part of my body- Okay, sure. Fine. Whatever." Whereas, with Mason's Hiccup, whatever is wrong with him is not something that you can see, and it's not something that he thinks he can't change. If it's something in the way that he's thinking, and something in the way that he's responding to the world around him that's different than everybody else, then, naturally, the next step would be to think, "Oh, if it's all in my brain, I can fix that. I should be able to fix that". But he can't, and so he beats himself up, and that's, I think, why Gobber treats him the way that he does. He knows that Hiccup is beating himself up, because Hiccup knows that it's something internal, that he should be able to fix, but he can't. And that's why, you know, Hiccup lacks so much confidence in the beginning of the movie where animated Hiccup doesn't, is because he thinks that there's something wrong with him. Because he doesn't think like everybody else, and that's the part that's important to all the Vikings, and that's why they deride him so, is because he doesn't think like them as opposed to him just not looking like them or being as physically capable as them. And that is so, so, so, so much what it's like to be young and neurodivergent and not diagnosed.

And it's summed up really, really well at the end right as Hiccup gets on Toothless and they are about to go up to fight the Red Death and Stoick says "I'm proud to call you my son". Animated Hiccup says "Thanks, Dad", because animated Hiccup has always known who he was and what he was capable of. He just needed someone to hear him. Live-action Hiccup says, "That's all I need". And after taking a minute, too; like he, honestly, Mason's acting, 10 out of 10; he looks like he's about to start crying for a second. He has to, like, take a second so he doesn't cry, so his voice won't crack the second he opens his mouth, and then he says "That's all I need", because live-action Hiccup really needed to know from the people around him that they are proud of him. That he's not...there's not something wrong with him on the inside that means he's never going to be enough. And that is that is the autistic and/or ADHD experience.

That is pretty much the end of the original spiel. There's other stuff I could get into to further my assertions (a variety of body types present among the live-action Vikings hammering home the idea that Hiccup's biggest differences are all internal ones, Mason delivering the line "I'm really extra sure that I won't [kill dragons]" less like Jay's declaration and more like he's admitting to a personal failing being more evidence for the way live-action Hiccup views himself differently to his animated counterpart, etc.) but it's been about a week since I last saw the live-action movie and I don't want to make points based on faulty recollection.

I do want to add, though, that I know that my experiences as a child/teen with undiagnosed ADHD are in no way universal. There are probably a lot of people who responded completely differently than I did to everything, and people whose experiences look like animated Hiccup's, and in the grand scheme of things, these are variations of the exact same character and any experiences connected to one can very likely be read in the other.

But at the same time....

There's something that live-action Hiccup has that his animated counterpart doesn't, for me. I look at live-action Hiccup - his sadness, his shame & stress, his struggles to connect, his uncertainty, his self-reproach, his need for someone to be proud of him, his slowly-growing confidence as more and more people show that they value him as he is and not as he or they feel that he should be - and there's something that I recognize. I look at him, and I see myself.

Well, myself at his age, anyway. 12 years and one diagnosis later, I'd like to think that I'm a little more confident in myself and the way that I think. Doesn't stop me from tearing up every time someone says that they're proud of me, though. :P And to have an experience that's so familiar & difficult be so visible, and in the character who was already tied for my favorite fictional character of all time to boot. It means a lot.

So yeah. That's about all I've got. If you've made it this far, congratulations on being just as weird about HTTYD as I am. I hope you liked reading this. See you around!

[braintapes]

Yeah yeah impossible architecture this, backrooms that, endless hallways and looping corridors, we've all seen it. You know what's really fucked up? What's really terrifying, down to the quick of your soul? A house/building that's almost completely normally but was just atrociously built. All the infrastructure is bad. The planning was bad. An ongoing cascade of bad decisions allowed to reach their dreadful crescendo.

A house with barren walls, no outlets to be seen. Parts cut out of doors and walls because otherwise it would smack into the light fixtures or ventilation ducts. Piping and ducts that cut into each other, somehow. Spaghetti wire that leads to nowhere, abandoned eons past and left to rot and fester. Multiple different crews of people had to actively spend time installing these things. Did they know? Did they care? Could they do anything to stop the tragedy?

And you know, maybe it can take on a supernatural element. Those wires grew and grew like climbing ivy, no goal but to sprawl across the house. A second light switch appears almost completely on top of the previous one, just slightly rotated so you can see the old one underneath. The sharp angles in the ducts get just a little sharper, sharper still until they cut better than your best knives. The appliances sink further and further into the wall with each passing day until the House devours them completely. The pipes are leaking an unidentifiable liquid. Shoddy moulding crackles apart revealing something you'd like to hope isn't raw muscle underneath. Water damage bubbles the ceiling, pops it open like popcorn and millions of tiny eyes stare back. What is it that they're looking for? The termites in the attic are getting louder and louder. The wires creep closer and closer...

[king-midas-fortnite]

⚰️

Journal Entry

A dream/nightmare that featured someone no longer in their life

I used to dream often about Marigold. ( My daughter, of course. Not my snapshot friend. I don't know why I'm clarifying. I should be the only one reading these. Anyway).

Back when I was running the Agency, and sleep came easier to me, I felt like I saw her most nights. Not all of these dreams were bad necessarily, but even the good with her weren't enjoyable. I knew our visits would be brief. I knew I was dreaming, that it wasn't really her, and that she'd still be gone when I woke.

On top of all of this, I didn't want to see her. Not like I do now. I was handling things a bit...differently, back then. My "method" of dealing with anything from my past that caused me grief was to avoid it completely. I filled my time entirely with work. I busied myself with learning everything there was to know about the Zero Point and the place it had brought me to. I put every skill I had at my disposal into gathering intel, fitting into a world and time entirely different than my own, getting in with the IO, gaining influence, then getting a group together willing to follow me out of the IO and stay with me while I tried to harness the Zero Point's power and take over the island.

I didn't have time for grief. I didn't have time for guilt. I didn't have time for connections. Plenty of flings, no relationships. Plenty of coworkers & acquaintances, but no friends. I didn't have time to reflect. I didn't have time to try and process. I didn't have time to be a father either to the child I'd lost or the one I'd gained! I didn't--...I didn't have time for love. Of any kind.

It wasn't until I had died and had nothing but time in the Underworld that I realized how foolish I had been. Ambition is one thing ( and I certainly haven't given up on my desire for control over this miserable place), power too, but...neither of those things make you human. Emotions do. Love, grief, anger, regret...They're all necessary. No matter how much they inconvenience me. ...I wish Marigold would come to me in a dream now. One that isn't just a memory of that day. Maybe it had been her before. Maybe she'd been trying to tell me the very thing it took dying for me to realize. Or, once again, maybe I am speculating on something I needn't. Reminder: these are not "public" to other Tumblrverse characters. Okay to reblog, but please do not roleplay on journal entries!

[kitkatscabinet]

TAKE ME TO YOUR BEST FRIEND'S HOUSE

Pairings: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne x fem! reader.

Summary: So, he might be going against "bro code". He can't help it, though; his best friend's sibling is just too cute.

A/N: Reader can be imagined as biological/adopted/found family.

DICK GRAYSON & WALLY WEST

How Dick hadn't learnt to not leave his phone unattended was beyond Wally, especially when, for a vigilante, the man had such lax security for his personal phone. Nor should he have ever trusted Wally with the password.

Already drafting his absolute PR nightmare tweet on Dick's account, he's mentally rubbing his evil little hands together when his thumb hits the banner notification that pops up on the top of the screen.

My Heart: Thinking about you, come home soon xo

Alongside the text is a photo, a very suggestive photo of a woman dressed in nothing but one of Dick's hoodies. Wally knows because he bought Dick that hoodie, he's also very familiar with the woman in the photo on account of it being his baby sister.

He shrieks, the phone slipping from his slack with shock grip and landing on his big toe.

He doesn't hear the ringtone over his sudden stream of pained expletives, hopping on one foot, until he hears your voice from the speaker.

"Hey babe! You left your hoodie at - "

"YOU!" Wally screams, blubbering incoherently, pointing an accusing finger at the phone like you can see him.

"Jesus Christ," he can practically see you recoiling away from your phone, "Wally?" You've heard enough of your brother's meltdowns over the years that you can recognise him from just a single word.

"YOU, YOU - YOU HARLOT!" You snort at his words, staying silent until his stream of consciousness is finished.

"You done?" You hum, completely unphased at the tantrum Wally's just thrown for the past seven minutes.

"Am I, am I done? No, I'm not done." He squawks, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!" There's a beat of incredulous silence on your end.

"Excuse me? What have I done to you?"

"DEFILED THE SACRED BOND OF BROTHERHOOD IS WHAT YOU'VE DONE, HE'S MY BEST FRIEND"

"The sacred bond of brotherhood? I'm your fucking sibling, you're supposed to attack him, not me!" Wally can't help but notice how you don't deny his words.

"Oh, believe me, Dickhead is gonna get what's coming to him."

"Yeah, whatever, I'm hanging up now, tell Dick I'm getting pizza for dinner."

"Don't you dare - " He doesn't even get to finish his sentence before you've followed through.

"Hey Wally, have you seen my ... phone?" Dick trails off as he spots the item he's looking for in his agitated friend's hand.

"You don’t fuck your best friends younger sibling. That’s like the number one rule of bro code!” Wally shrieked, not greeting him like a normal person, and not giving Dick even a second to realise what was happening before he was being grabbed and shaken by his shoulders.

"I love her." No explanation, no apologies, just pure earnestness and the softest look Wally had ever seen on his friend's face.

The declaration takes all the wind out of his sails, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He drags a hand down his face slowly,

Finally, he groaned and dragged both hands down his face. "Ugh. I hate that you’re so genuine. It ruins my ability to stay mad. Barry's not going to be happy you kept this from him though."

The mental image of the Flash going protective uncle giving him the slightest bit of sick satisfaction, until Dick shatters his dreams by casually saying, "he already knows."

"He what?! Am I the last to know?" Dick makes a show of thinking about it before shrugging with an unapologetic grin.

"Kinda, yeah."

"I'M SURROUNDED BY TRAITORS!" Wally yells, sinking to his knees in defeat.

JASON TODD & ROY HARPER

Nobody had ever accused Roy of being a detective. He might not be as smart as the bats (an impossible hurdle in Roy's opinion), but he wasn't completely fucking stupid.

An unfortunate reality for his sister, who he'd caught sneaking into the Titans Tower at the ripe time of 4:47 am, wearing a familiar leather jacket with a bullet hole in the sleeve. A jacket that could only mean one of two things.

You had joined a biker gang.

You were dating Jason Todd, AKA, his best friend, AKA dead fucking meat.

Because while option one terrified him, he'd still prefer it to the option he had a sinking suspicion about was actually correct.

The next afternoon, he finds Jason working out in the Tower's gym, and he grins wickedly. Bastard didn't even have to make Roy track him down.

"Hey, Roy." Jason greets, never once faltering in his reps, entirely unbothered, like he hadn’t committed emotional treason.

Roy thinks he could be forgiven for his following action, he could have done a lot worse than picking up the nearest kettlebell and throwing it at his unsuspecting friend.

"WHAT THE FUCK ROY?" Jason screeched as he dove for cover.

"YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?!"

"Um, what?" He squeaks, before clearing his throat, "I mean... I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't try to gaslight me!" Roy jabbed a finger at him, seething. "You're supposed to be my best friend, and you went and... and started... canoodling my sister."

Jason’s brows shot up in amusement despite himself. "Canoodling?"

"Don't try and deflect either." Roy flushed as red as his hair.

"I’m not—well. Okay. I am. But in my defense, it wasn’t like I planned to fall for your sister."

"Have you kissed?"

Jason contemplates lying but bites the bullet and nods.

Roy gasped like an old lady hearing someone say cunt. "ON PURPOSE?!"

Jason gave him a flat look. "No, Roy, I tripped and fell. Of course, it was on purpose. More than once, too." He smirks, unable to stop himself from prodding the bear.

Roy spasms.

"Ok, let's not make this weird." Jason huffs.

"Make this weird? It's already weird, we're neck deep in it, NAY!, We're drowning in it!"

"Oh dear god," Jason sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and speaking before he can think better of it, "I love her."

Roy chokes, Jason startles, clearly surprising, even himself, "Oh my god, I love her."

There's a heavy, pained silence before Roy croaks "... Bro"

"I know." Jason tugged at the roots of his hair.

"…BRO." Roy was trying to prevent a panic attack, his panic fuelling Jason's.

"I know."

"You love me?" A slightly giddy voice breathes from the doorway.

Both men groan for different reasons as they spot you bouncing toward them.

"Babe, I -"

"I love you too," you beam, throwing your arms around Jason's neck and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Roy gags, forcing you to pull away. "God, this is gonna ruin every group hang for the rest of my life." He whined.

"Nah. You’ll get used to me kissing your sister in front of you."

"I SWEAR TO GOD —"

TIM DRAKE & CONNER KENT

Conner's knee is jiggling furiously. From across the room, Cassie raises a questioning brow, but Conner makes no effort to stop as he checks the time for the fourth time in less than three minutes.

You're late. So is Tim, but it's not him Conner's worried about. You're never late; you've always been a perpetually early person, and you always get so anxious if you aren't. Conner knows, having been on the receiving end of your time-anxious meltdowns more than once.

"Dude, calm down, they're not even five minutes late yet," Bart says, looking at him as if he's the weird one here, when clearly, something terrible has happened to you.

You've been in a car accident (you don't drive), you've been shot, (you're bulletproof), you've been taken hostage by Lex Luthor (plausible), you've -

"Hi guys, sorry I’m late, I slept through my alarm." You laugh bashfully, avoiding Conner's gaze, which narrows in suspicion.

"That never happens." He scowls, his enhanced hearing picking up the slight stutter in your heartbeat.

"Well, it did today." You rolled your eyes, crossing the room to sit next to Cassie.

Barely two minutes later, a harried-looking Tim scurries through the door, brushing his sweaty hair from his face, and in doing so, accidentally reveals a hickey just beneath the neckline of his shirt.

It's only for a second, but that one second is all he needs to connect the dots.

"No." He says, glaring at Tim as everyone else, including you, watches in confusion.

"No?" Tim repeats.

"NO!" Conner snarls, jumping up from his seat and pulling down the neckline of Tim's shirt to display not one, but three love bites.

"YOU’RE SLEEPING WITH MY SISTER?!"

"Technically, there wasn't much sleeping involved - " Tim mutters, with absolutely zero regard for his well-being.

"I trusted you with my life, and you go behind my back to DEFLOWER MY INNOCENT BABY SISTER?!"

"You're the same age?" Tim mumbles at the same time you scoff.

"Deflower? Innocent? Are we living in the Middle Ages? Are you my owner?"

"Stay out of this!" Conner whirls on you, his gaze dangerously red.

"Stay out of my own sex life?" You guffaw, ignoring the way Conner puffs up like an angry cat. "Besides, Tim's hardly my first."

Your words are enough to shock your brother enough that he drops Tim, reeling back with a hand on his chest like he's suffering a heart attack.

You take the opportunity to scoop your partner into your arms, flying away before Kon can recover, until you reach the safety of the bed you've both only just left.

"I think he's actually going to kill me." Tim mumbles, burying his face in your chest.

"Hmm, guess you''ll just have to keep me around forever, for protection."

"Sounds perfect." Tim dreamily says, clutching you even tighter in contentment.

BRUCE WAYNE & CLARK KENT

Once, there would have been a time when interviewing Gotham’s Bruce Wayne would have left him an anxious wreck, but now, Clark relished in the opportunity. Giddy that his best friend, no matter how much the man denied it, would turn to him (him! A Metropolis interloper), instead of someone like that tart Vicki Vale.

(That thought has him mentally apologising to his ma for his crudeness, but what she wouldn't know, couldn't hurt her.)

Needless to say, Clark was excited to have been given the chance, and he refused to squander it.

They were in Bruce's "office," a room they both knew he hardly ever even stepped foot inside, but had occupied to keep up the facade.

A brilliant facade it was, Clark thought in amusement, as he watched Brucie Wayne ramble on earnestly. Nobody would ever suspect the man, reaching for his wallet to pull out a picture of his kids in an interview on Wayne Enterprises' newest ventures, to be the fearsome Batman.

Clark, ever affable, just smiles, nodding along until a second picture flutters onto the desk. Bruce freezes, his perfected mask slipping just a fraction, but enough for Clark to notice as the unshakeable man's eyes widen in sheer panic.

Bruce was composed. He was always in control, a master of self-control. Bruce was unflappable, he had a plan for everything.

Bruce, evidently, did not have a plan, beyond freezing in horror, for when an intimate Polaroid of his girlfriend, Clark's sister, landed face up on the table between them.

You're wearing one of his button-up shirts, seated sideways across Bruce's lap, the man's large hand clasped over your thigh, as you stare up at him like he's your whole world.

Clark paused, staring at the photo on the desk like it was a live grenade.

Bruce, very carefully, snuck a hand out to retrieve it. Only to be thwarted by Clark's superspeed. He holds it between his thumb and his index finger like it might bite him, the blinding grin never once fading from his face.

Bruce thinks it's the most terrifying Clark has ever looked.

There's a long pause, with Bruce mentally calculating how long it will take before he has some Kryptonite on his hands and whetehr or not Clark will flatten him before then.

"Oh my god," Clark said.

Bruce grimaced. "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you're dating my sister."

"Ok, it's exactly what it looks like, but—" He cuts off once more as Clark speaks with surprising giddiness.

"You carry her around in your wallet. Like a real boyfriend, it's sickeningly sweet."

Bruce opened his mouth, closing it and opening it again repeatedly like a stunned fish as he blushed a brilliant red.

Clark wasn’t finished; if anything, he looked like Christmas had come early.

"Is there more?" Bruce stiffens, "There is! Do you have a shrine? I bet you have a shrine!"

"Clark."

"Is it in the batcave?"

"Clark."

"What about a scrapbook? Is she on the manor walls yet?"

"Clark."

"Do your kids know? Wait, am I the last to know?!" He seemed genuinely hurt by that thought.

Bruce looked up at the ceiling like it could save him from the confrontation; he thinks he'd rather fight than... whatever the hell, it is Clark's doing.

[dannyriccsystem]

CUDDLE-BUGS!

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

SUMMARY: How the drivers like to cuddle :)

OVERALL W.C: 2.1K

WARNINGS: Fluff, slightly suggestive in a few of them

FEATURING: MV1, DR3, LN4, KA12, CL16, PA17, YT22, AA23, LH44, CS55, GR63, OP81, OB87

NOTE: Featuring Paul Aron as a special treat for the lots of fans he has here…

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

Oh this boy LOVES cuddling. Max is big on physical affection and you actually can’t convince me otherwise. He’s constantly sprawled across the sofa cushions with his head on your lap, and if you dare not play with his hair instantly, he will literally grab your hand and put it on his head like a silent command. He’s like a cat; as soon as you stop touching him, he’ll nuzzle against you until you continue.

Cue the Maxplaining. He’s rambling, talking with his hands while he looks up at the ceiling. You watch with a fond expression, brushing strands of hair away from his face while he goes on and on about the car and the physics behind it and all the great overtakes he’s witnessed. You’re listening, but not retaining the information, because all you can think about are his pretty eyes and how cute he is when he’s ranting.

When you’re both laying down, Max likes to be tucked into you. He usually has his nose buried in your neck, taking in the soft scent of your perfume. He’ll pepper you with lazy kisses; he only stops when he falls asleep, which usually doesn’t take that long. He’s knocked out in an instant. There’s something about you that lulls him to sleep almost instantly.

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

This is the spooning truther. Daniel loves spooning, he thinks it’s so intimate and close. But here’s the grand question of the day: Is he the big spoon or the little spoon?

Well. Both.

It really depends. I think most days he’s the big spoon. He likes holding you in his muscular arms. It makes you feel extra small, which is a bonus in its own. He likes whispering little jokes and quips in your ear, and making you squirm when he lightly tickles your sides occasionally.

But sometimes he likes to be held too. He likes when your much smaller arms wrap around him, and he gets to feel vulnerable. Even if it’s just for a little bit. You’re warm as you snuggle him from behind, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. He likes how you cradle him and hold him like he’s the only person in the world.

So, yeah. This giant softie likes to be on the receiving end of your hugs every now and then. Be kind to him and let him show his soft side.

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

Lando streaming with his camera off, only because you’re asleep on his lap. His audience is wondering why his voice has lowered tenfold, and why his rage-quitting moments have been reduced to a soft bang of his fist on the desk followed by a gentle sigh.

Little do they know, your thighs are straddling him with your face tucked into the crook of his neck, snoring away. He’s cradling your figure with one hand, and using the other to play the game, which explains why his quality of performance has gone way down. He’s rubbing circles onto your back, occasionally kissing your scalp and forehead. He’ll lean away from the mic to whisper in your ear when you stir to consciousness, lulling you back into your slumber.

He loves the fact that you’re somewhat clingy with him. He loves how you have to be close to him—so much that you’re willing to just fall asleep right there on his lap. He’s burning the memory into his brain because he never wants to forget your cute sleepy face :)

—

KIMI ANTONELLI - KA12

I think Kimi’s hard to cuddle with sometimes. He’s always moving, and always talking. One second you’re spooning, the next he has his back to yours, and then he’s on top of you like a blanket, and then he rolls over and you’re on top of him… Yeah. Can’t hold still.

“Did I tell you about what Ollie said to me today?” He’d muse to your sleepy self, and before you could even utter a groggy no, he’d be telling you anyway. You often want to tell him to shut up and go to sleep, but he has that big dorky smile on his face and you just can’t say no.

Even long after you’ve fallen asleep, he continues yapping. It’s not until he actually realizes you’re happily snoring away that he finally quiets down and goes to sleep himself. He always asks if you find it annoying, but in reality his joyous voice and his fluctuating heartbeat, that you can hear with your head on his chest, are usually what ultimately lull you to sleep.

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

This boy needs a hug and you can tell. Whenever he comes home, no matter where he’s gone off to, it’s practically become a ritual for him to walk in pathetically, tail tucked between his legs. You’ve nearly conditioned him, and he doesn’t even realize it. The first time it happened was just a mere coincidence: he was genuinely upset, and you welcomed him with a warm bed and open arms.

Then it kept happening, and eventually you realized that he pretended to be upset every time he came home so that he could snuggle up against you and have you baby him all night. You have to wonder if Charles even realizes this anymore. It’s just part of your nightly routine at this point.

He practically flops on top of you as soon as you send him that little smile and open your arms. He buries his face in your neck, arms wrapped around your abdomen. All of a sudden that sad expression has been replaced by a shitty grin that tells you he won. This is heaven. He just doesn’t realize that you absolutely know what he’s up to…

—

PAUL ARON - PA17

Paul is a delight to cuddle with. An absolute delight. He’s quiet, respectful, and very affectionate. As soon as he sees you pull your current book out, he’s diving onto the bed to situate himself beside you. He has one arm thrown across your stomach, and his head resting on your shoulder. He sleepily studies your face, occasionally peeking at the words on the page.

His hands wander for sure, but not in a weird way. Lightly calloused palms spread out over your stomach, scratching you like you’re a dog. When you start to play with his curls, he essentially loses his grip on staying awake. It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep at that point. Your fingers curl around his hair, playing with individual locks and blonde swirls.

Pepper his face with kisses once he’s asleep. He likes waking up to go to the bathroom, and finding that his face is covered in your lipstick. Absolute perfection. He doesn’t even bother wiping it off, he just joins you in bed again and happily dozes off again.

—

YUKI TSUNODA - YT22

I think it depends on Yuki’s mood. He’s either all over you, or he’s falling asleep as far away as possible. It’s not even like a… Yuki’s angry so he doesn’t want to cuddle. It's just that some days he’s not up for it, and that’s perfectly fine with you.

However, no matter what position you fall asleep in, you two almost always wake up in each other’s arms again. He’ll fall asleep saying he wants some space, and then you wake up and he’s squeezing you like you’re his personal stuffed animal, entirely unconscious whilst doing so. He may be small, but he has a mighty grip on you.

Not big on PDA, but when you’re alone together, he loves being all over you essentially. Let the guy climb you like a tree.

—

ALEX ALBON - AA23

Alex is one of those people that loves to be cuddling… Constantly. But his favorite is at the beach. Both of you could be sprawled out on a large towel or blanket, taking in the sun, and suddenly he’s pulling you to his side and clinging to you like a damn barnacle. He’s a gentleman, too. He’s always asking if you’re comfortable, and how he can get you to be comfortable if not.

Once you try to pull away, he tends to get a bit whiny. He’s pulling you back in his arms and pretending like you’ve really hurt his feelings by daring to get up. He’ll drag it on, too. “Sighh,” With the clutch of his chest as you wriggle around in his hold. “I can’t believe you hate me… Is it because I stink? Sighh…”

He’ll let you go, but not without a lot of complaining. It would be easier to just give him what he wants, honestly. But at the end of the day he really just wants to snuggle up behind you and fall asleep like that, your body pressed to his.

—

LEWIS HAMILTON - LH44

Unfortunately cuddling with Lewis always leads to a wholesome make out session. Or, maybe that’s more fortunate than anything. You plant yourself atop him, legs on either side of his lap. When you lean in to rest your head, you find yourself being pulled into a kiss instead.

You peck his lips momentarily, but he’s hungry and he keeps pulling you in for more whilst you share soft laughter. It could potentially develop into something more, but there’s always some obstacle. A few times you’ve accidentally bitten his lip a little too hard, and you both break away to laugh instead.

Cuddling is nice afterwards. He holds you like you’re his entire world— because you are. He’s both gentle and rough, soft and warm— Lewis is a dream. He’s the dream. He’s perfect.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

Carlos is a very traditional cuddler. When the two of you watch a movie together, he’ll casually throw his arm over your shoulder and tug you closer, usually kissing your scalp in the moment. He loves having you curled up next to him with your head on his chest.

It’s at this point he kind of stops focusing on the movie, and his attention diverts to you. Your smell, your sleepy eyes, your little giggles whenever something funny happens… Now he can’t seem to focus on anything but you, because he just is so infatuated with you.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the night ends in cheeky little kisses. If you’re lucky, maybe a bit more. He can’t help the way you make him feel.

—

GEORGE RUSSELL - GR63

George does not mind PDA, and he definitely favors a good lap cuddle. I think if you were both attending a late night event, he’d let you rest on his lap, even if others were watching. Your legs are thrown over his, and your face is nestled against his chest. He has one arm around you, and the other is over your lap to gently rub your thigh.

Other people used to stare, but everyone’s used to it by now. It’s not like you guys are being gross and secretly kissing and touching and giggling. You’re simply just asleep on his lap, and he’s softly rubbing your skin to help you stay that way. It’s cute.

If you don’t wake up, George will even carry you back to the car. He keeps his hand on your thigh as he drives because he knows it brings you comfort. Your joy is his top priority. Always.

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

Oscar shamelessly loves to be between your thighs.

Now, don’t get me wrong here. Not in a dirty way. He likes to lay his head back on your stomach with your legs on either side of him, framing his face. It’s oddly comforting to be lightly squeezed by your legs, he has to admit. Play with his hair a bit too, he could sleep there forever.

Sometimes the roles swap though. You find yourself between his meaty legs, encased by pure muscle. It’s like heaven, situating yourself there. However… Not to be crude, but he does have to keep his thoughts tame during the process, otherwise you’ve both got a mess to handle.

He’s not a huge cuddle bug I’d say, but when Oscar is in the mood for some intimate touching, it’s… Between your legs. Not like that! Most of the time.

—

OLIVER BEARMAN - OB87

He’s been eyeing you all night. Everytime you ask him what’s up, he denies it and says he was just zoning out, but there’s definitely something on Ollie’s mind. You think you have him figured out, but he’s not giving you much to work with… So you test it out.

You mutter a rather loud “it’s cold in here,” and it’s like he’s a sleeper agent being awoken by those code words. He turns to you quickly, and suddenly he’s up from his position on a nearby chair. He walks over to his bed, and flops down right on top of you, all 6 feet and 2 inches of Ollie smothering you.

He even pulls a blanket up on top of that. He’ll bury his face in your chest, a stupid grin covering his face. He’s right where he wants to be.

[karmicmortal]

content warnings stepcest, noncon, oral sex, munch!jake, somnophilia, petnames (princess, baby), sex dreams, slightly rushed and abrupt ending

don’t like it? don’t read it!

notes this drabble was originally posted to istjisung. i am istjisung. if you see my drabbles posted on any account other than istjisung or karmicmortal, or the ao3 accounts of the same name, that is not me.

you’re not sure when the dreams started, but oftentimes lately, you find yourself having sex dreams. the kind of sex dreams that, weirdly, are all surrounding jake. jake, your stepbrother. the kind, gentle, energetic, wholesome jake. the one who always treats you like royalty. calls you princess or baby. would never step out of line and do something as dirty as this, with you of all people. you feel disgusting and perverted and disgustingly perverted for even allowing your subconscious to go that far.

but something about these dreams feel too real, too…much to be just a product of your imagination.

you feel like if you focus hard enough, you can smell jake, the scent of his shampoo and cologne flooding your nose, feel his touch. more often than not, you wake up with panties so sticky and wet that you couldn’t believe it was just from leaking while you dreamt about your stepbrother. perhaps you had touched yourself in your sleep, or angled your hips a certain way in which you could grind them and soak your panties. somehow, though, you have a gut feeling that that’s not the case.

the dreams never went much further than some touching, a bit of fingering, or oral at the furthest. the image was fuzzy, but it felt real. again, too real to just be a figment of your imagination. you’d never confirmed your suspicions, though, until now.

you’re having one of those dreams again. this time, you were laying on your back, the blankets thrown off of your body and the cool air of the night was chilling your body. but you felt hot. your legs were spread, knees bent to angle your hips, and he was buried between your plush thighs. his soft hair tickled your skin as he dives deep into your pussy, tongue licking over the slit, collecting your juices before he closes his lips around your clit and suckles. you swore you could feel the shock waves of pleasure as he alternated between flattening his tongue against your whole pussy, and tightening the muscle to a point, flicking it over your clit or fucking it into your tight and wet hole.

rocking your hips, you feel the tip of his nose bumping against your hard and sensitive bud, sending a jolt of electricity through your body, causing you to begin to stir awake. you were sure once you wake up, the pleasure would go away, but the more you regain you consciousness, albeit fuzzy, the more you feel it. you can hear the wet noises of the slurping, saliva mixing with your messy arousal, and they keep getting louder.

you open your eyes one at a time, staring up at your ceiling. sleep still blurred your eyes, so you tried blinking it away. when you finally feel that you can see well enough, you start to look around the room. nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the fact that your door was cracked open when you thought you’d closed it before going to sleep. maybe you didn’t latch it, so the draft throughout the house pushed it open. but then you looked down.

and there he was. jake, your stepbrother, between your legs.

you can see him clearly through the small stream of light from the hallway light seeping through the cracks in your door. jake is laying on his stomach between your legs. his large hands have your thighs pushed apart, knees bent so he can have full access to your cunt. it feels like ten minutes have passed as you take in the sight before you realize that this shouldn’t be happening. this is wrong.

with a gasp, you try reaching heavy, tired hands down to push him away from your center. unfortunately, his lips were wrapped around your clit and the attempt at shoving him away only made him suck deliciously on the delicate bundle of nerves.

“jake,” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. “stop…you can’t do this. it’s wrong…”

jake looks up at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. he smirked as he pulled away. he breathes out a laugh. “you’re dreaming. go back to sleep, baby. jakey will take such good care of you.”

[power-handmaiden]

Chuck Tingle interview

OK, here is the FINAL 2024 Tingles My Butt post, which I've been pretty hyped for. I still kind of can't believe this. While I was figuring out how I'd move on from 2024, @drchucktingle generously offered to answer some questions of mine to commemorate the end of my tingler project! Here they are!

-Considering that your process for tinglers is just to write it out and not stress about proofreading and editing, was it weird for you to see someone decide to go back, examine, and contemplate every single tingler published in the past decade?

the whole dang project was really wonderful for me, for exactly the reason you have just said. tinglers are very STREAM OF CONSCIOUS and only edited with one quick pass so while i think this adds to their honesty and rawness it also means that my time with them is limited. really watching someone go back through them at this depth was like reading a diary that i have not opened for many years, and it jumps around through time in a very beautiful way. it was very moving

-I love tingler character names. I personally admire how many great ones you come up with. (I never know what to name my ttrpg characters.) You just come up with all these great names that seemingly spring from nowhere, how do you do it?

DANG great question cant believe i have not been asked this before but yes there is a type of name that shows up in the tingleverse that is unusual and has a certain feeling and cadence that is very specific. if i am trotting along with sweet barbara and there is a name of a product or a place or something that has this tone we will say ‘oh thats a tingleverse name.’ the reason i wanted to do this in the books was as a very subtle way of saying these stories exist on a timeline that is RIGHT next to ours, so in some ways it is exactly the same as our world but there are these little cultural differences with things like chocolate milk and spaghetti and then with the names. you will have buckaroos like justin and sarah trotting along next to buckaroos named corb torbins-quill or borto lart.

-So, as a reader, reading from 2014 to now, old tinglers and new tinglers feel different to me. I believe you when you say tinglers have always been sincere, but they feel MORE sincere than they used to be. Like, I feel like there was some self-consciousness and irony in some of the early tinglers that you've since let go of and embraced the Chuck Tingle voice more. I don't know, am I imagining this, or does this square with your tingler writing journey? If it does, what has that process been like for you?

i think you are absolutely correct. the intention with tinglers was always to be a place for me to express myself with complete sincerity, but the practical way of HOW to trot like this took a bit of an evolution to arrive at. in other words i knew the basics, but actually refining the best way to express yourself and perform your art takes time. maybe in the same way goin back and watching season one of a tv show can feel very different from season three, even though they are part of the same expression. 

similar thing happened with in my chuck PRESENTATION as well, where my main focus was to stay anonymous so the metaphors i used to talk about my life were still true but laid on much thicker. even my attire was a large gi so that you would not even be able to see my shape, which has obviously changed now because i wear suits these days. all of this was a process of starting in a place i knew was important to me and then peeling off the parts that were not helping the message or expression over time

-Is there anything you could tell us about the significance of Borson Reems? I feel like he's more than just another Buck Trungle/Chuck Tangle/etc but I'm not sure what exactly...

yes borson reems is god. not that i believe in GOD in the way that most buckaroos talk about god (i am agnostic) but within the tingleverse, borson reems is an avatar for the creator of that world. technically i am borson reems, because i am writing the books. the question is: are we all the gods of our own little worlds that we create? i do not know, but when i look around at my buds and the joy and love they bring to various timelines they sure seem like gods to me

-A lot of no-sex tinglers (especially ones that aren't romance-focused) vary in terms of plot and structure a lot more than erotic tinglers. Is your writing process for these stories any different?

same process actually, but the sex scenes in tinglers are about 1500 to 2000 words long, and total tingler length is 4000 words which means if you are not including that portion you are going to have to come up with some creative way to fill that space in the story and a new axis for story to turn on. so the variety comes from me getting creative and trying out different axis points

-In "Not Pounded By My Book "Pounded In The Butt By My Non-Fungible Tingler That Is Literally This NFT" Because Of The Current Catastrophic Environmental And Ethical Impact" there are references to an earlier draft of the story that was never released because you ended up disagreeing with the message. Are there any other tinglers that never got finished and/or published, if you'd be willing to talk about any of them?

oh this is a VERY good question. the story of the NFT tingler is that when buckaroos were first talkin on nfts online and nobody really knew what they were, my first thoughts were just ‘oh this is interesting what the heck is this?’ this is my way with most CURRENT EVENTS. and i thought ‘this would be an interesting tingler, i suppose maybe i should make the tingler an ACTUAL nft’. this was in VERY early days so i did not really even understand what an nft was (neither did 99 percent of buckaroos yet honestly). so i looked into it just enough to actually MAKE a nft tingler that was a real nft and put it out. lasted for about thirty seconds before buckaroos were messaging saying ‘oh this is bad chuck you should look into what this is’ and i DID look into it and thought’ oh yeah this is terrible nevermind’. i took down the original and thought ‘well THIS is what art is all about. this is where i thrive in a world of moving living art that is in communication with itself’. so i dove into the research and actually started to understand NFTS and then i repurposed the story into a strongly anti-nft tingler and put that on out instead.

as far as OTHER tinglers that kind of move and breathe and live like this, in communication with the audience, GAY T-REX LAW FIRM is another very good example. that one i wrote early on and i think it was kind of in the model of something like fifty shade of grey, where issues of kink and consent and communication are not really handled well. i think at the time it came out the story was okay, but as time went on it always kind of bothered me and finally i thought ‘i love art that exists in the REAL WORLD and changes and evolves, so lets rewrite that story and fix some of these mistakes.’ honestly it is something i wish more artists would be open to. its okay to let something hold strong against a changing timeline, but it is also okay to explore what its like to take the notes that time gives us

-This one is about Chuck Tingle that exists in deeper layers of the Tingleverse that operate on tingler logic: what does the location inside his/your butt look like?

probably a nice mid-century modern home up in laurel canyon neighborhood of los angeles. kind of quiet and small like a cabin but also very cozy, like the kind of place where you would put on a crosby stills nash and young record on vinyl and gaze out into the woods for a while then walk down the hill for dinner at a little cafe where you spot some actor from a 60s tv show also having dinner in the corner booth. this basically sounds like the start of a tingler and in that tingler i will say the actor would be a bigfoot.

-OK this one is very self-indulgent but if you could help settle this frequent point of discussion I have with my wife- where do the following fit in the Tingleverse bigfoot/dinosaur/unicorn/living object(/human/does not apply?) taxonomy?

-a ghost of a regular human

-a regular human vampire

-a human/fish mermaid

-a sentient winged horse

-a sentient centipede large enough to wrap around a mountain several times (she is handsome)

alright lets trot through these. a GHOST is not one of the four tingle types so you can have a ghost racecar or a ghost unicorn or a ghost bigfoot. ghosts are outside of the four types and do not have a classification

a VAMPIRE is also outside of the four types. so you can have a vampire bigfoot or, of course, a vampire night bus. does not strictly fall into any of the four main categories

MERMAIDS are technically a long lost species of unicorn I DONT MAKE THE RULES I JUST EXPLAIN THEM. this makes the MERMOPED tingler a little confusing but i had to pick a category and that one went into living object. now that i mention it possibly the only tingler that is technically a double category of unicorn/living object.

WINGED HORSE is easy, thats a pegasus which is a species of unicorn just like a mermaid

a SENTIENT CENTIPEDE LARGE ENOUGH TO WRAP AROUND A MOUNTAIN is an ancient creature, therefore dinosaur tingler

-My other self-indulgent question: do you have a favorite bug? (Or second-favorite if you count Mothman as a bug)

i love finding spiders in the house and giving them a pet because they are doing a good job livin their lives doin their thing. close second would be a pretty ladybug

-Any thoughts on what tinglers will be like in 2025? Do you expect to be writing a lot of political tinglers again, like post-2016?

honestly i really do not like writing specifically political tinglers anymore, and the amount that i write has gradually dropped over time (i think ALL tinglers are political but in a different way). so honestly i think i will write a few political tinglers but not many. my hypothesis on this is that my HORROR NOVELS are very very political and so maybe i get a lot of these ideas out of my system that way now. when it comes to tinglers i just wanna explore my OWN mind and heart and butt more

THANK YOU for these wonderful questions and thank you for your tingler-a-day project it was so moving and powerful. what a treat it was an honor to be a part of something so beautiful. THIS PROVES LOVE IS REAL

[istjisung]

hiii, hope you’re having a great day 💕 ¿could i ask for stepbrother jaemin that wakes u up by eating you out if it’s alright? thank you so much 💞💞

—🐰

content warnings stepcest, noncon, oral sex, munch!jaemin, somnophilia, petnames (princess, baby), sex dreams, slightly rushed and abrupt ending

don’t like it? don’t read it!

you’re not sure when the dreams started, but oftentimes lately, you find yourself having sex dreams. the kind of sex dreams that, weirdly, are all surrounding jaemin. jaemin, your stepbrother. the kind, gentle, energetic, wholesome jaemin. the one who always treats you like royalty. calls you princess or baby. would never step out of line and do something as dirty as this, with you of all people. you feel disgusting and perverted and disgustingly perverted for even allowing your subconscious to go that far.

but something about these dreams feel too real, too…much to be just a product of your imagination.

you feel like if you focus hard enough, you can smell jaemin, the scent of his shampoo and cologne flooding your nose, feel his touch. more often than not, you wake up with panties so sticky and wet that you couldn’t believe it was just from leaking while you dreamt about your stepbrother. perhaps you had touched yourself in your sleep, or angled your hips a certain way in which you could grind them and soak your panties. somehow, though, you have a gut feeling that that’s not the case.

the dreams never went much further than some touching, a bit of fingering, or oral at the furthest. the image was fuzzy, but it felt real. again, too real to just be a figment of your imagination. you’d never confirmed your suspicions, though, until now.

you’re having one of those dreams again. this time, you were laying on your back, the blankets thrown off of your body and the cool air of the night was chilling your body. but you felt hot. your legs were spread, knees bent to angle your hips, and he was buried between your plush thighs. his soft hair tickled your skin as he dives deep into your pussy, tongue licking over the slit, collecting your juices before he closes his lips around your clit and suckles. you swore you could feel the shock waves of pleasure as he alternated between flattening his tongue against your whole pussy, and tightening the muscle to a point, flicking it over your clit or fucking it into your tight and wet hole.

rocking your hips, you feel the tip of his nose bumping against your hard and sensitive bud, sending a jolt of electricity through your body, causing you to begin to stir awake. you were sure once you wake up, the pleasure would go away, but the more you regain you consciousness, albeit fuzzy, the more you feel it. you can hear the wet noises of the slurping, saliva mixing with your messy arousal, and they keep getting louder.

you open your eyes one at a time, staring up at your ceiling. sleep still blurred your eyes, so you tried blinking it away. when you finally feel that you can see well enough, you start to look around the room. nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the fact that your door was cracked open when you thought you’d closed it before going to sleep. maybe you didn’t latch it, so the draft throughout the house pushed it open. but then you looked down.

and there he was. jaemin, your stepbrother, between your legs.

you can see him clearly through the small stream of light from the hallway light seeping through the cracks in your door. jaemin is laying on his stomach between your legs. his large hands have your thighs pushed apart, knees bent so he can have full access to your cunt. it feels like ten minutes have passed as you take in the sight before you realize that this shouldn’t be happening. this is wrong.

with a gasp, you try reaching heavy, tired hands down to push him away from your center. unfortunately, his lips were wrapped around your clit and the attempt at shoving him away only made him suck deliciously on the delicate bundle of nerves.

“jaemin,” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. “stop…you can’t do this. it’s wrong…”

jaemin looks up at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. he smirked as he pulled away. he breathes out a laugh. “you’re dreaming. go back to sleep, baby. nana will take such good care of you.”

[crescenthistory]

May I request C6 with Regulus? I’m in some desperate need of Reggie comforting reader 😭😭😭

there are sosososo many different ways to interpret this prompt, and somehow i chose? perhaps the darkest one? so sorry, you are really going to need that comforting now... thanks for requesting lmao xx

Prompt: C.6 "I don't know, it just happened"

Words: 5.5k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, blood racism, internalised blood racism, hate crime/minor assault, emotional breakdown, mutual self-hatred, regulus has not left the black family, alluded black brothers drama, undecided side regulus, perhaps a bit cliche/romanticising, established relationship, your dad is dead (long ago, mentioned), heavy hurt/comfort, happy ending

Notes: lol i am not okay

It was a rare occurrence that Regulus Black felt light these days, in any meaning of the word. 

His feet felt shackled as he trekked through the Hogwarts halls he felt were increasingly unwelcoming to him. His consciousness weighed him down like a thousand bricks as he knew he had to either take a stance against his parents or become complacent in a hope of survival. He knew he had to do the former; he had no idea how to stop himself from the latter. Trapped, cornered, cowardly – heavy.

Yet, when walking the final few metres to your dormitory that he knew housed your soft self now that you were done with tutoring first years, he felt undeservingly light. A sensation only you could inspire in him these days.

While conversations were growing tenser and tenser between you the more Regulus struggled with freeing himself from his family, your love for him had yet to falter. He knew he was only biding his time, but until then he could not help revelling in it, albeit guilt ridden. 

He does not knock before entering, just carefully pushes the ajar door further open. You had told him off for knocking so primly every time – “you’re always welcome here, Reggie” – and he wanted nothing more than to please you.

“Amour?” he called out as he closed the door softly behind him, looking around the dorm for a trace of you, or at least one of your dorm mates.

None to be found.

He dropped his bookbag by the end of your bed, reaching up to scratch the back of his head as he looked around. Some of that heaviness began returning to his limbs at your absence, his hope of slipping away from the world with you for the next few hours dissolving.

Then, he heard the water running from the adjunct bathroom. A sigh of relief escaped him, though his body remained tense, and he made his way over. He could hear the water splashing from the sink and he carefully knocked on the door with one knuckle.

“Amour?” he tried again.

This time he technically got a response of sorts, though nowhere near the one he had been hoping for. All movement behind the door stilled. The water was still running in a steady stream, but whatever you had been doing with it, you had stopped. Regulus could almost picture you standing like a deer in headlights – his brows furrowed unhappily at the thought.

“Are you alright, love?” 

Finally, your voice answered, but the fragility of it rattled him. “Oh, um, hi Reggie, I– I’m alright, be with you in a minute, yeah?”

You seemed distressed. Regulus did not care for it at all.

“Could I come in, amour?” He spoke to the door as if it was not there, as if he was looking you in the eyes, willing you to let him in.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you murmured, but he just barely caught it through the wood.

Regulus seemed to have met a divulge where he had to make a choice – a relatively minor one, but it felt important nonetheless.

A large, painful part of his mind was screaming at him to leave you alone. She doesn’t want you, she’s finally seen you for what you are. Scum staining the story of her life. It is this voice that rules most of his actions, the voice keeping him and Sirius apart, the voice tying him to something he does not feel comfortable with. 

Then there is another, burning hot part that aches to reach for you. The part that knows you better than the first thinks he deserves, the part that can tell by the tone of your voice, by a jerk of your finger, exactly how you are feeling and, hopefully, what you need. This part is one Regulus takes a great deal of pride in, this part feels good. Though it scares him and the first part tries to quell it, he holds it near his heart.

And it is this part that opens his mouth and says, “Could I come in anyway?”

A minute. A hesitation. A sigh.

“Yes,” you whispered.

His hand is tentative as it grips the doorhandle to the bathroom, as if it has become a part of your body from him talking to it, deserving of that same care he attempts to show you. He twists it and pushes it open.

The bathroom is swept in darkness – a conscious choice on your part, seeing as you would have to magically blow out the candles that lined the walls. He could still see you, leaning against the counter with the sink, face turned slightly away from him.

“Hi, my love,” you greeted, trying to seem casual as if he had just walked into your dorm under usual circumstances. With your hand awkwardly angled so that he only saw the inside of your palm, you adjusted the faucet. “How was practise?”

Regulus ignored your small-talk, walking up to stand beside you, body angled fully towards you as you began scrubbing at your hands once more. With the light trickling in through the open door, he swore the water looked pinkish. His breath hitched, eyes flickering all over you and the room to make sense of whatever was happening.

“Amour, what’s wrong?” His voice was rawer than he was comfortable with.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really.” You were getting a hang of the bright and airy tone of voice you were going for, but it was too late for that. “Just a long day, you know? Do you want to go get the bed ready so we can relax?”

The voices were warring in Regulus’ head at the rejection of his presence, but once more the part he could only describe as lovesick took a step closer to you, so your bodies were just barely touching. “Y/N,” was all he said.

Your ministrations grew more desperate, scrubbing water up and down your hands and forearms, breath laboured. He lifted a hand to brush against your face – when you flinched, his heart broke. 

She’s scared of you.

No, she’s just scared.

He let his hand ever so slowly land on the cheek furthest away from him, cradling your jaw with the kind of light touch reserved for baby birds and broken children. He found the skin there soft and wet, and he swore he could cut himself on the shards of his broken heart.

He guided your head to turn towards him, his grip loose so that you could stop him if you wanted. Once your face was opposite his, Regulus fought every instinct in his body that told him to study you, search your face for the spawn of your pain. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against yours. Giving you space, privacy even, giving you the moment you clearly needed – but sparing you from doing it alone

Your hands slowed down in their scrubbing, and with his free hand reaching out blindly, he turned off the faucet. Your breath stuttered where it spilled over his lips.

“Do you reckon you want to sit down? Talk about it?” Regulus whispered, eyes still closed.

He felt you nod against his skin, grabbing a hand towel as you walked backwards the few steps needed before you could sit down on the toilet lid. Regulus followed you, eyes opening and attempting to adjust to this darker corner of the bathroom. He sat down on his knees between your legs, painful tiles be damned, and looked up at you intently. 

In front of him sat the light of his life, visibly sullied. Your face was red and he could make out the tear tracks and smudged mascara underneath your eyes. You clutched the towel, hands buried within it and out of sight.

“Amour,” he whispered dumbly, unsure of what else to say, as he carefully brought his hands up to wipe at your tears. 

You mumbled his name and it almost sounded like a sob. 

Your hands were writhing in your lap around the towel, and he reached down to take it and help you dry yourself when you jerked your hands closer to you, towel still in grasp. “No,” you whispered.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” you lied through your teeth. “I’ve just had a bad day and– and felt anxious. Couldn't help but cry over it. I don’t know, it just happened.” 

Regulus gave you a sad smile, squeezing the still-wet skin on your forearms. “Uh-huh. And you felt like taking it out on your hands?”

A sob finally tore through your body properly and you brought your hands up – still in the towel – to cover your face. You leaned forward and cried into it, and Regulus immediately opened his arms to hold your shaking frame. Your towel and face were smushed into the crook of his neck and he drew big circles on your back with one hand, the other securely holding the back of your head. 

He was broken, at a loss for words, trying to recall any and every memory he could find of witnessing others comforting, not trusting his own instincts. Through them all, out flashed a memory of Sirius humming to him when he had nightmares as a child, how the vibrations soothed through him until he could finally fall asleep again, in his big brother’s bed this time. Without any distinct melody or song in mind, Regulus began to hum as he swayed you just ever so slightly back and forth, hoping to bring you some semblance of safety.

Your gasps lessened until the bathroom was near-quiet again, but he did not stop his movements with you or the humming. Your heart blossomed from his efforts and broke at what you knew was to come.

You lowered your hands from your face, letting them fall into your lap with their towel. Your face was now in direct contact with the soft skin of his neck and you took the opportunity to press a soft kiss there.

“Can I please do something to help you?” he whispered into your hair.

“You are.”

He breathed in slowly. He is. “With your hands, I mean. Are you hurt?”

Tears slipped quietly down the expanse of Regulus’ neck, trailing down underneath his shirt. You tried to nuzzle deeper into him.

“I–” you stop, seemingly changing your mind. “I’m alright, I just need to… to remove magical ink from them and I can’t get it off.”

Regulus fought back the that’s all? that was creeping up his throat. He knows at least two spells that work for most permanent inks and can brew a potion for it within the hour if those don't work. 

Your head squeezed against his shoulder as he nodded his head, still stroking your back. “No problem, beautiful, I can fix that.”

“No,” you whispered once more, seeming to shrink in his grasp. “I have to.”

He helped ease you out from his neck so that you were face to face once more, his hands coming up to brush over the sides of your arms. The look in your eyes was one he struggled to decipher, apart from the shine of anxiety. 

“Why do you have to? Let me help you, amour.”

You took another shuddering breath, brazing yourself for impact. “You can’t see,” you whispered finally, fighting the quiver of your lips.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“You can’t see them, Reg, I’m sorry.”

“Did someone do something to you?” It was the only explanation he could conjure up for why any permanent ink would make you this distraught – and why you would hide from him like this.

You searched his face carefully, faintly nodding in a way that made him think it was a response to your own thoughts and not his question. Like you decided on something. 

“Someone wrote something. I just want it gone.”

Regulus’ stomach churned. He regretted the harsh tone of his voice as he demanded, “Who?”

“It’s not important.” 

“It is to me. Please. Who?”

You pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth, gnawing at it as you realised he would find out. Someone would tell him, even if you refused to show him. He would know. You tasted blood in your mouth.

With his eyes adjusted to the dark, Regulus saw the faint red on your lips as well and immediately reached out to gently pull your lip free from its torment. His fingertips lingered on your lips until he replaced them with his own with a short, tentative kiss. If you were to have blood in your mouth, he would too.

Lips still against yours he whispered again, more pleadingly this time, “Who?”

You let your walls crumble. This sweet, caring boy was in your grasp for now and you could not help but let him care while he still wanted to. “Mulciber,” you whispered back.

Regulus pulled back enough to meet your gaze, confusion filling his. “Why Mulciber? What would he have to write on you?” 

Up until now he had half-thought that some of your first year tutees had pranked you in some ungraceful manner. He was certain he had never seen you and Mulciber even talk before, let alone have an altercation that could involve magical ink. He was one of the more brutal Slytherins, but he had never had any reason to talk to you, and he knew that you were someone Regulus cared for. What he had hoped would let him in on your pain only confused him further away from any answer.

“Regulus, please,” you begged, ignorant to his confusion. Tears were once more filling your eyes and he wished for nothing but to stop them.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered, hoping to convince your tears to stay where they are. “You– you don’t have to explain it, love. I can just remove it for you.”

“Could you teach me instead?” Your lip was back between your teeth, lightening in colour underneath the force it was exerted to.

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to remove something from your hands yourself, you need them for the spell.” Regulus hoped his gaze seemed sympathetic.

You squeezed your eyes shut, moving your head slightly to your side. Regulus recognised your breathing pattern to follow a technique you had taught him to calm down the first time he had a panic attack around you. Afterwards, you didn't mention it, only giving him space to talk about what he was comfortable with, comfort at the ready.

His own breath was bated as he watched you make your decision. A definite tear slid down the cheek closest to him, in a hauntingly cinematic manner. At last, your eyes slowly fluttered open and you looked back into his eyes with the most devastating expression. Slipping a hand slowly out from your towel – out of Regulus’ line of sight – you brought it up to his cheek to bring his face closer to yours.

The kiss was searing, filled with a love and devotion he was not prepared for in a situation like this. He was enveloped by the smell of you, and though you still tasted of copper, your lips were painfully soft and he let himself fall deeper into you. When you pulled away, you pressed a lingering kiss to the side of his mouth.

“I love you,” you whispered. Regulus hated how it sounded like you were saying goodbye. 

His brows were furrowed as he looked at you, and he hoped it looked like confusion and nothing more sinister. “I love you too, amour. You know.”

“I’ll let you remove it, if you want.”

“Please.”

Your gaze fell to your lap and remained there as you let both hands out of the towel, placing them palm-down on your thighs. Regulus had begun reaching for his wand in a holster on his belt, ready to rid you of the source of your discontent, but he was frozen still when his own eyes finally took in your hands and the two bold, dark words written on each one.

MUD on the left. BLOOD on the right.

Mudblood. 

Regulus’ blood had run cold in his veins and he found himself having to adopt your breathing technique. His vision blurred as the two words seemed to grow larger, which seemed impossible considering they were written to take up as much space as possible. The handwriting was shaky, as if there had been a struggle when they were written. There were some light bruises already forming around your wrists and upper arms that further proved his fear. Mudblood. With red streaks over both works, likely from how hard you had been trying to wash them, all but scraping them off. Mudblood. The word was choking him. His hand that had remained still midair by his belt began to tremble.

He was knocked out of his trance as he saw a single tear splatter across the lettering on your right hand. 

Regulus moved his gaze back up to yours to find it was still trained on your hands, eyes glossy and unseeing.

“I–” he tried, but his voice broke off. “I don't understand. Y/N, I don’t understand.”

You seemed to flinch a little at the sound of your name, but other than that you made no sign that you heard him.

“Amour,” he rectified. “Why would… what is this?”

You moved your right hand over your left, starting to scratch at the word scribbled there, nails digging deep. Regulus’ hands flew up to stop your ministrations at the sight of the worsening redness, but your whole body physically flinched away from him in a way he was sure must hurt.

Regulus was lost.

“I don’t understand. Why would Mulciber write that? You’re not a–” He cut himself off, scared of what word would slip off his tongue. “You’re not muggleborn.”

Finally, you looked up and met his eyes. Your fearful, heartbroken expression seemed to soften at the sight of him and you gave him the saddest smile that did not reach your eyes. “I’m sorry,” was all you could whisper.

Realisation dawned on him. 

“Your father…?” 

His half-blood best friend turned lover, who he already had not dared tell his parents about, living with her muggle mother after her wizard father passed away. It was a convenient story in times of tension and division. Death is an easy excuse, hard to verify.

Although, clearly, someone had now, and the truth had come out.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered once more through a sob. Your shoulders were hunched and knees drawn close to your body. You looked like you wanted to disappear. 

It took him a greater amount of strength than he was proud of to push the shock and confusion from the forefront of his mind and pull back up the memories of how to comfort. To focus on those and not the million of questions running through his head.

What does this mean? Why didn't you tell him? Have you been hiding from everyone, or just him? How have you been carrying something so scary and he was none the wiser? Is there an award for shittest boyfriend at Hogwarts that he can be looking forward to?

Regulus reached out for you and pulled you slowly into another hug, arms circling securely around your back. Your body stilled in his grasp, apart from the small heaves for air in between your sobs.

“What are you doing?” Your whisper was muffled into his shirt. Your frail voice and tense limbs cut him deeper than any spell could.

“I'm comforting you, sweet girl,” he mumbled into your hair. “Or at least trying to.”

“Why?” you asked miserably. 

Regulus pulled back just far enough to see your face, making sure his arms were still holding you with love, drawing patterns across your back.

"Because I love you," he whispered intently. His eyes tried his hardest to lock on yours, but you still would not meet his gaze. "Because there is nothing to be sorry for."

Your expression grew incredulous, bordering on angry – if it was with him, yourself or the world he was uncertain. "I've lied to you. I've deceived you into a relationship you wouldn’t have agreed to had you known, I– I’ve put you in an impossible position–” You had to cut yourself off as another sob tore through your body. “I’m so sorry.”

Regulus shuffled impossibly closer to you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, thumbs stroking slowly across your cheekbones. He felt his own eyes fill with tears at the sight in front of him, anxiety rising at his chest as he struggled to find the words he knew the situation called for.

This was all unknown territory for Regulus. The two of you had had as few conversations about blood status as possible, both weary about the growing tension at school and in the wider wizarding society. You had held him the one time he dared cry in front of you over a particularly harsh letter from his mother. You had whispered sweet nothings about you're not them and I will always love you, but he thought they were just that – nothings. In turn, you had mentioned your parents and cried over your father a handful of times, but never divulged too much. He had weaved his way through comments from other pureblood students at school regarding his relationship with a half-blood, but most pureblood families have lapses with a half-blood here or there that he could usually throw back in their faces to silence them. No one dared push it further than that. When Andromeda left the family for Ted, he almost had to confront it all, confront what he now knew to be lies that had been spewed to him all his life, but even then, he managed to avoid it as he instead received the beating of his life for not alerting the family about the signs he must have seen at school. He let himself simmer with that pain instead of looking inwards, instead of seeking help. He figured he didn’t have to, not just yet.

That time had evidently passed, as he now held a sobbing and defiled sun in his hands.

No, this was uncharted territory for him entirely – but he could not afford to let it stay like that.

“My love, Y/N,” he said with a surprisingly steady voice, never letting his gaze stray from you. “Please, please listen to me. Please hear me. You are everything; it is you, you are everything. You could be muggleborn, muggle, werewolf, siren or fae. It would not change anything.”

Your eyes met his, red rimmed and glossy, confused and bewildered. This time it was your turn to whisper, “I don’t understand.”

“It is difficult–” Regulus’ voice broke as the first few tears slipped down his face. “It is all so difficult right now, I feel lost and… scared and I don’t know what to do.” The words almost clogged in his throat, like barbed wire to admit, but he knew he had to. “I should have told you all of that already, I should have shared with you so you could feel safe to share with me. I haven’t known what to do, how to do it. The one thing I do know is that I love you and I need you to be safe and I need you to be here with me. I have not been deceived, for I would always choose you.”

Your eyes were wide, but you were not crying at the moment, gaze flitting all across his face, as if to ensure he wasn’t lying, hanging onto his every word. It was the motivation he needed to continue.

“You are not allowed to be sorry, amour, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” A small sob escaped him and his heart flipped when your right hand came forth to just barely touch his shoulder. “I should have been here for you, you shouldn’t have to hide. You should never have had to question my love for you, my loyalty. It will always lay with you, I swear it. Gods–” a heaved breath “– I’m terrible at this, you know I’m terrible, but I’ve been trying so hard for you and I will continue to. Just please let me. Let me and I will try.”

“Regulus…” you whispered, hand creeping from the brush against his shoulder to settle on the side of his neck. 

He looked at you, ready to take any reaction you would give him, to tell him off for his horrible apology, for making things about him, for not being enough. Your mouth opened and closed as if you couldn’t settle on the words. Instead you let out a small breath and pulled him back into you in a tight embrace.

It took him not even a second to hold you in return with passion, hands appraising as they swept up into your hair and around your waist. 

“Do you mean it?” you whimpered into him and he let his forehead fall to your shoulder as he cried.

“Of course, I mean it. Of course, of course.” He kept muttering it into you as he held you tighter and tighter.

His body was filled with an entirely new set of fear. A warm one that spread through his blood at the thought of what you had to face. Mulciber already knew and had taken action on that knowledge seemingly without hesitation. Regulus had heard what was being said amongst the Sacred 28, he knew to what degrees the hatred was building. His entire body was built on fear as he held what he now realised could be disturbingly fragile.

That is, until you whimpered another question into his hold and his body ached with a love so deep he had never thought it possible.

“Do you still love me?”

He had already said so, but he would happily say it again, over and over, damning himself for allowing you to wonder. “Yes, amour, always. Always.” 

Regulus took your face in one of his hands again, cradling you as he brought his forehead back to yours. Angling his face forward, he pressed what he hoped was a sweet kiss to your lips. It was wet, metallic and everything he needed. 

“I’m sorry for lying,” you whispered. He shook his head against yours.

“No, I’m sorry for stalling.”

A beat of silence. “Stalling what?” He thought you knew, but he tried to have no qualms about being explicit about it.

“Leaving.” He said it simply, hoping it would will it to be.

This time it was your turn to shake your head. “Can you leave, though? Safely? They’re becoming more and more fanatical, Reg, what if they hurt you? I’ve seen the letters.”

The fact that you have experienced what can only be classified as a hate crime, yet you have the goodness in your heart to worry about him in this way only makes him more certain of his choice.

“I have to, my love. I have to. It’s time.” He took a deep breath. “I will… I will ask Sirius for help.” 

You looked into his eyes, vision blurry from your proximity. “I’m scared for you, but I’m so proud of you at the same time.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.” Regulus tried to huff out a small laugh, but it just came out teary. “Will you please come with me?”

“To Sirius?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

His hand on your squeeze pressed further into you, reverent. “We can ask for help for us both. They practically wanted Ted dead when they disowned Andromeda, and she was not even the sole heir. I’m so sorry for putting you in that situation, I–”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you assured, voice more stable and beautifully soft. “You are everything to me too, you know.”

“I’m scared,” Regulus whimpered. It’s the first time he can remember saying that out loud to someone since he was 6.

“I’m scared, too. But less so, now that I know I still have you. I couldn’t handle losing you, Reg.” Your eyes teared up again and he leaned up to kiss the corners of your eyes sweetly, collecting the tears before they had a chance to spill.

“You have me, you have me,” he whispered almost feverishly against your skin. “And I’ve got you.”

You sighed, the closest to contently you think you can get at this moment. “Will you please help me?” you whispered as you looked down at your hands.

Regulus shook himself out of his mini spiral, shook off that first voice in his head that reared its head once more and over and over, shook off anything that was not you. He mumbled an of course against your cheek before he kissed it, taking your hands in one of his. 

Unsheathing his wand he never managed to retrieve the first time around, he took one last look at the ugly markings on your hands – the hate was precisely that, ugly, and it had no place on your skin. Starting with the left – MUD – he tried the first spell he knew, and it did nothing. The bile rose in his throat as he went to try the next, fearing the worst, but by the grace of a nonexistent god, the letters finally melted away. He repeated the process on the other one.

You tried to pull your hands out of his grasp at that, but his hold tightened. He healed the viscous red streaks and peeling skin from where you had scratched at them, a cold sensation soothing over your skin as he moved his wand. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes at the gentleness, but you found yourself beginning to become completely dehydrated.

Regulus brought your hands up to his lips while he put his wand away to grasp at them with both hands. He kissed the spots he had just cleared up. Long, lingering kisses in the middle of your hand, followed by soft butterfly kisses all over it. His fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing tightly, giving the flesh new sensations to remember instead.

“You’re so good to me,” you whispered, almost like a revelation. You had loved him and you had trusted him, you had just not trusted that it would be forever, that it would be more than any loyalty to his family. You were ashamed at the thought now, as you looked at the boy on his knees in front of you, crying from loving you, kissing away your pain. It filled you with something you had not believed this day would hold for you – hope.

“I’m not,” he whispered, letting your hands settle together in your lap. “But I hope to be. I want to be. I will be.”

You smiled wetly at him and leaned forward to kiss him once more. Originally intended as a peck, the kiss grew deeper, a slow passion as you held his lips between yours, feeling the love seep through the thin skin. He continued pressing kisses all over your face, much like your hands. Any teary or red skin had his lips faintly brushing over it, taking his time to dote on you. You let your breath calm down in the meantime, panic and tension slipping away from you to be replaced by a deep exhaustion as you leaned into him.

He noticed – he had to notice, swore he always would from now on.

“Are you ready to lay down in bed, amour? Face the light?” He smiled sheepishly at the poor attempt at a joke. You seemed surprised as you looked around, almost like you had forgotten you were in a shadowy dorm bathroom.

“Only if you will lay down with me.” Your tone was nearing teasing, though not quite there. He was determined to achieve it within the hour.

“I promise,” he whispered, kissing you one last time before helping you up.

And he would go on to help you to bed and hold you tight for as long as you would let him. He would listen to you cry and laugh and worry without a second thought. He would take you with him to ask Sirius for help on escaping and keeping you safe and he would devote himself to being better. He would do anything for you – because you were, after all, everything.

[lordprettyflackotara]

till dawn || eyeless jack || the finale

SMUT. MINORS DNI. 18+. this one’s a lil fluffy not gonna hold you guys. i’m so sad to see till dawn end :’) but all good things must come to an end eventually. i think down the line i will create a bonus chapter, but for now this is the end of till dawn. love you all. mwah!

bonus part is here

Knock knock knock!

A groan of annoyance left your lips, your senses resuming as you regained consciousness.

“Wake up fuckers! You owe us waffles!” Ben’s cheery voice flooded your ears, his voice echoing down the hallway outside of Jacks room. You sighed, rolling over and shoving Jack awake. A confused snore escaped his lips, his eye sockets finally opening.

“Huh?”

“Ben wants waffles,” You sighed, flopping back down onto your pillow. Unfortunately you both had lost one too many rounds of mario kart, resorting in a wager of cooking breakfast to end in Ben’s favor. Jack groaned. “Okay Ben give us five minutes!” He called. You rubbed your eyes, looking over at the window. The sun had just reached above the trees, the sunlight beams streaming across the room. A triumphant Ben continued down the hallway, whistling proudly.

“Holy fuck, what time is it?”

Jack chuckled, sitting up against the headboard.

“I told you we’d only have till dawn before someone showed up at our doorstep about breakfast.”

He was right, but converting to rising at the early hours and staying up late was exhausting. You rolled over lazily, your back turned to him. “Have none of them ever heard of sleep schedules?” You grumbled. Jack couldn’t help but chuckle, your settlement into the mansion one that occurred with ease. Your charming personality and ability to cook won everyone over, even the proxies.

“We live in Slender’s mansion babe, we’re lucky the sun even rises here,” Jack replied, pressing a soft kiss against the back of your head. Slenderman’s reaction was a completely different story, the explanation of your existence the longest tale Jack had ever had to explain. Letting humans know about creeps existence was grounds for exile. It was forbidden to make spectacles out of themselves, even if the long term plan was for you to become a creep. (Which, it was not even an option to Jack.)

Becoming one, losing that grasp on sanity or facing an unfortunate fate of torture and death could never be planned though. Unless of course you were Jeff, then you knew how to create an arch nemesis. Jack would never want that for you, which he explained to Slender. Out of all of the mansions residents and outsiders, there was not another creature like Jack. A creature that went into an animalistic heat and needed to mate. Slender knew this and that led to his approval.

Another factor that Slender considered was that Jack was the oldest and wisest. If he was to entrust anyone to bring a human into the house, it was him.

Jack curled up beside you, your back pressing against his chest. “Sleepy this morning are we?” Jack asked teasingly, peppering kisses on your neck and shoulder. You chuckled, moving yourself closer to him. “I would’ve gotten better sleep if someone hadn’t kept me up all night,” You replied. A mischievous smile spread across Jacks lips, his hand slithering down to your hips.

“If it makes you feel any better i’m sure Clockwork didn’t get much sleep either,” Jack said, his lips refusing to stray far from your skin. His hand slithered further up your skin, slipping under your nightgown. You bit your bottom lip, Jacks fingertips lightly tracing your skin. “Thats gonna make a terrible first impression,” You sighed. Clockwork didn’t frequent at the mansion, leading to you never officially meeting her. Having her room be next door and hearing you beg for more? Not exactly the best first impression.

“There have been worse my love. When Jeff first came here Slender tried to make him a proxy. He tried to burn the mansion down,” Jack said, cupping your heart. Your thin panties blocked him from complete access to your cunt. Your breath was becoming shaky, your thighs opening more for him. He inhaled deeply, the smell of your arousal hitting his nostrils. “You just can’t get enough can you?” Jack teased. You groaned softly as he rubbed more harshly against the fabric.

“Of you? Never,” You replied, satisfied to feel Jack push your panties to the side. His lips attached themselves to your neck, his boner poking you from behind. You could feel him suck at your skin harshly, purposefully littering your neck with as many marks as possible. “I’m going to keep looking like a wounded puppy if my neck stays forever purple,” You chuckled, gasping as his fingers rubbed up and down your wet slick. You bit your bottom lip, two of his digits dipping into your cunt.

“My wounded puppy,” Jack snickered. He curled his fingers inside of you, your hand finding its way to his aching cock. He gasped as you palmed at the fabric of his basketball shorts, slipping your hand underneath the waistband. “Not sure if we’re doing to have time for this love,” Jack admitted, even if he didn’t want it to be true. You moaned in response, pumping his shaft as he finger fucked you. “It can be quick,” You offered. You bit the inside of your cheek, refraining from moaning louder.

“Please,” You whimpered, sealing your fate. Jack grinned, the two of you eagerly switching positions. Jacks back hit the soft mattress, licking his lips as you straddled him. Your panties had been discarded, his shorts and boxers pooling at his ankles. Jack was never one to not be in control of sex, even with you riding him. Sometimes he’d let you pretend you were in control, if he was feeling nice enough. But each time you got a bit out of line, Jack was quick to put you in your place. However, he couldn’t deny how ethereal you looked riding him.

You lowered yourself onto his cock, both of you exhaling in relief as he bottomed out inside of you. The shape of his cock bugled from your stomach as it always did, a subtle, very hot reminder that he was much bigger than you. Jacks hands found your hips, leaning forward to kiss you as he guided you. You groaned into his mouth as you rode his cock, his tip hitting your g spot. Playfully you grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back onto the bed. Jack admired your breast bouncing as you chased your high, riding him like a wild animal.

Your body over time came to crave Jacks almost identically to the way he craved yours. (He couldn’t help but wonder if scientifically his cum had altered your hormones.) You smiled lovingly as you looked down at Jack, his facial expression one of contentment. The sun had risen higher, hitting his face at a flattering angle. It highlighted his sharp jawline and round nose. “What’s so funny?” Jack asked. You shook your head, continuing to hold your sinful noises in the best you could as you rode his cock. “You just look so handsome like this,” You complimented.

Jack blinked, “What, under you?”

You giggled, playfully slapping his shoulder. “No EJ, with the sun shining on your skin,” You replied, rolling your eyes. Jack leaned forward, wrapping his arms around your back. He completely and utterly adored you, your flattery and complimentary of him meaning the world. “You look even better, so beautiful taking my cock like this,” He huffed, snapping his hips upwards. You whined as he began to move faster, taking control. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, biting down on his skin to control your noises.

“Thats it, bite me as hard as you want love. Mark me,” Jack panted, his cock abusing your cervix. He was tempted to say hell to breakfast, flipping you over and fucking you senseless like the animal inside of him craved. But he knew you cared about his roommates opinion of you, even if to Jack he wouldn’t consider them friends five out of seven days of the week. Your teeth sank into Jacks shoulder, a subtle growl escaping his throat.

Something about seeing you so primal, but so desperate to keep quiet made him pound into you harder. You could feel yourself getting closer to the edge, a trail of saliva dripping down Jacks shoulder as your teeth clenched around his skin. You whimpered, your hands tangling themselves in his hair as you came on his cock. Your walls spasmed around his shaft, a deep grunt escaping his lips as he came inside of you.

You released his shoulder, grimacing down at the bite mark. “Holy fuck, I don’t know where that came from,” You panted. Neither of you had moved, Jacks gaze moving to your breast. “Neither do I, but it was pretty fucking hot,” He admitted, kissing your breast.

‘Waffles! Waffles! Waffles!’

The sound of Toby and Ben chanting from downstairs made you chuckle. Jack could hear them slamming their silverware down on the kitchen table, the sound making his ears twitch. You slowly slid off of you, whimpering as your walls squeezed the air. His cum slowly dripped down your cunt, the sight the most satisfying sight to Jack in the world. He laid back on the bed, propping himself up with his hands behind his head.

He admired you as you brushed your hair, throwing on clothes. You were so focused, Jacks staring going over your head. It wasn’t until you were ready, turning around to find Jack undressed and unbothered. “What are you doing? Ben’s gonna come through our radio any minute now if you don’t get dressed,” You say. Jack rose to his feet, bringing your back against his chest. He towered over you easily, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“How did I ever get so lucky?” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your head. You giggled, examining your stomach. “Do you think you’ll ever get me pregnant one of these days?” You asked curiously. Jacks eyebrows furrowed, his large hands resting on top of yours. “You do know that’s scientifically impossible right?” He asked. Yeah, maybe his cum was seeping into your hormones. Or maybe your brain.

“Yeah it’s still a nice thought though,” You shrug. Turning around you wrapped your arms around his neck, admiring him from below. Your eyes were dancing with curiosity. Tilting your head to the side a simple question left your tongue, “If I somehow did, you’d want to keep it right?”

Millions of thoughts soared through Jacks mind, ones mixed with the joy of parenthood and ones of terror. Would the fetus become a demon just like him? Or would it be as beautiful as you? What would it eat? Would raising a child in a mansion full of monsters from its worst nightmares be sustainable? But as he looked down at your puppy dog eyes, your orbs flickering back and forth as you awaited an answer.

Creeps had never procreated before, successfully anyways. It would be a first for all of them, especially Jack. He wanted to believe there was a piece of him that wasn’t an organ eating monster. One that could raise and love a child that was a mixture with the person he loved the most. He was almost sure he would’ve gotten you pregnant by now, with the amount of times he’d locked you into the mating press alone.

Truth was Jack would give you whatever you wanted, even if it was most likely scientifically impossible. “I want whatever you want my love,” He purred, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

Bang bang bang!

“EJ learn how to keep it in your pants and pour some batter in the waffle maker instead!” Ben called.

You giggled, Jack sighing as he pulled on his pants.

“And in the mean time we have Ben.”

“We most certainly do and that’s enough for me.”

[frankieburieshisdead]

Dick Grayson x Top!Male Reader

There was this little spot on the lower half of Dick's stomach, just before the dip of his crotch where if you pressed hard enough, you could feel yourself inside him. You had made this life changing discovery one evening when you hade him bent over the arm of the couch, balls deep and wringing every debauched sound he could make out of his throat. It had been a particularly grueling patrol- though it always was when you came to assist in Gotham- and you were both too randy to make it to his bedroom. You had two fingers hooked in Dick's mouth as a comforting gesture, his sweet oral fixation turning you on to no end, and another fisted in his hair. It made him feel safe; to be so completely surrounded by you, your presence all encompassing as he sucked on your digits in time with your thrusts.

This however made it hard for you to keep the both of you balanced- with Dick's lower half slipping further and further down the arm rest. He made a small sound of frustration around your fingers and you sympathized as you slipped out of that tight heat to get a better purchase. "Lift your hips for me baby" you soothed his back, a nasty looking bruise forming from where he had been slammed against the railway in a brawl earlier. "There we go," you crooned as you managed to maneuver the hand you had in his hair to just under his abdomen, keeping him hooked against your pelvis. You kissed up his neck to behind his ear, brining a smidge of his fucked out consciousness back to here and now. "All good?" his eyes we're so blue it was a bit freakish- like a forest nymph or a siren that made men drown themselves. He smiled and nodded, mouth a bit open and eyes hooded- you loved it when he got like this.

When you thrust back in you both groaned- Dick almost drawing blood as he chewed down on your ring and middle finger. God he was beautiful like this. Pinned and panting- pliant. Some primal part of you squeezed him even closer, melding your hips together and that's when you felt it. That little bump that got bigger as you thrust forward.

"Oh god, oh god!" Dick screamed into couch, tensing up like a vice. He wriggled a hand under his tummy to find yours and looked up at you. Slowly, you both pushed down.

It was the hottest fucking thing you've ever felt. You couldn't help the stutter forward of your pelvis as you ground even deeper into him, literally trying to carve out a rhythm so he could feel you behind his eyes.

It didn't take long for either of you to come after that, both of you just rocking back and forth as neither was willing to detach long enough to do more than press up against each other. When you pulled out their we're tears streaming down Dick's face. It didn't freak you out like it should have though- you just hefted his weight to straddle your hips and kiss up and down his neck. In retrospect you would realize how out of it you we're, that lovely ache of a great fuck settling into your bones.

"We're okay, you're okay baby." You smiled and whispered little things into his ear, running both hands up and down his thighs. He nuzzled forward into you- pressing impossibly forward. You could feel cum leaking down his ass and onto your thigh.

"You wanna move this to the shower sweetheart?" You asked.

Dick scrunched his face up. "Not yet."

You chuckled and shifted him to the leg that wasn't going numb, settling in for the long haul, replaying the sound he made when you found his sweet spot again and again in anticipation for an encore before the night ended.

[strialternatives]

[[wrote like 5000 words of what amounts to akechi goro crashing out without his boyfriend as a sounding board--this is basically a messy stream of goro pov consciousness i cleaned up a bit about the lead up to a post royal!akechi palace formation! spent too much time poking at it not to share,,,]]

WARNINGS: canon typical references to suicide, minor self-harm RATING: T

Something inside of him is breaking.    

Akechi Goro’s wide gaze drills accusing holes into the man on the witness stand, still clad in his prison jumpsuit. His jaw goes 

clickclickclick 

he grinds down his molars, sawdust gathers in back of his throat, rage up to his damn eyes and he is…Goro is. He’s. 

He’s going to kill him.

Goro grips the pen on the table as his attorney looks at him with a troubled gaze.

His entire body is tense, alight with a fire in his core as his frame trembles with every inch of the self-control he’s cultivated since he was eleven.

—Kill him, he’s going to kill him, rip his juggler from his thick, ugly neck with his bare teeth.

Masayoshi Shido looks back at him with a thin quirk of his lips. It sets every inch of Goro ablaze with indignation, while his father effortlessly unravels what amounts to sixteen months worth of legal proceedings in his own case.

Once again this man takes his choices away, beats Goro one last time at his own game, amber eyes steady and undaunted by the sheer disdain on his own flesh and blood’s features. The begrudging affection present there is fit to drive Goro properly insane.

Shido raises his chin, he hammers the final nail in the coffin the two of them built together: “As I’ve said since the beginning, there is no such thing as the Metaverse. The theory itself is an absurd pseudoscience on par with leylines and energy healing. I committed all of my crimes through real world means.”

Son of a bitch.

The rest of the trial is a blur—there’s static in Goro’s ears as the courtroom falls away, his blank, ironed-out expression slack on his bowed face, fists clawing bloody crescents into his palms. Attorneys argue, blindsided, as Shido recounts his hits one by one from top to bottom with zero contradictions, no doubt having rehearsed his statement from every angle.

—Always a step ahead, even with a heart change.

The thought makes Akechi want to scream.

“He was a disenfranchised orphan at the time of our first meeting, and I used that to manipulate him.”

Shut up.

“I arranged his internship with the police department and brazenly used party funds and bribes to push him in the media. I doctored the Detective Prince public image and used Akechi Goro to deter legal suspicion while taking advantage of corruption within the department.”

Shut the fuck up.

“Everything I ever did was for my own ends, my son is blameless in all of it. I’m simply relieved… he never had to bloody his hands.”

Goro stands so fast his chair clatters to the floor, he gets halfway over the table before he’s yanked back by the shoulders, struggling in his seat. The snarls leaving him barely sound human, overgrown bangs shadowing his hellfire eyes.

The humiliation smarts like a slap.

The court, however, is quiet as a grave, stunned to silence; Shido hardly hesitates in wake of the outburst.

Don’t you dare.

“There is no physical proof of this Metaverse nor any of the crimes mentioned in the initial report; I plead with this court that my son's case be dismissed and the records with his name sealed. I will give up all of my contacts and constituents.”

Something deep inside of him is-

“Lastly, I implore this jury allow me to properly atone for my sins with the fullest extent of the law. I do not wish to seek parole.”

-Fracturing.

With that Shido bows, as though heralding the end of a show. His face is fully hidden from view—the lowest a man of his arrogance has likely had to bow ever in his entire life. He looks skinny in his prison jumpsuit and cuffs, shrunken. Weak. 

All it does is fuel Goro’s rage. 

There’s a second hush in the courtroom as the boy is swiftly restrained again, Goro thinks he might be screaming, struggling, arms wrestled behind his back as he’s all but carried out of the session. He’s spitting and hissing curses like snake venom, veins in his neck straining as he shouts out his damn voice.

Goro doesn’t remember all the words he'd said, half in anger, half in despair as his composure crumbled beneath his feet. But it made the judge look at him with a pity that stings even worse than Shido’s insult of a paternal conscience.

(He thinks he mentioned his mother. Goro hopes not. His mother's name doesn’t need to be spoken in such a wretched, awful place as the Tokyo High Court.)

/

After the fact, when all things are said and done, he is shouldered with just a year’s probation. —The irony of this specific stretch of time is not lost on him.— A state sanctioned order for therapy in light of his outburst, just shy of shipping him off to a psych ward after his dramatic outburst, Goro bets, he’d thrown quite a few violent death threats Shido’s way, after all.

A proverbial slap on the wrist for the ego death of dozens by his own hand. A clean record and his name scrubbed from the media. 

Something in him breaks. There’s a hollowness in his soul.

Gloved hands creak with mounting tension as his court-assigned probation officer’s words go in one ear and out the other, teeth grinding, aching.

Once again, he’s been denied a choice—his fucking choice—by the same wretched, controlling man. Once again, Goro has been denied control of his own destiny by a higher power and there’s not a single thing he can do to repay his debts.

He knows what probation really means in his case. It is protection, a weak excuse for a witness protection program Goro had denied several times. Everyone involved in the Shido case is desperate to keep their star witness from winding up dead in a gutter. 

Because, as much as they thought Goro was nothing more than a delusional little boy, manipulated by his own father, that same boy had kept meticulous records in the real tangible world over the years. Obsessive records on Shido's inner circle. Useful records. 

And that was not a loss the investigation was willing to risk.

There was no way out of this check he'd been tricked into, no matter which way Goro turns the board, and it is utterly infuriating.

Goro is going to fucking kill him.

///

He is set up in a new apartment with a box of his personal effects not seized for evidence.

Left with strict orders for his probation and house arrest, his brain is still whirling from a week’s worth of appeals and settling of assets.

If he so wishes, Goro doesn’t need to work for the rest of his natural life.

Shido had transferred the keys for all of his accounts to his ‘next of kin’, in consideration for his looming life sentence. 

The thought makes Goro want to rage again, the bastard had planned for something like this. The assets the government had seized weren’t anything to sneeze at but they were nothing compared to the scope number of non-governmental subsidiaries and private funds Shido constantly squirreled away for a rainy day.

Paranoid packrat that he was, there were plenty of off-shore bank accounts that were all but untouchable. 

Goro’s almost sure making him the sole-proprietor must’ve been some fucked up gene-essentialist backup plan, in case one of his associates stabbed him in the back, or if he couldn’t otherwise flee the country.

(Though, considering what Joker and the Thieves had let slip in January, that particular contingency was probably nothing more than a joke between Shido and his rotten lawyers.)

Even the apartment building he’s standing in is a part of one of Shido’s many (many) real estate ventures, and Goro hates every solitary inch of it. 

He despises the sterile, too-clean air, the way everything is a stark, minimalist off-white, the fact that he’s on the top floor with an objectively gorgeous view of the Tokyo landscape—all while Goro should be six feet under.

—Instead, he’s twenty now.

Goro didn’t expect to live past nineteen.

Left alone after the officer leaves, he glares down at the paneled floor, static in his ears as he sways on his feet and peers into the box.

There is a picture frame of a bewitching woman with rich, caramel colored hair that matches his own at the top of the pile, him at six—a fucking parasite, sucking her life away with every breath—clutching shyly onto full sakura-pink skirts, half hiding from whomever is taking the picture. 

The only part of him visible is a cautious wine colored eye against a fluffy brunette fringe. The woman smiles brightly with flushed, happy cheeks as she runs manicured fingers through the shy boy’s curls, not at all like Goro’s knife-like grin.

It’s a smile like sunshine—the ‘original’ smile that Goro could only wear as a mask, one he besmirched by using just to get others to want him, to like him. It hasn’t reached his eyes in years. But it always kept Goro safe all the same.

Mama.

His eyes are bone dry as he stumbles over to the sleek, pre-furnished, couch, Goro wouldn’t be caught dead picking out. He takes in the foreign space, the air so still and impersonal it’s downright suffocating.

Everywhere he looks.

White, on white, on.

More.

White.

Every inch of the studio apartment is blindingly white and Goro wants to claw his fucking throat out.

What was it all for, if this was how things were going to end? 

Did any of those years spent under his father’s thumb matter? Smiling for his slime ball compatriots? Breaking off pieces of himself and killing them to survive in their snake pit? Lowering himself to the status of an attack dog, twice-kicked, verbally condescended to on a daily basis by the adults around him?

This time Goro’s blunt nails do find his throat as he rasps, breathes quickening as he struggles and fails to draw in air to his lungs.

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

How dare Shido take this from him?

How dare the Judge look at him with pity? His social worker. His probation officer. Even his old coworkers whispered as he’d given every name he’d meticulously taken note of during his time at the center of the Conspiracy. It's a small mercy that Sae is no longer involved in the case, that would be a special kind of hell.

All Goro wanted was one thing, to accomplish one right thing, for the sake of enacting real justice.

The mantra is what he has killed every shadow after Isshiki Wakaba for—it was all supposed to be ‘worth it’ in the end. He’d stubbornly insisted to Robin Hood, who’d gone deadly silent after that first death, morose, nestled heavy as an anchor within Goro’s spirit of rebellion until he was needed again.

He’d wanted to set things right, put every game piece back in the box, so to speak. Neat and tidy.

But Goro couldn’t even have that. What better punishment was there for a monster like him, than to be guilty of all of the sins on his shoulders, but still, maddeningly idle? 

Free.

A familiar sneer splits Akechi Goro’s lips, sardonic, mocking whilst his body shakes again with the force of his laughs, image of his mother’s bright smile wavering in his vision.

He’d forgotten what she looked like. 

Goro hasn’t said her name in years, no one has—did Shido even remember her? Did his mother ever have a choice at all in her fate, or was she yet another game piece for the wretched hand Goro had been dealt from his birth?

He wants to know. He needs to know.

///

Goro stares blankly at the empty sheel on the other side of the safety glass, he is not sure why he did this.

God knows his therapist told him how unproductive it would be. Goro doesn’t blame her—he’s been fading physically since the verdict reading. Complexion pale, fists perpetually clenched and digging bloody into his palms, they’re bandaged under his gloves.

She doesn’t know about them, a lot of people don’t know much about Goro these days.

“What was her name,”

It is not a question. Shido… hesitates.

“I—”

“My mother’s fucking name! Before you go to prison forever, before I never have to see your awful face again, just—!”

The desperation just pours out of him in waves, a weakness that leaves Goro recoiling in self-disgust, his world tilting off its axis as he clutches at his fringe, letting out a breathless laugh. He starts over.

“...Tell me you remember her name.”

There’s a long silence. The prison guard shifts from foot to foot, he should not be here for this, yet, alas, to the chagrin of everyone in the room, on both sides of the glass, there is no better compromise.

But Shido only looks at him with dead eyes, his smile empty along with his convictions. 

“I didn’t. Until I ran a background check on you that is, and it finally clicked… It. Was quite unusual, the way Sakura’s name was written.”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“We met at the same university, she wanted to go into business, really wanted her own space, to be her own boss.”

Goro twitches, irons out his expression, his teeth ache along with the words he forces out, “Just what are you blathering about?”

Shido’s gaze is steady, “She was quite good at marketing, I… she was integral in the campaign we were both working under, went above and beyond despite being an intern.” He exhales, “She didn’t much care for my seedier contacts though, so the relationship didn’t last. I tried to threaten her into terminating.”

“Instead… she ran.”

At that his gaze turns considering, a familiar sharpness showing for a split moment in those eyes before dying like scattered ash—Goro feels his hairs stand on end. “Curious, isn’t it…? How she chose not to get rid of you, in the end… I was simply glad she dropped out of university and out of my way.”

Goro wants to bash his head into the glass, he wants to rip his fucking heart out, it must show in his eyes because Shido inclines his head, lips twitching. It's still not a happy smile.

“Akechi Sakura was close to getting her career on track, you know—? She started pestering me about child support around then because she just needed a bit more to cross that last barrier,” Shido paused, letting out another one of those miserable scoffs, “Bad timing really, I was campaigning. And she was in the way... again.”

The world slows down, there’s a sinking feeling—inside he is screaming.

“Get to the point, old man.”

He almost wishes he hadn’t prompted him.

“She had a job lined up, a real one after groveling to her parents—but that’s not here nor there. She was going to go back to university, she needed a bit of child care assistance and the money to move you both out of that shoebox near the red light district.”

No.

“Sakura…she… contacted me at a critical time during my election. And you know better than anyone how much of a stigma escorts have in this country, boy.” 

Shido shrugs, numbly nonchalant, like Goro’s mother is nothing more than a morose footnote in a long list of sins to keep track of. Goro’s fists clench in his lap, irritating his bandages again.

“All it took was a few phone calls to upper management at her parents’ company—ah, they didn’t even know she’d been working as an escort to support you both. Shame, really. They properly disowned her with the quickness after—nasty business, that.”

Goro’s eyes are still dry, so much so it aches. He wants to kill him.

He wants this bastard dead and buried.

He’ll drag him all the way down to hell.

Something

is.

breaking.

“Y,you… it was you—….?” Goro’s shoulders slump.

The static is so loud now that he can barely keep up with the confession.

“It was,” Shido says with a wistfulness he has no right to, “She’d really gotten far on her own, I’ll admit, she even had a full-time gig lined up in case things with her parents fell out again, and was in the process of breaking ties with her regular clients.”

Their eyes meet.

“All for you.”

Goro stares.

“She told me wanted a future for you.”

His fists creak, face blank, mind spinning.

“I… I wish… I’d made an honest woman out of her back then, she really was brilliant. By my side, we could have accomplished—“

SCREECH!

His feet carry him from the visitation area at a brisk pace, chair clattering to the floor. Goro's breaths are even and measured as he bows to his probation officer and politely requests he be escorted out. The mask he puts on is a familiar skin.

 —Somehow knowing the reason is worse, knowing his mother truly never had agency, just like Goro. Another tragedy. His fault. Always his. damn. fault.

There’s a quiet horror in knowing that his father had taken everything from him, and didn’t even have the decency to be here and present in any way that matters.

A ‘change of heart’ what a shitty farce. 

No wonder the Okumura heiress made his stomach churn, so.

That pathetic, lobotomized thing on the other side of that glass wasn’t Masayoshi Shido, probably never would be again.

He barks out a bitter laugh of his own once he's managed to weasel a moment away from his guards in the men's bathroom after. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

Mother had always been the optimistic type, unlike Goro with his many anxieties and tendencies to think himself into knots, even at a young age. 

In retrospect, her downward spiral had been unusually swift and merciless—she’d started taking clients again despite not needing them for months previously. Goro went to the bathhouse more often.

Things outside of their little bubble suddenly started to crash and burn.

Goro remembers it vividly, Akechi Sakura had tried to brew pork and vegetable soup one of those nights, only to burn and ruin the pot and three days worth of groceries in the process.

The scent of her flowery perfume and her heaving sobs were overwhelming as she’d dropped to her knees and hugged her son tight, rocking him like he was a toddler instead of an elementary student on the cusp of double digits.

<“It’ll all work out, Goro. Mama promises. We’re going to be okay.”>

He’d hugged her back as hard as he could. But her words were nothing more than a pretty lie.

It only took a month—though numbly, Goro acknowledges that mental health isn’t one of those things broken in a single moment. But instead, a psyche meticulously dismantled with micro-fractures across a score of years, full of slights to his mother’s pride, concessions she’d had to give up for the sake of her bastard son, and countless whispers she had to endure every day she was late to pick him up from school.

So, logically, even armed with Shido's confession, Goro knew there were a number of factors that led to his mother stepping off that train platform on the way to her day job that morning. 

Logic does not, however account for feelings.

It does not account for the very human urge to cast blame and point fingers.

—For instance: what if someone had given his mother a chance?

If only that client hadn’t stiffed her a week before. If only someone on that train platform had said something about her swaying so close to the safety line. If only her thrice damned parents helped, even a little.

What if. What if. What if–

If only Akechi Sakura had never met one Masayoshi Shido.

(If only Goro had never been born.)

He fantasizes about one day killing Shido.

However, this dream is not something that is remotely realistic.

There is a maximum security prison, and tens of dozens of guards in his path. Goro’s expression had been blank and calculating, taking in the wretched shell of a creature in front of him for weaknesses. Yet, he'd only seen a long, insurmountable corridor, stretching out before his very eyes.

One by one, the metaphorical bulkheads had closed, his vengeance farther than it had ever been.

Out of reach. Always too slow—too late.

It makes Goro want to laugh, and laugh. For the first time in ten fucking years a part of him wants to cry.

Fuck.

All that work, all the time spent sawing off the undesirable bastard orphan pieces of himself for his deadbeat father and the brainless masses, giving up every part of himself that was even remotely heroic—yet vengeance had never tasted so bitter.

Something in him fractures again, he can almost feel it break this time. It's obvious enough that he feels the fissure in his damn soul.

This time, unlike that time in court, Goro pays attention. He takes stock of himself and his muddled head, comes to a conclusion quite alarming:

Akechi Goro no longer revels the chance to herald Ragnarök.

Goro blinks, looks down, his vision doubles, eyes widening as the static space in his head grows into something insurmountable as a black hole.

Before he knows it he's curled over his lap on his haunches right there in the bathroom stall he's scrambled into. Arms tight around his middle, once again struggling to inhale.

He's never felt so cold.

There is no chaos, only his hollow masks left behind. Stillness. Stagnation. 

Things haven’t been this silent since Goro signed his life away to Shido in his last year of middle school.

Hereward he normally doesn’t hear unless he reaches, but Loki is different. Loki is chatty.

Goro’s heard his whispers for years—he wasn’t just his malice, he was his passion, where the inferno lived, the part that had given him the means to build Shido up only to tear him down.

(A void where there had previously been righteous fury, of a child brought low and abandoned by his village.)

Goro’s voice is a hesitant croak when he finally finds the will to speak and confirm the truth he’s already grasped. Returning had been a blur, he didn't even know what he ate for dinner if he even ate today at all.

“… Loki?”

The gnawing emptiness inside him hungers. The verbal plea is vulnerable in a way Goro would loath to be around anyone else but…

I am thou, thou art I.

The realization that dawns has him drawing in a sharp breath, Mementos was gone but he could usually always feel his spirit of rebellion. 

His chaos, his justice, his defiance. 

Over the past year and a half they’d never left him, not truly—they didn’t speak often anymore, but he’d usually at least get impressions. Goro closes his eyes tighter and this time he pulls, he whispers for Loki, he grasps for Hereward, his connection borne of his bond with Joker. 

But nothing echoes back in reassurance.

In their places are gaping wounds, fresh, aching and bleeding.

Goro cannot feel their rebellion; the loss is fit to leave him spinning out of control without a motor. For once, Goro doesn’t know how to proceed. His personae were the only things that were always be with him. Never has he felt truly alone until this moment. 

Crack.

Goro draws in a calm, measured breath and reaches–

Robin reaches back.

He exhales.

There’s no one else, it's just them again—just like when he was scrappy and fourteen, trapped in a cramped foster home.

Robin Hood to Goro is the first urge he felt to take a hit for a weeping toddler who didn’t know his parents weren’t coming back. Robin Hood is the very first time he shared a bag of candy to share with the youngest children at the bottom of the pecking order in the group home he wound up in after, whispering with a secretive smile that he’d lifted them from the local corner store.

Goro counts to ten over the migraine steadily building in his temples, nails breaking skin once again.

“Are you going to leave me too?”

His words are flat, matter of fact, as though acknowledging something as asinine as water being wet. There isn’t a hint of childish sentimentality in the question—there isn’t.

“I,” Goro breathes in, finds he doesn’t have the air to, “To be honest, I wish you wouldn’t.”

I am thou…

It’s his own voice but a little offbeat, a bit more whimsical. Goro hasn’t heard it since he killed his first shadow for Shido. One by one his fingers unclench, in a show of frankly disgusting vulnerability, he hugs his knees to his chest on the filthy floor.

“Thou art I.”

His quiet response is swallowed quickly by the lonely bathroom stall, lonely voice echoing for no one else to hear. There's static in his head, darkness at his back, deeply entrenched in his rotten spirit.

In that darkness, Akechi Goro wraps himself in masks, as he always has. He doesn’t plan on taking any of them off, he adopts a proper one for the guards, and calmly washes his hands, before strolling out of the men's room with his head held high.

—Robin Hood is all he has, and he’s always taken care of Goro when it counts.

///

The fall out of the trial, along with Goro’s probationary conditions take months to iron out; it feels like the painful final rasp of a slow-to-die houseplant, the constant ticking of a desk clock past midnight doing Sae’s paperwork after hours.

Goro breathes, he survives.

More boxes full of things lost and scattered between transit come to Goro’s literal doorstep while he lies through his teeth to the therapist that makes his stomach churn. Apparently, Shido had collected far more from the background check than he’d let on. 

With disgust, Goro finds childhood things he’d thought his foster parents would’ve binned—left as hand-me-downs, rotting away in the attics of their real children or perhaps the odd relatives that had an ankle bitter running around.

And isn’t that just a summary of Goro’s entire life story—? Unwanted but for his possessions and the short term pseudo-comfort he can provide, scavengers picking at his carcass until there was nothing left but the rotting bones.

He often has to blink away the images of rotten flesh circled by crows. 

Without fail, Robin’s presence is usually quick to blanket his mind when he spirals, the heated warmth of a security blanket.

He stops looking inside the boxes when his probation officer delivers one full of his mother’s scarves. They’d been sitting in a police locker for a decade, apparently. Lost in transit, just like Goro's true self that died a quiet death in a foster home he doesn't even remember the street name for.

Goro holds the scarf with rose patterns for hours, dry eyes slowly blinking, Shido’s wretched pre-paid apartment tinted warm in the red of the sunset.

He’d forgotten how his mother used to smell. Such a terrible son.

(There is no way forward. Has there ever been?)

///

Goro does everything right at his state sanctioned therapy sessions.

He tears up at the correct pulse points, ‘opens up’ in the ways he’s learned people respond to the best, smiles weakly when he’s congratulated for his ‘progress’... Goro is barely a person, he thinks, only one individual has ever made him feel like anything besides plastic.

But, he’s gotten very good at pretending to be a functional person, one that hasn’t had a million bits and pieces clinically removed across a dozen houses that never felt quite like homes.

There’s a joke about lost causes in there somewhere, but a voice that sounds a bit too much like… ‘him’ keeps insisting that Goro can still be saved. It whispers of a lighthouse among the black rolling rapids in the dead of a stormy night.

Thoughts of that mischievous grin sneak up on him often, as he lay awake in bed between police interviews and therapy sessions he only pays half a mind to. They invade him in the silence, whilst staring blankly at the lone glove on his nightstand—his favorite black pair missing its mate. 

It is March again. 

‘Kurusu Akira’ should have graduated from high school by now.

(Joker would understand, why therapists and counselors set Goro’s teeth on edge.)

It starts like this—Goro thinks of long, slender fingers versatile as a spider’s legs, he rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, exhaling as his brain whirls with thought of handshandhands, the way Joker twirls his dagger, impatient for his turn in battle, like Akira tends to do with his pens while studying. There's also the way Akira toys with his fringe when anxious, one of his few tells to that infuriating pokerface. The thought of those same damnable hands skating absently along Crow’s waist in the middle of battle as Joker calls forth Maria’s holy light to heal all his hurts on reflex, clenching around his glove that cold night in February, reaching out to cup the side of his neck before retreating, Hereward burning to life in his chest. Undeniable proof that someone in this world would miss Goro when he was gone—

What the fuck.

Goro stares, dumbfounded at the ceiling as he rolls over on his back, the panicked realization tightening his chest feels downright inevitable, even as he struggles to choke it down. He is suddenly blindly, incandescently angry.

(—He really should’ve just saved himself the trouble and shot that boy in the head for a second time.)

//

He loses track of his days.

Weekly, he is picked up at his apartment. Weekly, he goes through the motions of assisting the officers on Shido’s case, exposing the network the Phantom Thieves had left to rot.

But that wasn’t fair either, was it? They didn’t know what Goro did, not of the filth or the rotten underbelly he’d helped Shido cultivate—because Goro didn’t tell them. Of course not, why would he?

There existed dozens of Kaneshiro’s in Tokyo alone, and even more men at the top just as wretched and disgusting as the young Okumura heiress’ oh, so, beloved father that deserved to 'be guided down the correct path'.

The thieves were nothing more than naive children, with a childish justice to match; it left Goro seething, the envy burning inside him watching from afar had been…

….

He shuts off the train of thought before it festers. There's no point anymore after all was said and done.

At present, Goro inclines his head demurely at the officers on the other side of the table, he speaks in a slow, even voice for the recording.

It was an exhaustive affair, but Goro would much rather spend his months playing janitor than rot in Shido’s fancy apartment for any longer than he has to.

—He’d be dead in the ground before he let a single one of those rats go free to consolidate power. Goro may be barred from carrying out his own justice by what he can only call divine punishment, but, at least, he's mature enough to clean up the messes he himself created.

Kurusu Akira’s full name being in the system was bad enough, worse, it left him open for payback. Open for some very powerful people with axes to grind. And, as strong as the venerated leader of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts was in the metaverse, in 'reality', Joker was still distressingly mortal. 

(Self-sacrificing idiot that he is.)

It’s just so easy for people to die, like the flickering light of a candle, or the last gasp of a dying star echoed from a million light years away.

Goro wouldn’t allow Akira, sentimental, clever, earnest Akira with his knife like smiles and infuriating charm to wind up a statistic in a political power struggle.

That shit's just not on.

—Goro owes him a rematch, after all.

This he could put his energy into, a purpose he could focus in on instead of wallowing in the reality of his situation. Robin Hood, who'd made his nest in Goro's soul long ago, trills in united agreement.

Distantly, Goro can’t help wondering if Joker can still feel Arsene under his skin.

//

For a time the mask smiles and so does Goro.

He doesn’t think about Joker, he tries not to think too long about much of anything,

And then.

There’s always a ‘then’, isn’t there?

He finds himself staring at a pile of diaries and a meek elderly man in a traditional kimono. There are officers on either side of the man on the other end of the apartment's dining table; he looks downtrodden and exhausted.

Goro feels a rush of foreboding he hasn’t felt since that day when his sentence was read in court.

As the meeting wears on, filled with excuses and weak justifications, his eyes are blank and dispassionate. Yet another empty shell, his--'grandfather'--pleading for absolution from a part of Goro's sympathy he had let go to rust a long time ago.

How could someone as bright as his mother have come from such a cowardly worm of a man?

In the dead of night whilst reading his mother’s dying words, the officers and her wretch of a sperm donor finally long gone, Akechi Goro is for the first time, wholly alone. 

Something breaks for good inside him, when the realization hits: There is no true justice in this world.

(He can no longer feel the echoes of Robin’s merry laughter, nor the constant assurance of the gentleman outlaw’s masks.)

///

[Candidate found!] Akechi Goro. Tokyo Highcourt. Amphitheater.

[astarioffsimpmain]

Astarion Headcanons

Because Astarion consumes nearly every braincell I own, here's some headcanons on how Stari finds comfort in your boobs. 

~

Warnings: Nudity; mentions of trauma; nightmares; unintentional puncture wounds

He loves to use them as his pillows; your bedroll is never your own again after Astarion discovers that you don't mind welcoming him in during the night when he's feeling exceptionally lonely and vulnerable. Not that you mind, what with how he nuzzles his face between your breasts, breathing in your familiar scent and wrapping his arms tightly around your middle. You melt a little inside when the vampire spawn fully relaxes into you after a few deep breaths, and you start running your fingers through his silver curls, always surprised at how downy they are, despite how much they'd been through. A contented shudder goes through his body and he sighs into your skin, his breath the only thing that runs hot about him, sending a shiver through you as well. You can't help but let the corners of your mouth curl upwards and your eyes fall closed at the sensations encircling you. Being entangled in him is just as comforting to you as it is to him, and you know that if you didn't have to arise the next morning in order to continue your journey, you'd be fully satisfied with not knowing where you ended and he began for as long as he allowed. 

He uses them as stress balls (and you cannot convince me otherwise); you've awoken in the middle of the night with a yelp of pain in your chest. There's several seconds of panic before you realize that the source of the pain is Astarion's sharp fingernails digging into your ample breast. He's still asleep, but he's writhing, his brow furrowed and eyes clamped shut. 'Nightmare,' you think to yourself as you gently try to pry his five tiny daggers from your flesh. But he must have felt safety slipping away in his sleep, for his grip only tightened and you had to bite the inside of your mouth as his nails punctured your skin and tiny streams of blood appeared around your areola. "Stari," you mutter, your fingers finding his hair and massaging his scalp gently as you crane your neck down to kiss his damp forehead. The pain is bringing tears to your eyes, but you know trying to toss him off is no good: his grip is like iron on you. So you shush him quietly and tenderly run your warm palms along every bit of skin you can reach, trying to soothe his subconscious horrors from your helpless place beside him. Eventually his hold on you went slack, and you were able to pull his nails from your skin, shuddering in pain as each jagged edge flayed your skin on its way out. 'We're going to have to discuss nail trimmers' you thought humorlessly as you wiped the blood away with your tunic that lay close by. "Mmm, love?" His sleepy voice froze you in your movements, head turning to find him blinking slowly, prying his eyelids open as he returned to consciousness. He reaches for you, hardly even awake enough to know where he is, but still the first thing he wants is you. You can't deny him, so you reach back for him, pulling his face to your bosom and planting kisses in his curls. But he stiffens, and you cringe, realizing that he must have smelled your blood. "Darling, did I-?" He whispers, ghosting his thumb over the clotting nail marks. "You were having a nightmare, my love." You murmur between kisses to the crown of his head, the tips of his ears, his forehead, nose, and cheeks. He tries to pull away, ashamed of hurting you, but you hold him fast, your arms circling his shaking shoulders as you pull him back to you. "I knew what I was signing up for, my darling." You thumb the skin of his shoulders where you hold him and he releases a soft sob into the valley of your breasts. "I hurt you. The one person who's never hurt me." He wails. "My dear heart, I will suffer that and much more to see you smile again. You will never suffer alone again." Gently, you tilt his chin up and wipe the tear streaks from his beautiful face. "I love you," You whisper to him. "I love all of you." Another whimper left his lips and he nodded, burying his head in the crook of your neck and wrapping his arms around you. 'One day,' you thought. 'One day he won't have to hurt like this anymore, and I'll be there to see him smile again.'

Fin

[wintergrofyuri]

hero tired and stressed and anxious. constantly comparing himself to the long quiet. wishing they were still there. worrying he wont be enough to keep them all together. having stress dreams about being alone in the long quiet (the place). the mirror, the princess. the narrator. isolating himself from the others.

having to be physically dragged away from his brooding. being all "im fine" and then passing the fuck out not even 2 minutes into flock cuddle time. not even waking up while they fight over who gets to be closest (thank god btw smitten wld never be able to live with the guilt).

adversary and stubborn inviting him to a tussle. politely declining but suggesting he just watch, since he can tell they just wanted an excuse to hang out. ending up in a tussle anyways when adversary throws stubborn into him. hero not at All keeping up with them but its ok bc the closeness, physical or otherwise, is more than enough for him.

burned and drowned grey inviting themselves in bc burned is forcing drowned to interact with the voices more and decided hero is a good place to start. hero being scrambling a bit bc he wasnt expecting visitors (and hes still a little wary around the ghosts) but trying to be a gracious host. burned being all "see how cute and nice and sweet he is" and hero getting all flustered. drowned says nothing but she Does squish his cheeks a little. burned calls it a success.

broken seeking him out for when he just wants company and comfort. hero claims his door is always open and hes never once refused anyone. but sometimes others are already there. paranoid or opportunist. sometimes contrarian. a vessel or two is not uncommon either; spectre and damsel are especially fond of him. broken always feels like hes intruding, though. cold, on the other hand, does not care. he will invite himself in any hour just for hero time. he has advised broken to do the same.

they love him. they adore him. they put him on a pedestal. they care for him and worry about him and stress him worse than anything. all pressure he puts on himself. to be perfect. to be what he thinks they want him to be. he does not know how deep and unconditional it all is. they dont want him to Be anything other than himself. bc what he Is is what they fawn over. he could be reciting the fucking yellow pages and theyd still hang off every word.

anyways this makes no sense and its all over the place and basically just a stream of consciousness but this has been in my drafts long enough and i need everyone to know that hero harem is still 🔛🔝💯💯🔥🔥🔥🔥💥💥🌈🦈✨

[chanranghaeys]

📝 here, there, and everywhere

This journal belongs to: me. If found, please contact this number. (And please do not read it—unless you want to read the ramblings of a person who fails to deny their feelings for a certain someone.)

pairing: lee chan x gn!reader word count: 2.5k+ genre: fluff for (belated) happy chan day and carat day! rating: pg tags: college friends, they grew up, time skips between entries, mutual pining, happy (open) ending, stream of consciousness, excessive italics, please read the whole thing as if it were a private journal of sorts warnings: mentions of alcohol, death of a family member (brief mention, off the page)

a/n: this is a self-indulgent piece on my ultimate crush and the love of my (kpop) life, lee chan. i can’t keep denying you, so here we go. in an alternate universe, you would’ve been my best friend that i loved to hate and hated to love, until one of us finally gave in to our feelings and hoped for the best. happy birthday chan! you’ve given me nothing but color in my life ever since i became a carat. i wish you all the beautiful flower paths ahead ✨

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Dear Chan,

You must think me pathetic if you ever found one of these letters.

It sucks…this little crush I’ve discovered I have on you. And I am only saying this ONCE on the page. And to no one else. Because when you talk about a crush, it only grows, right?

So I'll just talk about it to myself.

I hate crushes because they are so unexplainable. They’re unexplainable feelings that latch on to you so hard and never let you go until you fumble and mess up and just make an utter fool of yourself.

I first found out I had a crush on you last month.

I had long admired you from afar through your dancing. You’re beautiful when you dance—in the zone, focused, bursting with energy. I’m genuinely jealous of how you can do the things you do with your body, how you tell such beautiful stories with every little move you make.

But it was that time during a production runthrough—the simultaneous evaluations—where you made that one mistake almost fatal to your team on that one sequence you spent weeks perfecting.

Yet there you were onstage, just laughing it off. So instead of your team being anxious or frustrated, they just laughed along with you.

It turned out to be the best performance of the night, your laughing played off as banter and camaraderie by the guest audiences.

That’s when I first felt the intense grip of this thing called feelings on my poor little heart.

Absolutely disgusting.

Anyway.

This “writing letters I'll never send to you” is all just for me to really process all these feelings I’ve discovered for you. No other reason aside from that. In my head, this is a form of acknowledgment so I can easily get over whatever this is.

So yeah. Feelings. A crush. On you—someone younger than me—of all people. I can’t believe it.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

We were crossing the street when you suddenly held my hand. You did that to pull me to the other side of the road farther from the direction of the car.

“Be careful,” you said.

I shouldn’t feel special. Maybe you do this with everyone else anyway.

I hate how I can’t help but feel just a teensy bit special. Indulge me on this.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I hate how you’re so stubborn. I hate how you’re so passionate. I hate how you’re such an amazing dancer. If I didn’t know better, I’d be so goddamn jealous of you.

Well, maybe I already am.

But above all that, I feel so in awe of you.

I hate how amazing you are in everything you do.

I hate how you’re actually inspiring me to be a better person. Little by little.

You’re inspiring me to be more diligent, to work harder, to believe in myself and my artistry way more than I ever thought I could—even through the infinite doubts.

Because that’s what you do to me.

“You can do it!” you said. “I’ll be right in the audience cheering for you, too. Because you’re my number one supporter, I’ll also be your number one supporter.”

I hate how you’re right. Why do you always have to be right?

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I don’t get it. I really don’t.

I don’t understand why you would do such things to me and for me.

It was such a simple and offhand remark.

“Is that a new necklace?” you asked.

“Nah,” I replied.

“It’s pretty. I don’t usually see you wearing that necklace. Where's the other one? The silver one with the daisy pendants?”

It was only because that one—my favorite one—broke and I didn’t have the time to have it fixed yet. Too busy with org scheds.

And you know what you said?

“Give it to me. I’ll have it fixed.”

What in the actual—

You didn’t have to do it, Chan.

Yet there I was, handing over my most prized possession...to you, my...friend.

You better give it back to me fixed, or else.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

We’re in the library pretending to study for this godforsaken exam. I’ve practically given up on it.

(lol just kidding I can’t do that)

So we’re on a break. You’re sitting right in front of me, writing something down in your own notebook. Good thing the tables are a bit wide. I really wish that you won’t be able to see your name plastered on top of this page.

I never pegged you for someone who writes. In my head, I will take this as my own influence over you after my constant stories of how journaling and writing is such a simple thing that can heal you so easily and thoroughly.

Maybe my influence, and Seungkwan’s as well. At least he’s a good influence.

It was so funny, even, how you made a huge show of showcasing your little black notebook. When you opened it, I saw that it was already bookmarked at the halfway point.

So you do write. You have been writing.

Stop making my crush on you grow. Stop.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

You were so drunk last night. I don’t think you’ll remember any of it today.

But I remember everything crystal clear.

You’ve had how many bottles of soju at that point. You slung your arm around me and leaned your head on my shoulder. Never mind how fast my heart was beating at that point. Whether from alcohol, or you know what, I will never know.

You told me, “You’re my best friend. You know that, right?”

Your best friend.

A friend.

A stake to the heart would’ve hurt less, in my opinion.

But then again, better a best friend than nothing at all.

I wish I was as drunk as you were last night. Maybe I could forget that one sentence and just carry on living as if this thing between us is nothing.

As if us holding hands the entire night last night under the guise of you “needing a steady hand to hold so you wouldn't fall because you were drunk as hell” is no indication of any thing.

Whatever this thing is.

Sincerely,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I promised not to write anymore—believe me I tried. We’re best friends, right?

Best friends meet up for breakfast before going separate ways for the day, right?

Best friends make sure to ask if you’re home at the end of every day, right?

Best friends have random snacks or your go-to pick-me-up drink delivered to you when they know you’re having a terrible day, right?

Best friends do that, right?

Even if they’re both in separate relationships already?

I’m so confused. I shouldn’t be, but I can’t make it make sense.

Maybe it’s just me and these lingering and unresolved feelings. I hate them.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

Thank you for meeting me as soon as I called. Thank you for holding me as my world fell apart. Thank you for comforting me even as my tears fell. Thank you for being reliable. Thank you for giving me my comfort ice cream. Thank you for helping me through this breakup even though I know you’re on the brink of your own.

Thank you for being a friend—my friend.

Thank you for always catching me whenever I fall.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I’m sorry about the breakup…or am I?

I’m not too sad about it, I’m sorry. I always knew they were a bit off for you. But I hope I’ve been the right kind of friend that you need right now.

Or however you need me. I'll be here for you, the same way you were for me. You know that right?

I know you held back a few tears when we were at the cafe earlier. You loved them, for sure. I know how far you go for love—that's how true your love is.

But you should've seen the look in your eyes. It tells me you’re not too too sad about it either.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Yeah, definitely just me.

Maybe it was more of me wanting to see the spark in your eyes again after you kept denying that it had been gone for so long.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

You should've seen your face earlier. It was so…

With all of your hip-hop and R&B playlists, I never pegged you to be one to appreciate any of the oldies.

“This is my favorite Beatles song,” I said.

You immediately stopped scrolling the phone hidden behind the book reading the book in your hand to listen to “Here, There, and Everywhere” playing from the cafe's tinny speakers, straining to make it out above the chatter of the establishment.

You said you'll pull up the lyrics to read, and as you did, the smile on your face grew ever so slowly with every word that your eyes traveled to. You started to slightly bob your head to the beat while mouthing some of the lyrics as the song continued on.

Okay, fine, I was watching you. You didn't notice anyway.

“It’s a great song,” you said. You looked up with this sense of meaning in your eyes. I feel like mine had a look of question marks in them.

Your fingers danced on your phone. I’m sure you added it to one of your playlists. Well, I hope.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

This is the last letter I’ll write. I promise.

It’s graduation tomorrow. If you give me nothing and nothing happens within the next month of tomorrow, I will stop this nonsense and maybe try to finally get over these feelings I seem to have for you.

Whatever it is.

I just…don’t think I can bring myself to do it first.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

This is so random but you just suddenly crossed my mind. And I remembered this notebook full of so-called "unsent letters to you."

I wonder how you are and if you're doing okay. I don't know why we grew apart after graduation. I just...I don't know. I can't even think about it without my head aching.

It does kind of feel like there's a hollow void in the shape of you somewhere in my body, particularly somewhere around my chest area.

(nope, I won't say it)

I hope you're doing alright.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I can’t believe you came. It's been five years since we saw each other, three since we last spoke, yet you came—the person I least expected to see in the wake.

I never thought there'd be another letter but how could I not write anything?

I didn’t realize how painful and heavy it was to lose my grandfather until you hugged me. You were the first one to see my tears. You were the only one brave enough to hold my broken pieces without caring if you'd get cut by my sharp edges.

How you were able to do it even after all these years will forever be a mystery to me.

Thank you for catching me before I further shattered myself.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I’m still reeling from recent events.

It was so nice to see you again last night, though. Thanks for dragging me out of my apartment. It’s been so long since we went out like that, just for some frozen yogurt, which naturally turned into a few drinks because after all, it’s still the two of us together.

But good lord help me, I’m still in a daze. How can I be normal when I just dropped the biggest truth bomb of my life thus far?

I told you, “Maybe I’ve always wondered what it would be like if we ever tried before.”

But you know what you said? You know what you frickin’ said?

“I wish you told me earlier. Why didn’t you?”

Well, why didn’t you??????

I swear I could’ve combusted on the spot if I could. I swear I just said that so I could finally let go of this weight from my chest.

But you know what you did?

You walked me home. You made sure I was safe.

And then you visited this morning with coffee and breakfast to nurse the drinks from last night.

You’re just outside my room right now, sitting on my small couch, playing Beatles songs from the speakers. You’re waiting for me to finish whatever I’m doing here because you’re taking me out to see this movie I told you I wanted to watch. Why?

“We have to make up for lost time,” you said.

Chan, what are you doing? Just tell me so I know what I should do.

What do I do with you now?

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Happy Chan Day!

I hate you.

I wish you told me about your party earlier! I mean, even hours earlier, not like an hour or two right before.

Okay, I know it’s a spontaneous birthday party and all—I GET IT. But please tell your friends to at least invite your other friends beforehand? So we can also prep stuff for you, okay? I moved around so many schedules for this—for your party. How could I not?

So I hope you’ll forgive me for not preparing your gift yet. I was planning to get it in the coming days when my sched was relatively freer. Still, I’m really, truly sorry for not getting you a gift. I know you like getting gifts because you like giving them as well.

You know, it’s your birthday, yet you were the one who said something that was almost like a gift to me.

You said, “Don’t bother with the gift. As long as you’re here with me, I don’t really need anything else.”

Chan, I still hate you. I think.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

I’ve come to the harrowing realization that I’m in love with you.

No scratch that. I love you. Throughout all these years, I’ve always loved you.

How’s that for a hit-me-with-a-firetruck realization?

Yours truly (I wish),

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Dear Chan,

Do not laugh at me. Do not be condescending. Do not dismiss me—your best friend. Do not leave me hanging. Just…do not.

When I show you this, just don’t.

Just read it.

Yours truly,

Me

— ✐ᝰ.ᐟ —

Hey, you.

If only you knew how many pages I’ve written about you. Glad to know I’m not the only one doing so.

It started on that day we were in the library. I’d already written about so many things, but that was the first time I ever wrote about you. I’ve never stopped writing since.

And even in pages full of you writing about me, I still write about you.

You’ve always been here, there, and everywhere to me.

Yours, truly and only yours,

Chan

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

NOW PLAYING: seventeen's playlist - song # 2

“To lead a better life / I need my love to be here // … // Will be there and everywhere / Here, there and everywhere”

[gloomwitchwrites]

Break Up with Your Toxic Boyfriend (2 of 4)

John "Soap" MacTavish x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: brief discussion of verbal and emotional injury, briefly implied future physical injury, protective / possessive Soap, hand job, unprotected piv

Word Count: 1.9k

You and Soap might no longer be together, but he is your "safe space", and you need to vent. While raging over the phone about your boyfriend, Soap arrives at your door.

Imagines & What If Series

ao3 // main masterlist // break up with your toxic boyfriend

The anger and hurt in your voice are the only fuel John needs.

You have no idea that he is already on his way to you, that he hooked your phone call up to his helmet. That, even now, John is on his sportbike zooming down roads and weaving around cars in an effort to get to you.

There is a fire under his skin. It burns away all other concerns. Every word you speak is a blown furnace, the destruction mounting until each utterance infuriates him further. This “boyfriend” of yours, the one you started seeing after the two of you broke up, deserves a fucking sharp punch to the jaw. He deserves missing teeth and broken bones.

Men like him aren’t men at all. They’re rubbish, only valuing women as objects, seeing them as their housekeeper and not their partner.

In his ear, you’re hardly taking a breath. Your words are a stream of consciousness, each word angrily pushing into the other until it’s a jumbled mess. John listens to it all, using that as motivation to get to you. It’s doesn’t fucking matter that you’re not his anymore.

John still cares. He still loves you. The need to protect and defend you is innate. One teary-laced word was enough for him to drop everything and head in your direction. Doesn’t matter that you and he ended things a bit messy. It was simply complicated. The two of you needed to work a few things out but broke it off because that was the easy thing to do.

He regrets that. He regrets not fighting. Not getting his shit together.

The engine revs, and John turns onto your street, almost throwing himself off his bike to get to your front door. In one hand he’s holding his helmet. In the other, he’s holding his phone, the device pressed to his ear as you keep talking. Reaching out, he pounds on the door.

You immediately pause on the other side of the phone. “There’s someone at my door,” you murmur, voice slightly distant.

“I know,” he replies. “It’s me.”

Silence on the other end. But then he hears it—the familiar click of a lock. Following that is your front door opening, revealing you.

The two of you stand there, staring at each other. Your momentary shock slips, dipping into confusion.

“What are you—” you begin but promptly stop as John pushes past you and into the flat.

“Is that fucker here?” John strides into the kitchen, placing his helmet down on the counter before ending the phone call and slipping the device into his back pocket.

“John.”

He glances down the hallway and then turns to you. “Is he here?”

You shake your head. “No. He’s not here.”

John’s chest heaves with relief, some of the tension receding.

“John,” you repeat, the concern in your voice enough to smother some of that fire burning beneath his ribcage.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks softly, approaching.

His gaze roams up and down your body, searching for signs of injury. There is none, at least not that he can see. That doesn’t mean there aren’t marks somewhere hiding beneath the clothes. The very thought fans the flames, charging John’s nerves until they crackle like lightening.

“No, Johnny. I’m fine.”

Johnny.

Only two people are allowed to call him that and one of them is standing right in front of him. The use of it, the way it falls from your lips, is enough to slightly quiet the anger. He sighs, expelling some of that smoky frustration. But then his gaze flicks to a spot just over your shoulder, and a new feeling emerges.

There are fist-sized holes in the wall. Four of them. Much too large to be your hands.

“What the fuck are those?” John’s voice drops as he nods toward them.

The sadness that forms on your features nearly rips his lungs from his body. John has never seen you like this. Never this defeated.

“They happened after,” you answer.

“After what?”

“The argument.”

You and John have had your fair share of arguments, but he’s never punched a wall. He’s never thrown anything or threatened you.

Never. Fucking never.

No. Fuck this guy.

“You’re breaking up with him.”

“What?” you ask, flustered by his sudden outburst.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” he murmurs. “Doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you. To kiss your lips. To be in your presence.”

You deserve so much more than whatever this fucker is providing. Which is apparently nothing served alongside fist-sized gapping wounds in the plaster.

Your mouth opens like you’re about to reject the idea, but it’s not a suggestion. You are breaking up with him. You will leave him even if that means John doesn’t get to have you. That’s fine. That’s okay. He can live with that. What he can’t live with is knowing you’re with someone who treats you like rubbish.

He needs to get this off his chest, to make you understand that you are entitled to more.

“I listened the whole way here and you know what I heard?” He pauses and notices the slight quiver in your bottom lip. “That you’re unhappy. Have been for some time.”

You blink and fresh tears form there. John has to bite back the instinct to kiss them away. It’s what he would do if you were still his.

He licks his lips, a large sigh leaving him as he points over your shoulder. “He treats you poorly.” John’s hand slices through the air. “Walks all over you. Doesn’t answer you for hours and then gets angry with you when he finally makes contact.”

As John talks, even he can hear his voice thickening. This always happens when he gets worked up, and you’ve always playfully teased him about it.

“He’s a fucking waste of space.”

“John—”

“Break it off. And—fuck. If you can’t face him, then let me do it.” He places his hand on his chest. “Allow me to defend you.”

Your features soften and John wants to drink it in, to remember the way you’re currently looking at him. He remembers this side of you, the one that easily pierces him like a needle breaks skin. A look like this will put John on his knees if you ask him to.

“Johnny.”

He’s done. Gone. There is no coming back from this. Whenever you say his name like that, you’re either annoyed with him, wanting him to listen, or you’re just about ready to kiss him. It momentarily rips away all the thoughts in his head, leaving him temporarily mute before his brain can catch up again.

“Listen to me,” he says, gripping the sides of your face. “Get rid of him. I—I know you don’t want me but fucking hell. Don’t pick him. Don’t—”

John is silenced.

Not by your words leaving your mouth but from your lips pressing to his. It startles him—shocks him that you’re kissing him. Leaning into him. John responds, kisses you back, his tongue exploding with the remembrance of your taste.

But you’re still not his. You belong to someone else still and this isn’t right, no matter how much he fucking hates it.

“Stop, love,” he murmurs, pushing on your shoulders.

John loathes telling you to stop. To move away from him. Doing so is like fish hooks caught in the skin. He wants to reel you right back in, to taste your lips again, and fall into memory.

“I ended it,” you reply softly. “It’s over. That’s why there are holes in the wall.”

John pauses, his gaze growing serious. “What?”

You shake your head. “He didn’t like that I wanted him to leave. That I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

Your fingers dig into the back of John’s neck and that one touch is enough to dissolve his resolve about not kissing you into dust.

He closes the distance, and you welcome him in, opening beautifully.

“Am I your rebound?” he teasingly asks between kisses.

You laugh against his lips and kiss him again. “Why did I ever leave you?” Your question is a sad murmur tinged with a regret that leaches off your words and floods into his heart.

���Because I was an asshole.” He believes these words completely but you’re shaking your head.

“No,” you reply. “You weren’t. Never that.”

The kisses between you, which at first were soft, quickly develop into deeper passion, twining like a spool of thread around a bobbin. John drags you against him, tasting over and over until you are imprinted on his memory.

Your arms drape over the back of his neck to pull him even closer, and John snaps. That gentle resolve is gone. He needs you.

Reaching down to cup your ass, John lifts you off the ground until your legs naturally wrap around his waist. He knows where the bedroom is but that’s too fucking far. The desire writhing between and around his bones is a blood-beast. A feral thing that calls out for your skin against his.

Setting you down on the counter, John shoves his helmet out of the way. You’re already reaching for him, undoing the front of his pants, slipping in to palm him. The inhale you make when your fingers wrap around his cock is sweet and John breathes it in as if that one sound makes up his entire lifeblood.

Fuck. Fuck.

He’s going to taste you everywhere. His lips and teeth will mark your skin. His tongue will find a home between your legs. You’ll forget this fuckers name. He just needs a few hours and it’ll be his name you’re screaming.

You stroke him again, and John drags you right to the edge of the counter, intending to sink to his knees to worship between your spread thighs.

Your knees lock at his hips and with another stroke of your hand, you tell him what you want. “I need you inside me. I want to feel you.”

You ask so sweetly. He can’t say no. He doesn’t want to.

John helps you ease his pants down to his thighs. When he goes to undress you, he only finds underwear under that large, oversized shirt.

“Fuck, love.” John’s finger drags that fabric aside and he groans at the sight.

You’re already wet. Aching. Ready for him. Begging him to bury himself inside.

This one will be quick. It’ll be rough and he’ll probably fucking spill within a minute, but he has the whole night to take you over every surface in this flat, to make you writhe and moan beneath him.

Placing one hand on the counter and one on your thigh, John starts to ease in. Inch by inch, slowly, he disappears until there is nothing left for him to give. He has a perfect view of how you stretch around him. How you slightly clench and unclench, the pleasure of it shooting to the base of his spine.

“Don’t leave me,” you murmur as Soap begins to thrust into you.

“Never,” he replies, nuzzling the side of your face as you pepper him with kisses.

John anchors himself, snapping his hips, chasing the end just so he can get you back into that bedroom to do so much more.

“You’re mine,” he groans as your fingers dig into his skin, pulling him closer. “Always have been.”