paradox-psyc-hoe-sis

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

steady hand

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

summary: hotch catches you at the worst times, but you’re not mad about it. or: 4 times you need hotch’s help +1 time he needs yours.

word count: 6.1k

warnings: probably very inaccurate descriptions of r’s job (it’s for the plot, okay??), shy!reader, a very small injury description, yearning (?), first kiss, fluff !!!

a/n: hiiiii this is my very first hotch fic (gasp) so i hope i did okay!!! i’m excited to be writing for him and i have enjoyed it so far and i hope you will too!!! please please let me know what you think and if you’d want to see more of him from me <33

༄

People are usually impressed when you tell them you work at the BAU.

Which, you won’t lie, is something to be proud of, but their first thought is always that you’re doing something big and solving cases. They ask you if you were there when this case was solved or when that killer was caught.

Then there’s the nodding and dissipation of their excitement when you explain that you work a desk job there. Organize files, write reports, that sort of thing. That is a lot less impressive to most.

You’re no Agent Morgan, or Dr. Reid. Certainly no Agent Hotchner or Prentiss. Instead of being on the field, you spend your time fighting with a printer.

Getting the papers you needed should have been simple, a quick in and out that would have you back hiding behind your desk in minutes. Of course, the universe or something must be against you, because instead, you’ve spent at least twenty minutes trying to figure out what’s wrong.

It isn’t jammed (you’ve checked about five times to be sure) and you’re not educated in printers enough to know how to fix whatever’s going on. You’re just lucky nobody else has needed it yet.

“Come on,” you mutter, trying to pull it away from the wall to get a better look.

You’re sure there’s stress sweat building on your forehead. The last thing you want to do is ask someone for help, to make yourself too visible in this place full of important, intimidating people. You’d rather struggle on your own for now.

You make sure that the thing is plugged in (it is) and then check if it’s jammed. Again.

“Piece of shit,” you’re mumbling at the thing, leaning over it looking for anything out of place.

That’s when you hear someone clear their throat behind you. The sound has you jumping, your knuckles smacking against the wall where your hand had been wedged between it and the printer. You turn around to find Agent Hotchner.

He’d been walking by the printer room when he heard the grumbled curse words. Peeking inside, he’d been pleasantly surprised to find you fussing over the printer. He bit back a chuckle before making his presence known.

You tug your skirt down where it’d ridden up, fiddling with the hem as you try to push down your embarrassment. Of course he’d be the one to see you, in his crisp suit and all. He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his arms crossed loosely. You swallow and try not to look at his biceps.

“Sorry, sir. The printer doesn’t seem to be, um, printing.”

“I’m assuming that’s why you were fighting with it.”

You fight a wince, “you heard that?”

“Heard what?” He asks, though by the twitch of his lips, you know that he’s well aware of what you’re talking about. He then gestures at the cause of your issues behind you, “it’s not jammed, is it?”

“I don’t think so. It wasn’t when I checked, at least.”

You’re trying not to act as nervous as you are. You don’t think you’ve ever really spoken to Agent Hotchner, save for small ‘hello’s and that one time you apologized for bumping into him. He’s handsome—you’ve always thought so—and, more importantly, he’s basically your boss.

“Let me take a look,” he says, walking over. You step aside, staying out of the way.

“It’s alright,” you start as he looks over it, “I’m sure you have much more important things to do than fix a printer, sir.”

Hotch’s eyes flick over to where you stand, a hand still fiddling with the hem of your skirt, your hair a little messy, your eyes a little wide and worried. You look pretty, he thinks. And sure, he does have things he should be doing instead of trying to fix this printer, but he doesn’t really care.

“Don’t worry about that,” he tells you.

He looks back to the printer, and he seems pretty convinced about trying to help, so you drop it.

While he’s distracted, you take the opportunity to look at his profile. The slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the way his brows are pinched a little in focus. It’s unfair, you think, for him to be smart and brave, and be so good-looking on top of it all.

Like he’d heard your thoughts, felt your gaze, he looks over at you again. You turn your eyes toward the floor quickly.

It’s a couple of minutes before anyone speaks. You, staring at the carpet until your vision goes a little fuzzy. Hotch, pushing buttons and flicking switches trying to figure out whatever was going on with the damn printer.

Then, the sound of the ink swiping over the pages, the papers spitting from the printer. You look over at it, mouth slightly parted. What can’t he do?

The sound of your name has your eyes snapping up to his. It’s yet another surprise, him knowing your name. You’re not that important, in the grand scheme of things at the BAU, in the world, really. Someone meant to stay hidden in the background. And still, he knows your name.

“It should be fine now,” he says, grabbing your papers from the cartridge and handing them to you as he stands up straight. “Let me know if it gives you trouble again.”

You grab the pages from him slowly, still shocked at the whole exchange. Your fingers brush against his as you do. “I- Thank you, sir.”

He nods, moving towards the hall. He pauses in the doorway, turning back towards you. “Hotch is fine.”

“Sorry?”

“You keep calling me ‘sir.’ You don’t have to. Just Hotch is fine.”

“Right. Sorry, sir- I mean, Hotch,” you test it out. “Thank you again.”

Yes, Hotch thinks, he likes you saying his name a whole lot more. He sends you a kind smile, “no problem.”

Hotch walks away, probably towards his office where he has very important things to do. Stuff that was surely delayed because he paused to help you. You stare at the doorway for a minute, until you give yourself a papercut and look down at it.

Aaron Hotchner knows who you are.

-

You’re two shitty coffees deep so far, your report open on your desk, the typing bar blinking on the screen of your computer.

There’s pages to go, though you’re not sure how many. You’ve been doing the sort of mindless, robot typing you do when you’re tired. When you’re preoccupied with trying not to glance in the direction of Hotch’s office.

The team got back sometime last night, long after you’d already gone home. From somewhere in Indiana, you think. You’re not sure how they do it, flying about and still coming into the office. You’re tired and you can’t even remember the last time you’ve been on a plane. Add the crime fighting and you’d be a goner.

Blinking yourself from your thoughts, you look back at the blank pages spread out in front of you. It’s not unusual for you to be missing pieces that you need to complete things, it’s just inconvenient. You always end up having to ask someone for the files you need, and then you feel like a burden.

It’s stupid, but in a place full of important people, it’s easy to feel like you’re just in the way.

Anyway, it’s your job, so you push away from your desk and stand, tugging the sleeves of your sweater over your hands.

Your first thought is to go to Reid. As far as friendship goes, you’d consider yourself closest to that definition with him. He’s also the least intimidating of the bunch, probably because you see the most of yourself in him.

You find him in the kitchen with Agent Jareau, both holding their own mugs, probably filled with the same coffee as the one that sits on your desk. You knock gently on the door even though it’s open.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if either of you have the files from that case you worked a couple weeks back. The one in Ohio,” you shuffle on your feet under their gaze. “I need them for this report.”

“Hey,” Reid speaks first, smiling kindly, “I don’t remember keeping them, but I can double check in my desk if you would like.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to do that, I’m sure I’ll find them somewhere.”

You’re about to head out the door when Agent Jareau stops you, “wait, I’m pretty sure Hotch has them. I can go ask him for you.”

It’s silly to feel nervous talking to them, especially when nobody’s ever been anything but nice to you. A little bit of the twist in your gut comes undone.

“No, no. I’ll go ask him if he isn’t busy, thank you though.”

“You should be fine, the door’s open,” she tells you.

You nod, sending the both of them a smile you hope doesn’t look awkward. “Thanks again.”

Their voices picking up their conversation follow you out the door. You cross the space, saying small ‘hello’s to Agent Morgan and Agent Prentiss when they greet you. You try to ignore the prickle of eyes on you as you climb the steps and head to Hotch’s office.

His jacket is draped across the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up on his forearms. It’s probably the most disheveled you’ve ever seen him, and he’s only missing a single layer. You look away from his arms when he says your name.

Hotch had his head bent, looking over a case when he’d heard footsteps, and he’d been glad to find you standing in his doorway. You work in the same place, yet he barely sees you. That’s probably why something lightens in his chest every time he does. The rarity, that’s all.

“Is this a bad time?” You ask.

“Not at all,” he leans back in his chair, “what can I do for you?”

“I’m really sorry to bother you, sir-”

“Hotch,” he reminds gently. His voice is easy, a hum that you think would sound good no matter what he was saying.

“Right, sorry. Hotch. I was just looking for some files that I need from a case you guys had for this report.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

Then, he smiles in that way that Aaron Hotchner so often does. A small twitch of his lips, a lift in the corners. One that you probably wouldn’t have caught if you weren’t paying so much attention. One that feels sort of like a gift.

You shake your head at yourself and elaborate, “the Ohio case. Three weeks ago, I think. I asked Agent Jareau, but she said you had them, so…”

Hotch wants to reassure you, but he’s not sure how to do it without standing up and letting himself grab your hand and squeeze it the way he’d like. And he can’t do that, not when you’re already nervous. Not when he’s not sure he could hold back after one touch.

“It’s no problem,” he opens one of his drawers, flips through folders until he finds what you’re looking for.

He stands up and walks around his desk until he’s in front of you, and he lets his gaze flick over your face while he has the chance. Your eyes find his easily, and you hope he can’t hear the catch in your breath.

Aaron isn’t usually so quiet with his affections, but that’s because he’s never found himself feeling this way at work. He wishes your desk was on his way to his office, just so he’d have an excuse to stop and talk to you. He makes sure never to use your favorite mug from the cupboard, just so you’ll be more likely to have it.

Hotch clears his throat, “here they are.”

He holds up the folder between you, his hand holding it loosely, the other hanging by his side. His fingers twitch.

You’re embarrassingly distracted by his exposed forearms, eyes trailing from his hand to the skin of his arm, to the way his shirt is tight where the sleeves are rolled. Then, it’s the color of his tie today, the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.

His hand reaching for yours is enough to erase everything else. He lifts it and places the folder in your hold for you. Your skin burns even when he pulls away.

“You alright?” He asks. Probably because you’d been staring at him like a weirdo.

Get it together.

“Yeah. Yes, sorry. Just sort of spacey today, I guess.”

When you look back to his face, there’s nothing but a sort of softness in his eyes you can’t identify. He smiles at you, and for the second time, you feel like you’ve won something.

“Is that what you needed?” He asks.

You open the folder and peek inside. You find exactly what you’d been looking for, not that you’re surprised. Hotch knew what you’d meant and you didn’t doubt that.

“It is. Thank you, Hotch,” you grin lightly when you get that part right. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“You’re not in my way.”

Hotch says the words like he’d known you needed to hear them, like he’d known what runs through your mind so often, like he can read you. He probably can, you think. He is a profiler after all.

Still, the words make your heart do a stupid little jump.

“I’ll bring them back when I’m done,” you say.

“No rush. They’ll just be going back in the drawer anyway.”

“Well, thank you again.”

“It’s no problem, really.”

Hotch watches you walk back to your desk with your head down. Looking at the folder in your hand, he thinks, at least it’s an excuse for you to come see him again.

-

Hotch isn’t in his office when you return the files.

Since you can’t thank him in person—assuming he’s off with the team somewhere saving lives—you leave a sticky note on top of the folder. You drop it on his desk and leave before you second-guess yourself and rip the note off.

You can’t help but think that the office feels sort of empty without the team there. Without Hotch there. It’s how it is most days, so you’re not sure why the absence feels so present now. You shake it off.

The day passes by, then your drive home, and the rest of your night, too. Through it all, you can’t stop wondering what Hotch is doing, wherever he is. Hoping he’s safe.

You’re certainly not expecting to see him the next day, back so soon, but you can’t say you’re upset about it. It’s a brief glance, him walking into his office, the rest of the team and their chatter following, but it’s enough to make your work seem less tiring for some reason.

It was a quick case, and Aaron was glad to at least get a couple of hours of sleep in before coming into the office. When he sits at his desk, the first thing he notices is the folder you’ve left there. The small note in your handwriting.

‘Thank you :)’

He peels the note away and folds it up. Without thinking, it ends up tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. It’s a simple piece of paper, but it’s heavy where it sits. He rubs a hand over the pocket where the note is and gets to work.

It’s not until a couple of hours later that Hotch ends up leaving his office. Conveniently, in the direction of your desk.

You’ve been burying yourself in your work, your leg bouncing nonstop, your nose inches away from the pages on your desk, your chair pushed in as close as it’ll go. You have to, because if you take a break, if you look away, your eyes will search for Hotch, and you don’t really want to think about what that means right now.

About the ache in your chest when he’s gone, the urge to go ask him a stupid question just to talk to him. It’s awful.

The pen you’re using suddenly runs out of ink, and it makes you pause long enough to feel a cramp in your hand. You sit up and huff, pulling your drawer open and digging around for another pen. Your name in Hotch’s voice has you shutting the drawer and spinning quickly.

It’s just your luck that your shirt gets caught, that the sound of the rip is too loud to play off or ignore.

“Oh gosh,” you whisper, looking down at the damage.

It’s a cheap shirt, you shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s worse than you’d expected. This is what you get for sitting so damn close. The side seam is split, and if you move too much, your bra would probably be visible.

“This is so embarrassing,” you say, holding the rip shut with one hand and holding the other on your forehead. Of course this would happen to you in front of him.

Aaron’s eyes hover where your skin had been exposed, even now that you hold your shirt shut, wondering if it’d feel as soft as it looks. He can’t even remember what he came over to do or say.

He swallows and looks at your face, “do you have another?”

You shake your head, still hiding behind your hand, “no. I really, really wish I did, though.”

“I have an extra one in my go bag. If you’d like?” He hears himself say the words, and he doesn’t regret them, necessarily, but it’s clear to him that you mess with his brain. He doesn’t think straight where you’re involved.

You peek up at him, dropping your hand to your side. “Are you sure? I could probably just use some paper clips, or something.”

“Nonsense. I’ll go get it, okay? I’ll bring it to the bathroom so you can change.”

“You don’t have to-”

Your name leaves his mouth again, gentle but firm. “I’ll grab it.”

“Okay.”

You speed-walk over to the washroom and walk in, closing the door only to block out the rest of the office, who surely noticed what just happened. You’re probably never gonna live this down.

Your overthinking doesn’t get very far, because after only a minute, Hotch is knocking on the door.

“It’s just me,” he says. ‘Just,’ like that word could ever be used to describe him. “You can just open the door a crack and I’ll pass the shirt through.”

You do as he says, tugging the door open until you can see a white dress shirt (of course) in his hand. You reach out and he hands it to you easily.

“Thank you, Hotch. I’ll wash it and give it back, I promise. Sorry for this.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You can’t see his face, but you can hear the sincerity in his voice. “I mean it.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly, closing the door.

His shirt is wrinkled from being packed in his bag, and the sleeves are long when you put it on, but it smells like him and isn’t ripped so you really can’t complain. You roll the sleeves and tuck the bottom into your pants, looking in the mirror to make sure you look at least a little bit put together.

Holy shit, you think. I’m wearing Aaron Hotchner’s shirt. What world have you been living in recently? To be interacting with him more often, to be feeling this sick skip in your heartbeat whenever you do.

You toss your ripped shirt in the garbage, look up, and huff out a breath before leaving the bathroom. You’re surprised to see Hotch still standing there.

“Oh,” you nearly bump into his chest when you walk out the door, but the warmth of his hand on your shoulder steadies you. “I didn’t know you were still there, sorry.”

“You don’t need to say sorry so much, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You’re dreaming, surely. You pinch yourself on the inside of your arm, just in case. You don’t wake up.

“I- um,” you’re fumbling for words because he’s standing there, looking at you softly, calling you ‘sweetheart’ in that voice of his.

Aaron doesn’t know where that came from, but he’s said it and it’s happened. With the way he thinks about you, how often he does, he can’t really be surprised. Besides, seeing you get flustered because of him is absolutely worth it.

“I wanted to thank you for getting those files back to me so quickly.”

Your eyes flick over to his arm, and it’s then he realizes that his hand is still on your shoulder. He pulls it away and stuffs it in his pocket. He’s probably imagining it, but he swears his palm is tingling.

You wipe your hands over your thighs, “right. It was no problem, really. I was mostly done with my report, so… Thanks for giving them to me.”

“I’m glad to be able to help,” he says. Then he walks back to his office.

You’re standing in front of the bathroom for what’s surely an odd amount of time. Even back at your desk, you can’t shake the haze you feel, a pink tint to your vision, a flutter in your gut.

You spend the rest of your day with your nose buried in the collar of Hotch’s shirt, avoiding the gazes of your coworkers around you.

Aaron spends the rest of the day thinking about how you looked in his shirt. About how you’d look in it and nothing else. He drags a hand over his face when that pops into his head.

“You good, boss?” Morgan asks from the doorway.

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t miss the knowing smirk on Morgan’s face.

-

It’s very rare that Aaron leaves work at a reasonable time. So rare that he can’t remember the last time he wasn’t the last person there.

He’s used to the late nights, the empty spaces, deserted desks. Even so, it’s nice to finish up earlier than he’d expected. He looks forward to the extra sleep he’ll get, the longer time frame to decompress.

Leaving work early already felt like a small victory for the day, and he feels like he’s won something bigger when he sees you in your car, still in the parking lot.

You’d left maybe twenty minutes before Hotch, though you’d assumed he’d be leaving hours after you like he usually does. Everything was fine, normal as you bid your goodbyes to your desk neighbors, as you rode the elevator down.

The sun has started setting, and the air gets cooler as it sinks. You fish your car keys from your bag and unlock it, getting in quickly and tossing your bag onto the passenger seat.

You like your job, sometimes you love it, even, but you look forward to going home either way. You think about the warm shower you’ll take, the shitty dinner you’ll end up eating. Your lonely plans are ruined as you twist your car key in the ignition, it sputters and doesn’t start.

“No, no. Come on,” your head falls back, you huff and take the key out.

You try again, and still, no luck. And again, and once more until you’re fed up with it and drop the keys in your lap. Your head is dropped against the steering wheel, allowing yourself a moment of dramatics from your defeat.

A knock on your window startles you upright. Your heart races for reasons other than fear when you look at who it is.

Hotch stands outside, leaning towards your window with a scrunch in his brows. When he catches your eye, he steps back from your door and gives you room to open it and step out.

You shut your car door behind you and lean your back against it, “hi.”

“Hi. Sorry to scare you, but I wanted to check that you were alright?”

“It’s okay,” your arms are folded behind your back, your hands twisting. “Um, it’s nothing, just some car troubles.”

“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I guess not. It won’t start for some reason. I don’t know.” If he wasn’t standing right there, you’d probably smack yourself for how unsure you sound. “You keep catching me at the worst times, Hotch.”

He disagrees. Aaron can’t think of a time where seeing you could ever be a bad thing.

“You’re fine,” he says, his voice suddenly softer, “trust me.”

Despite the bite of the wind outside, the way he speaks warms you. He’s so honest in the way he speaks, in the sense that he sounds sure, even if it isn’t necessarily vulnerable. You don’t know how he does it.

A small smile spreads on your face before you can stop it, “okay, good. And thank you for checking on me. I’ll just call a cab and figure this out tomorrow.”

There’s no way he can let you take a cab. It’s obvious that with what he does, the things he sees, he’d rather know for sure you’d be safe getting home. But then, there’s the sort of floating feeling he has when he’s around you, one he’d like to feel for a little longer if he could.

“Let me drive you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, really. I’ll be fine.”

He ducks his head a little, catches your eye and holds you with that soft gaze of his. “Please, it’s not a problem. For my peace of mind.”

It doesn’t take much convincing, really. You’d much rather sit in a car that probably smells like him than in the back of a cab that smells like sweat.

“For your peace of mind, then. That’d be great.”

You grab your bag from your car before following Aaron to his, where he opens the passenger door for you and makes sure your legs are tucked inside before shutting it. He jogs around the front of his car and gets in.

“Where am I taking you?” He asks, starting his car. The radio hums softly through the speakers, and Hotch reaches over to turn on the heating when he catches you shivering a little.

You tell him your address, “you don’t have to drive me if it’s out of your way, Hotch. I mean it.”

“It isn’t out of my way,” he assures you, and he could easily be lying, but you accept it anyway.

It’s quiet for a little bit, besides the odd question from Aaron for which way to turn. You take the chance to look at him as he drives, his hands on the wheel, the street lights hitting his face. Your head lulls against the seat.

“You’re finished earlier than usual today,” you say. “Not that I know your schedule, or anything, I just-”

“Sweetheart,” he stops you, a smile spreading. It’s wider than what you’ve seen at work, unguarded enough to show his teeth. It’s really pretty. “It’s alright. It’s work I can be doing at home.”

“That’s good. A change of scenery, at least.”

“Exactly.”

You’re not sure what it is that feels different now, in the car. Maybe it’s because it’s only you and him, no prying eyes in the office, no concerns about what this is, what’s allowed. It might only be you, that feels this sort of spark with him, fizzing i’m the air between you. Either way, you’ll soak it up for the duration of the ride to yours.

Maybe that’s why you’re saying, “you know, I always thought you didn’t even know who I was. Until the printer thing.”

Aaron peeks over at you, leaned in his passenger seat. You look like you belong there, like there’s always been a spot for you in his life. Even when you’d started at the BAU, when he first saw you, he felt like it was right that you were there.

Hell, he’d asked Garcia who you were and has had your name in the back of his head since.

“I’ve always liked you,” he admits. He doesn’t say he’s always known you. Liked.

“Really?” You can’t help but ask. Someone like him even noticing you seemed unfathomable. But liking you? He’s gotta be lying.

“Really. Even when you were bumping into me.”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah, I do. You were looking down at the ground, walking like you were being timed. And you had on this light pink sweater.”

Your eyes go wide, focused on his face. You had been wearing a light pink sweater that day. And he remembers all of that? You think, if you looked at yourself in the mirror right now, your eyes would be in the shape of hearts, pulsing in your pupils.

“I can’t believe you noticed all of that.”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says.

Aaron has always had his guard up around new people, has always made himself more serious at work than anywhere else. Then you came along and he had to fight to keep things that way. It makes sense that the minute he sees you outside of work his walls would crumble to dust.

It was inevitable, really.

“I’ve always liked you, too.” Then, before he can say anything, you point at your building, “it’s this one here.”

The car rolls to a stop slowly, his turn signal flashing as he pulls over by the entrance of your apartment building. He puts the car in park and turns to you fully.

“Thank you for driving me.”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

His hand reaches out before he can really think about it, fingertips featherlight over your cheekbone, sliding over to tuck your hair behind your ear. Then, like it was never there, he pulls back. There’s a glow in his fingers where they’d brushed your skin, golden.

It matches the one you feel on your cheek, sparkling.

“Get in safe, okay?”

“It’s a few feet from here to the front door, Hotch. I’ll be alright.”

He huffs softly, twin smiles on your faces. Lovesick and shy, nervous and pink-hazed all at once.

“For my peace of mind,” he says.

“Fine, then. Your peace of mind,” you reach for the door handle, tugging it and pushing the door open. You look at Hotch again, like you can’t get yourself to stop. “Thanks again.”

“See you, sweetheart.”

“Bye.”

You step out and head to your door, turning around before walking inside to give him a wave. Aaron grins and waves back, watching you walk inside.

He stays parked by the curb until he sees a light flick on a couple of floors up.

-

+1

There’s a reason that Hotch is Unit Chief. He thinks quickly, keeps his head straight even with what he deals with every day. There’s also a reason his leadership has been questioned before, but never revoked.

He can be reckless, throwing himself into situations when he knows he probably should’ve waited for backup. This time, it only got him a split eyebrow and a few stitches. It’s been worse; this is nothing.

It is, however, proving to be an inconvenience. He’d gotten stitched up in the ER of whatever hospital was closest to where the team had caught their unsub. It had to be quick, from the hospital straight to the jet.

They’d told him to clean it up again and put a new bandage on it when he got back, which is what he’s trying to do now, in his office, with his laptop’s grainy camera as a mirror. He has the supplies the hospital gave him on his desk, but he can’t really see what he’s doing, and the task is taking much longer than he’d like.

His hands are a little shaky from the adrenaline of his day, and every time his arm comes up to reach his stitches, it blocks his view.

Then, he sees you walking up to his office.

Usually, you’d already be home by now, but you’d been yourself and messed up some of your paperwork, so you had to stay late to re-do it. When you catch sight of Hotch in his office, you’re not so annoyed with yourself.

You notice the things on his desk, the blood on the front of his shirt. Your feet carry you to his doorway easily. Last time you’d really spoken to him was that night in his car, and ever since, there’s been something boiling, a noticeable shift.

You tap your knuckles on his open door twice, “you okay?”

He gives up on dealing with his cut and looks at you instead, the slightly rumpled state of your clothes from a long day, the smile you wear that doesn’t exactly hide the concern in your eyes, the light from the hallway a halo around you. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“I’m alright. Just can't seem to do this right,” he says, gesturing to his eyebrow.

“Do you need help?”

Aaron has never been one to accept help easily, always one to do things on his own. But, when you’re offering so sweetly, when your help means your hands on his skin, how could he ever say no?

“That would be great.”

He pushes his chair back to give you room to stand in front of him. Your legs between his, leaning against the edge of his desk. His knees bump into the sides of your legs, little bursts of the kind of warmth sunlight emits on skin.

You reach for the wipes first, holding them in one hand and reaching up to his eyebrow, the other grasping his chin gently to keep his head steady.

His hand reaches up to hold your elbow. It could so easily be innocent, be almost nothing, but it feels like more. His thumb running back and forth, your face close enough to his to have your breaths mingling. It really feels like more.

“You’re here late,” he says, low and quiet.

“Spilled coffee all over my work. Had to start over. Can you believe it?” You speak just as quietly, eyes flicking from his cut down to his, just for a second.

“I can, actually. You’re sort of clumsy.”

“Hey!” He’s right, of course, but the warm chuckle he lets out is worth your dramatic gasp.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he assures you, squeezing your elbow. “I think it’s cute.”

“Well, thank you, then.”

You set the wipe aside and reach for the bandage next, placing it over his eyebrow and smoothing down the edges with a light touch. When you’re done, you pull back but don’t go far. Your hands fall from his face to grasp the edge of his desk instead.

“All done,” you say.

Aaron’s hands have shifted to your waist. His touch is so delicate, but you’d never ignore it. It might as well be bruising, the way his hands affect you.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Hotch.”

Now would be the time to walk out the door, to say ‘goodnight’ and head home, but you’re in no hurry. Not when his eyes are shining in the dimmed light of his office, soft and practically melting.

They seem to beckon you closer, and though you don’t have a reason this time, your face ends up near his, noses almost touching. It’s as far as you go, afraid you’re misreading things, afraid you’ll be wrong about this.

Hotch closes the space for you.

His chin tilts up, his mouth catching yours softly at first. His hands tighten on your waist, his lips slightly chapped and completely perfect against yours.

You think your knees might buckle, so you put your hands on his shoulders, thumbs digging into his skin, like you’re trying to make sure he’s real. You’re not sure how you manage to kiss him back but you do, and you hear the sharp intake of breath he takes when you push back.

The kiss doesn’t deepen, but it doesn’t have to. You can feel plenty in it already.

It’s not long before Hotch pulls away, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head to look up at you. He removes one of your hands from his shoulder and holds it in his.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” he says, his thumb running over your knuckles.

You look down at your feet, at his legs next to yours. The hand still on his shoulder falls to your side, suddenly feeling nervous.

“You’re right, I’m so-”

“But,” he stops your apology before you can say it. As if you’d ever need to apologize for kissing him. “I’d like to take you to dinner sometime. If you’d want that.”

You look back at his face, eyes searching. He smiles so softly at you, it’s the kind of smile you could only ever give someone you like in this way. Someone you like enough to kiss.

“I’d really like that, Hotch.”

“Good,” he stands, but his hands don’t leave you. “And sweetheart?”

“Hm?”

“Call me Aaron.”

When you test it out, he’s sure of it; his name on your lips is his absolute favorite sound.

༄

thank you so much for reading!!! please please consider reblogging if you enjoyed, it helps a whole bunch more than you’d think and would mean a lot!! <3

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

OKOKOKOKKKKKK

What if reader is a member of the BAU and they're working super late on a case (like they're sitting on the roundtable at 2am or sm) and she unconsciously just says "god I would give the best head to anyone who gets me a taco bell (or any fast food) rn" AS A JOKE LIKE UNDER HER BREATH OR SM!!! BUT AARON HEARS???? AND HE JUST CHOKES ASHSHQHQBAB

this post is 18+, minors dni.

There's not much to eat at a police precinct in Kansas. It's two miles out from any restaurant, and there's a 24-hour burger place halfway back to town as your only other hope. JJ's munching on vending machine cheetos, Blake has instant ramen she'd packed in her go-bag, and Reid has a granola bar he'd stuck in his pocket. Morgan ate an hour ago, so he's not hungry, and that leaves Rossi and Hotch as your only possible dinner companions. There's nothing wrong with that, but you'd have an easier time asking JJ.

In fact, you lean over to the blonde, eyeing her cheetos with jealousy, "I'd suck someone's dick to get a burger right now."

You don't notice the way Hotch's stature tightens, his fingers nearly bending the papers he's sifting through. He's sure you hadn't meant for him to hear, so the logical thing to do is to ignore you. Even if it makes his dick a little hard.

JJ snorts at your crass statement, offering you a chip, "Morgan might have taken you up on that before he met Savannah."

The profiler's eyes widen slightly as he hears his name, and he looks up at you expectantly, "Hm?"

"Nothing," You stick your tongue out at Morgan, "We're teasing you."

Hotch's dick responds to that, too.

He waits five minutes before standing, just enough time to get control of his near-boner. When he's absolutely certain you won't see the faint outline of his bulge through his slacks he stands, clearing his throat and making sure to look at Rossi before you, just in case you put two and two together.

"Okay, who needs to eat?"

You're the first to raise your hand, and Hotch nods at you out of the corner of his eyes. Rossi does, too, and Hotch smooths the fabric of his suit over his stomach, "Alright, there's a fast food joint down the road. It's not gourmet, but it's quick and easy. Y/L/N, why don't you come with me, and Dave, send me your order and you can stay here to work."

"Yes, sir," You chime, happily hopping out of your seat. Stretching your legs feels wonderful, as does the prospect of a burger in your empty stomach. You lead the way to an SUV happily, Hotch trailing behind you, and your phone buzzes in your pocket just before you strap your seatbelt on.

JJ: Gonna suck his dick?

Shut up, you reply, he didn't hear me.

"Alright," Aaron sets both hands on the wheel, "Let me just read Dave's order, and we can go."

"Sounds good," You nod, leg bouncing in anticipation of your burger. Aaron swipes sideways at the message notification on his screen noticing two.

SSA D.R.: Cheeseburger with raw onions, fries well done, medium coke.

SSA D.R.: Enjoy your blowjob.

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

In Need

NSFW (MINORS DNI)

AN:  hey im so sorry i was possessed by a Dark Entity and therefore cannot be held liable for the Sin beneath the cut (reader be advised this was written under DEMONIC INFLUENCE, god is NOT present in this text!!!!!!!!!) i genuinely do not know what happened but I hope u all enjoy nonetheless GHSDJF ♥ (also HUGE THANK U TO @starrylothcat for being exposed to this early, u are a hero and a star!!!!)

Relationships: Hunter x Fem Jedi!Reader

Summary: While travelling with the Bad Batch, you find yourself overwhelmed by a certain need. Unable to deal with it, you try to wait it out in hopes it will pass. But you come to find that your arousal has been unintentionally torturing your poor sergeant.

Warnings: scent kink(?)(Hunter Advanced Senses fuckery); oral (f! receiving); dirty talk; unprotected PiV sex; praise kinda; overstimulation; choking; outdoor sex; y/n and hunter are both Extremely thirsty, minimal plot mostly smut

Word Count: 4k

You don’t know how you’ll survive another night.

The Havoc Marauder had come to rest in the pleasant evening air of some forest world after a long day of battle. Rarely do you and the boys get to enjoy such a beautiful night during this war; you sit in the ship’s cockpit, the gangplank open to allow the cool air into the vessel, and you chat about whatever comes to mind. As usual, Wrecker and Tech are the most talkative, and you’re happy to listen.

Although, admittedly, you don’t listen as closely as you normally would. As has been the case for a few days now, you find yourself… distracted. Years of training at the Jedi Temple have pushed you to overcome your baser instincts, and though such a feat never came easily, you’ve managed for so long. But every now and then, it would become too much to bear.

Try as you might to ignore it, to focus instead on the bright smiles and warm laughter of your friends, your mind fixes solely on the burning heat between your thighs.

When Wrecker smacks the back of your chair hard, you’re ripped from your thoughts and back to reality. Something has gotten your traveling companions in a fit of amusement—though what, you haven’t a clue.

“What do you think, General?” Wrecker’s gruff voice booms. “I say Tech’s got his goggles on too tight if he thinks I can’t wrestle a rancor!”

“I did not say you would be unable to,” Tech quickly interjects. “I merely noted that the odds of us encountering a situation that would require wrestling a rancor are slim, to put it generously.”

A wide grin spreads on your lips, and you pray they can’t see the heat beneath your face.

“If the Republic isn’t assigning us missions where wrestling rancors is a requirement, I’m not sure why we’re even fighting this war,” you tease, eliciting a roar of laughter from Wrecker.

“You got that right!” he chimes.

From across the cockpit, Echo scoffs.

“You’d better hope the Seppies don’t add rancors to their ranks,” he mutters. “The droids are already bad enough…”

“If Wrecker thinks he can handle it, why not?” Crosshair smirks.

As the men begin to chatter, you find your thoughts turning inward once more—or downward, more specifically. This tension has been building within you for days now, and no amount of meditating or distraction has offered reprieve. Your body aches, begging to be touched, and all you can do is wait. Sharing a cramped ship with five men has never been your ideal living condition, but you could tolerate it. When you felt like this though—when you neared the brink of insanity from how desperately you craved something to fill you—life on the Havoc Marauder turned from tolerable to torturous.

Again, the men erupt in laughter over some remark you missed entirely. Awkwardly, you cross your legs, the friction from your movement causing your body to tense up. A shaky sigh passes your lips. Maybe tonight, you could find the courage to do something. With the state you’re in, you haven’t been getting much sleep, anyhow. Perhaps in the dark of night, while everyone else got their rest, you could have your release…

Abruptly, the movement of one of your men catches your eye. It’s Hunter—he shoots to his feet, startling you out of your thoughts. He had been so quiet all night that you’ve nearly forgotten his presence—not helped by the way he seemed to brood in the darker corners of the ship. He treads wordlessly through the ship, suiting up with a few scant pieces of gear over his blacks.

“Something wrong, Hunter?” Echo asks.

Hunter can’t even meet his brother’s eyes, shaking his head with a stern frown.

“Just need to clear my head,” he mutters. He passes through the cockpit, not dignifying any of you with his gaze he heads to the gangplank. “I’ll be back.”

With that, he descends into the night, leaving the rest of you utterly perplexed.

The conversation takes a moment to start again, leaving Wrecker to break the odd silence.

“...what’s with him?” he asks, earning a collective shrug from the room.

“I don’t know,” Echo mutters, “but he seems… testy, these past few rotations.”

Tech tilts his head, already back to his datapad. “This is not entirely unusual. Hunter’s heightened senses often lead him to seek isolation. I’d say the only one of us worse is Crosshair.”

The sniper in question growls, plucking the toothpick he holds in his mouth to flick at his brother.

Standing to your feet and ignoring your aching core, you smile.

“I can go check on him,” you offer. “I think I could use the fresh air, anyway. But don’t stop having fun on our account, okay?”

You flash Wrecker a smile as you head to the door, and he obliges you with a laugh.

“We won’t! Trust me!”

With a final wave goodbye, you head out into the night. The chill in the deep forest does wonders to calm you, though the heat nagging in your stomach does not entirely abate. Gently, you reach out into the Force, finding Hunter’s signature with ease. You meander along the trail he left, taking your time in hopes of giving him whatever space he seeks. You have no interest in troubling him; just ensuring that he doesn’t have something else on his mind that he’s reluctant to reveal.

Though maybe you’re just projecting, you think bitterly to yourself.

You emerge into a beautiful clearing, more picturesque than any holo you’d ever seen in the Temple. A lake expands over the horizon, waves rippling and glittering in the light of the moons above. From the treeline to the lakebed, a myriad of wildflowers dance on the breeze.

It all looks so perfect, leading a very sour Hunter to stand out more than you ever thought possible.

Your sergeant leans against a tree trunk, body tense as he spins his vibroblade around and around in his hand. When you approach him, he stiffens, despite his best efforts to appear casual.

“Hey,” you smile, voice soft to match the quiet of the night. “I thought you might want some company.”

Hunter manages a half smirk, tilting his head to acknowledge you wordlessly. With every step closer to him, you feel his heart rate spike in the Force. What is going on with him?

“I just figured I should check in on you. You seem really tense these past few days…” you note. 

Only when you look up at him, finding him awkwardly avoiding your gaze, do you realize you’d come to a stop far closer to him than you intended to. The nearness you share does little to quell the heat throbbing inside of you, but you stifle it down as best you can.

Hunter struggles for a moment, lips parting and closing as he searches for what to say. After a long silence, he sighs, meeting your gaze at last.

“It, er… it’s you,” he confesses.

Worried, you tilt your head.

“What about me?” you ask. “Did I do something?”

Your ignorance of the matter seems to work Hunter up even further. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, awkwardly tapping the armor on his thigh to shake off his nerves. You can’t say you’ve ever seen him so out of his element.

“I… know what you’ve been going through these past few days,” he explains. He gestures awkwardly up and down your body. “I can sense it. It’s, well…” He huffs. “...distracting.”

You think for a moment, still unsure of what he means. But something in the way his eyes find yours conveys exactly what he’s trying to say.

He knows about the way you’ve been feeling lately. He knows…

Immediately, your face burns. Your eyes fall to the ground, and shame rises in your throat. You think about just how many hours you’ve spent these past few days, thinking the filthiest thoughts and riling yourself up without any hope of reprieve—and knowing now that Hunter could sense every second of it…

“...oh,” you breathe, quiet as a mouse droid.

You meekly catch Hunter’s gaze one more time, but the grimace he wears drives your eyes away immediately. Stars, you just want to run and hide… How could you have been so stupid? Hunter can sense a disturbance entire klicks away; you really thought he couldn’t smell your desperation?

A million thoughts race through your mind—a million different ways to apologize. Should you apologize? What if that just makes the situation even more awkward? Maybe you should forget you ever asked, but you don’t want him to think you don’t care about his feelings…

Before you can fully spiral into hypotheticals, you hear a sharp sigh from Hunter’s lips. Your eyes land on him again. His eyes are shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Do you… need… help?”

If your heart had been racing before, it’s jumped to lightspeed now. 

“...what?” you ask.

“Look,” Hunter grunts, “until you’re… taken care of… I won’t be able to focus. I’ve barely gotten any sleep these past nights; it’s… overwhelming.”

He tucks away his vibroblade, the hilt snapping against the sheathe with a satisfying click. When he takes a step closer, now looming over you, the need deep within you flares like a star. Judging by the way his body tenses—how his hands ball into tight fists—you know he can tell. 

He raises a shaky hand, setting it on your cheek. His touch burns on your skin. You want nothing more than for him to ignite you.

“Do you want me to take care of you?” he growls.

His gaze has you paralyzed. You fear to even breathe, worrying that the wrong move might shatter this illusion and leave you embarrassed and alone. But you know he would never do such a thing. You trust Hunter with your life… how could you not trust him with this?

Besides—judging by the way he stares at you, hunger in his piercing eyes, you suspect he has a need all of his own.

You nod, and before you can breathe, his lips are on yours.

Hunter’s rough hands explore your body, not at all timid in their desires. They tug at your shirt as his tongue presses against your lips, and you readily grant both of his wishes. His tongue toys with yours while his hands grope at your chest, drawing a pathetic whimper from your lips. So little of his attention already has your head reeling, drowning in delight. The need in your core overwhelms you now, and it seems to spur him on, all the same.

Abruptly, Hunter spins you around, pressing your back against the firm tree trunk. He deftly strips you of your top, tossing it into the dirt. You didn’t care—couldn’t care. You were far more concerned with working his thigh between your legs, desperate for something to relieve the agonizing tension there. Hunter comes to your aid, pressing his thigh against you before he moves his lips to your chest.

Whining his name, you grind your hips against his leg, over and over with no will to stop yourself. When Hunter’s teeth clasp onto your nipple, you gasp, biting your lip to cope with the sensation. He’s quick to release you, though, instead sucking you into his mouth as his hand gropes the other side of your chest.

When he’s had his fill, he pulls away, treating you to another hungry kiss—one that soon parts from your lips and trails down your frame. You stare in awe as he kisses along your sternum, your stomach, before reaching the waistband of your pants and settling onto his knees. With little regard, he tugs your pants down. You help by hurriedly kicking them off, unwilling to waste a moment when the release you crave is so near.

Standing above Hunter in nothing but your panties leaves you vulnerable in a way you’ve never known. But that vulnerability only worsens the throbbing tension inside you. Your body begs you to give in to him, and the overwhelming pleasure mounting in your stomach has you in no mood to disobey.

Hunter’s piercing gaze hangs on you for a moment, before moving to your still-clothed cunt. Your face burns; by now, your panties are completely soaked through, and you have no doubt he can tell. He wraps his hands around your thighs, gently prying them open. When he presses his face between your legs, his mouth and nose just barely putting pressure against your sex, you nearly pass out.

“H-Hunter…” you whimper.

Wordlessly, he breathes you in. Overwhelmed by your desperation, his eyes flutter shut, a ragged exhale crossing his lips.

“Fuck… you’re driving me crazy,” he growls.

Roughly, he hikes one of your thighs onto his shoulder. Before you can even hope to react, he pushes your drenched panties aside and presses himself against your cunt.

Shockwaves rout your entire body, pulsing from your core to your every extremity. Your hands find Hunter’s hair, tugging at his dark locks. He doesn’t mind—that is, if he notices at all. He attends to your aching cunt with unmatched discipline, drinking from you as though you were water after a thousand parched days beneath the Tatooine suns. His lips close around your clit, suckling at it, all the while swirling over it with his tongue.

He laps at you so hungrily that you can barely utter a sound, your whole body tense with the way he works you. Your every mewl catches in your throat, strangled into a breathless whimper. Still, you need more of him, tugging at his scalp and rutting your hips into his face.

“Hunter…!” you gasp. When he groans against you, the vibration sends a shiver up your spine. “Please… I-I need more… please, Hunter…!”

Hunter’s eyes flash up to meet yours. His pupils are blown wide, focused fully on you. Reluctantly, he pries his lips off of you, though not without a parting mark on the soft flesh of your thigh. He wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand before standing up once more. At his full height now, you quickly recall just how imposing his stature is—and just how badly you wish to experience it.

Supporting your neck with his gloved hand, he leans over you, kissing you deeply. You love the taste of yourself on his lips, tongue toying with his in need of more. When he pulls away, he lingers by your ear.

“Turn around,” he demands.

You swallow hard, nodding and obeying. Once you face away from him, he places his palm between your shoulder blades, pressing your top half against the tree while your hips remain close to him. Carelessly, he slips your panties down your legs, exposing you fully to the cold night air. A low rumble reverberates in his chest as he looks you over; you can practically feel the burn of his eyes on your skin, trailing over every inch of your needy body as you present yourself to him.

He grasps your hip firmly, and with his free hand trails his fingers along your cunt. You gasp, body reacting fiercely to even so light a touch.

“Kriff… you’re so wet,” he remarks, his low voice doing little to help matters. “Have you been like this all week?”

You nod, desperation written on your features.

“Mm-hm,” you murmur. “Please, Hunter… I-I need you.”

He smacks your ass, earning a startled moan from you. Taking a step back, he quickly shuffles off his gear and his blacks, with you watching him over your shoulder all the while. When his cock is finally free of his pants, you nearly drool. He’s already so achingly hard… your cunt clenches around nothing, hopeless at the need to be filled by him.

When he spots you staring, an awful smirk forms on his lips. He closes the distance between you, leaning over you and pressing his chest to your back. You arch against him, hips grinding against his with overwhelming need. Stopping briefly to mark your neck, Hunter’s lips settle at your ear.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he growls.

You mewl, utterly and hopelessly his. “Please…”

With one last kiss on your shoulder, Hunter lines himself up with your slick entrance. When he pushes into your aching cunt, your eyes light with stars.

His hips persist, splitting you open until he’s buried to the hilt. His hard cock twitches inside of you, hitting that sweet spot deep inside. When you flex around him, he hisses through his teeth.

“Fuck, your little cunt is so tight,” he rasps. “I don’t think you’re ever gonna let go of me…”

Hunter’s thick cock overfills and overwhelms you, straining your walls to their limit as he thrusts deeper into you. His hands keep your hips in a vice grip, not allowing you to challenge his excruciatingly slow pace. He bottoms out inside of you, then pulls out, dragging himself along your walls. When he’s finally free of you, he repeats the process, sheathing himself again. Your wetness engulfs his every thrust, with more than enough to spill down your thighs as he tortures you.

“Hunter!” you beg, voice wavering as he strikes deep inside you again. “Please, go faster…!”

Breathless, Hunter chuckles.

“What, you want more?” he purrs through a smirk. He smacks your ass again, and you cry out. “You want me to fill up this needy little cunt?”

Before you can answer, his hips collide with yours, reducing your words to a moan.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes! F-Fill me up,” you beg. “Fuck… I’m gonna lose my mind…!”

“Heh… now you know how I feel,” he mutters. As he picks up his pace, he groans, biting into the tender flesh on your shoulder. “Ah, kriff… I just might lose my mind, anyway.”

Hunter pounds into you, sending you spiraling with every relentless thrust. Though you had begged for him to take you harder, faster, you feel thoroughly unprepared for the way he fucks you. With how close you’ve grown to him, you find it easy to forget sometimes that he isn’t just a man. He’s a soldier—a supersoldier—and you’ve never been more aware of that than right now.

Hunter leans in close to your ear, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“You’re being a bad girl,” he growls. “A Jedi getting fucked by a clone? What would the Council say?”

To your utmost surprise, your face burns like a starship engine. You bite back a whimper, though the way you squeeze around Hunter’s cock does not go unnoticed. Through shaky breaths, he chuckles.

“You like that?” he asks, half inquiring and half observing.

Biting your lip, you nod. “Mm-hm…”

He interrupts his pace with a pointedly rough thrust, forcing a mewl from your lips. One of his hands moves from your hips to your throat, pulling you into him and trapping your back against his chest. You feel so defenseless, so exposed… you can’t say which has your head lighter: the way his fingers put the faintest pressure on your neck, or the shame of your actions. You suppose it doesn’t matter which—both are merely driving you higher and higher.

“Maybe we should call them,” Hunter continues, “let them watch their perfect little Knight getting fucked like a whore on Daiyu.”

Your eyes shoot wide. If he merely hopes to rile you up with such a statement, he succeeds.

“N-No!” you utter, emphatically shaking your head. You hear Hunter’s breathy laughter behind you before he picks up his already breakneck pace, his body smacking against yours so forcefully that the skin on your thighs and ass begins to sting.

“I think you’re right,” he grunts, his labored breath tickling your ear. “I think I’ll keep you all to myself.”

At that moment, you want nothing more. Your eyes are rolling back in your head, mouth agape as the tension mounts inside of you.

“You belong to me,” he growls. “You belong to this cock.”

You can barely form a lucid thought, so very close to reaching euphoria.

“Yes!” you whine. “Yes, Hunter!”

As he forces you over your peak, your vision goes white. Your orgasm thrashes through your body, tearing a moan from your lips. Your cunt shudders around his cock, overflowing with wetness and burning up inside. He reaches deeper inside of you than he ever could before, striking your sweet spot again and again, drawing your ecstasy out to a maddening duration.

“Fuck,” Hunter groans. “Fuck me, you’re so fucking tight!”

Try as you might to call his name, you can only babble, rendered absolutely cock-dumb by the man fucking you. By now, your entire body is covered in a slick of sweat and flush with heat. You struggle to stand, quivering legs barely able to hold your weight. From the way his body trembles around you, Hunter isn’t faring much better. But evidently, he still hasn’t had his fill of you.

Hunter doesn’t let up, thrusting fervently into your abused, throbbing cunt. Your eyes begin to well with tears, head swimming with arousal far too much to bear. Your head lolls back, cheek pressing against Hunter’s. Despite the way he fucks you within an inch of your life, his hand moves from your neck to your face, gently cradling you as he dots a kiss on your lips.

“Think you’ve got one more in you?” he rasps, pressing a lazy kiss on your ear.

Though you hesitate, you eventually answer with a weary nod. With a loud moan, Hunter sinks his fingers into your hip so hard you fear your skin might bruise. The hand he holds on your face slips down between your legs, drawing tight circles around your swollen clit.

“Come on my cock, beautiful,” he breathes. “Come on my cock one more time, and I’ll fill this pretty pussy up with cum.”

Though you can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears, his words push you over the edge. With the only pathetic whimper your hoarse throat can manage, you come once more, cunt spasming around Hunter’s length.

Thankfully, Hunter isn’t far behind you this time. Just as he promised, when you finish around him, he spills his hot cum inside of you, filling you so much that it quickly begins to seep from between your legs. He keeps his length inside of you, managing one or two more thrusts before he begins to soften.

The only sounds you hear now are the two of you gasping for air and the gentle lap of the lake against the shore. As all your adrenaline subsides, your legs threaten to give out underneath you. But before you can topple over, Hunter catches you, holding you around your waist.

“Easy there,” he warns, a chuckle buried in his words. You look up at him, finding a flustered smile on his lips—every sign of that dirty-talking casanova gone from his eyes. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he asks, “Are you… feeling better?”

You narrow your eyes at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you really asking me that?” you smirk. Though it’s hard to see through his tanned skin, you swear Hunter’s cheeks darken. “Yes. I’m feeling much better… thanks to you.”

Hunter grins, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“Yeah… I’m feeling better, too,” he sighs. “Sorry for being short with you before.”

“Sorry for driving you up a wall all week,” you giggle.

Hunter smirks. Gently, he lifts you up in his embrace, tucking one arm under your legs and the other under your back. When you meet his eyes, he tilts his head towards the beautiful lake illuminated in the moonlight.

“Why don’t we wash up?” he suggests. 

With a heavy sigh of contentment, you nod. “That sounds wonderful.”

As Hunter carries you to the water, you smile softly, closing your eyes and resting your head on his chest.

“By the way… I think we need to have a discussion about your language, Sergeant,” you tease him.

He chuckles, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“I’ve been reprimanded for worse,” he shrugs.

AN: im 3/3 hunter smut i dont think i should ever write a normal fic for him at this point. Anyway i hope u liked and/or it sated your demonic possession as well!!! ✨✨ (also im literally not doing my usual 'taglist' for this one cuz im so GD embarrassed sHGHGHS)

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

“There are few things on film as vulnerable as Lee Pace drinking and weeping as he confesses his guilt, his hurt, and his grief to tiny, crying Catinca Untaru, who believed during filming, that Pace, like his character, could not walk. It’s not important to the climax of the film, but it underscores the relationship they have on film: naive, plain, exploratory. Singh asked Untaru to help shape the stories, and the fantastical sequences sometimes have a child’s endearing disregard for logic. But the end, when Roy comes undone, realizing what he’s implicated this little girl in, and realizing that he feels worse about that than he thought he could feel—this is the story of someone who understands guilt and pain and the bad choices we make while in their thrall, and the way we need to be forgiven, or accepted. The way we need enough space and enough love to let us fuck up and keep going. All of this, and I’ve said so little about Singh’s imagery: blood-red, sky-blue, saturated and full of butterflies and growling soldiers and places that seem solid enough in the real world until you line them up one after another, at which point they become a dream, a single land of everything beautiful. Everything still hurts in that beautiful land; everyone is betrayed, left alone, haunted, shouting his (alas, all his) pain into the sky. Everyone dies because Roy wants to die; Roy lives because Alexandria insists that his story is not the only story.”

— Ten Years Later, There’s Still Nothing Like Tarsem Singh’s The Fall by Molly Templeton

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

Saul Steinberg, Country Noises.

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

hi as I loved your previous fic! Could you please write this imagine please?

Haldir survives from helms deep but he wakes up not believing your his wife.

Angst to happy ending of ig you could thank you - 🌙

Hi Nonnie! I'm so glad you enjoyed the previous fic! I hope you enjoy this one:

“Where is he?” Your words were demanding as you entered the medical wing, tone laced with fear as you saw many before you being informed about their loved ones' deaths. 

“Haldir, the marchwarden of Lorien, a Silvan elf-” You began to describe to the nearest member of staff when you couldn’t instantly find him. Panic seized you in a vice grip as you fought to keep yourself level-headed. 

“He’s in here,” A nurse called out to you, pausing you before you could barge into his room to make sure - with your own two eyes- that he was okay. 

“He’s been injured, and while he is stable there is something you need to know.” 

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you waited for them to finish their sentence, eyes wide as they continued to talk after you didn’t respond. 

“He seems to have memory loss, we can’t explain it, and we don’t know if it will return.” 

“O…Okay,” You didn’t know how to process the information, simply nodding and biting at your lip. 

“May I go in?” You asked, looking between them and the door that had your beloved husband behind it. 

“Don’t rile him up too much,” They advised before nodding toward the door, a smile grin on their face. 

“Thank you,” fell past your lips in a whisper as you approached the door, gently knocking before entering. 

“Are you another doctor?” Haldir asked, looking too out of place in the room before him. The bed was almost too small and never before had you seen him look so confused. 

“No, not a doctor,” You stammered, unsure of what to say. “I’m… Well..” 

Haldir looked at you quizically, head tilting to the side. “You aren’t family, I know that,” He could recall all of his family members, even the children, and you weren’t amongst the many faces that come to mind. 

But you were so oddly familiar, the urge to reach out to you was one that was hard to deny but he managed nonetheless. You were a stranger. 

“I’m not family, no,” You shook your head, the hurt of saying so stinging deep in your chest. He once joked that you were his found family. And now? Nothing. 

“I’m your wife,” You finally said, carefully watching his expression. Horror filled your veins as his eyes narrowed, a frown etching onto his face. 

“Did one of my brothers set you up to this? Orophin?” He spoke harshly as he gripped the sheets. 

“No, no one set me up to anything, much less Orophin!” You replied, stepping forward. 

“I am your wife, we’ve been together for decades now, I just…” You halted in your explanation as he simply stared at you now. 

“I just wanted to make sure that you were okay.” You finally said, your voice barely above a whisper as you took a step back to grab at the door handle. 

“I’ll see myself out,” You murmured, not waiting for a reply as you shut the door behind you, and once the latch clicked you began to weep, covering your mouth to muffle your sobs as you hurried out of the medical wing.

Despite the interaction you had with your husband, you didn’t truly stay away. You came by every day to chat with his nurse to ensure he was steadily making progress. And each day, your heart began to fill with hope. 

“He’s walking around today,” The nurse spoke as soon as they saw you approach. 

“Not talking much, though,” They had a look of curiosity on their face. “Is he usually talkative?” 

“Not really, no,” A small smile took place on your face as you recalled most of the times where you did the talking and he did the listening. 

“He’s more of a listener,” You nodded to yourself before looking back to them. “Do you think he will be able to come home soon?” 

“He is healing quite well from when he first arrived, so I would say yes, but..”

“His memory loss,” You finished their sentence, a sad smile taking over your face. “I figured that would be one of the biggest obstacles, but I have arranged for him to stay with his brothers, since to him I’m still a stranger.” 

“I believe that would be just fine, then, for us to discharge him.” The nurse nodded at you, a grin on their face. “He will probably begin to heal better, maybe regain his memories upon returning home.” 

“I hope so…” Your voice drifted off as Haldir came down the hallway with a different nurse, recognition briefly sparking in his eyes before his eyes settled back into a narrowed glare like the one you received so many weeks ago. 

“What are you doing here?” He was quick to ask, still enraged by the idea that his brothers set up a whole prank while he was in the hospital struggling to recover. 

“Arranging for you to go home, Haldir,” You did your best to ignore the bite in his tone, but you couldn’t deny the way your heart fluttered as his expression shifted into one of excitement. 

To others, it wasn’t much, a simple arch of the brow but you saw the way the corners of his lips twitched upward, the way his eyes sparkled just a little brighter at the mention of home. 

“When am I leaving?” His question was directed to the nurse, and that truly did sting. The fact that he didn’t even consider leaving with you, despite sharing a bed each and every night for who knows how many moons-

“That I believe is up to her,” The nurse nodded to you and suddenly your throat felt dry as Haldir looked at you with suspicion. 

“Whenever he’s ready,” You managed to get out as the nurse looked at you with a mixture of sympathy and pity. 

-

It took ten days to journey from the medical wing of Helm’s Deep to the forest edge of Lothlorien, the deep green being a pleasant sight as the two of you approached the woodland. 

“Welcome home,” You murmured, still struggling to get used to the icy demeanor of your beloved as you two entered the kingdom, guards recognizing the two of you instantly. 

“Haldir!” Orophin yelled first out of the two brothers, Rúmil making a quick secondary yell of recognition as the two approached. 

“Thank Valar you’re okay!” Rúmil exclaimed, hugging onto his brother before reaching out and hugging tight onto you. “And you as well!” 

Laughing at his enthusiasm, you nodded, “We both made it in one piece.” 

“Come, we’ve prepared a feast,” Orophin encouraged the two of you to follow him, but his expression shifted into confusion as you shook your head. 

“I think I’m going to head to bed, actually, or a bath…” 

“You don’t want to celebrate your husband's health?” Orophin meant to be teasing, but the sadness in your eyes said it all before Haldir verbalized his sentiment. 

“That’s not my wife.” 

“What’re you talking about, Haldir?” Rúmil spoke this time, turning to his brother in confusion.

“She’s not my wife, now would you two please stop this nonsense?” 

“I think a bed sounds rather nice,” You spoke, trying to keep your tears at bay as you nodded to the two brothers. “Take good care of him, please.”

“You two have been married for-”

“Decades.” Orophin piped in, interrupting Rúmil. “I don’t know what nonsense you are talking about but the minute she found out you were hurt at Helm’s Deep she journeyed-”

“Alone!”

“Alone! - Thank you,  to ensure your safety and wellbeing.” Orophin scolded, “And you’ve been a royal arse to her this entire time, haven’t you?” 

Haldir at least had the decency to look guilty as Rúmil shook his head. 

“Go apologize.” 

It was as if Haldir’s feet knew where to go, despite his brain having no recollection of the destination he was heading towards. Passing by people who he had little to no recollection of, suddenly he was in front of a door. 

Knocking gently, he frowned when he received no response, ear pressing against the door, his brow furrowed when he realized there was no one inside. 

Opening it, suddenly he was immersed in memory. 

The smell of lavender and eucalyptus was strong, a tincture you made to go on the sheets and pillows to ensure the two of you slept well. The bow you crafted him during your early stages of courting still hung up on his side of the bedroom, a small portrait sketch of the two of you pinned above his desk where he could tell he spent much time doing reports. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked, having left your room momentarily to ensure the baths were empty. You were more than ready to wash off the dirt and grime you accumulated over the journey. 

“Melwa verī (Lovely wife),” Haldir began, turning to look at you with wide eyes. 

“Haldir,” You began, tears pooling in your eyes. “Please stop it,” You whimpered as his own began to fill with tears. 

“I will not, verī,” He shook his head and began to approach you to which you raised your arm out to put distance in between the two of you. 

“I remember,” Haldir spoke and that was what broke you into sobs, just like the day he said he didn’t know who you were. Jerking forward to catch you before you fell to the ground in your hysterics, Haldir pulled you to your chest. 

“I’m here, I’m here, Melwa,” He pressed kisses to your temples as you gripped onto him like a hole was going to emerge and swallow him up whole and take him from you. 

“You remember?”

“I do, and I am so sorry for everything I have put you through.” 

Your sobs were one of relief as you held onto him, something you’ve yearned to do since you walked in and saw him on that medical bed. 

“I remember now,” He whispered into your hairline as another act of reassurance before tilting your head up and pressing a kiss to your lips to which you returned, eager to show all of the emotions you’ve been burying for so many weeks for his sake. 

Tags:

Tags in Bold mean that Tumblr will not let me tag you, please check your blog visibility setting! If you don’t have your blog visible, Tumblr doesn’t allow people to tag you.

Forever Tag- @lady-of-lies @all-things-fandomstuck @fizzyxcustard @izzydaelleth @aquaangel18 @raindancer2004 @love-colorfulglittercollection @ladylouoflothlorien @ten-tenya-iida @legolaslovely @bthtallmadge2 @abesottedlass @wilhelmyna @tigereyesf @aspookybunny @keijibum @moony-artnstuff @sirkekselord @guardianofrivendell @fluffymadamina @izbelross @fandomhoe101 @acahope311 @kitkatd7 @mooseetx @themerriweathermage @elvish-sky @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @laurfilijames @frequentlychangingfandoms @cameronsails @linasofia @starryeyedrogue @shethereadinghobbit @beenovel @onlystarshere @fckmini @spidergirla5 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @myselfandfantasy @strange-old-worlds @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @broken-ghost @mbruben-stein

The Elves-

@eunoiaastralwings

Haldir- @moony-artnstuff @iwenttomordor

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

The Marchwarden and the Princess

ʚ Pairing: Haldir x Fem. reader

ʚ Word Count : 2187 words

ʚ Summary: You are a elven princess from Mirkwood, currently spending some time with friends in Lothlorien. Haldir, harbouring a secret, comes upon you while on a walk.

ʚ Themes: Soft | Fluff

ʚ Warnings: Kissing | Haldir being a jealous little bean 

ʚ Translations : 

Naneth: Mother

Adar: Father 

Keep reading

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

When he sees your scars~ Xavier Thorpe x Reader

—————————————————————

TW - Self harm

Gender neutral reader (pronouns not specified)

Established relationship

In no way am I romanticizing self harm, suicidal ideation, or mental illnesses, this is a way for me to cope w my problems

⚠️I do not support Percy Hynes White and no longer am I writing for Xavier Thorpe. I’m so disgusted about what he’s done, this is disappointing. That said - I am keeping my Xavier Thorpe fics on my page because I put hard work in my writing and I really don’t want to delete it all. I hope you all understand.⚠️

—————————————————————

It had been a stressful past few weeks

It was test, upon test, upon test - not to mention there was also homework and extra curricular activities

You were raised as the star gifted kid, so no matter what, you had to keep your grades up and be on top of everything

This resulted in unhealthy habits

Little to no sleep, reducing basic hygiene, neglecting food and water, pushing away friends..

And unfortunately, self harm

It was a stress reliever - and a punishment at times

No one knew you did it - you always managed to hide it under your blazer or leggings

This time was no different - you went through the school day in a long sleeved button up and dark tights despite it being the middle of summer

Once the school day ended, you found yourself having time to relax for once

Xavier took the opportunity to invite you to paint in his shed with him

You couldn’t deny the request - especially since you missed your significant other. So there you were, dressed in a casual T-shirt and shorts on your way to your boyfriend’s art shed

He immediately greeted you with a hug once you arrived

He already had two canvases set up side by side, a stool in front of each of them as a supply of paint and brushes sat in the middle

Xavier put on some music as the two of you began to paint away, talking about whatever came to mind and occasionally singing along to the songs that played in the background

As you were humming a song while painting, Xavier glanced over at you to see what you were painting

However, he halted when he noticed the scars on your body - and they were obviously recent

Xavier was unsure on how to react, he just sat still as he heavily gulped

When did you do that? Why did you do that? Had you been struggling this entire time and he hadn’t noticed? Were you not comfortable enough to talk about your problems with him?

So many questions swirled in his mind as he couldn’t help but stare

“Hey, Xavi. Which color do you think-”

You cut yourself off when you noticed him staring at you with a troubled look on his face

You looked down, following his gaze - and that’s when you realized

Oh

“Xavier, I’m s-”

He pulled you into a hug, almost knocking you off your stool in the process

You hugged him back, confused but not saying anything

As you sat in each other’s embrace, you noticed his body shaking and his breath quivering

“How long?”

“Huh?”

“How long have…you been doing that?”

Xavier’s voice was shaking, as if he was holding back tears

You hesitated, letting out a sigh

“Well..I hadn’t done it for a while but I had relapsed a few weeks ago”

Xavier pulled back from the hug, placing one of his hands on your shoulder as the other caressed your face.

His touch was go gentle, as if he was worried you were going to disappear or crack at any second

His gaze was worried - terrified, even - and filled with tears that he was obviously trying to hold in.

“W-why? Is it a-anything I could help with? I don’t want to lose you, you mean so much to me..”

Xavier’s voice was small, cracking and stuttering every so often as the tears finally rolled down his face

You felt so guilty, knowing this was one of the reasons you hid your problems from everyone. You hated confrontation and you hated worrying people

You avoided eye contact, feeling your emotions begin to build up inside of you

“I’m sorry..I’ve just been really stressed lately and it’s been by go-to. I didn’t want to bother you or anyone else with my problems, so..”

You trailed off, feeling the tears begin to build as your breath began to stagger

Xavier pulled you into - yet another - hug, one of his hands gently rubbing your back while the other gently rested on the back of your head

“Oh, baby. You could never bother me with your problems. I love you so, so much and I know I can’t solve your problems, but I want to help you with them the best I can. I just..I don’t want to lose you or have you suffer alone”

You felt yourself begin to cry as Xavier spoke. You never had much validation for your mental health, figuring that your academic performances were more important. You genuinely felt supported and heard, which was more than enough to cause your emotions to finally tip over

Xavier held you as you cried, whispering sweet nothings and occasionally placing kisses on your cheek or head

You - somehow - ended up falling asleep in Xavier’s embrace, the fatigue catching up to you

Xavier carried you to a corner of the shed, gently placing you down on some of the bean bags and pillows

Yes, I’m convinced he has a corner in the shed that has bean bags, pillows, and blankets for whenever he wants to chill in his shed overnight or if you two wanna get away from others

He tucked you in, placing a blanket over you, before beginning to walk away

To his surprise, you grabbed the fabric of his pants (Since you’re laying down, his pants are the highest you can reach)

He turned around, seeing you sleepily and sadly looking up at him

“Don’t go”

His heart immediately ached at the sight. You were so vulnerable and tired, it was adorable yet sad

Xavier immediately snuggled under the blanket with you, gently holding you close to him as he occasionally placed kisses on the top of your head

You both fell asleep not too long afterwards <3

—————————————————————

If you’re struggling with depression, anxiety, or some sort of mental illness, it’s alright to experience that and your feelings are valid. Please seek out help, it’ll be worth it in the future - even if it doesn’t seem like it right now. Someone out there loves you. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it ❤️

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

Masterlist

Next Gen

Teddy Lupin

Sick (Gender-Neutral!Reader) (SHORT)

Knights In Shining Armor (Gender-Neutral!Reader) (SHORT)

•••

Golden Trio Era

George Weasley

Old Memories (Fem!Reader) (MEDIUM/LONG)

•••

Marauders’ Era

Regulus Black

That’s Not How Promise Rings Work (Fem!Reader) (LONG)

Like We Used To (Deaf!Regulus X Deaf!Gender-Neutral!Reader) (SHORT)

•••

Remus Lupin

A Fish Doodle and Chap Stick (Deaf!Fem!Reader) (LONG)

•••

Sirius Black

Not An Auror (fem!reader) (MEDIUM)

Radio Dating (Muggle!Gender-Neutral!Reader) (MEDIUM)

Won’t Go Without You (Blind!Fem!Reader) (LONG)

•••

Severus Snape

Potions Homework (Hufflepuff!Fem!Reader) (MEDIUM)

•••

Marvel Imagines

Requests Are Open (I don’t write smut, please ask someone else for that)

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

You are not a burden

pairing: matt murdock x f!reader

words: 2306

warnings: Hard of Hearing character (based on my own experiences as a HoH person), fluffy fluff, jokes about using the “disability” card, other lighthearted Blind and HoH jokes, this also comes from an AU my bestie and i made where Criminal Minds is lowkey in the same universe we’re interns with the BAU and she is with reid and im with matt oops maybe we’ll share more idk, vulnerability from the author (ew), matt being the absolute king he is

a/n: in which the author, me, finally writes a self indulgent piece. i had a really hard time deciding which perspective to write this in but i decided to keep it in first person because this is in fact something i wrote for myself. there’s no use of names so feel free to change the POV in your head. but i wrote this about my own experiences and it’s really a love letter to matt murdock. i fell in love with Daredevil because, for the first time, i saw a character who didn’t let their disability be a burden. it gave him his strength. that’s something i didn’t grow up with. so here is me being open about my own path and in a way, showing you just how i see matt. thanks DD for reminding me i’m not a burden and that you can joke and live with it instead of hiding it away and denying help. but also, sir you gotta listen to your own advice.

•-•

My morning routine was quite simple…

Roll out of bed at 7am, threatening to throw the phone at the wall for waking me up at such a god awful time

Make my way to the kitchen where the much needed caffeine found itself

Start the espresso machine. Usually, I chose one shot, but today, even three wouldn't be enough.

Eat whatever I can find in the pantry because I most likely haven't gotten groceries in over a week (praying I refilled the bagel assortment).

Make my coffee; two shots of espresso, half and half, vanilla flavoring and a pinch of cinnamon.

Get dressed for work; Business attire was required however the boss never minds the occasional jeans with a cardigan combo.

This routine lasted a good bit and always left me ready to leave for work by 8:15am. However mornings with Matt never let me be punctual. This altered my morning routine just a tad bit.

Roll out of bed at 7:25 after finally ripping myself out of Matt’s arms.

Make my way to the kitchen, leading the blind to where the caffeine is (it’s much needed with the fact that we didn't get much sleep).

Start my espresso machine. Prepare to make two cups.

Attempt to impress my boyfriend by making a nice breakfast with eggs, bacon and bagels (never ends up having two of those options so we decide on everything bagels).

Get tangled up in Matt’s arms as we drink the coffee I made us (little does Matt know he always drinks out of a mug I got him that says “Handsome Devil”. It’s my secret).

Get dressed for work; decide on wearing a nice silk blouse with the pencil skirt because it’s Matt’s favorite material and he always has the cutest reaction to it “Silk? Good choice, you should wear silk more often. It's as close to your soft skin as it gets” and usually ends with him embracing me once more so I can't escape.

This morning was no different in the sense that it was 8:15 and I still found myself in the embrace of my boyfriend. His head was nuzzled in the crease of my neck, his favorite place as it allowed him to feel and hear my heartbeat more clearly, arms wrapped lazily around my waist. I had one hand on his back and the other in his hair as we slightly swayed back and forth.

“I hate when you have to leave while I’m here.” He mumbled in my neck.

“I know. I’m sorry, love. But it’s the same when I’m at your place. I don’t want to leave either.”

“You don’t have to, you know?”

“Have you met my boss?” I questioned, ruffling his hair a bit as I pulled away, intending to grab my bag. He gets what I’m trying to do and pulls me back in, this time my head is against his chest.

“I have and he loves me. Just tell him you have a meeting with your lawyer and it's important because he's only in Quantico once a month.”

“Pfft, who also happens to be my boyfriend. I’m pretty sure there’s something called a Conflict of Interest? Technically Foggy is my lawyer and I don’t see him here.” I pulled back again, kissing him in reassurance.

“Fine, leave me then. What else is there for me, a sad blind man, to do while his girlfriend is gone?” He placed a hand over his chest and pouted his lips. The pity party was amusing.

“Not the blind card. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Tell them I needed assistance making my way around town. I’ll sue them for denying me accessibility.”

“Smart choice, sue the FBI.”

“I’m a lawyer, sweetheart. I can win.”

“You're also the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and using the blind card will only get you so far. I work with profilers for a living, let’s not draw too much attention to that.”

“I’m not the only one who uses a disability card! What happened when you were in New York and you told Foggy I was too busy helping the Deaf to go in for work? I don’t think it’s fair.”

“Okay I didn’t say Deaf…”

“But you did say, “basically deaf when I don't wear my hearing aids'' which you were going to leave without them anyways.” He shrugs, a small bit of disappointment lingers in his voice and the tone changes in the room.

This back and forth was typical in our relationship. I lead the blind and he leads the Hard of Hearing. What a pair we make. I lost 40% of my hearing when I was a baby so I subconsciously adapted and made up for the sounds I couldn’t hear. The same way that when Matt became blind, he learned to use his other senses to make up for his sight so much that he can be more productive as a human being than someone with 20/20 vision. When I wear my hearing aids, it's almost as if I gained back 30% of my hearing. The problem however, I never used to wear them as a kid. I would take them out the second I got on the bus and would refuse any accommodations. I wanted to be normal. This created a horrible habit or lack of when it came to wearing them. It wasn’t until I met Matthew that I started embracing my impairment, but it didn’t mean old habits disappeared.

With a heavy sigh, I walked back to my room where my hearing aids sat. They were obviously charged as they haven't been taken off the charger in a month since the last time Matt was here. Taking them out of the charging pod, I placed them into my ears and tried to hide the grimace of discomfort shown on my face. The problem with not wearing your hearing aids often means when you do, the foreign object does nothing but give you discomfort.

When the speakers came to life, the world was louder. Now, I could hear the slight drone that layered over the city outside my walls. There were birds outside of the apartment that I didn’t notice normally. It was like the whole city was awake now that I finally mustered the courage to listen to it. It was almost too loud for me. It’s like if you lived your entire life on volume level 2 and all of the sudden it was level 8. It was almost too much to function sometimes because the sounds were overwhelming.

I could hear the wood creaking underneath Matt’s feet as he quietly entered the bedroom. Normally I wouldn’t hear him until he was right up behind me. It's a part of the vigilante boyfriend package. Coming up behind me, he put his hands around my arms and slightly caressed them. He knew what it was like to feel overwhelmed by the sounds around you. He just had more practice controlling it.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Just listen to my voice and take a few deep breaths. You just need to adjust.” It usually took a few minutes before this level of hearing would be comfortable. The discomfort would last about thirty minutes before you forgot they were in your ears.

“God, I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I try to act as if my hearing is not as bad as it really is. But wearing my hearing aids always reminds me just how shitty it is.” I laid my head back on his shoulders, a heavy sigh leaving my chest.

Denial was the easy route. I always took it. When I was younger, I’d refuse Close Captions and sit in the back of the classroom out of spite. I learned to ignore the bullying because theyre the stupid ones cause I’m not deaf, I hear perfectly fine. I hated getting called out of class for speech therapy. I always made sure I had straight A’s in class so teachers wouldn’t give me a second thought. If I wore my hearing aids, I’d style my hair down so they weren't seen. Denial was always the easiest route. Especially when you told yourself others have it worse.

“It’s shitty because it gives you a glimpse of what it could be normally. Sometimes I wish I was born blind so I never had a taste of what I miss now. Every morning when I open my eyes, part of me hopes I’d see the ceiling, or look over and see the sun glistening on your skin, maybe I’d even get to see your smile. It's easy to deny when you tell yourself you're fine. Sure my other senses help me see the world more clearly than most. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t stop me from praying to God I could see the sun rise one more time or see your face when you laugh. Man, I love hearing you laugh.” His arms wrapped around my shoulders and I held onto his forearm, trying to hold back tears. I failed. There it was again.

Others have it worse, who were you to complain.

“Okay well now I feel bad complaining to a blind man” you laughed, wiping a tear. Lighting up the conversation.

“You never have to feel bad. Your struggles are real struggles. It doesn’t need to be a certain level of extremity to be considered worse. Never compare yourself to anyone else. You always put everyone’s needs in front of yours and you are scared to ask for help or admit your struggling. Never be afraid to let me in and tell me what you're struggling with. I might not be able to take it away from you but I promise to always be there for you just like you always are for me.” I turned around and pulled him back into a hug. He happily accepted it, taking one of the curls from my hair into his hand and coiling it around his finger. An acknowledgement to the fact that he couldn't run his hands through my curly hair when it took me thirty minutes and a handful of gel to tame it for work.

“I love you, Matty.”

“I love you, too.” He kissed my temple and added some space between us. “What time is it?” My watch lit up saying it was 8:45.

“Shit, He is gonna kill me.”

“Again, we’re allowed to pull the disability card” He shrugged. I slightly punched his chest.

“Shut up, Murdock. You don’t have one. It was taken away from you when you became superhuman.”

“I’m not superhuman.”

“Sometimes you spook me out with the things you can do” I began walking back to the main living area.

“Like what?” Matt asked, following behind me.

“Like how you knew I wasn’t wearing my hearing aids without any physical proof.” I argued.

“I couldn't hear the feedback from the speakers when I hugged you earlier. They always make a really high pitch noise when I hug you if you’re wearing them. Your speech is less clear too when you don’t wear them. It’s not that noticeable to a normal ear, but you speak more clearly with them on.”

“Exactly! That’s spooky, that's a frequency only dogs and superhumans can hear.” I said, grabbing my bag once again and throwing it over my shoulders. I laughed off the comment about my speech as it was an insecurity of mine. I knew Matt meant well so it was a chance for me to not hold onto it. With a smirk that never seems to leave his face, Matt closed the space between us again.

“But you love me” he was almost singing the phrase to me. Swinging us back and forth.

“Yes I do, but I also love having a job. I will be back around six, okay? We can go to that Thai place you liked when I get back.” He kissed my forehead before giving me a peck on the lips.

“That sounds amazing. And hey… I don’t want to pressure you or feel like I'm getting onto you. I just know wearing them is a habit you need to create because it will help you not feel as stressed and burnt out all the time. It’s okay to depend on something that helps you feel better. I love you and I always want you to feel comfortable with yourself. You are beautiful. You are smart. You are kind. A disability is not a hindrance. You are not a burden okay? I’m a hypocrite I know. But you deserve the love you give me and everyone around you. I love you. Now go tell your boss about that meeting with your annoying lawyer, okay?”

Crying and laughing was not in my plan for this morning but here I was, wiping off my fresh mascara. I almost called right then and there and told my boss I wasn’t coming in. But tomorrow was my actual day off and i needed to go work and apply the words Matt told me.

“You always know what to say. You’re an angel, Matt.”

“Really? I’ve only heard the exact opposite lately.” His smile somehow got wider. The creases next to his eyes become visible. I didn’t see his eyes most of the time because he hid them behind his own shield.

“I love your eyes. Especially when you smile, Matt. I don't know why you always hide them.” Now his face was just as red as his glasses.

“Come here, sweetheart.” The kiss was so gentle yet so intense. A silent thank you.

“I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll hear you later.”

The time I had with Matt wasn’t much. Between the distance, my job, Matt’s job, Daredevil… We only saw each other once or twice a month. But when we are blessed with moments together, they never fail to make me want more. They remind us just how sacred the little things are. It’s so important to hold onto the people that care for you, don't judge you, and love you for who you really are. It’s those kinds of people that show you how to love yourself.

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

Looking to make some friends here!

Hi! I've been active on this hellsite for God knows how long, but I've never actually made any friends here. I'd like that to change!

If you're interested in becoming friends, then please send me a message! Here's some stuff I'm interested in:

Star wars, star trek, marvel, stranger things, Harry Potter, the umbrella academy, the teenage mutant ninja turtles, the impractical jokers

Jazz & classical music, 70s & 80s prog rock, 90s-00s industrial metal, modern synthwave

(Specific artists are Genesis, Pink Floyd, Dave Brubeck, Nine Inch Nails, Abba, Queen, Foo Fighters, TWRP, Ninja Sex Party)

Big Nintendo fan also!

I study physics, history, English literature and film studies :)

My favourite genre is horror, but my favourite films are Saw, Hellraiser, Dead Poet's Society and Soul

Even if we've got nothing in common, I'd still love to make some friends! RTs are appreciated, thank you for reading & for reaching out! :)

#want to make some friends #interact! hmu! dm me! #star wars #star trek #horror #dead poets society #dark academia #genesis #pink floyd #abba #twrp #twrp band #ninja sex party #tmnt #tua #jazz #dave brubeck #film studies #marvel #marauders #harry potter #fanfiction #text #x reader #headcanons #nine inch nails #trent reznor #foo fighters #dave grohl #the impractical jokers

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

Marvel Cast Masterlist

** = Trigger Warnings

X Teen!Co-Star!Readers

Praise Unheard Of - Jake Gyllenhaal x f!teen!reader: You cry when you hear just how much Jake appreciates you and admires you.

Purple Patches** - Benedict Cumberbatch! f!teen!reader, Tom Holland x f!teen!reader: Benedict and Tom realize that your home life is not so great, to say the least.

You Need Rest** - Tom Hiddleston x f!teen!reader: Tom finds you, broken down from all the stress of school and work.

Knowing Yourself** - Sebastian Stan x f!teen!reader, Anthony Mackie x f!teen!reader: Sebastian and Anthony as well as your other cast members joke about your sexuality, but you don’t find it as funny.

Expectations** - Tom Hiddleston x f!teen!reader: Tom overhears you in a heated discussion with your parents, fighting their unreasonable expectations of you.

Uncomfortable** - Jake Gyllenhaal x f!teen!reader: You open up to Jake about how your boyfriend forced you to do something you’re uncomfortable with, and Jake is not happy about it.

Unreal** - Tom Holland x f!teen!reader: You experience an episode of dissociation and Tom helps you down again.

Sexualization** - Tom Hiddleston x f!teen!reader: An interviewer asks you inappropriate questions and Tom is not having it.

Big Smile** - Tom Hiddleston x f!teen!reader: Tom sees you cry for the first time, when you struggle to deal with the stress of school.

Too Loud - Jake Gyllenhaal x f!teen!reader: Jake discovers that you are not all shy, but actually loud and outgoing.

Swell** - Tom Hiddleston x f!teen!reader:  Tom finds out that you self harm and he does his best to help.

Bullies** - Tom Holland x f!teen!reader: Tom finds out about your bullies.

Brother From Another Mother - Tom Holland x f!teen!reader: You and Tom just have fun.

Action - James McAvoy x f!teen!reader: You get hurt whilst doing an action scene and try to hide it in shame, but James sees right through you.  

Premiere Nerves** - Tom Hiddleston x f!teen!reader: Tom calms you down from a panic attack during the premiere. 

The Legend Of Bepis - James Mcavoy x f!teen!reader: You and James terrify everyone with your horrific inside jokes..

Fat** - Tom Holland x f!teen!reader: Tom discovers your eating disorder. 

Red Lines** - Tom Holland x f!teen!reader, Benedict Cumberbatch x teen!reader: Tom and Ben discover your self harming habit. 

Obsessive** - Tom Holland x f!teen!reader: At a meet n’ greet a fan creeps you the hell out. Tom doesn’t like that.

Reflection** - Tom Hiddleston x f!teen!reader: Tom finds out that you are terribly insecure about your body and does his best to comfort you.

Trespasser** - Tom Holland x gn!teen!reader, Jake Gyllenhaal x gn!teen!reader: At a premiere a fan trespasses and inappropriately touches you. Tom and Jake are majorly pissed off. 

Sleepyhead** - MCU cast x gn!teen!reader, Benedict Cumberbatch x gn!teen!reader: You’re always asleep around set and the cast wonders why. 

Persistent** - MCU cast x f!teen!reader: With some of the marvel cast out at the mall, a boy won’t stop hitting on you, even when you politely decline. 

Take Care** - Chris Evans x gn!teen!reader: After a solid week of overworking yourself, forgetting to eat, and having no chance to sleep, you faint, and Chris is not happy about it.

Weird** - MCU cast x gn!teen!reader: When you get bullied at school for your rather unconventional personality, you clam up, fearing that you are annoying. 

Just a Cold - Tom Hiddleston x gn!teen!reader: It’s just a cold. Nothing too bad. That’s what you say, but then you faint on set, and Tom is not very happy about it.

Alley** - James Mcavoy x gn!teen!reader: James saves you from a creep in an alleyway. 

Noise** - MCU cast x gn!teen!reader: you’re overwhelmed by all the noise, and your castmates help you calm down.

Memories Last Forever - MCU cast x f!teen!reader: In an interview your costars gush over your talent and awesomeness, and reflect on all the good memories from set.

Sleepover - Sebastian Stan x f!teen!reader, MCU cast x f!teen!reader: You and the MCU cast have a secret sleepover. Things go off the rails.

Don’t Apologize** - Sebastian Stan x gn!teen!reader, Anthony Mackie x gn!teen!reader: An interviewer makes you feel really uncomfortable, so Sebastian and Anthony get angry. 

Pick Me Up** - Tom Holland x gn!teen!reader, Jake Gyllenhaal x gn!teen!reader: Your bullies beat you up, so you ask Tom and Jake to pick you up.

Over The Line** - Tom Hiddleston x gn!teen!reader: Tom finds out your manager abuses you, and gets pissed as all hell.

Delicate - Marvel Cast x gn!teen!reader: You’re an ex-stunt double, but the cast don’t know that, and are immensely scared that you will hurt yourself doing a risky stunt. You impress them.

Pass Out - Jake Gyllenhaal x gn!teen!reader, Tom Holland x gn!teen!reader: You’re sick and insist that you’re fine, but you end up passing out in front of fans. 

Paper Bag** - MCU Cast x gn!teen!reader: You get pimples and struggle so much with your insecurity, that you end up putting a paper bag over your head to conceal your face. 

Robbed** - Jake Gyllenhaal x gn!teen!reader, Tom Holland x gn!teen!reader: You get mugged and Jake and Tom help you feel like yourself again.

Treatment** - Sebastian Stan x gn!teen!co-star!reader, Anthony Mackie x gn!teen!co-star!reader: Your costars find out the terrible treatment you get at your foreign acting agency. 

Headcanons

Mentor - Tom Hiddleston x f!teen!reader: In which Tom is your mentor, and a description of what your friendship is like.

Soul Sister - Elizabeth Olsen x f!teen!reader: You’re a very closed off person, but Elizabeth just knows the way to your heart.

The Runt - Marvel cast x f!teen!reader: You’re the new youngest person in the MCU cast, and this is how several different people would react to and treat you. 

Substitute Dad** - Jake Gyllenhaal x gn!teen!reader: Jake discovers that you’ve never had a father figure and subconsciously takes that role into his own hands.

Young** - Jake Gyllenhaal x gn!teen!reader: Jake is overprotective of you because you’re very naive. 

Father Figure** - Tom Hiddlestonx gn!teen!reader: Tom is like your father figure. That’s exactly why you feel so sad, when you find out he’s gonna have a baby of his own.

X Teen!Family!Readers

The Story Of Many** - Chris Evans x teen!little sister!reader: Your role is taking an emotional toll on you, and Chris discovers that you have secretly been taking pills to cope with your mental health.

Road Trip - Sebastian Stan x teen!daughter!reader: Sebastian has planned a road trip for the two of you, but you’ve gotten a sick, and you hide it in fear of ruining the trip.

Misunderstanding - Chris Evans x teen!daughter!reader, Jaeden Martell x f!reader: You and Jaeden sneak out of a premiere to joke around and take pictures, but Chris thinks you’re doing something entirely different..

Drink** - Ryan Reynolds x teen!daughter!reader: Your drink is roofied at a party and Ryan comes to pick you up.

Break Up - Holland Brothers x gn!teen!sibling!reader: You experience your first break up, and the brothers are there to comfort you. 

Headcanons

Award Winning - Chris Evans x teen!daughter!reader: Chris’ reaction to you winning an award for Rising Star. 

Romantic X Readers

Jealous - Jake Gyllenhaal x f!reader: At an award show a celebrity tries to chat you up and Jake is NOT having it. 

X Child!Readers

Kid Problems** - MCU cast x f!reader, Mark Ruffalo x f!reader, Scarlett Johansson x f!reader: The MCU cast discover that your mom and their coworker is an abusive asshat.

Be My Date - Jake Gyllenhaal x gn!reader: Jake finds out your parents can’t go to the premiere and joins you instead. 

Bubble Laugh - Sebastian Stan x gn!reader: You’re shy, but you accidentally reveal your pure, loud, uncontainable laughter, and the cast loves it. 

Headcanons

Little Coworker - MCU cast x gn!reader: You’ve worked with a couple of marvel actors before, and they’re glad to show off your amazing acting skills to the rest of the cast.

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

the devil you know - part 4 (dark!tasm p.p. x reader)

Chapter Summary: Before Reader gets an opportunity to reveal her secrets, they’re ripped right out from under her. She and Peter must choose between blissful lies and painful truth, or lose each other forever.

Words: 8.2k

Warnings: SERIOUS GRAPHIC CONTENT WARNINGS APPLY. 18+ ONLY. Dark themes. Dark!Peter Parker - Series TW including: CNC, description of past SA of a minor, adults discussing and consenting to simulation of r*pe, heavy angst, smut, bd/sm themes and terminology, humiliation, language, vi*lence, body issues, s*xual dysfunction, unhealthy self-talk, therapy, and probably more. This may not be the story for you, regardless of age. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

A/N: fun fact, my first therapist was nicknamed Dr. D. Also, I spent a lot of time trying to research the topics discussed in this chapter, but I am not an infallible source, by any means. I'll list some helpful links below. As I mentioned in the last chapter, this one is going to be difficult to get through for some readers. It's going to break your heart, but I promise there is a resolution. CW - nasty verbal confrontation, jealousy, suspected cheating, negative thinking, references to domestic ab*se, self-hate, lots of shame (did I mention both of these characters need professional help?), a ton of angst, too many tears, and more painful secrets.

The following chapter refers to SA of a child.

Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Part Four. Part Five.

A few days after the bathroom incident, you found yourself on a sofa in a tiny, modest office. You kept your back ramrod straight. A woman with sharp features and long legs leaned against the armrest of a wingback chair across from you. A white noise machine roared just outside of the closed office door.

Your eyes drifted up towards the collection of wall art. Vanilla florals with muted pastel colors juxtaposed with mahogany framed diplomas, doctorates, and New York State licenses. Her last name was hyphenated and full of letters you’re not supposed to pronounce. Instead, she kindly requested that her patients refer to her as “Dr. V.”

“Have you worked with a therapist before?” she kindly asked.

You spotted some kind of fern plant tastefully draped over the highest level of a bookshelf. The fronds streamed over the edge of the shelf and brushed the hardcover books below. It was a very comforting aesthetic. You should get a houseplant. “Um, a while ago.”

“How long, if I might ask?”

You counted years in your head. “It was like a college counselor thing,” you explained, remembering the balding middle-aged man available before 9am on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the student services center. His desk sat openly in the atrium, right above the food court. “Not like an academic counselor, but someone in college that would talk with me about stress, and... stuff.”

“And stuff?”

“Yeah,” you croaked. She needed more context than what you were giving. “Mostly during my freshman year. I would have these weird health issues. I used to get dizzy a lot. Sometimes worse. I barely made it out of a lecture before I puked into a trash can outside.” You purse your lips, nodding nostalgically at something you could laugh about now. “He said it was probably anxiety.”

She nodded with a thoughtful expression, considering the statement. “Did you talk about anything else? Anything personal?”

You held your breath as you considered the breadth of that statement. What else could you discuss with the counselor that reminded you of the guy from The Office?

Your family history? Your age-inappropriate fascination with sex? The demanding academic scholarship you had to maintain, while still attempting to have a social life? The fact that your roommates urged you constantly to go out, but not too much?

Your newfound love of house parties? Your new appreciation for the craft of soaking a bag of Skittles overnight in a bottle of vodka? The way it felt when your girlfriends would wrap their arms protectively around your body as you grinded against them to some droning beat? They were pretty, and they made you feel pretty, and fuck, how much is too much when you’re feeling pretty? The biting of lips, roving of eyes, and recently-discovered attention paid to you from the opposite sex as you indulged in your hedonism... and the resulting thrill it gave you?

Did you talk to him about the tightrope walk you did every time you went out? (You needed to seem cool, but not bitchy, sexy but not slutty, be adventurous but not a pushover, eat something but not too much, wear makeup but not too much, wear clothes but not too much, but whatever you do, make sure what you’re doing is still trending in style, because god forbid some bitch calls you out for drinking last season’s latte.)

Hell fucking no. And for the record, college sucked.

“Nothing else really came up,” you explained, back in the therapist’s office.

“Of course, I understand.”

You felt the urge to go on. To explain, shamefully, the pattern of your repeated toxic relationships and all of the labels that had been applied to you. Hypersexual. Asexual. Bisexual. Fauxmosexual. Impulsive. Needy. A hopeless romantic. Slutty. Obsessive. Dedicated. Detail-focused. Inspiring. Controlling. A classic Scorpio. Victim. Damaged.

“I want you to also understand that I’m not here to judge you,” Dr. V continued, “and I’m not here to tell you what to think, or what you should or shouldn’t do. And you don’t ever feel like you have to tell me anything. Your past is sacred. Your history is private, and I don’t need to know what you don’t want to discuss.”

You blink at her several times. A burning question immediately sprang to your mind. Then what the fuck is the point of you…?

You seal your lips, afraid of what would come out.

“We’re here to talk about what you want to talk about,” Dr. V explained with a smile, as if she could read your mind. “I’m here to listen to what you want to share, and vocalize my understanding of your point of view. And you should correct me if you feel like I’ve misunderstood you. I’ll ask questions, but I never want you to feel like I'm questioning you, personally. My job is to understand you first.”

Your shoulders relaxed a bit as she went on, “And we don’t even have to dig into anything deep this first session. In fact you can ask me any questions you’d like. You could decide that you don’t like me, or don’t trust me, and we’re not a match. You could leave here today and not come back and I would understand. No explanation needed.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she punctuated. “Our work is going to be focused on what you owe yourself.”

You swallowed hard at that statement, but breathed through it. You leaned back in your seat a bit as she reached for a clipboard with paperwork attached to it.

“Before we begin, I have a few things to go over with you,” Dr. V said matter-of-factly. It was one of those dialogues that was written to be delivered over and over, but she made a point to speak each word clearly and with empathy. She kept eye contact with you, adding pauses to gauge your reaction.

“As a licensed mental health professional, everything you tell me in this room is protected by HIPPA. I cannot share any of your details with anyone else without your written permission. However, I am considered by the State of New York as a mandated reporter. That means I am legally-obligated to report to law enforcement any knowledge or reasonable suspicion of abuse or neglect of a child, elder, or dependent adult.” She took a moment to pause. “Do you understand?”

You were motionless, except for hot tears stinging your eyes. You nodded after a pause that went on too long, struggling to picture the little girl who should have been sitting in this spot years ago. The little girl you still were, and whether you could live with her and protect and honor her now as a grown woman. You felt your memories fall from your cheeks with your subtle movement. With it, you felt the sofa fall through the floor, the floor fall into bedrock, the planet fall out of orbit.

Dr. V’s eyes softened with understanding, not judgment.

And you let yourself fall apart.

It was weeks later, and you had managed to fit yourself into a tight schedule of seeing Dr. V twice a week. That almost never happens, you were told, considering the backlog of people seeking therapy. You were so fortunate to have found her so quickly, and was even more fortunate that another time slot temporarily opened in her schedule. The first few sessions made it easier to talk to her. She brought you so much relief with some of the issues related to your anxiety about work and how to handle your boss, but it would take time to chip away at the wall you’d built around yourself.

You spent a lot of time away from home and the office in a library with your laptop. Studiously, you followed up with the vast list of resources that she gave you. You were able to focus your energy more into work, and you approached it more like a puzzle than a maze.

You and Peter settled into a pattern that worked—sort of, for the time being. Short, quiet nights. Casual conversations over dinner. Chaste, saddened kisses during frequent goodbyes. It was working. It was also killing you.

There was an uptick in smash-and-grab robberies that held the majority of Spider-Man’s focus, and took a good chunk of his time tracing the stolen property to find its source.

Then there was the week Aunt May caught a pretty nasty virus, no doubt from her time in the infectious diseases unit. She was independent, and capable, and didn’t want to worry anyone, but you still ventured over to visit her. She begged both you and Peter to keep your distance, as she didn’t want to make either of you sick. Peter gave you a knowing look, and once he caught sight of the 101.3 thermometer reading, he insisted on staying with her until she got through the worst of it. May argued, but you didn’t, knowing well-enough that the two Parkers were made of the same stubborn material. Besides, you could use the space. Even if you didn’t want it.

Outside of Spider-Man duties, Peter picked up more shifts at the research lab. He said he wanted to make a little extra money, despite the overtime you were working. He’d come home later each night, and you’d get up earlier each morning. The time in between, he’d hold you tightly against his body while both of you dwindled in and out of restless sleep. That was the majority of your physical contact.

You missed your boyfriend. You hadn’t talked about that night you spent in the bathroom. You avoided any discussion about it. Not until you could fix this problem. You just prayed that you could do it quickly, before Peter moved on.

The thought of Peter cheating cut you deeply. It was two sharp edges of the same knife—one drawing rage from his hypothetical unfaithfulness, the other side slicing bitter shame from you simply not being enough for him.

It was a fear that Dr. V would ask about, curious as to whether Peter had ever shown any signs of infidelity in the past. You’d actually never discussed infidelity at all in your history together. You hadn’t been unfaithful in a relationship despite your shameful fantasies, a fact you assured Dr. V of. She took that information as casually telling her your favorite color. It wasn’t that important. And she clarified that fantasies didn’t count.

You were pretty sure he wasn’t capable of cheating. So why was it the boogeyman in the back of your brain at 4:12am when you’d finally feel his arms wrap around your waist? You lay there, pretending to be asleep as you held yourself back from weeping. Whoever she is—if she exists—you hope at least that she’s giving him what he deserves. Something you’re unworthy and incapable of.

You squeeze your eyes closed, recognizing this negative stream of dialogue. Dr. V warned you about this kind of thinking. She’s given you worksheets and reframing devices to change the toxic patterns in your mind. This is probably something you’ll need to bring back up next time.

Fifteen minutes later, you give up and turn off your alarm. You slither out of his warmth into the coldness of your bathroom. You turn on the shower and climb in, not even waiting for it to warm up, mechanically restarting today's scheduled cycle of self-abuse.

It was shortly after 7:30pm when you made your way into your apartment. The day had been long and left you physically exhausted, not to mention, you squeezed a session in with Dr. V which left you mentally exhausted. You felt like you could fall asleep standing up against the front door as you closed it behind you.

A lamp was switched on in the living room, but everything else was dark and silent. Peter sat, hunched forward on the couch, leaning on his knees. He rubbed his palms together pensively, staring forward into the darkness. He doesn’t move to make eye contact with you.

The eeriness of his demeanor froze you in place, You dropped your bag on the floor.

It took a century for him to open his mouth.

“We need to talk,” he sighed, only now lifting his gaze, his pained eyes meeting yours. Your stomach plummeted 50 stories. You opened and closed your mouth like a fish.

“Can you...” he began to ask, and stopped himself in the middle of a short, breathy scoff. His jaw locked in place, eyes falling to the floor. This was somehow worse. He was angry. Good for him, you thought. “Can you sit down?” he cleared his throat to ask.

You realized that you hadn’t moved a muscle. You snapped out of your daze and complied. Your legs felt like rubber. You crossed the foyer into the living room and sat down on the other end of the couch.

You feel yourself sweating. You feel nauseous. This is the moment you’ve been afraid of, you’re sure of it. Peter’s eyes follow you as you sit with your back straight, and you know that he knows you know what’s coming. Your erratic breathing confirms it.

This is the end of the line, and you’re certain of it. This is the part where he breaks your heart and tells you that he’s decided to move out. He’s decided to focus more on “Spider-Man stuff” and less on “Peter Parker stuff.” Or maybe he’ll tell you in giddy detail about the ethereal blonde angel he’s found and how soft and warm she is, a sharp contrast to your frigidity.

“I need to ask you two questions,” Peter said gently. He was trying to steady his breathing, and remove the emotion from his voice. Unsuccessfully, for the most part. “And I need you to look at me and tell me the truth.”

You didn’t want to look at him. Just put the gun to your head and fire already.

You slowly exhaled, spine as straight and taught as a steel cable. You turned towards him, lifting your chin, and looked him in the eye, granting his request. The last time he saw that look in your eye was in a cemetery in New Jersey. His brow furrowed as he looked at you, and his brown eyes glazed over with sorrow.

This was the longest look you’d given each other in weeks.

“Do you trust me?” Peter asked. A line creased your forehead as you blinked at him with wide eyes. “Enough to tell me the truth?”

You didn’t know it at the time, but you were trembling. His gaze was getting colder by the minute, and you were caught in the draft.

Say something. Answer the question. This is your opportunity. This is exactly what Dr. V said should happen. This is the chance to tell him everything. Tell him explicitly--

“Of course,” you blurted out, as if you were stunned at the accusation.

Lying whore.

Peter remained motionless, his eyes fixed on you as if he was burning a hole through your head. As if he was staring straight into your soul, banishing it to hell.

His nostrils flared and his jaw locked in place. “Then why do you feel the need to lie to me?”

The question rang out like a bullet fired from a gun. No matter how much you had been bracing for the impact, it stunned you into silence. Your eyes were brimming with tears as you shook your head in confusion. What was happening?

You squeaked, “I don’t—?”

“You texted me today and told me you were working late at the office,” Peter slowly explained, measuring the force of his words carefully. “Just like you texted me on Tuesday, and Monday. And on Friday before that.” You kept your breath bottled up, afraid to release a sound. “You told me where you would be,” he breathed heavily, his voice draped in darkness, “and each time I looked for you, you weren’t where you said you’d be.”

He... looked for you?

“You were following me?” you blurted, astonished.

“Of course I followed you!” he snapped, his words breaching the dam of resolve he’d built. They flooded out urgently, “I followed you because we have one fucking rule — the one fucking thing I’ve ever asked of you. I need... to know. Where you are. At all times.”

Your mouth fell open as you watched him begin to self-destruct, a furious energy of stuttering and repeated words, eyes and hands waving erratically.

“You-you don’t have to tell me what you’re doing, I-I-I don’t... You don’t have to tell me who you’re doing it with...” He spoke the last part of that sentence as if he was simultaneously stepping on glass shards with bare feet. “This isn’t about me controlling you, or-or me stalking you, I’m not trying to be a creep, I just—”

He paused to take a deep breath, trying to control the shake in his voice. “If something goes down,” he explained with a little more clarity, “if you ever got hurt—”

He choked, the words lodging in his throat.

Another deep breath. The pain in his voice—the sound of sickened betrayal—heated your face. You pictured him as Spider-Man, the city having gone to hell in some kind of attack, torn between saving lives and frantically trying to find you. Your eyes blurred.

“I need to know where you are—always,” he continued. His demeanor switched again. The weakness of his anxiety evaporated, and made way for a cold aggression. “And each time you told me where you were, you weren’t ever really there,” he whispered, darkness enveloping his tone. “You’d be at some other office building I've never even seen you at. Or you’d go to a coffee shop. Or to the movies. Or the library. For weeks.”

The look he gave you reminded you of a real spider web. You thought about what it would be like to be a fly, trapped, realizing you had nowhere to escape. He leered at you like you were an insect. “And you lied to me about it every single time.”

This was worse. This was way worse. You were weeping openly now as every word stung you like a whip. He was relentless, his voice filled with anger and accusation and... anguish. He seethed with sorrow.

“And I thought about calling you today and just asking you where you were,” he added, feeling another tidal wave build, careening towards what’s left of the levee. “But then I realized you wouldn’t have answered me. You haven’t answered in weeks. You’ve barely spoken to me in person.” He sniffed, lifting his chin and gazing at you beneath his wet lashes. His tone was sharp and accusatory, “It’s because it’s easier to lie to me this way, isn’t it? When I can’t look you in the eye? When I can’t hear the sound in your heart, in your voice?”

You felt like your skeleton was going to crumble beneath the weight of his gaze. He was angry, sure—but you also heard genuine heartache, and it made you feel worse than you ever had.

“Please,” he added. Your punishment isn't over yet. “Please. Just tell me the truth.”

For one moment, he let the mask drop. You briefly saw the person who was really asking these questions. You saw who you were really hurting. Those doe eyes, glittering wet, were also filled with terror. The confidence was an illusion, as well as the burning self-righteousness that fueled his charge just a moment before.

You saw, in that fleeting moment, a scared boy, afraid to lose everything all over again. Afraid of being abandoned. Tremors racked his core, and he was afraid of learning the truth that he viciously demanded to hear.

“Tell me... if there’s somebody else,” he pleaded with an exhausted whisper. He sounded so small and broken, punctuated by a quiver in his lip that he no doubt hated.

Your eyes went wide. He thought you were cheating on him? With brows raised, the stone guilt of your features melted into a look of incredulity. You were dumbstruck by the twist of the scenario. Your stunned scoff slipped out as a light laugh.

It was the wrong sound to make. His features darkened, lips tightening as he yanked that vulnerable boy from your sight.

“Don’t,” he warned you through gritted teeth.

He warned you, like he could murder you with that single word. Don’t mock me, don't lie to me, don’t laugh at me, don't hurt me even more than you already have. Or else.

It was enough to send a chill down your spine, and he sensed your fear immediately. You flinched as Peter came to an abrupt stand. He figuratively adjusted his “mask” to better conceal himself, or at least the version of him that didn’t pull his punches. He was visibly anxious. He looked like an animal ready to bolt, like his Spidey senses were alerting him of the danger that was him in the same room as you.

You knew he was walking towards the door, and once he went through the threshold, that would be the end. You’d never recover the trust that was draining rapidly. You had to grab it. You jumped to your feet and clawed at his jacket.

“Pete, please, you have this all wrong,” you said in a rush. His gaze was on everything but you.

“I gotta get out of here,” he breathed, gripping your shoulders like he was going to move you. He felt his throat drying out. The lamplight stung his eyes. His chest was tightening. He was afraid of where this conversation was going. He was afraid of what his heart was feeling.

Afraid of the torment that he anticipated and believed for so long that he deserved. Most of all, he was terrified of what he was capable of with those shaking hands. He was not going to end up like those assholes he battled in the streets. He’d never forgive himself. “Just let me go—”

“No, baby, just wait!” you sobbed, hanging onto the lapel of his jacket for dear life. “Just listen to me! I lied to you—yes, but there’s nobody else. I would never.... It’s nothing like that, I swear.” You grabbed ahold of his face and pulled his gaze on you. He was slow to register what you were saying. “I’m so sorry I lied to you. I didn't want to hurt you. I’m so sorry I pushed you away—”

“Why?” he exclaimed, his voice shattering again, running through his personal mental list of reasons that you’d be better off with someone other than him. It was clear to you that these worries had been consuming him. He was drowning in them in your absence. You let him drown. You’d let it come to this.

“I’m so sorry...”

“Do-do you not want to be with me anymore?” he asked. “Did I- Did I do something wrong?”

Your face crumpled with shame and you whimpered into your palms, continuing to block his path. “Please, I can’t talk about this, just believe me—”

“Is this about the last time we... w-we were ...together?” he asked with trepidation. His voice was shrinking again, filled with his own shame and embarrassment. “Can I not..? Is it—is it because I-I can’t please you anymore?”

You ripped your hands away from your burning face. “I thought you were going to leave me for someone else!” you choked out. “I was so scared that I was ruining everything, that you’d want to leave. I thought you were the one cheating—”

Now the irony was no longer lost on him, but the humor in the situation was nowhere to be found.

“Wha—? Are you out of your mind?” he shot back, unable to handle your accusation. “When have I told you I wanted to leave you? When have you ever seen me look at another woman that way? When have I ever done anything to make you think that I didn’t love you?”

You were quiet, letting his anguish and anxiety pour over you, just shaking your head ‘no.’

“Did you-did you honestly think that this whole time... That this was some fucking game to me? Like we were just playing house here? Is that what you think of me?”

Peter stalked forward, crowding your space even when you could barely speak. At the same time, he was having an out-of-body experience. He watched himself tower over you, succumbing to his anger, letting his voice get louder and louder. You resigned yourself to it, weeping quietly with your gaze on the floor.

He knew he needed to stop. He knew his words were burning you. Burning down the home you'd built together. He was going too far. The pain of thinking you were stabbing him in the back made him reckless. It was a cruel feeling and he responded in kind. Anger made everything easier for him. It was so much easier to fight than to cry.

“All I’ve ever done is try to protect you,” his mouth moved on autopilot, his senses trying and failing to alert him that he was digging his own grave. “What else do I need to do to prove to you—?”

“Stop,” you softly respond. Your eyes drift upward to meet him, as if to say ‘Enough.’

One glimpse at your calm resolve—the silent strength that he recognized as uniquely yours—and was paralyzed.

Shame overtook him.

He tore his gaze away from yours and buried his eyes in the ground.

He wanted to shrink. He wanted to sink himself into the Earth’s core. He wanted to wilt and rot at your feet.

He was bullying you, he realized in horror. And like a line drawn in the sand of your mind, you wouldn’t let it go on any further.

“I love you, Peter,” you affirmed, with such confidence and clarity that it broke his heart. “I trust you with my life. But it’s hard for me to trust you with everything. It’s hard for me to trust anyone. That's the truth. And it’s not about you.”

You swallowed thickly, breathing slowly in and out. You called your mind back to the positive statements and goals that you’d written down in Dr. V’s office. “I need your patience with the trust issues I have. I deserve it.”

His brow furrowed, sinking a little bit deeper into his guilt. You were so right. He felt so much shame he might as well have been standing on Times Square in front of his aunt, his graduating class, and all of New York City, naked. Covered in blood.

“And for the most part,” you added, “you’ve given that to me. But for what it’s worth, I want you to know... I don’t want to be defined by that anymore—by my fear of getting close to people. I don’t want it to define us.”

Us. He looked up and met your eyes again. You watched tears stream down his cheeks.

“I wasn’t ready to talk before,” you explained, sharing that grace Peter saw within yourself. And by doing so, sharing that grace with him. “But I shouldn’t have lied. I’m sorry I lied to you.” You meant every word. “I think, maybe, I’m ready to talk now,” you added, with all the confidence you could muster. “If you’re ready to listen.”

He was speechless, his mouth dry, and his heart pounding. “I-I.. I don’t...” he breathed, with barely enough strength to speak above a whisper. “A-Are you sure... you’re okay with that?”

“If you’re not ready, I’m not ready. I want to keep you, however you’ll have me.”

You nodded with appreciation as he held the figurative door open for you. “I’d rather live with the truth than be afraid of all the things we didn’t say.”

Peter can’t take his eyes off of you. You were larger than life. A goddess in the flesh. It was remarkably clear to him: you were more powerful than he’d ever be.

“Especially innocent little girls like you.”

A chill moves down your spine as you sprint across the room. You slam your underwear drawer shut, before nervously backing away, springing out of his supposed reach. You’re becoming less concerned with keeping your cool. “You—you should leave,” you swallow. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s Peter, right?” he turned to face you. “He’s the one who should be here, right? You still haven’t answered my question—”

“He’s my boyfriend,” you bit back, suppressing a whine. “He's a good man. Nothing like you. And he’s going to be here any minute, so you should leave.” Your throat feels dry. “I don’t think he’d appreciate your little charade.”

Your masked intruder snorts at your threat. “Oh, I’ll bet,” he says with mock concern. He glances around the room, the whole apartment is empty, except for the two of you. “Wow—this late at night and he’s not even home? I’m shocked.” He starts pacing again, and you shift your body to keep him in your sights. He tut-tutted with disapproval, “Your ‘boyfriend’ left you all by yourself.. in your bedroom with an unlocked window and open curtains?”

As he says this, he wanders to your window, closing and flicking the latch in place. As it slams home, you long for more oxygen.

“He didn’t warn you about leaving your curtains open at night?” He yanks them closed, providing a privacy screen that you don’t think you want. He sounds disgusted with ‘your boyfriend’s’ recklessness. “Open curtains are like a giant neon sign, telling every pair of eyes in the city to peek inside.”

He faces you again, slowly creeping back your way. His voice lowers, like he’s telling you a ghost story by the firelight.

“You have no idea, sweetheart, just how many perverts and creeps are out there at night.”

He stalks closer. Why can’t you move?

“Open curtains are like a beacon to them,” he speaks from experience. “They’re like moths to flame. They’ll do anything to get inside.”

His voice softens, pacifying, even as his presence becomes more predatory. He moves so close to you that his eye line is now visibly exaggerated and unquestionable. His eyes trail over your body. It feels like a physical connection—a violation, like it’s his tongue he’s dragging down your body instead.

“The things those bad men would do to you,” he shakes his head disapprovingly, but the arousal in his voice is unmistakable, “as pretty as you are.”

“I think it’s important to remember what it’s not,” you explained, your voice stronger than it had been through the shaky beginning of the conversation. “I am not expressing that I want to be raped.”

You say that with confidence, even though you break eye contact with him at the last part of your sentence, and your left ankle bounces beneath you erratically.

You sat cross-legged on top of your quilted comforter, while Peter sat opposite from you and mirrored your position. He followed along attentively, keeping eye contact, nodding at you from behind his dark-framed glasses. His anxiety manifested as a tick of his own, tapping his pencil on the edge of a composition book. He insisted on having it close, even though you thought it was unnecessary. But he took this seriously, preparing himself mentally to approach this conversation with an academic mind. He joked that you were always his favorite subject, after all.

“There’s not even a good... term that’s agreed upon by the scientific community,” you continued, repeating your expanded knowledge on the subject. “Like, the words themselves are misnomers; they’re contradictory. It makes me cringe to even say it...” You looked off towards the view of your window, turning the volume of your voice down low. “‘Rape... fantasy.'”

Peter watched your throat gag down a swallow, focus fixed on whatever could distract you outside the window. He reached across the bed and squeezed your hand, bringing you back to him. “Right-right,” he nodded inquisitively. “So what is the appropriate term?”

You answered as best as your knowledge allowed. A single, correct answer did not exist. “Um... consensual non-consent? ‘Forced sex’ role play?”

Peter nodded quickly as a show of solidarity and understanding, even though he couldn’t quite keep his lips closed.

You spoke passionately. “What’s really messed up is that there’s nowhere near enough research being done on this. Most of the conversation about this happens in sub-Reddits or BDSM forums.”

His eyebrows raised, mouth forming a simple ‘o.’ He did well to steel himself with a non-judgmental expression. And more nodding.

“It’s not the same as BDSM,” you quickly explained, allowing him more information for his own cognition. “Not all BDSM involves forced sex role play, but role play is a major part of BDSM.”

He was beginning to look like a bobble head. The humor of it made you more comfortable somehow.

“I mean, that’s weird, right?” you added. “Like you’d think there would be more medical research about it, especially since so many people online bring this topic up with their therapists. A lot of them, including Dr. V., have a theory that it ties to a need for control, or lack of control, especially for people with a lot of responsibilities. They think there’s a connection with forced sex role play being a part of healing trauma from past abuse. It’s hard to get that kind of research done accurately, though...”

“Right, right—at least right now,” Peter replied confidently, with a scientific understanding of the pitfalls of statistics-based research. “It’s hard enough to get people to identify themselves as survivors of sexual assault, let alone have them self-report fantasizing about..." he glanced at you for your approval as he repeated your phrase, "forced sex role play.” You glanced at him as he mused on the subject; he added somewhat somberly, “Makes sense.”

Internally, you lit another candle in your heart, silently giving thanks to the universe for Peter Parker.

“So you said there was a study, though?” he asked.

“Right, from like 10 years ago,” you explained. “Um, I remember it was something like 60-62% of the women they questioned said they had at least fantasized about it, if not engaging in forced sex role play with a partner.”

“Wow,” he responded. “What was the sample size?”

“Are you serious right now?” you deadpanned.

“What?”

“I don’t even remember my social security number half the time.”

“Well, the sample size—”

“I’ll send you a link, Bug Brain! It’s more than 100.”

“That’s still significant,” Peter remarked. “62%?”

“Yeah, and 50% of men, too,” you added.

He glances up at you quickly, before dropping his eyes back down to his notebook. He chews his bottom lip pensively. “Huh.”

Later.

“Communication is the most important thing,” you reiterated. You lay on your side with your head resting in the heel of your palm. Peter stretches out besides you, his comp book open in his lap. At this point, he was taking notes. “Talking through everything. Some people have legit worksheets with outlines that describe beat-by-beat everything that is going to occur.”

“Wow,” he considered, and jotted a note. “That’s... very... thorough.”

“Yeah,” you rolled your eyes, not thrilled with the idea of more paperwork in your life. “I mean, nothing gets me wetter than an effectively-organized worksheet.”

He chortled in response, “Seriously, though, should we get one of those? The more detailed you are, the less room there is for miscommunication, right?”

“Sure, but we should start smaller than that. Or... more broadly? Like, what do I want of this and what do you want out of this? What are the things we’re comfortable with? What is off limits?”

Later.

You’re staring down at a Google Forms list on your phone, checking boxes and selecting radio dial buttons, as Peter lays across your stomach, spinning the pencil dexterously between his digits. Your fingers card through his hair as you read off the options and he responds.

“Spanking?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, a sultry smile curling his lips.

“Flogging?”

He arches his brow. “Like with a... paddle? Or a spoon?”

“Or a shoe. My people call it a chancla,” you replied.

He considered it for a moment, “Meh.... maybe....” You glanced down at him, making eye contact. “Nah, not really.”

“Hair pulling?”

“Yes,” he added. “Mark me down for that one, too.”

You yank his hair smugly, earning a hiss, “Be patient,” you instructed. “We gotta do this in order.” He side-eyes you after you release your hold, licking his lips. He’s wanting to begin this experiment sooner than later. You avoid his gaze however, dutifully remaining on task.

“Biting?”

“Yes.”

“Punching?”

“What...? No!”

“It’s just a question, relax. Slapping?”

He opens his mouth to instinctively immediately reply, hesitates, then snaps it shut. He muses. “Which parts?”

Later.

He’s holding your phone up, taking his job of inquisitor far more seriously than when he was answering questions. You nuzzle your cheek into his lap, idly rubbing against the crotch of his jeans, as if the conversation you were having wasn’t already enough stimulation.

“Blindfolds?”

“Ooh, yes,” you grinned.

“Immobilization?”

“Yes.”

“Gags - cloth?”

“Sure.”

“Gags - rubber?”

“Um, yes?”

“Gags - tape?”

“Can you just mark me as ‘yes’ for gags?”

“Gags - ball?”

Your shoulders slumped. “Sure.”

“Gags - phallic?”

“Asshole.”

“That’s not covered in this section.”

Later.

“Teasing?” you asked.

He laughed darkly, “You bet your ass.”

“Humiliation - private?”

“Um... if... that’s what you want? Maybe?”

“Humiliation - public?”

He wrestled with this one, questioning the appropriate context. “Put a pin in that one. Not really sure.”

“Kidnapping?”

“Yeah...”

“Interrogation?”

“Yeah.”

“Weapon play?”

That one throws him off. “Like what does that mean?”

“Enhancing the sense of danger. Like with knives?”

He shook his head quickly. “No way.”

“It could be a dull knife...”

He snaps a glare at you as he crosses his arms. “I’m not putting a knife to you. Ever. Not interested.”

His tone was firm, and you respected it, marking the appropriate box without pushing further. “Fair enough.”

A few nights later.

You were cocooned in comfy bedding with your head on Peter’s chest. In the dark, you relish in the serenity of his gentle touch, each finger gliding down your spine in slow rhythmic movements. Even a city as mad as New York seemed peaceful tonight.

It felt so good to have him hold you again, to listen to the sound of his breath and heartbeat, to feel the heat of his skin on yours.

Both of you were clothed, which was an impressive feat in itself. But at this point, you’d dedicated several days to formulating a plan. You were prepared to rediscover each other, to shed the dead layers of shame from your bodies, hoping to reveal hidden treasures beneath.

The adventure on which you were about to endeavor was more self-exploration than anything. That made it feel exciting—and dangerous. The anticipation had steadily risen.

As corny as it sounded, you felt a buzz inside you, like you were going to lose your virginity all over again. You felt like a princess trapped in a castle, and a mystery man whom you dreamed of all your life was coming to free you from your prison. Figuratively, as what you had planned was quite a contrast.

In either case, you were willing to wait.

“I’ve been thinking...” Peter whispered to you gently, eyes fixed on the ceiling, head cradled by his bicep. He sounded uncertain, as if he was feeling a different kind of trepidation. He cleared his throat. “I-I read up on it, and... sometimes, for some guys, eh... Some guys said... I guess—I guess it didn’t work for them? They couldn’t, um, get into it, you know?”

You lift your head upwards to get a better look at him as he speaks.

“Don't-Don’t get me wrong,” he urgently assured you, meeting your eyes, "I’ll do anything for you. I’ll do whatever you want.”

As much as you loved his strength, you always loved seeing the shy part of him. It made you weak. You smiled warmly at him, trying to ease his tension, “You mean ‘whatever we both agreed to in our plan unless we change our minds and use our safe words to bail out of it?’”

“Yes, that. Yes.”

Even in the dark you could see him flexing his jaw, his mind lost in thought. “Peter,” you cooed. “Talk to me.”

He meets your eyes again, the molasses hue dulled with anxiety and sadness. He sighs heavily, almost groaning. “I mean, what if I can’t... get it up... like at all?” He could no longer control the frantic movements of his upper body. “Or what if we’re in the middle of-of ...playing and... God, I just go limp and can't—” His face is burning red, impatient with hypothetical inabilities before they even manifest. “What if I can’t give you what you need?”

Your eyes are saucers, as if you were watching a plane crash. The sound alone rips your heart out of your chest.

“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” he declares with resolve. It’s the only thing he’s sure of. “You’re the love of my life, okay? You, you’re it. I just don’t ever want to lose you—”

“Peter...” you gasped. It was like you were struggling for air, your emotions suffocating you. His confession was sickly exhilarating and beautifully agonizing to hear. “I love you. More than anything. And my problems with being honest about my intimacy—that had nothing to do with you, or what you couldn’t give me. Please understand this. There’s no better feeling in the world to me than knowing I'm loved by you.”

His expression softened—the physical manifestation of a whimper, as your words pierced his heart. You pulled his face towards you, ensuring that he could see your eyes clearly. It was the genuineness that spilled from your tongue that broke him. It was as effortless to you as speaking your own name, said without doubt or hesitation.

“I’ve had a stigma for so long about what, or who I thought I should be, that I didn’t even know who I was,” you explained. With a lighthearted shrug, you added, “I’m a woman who's been on this crazy journey that’s been messy... and awkward and painful at times.” You paused only briefly, pouring every ounce of your soul in your words. “But I wouldn’t change any of it. Not a minute. Because it all made me who I am.” Your thumbs brushed past his cheeks, your gaze glowing with adoration. “I’m the one you chose to be with.”

Tears ran down your face and across your smile. Peter swallowed hard as he watched them fall. He was falling, too. You went on, “I’m the one who gets to kiss you goodnight and good morning and cry with you and fight with you and be with you until one of us stops breathing. I get to be the other half of your whole.”

He was crying with you now, tears forming faster than you could wipe them away. You struggled to look too deeply into him, your heart aching at the realization you were watching him fall in love all over again. But you kept speaking. It was imperative. You needed to make sure every word was tattooed into his memory, branded deeply where he could never forget or question it again.

“I’m not perfect,” you said, “but I’m not ashamed of who I am.” Your face lit up with a cheeky smile as you sniffed and added, “I’m the love of Peter Parker’s life, you know. It’s kind of a big deal.”

His expression was like watching the birth of a star. Like all of creation flashing before his eyes at once. His hand traveled up through your hair and he pulled you down to him, molding your body to his, setting his heart on fire with your kiss.

It was shorter than he wanted it to be, as you had already taken the wind out of his lungs. The kiss was more chaste than he thought he was capable of.

He pulled you down beside him until you shared the same pillow, the same breath.

He was incapable of kissing you longer, because he needed to commit every line and curve and shadow of this moment to his memory. He needed to freeze time. He needed to remember you in detail—a portrait he would carry with him always, an idol he would pray to for strength.

He gazed at you, unsure if he was even capable of intelligent speech. Words drifted directly from his brain through his lips. “God, you’re so much stronger than me.”

You breathlessly scoffed with a teasing smile, rolling your eyes. “You really have to stop saying that.” You avoided the raw intimacy of his voice with playful banter, just as you always did. “You’re grossly overselling my lift game—”

“No, I mean it, it’s the truth,” Peter protested, there was no teasing in his voice. He gazed at you deeply, reading something in your eyes that you couldn’t see. “You’re stronger than I’ll ever be.”

His tone was urgent. The roles reversed, like he needed you to know this, to hear and commit his words to memory. He could see by your confused expression that he wasn’t successfully communicating what he needed to say.

“See, you’re stronger than me, because you told me your secret,” Peter explained. You blinked sheepishly. He saw it. “Yeah, yeah, I know, secrets, I’ve got secrets. ‘I’m Spider-Man,’ that’s a secret. But it’s not the same, not even close.” He swallowed hard, “You told me your weakness.”

You began to shrink slightly under the spotlight of his admiration.

“That’s different,” he explained. “It’s your deepest, darkest secret. The thing that makes you the most vulnerable. Even as a kid, you were brave, and you told everyone the truth.” He gripped your hands tightly in his, making sure that you were with him, that you were following him into this uncomfortable territory. “You told the truth and they didn’t even—”

He sighed briefly, letting that contemptuous train of thought go, to refocus on his intention.

“Even when they failed you,” he reiterated, “you shared your weakness with me, too.” He raises his brows, with exclamation, “And... you told a therapist. A stranger. Do you have any idea how fucking brave that is?”

Your heart swells, your eyes glued to his. He was hovering over you now, his lips inches from yours. He desperately needed you to hear him. He balanced his bitterness with his adoration.

He preached your praises emphatically from an invisible pulpit, “You were shut down, you were gaslit, and abandoned… and you still had the strength to tell your story.”

He swallows hard, his voice stretching razor thin. You follow the tear tracks down his cheeks as they fall from the bridge of his nose. Mindlessly, you stroke them away. Your touch allows him the space to catch a breath, to ease the growing tension in his voice.

“You told the truth,” he whispered to you. “You owned it. That you’d been hurt, and that you were still hurting, and that you weren’t gonna let that pain control you anymore.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, quelling some of his heartache. He gazed down at you with a sad smile. “You told somebody about your abuser,” he softly sighed. “And I never did.”

Everything pauses. Everything all at once.

Then it explodes.

The weight of what he was trying to tell you slams into you like a train. The sparkle slowly fades from your eyes as you watch giant tears fall from his. He is literally holding his breath, waiting for your reply.

You could see a hurricane forming in his mind, the swirling clouds darkening his gaze. A silent storm of rage and pain, made up of a lifetime of grief and guilt, a lifetime of villains and victimhood, a lifetime of hating bullies. Dedicating his life to protect and defend and fight back and control.

Your heartache was evident in your expression. Your soul shattered for him, leaving behind a physical pang that’s stabbed your chest. You ached for all the things he had never said to you—or to anyone, it would seem.

He never told anyone about the teenage star basketball player that moved into his neighborhood when Peter was 12. How everyone looked up to him, for his talent, and his natural charm, Aunt May and Uncle Ben included. How it was so cool that an older boy wanted to hang out with him, and teach him basketball, and how to skip class without getting caught.

Peter was enamored. Honored, to be honest. He’d never had a brother before.

He never had someone to look up to, who he could talk to... about school, about girls, about how to talk to them. Someone to take him under his wing and teach him about how to get girls to like you, make them feel good, teach him how and where they could touch and kiss and use their mouths in a way that could make guys feel good too.

He never told a soul about the boy that taught him how to keep a secret.

Both of your hands were on his face now, gently reaching for him and pulling him back from his memories.

“You?” is all you ask. It was all that you needed to say. His nose scrunched up, lip quivering, as he silently nodded in reply.

More tears welled in your eyes, as you caressed him gently. You had a fierce, motherlike urge to console and protect him. To reassure him, that he was now safe.

“We can talk about it... when you’re ready,” you softly whispered.

Peter closed his eyes, feeling the strength draining from him, as well as the compulsion to be strong all the time. Resting his head on your chest, he silently wept with you.

And he was ready to be strong.

Part Five.

A/N: There was, in fact, a study. And many of the resources mentioned here do exist. This is a time for self-care, loves. We made it through some deep dark shit. Take a break. Treat yourself.

The next chapter is the “play,” presented to you with context these characters needed, and hopefully the understanding that intimacy, relationships, healing, love, and especially self-love are scary, complex, and beautiful things. Many times the strength that we’re searching for is in the kindness and grace we give ourselves.

If you support this work, please don’t be shy to reblog, reply, or message me with your thoughts and questions on anything in this story.

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨

summary ─ ten days later, james barnes got a call from the police.

pairing ─ bucky barnes & reader (platonic, one sided) [bucky barnes x natasha romanoff]

warnings ─ ANGST, implied major character death, i love me those apparently, soulmate au, i love that one too apparently, unrequited love, suicide mention, implied suicide

a/n ─ i swear this just wrote itself. i was supposed to be writing filth but ended up spitting 2.5k words of angst. hope you like it! all mistakes are my own. please leave a comment! thank you <3

               What’s a soulmate?

               Well, it’s like a best friend… but more.

               It’s the one person in the world who know you better than anyone else.

                                              ____________

You’ve met Bucky Barnes when you were in high school, and from the second your eyes found each other, you knew he was your soulmate. You remembered the very first time you’ve seen him; it was across the field where he and his team were playing baseball. He was joking and laughing around with his friends when his warm, blue-grey eyes found yours. You remembered feeling warm and soft all around, like you were being hugged, and remembered the way your heart flipped and let out a joyous scream that meant one thing: He was your soulmate.

You didn’t tell him.

Keep reading

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

i'll be in good company

Matt Murdock x Reader

word count: 2.6k

summary: You aren't feeling well so Matt stops by to help.

warnings: descriptions of a depressive episode, mentions of anxiety, kinda hurt/comfort, fluff

A/N: haven't posted anything in a while so here ya go :)

When you didn’t answer your phone, Matt didn’t worry at first. He assumed you were busy with work or just away from your phone. But, when it was the next morning and you still hadn’t texted or called, he became concerned. He had work, so he couldn’t go to you immediately. He was going to drop by on lunch but he got caught up in paperwork, didn’t even get the chance to eat. Him and Foggy were preparing for a trial that started next week. 

“Hey, everything going okay? You usually can’t shut up about Y/N but you haven’t even mentioned them today.” Foggy had insisted on taking a ten minute break to ‘de-fry’ his brain and had coerced Matt into doing the same. 

Matt didn’t reply at first, pulling his drink to his lips to avoid answering. Foggy sighed at this reaction, his lip down-turning. “Well, based on your non-answer, I’m assuming it’s not good. Did you guys like… fight? Or something?”

Matt set his drink down, slipping his glasses off and resting them on the table. “No, nothing like that. I just haven’t heard from them for a couple days.”

“And you’re worried. Okay, great. You could’ve just said something, you didn’t have to brood about it all day.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, no, you were, bud.”

Matt sighed, plopping case files on to the table and straightening his tie. “Sorry, I didn’t want to leave you with all of this. I know we have the trial coming up and I feel like an asshole making you do all this alone. Especially since I’ve left you with it all before.”

Foggy sighed. “Matt, go. Y/N’s really important to you. If it weren’t for them, you’d be a lot worse off than you are. I want you to be happy, man. Just go.”

Matt was already putting on his jacket, grabbing his cane. He rested his hand against Foggy’s shoulder as he walked towards the door. “Thank you, I’ll call later. Keep you updated.”

Foggy just nodded, smiling Matt’s way as he disappeared out the door.

—

Matt knocked on your door firmly, waiting. His anxiety had only risen as he had gotten closer to your apartment and now his body was practically buzzing. He couldn’t keep still as he stood, his fingers tapping against his cane as he shifted his weight from one foot and back to the other. 

You didn’t answer and Matt listened in for you. He could hear your breathing, your steady heartbeat. You were laying down in your bedroom. You were so still and quiet, you could’ve been asleep, but you weren’t. 

Matt knocked again before sighing and running his fingers along the top edge of the doorframe. No spare there. He took a step back, leaning over to check underneath your welcome mat. There it was. 

It felt wrong, coming in like this, but Matt couldn’t take just leaving you here. Even if you didn’t want to see him, he needed to make sure you were okay. As he walked in, he rested his cane against the wall and set your spare down. His eyebrows raised, pausing as his head tilted. 

Your scent was heavy on your sheets but it was diluted, masked underneath layers of dirt, grease, sweat and the vague taste of salty tears. Your stomach hummed and growled with unease and your mouth was dry from dehydration. As Matt entered your apartment further he noted the piles of clothes and clutter, unorganized and suffocating. There was trash in several places and the sink was full of dishes. 

“Y/N? Sweetheart, can you talk to me?” Matt stood in front of you now, concern deepening the lines on his face. You only moved to pull your hands up over your face, not saying a word. Matt sighed softly, pulling off his jacket and resting it at the end of the bed. He removed his glasses and set them on your nightstand before rolling back his sleeves. 

He pulled back the covers just a bit. Your arms quickly moved to wrap around yourself, your face inching underneath one pillow as if you were trying to hide. Matt’s fingers brushed over your skin and you whimpered as though he’d hurt you. He pulled back a bit, his chest feeling tight and his brows scrunching together with worry. 

He was leaning over you, his body just close enough that you could feel the heat of him. It was comforting but you wanted to push him away. You didn’t want him to be here, to see you like this. You wanted it to just be you, no one else deserved to have to deal with this. 

When his skin brushed against yours, this time over your jaw, you pressed yourself into the bed. Tears of shame burned in your eyes and you shook your head. Matt stood up straight and you wondered if he might actually leave. 

“I’m gonna help some, okay? If you need me just let me know.” There was a pause before he leaned over again to press a kiss to your cheek and you winced, a few tears escaping your eyes. You’d missed him and you wanted so badly to curl up around him and let him hold you. You felt far away, though, too far away. Even if you reached as far as you could, you still wouldn’t be able to touch him. 

Matt started moving around your apartment, grabbing trash as he went before going to your kitchen. He cleaned, unbothered by the mess and mostly just thinking about you. He did the dishes and put on music he knew you liked and put away anything out of place. Slowly, the sound of him, of life, started to creep back into your bones. Every time you heard his shoes hit the ground, the faucet turn on, the trash rustling, it helped. Your eyes didn’t feel so hard to open, your chest didn’t feel too stiff for air. 

By the time he came back in your room, you almost felt capable of words. Matt leaned over to press another kiss to you and you bit your lip to keep it from shaking. Then, he started sorting through your clothes, folding the clean ones and putting the dirty ones in a neat pile next to the overflowing hamper. He opened the curtains just a crack, letting a bit of the evening sun peak through. He moved several items back to their intended positions, knowing where you usually kept your things and organizing as he went. 

He only paused when a soft sob escaped your lips, swiftly making his way to your side. You bit down hard to try and hide it but of course he heard. Worry and doubt suddenly filled Matt’s chest, wondering if maybe he’d done too much. He didn’t want to overwhelm you, only to make you feel a bit better. “Hey, honey, do I need to stop? I can stop for now if you want; I was going to order some food. Do you want that?”

You just shook your head, tears streaming down your face and more soft sobs escaping your lips. Matt clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath. He wasn’t angry, not at all, just worried. His hand gently caressed your face, his thumb brushing away stray tears. “Okay, angel. Just give me a little longer, I’m almost done.”

Matt laid out some fresh clothes, feeling for what was soft and going to be comfortable for you. He lit a candle and set it on your dresser before taking off his shoes and undoing his watch. He rested his watch next to his glasses. 

“You think you can shower?” he asked, his voice a soothing, low hum. You groaned and he smiled, brushing back your hair. “It’ll help, sweetie. You don’t have to do anything, I’ll take care of it.”

You contemplated a moment before slowly extending your arms, grabbing on to whatever part of Matt you came into contact with first. He wrapped his arm around you, helping you sit up. He started pulling your clothes off, motivating you to help. You even started undoing his buttons, unbuckling his belt and tugging his wrist to the direction of the bathroom. 

Matt started to feel more relaxed, even more so after he turned the shower on and steam filled the room. He held you a moment, pressing his skin to yours. You didn’t hug back at first but eventually reached up to press your hands into his skin. You felt almost stunned at the progress that had been made simply because he was here. It was enough of a shock to move your limbs, let you step into the shower without Matt even having to ask. 

He was close behind you, getting beneath the water and lathering a wash cloth with soap before going over your skin with it. Matt moved slowly, with intention. He was gentle and you watched closely at the way his hands moved, leaving a bubbly trail across your skin. You breathed in deep, your lungs filling with the inviting smell of clean. You felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders and you almost felt a smile tug at your lips. 

Matt pressed a kiss to your forehead before guiding you to turn around and face the stream. You sighed softly as he went over your back, pausing to massage his fingers into your stiff muscles. He pressed more kisses into your shoulder, his hands working deeper into your back. 

You moaned, leaning back against his chest and he smiled, his arms circling around your waist and his lips grazing against your temple. Matt closed his eyes and you did the same, enjoying the feeling of being together under the warm water. Eventually, he reached back to grab your shampoo before lathering it into your hair, massaging your scalp gently. He ran his fingers through your hair as the water rinsed it clean, then grabbed your conditioner to start the process again. 

When he was finished, he turned the water off and stood there with you for a moment. He was aware of how dehydrated you were and that you probably felt a bit dizzy from the hot shower. He kissed your neck before speaking. “You need anything, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, turning and leaning in enough to press your lips to his chest. Matt smiled at you, his face splitting with a grin when he realized you were smiling back. He leaned down to press his lips to yours, his arm circling you in his excitement. When he pulled back you were breathless, your lips still faintly upturned. 

Matt stepped from the shower, handing you a towel before grabbing one for himself. He roughly dried his hair, leaving it messy and sticking in several directions. This made you smile more and you bit your lip when he grinned back at you, realizing he’d done it on purpose to amuse you. 

He walked out, the towel snug on his hips as he pulled back your sheets, discarding them and grabbing fresh ones from your closet. By the time you stepped out in the clothes he’d gotten for you, the sheets were changed and he was in his black boxers. He closed the distance between the two of you, one hand resting on your shoulder and the other on your waist as he kiss your forehead. 

“I love you,” you said, your voice coming out a raspy whisper from disuse. 

“I love you, too.” It seemed like he couldn’t wipe that grin from his face now, his lips peppering down your jaw as he chuckled and held you closer. “I already ordered some food, should be here soon. There’s water and aspirin on your nightstand. Do you need anything else? Want anything?”

You shook your head. “Just you.”

Matt pulled you to the living room, music still playing lowly. You could smell the sting of bleach and soap faintly, embarrassed heat flashing against your skin as you were faced with everything he’d done for you. You sat next to him and curled into his chest. 

“Matt, you really didn’t have to do all this,” you whispered, knowing he’d hear. Matt just shook his head, his fingers smoothing over your hair. 

“Yes, I did. If it helps you, I want to do it. You help me all the time. You patch me up, tend to my wounds, help me be what I try so hard to be. If doing your dishes and taking out your trash is all it takes to help get you out of bed, I’d gladly do it every single day. Anything if it means I get to make you happy.” 

You looked up at him, feeling tears well in your eyes. You stayed silent, afraid that speaking would make you cry. Instead, you enveloped his lips with yours. He smiled into the kiss before sucking gently on your bottom lip, one hand coming up to hold your face. You hummed against his skin, leaning in closer to him and tangling your fingers in his hair. Matt parted your lips with his own, turning his head more as his tongue slipped into your mouth. 

He moaned softly, making your heart flutter in your chest. You pulled back seconds later, your breathing more labored than before. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Matt. You’re my everything. You give me what I need to keep going even when I feel like I can’t take one more step. More than anything else in the world, I love you.”

Matt’s head tilted as he listened to your heart, his eyebrows quirking up in question. You saw his jaw clench after a moment and tears glisten in his eyes. Your heart was steady and true, not a single ounce of doubt or deception to be found. 

His grip got tighter on you, his forehead pressing against yours as he pulled your body flush to his. You reached up to stroke his face, pressing your lips together when you saw tears escape his eyes. You gave several short, sweet kisses to his lips and then there was a knock on the door, breaking the moment. 

You huffed a laugh and Matt smiled, sniffling and wiping away stray tears. You stood before he could, not giving him a chance to protest as you answered the door. 

The evening stretched into night and you stayed in each other’s arms, talking about what you meant to one another, reminiscing on the past, and even discussing the future. One that involved both you and him being there for each other and not letting the other sink too low. 

You ended up back in bed but this time felt completely different from when you woke up this morning. This was soft and comfortable. Matt was there, his body tangled in yours and his voice low in your ear. Your body felt lighter and you could smile when you wanted to. 

You knew everything wasn’t fixed, that there would be more problems that would eventually arise and threaten to pull you back under. But, you knew you had Matt and that he’d do anything to keep your head above the abyss. 

Growing up, you had heard of how the Devil was an angel, one that had simply fallen from God’s favor. You’d always wondered how that was true, how something so dark and adverse could have once brought light into the world. 

You looked at Matt’s calloused hands, the same ones that had brought pain to so many, and then up at his bright, loving smile. Maybe it was true, maybe even the Devil was a guardian angel just waiting for the right people to protect. 

-----

A/N: hey i almost cried rereading this before posting, anyways yeah hope you enjoyed

tags: @murdock-barnes @dropsofprecipitation @thirstybitchs @e-dubbc11 @murdocks-devil @phildunphyisadilf

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

Y'all my best friend just released her first album :-) go listen to it!

I released my first album on Bandcamp today! It's called Red Crocs and you can listen to it using the link below! It's completely free, but there's an option to pay if you really want to (it would be much appreciated, but don't feel obligated!)

[paradox-psyc-hoe-sis]

; The Whole World’s Wrong (But You)

Adrian Chase/Vigilante x gn!vigilante!reader (no use of y/n)

summary: after Peacemaker gets locked away, you take it upon yourself to keep an eye on Vigilante. for the first time, the two of you meet.

warnings: canonical-type violence and language

word count: 2.3k

read on AO3

series playlist

beaut gif from this set

The first time you meet Adrian, you’re somewhere you think you probably shouldn’t be.

You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think Vigilante was one bad decision away from getting himself killed. Now that Peacemaker is no longer in the picture, he appears to have lost the only part of his life that ever had a chance of knocking some sort of sense into him. And even with Peacemaker around that had been rare; between the two of them, they were fortunate if they had one good idea a week.

One of them alone was a nuisance. The two of them together were a fucking disaster. Unfortunately for you you only know one thing, and with Gotham left behind you’ve set to work here in Evergreen - right in the middle of their turf. You don’t know if they’re just not aware you’re here, or if they’re content to let you get on with the job. That job would be a hell of a lot easier if you were alone, but instead you’ve spent half of your time listening to police radios so that you can avoid the two of them. You work best alone, you’ve decided, and now is not the time to go getting mixed up in the messes of those two idiots.

Now, at least, it’s just one of them.

Keep reading