#unless they pull the trigger first

[domysterio]

dom trying to decide who he's betraying

[mostly-tame]

Today was pet store day ✨️ visted a local pet store and Pet Supplies Plus and got Torch many goodies. Both stores had some nice sales, so I got the kibble, chews, and bones I wanted already, plus some bonus items

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Your overprotective boyfriend Dr. Jack Abbott

Jack Abbott doesn’t realize he’s being overprotective at first. To him, it’s just instinct. He watches the exits of every restaurant you go to, always makes you walk on the inside of the sidewalk, and checks the locks on your apartment windows like it’s second nature. It’s not possessive—it’s protective. Quiet, calculated, and constant.

You notice it the most at night. He can’t sleep unless he knows you're home safe. If you’re working late or out with friends, he doesn't bombard you with texts, but you can always feel his eyes flick to his phone every five minutes until you send the “home safe” message.

If you work at the hospital too, he starts doing "casual" walkthroughs of your department, even when he’s not scheduled there. He’ll pretend it’s coincidence, but his eyes scan you like he’s checking for bruises no one else would notice. If you're in a dangerous case or with a combative patient, he’s there fast—and no one questions it. No one dares.

His paranoia peaks when something triggers him—like an overhead page that sounds too much like a siren, or a security breach. He pulls you aside, jaw tight, eyes distant like he’s somewhere else entirely. You have to remind him gently that you’re okay, that it’s not the field anymore.

But he never fully believes it. Not when it comes to you.

His overprotectiveness shows in small moments too—putting his hand on the small of your back in crowds, crossing to your side when a stranger gets too close, instinctively stepping in front of you during arguments, even if you’re the one doing the yelling.

He keeps a go-bag in his trunk. You find it once—fully packed. “Old habits,” he says. But there’s a second toothbrush. And your allergy meds. And your favorite protein bar.

When you ask about it, he just shrugs. “If something ever happens, I’m getting you out first.”

Jack doesn’t say “I love you” often, but his body does. In the tension of his shoulders every time you leave the room. In the way he memorizes your routes home. In the near-invisible tremor of his hand when he cups your cheek after a hard shift—like he still can’t believe you’re here, and safe, and his.

And every now and then, when the walls come down, he’ll whisper it like a prayer against your skin: “I couldn’t protect everyone back then. But I’ll protect you. Always.”

[gghostwriter]

Have Your Cake

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer notices a change in you that he tries to address Trope: Comfort; Established relationship w.c: 1.8k Trigger warnings: tackles eating disorder and body dysmorphia a/n: this is a really hard topic I personally felt the need to write about (in a way to comfort myself.) Its very personal as I used my past eating disorder here so if its something you’re not comfortable with, please go skip ahead to another fic. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

Spencer wrapped the front ends of his coat tighter on his slender body. It did little to no good fending off the cool seasonal air of an October night. His scuffled loafers squeaking from his shuffling feet. 

The line at your favorite bakery was unsurprisingly long on a Tuesday evening. Every night, the shop sells their remaining pastries at a discount To lure innocent commuters, tired from a long day of pushing papers. He usually wasn’t one to give in to the notion of ‘treating yourself’—unless counting out his big spendings on first editions written in its original language.

He gave the cashier a slight smile before listing off his purchase, one slice of their decadent strawberry shortcake and another of their vanilla bean sponge cake—both your favorites. And both an integral part of his perfectly thought of scheme to solve a riddle.

Your mystery.

In simple layman’s terms, they were bribery of some sort.

“Thank you,” he muttered under his breath, side stepping his way out from the throng of customers holding their own trays of pastries and back into the cold October air.

He blamed himself for not noticing the change in patterns early on. His attention otherwise preoccupied by the trauma from his time in prison and the stares that vary from judgement to pity that come from officers outside of the BAU.

No longer was he the shining, new prodigy once hailed to be, now he was just damaged goods. His downfall from grace was an adjustment.

His mind was another matter, all together—could no longer detect subtle shifts in behavior as fast as he used to.

Yes, there was really no one else to blame but himself.

As his long strides covered the way home, the moon shining down on the empty streets, Spencer thought back to the moment when he finally noticed you eating less and less.

———

You pulled down the cuffs of Spencer’s Caltech sweater, leaving only the tips of your fingers peeking through. Everything about it made you self-conscious. How it drapes down your shoulders differently from before. How it wraps around your body, sending shivers down your spine. And how it leaves the lower half of your plush thighs exposed for anyone to see—anyone to judge. 

You hated it.

You hated how hyper aware a single comment from a distant relative made you feel.

**

A voice from a distance called out your name causing you to look around the aisles of grocery and come face to face with an aunt, twice removed from your father’s side. 

“It is you!” She leaned in to kiss your cheek. Her choice of perfume, a sickly sweet artificial scent of oranges, wafting on your nose.

It made you want to gag.

A fake smile donned your face. “Oh, hi Auntie. What a surprise to see you back in Virginia.”

“Oh, I just flew in for my husband’s sister’s birthday. You know how we are, always booked and busy with events,” she waved her hand, the ostentatious diamond ring on her finger catching the light. “I haven’t seen you since you graduated college. You look so different now—more and more like your mother.”

“Thanks, I always did look like her,” you awkwardly laughed.

Her eyes traveled down to your feet and back up again, a tight grin on her face. It made her look vicious, condescending, causing you to catch your breath as she uttered the words that would repeat in your head like a commercial slogan you can’t get away from.

“But you were much prettier when you were thinner—” her eyebrow raised, cataloguing the items in your cart. “Might want to cut down on the carbs a little bit, sweetie.”

She poked a wound inside of you that never seemed to fully heal.

You thought you were better, all those years of talking to your therapist and changing your relationship with food for the better made you believe those dark days were behind you. But those spitting phrases veiled as words of care from a family member amplified the doubts once buried in the recesses of your mind.

“I’ll keep that in mind. It was great seeing you, Auntie.”

**

The jiggling of keys brought you back to the present.

“Love, I’m home!”

You called back from the kitchen, finishing up plating tonight’s dinner—a fresh serving of Chicken Alfredo to share. “In here, Spence!”

With a saccharine smile on his tired but beautiful face, he wrapped his arms around your shoulder for a loving hug. His pillowy lips leaving trails of kisses from your temples, to your nose, to your cheeks, and finally landing on your awaiting lips. 

You giggled at his antics. “I missed you today.”

“I missed you too,” another peck on the lips. “Dinner looks amazing. Thank you for cooking.”

“It’s no problem at all, you know how much I like to cook for you.”

He brought up a mystery package to showcase, eyes tracking every minuscule change on your face. “And I brought us some dessert! Your favorites from the bakery.” 

The smile on your face threatened to drop. “That’s—that’s great!”

———

You felt Spencer’s eyes on you all throughout dinner. One of the disadvantages of dating a man who earns his living by understanding human behavior and its changes—triggers, as he would like to call it, is never having the leisure of keeping a secret.

He means well, you‘d like to believe so, but that didn’t change the fact he knew something was bothering you. 

It made you feel like a riddle he wanted to solve. It made you want to scream and cry.

The only reprieve you could get was within the little confines of your shared bathroom, water beating down your back muffling the sobs that escaped from your tightly pressed lips.

Everything felt too much. 

The devil voices in your head listing off the calories each spoonful contains. The mathematical equation of how long you’d need to exercise to lose every unnecessary bite eaten over dinner. And the facade of keeping everything together—everything perfect.

You picked off the sides of your nails, already raw and starting to bleed. 

Maybe you shouldn’t eat breakfast and lunch tomorrow. Maybe you should walk the 15 minute commute from here to the office. It would take 30 minutes but that’s additional exerc—

“Love, is everything alright?” Spencer asked behind the locked bathroom door. 

You turned, turning off the shower, before hurriedly toweling off the droplets all over your hair and body. “Yes, I’m—I’m almost done!”

Swiveling around the dry area, you realized you forgot to bring in a change of clothes beyond a clean pair of underwear.

You sighed to yourself as you wrapped the towel around your chest. Still feeling uncomfortable and oddly naked even then. 

“Spence, there’s still some hot water left—are you okay?” You ask, having found him sitting on the edge of the bed with a distinct frown on his face. 

He stood up. Hands on your waist, shuffling both your bodies closer to one corner of bedroom.“It’s just—you know how much I deeply care for you, right?”

You slowly answered. “Yes, of course. I deeply care for you too.”

“So I have to ask, are you alright? Really alright?”

“Wha—what do you mean? Of course, I am—I’m completely fine,” you vehemently denied. The lump on your throat making you sound hysterical, even in your ears. If you couldn’t fool yourself, what chances were there that Spencer was fooled—none.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been eating smaller portions lately and you didn’t even take a bite of the cakes I brought home. You’ve also been going to the gym daily, instead of your usual five times a week. And you’ve started wearing my clothes more—not that it’s a problem. I love seeing you in my clothes but you’ve started to prefer baggy silhouettes rather than your usuals. It’s like you’re hiding your body. Are you sure you’re alright? You can tell me anything, I won’t judge.” 

It was the soft tone in his voice mixed with his doe, teary eyes that caused you to break under pressure. Your shoulders shook as sobs that you’ve kept bottled up rose to the surface. It was a wave of emotions that battered through your dam of facade. 

“I hate how I look���I hate that I gained weight,” you cried out. “I hate how a relative pointed it out and how her words won’t leave my mind. I hate it, Spence. I loathe it all—the voices in my head whispering how I should keep track of every meal I eat in a notebook like I did before. Telling me to never go beyond a 800 calories per day, to workout two hours a day twice! It’s just—” you took a deep breath, vision blurring from tears. “—so exhausting and please, make it stop.”

Spencer hugged you tight to his chest, as if wanting to merge you two as one to take away all your pain and sorrow. Your hands creasing his white button down with a grip so tight. 

For a second, it felt liberating to let it all out. But the fleeting emotion had passed, leaving you with only shame from your admittance.

“I’m so sorry you feel that way,” he detangled himself, enough to stare into your eyes. “Love, can I show you something?”

You nodded. He slowly turned you around, back against his chest, to face the full length mirror tucked in the corner. His eyes never leaving yours as his calloused fingers reached up to the tucked ends of the towel wrapped around your body. He tilted his head, asking for your permission to which you slowly nodded.

Your naked body was in full view. Your nails digging onto your palm as you catalogued every minuscule flaw there is—the additional flesh around your stomach and sides and your hips no longer as thin as they were before.

“Do you know what I see?” He softly asked.

You bit your lip before shutting your eyes close, unable to take what was right in front of you. “Me and how I gained weight?”

He placed a kiss on your temple. “No. I see a beautiful adult woman who has curves in all the right places—”

He laid a kiss on your cheek. “I see the love of my life in her full loving glory—”

He kissed the side of your neck. “I see my future wife who loves herself and all the changes that aging and our slowing metabolism entails—”

He placed one last kiss on your shoulder. “—I see you, and I love every piece of you. And I hope you love every part as much as I do.”

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[lieslab]

When there's monsters on your ceiling, I'll keep you safe

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: og8 x gn reader

Summary: Your first live stream without the guys and management turns into a disaster.

Genre: 9th member AU

Word Count: 2.6k

Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide, dieting culture, skipping meals, and bullying.

Depression and eating disorder resources

A/N: I'm really on a roll with requests. Remember to be nice to idols (unless they're twats) Requestee, you really hit the mark with this one

_ _ _

“You think so?” You laughed at one of the comments someone sent through the Instagram live stream you hosted. “I was thinking the same exact thing, it’d be hilarious.”

You were used to doing live streams when needed. Every so often, your schedule announced you were up to bat. Today, management was lenient with you. Your first official solo stream took place in one of the empty JYP meeting rooms. 

You slipped the company phone in the camera holder before pressing the button to start the live. Today, you didn’t have a specific plan. You had beads, a roll of leather lace, and a dream. Once you started, you couldn’t stop. 

For the past half hour, you’d been making friendship bracelets for the guys. With the help of fans, you were determining what colors to make each person’s bracelet. Not only did it feel like a chance to relax, but you enjoyed speaking to the fans one-on-one without your manager silently trying to get you to avoid a topic in the background. 

“So what do you think of Minho’s bracelet?” You held it up to the camera and placed your palm behind it. Pushing it closer to the camera, you held it steady so fans could see. “What do we think?” 

You pulled back after a few seconds, reading a few live stream comments off your phone. You clicked on your own stream and muted the phone to read responses. A smile appeared as you responded to a few comments. 

“Okay, so now I have to make Han’s, obviously. What do we think?” You glanced back up at the camera. “I was thinking about maybe orange, or red? What about both? It reminds me of his song, Volcano.” 

You went back to the comments. “You should make it red and green for Volcano and Alien.” You pulled back and laughed. “I mean, it’s a good idea, but those two colors together remind me of Christmas. I can do red and orange!” 

Seeing that most comments agreed, you reached out for the string to start to measure how much you needed. You were about to cut it when the comment came through. The moment you read it, your heart fell to your chest. 

‘Hey, here’s an idea. How about you leave all the guys alone and leave the group? You’re the weakest member and ruin everything.’ 

You knew you should have sat there and ignored it, but you couldn’t. Anger swelled up and you blinked rapidly, trying to force it down. “Leave the group, huh? Maybe I should. It’s people like you that make idols give up on all their dreams and kill themselves due to all the pressure.” 

You shouldn’t have said the words, but they came out like a free-flowing spout. What does it mean to be an idol? Really. What does it mean? 

It means giving up bodily autonomy to a company. Skipping meals is expected when the scale’s numbers start to go up. When an interview catches you at an unflattering angle, expect a lecture and a new diet spreadsheet. 

Going through dances over and over and over again. Sweating until you’re breathless and assume you’re going to topple over at any moment. Shaking knees and unsteady steps as you try to push yourself up to find the strength to do it all over again. 

Spend hours learning formations and completing sound checks, trying not to give in and read the hate online. When you’re an idol, everything is placed beneath a microscope. Your flaws, your short-comings, your inability to act the right way, or say the correct thing. It’s all televised for the masses to see. 

And god, are they hungry. The razor-sharp teeth of fan-folk on twitter. The faceless comments and nameless profiles that equip themselves with emojis. They beg for new content, but it’s never enough. Treat their favorites with respect, but if they can get away with bashing another group to bring their favorites up, they’ll do it. 

The dark side of the k-pop industry has always been there. They never try to hide it. The collapsing at concerts. The hidden injuries. Companies bowing down to fan requests, even when the idol’s livelihood is at stake and they’ll do it, too. Because in the heart of the idol world, money is the only god being worshipped and there is no bigger god than greed. 

Comments shot your way, trying to understand what happened. Not everyone caught the comment you did, but they heard the words. They caught your empty-eyed gaze into the screen. A brief glimpse into the actual reality. Maybe you really weren’t okay. 

Maybe you were tired of putting on the mask and playing pretend. Some say to get over it. It’s what you signed up for. You deserve it. Get over it. Toughen up and ignore the haters. Not everyone has a shield of armor protecting them. Not everyone is equipped to handle the hate trains and the protest trucks. The black oceans, the scorns and scoffs, the hashtags praying on your downfall. The flop era. 

Maybe you were tired and said the wrong thing or maybe you were tired of living it all. A pretty and perfect illusion that crumbled before the eyes of the fans. Everyone knew it, but nobody had the guts to say it. 

The companies surely didn’t. Trying to stay neutral, they’d ignore it all. Ignore the fans surrounding the hotels and screaming the names of the favorites at the top of their lungs, wrecking the idols’ sleep schedules, and souring the taste of regular guest’s hotel stays. 

Ignore the purple bags and exhaustion sticking to idols that follow them like ghosts. Give them chicken and rice diets. Drink more water. Cut more calories. Restrict more. Look at yourself and be ashamed.

Ignore the hate trucks. Blame the idols and don’t hold the fans accountable. Sacrifice them to the wolves and know that your company’s reputation will bounce back, but not always the ongoing mental struggle of the idol. 

How many times did you cry because you missed your family? The sibling you couldn’t watch grow up. The stretching crow’s feet in the corner of your mother’s eyes. The deepening wrinkles on your father’s face. A kitchen chair sat waiting for you in your childhood home, longing for your warmth, but you rarely showed up anymore. 

The industry breaks you and reshapes you. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. You’re dragged through the mud all the time. Dreams are supposed to be hard, but why are some of them so self-destructive? How do you really go about becoming a k-pop idol the right way?

You still remember the shock as you combed your hair one time and found your hair falling out in an alarming amount of strands. Too much stress. Not enough food. Not enough sleep. 

Sometimes your members, they weren’t just your members, but souls tortured just the same as yours. You saw it in the way Chan rambled on bubble, so desperately trying to fix internal fan wars that were never his fault. Always blaming himself, trying to do better. The weight of a fandom was never supposed to fall onto the weight of one man. 

You saw it when Felix drank water and began to heavily restrict before an upcoming photoshoot because he wanted to look perfect. You were forced to confront it after his stomach growled a third time. Hunger lingered in his eyes when he looked your way while you ate your dinner. 

Devastation seeped out of a few members at certain events. They never seemed to get the recognition they deserved. It wasn’t their fault. It was never their fault. It’d never be their fault. 

You blinked rapidly as the tears began to fall. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.” Fan comments rolled in, but you reached forward and hit the end live-stream button. 

Tomorrow, a lecture waited for you with management, but for now, you just wanted to mourn. 

~ ~ ~ 

“Oh…” Felix’s voice trailed off. He sat staring at the blank screen with a frown. Your live was going great until you shut down towards the end. You said nothing, but you also said everything all at once after that last comment. 

Beside him, Han, Minho, and Hyunjin sat just as stunned. They were enjoying your live stream, looking forward to the bracelets they’d be getting afterwards. As one of the younger members of the group, you were cherished a lot. 

“We need to go find them,” Minho pushed himself from the dance practice floor. “Does anyone know which conference room they’re in?” 

Heads shook and Han pushed himself up to follow him. “Let’s go look. Can someone grab the rest of the guys? I think they went out for lunch, but they should be back at any moment. I think we’re really needed right now.” 

“I’ve got it. If you find them first, call me and let me know.” Hyunjin reached the door first and disappeared. 

Felix rushed after Han and Minho. “This is really bad. I didn’t know they felt this way. Should we be worried?” 

“I think we all feel this way sometimes, but we’ve never said it out loud,” Minho mumbled. 

“Hey, I found them!” 

Across the way, the remaining four members looked just as worried. A unit of eight, Changbin led the charge towards the end of the hall. Hyunjin picked up the end and placed a hand on a staggering Jeongin’s shoulder. 

“We should have noticed this sooner,” he uttered softly. 

“How were we supposed to know, Innie? They always keep to themselves. They’re very good at trying to ignore the things bothering them.” 

“I feel like an awful person for not noticing.” 

“It’s okay, we’re going to fix it together.” 

~ ~ ~ 

In the conference room, your head sat in your hands. The colorful beads and leather string sitting around didn’t bring you the joy that it once had. Instead, you silently cried into your hands. 

All you wanted was one nice live without a troll. Instead, you gave them exactly what they wanted. They wanted your tears and your anger. It fueled them for whatever reason.

You didn’t look up when the door burst open. You tensed up, waiting for a member of management to yell at you, but it never came. Instead, multiple footsteps headed your way. A gentle hand fell upon your shoulder and Changbin softly called your name. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you mumbled. 

“Well, that’s just too damn bad,” Seungmin said. His arms crossed over his chest. “I left my biscottis behind and we all gathered here.” 

Minho shot him a glare, but it didn’t bother him. Chan gave him a follow-up warning look and sighed. “Listen, we just wanna make sure you’re alright. The way you ended that live, it was-” 

“Horrible? Unprofessional and irresponsible?” 

“I was going to say bold, but incredibly true. You spoke about the things some idols stay far away from.” 

“I’m tired!” You pulled your hands away from your face. Tears lined your bloodshot eyes. “It’s always something and I’m trying my fucking best! I’m trying to be a good person and a perfect idol and it’s not happening! I can’t do it! I-I-” You sucked in a shaky breath and a whimper fell out. 

You tried so hard to keep it together, but when Felix appeared and squirmed closer to wrap his arms around you, you cracked. Your head buried into his chest as sobs fell from you. 

How much of your life had you given up being judged in the name of your dreams? There would always be people who hated your guts for one reason or another. You’d always have people that disliked you, but in the k-pop world? People would do anything to bring down the idols they hated. 

Spreading rumors, sending hate trucks, and stirring the pot. Taunting, teasing, and straight up bullying. Stalking, harassment, and belittling. It was always something. 

You couldn’t breathe without doing it wrong. Every time you touch a member for too long, you’re being childish and clingy. When you don't say much during a video, you’re dubbed a stuck-up snob. Too close to the opposite gender of another group? You’re probably dating them.

There is never and will never be any winning in the industry until people change. Companies have to stop dragging their feet. It only stops when the industry calls out bullshit as they see fit. Taking the steps for legal action. Knowing an idol is a privilege, not a right. 

Han wiggled his way to the other side of you, squeezing between Changbin and Felix, letting a hand fall to your head. Another hand and then another. As you cried, they all grieved. Tears sprouted from all of them because they all knew. When one of them hurts, they all hurt, and your reasoning? It all sat within them during their down time.

The industry had been built off of breaking people and trying to build them back better. People are not that durable. When you break someone’s soul, there is no going back. Idols learn to hate their imperfections. Change them. Shape them. 

Slave away in the mirror to develop a perfect routine, so no pores are visible. Some trade away their real personalities, not because they want to, but because companies want to market them a certain way. 

Everything is pre-planned to the extreme. Compete against your favorite friends in the charts because they belong to different companies. Slaughter the competition. Sell more albums. Do the embarrassing requests on fan calls. Have no boundaries because the company said so and unless you want to be blacklisted, do it, or fall victim to the endless abyss of wannabe idols that didn’t make the cut.  

“Ah, this is embarrassing,” Jeongin mumbled after a while. “I’m not supposed to be crying in front of everyone. All these hyungs and I’m- 

“Suck it up,” you mumbled, trying to pull back from Felix’s shirt. “Now you know how I feel.” 

“You have pretty cute tears,” Changbin observed. 

“Hey! Don’t cheat on me! You can’t call them pret-” 

“Shut up, wifey.”

Seungmin’s face scrunched in disgust and Han rolled his eyes. Chan glanced down at you and gently squeezed your shoulder. “Are you feeling a little better?” 

You nodded, reached up, and wiped your eyes. “Thank you for letting me cry. I’m sorry that I-” 

Minho’s hand went over your mouth. “Do not ever apologize for struggling with real emotions.” 

Your nose wrinkled and you pulled away. “Ew. How am I supposed to know where your hand has been? That’s so-” 

“Probably around Jisu-” 

“AH!” Jeongin’s hands went over his face and he shook his head. “Stop! Stop! I don’t want to hear it! Enough!” 

“You’re so cute, Innie. Come here! I wanna pinch your cheeks.” Hyunjin walked around you and hurried to Jeongin. Felix cheered for him as Jeongin began to hurry around the other side of the table. 

“Don’t touch me!” 

“I wanna touch my wife!” Changbin hurried after Hyunjin. 

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Felix grinned and rushed afterwards. “Changbinnie, I wanna touch your muscles!” 

“That’s my cat.” 

“Hey, wait!” Han rushed after Minho. 

“That’s my first-born.” 

“Yeah and I wanna kick the elder’s ass,” Seungmin grumbled, following Chan. He spun around to glance at you. “Are you coming? Don’t you want to throat punch me like usual or something?” 

“How’d you know?” 

“You say it’s always a good day to throat punch me.”

“Sometimes it is.” 

“It’s every day.” 

“Well, stop being a pain in my ass and it won't happen anymore.” 

“You cunt.” 

“Jackass.” 

He huffed and hurried after Chan. You grabbed your phone and hurried up to follow him. In the k-pop world, it was riddled with a lot of issues, but when moments like this naturally happened… 

It was hard to stay upset for long, knowing that the industry brought the eight of these idiots right into your heart; you had a feeling they’d stay there for a long, long time. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg

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Ko-fi

[brucedefender4eva]

Bruce is very good at taking care of his own problems. He’s always been very good at it. Adults praise him for it all the time.

But then his parents died, and Bruce feels like he can’t do anything right. He knows he can’t. After all, if he was as good as adults said he was, then he could’ve saved his parents.

He should’ve been able to save his parents.

There is a darkness growing within him. Bruce doesn’t know what to do.

——

Alfred is grieving. Alfred is grieving, and he is also very angry.

He was just a butler; why is he now taking care of his deceased employer’s child? It’s not like the Waynes don’t have any other alive family branches, like the Kanes. But no, Thomas and Martha’s will clearly stated that if anything happened to them, Bruce would stay with Alfred in the Wayne Manor.

Now he’s forced to take care of a child he never wanted. How is that fair?

——

Alfred is angry all the time now but not in the way he used to be. Bruce knows it’s because of him. Every time the older man looks at him, he gets this strange look in his eyes.

Bruce can feel that it’s a bad look.

Maybe it’s because he’s even more useless now? It’s hard to get out of bed, but it’s even harder to fall asleep.

Loud noises make him jump, and the only thing he can think about is Mommy and Daddy hitting the floor, over and over and over and over and—

Alfred accidentally dropped something in the kitchen. Bruce doesn’t really remember what happened; it gets blurry and makes his head hurt to think about it, but the next thing he knows he hears screaming.

Bruce is pretty sure it’s coming from him. It sounds like Mommy’s.

——

The kid has a hair trigger. Alfred feels like walking on eggshells. Every small thing sends him into a raging meltdown.

Several times he has to stop himself from packing a bag and escaping in the middle of the night, fleeing back to England just so things could be normal.

Bruce doesn’t even talk anymore. Before the Waynes died, little Bruce talked almost nonstop in the manor.

Now an eerie quiet fills the space unless the small boy decides to have nightmares or another breakdown.

His silence is unnerving and creepy.

——

Bruce misses hugs.

Alfred doesn’t like being touched, not one bit. Mommy and Daddy loved hugging him and kissing him and just picking him up for funsies. But now no one will touch him.

Maybe it’s because they know he killed his parents. Maybe they think that if they touch Bruce, they’ll die too?

Bruce wouldn’t be too surprised…

It’s been months. Bruce doesn’t know why he isn’t better yet, why he keeps making problems for Alfred, why he’s so different now…

——

Alfred had calmed down a lot. He partially understands why the Waynes have left Bruce in his care; that doesn’t make it any easier.

Bruce has always been a particular child. Alfred would get him tested, but high society talks, and he doesn’t want to subject the young boy to even more press coverage.

Besides, what can a shrink do for the young master? Nothing hard work can’t teach him. Alfred worked through all his problems like that, and he turned out perfectly fine.

——

Bruce doesn’t want to start going to galas again…

Mr. Mauter always gives him strange looks, and now that Daddy isn’t here to give an excuse to pull him away, he’s even more afraid.

But Bruce is supposed to be fixing his own problems now. Alfred already does too much for him; he can see how exhausted he’s making him.

He’s the man of the house now. He has to be strong.

——

Master Bruce is talking again, even if it looks like it visibly pains him. Alfred is taking it slowly. Each day he finds he has more and more patience.

He allows the small child to follow him around as he completes his daily chores; he’s yet to acknowledge it yet. The first time he said something, Bruce scampered away quickly, and it took a week for him to start doing it again.

He’s taking it slow. He doesn’t want Bruce to be afraid to ask him for help anymore.

No hugs yet, but Alfred allows himself to pat Master Bruce on the shoulder.

——

Bruce can make cookies now! Alfred taught him the most perfect way ever!

They were Daddy’s most favorite cookies. Bruce feels a painful pang in his chest as he thinks about it, something that has happened very often in the past year.

Instead of crying, because Bruce is a big boy now, he walks up the hill at the back of the manor where Mommy and Daddy now rest peacefully.

Bruce lays down two of his best cookies on a nice napkin on Daddy’s grave.

He knows Mommy wouldn’t let Daddy get hungry in heaven, but it’s always a good idea to have a nice snack just in case.

——

Alfred distances himself.

He’s getting too attached. He’s now constantly reminding himself, Master Bruce, that he is nothing more than a butler.

——

Bruce had a fever.

He was delirious, and he accidentally called Alfred Dad.

Alfred no longer looks him in the eyes.

The darkness creeps in; it is all-consuming.

——

Alfred feels bad.

He catches Master Bruce practicing his smiles in the mirror, doing his best to look normal.

It’s fine. He needs to work him harder, make him understand that he can’t show weakness. Bruce will thank him when he’s older, when he is stronger, when he is better.

Alfred turns around and pretends not to see. The next time Bruce gives him that smile, he looks like Martha and tells him that he’s fine; Alfred does not argue.

——

Bruce can see that Alfred has stopped trying with him. It hurts, but he also wonders why it didn’t happen sooner.

He drops out of school.

He can’t be a doctor, not like his father was. He’s not worthy.

Gotham is his home. It’s always been his home. But right now? It feels more suffocating than ever.

——

Alfred finds them tucked away neatly in Bruce’s desk, right next to a half empty box of razors.

He reads each and every letter, his heart growing heavier when he realizes how many years ago it started.

Each letter starts the same, always addressing Alfred and saying it’s not his fault.

He holds two identical letters in his hands.

One, only a week after the incident. The second one, dated yesterday.

Alfred puts them back and never speaks about it. He can feel the guilt crawling up his throat and trying to choke him.

He knows Bruce knows.

They never speak about it.

——

Bruce knows he is evil. There is only darkness within him. He is destined to hurt and destroy the people around him.

He has to figure out a way to contain it, to keep it deep inside before he ruins everything.

Bruce only leaves a note when he goes. It is barely two sentences. Where is he going? He doesn’t know.

The entire world is open to him.

[namism]

in the a.m. | hange zoë

➳ categories: college au, female reader

➳ warnings: nsfw (top hange, afab reader)

➳ word count: 1.8k

➳ summary: Hange wakes up next to a pretty girl in bed.

➳ notes: made in the A.M. was my favorite one direction album so why not use it as a fic title lolol

➳ cross-posted on ao3

Hange awakens to a dark room when a cool breeze glides over their skin. As they stare into nothingness, they reach over to their bedside table, feeling for their cellphone to check the time.

Their mobile lights up. Through blurry eyes, Hange tries to make out the words that flash on the screen.

'4:34 AM'.

They put the device back down. They pull themselves to a seated position on their bed, then reach out to the bedside table once more to turn on a lamp.

Their corner of the room illuminates a faint orange glow. Hange leans on the headboard, still half-awake, before noticing the presence that had been beside them all along.

You sleep soundly with your body turned to them, strands of hair partly covering your face. You're bare naked under the sheets just like them, the sight of your shape and the cleavage of your breasts serving as gentle reminders of last night's events. While the grogginess remains, Hange vividly remembers how the two of you got yourselves into this situation—from making out after a failed tutorial attempt to stumbling over to the bed, from undressing you swiftly to fucking you roughly, they remember it all too well.

It doesn't take long for you to stir awake, sensing the brightness of the lamp that disturbs your peace. When you open your eyes, the first thing you see is Hange's naked torso before averting your gaze to their face.

Hange pats your head, then plays with your hair.

"What time is it?"

"Around quarter to five," they say. You snuggle into Hange's pillow as they continue their gentle touches. "How's your body?"

"Probably sore." You shrug. "I won't know unless I move, but... you weren't the nicest, you know?"

Hange chuckles as an answer. They can't necessarily apologize since you enjoyed it so much and it was your incessant begging that drove them to that degree. It was a night that you two had always looked forward to, so all sores were deeply wanted.

"Get some sleep." You shake your head. "No? Class doesn't start until 10."

"But why are you up?" You pull yourself to a seated position, covering your chest with the blanket. Hange's hand falls from your head to your shoulder, their hand warm on your bare skin.

"Just woke up randomly, that's all," they say. It's the truth—their body clock has been shitty since midterms season, and as much as they want to keep it secret, the night with you has been the longest time they've slept in months.

You lean on the headboard, the blanket uncovering your feet and Hange's as you pull the sheet up to your face. When you move your body, you feel a sore on your thighs, arms, and back that triggers a gasp of pain. Memories flood your head, prompting a shyness from you that shouldn't even be there to begin with. Hange is no stranger, but damn it, why is it so nerve-wracking to be around them?

They notice your predicament. After all, that's what they always do; scientists have an eye for detail and Hange is not far off from that archetype. Their intelligence surpasses many others' and it so happens that they're bright in the romance department as well. They have it all—god, they have it all—which makes them so irresistible.

They can make you crumble in a matter of seconds, like now.

"Baby."

Their hand slides to your jaw, then your cheek, which they caress with a finger. Your stomach turns in excitement, but you suppress a reaction.

Baby, really? It's not your favorite nickname, but it's endearing when it comes from Hange. They're addicting, so addicting.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" They ask.

"Just a bit," you admit. Hange turns on their side to face you, placing a hand on your jaw before seductively tracing random patterns on your skin. Your core clenches. You feel it coming—Hange's in the mood for it, and you would be lying if you said you weren't, too. "Hange…"

"I can help you soothe that."

Leaning into their hand, you decide to roll over to their side, inevitably feeling the ache in your legs. Hange wraps an arm around you and hoists you on top of them, then instructs you to straddle their waist. Their mind goes numb upon watching the sheet fall off your body, your skin so beautiful and tits so tight.

Hange kisses you. You respond with a kiss back, moaning softly into their mouth to let them know you're in for more. When they come back for another kiss, you dodge their lips to attack their neck, a move that effectively surprises them that they tighten their grip on your waist, dragging your body closer to theirs.

A prideful smirk laces your kisses, a trail beginning from their jaw down to their clavicle, which Hange judges is enough free control as they peel your lips away before you could go down any further. They kiss you instead to put you back in your place, regaining their control before they fuck you—but you grind down on them in response, and an idea comes to mind.

"It would be bad to stuff you again since you're already sore enough," they pause in between a heated kiss and their eyes go down at your pussy, a sight that causes them to smirk, "but you can always sit on my face?"

Last night, Hange didn't bother eating you out once they had their mind settled on splitting you apart on their strap, but they're sure to taste you this time around. They tap your hips and motion for you to lift your legs, so that they could scoot down the bed and position themselves under your sore pussy and get to tasting you. Embarrassment settles on your cheeks as you look down at Hange, their hungry eyes peering up at you.

"Come on, sit on my face." Their arms wrap around your thighs and they tug your limbs so you could get closer to them, but you resist. "What's the matter?"

"I-I just—" Hange waits patiently, a reaction that relieves you. "How, um, how will you breathe?"

They smirk. You probably never had your pussy eaten out before or you simply never had ridden anyone else like this. Either way, it's a fair question, Hange thinks, since they most likely wouldn't be able to breathe that well anyway, and it would be a bad idea to freak you out mid-intercourse.

"It's part of the experience, my dear," they say. "Anyway, you don't have to worry. You got me, right?"

You nod. Hange promises to signal you if they ever want you off of them, and with no worries holding you back, you sink into their awaiting tongue.

A sigh passes your lips upon feeling their warmth. Hange takes it slow at first, giving a few licks to test the waters, before digging right in and pressing their face into your pussy harder. Their tongue digs into your entrance every so often in a rhythmic manner before gliding it across your dripping pussy to swill your juices. Hange repeats the action in a way that drives you crazy, the rhythm so good that you don't want it to stop.

You gently rock your hips into their face when their nose hits your clit, wanting to relieve the strained feeling and lack of touch in the area. Hange notices your eagerness and uses one hand to spread your legs wider. You obey out of pleasure. Their lips detach from your hole to suck on your clit, and you get lost in the feeling once again. Hange is soft at it before becoming rougher, hungrier, and more passionate, something reminiscent of last night's events when they fucked you ruthlessly into the bed.

Their two hands anchoring your thighs move closer to your cunt with light touches. Hange stretches the skin on your inner thighs as their tongue moves in between your clit and your opening. An urge to cum emerges in your gut, but you resist.

"Fuck, fuck me like that," you beg in a low tone, eyes shut tight as a response to their work on your cunt. You imagine the different other things that Hange could do to your pussy, which help your building orgasm. "Oh god, you're crazy."

With a sly grin, they tap on your thigh to catch your attention. You look down at Hange whose mouth and nose drip of slick. Maintaining eye contact, you watch them slightly withdraw their head from your cunt before spitting on your wet hole and spreading apart your lips with an experimental touch. Hange accepts your moaning as a sign to continue, so they waste no time mixing their spit into your cum to create something they could lap up again.

Your hands clutch free strands of Hange's hair as they begin yet another rhythm on your hole. You follow them with the rocking of your hips, riding what you can in a needy attempt to bring back the pleasure of release at the pit of your stomach.

Hange eats you so good—"so fucking good, Hange"—that you inevitably bounce on their tongue following the rhythm they created. You feel the heat at your stomach again, the urge to orgasm coming back quickly as you bounce hotly on them. With each bounce, your hands maneuver on their hair to tighten your grip on it while your mouth opens to a string of curses: "fuck, fuck— Hange, Hange—"

"Good— good girl," they say in between bounces. Hange stills you seconds later so they could focus on your pussy, their tongue working quickly to send you over the edge.

You crumble in a matter of seconds. Hange notes the gasp you let out as a sign of your orgasm. They feel your warm cum on their tongue and another wave of gentle rocking of your hips. They allow you to ride through your release, while they catch their breath.

You get off them once you've come down. Hange runs a hand through their hair and covers their eyes with the other.

Leaning toward them, you kiss them by surprise, uncaring of the mess on their lips. Hange groans when you swipe your tongue on their bottom lip to taste your juice. They pull you closer to them, only breaking the kiss once it's hard to breathe.

They wipe their mouth with the back of their hand, taking a mental note to shower before going back to bed. You rest your head on their chest.

"What's one thing you can't do, Hange Zoë?" They chuckle. They tidy your hair and pat their work.

"I hope you feel better," they respond. You can imagine the smirk dancing across their lips as they refer to last night's sores. You nod weakly. "I think I'm going to clean up. Are you coming?"

You come with them in the shower, after which you get back to bed quickly. Hange promises to wake you in a few hours and you drift off to sleep in their arms.

[green-butterfly-writes]

Little Thief (Part 4)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Summary: Bruce arrives home in the middle of patrol with a cold, broken, scarred kid in his arms and no explanation as to where they came from. Alfred takes care of them.

Notes: this is from Alfred’s perspective, so you also get no context as to how little fox ended up here :)

Trigger Warning for implied/reinforced child and animal abuse. Also Alfred helps reader strip and shower, but that is explicitly consensual.

I'm Dyslexic, and don't have a beta, so spelling mistakes are likely to happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alfred Pennyworth was convinced that Bruce had an adoption addiction. The man couldn’t seem to go more than a couple years before coming home with another child clinging to his cape. Alfred was certain that one of these days he’d get fed up with the ever-expanding list of people he had to care for, and yet every time he laid eyes upon another unfortunate soul brought in by his own sad little orphan boy, his heart melted with care. He loved every one of the young masters with all his heart and soul. He loved his family even if it did expand in the most inconvenient and sudden of ways.

Like now, standing in the cave, looking upon the imposing figure of the Batman, and the child cradled carefully in his arms. The kid had tangled, unkempt hair, soaked, muddy clothes, and bruises just barely visible from beneath the sleeve of their oversized shirt. They gripped onto the long black cape like their life depended on it, and stared Alfred down over their shoulder with blurry, unforced eyes.

“This is Alfred,” Batman’s low voice echoed into the silence of the cave, “I trust him with my life, and so do the others.” The look in the child's eyes softened slightly, and their grip on the cape relaxed. “He will help you.” 

“If you’re willing,” Alfred quickly corrected, not wanting to scare off the child. It was intended to be an offer, but unless you were familiar with how Bruce cared for those around him, it would probably sound like a command. 

After a moment of hesitant consideration, the shaking figure clutched in the Batman’s arms nodded in approval. 

“They are having difficulty walking, so I’ll carry them for now” Bruce informed, and so Alfred led the way up out of the cave, through the first floor and up to the second, into the wing that housed all of the bedrooms, and into a (thankfully just cleaned) guestroom. When that got to the ensuite bathroom Alfred motioned for Bruce to set the child on the rather long countertop.

“Alfred will take care of you from here, ok?” Bruce double checked, and the child answered with a more confident nod, as Alfred sped around the bathroom adjusting the water temperature and gathering supplies.

Once Bruce left the guest room, Alfred turned to his new responsibility. 

“Can you remove the clothes yourself, or would you like my assistance?” The child hesitantly nodded, before pulling off their cold muddy shirt. “You can just drop it on the floor, I’ll clean it later,” he proved at the lost expression they made immediately after. He helped balance the frail kid so they wouldn’t stand on their injured leg while taking off their pants and then helped them to the stool he had set up in the bathtub.

“I’ll wait outside the door, you can yell if you need anything,” he paused for a moment after the words left his mouth — realizing he hadn’t actually heard them speak a word, “or throw something at the door”

The kid obediently nodded again, and Alfred left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

He sat on the bed and tried to make a to-do list for tomorrow, or consider alterations to the dinner he served tonight, or think about the book Jason recommended to him, to contemplate anything—anything but the cuts and bruises that littered the skin of the malnourished child on the other side of that door. To focus on something other than how badly he wanted to wrap that poor, frail, scarred kid in a soft, warm blanket and hold them in his arms and never let go. 

A thunk sounded from the bathroom as something collided with the bathroom door. Alfred took that as his que to carefully announce his presence, and enter.

“What can I help you with?” He asked, picking up the hairbrush that had been launched at the door. 

“Can you please help with my back? I can’t get it,” came a quiet, tired voice. It was soft, and almost defeated sounding. Alfred made a mental note to make some soup, so they could eat something warm after they rest.

Alfred grabbed a fresh washcloth from the counter, wet it lightly, and pumped a healthy amount of liquid soap onto it before looking to his next task. 

He tried to make his sharp inhale as quiet as possible. He hadn’t noticed before, trying to rush out of the bathroom to give the newcomer some privacy, but their back was littered with scars. Some small, some large. Some seemed neat and medical, thin lines left by careful stitches. Others were thick and jagged, remnants of an injury that never got properly treated. ‘Never again’ echoed like a mantra through his mind ‘I’ll make sure that never happens again’

He lifted the soft washcloth to their back and softly scrubbed off the mud and grime that clung to it. He carefully rubbed up the back of their neck and down their shoulders, making sure to grab every speck of dirt they couldn’t. He tried not to pay too much attention to how dark the water ran. 

With the shower finished and the water off, he wrapped the now clean child in the softest towel he could find and carefully carried them back to the counter, horrified by how easy it was. He helped dry their hair as they toweled off their body, and then dressed them in what clothes he could grab on such short notice (a freshly washed hoodie from Jason and a pair of shorts from when Bruce was much younger and smaller). Then he banged the cut on the child’s face, put a brace on their ankle, and some cream on their dry hands. 

He helped the kid waddle out of the bathroom and into the bed, tucking them in securely, and returned to the bathroom to clean up. 

When he left not even ten minutes later, he found the child curled up on themselves like a ball, nose tucked into the neck of the hoodie, gripping onto the bed like letting go might kill them. He watched for a moment, continuing the seconds between each rise and fall of their chest, making sure everything was ok. They'd need food, and a more thorough medical exam later, but for now they needed sleep.

“I hope your dreams are kinder to you than life has been.” he whispered before exiting the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you all so much for reading! Let me know what you think 💚

Notes:

Sorry for disappearing for… *checks notes* a month 😅, I rewrote this chapter 5 times. hopefully the next chapter will be out sooner

[shotmrmiller]

Uninvited, Unexpected.

a/n: it's nice until the very end. it hints at baby trapping. one solid sentence that's kinda degrading (i couldn't help myself ok) this was in the works for so long, i did so much research just to use words. english is hard. and ignore the plot holes, for my sake. my sanity.

this is SMUT. 18+mdni please (if im missing anything else, lmk)

ty to my wonderful beta readers @waves-against-a-cliff & @xoxunhinged

wc: 3,1K

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader

my contribution to the @glitterypirateduck ghost challenge. idc if i wrote it much earlier lol.

You're awoken by a loud noise. At first, you think you dreamt it. Exploding head syndrome, maybe. You strain your hearing but it's quiet, save for the occasional creak of the house settling, its old bones creaking in the dead of night. Rain gently patters against the windows, blurring the world outside.

A flash of sudden light illuminates the bedroom, casting elongated shadows across the floor, followed by a loud crack that rattles the glass. Thunder. You should've guessed.

The frantic beating of your heart slows to a gentle roll, and your eyes leaden with sleep. The soft pillows beckon, the warm blankets cradle you as you sink back onto the mattress.

Only for you to be snapped back into reality, drowsiness dissipating like a morning mist.

Someone's knocking on your door.

Your heart is in your throat as you quickly peel off the blankets, the chill of the floorboards underneath your bare feet seeping into your bones.

In the bookshelf sits the gun Simon had given you before he had moved out, the rumble of his voice a ghost in your ear. "For protection," he'd murmured, placing the cold metal onto your open palms. "Jus' in case."

Your trembling fingers fumble as you search for it in the dark, flinching as a couple of books spill from the shelf onto the floor, pages rustling in your urgency.

The knocking persists.

The metal of the grip is unyielding in your clammy hands. You've never tested it before, never had the displeasure. As you hold it close to your chest with a quivering breath, you hope tonight won't change that.

Simon's instructions echo in your mind as you approach the front door. "Thumb the safety. Hold the grip with both hands. Do not, under any circumstance, put your finger on the trigger unless you're plannin' on sendin' hate. Clear?"

Your throat tightens, a phantom snake coiling around the narrow passage, and panic grips your heart as you reach for the blinds, slowly hooking two fingers and carefully pulling down to look at who is—

Simon.

Simon?

Sweat-slick fingers flip the light switch before quickly undoing the locks, the hinges groaning in protest as the door opens.

"What the hell?"

It's Simon, disheveled— maskless— swaying on his feet. His eyes are half-closed and unfocused. Johnny's holding him up by the arm, struggling to keep him upright.

"S'ry, bonnie. We wen' out fer a few 'nd clearly, he's out 'is face. Quite crabbit, too. He said ye'd let 'em sleep 'ere," he slurs.

Simon's not the only one who's pissed. With a resigned sigh, you gesture at the couch with your free hand. "There, I guess."

That he thought of you even in his drunken haze tugs at your fragile heartstrings.

Johnny guides him to the catch, a quiet C'mon LT to spur him forward. Heavy boots thud against the floor as they stumble toward the living room while you carefully place the gun on the kitchen countertop before reaching for a water bottle in the pantry. Johnny snickers under his breath as Simon collapses onto the sofa, the springs protesting his weight.

Two bottles, then.

You watch Simon's head loll as you hand Johnny the water. "Tell me you aren't the one driving, Johnny," you grumble.

He takes it with a quiet thanks. "Naw. Cap'n's stone cold sober."

Small mercies.

Johnny gives Simon a rough slap to the side of his leg as he bids him goodbye, pulling you in for an embrace tight enough that your spine pops before walking out the door.

You let out another sigh as the lock clicked back into place. The tangy, sour scent of stale alcohol mixed with stings at your nose, as does the invasive smell of smoke.

His boots are mud-caked, and you'll be damned if he stains your nice furniture with his mess. "Shoes off." He groans but complies. The laces come undone quickly, and you tug his shoes off with a grunt. "Simon."

His glassy eyes meet yours. "Drink your water." The burning need to chuck it at his head is one you have to vehemently smother into embers. Moron. Only Simon would have the gall to show up unannounced months after the separation. And drunk.

You push the bottle into his chest roughly and make to go back to bed when he encircles his hand around your wrist and the world spins on its axis, suddenly finding yourself beneath him with his face nestled in the crook of your neck.

Simon's breath is hot against your skin, the weight of his body pinning you down so achingly familiar. It stirs up past memories that would have you pressing your thighs together if he wasn't right there, using his broad waist to spread them apart.

"Missed ya, love." A confession. "S'much."

The breath you draw is jagged, his slow-spoken words hanging in the air. You want to push him away, scream at him for stumbling in and disrupting your night, your rest, your carefully crafted peace. But there's a part of you that can't help but soften at the tenderness in his tone.

"Simon," you whisper. "You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying—" his lips find your fluttering pulse. You find purchase in his shirt, shaky fingers grasping at the hem.

"'M drunk, no' no liar." Your resolve wavers. No, he never had been. Honesty hadn't been the reason for the split. It wasn't the truth he'd spoken but the truths he'd kept to himself. A fortress around his heart, the bridge to its gates raised. Unwilling to share a burden, share a life.

His warm tongue licks a hot stripe up your neck reaching the lobe of your ear where his blunt teeth sink into it. A choked gasp spills from your mouth, spine arching in reflex— your treacherous body remembering his touch, yearning for it.

"Simon—" your words get caught in your throat; snag like fishhooks when he undulates his hips, arousal creeping along your veins like ivy.

"Don't ya miss me, pet?" You've asked him to not call you that because it never fails to stoke the fire in your belly, to sodden your knickers. Before you can chide him on his choice of words, he shifts. One arm, an inked column under the soft light of the living room, holds him up just enough to bring his rugged face into focus. His eyes, like a stormy night's sky, swirl with untamed desire.

You know it's dangerous to play with fire. Touch it and burn, ache, blister. But the passion of this old flame beckons like a siren with sharp teeth. Each drag of his prominent erection against your core only succeeds in pulling you away from the shore of clarity. It's disorienting, insistent.

Relentless.

"My pretty little love," he mumbles. Simon's gaze drags from your glassy eyes to the delicate contours of your collarbone. His fingers trace lines of intimacy onto the swell of your breasts before using the pad of his thumb to swirl the stiffened peak of your nipple. "Say the word 'nd it all stops."

The scent of alcohol clings to him, a bitter reminder of the loss of inhibitions it brings as it warms one's chest. Blurred lines he might not mind, but you do. Lost boundaries. Rejection sits on the tip of your tongue, on the edge of your teeth when he says something that frays the last threads of your resolve.

It comes undone.

"Please. Jus' tonigh'. All I need." His words sound like footsteps in winter mire, slushed, syllables blending together.

You'll just have to kick him out on his arse in the morning.

"Okay," you breathe. Just one night, you tell yourself. He's always been good to you in the bedroom. One last hurrah wouldn't hurt. Maybe it'll allow you to finally close this painful chapter in your life and start anew, with pristine white pages and fresh ink.

Your hands, trembling with nerves and anticipation, cradle his face. The roughness of his stubble in contrast with the softness of your palms is grounding, keeping you from being pulled under your own swirling emotions.

" 'M righ' 'ere, love. You're safe with me, always." He whispers the last words reverently, a vow. Simon's breath mingles with yours as he leans in for a kiss.

The world around you fades, your senses tunneled on the feel of his lips, the taste of him— mildly sweet with a hint of peppermint. He slants his head to deepen the kiss, and the bruising ache in your heart is replaced by another, one that burns brightly and threatens to sweep you away.

The lulling sound of the pouring rain outside is drowned out by the beating of your racing heart.

The bed creaks when Simon perches you on the edge of it, quietly ordering you to take your top off.

"What about my bottoms?" You bite down on the gummy inside of your cheek when he pins you in place with a look— a predator eyeing its prey.

"Those are mine." Resounding. Final. A gavel in a courtroom.

You fling your shirt off, tossing it into some forgotten corner in the room, and cheekily watch Simon undress. It's not methodical like it used to be. No longer a means to an end. Experienced fingers undo the buckle of his belt before he takes it off, the leather material snapping in the air, slicing through the silence.

A quip tumbles out of your mouth faster than you can stop it. "Gonna spank me with that?"

The air around you thickens— or thins, you can't be sure— when his eyes flash to you. He kicks off his jeans, one foot after the other, wobbling as he does. "Tha' wha' you want?" The words he didn't say ring out loud and clear.

Don't rattle the cage, sweetheart. This dog isn't muzzled.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to keep from saying anything else, something that he might take you up on, instead focusing on the way his heavy cock hangs in between legs (dangling with each step forward—)

"M'eyes are up 'ere." Your nose scrunches at his joke. Cute.

He lowers himself onto his knees, your legs cradling his face as it hovers over your sex, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your heated skin.

The sleeping shorts you're wearing are ratty and worn. They're thin too, practically translucent from constant use. Which means that he can see that you're not wearing any undergarments underneath.

"Hope you know I can—" Heat licks up the sides of your jaw, pooling in your cheeks as you cut him off with a snappy remark.

"Yes. I know."

The tip of his pointed tongue drags along the seam of your shorts, right along your slit. Your breath hitches, and you clench your jaw to keep from making a sound. Your back bows involuntarily, the feeling startling, intense.

"Can see tha' clear as day, as if lookin' through a windowpane, pet," he taunts. The words that are forming, almost ready to spill out, freeze in place when his mouth comes in direct contact with your slippery cunt. He licks once, twice, through your folds, slightly dipping into your slick entrance, only pulling away to nuzzle your pearl with his misaligned nose.

"Sweet as a peach, jus' like I remember," he purrs, the timbre of his voice buzzing against your puffy lips. "Missed this." A mewl slithers past your grit teeth when he gently sinks one thick finger into you, curling and twisting. Arousal drips onto his knuckle, tracing a hot path down to his wrist. He coos at you when he adds another digit, hissing at the sharp but brief pinprick of the stretch.

"Bloody fuckin' tight." Simon rises off the floor, the quiet sound of his knees popping swallowed up by your harsh pants. "Gotta let me in, love. Relax."

He keeps the thrusts shallow, his fingers dragging deliciously along your nerve endings. The sting soon fades, giving way to a gentle warmth that unfurls inside of you, letting Simon reach deeper until—

Your muscles stiffen, tight like a spring when he brushes over the rough patch of skin that has bursts of light appearing across your eyelids.

"Look at ya. Droolin' like a mutt with my fingers stuffed up your pretty cunt."

There's a pressure in your lower belly that's steadily building with each sloppy thrust of his hand, pulling squelching noises from your sodden pussy. He finally, finally, latches onto your neglected clit, lightly sucking on it in tandem with his fingers.

Your chin drops to your chest as everything nears a breaking point. The pressure inside you has your body wound tight. The fibers of your muscles contract, almost painfully, preparing for the release of what's to come, what can't be ignored.

The swirling of his golden tongue pushes against the boundaries of your endurance, pushes you to the precipice, where you finally hit the point of no return. You can feel something about to give, ecstasy trickling through the cracks in your foundation, uncontrollable, raw. Your fingers thread through Simon's hair, curling tightly, pulling it taut when you feel something about to give—oh fuck—

Snap.

The structure that holds everything in place collapses.

A sudden release of pent-up energy and emotion erupts like a dam bursting, a cleansing flood that washes away the grime of old wounds, of bitterness, leaving the edges softened so they can heal; knit closed and scar over. Closure. It touches every part of you, filling you with a sense of liberation.

Your heart beats freely, it throbs with life as a wave of relief washes over you, soothing, a balm over scraped flesh, a rush of cool air into starved lungs.

A lightness that comes after being weighed down with burdens for so long.

Simon's hands encircle your arms firmly— fingers digging into the meat of your biceps— and effortlessly maneuvers you toward the center of the bed as if your lethargic form were a feather caught in a breeze; weightless, insignificant.

Gentle but unyielding.

There's a ringing in your ears that muffles his voice, blurring the edges of his words, an unintelligible hum, as if you were underwater. The sensation leaves you feeling adrift in a tranquil sea, cradled in its silken embrace. The only anchor you have to the muzzy reality is his warm touch.

"'M sorry, sweetheart. I can't," he apologizes, hooking your right leg over his shoulder. You let out a sibilant hiss as he leans forward, pushing your knee to your chest, the corded muscle of your hamstring pulling to its limit. "Can't wait anymore, 'm sorry."

Simon gives you a sloppy kiss as his heaving length prods at your swollen entrance, the tip breaching your pussy with a warm burn that starts from under your navel and only flares, radiating from your core outward. It's searing, the initial bite of the stretch disrupts the haze in your muddled mind, bringing the world around you into cutting clarity.

A guttural noise claws up his throat as Simon sheathes himself halfway, his growled words not the salve he was hoping for. It only grates at already raw nerves, abrasive.

"Jus' a little more, you can take it." He winds a hand downward to draw messy circles on your slippery clit, to stifle the roaring fire in your stomach, your chest. "You already have."

His jerky touch does its job, transforming the sharp burn of him wrenching your walls apart fiber by fiber into a quiet glow; smoldering heat now simmering. You soften, mellow and pliant, accept him into your body as he sinks to the hilt with a quiet groan.

"There's my girl. Takin' all of it like you were made f'me." Simon's words of praise tangle around your spine, electric, prickling. Your heart gallops like a herd of horses, wild and free. "Liked tha' did you? Jus' about strangled my cock with your tight cunt."

He rolls his hips once, twice, searching for signs of discomfort, but when only warm pleasure laps at your heels, when the barest of moans spill from your open lips, Simon begins to put his weight behind his thrusts.

Through half-lidded eyes, you see a raw, primal hunger reflected in his eyes— his soul, the one he'd claimed to have lost long ago, back with his reason, his sanity.

Yet he looks down at you as if you were his only salvation. A lifeline he grabs onto with an unyielding grip, his only tether to hope, purpose. A lighthouse shining in a raging storm, a beacon calling him home.

Simon presses a large hand onto your lower stomach, his work-worn palm pushing until you wince, brows furrowing at the fleeting whisper of pain.

"Can feel myself right here," he sluggishly mumbles, drunk of the feel of your cunt, the taste of your skin on his tongue— sweet like ripened figs. The sensory overload has him sinking his fingers into your flesh until it dimples.

He murmurs something under his taxed breath, something akin to mine, only mine as his lips leave a slick trail of saliva on the dip of your collarbone, the gentle curve of your shoulder, the thin, soft skin of your bicep up to your inner wrist, where he laps at your pulse.

As if savoring the present. The precious gift he's unwrapped, here and now. The last taste of you, which he hopes with a reverence that borders on prayer, lingers on his tongue long after the fruit— the sweet evidence of this one last intimacy— falls from the bough.

Simon comes with his teeth in the crook of your neck, biting down with a crushing pressure that has an acute pain digging its spurs into your consciousness, cutting the blazing euphoria of your own release short.

His cock is still twitching as he fills you with his spend when he takes his thumb and collects some of your slick to take you over the edge one last time.

"F'me. You can take it, yeah? I'll go slow, I promise."

Simon presses a kiss on your sweaty temple, his large hand cupping your jaw as he lazily watches you succumb to sleep, your breath evening out.

He reaches for your arm again, feeling for the birth control implant you'd had there when the both of you were still together.

Gone.

Sweet girl. You'd let him in without a fight. (He makes a mental note to wash the beer off of his clothes tomorrow.)

He knows your cycle better than the lines that are etched onto his palm. Better than the voice of the captain who rumbles in his earpiece, ordering him to go for the throat.

From the moment you'd stepped into his life with eternity in your eyes and the warmth of the sun on your lips, you were his. And he'll do anything to remain in your orbit.

(left unable to distinguish prison from paradise when each poison-coated kiss softens the world he'll build for you and for what's to come.)

[heartsiebyul]

Hey! I was wondering how the third years would react to a reader that is panicking every time somebody tries to get them into a deep body of water? Like they get wide eyed and would get violent if a person would try to forcefully drag them into the water after almost drowning while learning to swim and they therefore don’t know how to swim.

Sorry if the ask is long I was just thinking about how they would react to my trauma response near water.

How Twisted Wonderland characters would react to you panicking near water due to your past near-drowning trauma.

NRC Third Years

Trey Clover

Trey’s eyes widen in concern the moment he sees your panic—your eyes blown wide, breath hitching, muscles tensing. He immediately steps between you and whoever's trying to pull you in.

"Hey, hey. Back off—can’t you see they’re scared?"

He keeps his tone calm and grounded, hands up as he approaches you slowly. He won’t touch you unless you allow it. Once you're out of immediate danger, he leads you somewhere dry and quiet.

"You don’t have to explain, (name). But if you ever want to talk about it… I’ll listen, okay?"

And he’ll never, ever try to push you into water. Instead, he makes sure people know your boundaries and subtly steers conversations or activities away from pools or lakes.

Cater Diamond

Cater’s usual easygoing charm vanishes in an instant when he sees the terror in your eyes. He jumps in between you and the water like a shield, grabbing the arm of whoever was dragging you.

"Yo, not cool! Look at them—they’re freaking out!"

He crouches down to your level, his phone forgotten in his back pocket for once, eyes wide with worry.

"You’re okay, (name). You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Later, Cater tries to cheer you up with silly distractions or comfort food, but he also respects the gravity of your fear. If you’re ready to talk, he listens with unexpected sincerity.

Leona Kingsholar

The moment you lash out, Leona’s instincts kick in. He grabs your wrist—not to stop you, but to steady you—and growls at the offender.

"Are you stupid? Don’t touch them like that."

He keeps you tucked behind him, his body a warm, solid barrier between you and the water. His eyes are sharp, not at you, but at whoever triggered your reaction.

Afterwards, he’s silent for a while. Then, quietly:

"You almost drowned, didn’t you?"

He doesn’t press you. He just stays close, a silent guardian lounging near but never too far. Anyone trying that again? They'll have to answer to him first.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil immediately sees the fear in your eyes. His face tightens, his voice commanding.

"Enough. Step away from them. Now."

He approaches you with gentle, regal grace, lowering his voice so only you can hear.

"Breathe with me, (name). In… and out. That’s it."

Once you’re safe, he won’t let it go unaddressed. Vil won’t pry, but he’ll sit with you, hands folded delicately.

"You should have told me. I could’ve made sure this never happened. No one has the right to disregard your trauma—not even for something ‘fun.’"

He’ll personally ensure no one tries that again. Water activities? Not unless you say yes.

Rook Hunt

The moment your panic shifts to violence, Rook’s expression changes from curious to deadly serious.

"Non, non, non—mon chasseur! They are frightened. Release them!"

He’s at your side instantly, his movements surprisingly grounded, protective. He gently pulls you away, cradling you like something precious.

"You were close to death once, weren’t you? The water still whispers to you in nightmares..."

His words may sound theatrical, but there’s an undercurrent of raw sincerity. He treats your fear as sacred, something not to be dismissed.

"Tell me where your comfort lies, and I shall be your bow and arrow, guarding you always."

Idia Shroud

Idia’s already uncomfortable around water, so when you panic, his anxiety spikes too—but for you. His tablet clatters to the ground when he sees your face.

"Wait, wait—(name)?! D-don’t touch them!"

He waves his hands frantically, practically teleporting to your side. He’s terrified of making things worse, but he’d still rather suffer than watch you crumble.

Once you’re safe and calm, he sits cross-legged beside you, hoodie pulled over his head.

"That was, uh… really scary. I mean—for you. I didn’t know you were—"

He stops rambling and just looks at you.

"If you ever wanna talk about it, or not talk, or just play a game to forget it, I’m here. You’re not weird for this."

Malleus Draconia

The second your panic spikes, Malleus’s magic crackles faintly in the air. He steps forward like a shadow given form, eyes glowing with quiet fury.

"You will not touch them again."

His presence alone is enough to stop anyone in their tracks. He walks over to you slowly, carefully, crouching before you like one would before a frightened creature of legend.

"You have been harmed by water. It has left its mark on your soul."

He speaks like he understands—because in some ways, he does. He won’t force healing on you, but he’ll offer safety, always.

"You need not fear. I shall be your storm now. None shall drag you where you do not wish to go."

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia’s cheerful facade vanishes in an instant when he sees your reaction. He flashes between you and the aggressor like a blur, his voice suddenly dark.

"That’s enough. You’re scaring them."

His tone is sharp—dangerous—in a way few get to witness. He kneels beside you, all gentleness now, and eyes warm.

"It’s alright, (name). You’re not in the water. You’re safe."

Later, he hums softly, guiding you through a dry land.

"I’ve lived a long time, and I know this—fear born of survival is never weakness. You lived. That makes you strong."

He respects your boundaries and never jokes about it. If anything, he teaches others to respect them too—with or without words.

I hope you’re doing well, pal! Take your time healing, okay?

[mysticmutants]

not a lot, just forever

summary: weddings were never logans thing. the sappy vows, hundreds of people watching two people profess their love for each other— so why was being at jean and scott’s wedding with you affecting him so much?

pairing: logan howlett x reader

word count: 1k

warnings: romcom themes, weddings, possibly ooc!logan

authors note: sooo this is my first fic! I have some plans for a much longer, chaptered fic but figured I should ease myself into this! please go easy on me! any tips or suggestions are welcomed. thank you if you read my loves ౨ৎ

logan had been here so long he began to question where he went wrong in his life to put him here. what primordial being he had wronged to place him where he was— sitting next to you, adjusting uncomfortably in a cheap folding chair. not only were his senses being ambushed, overwhelmed—the guests cheap perfumes, the soft classical music playing in the background, mixing with the chatter of excited guests— but being here with you, was triggering something inside of him. he wasn’t someone that enjoyed weddings. anyone who looked at him even for a fraction of a second could deduce that about him. too gruff, hardened, to enjoy such a sappy environment.

it was anxiety inducing, to say the least. he shifts in his seat, trying not to fidget too much as his eyes flick from you—sitting next to him, raving about how beautiful the venue was, how excited you were for your teammates— to his surroundings.

“not a wedding person, logan?”

you speak softly, eyes raking over his appearance as you note the way his brows pinch together a little more than usual—a telltale sign of what was going on in his mind. he shakes his head in response. “they should’ve just eloped. less hassle.” he mutters gruffly, earning a laugh from you. he feels you lean in, elbowing him gently. “be nice. it’s their big day, you know? a celebration of their love.” you exclaim, a warm grin adorning your plush lips. the sight nearly makes his heart leap out of his chest—yearning for its rightful owner, you. he huffs in response, arms crossed over his broad chest. he wants to stop talking about this, to think about anything other than this god forsaken wedding. at least when he got through the ceremony, there would be alcohol at the reception. you lean in once more, and he can smell your perfume. his breath hitches and he eyes you, hoping you didn’t catch it. “so, I’ll take it you don’t see yourself settling down, cowboy?” you inquire.

not unless it’s with you.

he doesn’t miss the way your eyes drift to his lips, and back up to his eyes, but he does brush it off as him seeing things; chalking it up to his old mind deteriorating. he scoffs, brow raising as he scans the room once more in a feeble attempt to avoid eye contact with you. “settle down? no. people like us rarely get to settle down, darlin’. you know that. wouldn’t want anyone to get tangled in my mess.” he remarks—his way of saying ‘I’m terrified to get close to anyone, for fear of them winding up kidnapped by enemies or worse; waking up with my claws in their stomach—your expression darkens at his words, lips pursed and nostrils flared.

you nod, a sheepish grin curving at your lips. “right, yeah. of course.” you chuckle. “people like us don’t get the chance at a life like that very often. all the more reason to be happy for these two.” you nod, gesturing to scott standing at the altar. “you’ll get it, too.” he grumbles, pulling at the tie on his neck. “any man would be lucky to have you. just a matter of finding the right person.” your eyes linger on him at the mention, before tearing away to gaze up at the altar again.

“well,” you start, sighing, “I don’t think that my person thinks that I’m their person. so I’m sort of at a standstill.” you admit, breathlessly. now you’ve got his attention.

he leans forward, palms on the top of his thighs. “oh? and who might this person be, doll? have you tried telling him how you feel?” he questions, trying—and failing—to come off as subtle. you grin, a small chuckle falling from your lips. “no, but only because I know better. why try when you know the answer, right? I mean.. I’ve tried, I suppose. dropped hints. but I’m beginning to question if he doesn’t realize, or if he doesn’t want to realize, you know?” you turn to him, confused on why he was suddenly so attentive; his anxiety from moments before gone. his brow raises, waiting for you to elaborate. his heart skips a beat as you lean in even closer, breath fanning across his face.

“well, my right person… he doesn’t let people in. not fully. he acts like it’s because he doesn’t care but… i think he’s scared. he wants to be loved so badly, and i can see it. he doesn’t want someone to get hurt because of him. not again.” you speak cautiously, looking at him. really looking at him.

his breath hitches in his throat as he meets your eyes. were you… talking about him? no way. he opens his mouth to speak, to counter, to confess, but he’s cut off by the wedding march beginning to play.

and he’s right back to cursing whatever god he could think of. he can’t help but grin, though, as he stands with all the other guests. his heart beats rapidly in his chest, filling it with warmth.

he turns to watch jean walk down the aisle, anticipating the end of the ceremony—wishing his mutation was to speed up time rather than his adamantium claws. for once, though, it wasn’t because he couldn’t wait to get this over with. to get to the fun part already—the part where he could drink. it was because he couldn’t wait to finally tell you how he felt. to face his fears.

maybe, for once, he didn’t mind weddings so much.

he just hoped the next one would be yours.

[mangooes]

Fast, Fatal, and Flirty

The ticking of the bomb was the only thing (Name) heard in that moment. Her hands moved swiftly, steady fingers dancing between wires as her mind calculated every possible detonation trigger. A drop of sweat slid down her temple as she whispered,

“Red, green, blue—definitely not yellow… unless this guy’s color blind, which—”

Snip.

The countdown froze at three seconds.

She exhaled. “Boom, you’re disarmed, sweetheart,” she muttered, brushing her fingers along the side of the explosive. “Not today.”

She straightened, only to nearly choke when a familiar voice drawled casually from behind.

“Well, well. Look what my pretty kitten���s been up to.”

(Name) spun around. “SYLUS?!”

Leaning against the rusted frame of the abandoned warehouse door, in his signature jacket and leather pants, stood her husband, grinning like he’d just stepped out of a vacation brochure titled ‘How to Look Sinisterly Sexy While Crashing Your Wife’s Job.’

He tilted his head. “You didn’t invite me to the party?”

“You—how the hell—why are you here?!”

“I was in the neighborhood.” He glanced at the disarmed bomb. “And my wife was playing with fireworks. Thought I’d stop by before you got yourself turned into confetti.”

“Pfft, confetti? I’m flattered. I had it all under control.”

Sylus shrugged, walking toward her. “You say that, but I just saw you nearly blow your face off.”

“Three seconds left! That’s called flair!”

“More like playing with death.”

Before she could throw a wrench at him, a burst of gunfire cracked through the warehouse walls.

“Oh for the love of—” (Name) grabbed Sylus’s wrist and bolted. “Not the time! Move your ass big guy!”

Outside, a sleek black getaway car idled a block away. (Name) practically threw Sylus into the passenger seat, jumped into the driver’s side, and hit the gas.

Tires screamed as the car surged forward, bullets pinging off the rear bumper. The side mirror shattered. (Name) gritted her teeth.

Sylus turned to her mid-chase, the city blurring outside the window, and smirked. “Is it wrong that I’m kind of enjoying this?”

(Name) kicked him.

“Ow? You wound me sweetie.”

“This is not a date, Sysy!”

He just laughed, the wind tousling his white hair. “Admit it, kitten. It’s fun when we do it together.”

Behind them, two black SUVs swerved in, engines roaring. (Name) cursed and jerked the wheel, drifting between narrow alleyways.

“They’re tailing us hard,” Sylus noted, tone a little too cheerful for someone in a high-speed chase.

“You think?!” She stuck her head out the window for a moment. “Damn it, I’m gonna need a better angle—“

Without a word, (Name) kicked her heel off, propped her foot onto the wheel to steer (what kind of ungodly core strength—) and climbed halfway out the window, dual pistols raised.

“Sweetie, I know you’re a badass, but this isn’t—holy shit—”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Shots rang through the night. The first SUV swerved, smoke billowing from the engine. The second clipped a fire hydrant, water geysering as it spun out.

(Name) flipped her hair over her shoulder as she slid back into the seat, still steering with one leg.

Sylus stared at her, absolutely delighted. “That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all month.”

She gave him side-eye. “Oh so you think I’m not hot everyday?”

“That’s not what I meant, kitten.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled him down, one hand on the steering wheel. Leaning toward him as she was about to plant him a sweet treat, Sylus immediately pulled her head toward his chest as a stray bullet brushed past them, hitting the car window.

“Oh, someone’s eager to die.” His brows furrowed, a frown on his face.

More gunfire. A third car appeared.

“I’m ending this,” Sylus muttered, cracking his knuckles.

Before (Name) could stop him, he slipped out the window—because of course he did—and vanished mid-air in a swirl of black and crimson mist.

“SYLUS!” she shouted. “I SWEAR TO—”

BOOM.

The third car suddenly flipped, landing on its roof. One heartbeat later, Sylus reappeared in the passenger seat, dusting off his jacket with all the calm of a man who just walked out of a bakery.

“Taken care of.”

“You reckless idiot!” (Name) snapped, slamming on the brakes to drift the car into a side alley.

“You’re welcome.”

“You didn’t have to teleport onto a moving car! What if you missed?! What if your timing was off by one second?!”

Sylus looked so smug. “Please. I’m offended you think I’d miss. Besides, I wasn’t about to let you hog all the fun.” Hands moving up in a surrender motion.

(Name) pressed a hand to her forehead, sighing. “I am never letting you come on my missions again.”

“Sure, kitten.” He grinned. “Right after we continue where we left off earlier. Kiss me.”

“Ugh, shut up.” But her cheeks flushed despite herself.

Sylus leaned in, voice low. “Come on now, you weren’t this shy earlier.”

“What?”

“I make a good getaway partner. I got rid of the bug disturbing us. Shouldn’t I get a reward for being such a good boy—”

Before Sylus could finish his sentence, a warm sensation washed over him as the feeling of soft lips pressed against his in a gentle manner.

As they pulled apart, she smiled at him.

“…Thank you,” she muttered.

He chuckled and slung an arm over her shoulder. “You’re always welcome, sweetie. I’ve told you to use me as you please, no?”

And as the two of them sped into the night, back toward safety and another probable argument involving hidden explosives and missed briefings, Sylus was already planning how to crash her next mission—just for the thrill of hearing her yell and the reward of that rare, breathless laugh that only she gave him.

UM HAVE U GUYS SEEN THE NEW MAIN STORY SYLUS OH MY GOD I SCREAMED IM AKJANKJENIEHBRIRBI HES SO HOT OMG SYLUS RAFGH RAFGH AAAAAAAAAA TAKE ME ON A JOYRIDE PLS SYLUS JUST ONE CHANCE MY BABY SHAYLA

[whateverloomis]

Billy and Stu x Reader who doesnt like violence, so they have to baby her all the time🥺

I see you anon ;)

This was heavily inspired by that first scene in Sidney's room where Billy is being a total clown with her stuffie 🤡

This is a shorty but very fun and teasy :p

Enjoy! <33

Warnings: Making out, teasing, Stu is chaotic, poly!ghostface, reader is sassy, unedited

Reader: AFAB, She/Her, use of YN | 3rd person pov

YN was watching one of Billy and Stu's favorite slasher movies in her room with Stu. One she didn't care about, like the rest of those gory, gross, violent movies.

She was snuggling up to Stu, her face on his chest and eyes closed, hoping to fall asleep and drown out the sound of the unwanted film.

The boy looked down and noticed she was upset. He paused the movie and ran his hand through her hair.

"You alright kiddo?" He asked and she looked up at him, a slight frown on her face.

"Yeah I just... I don't like these kinds of movies... They're unnecessarily violent." She answered and Stu chuckled, "Well baby, it's a horror movie, of course it's gonna be violent." He answered.

Suddenly, Billy walked in the room. He overheard the conversation while climbing up the stairs and was clearly annoyed at the situation.

"Stu, turn that shit off. You know she doesn't like that stuff." Billy said and grabbed one of her stuffed animals, sitting next to her and placing it on her lap. It was like muscle memory for him. Billy knew exactly when and what she needed for comfort.

Stu was very caring as well, but sometimes he forgot small details that triggered her, but that's okay. She knew Stu didn't mean any harm, but whenever it happened she needed all the comfort in the world from her boyfriend's.

YN grabbed the stuffed animal and sat up against the headboard, her knees up to her chest while hugging the stuffie.

Stu turned off the TV and looked at YN with a frown, "I didn't mean to upset you baby," he said and she waved her hand softly, "It's okay, I'm not mad I just..." YN trailed off and Billy wrapped his arm around her, providing comfort.

"Oh I know!" Stu exclaimed and YN jumped slightly. The boy ran out of the room and down the stairs to look for God knows what and left YN and Billy alone.

"He's such an idiot sometimes," Billy mumbled and YN glared at him playfully, "Don't be mean," she said and Billy looked at her, a smirk adorning his face.

"C'mere" he said and patted his lap. YN crawled towards her boyfriend, stuffie still in hand and she straddled his lap. Billy quickly wrapped his arms round her waist and pressed her against him, the stuffed animal between them.

"We'll watch something else later, okay? Your pick," Billy said, his voice low sending shivers of excitement over her body. YN smiled at him and jumped softly on his lap out of happiness.

Billy licked his bottom lip and chuckled, removing the stuffie from between them, "Mm, don't do that unless you wanna get in trouble." he whispered, cock half hard from her movements.

YN repeated her cute little jump again, biting her lower lip, "Maybe I do want to get in trouble," she said and Billy let out a breathy laugh.

YN leaned in at the same time as Billy and they kissed softly. Occasionally pulling back to place teasy pecks on each other's lips before connecting again and playing with each other's tongues.

She started to grind slowly against his now hard cock and released a whine. Billy chuckled and squeezed her hips, "You're so fucking cute," he whispered and crashed his lips against hers again.

Before things escalated, Stu climbed up the stairs, tripping on the final step before entering the room; "I got your favorite snack! We can watch- Well shit, what a way of comforting her, Billy," Stu said teasingly and YN pulled away from Billy, burying her head in the crook of his neck and giggling.

Stu placed the snack on the night stand and sat next to them, pulling YN towards him, YN kneeling next to him. Her second boyfriend cupped her face and she leaned in, kissing him with need. She moaned softly against his lips, clearly worked up because of the make out session with Billy.

YN pulled back and crawled towards Stu, giving Billy a perfect view of her ass before she sat on Stu's lap, continuing the hungry kiss.

"You love getting your way with us, huh?" Stu asked teasingly and YN smirked; "And you loovee to please me," She said and Billy raised an eyebrow; "Oh yeah? We'll see about that," he said before grabbing YNs face and kissing her again, her still on Stu's lap.

She was in for a night of fun, multiple rounds and lots of praise.

[keeryhours]

the needle and the damage done - chapter one

Older! Rockstar! Eddie Munson x female! reader

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Summary:

37 year old Eddie Munson is a washed up rockstar - reckless, wild, and heavily addicted to drugs. His drug use tore apart his band and his family. It’s up to him to make things right.

A bit of a prologue. Eddie destroys his own life.

Warnings:

(18+), HEAVY warning for drugs (weed, psychedelics, cocaine, pills, heroin), alcohol, addiction, one slightly smutty part, p in v, pregnancy, birth, medical conditions, rockstar and addict behavior, cycle of trauma, ANGST, mention of shitty parents, broken families

Word Count: 3k

A/N:

I hope you enjoy this new series! Please mind the triggers and warnings!

—

Corroded Coffin was Eddie’s first baby.

He started that band in middle school with his closest friends. He gave it his everything all throughout school, to the point that he repeated his senior year three times and still never graduated.

But that didn’t matter, because it paid off. Corroded Coffin made it big. Huge, in fact. Like playing three sold out shows in a row at Madison Square Garden big.

You had been there from the beginning, too. Friends since 3rd grade, growing up together in Forest Hills trailer park. Where Wayne and Eddie always gave you sanctuary from your own shitty parents.

You and Eddie started dating in 10th grade. It felt like it had been forever coming. You had both been crushing on each other since the beginning, both too scared to say anything about it. But one day, after a Hellfire campaign, Eddie cornered you in the drama room and asked you out. The rest was history, as they say.

You started working at Benny’s after graduation, waiting for Eddie to catch up with you. A few years later and Eddie was coming in with the mail screaming - the tapes the guys had sent off to record labels had paid off. One wanted to meet them.

It was a whirlwind of fame and music after that. Things happened so quickly it made your head spin. They recorded an album, released it to critical and fan acclaim, went on a tour. Eddie swept you off your feet and you spent 4 months living on the tour bus, seeing the country with him and the guys. Every show sold out, fans lining up outside after trying for even a glimpse of the band. They were usually happy to stop for autographs, unless they had to be somewhere, an interview or a magazine shoot.

The suits insisted it would be better for the band’s image if they all appeared single, but Eddie was having none of that. He paraded you around like his personal trophy, showing you off to anyone who would see. It was a little embarrassing, but you loved him.

Eddie pulled you onstage at the final show of the first tour. You were terrified to be on stage in front of so many people, already embarrassed about whatever Eddie was about to pull. But then he dropped down to one knee, pulled a ring out, looked at you like you were the only person in the world, and asked you to marry him. You said yes, of course.

Your wedding was perfect. You wore a beautiful white gown, form fitting with lace sleeves. Eddie wore a black tux. Gareth was his best man, Robin your maid of honor. It was a pretty small wedding, just your closest family and friends, but it couldn’t have been better. It was everything you’d dreamed of since you met Eddie.

With rockstar-dom came certain expectations, certain…hobbies. You and Eddie had always loved to share a joint or a bowl together, sometimes even fooling around with psychedelics. It was always an amazing time. But with fame came access to anything your heart could ever desire. And Eddie loved the drugs.

It started out slowly. He’d drink himself stupid at the after parties, climb on the bar and throw chairs and get rowdy, get into fights sometimes. He only behaved if you tagged along. But the fans loved him, the guys thought he was a blast. That was just Eddie, wild, just how he was. The life of the party, until he wasn’t.

Coke was the first new thing you ever tried together. Eddie definitely didn’t need to be any more hyped up than he already was on his own, but he loved the stuff. He’d carry the little baggie in his pocket at all times, pouring a little on his hand for a bump when you or he needed a top up. He’d spread fat lines on a mirror in his hotel room, passing you a rolled up $100 dollar bill to let you go first, ever the gentleman. Then you’d fuck like rabbits the whole night, doing more lines whenever you started to come down. For the first time in your lives, you had all the money and all the drugs in the world. The party never had to stop.

Next was pills. Oxy, Xanax, Adderall. Eddie really liked the pills. He always kept some on him, would sneak off to crush one up and snort it if he needed the high extra fast. You didn’t know. You thought they were just for parties. You didn’t know it had become a daily thing, a crutch.

1993, you were 26 years old. Corroded Coffin had been successful for the past few years. Everyone loved them, especially Eddie as the frontman. He knew how to put on a show, knew how to have a good time. You couldn’t go anywhere without being followed by fans and photographers. It threw everything off balance when you found out you were pregnant.

It had been an accident. You were terrified to tell Eddie. You didn’t want to ruin his fun, or get in the way of his dream. But this baby was happening whether you were ready or not. And you knew it was time to get sober. After his show that night, you asked Eddie to come back to the hotel with you instead of going to the after party. He had been reluctant - he loved the after parties - but he agreed. Back in the hotel room, you sat him down, the look on his face completely terrified of whatever you were about to drop on him.

“Eddie…” you had started, holding his ringed hands in yours. “I’m…I’m pregnant.”

His eyes had gone wide. Maybe if you had known then what you knew now, you would have noticed how his pupils were blown. You didn’t even know he was on anything at the time.

“Baby, that’s…” he shook his head, and your heart sunk. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want the baby. “That’s fucking incredible!”

It was your turn to widen your eyes when Eddie stood, pulling you into a tight embrace and lifting you off the ground, spinning you around. “A baby! Wow.”

“You’re not upset?” You asked once he’d sat you back down, a huge grin on his face.

“Upset? Why would I be upset?”

“Because of the band,” you said. “Your freedom.”

“I don’t care about all of that,” he said, hands on either side of your face. “I care about you. I care about this baby.” He lowered a hand to gently caress your stomach. “You’re my whole world. And now my world is about to double,” he laughed. You couldn’t help but return his smile, tears welling in your eyes.

“I’m so happy you’re happy,” you said. “I‘ve always wanted a family with you.”

“Me too.” He placed a gentle kiss on your lips, then started covering your whole face in kisses, making you giggle. “I’m so fucking happy.”

A baby girl, Evelyn “Evie” Grace Munson was born August 1994. She was Eddie’s twin, born with big brown eyes and a head full of dark brown hair that got curlier the longer it grew. She was an angel of a baby, slept perfectly and hardly ever fussed. She was even a well behaved toddler, shy and reserved. She clung to you and Eddie and her Uncles Gareth, Jeff, and Grant.

Eddie’s drug problem ramped up after Evie’s birth. He was still able to hide it, to cover it up with his partying, but it was getting worse. He was starting to take oxy on a regular basis, snorting coke or taking adderall to counteract the downer’s effects. He was pretty much fucked up all the time, but he was functional enough that no one worried. And he did his best to keep it away from you.

After it all, you felt like an idiot for never noticing.

December 1998, you welcomed your second daughter, Rhiannon Raven Munson. She also looked just like Eddie, brown hair and big brown eyes. The Munson genes were strong, apparently. She was a fussier baby, suffering with colic. There were countless sleepless nights walking the halls with her, bouncing her and trying to get her to just sleep.

Evie adjusted to her big sister role perfectly. She loved her new baby sister, even if she wanted to treat her like a doll and push her around in her toy stroller.

After Rhiannon’s birth is when things really spiraled, although you were still oblivious. But the guys started to notice, because he was less careful around them. He started spending more time away from home.

This was when Eddie did heroin for the first time.

It was just snorting it, he didn’t think it was a big deal. But god, the way it made him feel. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced, like he had literally gone to heaven. It was the best thing he’d ever felt in his life.

He never wanted to stop.

Eddie was railing lines before shows, smoking heroin as soon as he got off stage before heading to the after party. You were home alone with the two girls.

He would come home late, long after you and the girls had gone to bed, climbing into bed with you and kissing all over your neck and shoulders until you turned around in his arms, kissing him deeply as he slid his hand beneath your panties.

“My pretty girl,” he’d mumble against your lips, pulling your body into his own. “Gonna make you feel so good tonight.”

Eddie was always incredible in bed, but being hopped up on coke always made him insatiable. He’d fuck your brains out, have his hand held tightly over your mouth to not wake the kids as your eyes rolled back and you came around his cock again and again.

July 2001, Ivy Maeve Munson was born. She was born prematurely and with a congenital heart condition, and spent months in the NICU. You left her side as little as possible, Wayne babysitting the girls while you spent every possible moment at the hospital. She had heart surgery at 3 weeks old, which thankfully went perfectly. Eddie had to leave for band commitments, but spent as much time as he could by your side. He didn’t mention the pills he was popping behind your back, or the heroin he was smoking in the bathroom of the studio.

Things really hit rock bottom after Ivy’s birth. You didn’t know if it was the stress of her health problems or what, but something had changed in Eddie. He wasn’t even trying to hide his drug abuse anymore.

She was only a few months old when he injected heroin for the first time.

The rush was nothing like snorting or smoking it. The first time he did it, with some of his rockstar friends, and the drug hit his veins for the first time, he had never felt happier. Not on his wedding day, not holding his daughters for the first time. It was like there wasn’t a single thing wrong in the world, everyone around him felt like his closest friend, he loved everyone and everything. He was wrapped in the warmest, most comforting hug, his stomach was filled with butterflies like the first time he’d kissed you. Only better.

He slumped over and let it take him.

His addiction became obvious to everyone around him after that. His bandmates first - they’d get into constant arguments over Eddie showing up late too high to play guitar, forgetting the lyrics and slacking off on songwriting and practices. It was getting embarrassing for the whole band when he’d act a fool in public now, usually getting into fights with someone every time before they’d have to drag his passed out form back home.

The first time you found his kit, you confronted him in the living room, throwing it down on the table. “What the fuck is this, Eddie?”

Fear struck into his very soul. “Baby, I-“

“No.” You shook your head. “What the fuck, Eddie?”

“I-I swear I can explain-“

“I don’t think you can.” You looked down at the drugs and paraphernalia, tears in your eyes. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

“It’s just some fun, okay?” He said, hands combing through his curls in his stress. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just some fun.”

“This is heroin, Eddie. There’s needles here.”

Eddie opened his mouth, his hand outstretched like he was going to come up with some excuse, but he really didn’t have one. He dropped his arms to his sides. “I’m sorry.”

You wiped your tears away, angry and scared for your husband. “What if the girls were to see you fucked up on this stuff?”

Emotions swam behind Eddie’s eyes. “That wouldn’t happen. I promise that won’t happen.”

“Because you’re gonna stop, right?”

Eddie didn’t say anything.

“You’re gonna stop, right?”

“I…” Eddie looked around. “Of course I’m gonna stop, baby. I can stop any time, it’s no big deal.”

It was a big deal, and he couldn’t stop. In fact, his addiction only got worse and worse. He started stumbling onto stage doped out of his mind, unable to perform and forcing shows to be cancelled and tickets to be refunded. His public breakdown took over the tabloids, which was humiliating for everyone involved. And despite his promise, he came home high every day. The girls were scared of him like that, they were withdrawing from their father day by day, but he didn’t even know what was going on.

You broke up with him countless times, saying you couldn’t handle it anymore. But he would always come back, banging on the door in the middle of the night, crying and withdrawing and swearing he was done and wouldn’t touch the stuff again. You’d take him back, help him through the sickness, and things would be okay for a week before he’d be right back to it.

The final straw was when you found him shooting up a speedball in the bathroom at the house. You had freaked out - “The girls could have walked in on you! What are you thinking?!” - and Eddie was too doped up to even have a conversation with you. You called Gareth, Jeff, and Grant to come get him, because you were officially done for good.

You found out you were pregnant again after that. It was a complete surprise - Eddie was 37 and you were 36. There had been no plans for more kids. Three kids was a handful, and Eddie was his own shitshow right now. You hadn’t even talked in a week, and last you’d heard he was still heavy on the dope.

The guys were getting sick of him. The band had gone on an indefinite hiatus because Eddie couldn’t get his shit together. Everything he’d dreamed of, everything he worked for was falling from his grasp faster than he knew what to do with. But he still couldn’t put the drugs down.

You showed up at Gareth’s house, walls up as you prepared for the conversation, prepared for the state Eddie would be in when you saw him. Gareth answered the door with a somber expression on his face, and you knew it wouldn’t be good.

“He’s on the couch in the den,” he said.

You were familiar with the house, so you walked down the hall and to the room yourself. Eddie was passed out on the couch, hair a mess, sweaty, dirty clothes he’d probably been in for days. Track marks visible on his strong arms you always loved having wrapped around you.

You nudged him, and he slowly woke up.

“Babe?” He said, voice hoarse. His pupils were constricted, eyes bloodshot. He’d clearly had something recently. His facial hair was scruffy, unkempt. He reached for you, but you pulled away.

“I need to talk to you.”

He sat up on the couch with a groan, rubbing his head. “What…what’s up?”

“I’m pregnant again, Eddie.”

He dropped his hands, looking up at you. “No.”

You pulled the tests out of your hoodie pocket, handing them over. He took them with shaking hands, examining them. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m 6 weeks. It’s still early.”

Eddie shook his head. “I can’t- we can’t-“

“I’m giving you an ultimatum.”

His eyes shot up to you. “What?”

“An ultimatum,” you said again. “Either you go to rehab and get clean, for good…or me and the kids are out of your life. For good.”

Eddie’s mouth opened and closed, looking for something to say. “You- you can’t do that.”

“I can,” you said. “And I am. Because this is out of hand, Eddie. You’re an addict. You’re going to kill yourself doing this shit. You’re not 22 anymore. This is sad. It’s sad watching you do this to yourself.” You wiped away a tear. “I love you more than anything, and I’m just watching you destroy yourself.”

Eddie looked up at you sadly. “Please. Please don’t take my kids from me. Please don’t leave me.”

“I have to do this,” you said. You took a deep breath. “If you want to get clean, you know where to find us.”

With that you turned and left the room, leaving Eddie alone with your words. He knew something had to change. He was killing himself with the drugs. But he also didn’t want to stop. He never wanted to stop. They felt too good, made him feel so alive in a way he never did in normal life.

As you drove home, you wondered if Eddie would take your words to heart. You’d broken up with him plenty of times over his drug use in the past three years, and it hadn’t changed anything. Not a damn thing.

If losing his family and his career wasn’t enough to scare him straight, you weren’t sure anything would.

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@kellsck @birdysaturne @emxxblog @iheartgrayson

[ayyy-pee]

hi lexi!! i hope you’re having a lovely day!! sooooo i saw you’re requests are open 👀 i totally loved your kny fics and was wondering if you’d write a little something about giyu and his wife experiencing the ups and downs of pregnancy?

AHHHH HI JESS!!! Thank you for sending in a request! I've been kind of itching to write Demon Slayer again lately so YES YES YES!!!! ABSOLUTELY!!!

Discord 18+ - Twitter - Demon Slayer Masterlist

Pairing: Tomioka Giyuu x Female Reader

Summary: Adjusting to being at home with you all the time is easy. Adjusting to this pregnancy, is not.

A little extra bit to Make It Stick!

“Let me help you.”

“I’ve got it.”

“But, you shouldn’t–”

“I’m pregnant, Giyuu. That doesn’t make me incapable of getting water. Doesn’t mean I cannot do our laundry. Or prepare a meal. Or stand up by myself.”

Giyuu watches as you, his wife, so beautiful and glowing in this stage of your late pregnancy, lean forward as you attempt to stand from your seated position on the floor. It’s unsuccessful, your very round belly limiting your motion. With a deep breath and a strained grunt, you try again. Giyuu struggles not to leap forward. You simply want a glass of water. It really shouldn’t be this difficult. But you’re strong, and he’s learned better than to get in the way of his determined spouse. So he simply stands rooted in his spot as your second attempt to stand turns out to be less successful than the first. And after about the fourth try, you reach for your husband. 

“Okay,” you pant heavily, waving your husband over. “The last one I may need help with.”

He smiles softly, quickly and carefully helping you to stand. 

As the days pass, and peace finally takes root throughout Japan, Giyuu finds himself spending most of his time home with you. There are no demons, no reason for the Hashira to gather unless it’s to simply catch up. And try as he might, Giyuu is not any more social than when he joined the ranks. There are no more late night excursions across prefectures. No need to ever lay his hand on a sword again.

The Hashira were lucky. They survived. But not without their own set of scars, both physical and mental. All that to say…

He’s restless.

- - - - - -

So, he was grateful that the day he had returned from a fight he did not think he’d come back from, he found you asleep, safe and sound in bed. He was so blinded by your beauty, by the glow the moonlight cast across your skin, that he failed to notice the roundness of you hidden beneath your blankets. He received quite the surprise when he slid into your bed and tried to wrap his arms around you, only to find your belly had grown quite a bit since he’d been gone.

The next morning, you happily showed off your new, round belly to your husband who donned a wide smile as you (and your child) modeled in his haori.

“You look…” His wide eyes drank in your ever-changing form. The bright smile on your face as your hands gently caressed your stomach, made his heart beat wildly behind his ribs. “There are no words,” he rasped, and he was surprised to see the immediate glassiness that overtook your eyes as you gazed at him. He wasn’t sure what triggered such a reaction, until you kneeled before him and cupped his face in your hands. You pressed your lips to his sweetly, and then your thumbs swiped along his cheeks. It was only then that he realized he was the one with the glassy eyes, the tears pouring down his face. You kissed him again, smiling when Giyuu finally gathered his thoughts enough to kiss you back.

You pull away, the both of you gazing softly into each other’s eyes, your love speaking so loudly in this silence. Until you snort, a soft giggle rushing past your lips.

“You can’t think of at least one word?”

- - - - - -

Adjusting to being home with you all the time was easy. Your presence was always comforting, always warm and cozy. Your presence was always gentle and soothing. You made anywhere feel like home. So being with you all the time…it was easy. Adjusting to your pregnancy was not.

It was adjusting to your mood swings. You once had Giyuu quivering in fear, backed into a corner as you let him have it over placing a utensil in the “wrong spot”. He had never seen you so worked up before, your fists trembling as you laid into him. He apologized profusely, swearing he would be careful and apologizing with a back rub later in the night that had you in tears, blubbering your own string of apologies for how you treated him earlier.

No apologies were needed. Giyuu had forgiven you the moment you had raised your voice.

But, Giyuu thinks you could have even struck fear into Muzan had he been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of your wrath.

Another time, he found you weeping in your bath, upset that the cloth you used to bathe yourself was too far away (hanging on the other end of the bath) and you now couldn’t reach it. 

“It’s okay, love,” Giyuu cooed gently as he grabbed the cloth for you. But you were in hysterics, muttering about how you knew this was such a foolish thing to be crying over, but you just couldn’t seem to help yourself, swiping the tears from your cheeks. Giyuu didn’t mind, of course. He quickly stripped out of his clothes and climbed into the water with you. You quietly sobbed against him as your husband helped you to wash yourself.

He tucked you into bed after, ordering you to rest while he completed the household chores you were so determined to finish today (he made sure to put everything in its proper place).

Then, there was one other time when you made Giyuu walk you all the way to Kanroji’s home because you had to have pancakes and butter. He’d never tried it before, but had heard from Tanjiro, and you, that they are quite delicious. If it was what you wanted, he was happy to oblige. 

So he made the journey with you without question, watching as Kanroji eagerly wrapped her arms around you the moment she’d opened the door.

There are no longer secrets among the Hashira. They are aware of Giyuu’s status as a married man who is soon to be a father. They’ve all met you, and they all love you. Which is why Kanroji was more than happy to whip up pancakes and butter for you to happily enjoy together with tea. And it’s why she was also happy to prepare extra to send home with you.

“Please let me know when the baby arrives!” Kanroji cheers. “Obanai and I will make the journey to see you all!”

Your smile is wide and so, so happy and Giyuu is surprised to find that he mirrors your expression as you and Kanroji hold hands and become immersed in conversation.

It’s a pleasant journey home, you going on and on about how delicious your sweet treats were. You’re in good spirits! But it doesn’t last long, as the moment you get home, you’re rushing to the bathroom where you get sick. You spend the rest of the day in bed.

Adjusting to being at home with you all the time is easy. Adjusting to this pregnancy, is not.

- - - - - -

Today, you are happy. The smile he missed so much is back, and the color has returned to your face. You don’t look sickly, as you did just a few days prior and your energy has seemed to return as well. Giyuu suggested you go into town to try and find essentials for the baby. You won’t be out long, though. You’re due to give birth any day now, and it’s hard for you to stand for long periods of time due to the weight of the baby.

But you’re humming, eyes scanning the goods at each stand as you gently rub your belly. You speak with the merchants, purchase what you deem is necessary, and you hand it to your husband who follows quietly behind you. He’s essentially the bag man today. He doesn’t mind. Not when your joy is radiating off of you. Not when you’re glowing so beautifully. 

You’re draped in Giyuu’s haori, your favorite article of clothing lately.

“I just love to smell you these days,” you told him when he’d found you wearing it in the garden one morning. “I suppose the baby does, as well.”

These days, he finds you wear his haori more than he does. And it makes Giyuu feel eternally grateful, makes him feel so blessed. Blessed that he survived. Blessed that he was able to get back to you. Blessed that he is present for this journey and all of its ups and downs. Blessed that he is the man lucky enough to love and be loved by you. And soon, blessed to be able to hold the one created by both of your love.

Giyuu watches on, a tiny smile curling at the corners of his lips as he watches you adorably waddle your way to another stand. And he finds that maybe adjusting to your pregnancy is not as hard as he thought.

[vampireimiko]

Since it's spooky month, can I please request headcanons for Leon Kennedy(RE2) with a male! zombie! Reader that acts like a normal human?

Leon x Male! Zombie!Reader

warnings, none!

note, this was actually so fun to write hello?? anon YOUR MIND >>> i would've never thought to do something like this, enjoy!

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Leon never thought he'd see the things he saw that night in Raccoon City, so you can imagine his surprise seeing you! A zombie who looked and still acted like a human.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Leon was obviously very cautious of you, rightfully so he almost shot you when he first laid eyes on you. Instinctively raising his weapon, finger twitching on the trigger. You threw your hands up in surrender, eyebrows raising in mock surprise.

"Woah, woah, easy there, officer," you said with an unsettling grin, voice steady, almost too human. "I’m not like the others."

Leon’s eyes narrowed, gun still trained on you.

“That’s what they all say.”

“Can they talk this well? Or at all?” You tilted your head, an amused glint in your eye that didn’t belong on something...dead.

There was a moment of tense silence. Leon’s grip tightened on his gun, the weight of the night’s madness pressing down on him. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the absurdity of a zombie that not only acted like a human but sounded like one, too.

Leon’s instinct screamed to pull the trigger, but something held him back. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the faint flicker of humanity in your voice. Either way, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot.

“Fine. But if you try anything…”

You held up a hand, mocking a gesture of peace. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be a good boy, officer.”

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° After that first meeting of yours, you and Leon stuck together for the rest of that night trying to figure out what had happened to the city and what the next step was.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Despite your quick and witty personality, traveling with you had its perks, you basically acted as a zombie repellent when you were close to Leon. Though you didn't appear dead to human eyes, you did to the literal dead. Every time a pack of undead stumbled your way, they would hesitate, sniffing the air in confusion before shuffling off in another direction, unless they saw Leon directly first. Leon noticed it first.

"You’re like a walking shield," he muttered under his breath during one of your quieter moments. You glanced at him, amused.

"Hey, I’m useful for something after all," you teased, flashing him that same unsettling grin. "Stick with me, officer, and we might just make it out of this alive...well, you might."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° As the night went on, Leon started to care for you more than he'd like to admit, he knew you were dead and there technically was no reason to protect you, he couldn't help it.

At one point, after narrowly avoiding another horde, Leon leaned against a wall, catching his breath. “You know,” he began, glancing at you, “I’ve met a lot of survivors tonight. But you—you’re something else.”

You smirked, not missing the subtle compliment. “What, starting to like me now?”

He giggled slightly, pushing himself off the wall and giving you a side glance. “Don’t get cocky. I’m still figuring out what to make of you.”

“Take your time, officer.” You shot him a playful wink. “I’m not going anywhere... well, unless something eats me first.”

Leon shook his head with a smile, despite himself.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Every time a stray bullet whizzed past or a stray undead got a little too close for comfort, his instincts kicked in. He’d shove you out of the way or pull you back, as if he could protect you from the inevitable. He hated how natural it felt, like you were more than just some undead anomaly.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° You reminded him time and time again that he didn't have to worry about you. Still that didn't stop him. It was the cop in him, to protect and serve.

“You don’t have to worry about me, you know,” you said quietly after he yanked you back from another stray zombie's path. “I’m already dead. You’ve got enough on your plate without playing hero for a corpse.”

Leon looked at you for a long moment, something flickering behind his tired eyes. “Maybe. But... I guess it’s hard to break the habit.”

You held his gaze, something softer in your expression now. “Yeah, well, careful. You keep saving me, and I might start to think you care.”

additional note ! PLEASE request more monster!reader or monster! character fics IM BEGGING

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧