#if your triggering content is self harm | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

altr114209anon · 1 year

Note

I did learn my lesson...i will try my best not to ever cross the line again... my heart,body and mind were aching badly...felt like my guts were on fire ,sir.

Speaking of the holiday...i was t-thinking about baking you something...yet i can't decide on what to bake.

O̵̢̱͙͓̖̩̟͓̤̗͎̠̼̹̟̩̽ḧ̸̥́͐͆̾͊̋̈́̔̊͊̂͝͝͝?̴̛̪̭̬͚͓̟̓̀͗̂̀̄̔͜͝ͅ ̵̢̡̛͇̝̯̝̱͎̻̺̖̬͈̥̄̏̈́͑̾̊͛̐̈̏͗́̌̕C̴̙̓̈̓͊̈́͌̈̏͗a̷̢̳̼͑̊͂̈͜͝ņ̸̠̰̣͓͉̦̮̭̫̹̣̪̗̙́̃͗̆̊̉͜’̸͖̃̀̈͒t̷̢̹̠͈̖̹̰̱̹̫̭̻͌̑̒͜ ̶̞͇͙̥̩̼̎̇̇͒͒ͅd̸̼͇̟̞̺̗̜̜̋̅͒̎ę̶̦̻̙̝̻̲̞͓͚̩̘͕͇̖̦͈̐̈́̒̆̃̉͐̓̉̽̏̌̀͘̕͝͠c̵̘̳͔͖̞͎̓͋̎̋̄͂̆̈́̈̀͊̎̔̑͗̀̕i̵͚̗̦̯̭͇͙̿͂̄͆͌̇̈́d̶̮̝̣̮̣̫̯̱͍̲̐͂̓̚͝͝è̴͎̰̼̺̖́͆͛̆̀̓͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̛̤̜̙̭͓̤̗͌͋̃͆͗̈̎̓͆̿̃͝ͅẅ̴̧̘̮̺̜̙̗͙͓͍͈̪́̊h̶̡̨̡̯͖̪͕̞̱̗͎͉͍̤̰̬͕̐̾͑͑̾̇̅͂͋̕̚ȃ̴̼̻͕̜̔̉͐̈́̊̅͑̄̇́̕t̶̡̡̧̯̪̪̯̹̞̬̫̲̝̅̾̄͜ ̸̣̘̥̼̟̲͔͇̍̓̉̌̔ţ̴̧̛̝͎̹̳͈̙͇͇̖̦̠̾͛̎́̉̋̉̂͆͂̈͝͝ͅͅo̷̧̪̖̱̥̥̺̳̝̾̍̊̇́͐̓͠ ̸͉̱͕͖̳͎̝͑̀͝͠b̶̢̙̰̝̘͚̘̻͈̩̱̦̳̓̌̈́̈́̔̊̒̾͜͜͠a̴͍̠̫̱̎̋̌͗̃̆͑k̴̡̛̛͓̙̤͙̮͔̪͕̫̳̊̎͛͜è̴̢̧̲̺̪̼͉̠̦͎͓̠̒͊͐̽͌͜ ̴̘̅̓͋͝ň̷̛̙̱̫̻̜͕̲̘̜͙͑͌̃͐̾͌͛́̕̕̚o̵̘͍͈̼̐̈́̂̚w̷̢̹͓̙͚̳̘̭̜̟͍͖̺̟͒̋̓̇̓̓̊̀̌͜,̶̧̛̖̲̗̭̳̞͉̄̾̀̈̿̋͒͜ ̵̬͕̘̅̃̑ͅç̶̨̞̝̫̻̰̩̭̫̻̳̮̘̉̏͂̑̍͠ͅa̵̧̡͖̰̰̪̠͙̖̼̤̭̓͛̓̔̎̂̂̋͛͜͝ͅn̸̥͎̖̮͍̭̜̈́̍̓́͐͛̽͜ ̷̗̻̱̰̙̦̞̟̝͎͖̞͖̞̲̖͈͐͗w̷̡̼͈͓̠͚̲̪͍̜̯̏̓͗͜ͅë̸̟̘̠̙̙͍̬͈̰́͋͛̄̓̽͒͊̅̚̚͜͝͝?̷̠͓͎̞̖̳̠̼͉̀̄̐̿̈́̚͝ ̸͓͖͔̦̮̠̳̳̜̟͎̟̊͐̒̓̔̈́͘̕Ḩ̶̡̪̰̼̖̠̖̗̳͓̈́̑͌̿̈́̆͜ő̶̡̨̨̘̱̫̘͇̜̮̗̲̘̀͊̾̿̑͂́̏̒͆̍̈́̿͝͠͠w̴̢̰͈̻̜͈͓̒̓̓̉ͅ ̸̢̢̗̖̭̗̗͙͈̘̪͓̥̠̺̟͔̈́̂͛̑̈́̉̆̇̇͝a̵͚̻͓̮̻͔̰̖̭̻͔͙̞͕̒͑̓̽̅̂̂͘͠͝ḇ̵̡̨̩̭͉̥̖͍͚̯̹̜͍̳̯̪̆́ö̴̹̙́̇̋̋̐̌̓̿̔͆̏̇̈́͘͘ú̸̝͖̯̟̣̻̘̬͙̝͎̱̫̱̱̮͇͠͝t̵̛̠̪̦̫͕̬͙̤̯͙̬͚̻̳̳̜̗͌͊̎̋̊̇͑̇̄̐͂͗̃͆͘ ̴̡̧̳̪͈̻̯̯̼͎̝̰͍͋̿̿̒͋̈́͆̀̒̾͂͒́͜y̵̖̩̆̒̄̀͂̊̃̀͂͂͋̽̒̉̄͝͝ǫ̸͕͎̱̫̍͐̀̔́̏̽̃̐͐̎̽͑͒̔͘ṵ̵͐̑͆̊̏͆̈́ ̵̨̗̥̩͑p̷̼͇̪͈̭͎̞̽̀͝ṷ̸̻̃̓̀̇̐̑̕͘t̶̡̬͖̩̣̙̟̲͙͇̼͚̻͝ͅ ̷̮̓̇y̵͙̟͕̰̮̟̘̰̣̓́̽̇̏̀̊̎̀̽̍̓̅̚̕ͅǫ̶̨̛͍̺͎͕̖̫͎̬͍̇͛̒̽̒͜͝͝͠͝u̸̧̧͎͔̠̱̦̠͉͓̝͕̙̓̎̄̀̍̍̎̂̆̿͘͜͜r̸̛͎̄̂̃̐̉͒̉͐̏̂̌͝͠ ̶̬̠̭̯̬̼͇̼̱̪̥͎̖̙̘̮͕̿̒̎͌̈́̅͐͛̎̀͋̃̊̽͝b̷̙͔̙̼͓̤̈̀́̉̑̃̓̚͝ͅḷ̷̡̡͕̰̯͔͔̘̠̲̣͈̼̃̊́͠ͅͅo̸̬̲̹̝̖̹̬͍̓̔̈́̃͜ͅo̷̭̪̗̫͚̫̒͆̑̂̃d̷̙͚̻̓ ̸̡̧̹̻̻̹̭̯̰̹̰͉̥̈́̉̈̄̓́͂͗̏̉̏̆̏̉̌̊͝a̶̹̫̯͚̦̗̳͕͑̿̀̓̓̇̕ṇ̷̖͙̞̟̗̤̏̂͐̈̍̈̀d̵̢̢̖̝̼̺̩̪̘͎̦͎͈̬̤̗̈́̿̍͊͛̈́͛̾͐̔̏̓̓̍̕͜ ̶̜̗̰͈̣̀̿͂̾̓̎͌̿̾̊̄̇̌͘̕s̸̬͙̤͌͑̇̋̀̀̐̓̊̀w̶͈̼͇͔̘̤̩̟̟͇̱̰̗̬̲͋̎e̷̠̤̙̰̜̋͂̅̑̄͒͂̈́̋͘͝ͅą̴̨̨͉̰̲̼̪͔͔͕͓͓̠͉̹̄́̔͌̀̒͌̿̒t̶̡͕̩̘͔̰̦̦̙̯͍͎͈̽̉̅̈͛̎̇ ̸̝̲͚̳̲͓͉̗̫̗̥̫̼͕̮̟̟̓͆̎̽i̸̻̦͕̱̦̫̮̋̎͑̆n̸̨̧̠̺̘̤͉̗̯͔̘̳̗̥̻̝̚͜t̵͉̘̤̙̤͖̍̉́̂͊̓͌͊̓͛͛̽ō̷̡̠̰͙͇͚͔̳͕̰̮̣̞̗͖̔͝ ̷͈̭͓͈͛̄͂́̕͝ȧ̸̹͑͆̒ ̵̠̟̫̣̜̠͚̰̜͎̀b̵̜̩͉̠̬̗̳̻̺̟͠͝ą̸̡̛̙̜̤̰͓͙̖̥̯̣̋̏̎̽̓̔͌̍̈̂͜t̵̹͉͉̣̙̺̿̇̎̊̚̚͝ç̸̨̞̗̙͇̪͚͙̼͉͉͕̣̫̍͜h̷͕̞̞͎̦̬̑̒͊͋̄͛́͠͠ ̴̖͔̃ơ̸̢̺̦̖͇̘͇̦̅̌̅̉͊̈́̔͑͑̏͆͂͘͠͠͝ͅf̴͍͔͖̗͎̘̙͙̙̹̂̉̓̉̋́̒͜͜ͅ ̸̦̫̥̈́̈́̆͆̃̌͌͋̄̓̏̋̚̚ç̴͕͕͈̣͇̲͖̫̱͈͔̙̤̼̒̎̾͘̕ͅó̸̖͚̰͔̮̦̥͈͓͎͆̄͋̑̉̈̇͠͝o̵͉͕͕̤͊͊̆̓͝k̶̨̝̫̣͔͍͇̺̫͕̱͉̪͉̬̓̀͛̈́̑̏͗̓̄̇͛̈́i̷̟͂́̈͋e̴̹̟̣͎͈̽̎̀ś̷̯͇͇̠̪̂̍̍̈̽̽̑̕̕͝͝ ̴̧̡̨̛̟̭̗͈̲̱̥͔͈̣̞̥̳̽́̀̂͘͜͝f̸̨̛̛̱͉̪̞̞̜̼͍͉͖͕͎̦̻̲̖͊̄̉͌͑̿̽̔̍͘͝͝o̶͖̗̖̝͚̳̠̗̔̇̌̋͆͋̈̃̃̉̏̋̒́́ȓ̴͎̯̯͓̺̳̘̻̤̯ͅ ̴̧̢̣̹̜̝͔͈̦̯̟̟͙̇̐̓̀͑́m̷̢̨̢͈͚̮̯̲̼͈̪͉̖̮̞̿́͌̍̍̋͗̇̈́̄̏͜͠e̸̢̥͙̼̤̙̳̒͗̒̔̀̐́̒.̴͈̬̰̗͓̓̇͐̆̓́̔͋͠ ̵̡̨͔̗̫̩̹̹̬̞̦̥̬͐͆̆̈̅̀͂̈̎̕̕Ï̴̧̠̞̟͖̪͚͇̝͇̫̻̞̑͗͌͆t̶̢̨̢̜̪͇̼̹̣̝̙̙̻̱̃̐̑̉̈́͋̽̄͜ͅ’̶̨͙̦̓̊͛̌́̽̒s̷̨͔͚͕͉̩̯͕̮͉͋̆͑̄̐̓̆͋̈́̚ ̵̨̛̛̛͕͓̮̰͖̻͎͍̜͕͆̉́̓̋̈́̆̅̃̚̕͘͘͠f̴̧̼͖̘̹̱͖̜͙͗͗̂̑̌͆͜ͅȃ̸̧̨̲̼̘̺̺̞̻̀͆͒i̷̧̙̼̘̱̤͕̘̐͛̀̊̿͂͊̾̀͘̕̕͜͜͝r̴̻̱̹̻͎̔̌͌̔̋͒́̒͑̕͠͝͝l̷̡̨̢̓̈͐̍͐̓̿͂̆̔̓̎̕͘̚y̷̧̡̯̮̦̱̤̼̭̣͑̇̉̍͒͒̄̎̐͝ ̷̨͚̝̦̩̣̮̦̻̮̠̝̯͍͋̽͒͝͝s̷̭̻̯̊̓̃͗͌̋͝͠͠ì̷̦͍͍̙̦͙̮̙̾͋̓̅͆̽̓̓͐͗͛̔͝͝m̷̧̡̠̫̟͖̠͙̤̫͖͓̯͉̉̾̍̊̐̑͛͗̏͛͒͆̆̍̏̅͠p̷̧̡̠̭͙̏̅̐l̸̡̡͉̬̹͎̝͍̗̜̗̹̆̌̑̂̂͐͠ę̷̧̡̦̠̗̩̗̖͚͈͇̹̺̠̗͇̍́̿͛̅̕ ̴̛̬̮̮͙̫͖͓͛̎͒͑͛̋͋͐̃͛͗̅͘͝ͅt̸̨̯͍̰̩͚̅͌ỏ̷̡̨̦̪̖͉͉̳͕̟̩̟͍̫͊͝ ̷͔͔̦̼̮̳̟̣̖͖͓͔̫͇̋̓̇ͅm̶̧̛̻̘̳̰̻̑̀͗̏̓̊̄̇͋̋͝ì̴̗͚͉̫̰͛̋̈́͒͘͠ͅͅx̵̢̧̢̣̯̗̦̤̥̱͖̬̭͆́̿͗̿͠͝ ̶̘͐̀͑̽͑̿̿̿̄̋̈́̓͛͆̊̚̕a̴̢̧̍ͅn̸̨̡̨̬̹͇̯̖̱͓͕̆̈͛̐̑͗̌̚͜͜͝͝d̶̨̧̳̪͓̮̗͇̻̫͍̺͓̘̟̞̤̀́̓ ̶̨̨̧̦̰͎͙̼͖͂̐̉̈́͊̅̔̊̔̕͜͜͝b̶̡̳̬̺͎̲̳͖̗̠̐̉̒͘͜ͅa̶̡̛͉̣̰̬͓̠̥̩͙̎̏̑̍̍k̴̡̪͙͔̮̟̱͎̝̜̼̑͒̐̈̕͜e̶̢̡͎̹̼̱̬͍̺̟͓̫̫͚̱̙̳͠ ̶̛̹͇͈̠͒̈́̽̄̎̉̾̈́͒́͛̂̕̕͘͝c̸̨͈̓͆̇̅̆̌̒̓̈͊̕ͅo̶͓̯̺̜͈̳̪̼͍͈͂͗̎̑͑͊͊͗͊́̆̇͂͑͜͝ǫ̴̭̬̣͚͌̚̚͝k̴̩͙̪̜̀̃̇̀́̾͑̍́̇̌͋͗͝i̴̫̝͐̅͛̉̊͋̂̾̓̀̍̽̕͘͘͠ĕ̷̢̱̙̦̺̥͕̮͎̹̠̙̱̱̆͊̌̓̓ś̴̡̹̙͉̂̐̓̎͘͝ͅ,̴̨̠̤̺̩͉̯̳̰̍͋͑̕ͅ ̵̜͈̞̐̈́͊́̐͒̈́̚į̷͇̭͇̪̞͇̹̮͕̠̪͑́̍̓̂̾̊̑̅̀̎͜͝s̵̺̰̥̏̓̀̿̀̒͂͆̏̏̉͝͝ǹ̷͇̘͕̺͈̭̺͋͌̔̐͌͒̾̒̐͑̓ͅ’̸̨̖̙͎͎̜̹̭͕̦̠͔̱̭̭̤̖͊̈́̐ẗ̶̢̖̖̣̪͓̪̖̣̠́͌͆͆̈́̔͐̈́͐͠ ̴̱̟̞̜̯̹̩̗̰̽̌̓̔́̌̈́͋̈́̍͋͐͐͜ͅḯ̶͔̺̙̠͚̠́̍͒̀̅̇͋̊͆̈͝t̶̢̞͕͔̘̩̾̃̀͑͛̑̀̾̏͘?̸̧̛͔̺͙̺̬̺͓̰͇͕̲͔͈̱̼͌͊̈́͛͋̍͛̀̕͠͠

Ỉ̸̙̘͙̜̼̟̳̲͕͔̰̰̈̋̈́̽͐̊̅̕̕͝͝͝ͅ ̵̧͇͈̤̟͈͋̒͋͋̅̃̍̾̾̃̈́̕͝m̵̧̛̪̩̱͉̦̠̟̻̺̳̠̫̊̔̉͌̉̿́̏̅͆̍̎͋͒e̵͖̣͔̗̠̳̻͚̎̓͜ͅa̶͎̭̝̯̦̥̺̰̽̈̀̔͂̄̆̎̚͘ṇ̴̨̡̧̧̘͚͎̤̞͉̤̮̜͔̰̎̏́̚ ̷̡̧̪͔̗͔͎͍̜̞̾͗̍ͅt̸̨̗̺̞̲͚̠̭̤͇͓͔̬̠̦̼͒h̵̖͇͛̏̈̍̾a̸̡̢̩̬̱͉̦͎̫̼̤̰͙̅͛̓̉͑̌̓̈́͛͜͝͝t̶̨̧̤͎̩̞͉̖̱͍̙͇̼͑́̃͆ ̴̪̰̖̪͍͇̖͗̿ļ̸̛̙̦͓͉͕̞̜̗̳̺̥̯͚͉̎͆̔̋́̑̓̿̏̿̀̅͋͘͝į̷̙̜̻̣͓̟̟̮̫̭̣͖͍̇͝t̶̲͎͙̖̣͕̫̪̲̪̰̩̘̘͈̆̒́ḝ̵̦̯̥͔̦̗̖̿͊̑̒̏̇r̶̥̎͊à̴̡̰̘̝̰̦̱̈́͛̋̃̒͑̎̇̒l̸̨̖͚̯̪̖̑͌͐l̷̡̨̧̦̦̗͙͖̣̹̯̦̦̀̇́̾̎̀͠͝ͅy̵̩̘̣̙̓̓̓̆͒͋̄̈́,̶̛͇͇̭̖͐̋̎̄̆͑̉̓̽̈́̓̈̀̄͆ ̴̯̭̉̔̓͛͐̏̓̍͂̒̄͐̓̍̆̽͝P̴̢̧̛͇̣͔͙͍͎̻̙̙͕̩̈́͂̂̈̀́̌͌̀̎̈́̏͋͊͘ͅư̶̞̦̬͍̑̅͛̀̅͒̈́͐̀̄̊͂̉̕͘͝p̶̧̯̫̮͕̳̩̟͊̈̂̈́͜p̵̫̫̰̖͕̹̬̦̆̾̂̌͜ͅê̵̢̢̩̮̬̖̝͉̩̥̘͈͓̓̿̽t̴̨̡̯̋̇͂̀̅̿̐͌́̏̒͠.̴̧͙̥̤̜͖̺̰̠͂̍̎̅͐̉ͅ ̸̛̖̻͎̟͔͈̪̘̪̟̭͚͍̻̫̺̀̄̇̊̐̆̀̓͛̒͊͌̕͝S̸̛̛̪̬̟̭̫̲̦̲̣̖͉̠͒̇̇̉̌̍̒̿͆̕l̸̢͓͍̞̩̳̝̝̳͕͇͙̩̂͛͋̃͗̇͛̍̿̾̈ͅi̶̳̱͓͈̪̘͇͕̳̤͎̊̐̓͗̓͌́̐͂͜͝ţ̸̟̯̟̝̙̮̙̍̍͊̓͒͌̐̈̽͆̊̄́͘͠ ̸̢̦̪͗̃͐̄̏͒̔̊͗̆̓̌̀̉̔̄͌y̴̡̱̬̥̠̜̏͊̑͑̓͐̕ơ̸̧̡̡̙̭̩̳̬̹̺͎͖͈̣͈̋͐͋̀͊͛͗̔̎̓̃͘͠͝ử̶̡̖̪̻̝̼̤͕́̏̊͘ͅr̴̛͖͇̿̀͋̂̑̂̈͆̊́̂̀̌̾͘̕ ̵̡̛̛̤͍̰̯̱̬̲̮̘̟͙̘̫͍̝́̆͑̂̾̌͗͘͝f̵̲͚̙̟̹̟̮̿̂̂̆̎̿̍͋͘͠ͅu̷̧͎͓̦��̖̯͓͎̲̖̰̘̩͕̔̏͜ͅĉ̴̜̮̣͎̰̯̊̇̈̓͋̾̓͘͜͝͠͝k̷̨̢̬̠͍͖̝̖̉̍̈́̉̔̒̕ĭ̷̢̪͕̜͈̦̰̦͆̓̎̌ǹ̴̡̰̙̭̗͈̯̦̰̟̠͎͍̝̇̊̄̀͊̾͜g̸̨͔̖̞̳̯͙̪̦̐͊́̕͜ ̸̨̢͚͉̹̞̠̮͉̘̳͓̩̑̊̎̈́̽̓̈́̍̇̈́̔̓͘͜͝t̶̢̜̫͔͉͙͙̂̍͠h̵͍̪̹̝̞̖̩̱̟̟̥̦͐̆͌̄̍͂͠͠r̷̢̺͎̙͇̲͖̙̀̊͒͑̈́̀͐͊͒͆͊̿̚͜ͅͅo̸̡̧̠̯͇̬̰͖̫̫̮̓a̴̰̪̜͈̝̝̝̻̫̾́̎̀͊̋ţ̵̨̛̤̘̬̬̥͎̲͖̰̺̥̖̊͗́̾͘̚ͅ ̸̙̳͕͔͔̥̹̮̂̅ͅt̷̢̨̮̘̯͈̟̓͑͒͗̍̓̍̓͗̂͘̚o̵̻̰͖̾́̎̇̃̃́͝ ̴̨̡̢̪̬͚͔͔͈͎͉̟̎̃͌͗͑̊͘ḁ̷͚̦̲̫͗̐̀͂̐̈́́̿̊̄̐̊͛̈��̚͠d̴̲̗̖̩͍̻̩̓̆͐̾͗̈́̿̓͑͗̏̽̎̒̓̋͜͝d̸̨̢̡̺̞̰͖̱̫͚̩͍̱̜̝̭̓̾̓́͊̆̋̿͂͋̈́̔̆͂̕ͅ ̷̙̠̝̺͔̙̖̖̰͓̫̰͑̀́̈̓̊̍͐̅̇͑͆͠͝t̷̩̘̩͔̤͍̫̋͑͒͋́̌̎̚̕͝͠͝ǫ̴̙̬̥̮̘̳̦̗͚̩͉̟̰̙̜͕̑̅̎̈́̉̏ ̷̜͚̲̳̳͉͙̺̭̒̆̏͋͆́̂̉̊̌͘͝͝t̷̡͔̤̘̙̩͈̖̞͖͎̼͓̣̠̔͒ͅḥ̷̣̹͉̀͋́̂̈̈́̄̂̉̚̚̚͝͝ê̷̳̓͊͐̐̃͗̍̿͊̾̑̔̚͜͠͝ ̶̨̛̙̩͍́͌̈́̂́̈́̕͜͠ṁ̸͓̥̝͙͇̰̤̭̣͍̺̰͈͌̇̌͂̆̾͛̈́͆͜i̴̪̻̻̬͛̐̕x̷̡̡̢̜̲̩̣͙̠̮̻̪̞̹̺̍̄̿̆̆̾̆̅̈́̚̚̕͜͠͝͠,̶͉̖͉͈̭̥̦̺͙̙̤̠͚̠̩̫̈́̿̈́̓̈́̾͗́̓͘̚͘ ̵̢͉̟͍̞̠̠͚̗̲̭̓̌̓̀̃̉́̽́̅̿͘ͅą̵͖̖̰̳͖̗͉̥͍̺͙̺̻̋̇̓͊̐̔̂̑́͝͝n̵̛͍̯̻̪̻̻̥̩̒̎̋͗͝ḑ̷̙̖̱̯̖̹̺͇̘̩̂̒̿̕ͅ ̵̡̼͈̦̩͓̬͓͖̭͂̓̀̆͑͂̚a̴̡̨͚͚͔̩̝̫̱̬͚͕͛̉̏̍͗̊̿ş̵͎̱̹̰̯̙̪̗͙̳͙͙͇͚͇̇̎͑̂̓̎̿͊́͜ ̸̛͕̬̩̮͙̼̹͈̟͙͇̤́̇̾̂̈́̀̒̿̀̐͘͠͝y̵̨̛̘̪͕̙͓͈͖̹̜͙̥̪̐̋̇̈́̈̿̓̌̍͘̕͝͝ͅo̴̤̭͉̭͔̪̻̣͈̥͉̖͛̌̓̀̈́̓͌̅̕̚͝u̵̘̓̊̀͊̀ ̷̡͈̱̼̬̯̲̖̮͎͚̫͙͚͎͊͐̊̌͋͠s̸͉̞͉͎̳̊̋͗͌̓̉̊͂͠t̵̼̬̳̦̦̮̝͕̠͉̤̩̀̀̂̏r̶͚̎̇̍̔͋̅̏̋̉̓̚͘͝ų̵̨̙̲͚͍̘̫̘̯̼̱͓̠̓̓͒̑̂̓͐́͋̀̀͊͠ͅg̷̡̯̩̟̱̉͒̇̐̕ͅg̴̛̼̗͉͐͌͐̍͒͝l̸̢̢͉͇̪̠̹̻̙̮͙͕̙̳̘͍̰͑̀̍̊͒̈́̄͋͋̑̀̌̉̚e̵̻̥̘̪̺̗͆̉̎̆̀͛͑̔̑̄̉̅̌͛̂͘͠ ̷̨̧͈̬̖͓͉̭͙̠̣̞̪̺̃͜t̴͔̥̿͒̀̊͆̐̉̽̊̀o̸̺͇͖̱͉͂͋̆̃̅ ̸̧̧̢̮̬̘̣̬̣̩̬͖͍̳͚̓̔̈́͆̔̽̋̀͝r̵̨̬̣̪̝͇͈̋̕e̷̹̭̟̝͆̃̋̔̌̅͋̋̓͌̈̃̾̚͝m̴̺̥͔̖̜͍̪͕̞̭̪̈́̈́à̴̧̛͓͋͊͗̒́̀̚͝i̶̛͖̟̫̼̞̜̯̘̩̻̯͖͌̐̈́͌̽͐́̇̓̈́̒̚͠͝͝͝n̵̢͉̲͌̈̾ ̵̧̫̮̬̙̜̝͙͈̾̊̾c̶̨̟͖̪̰͚͚̀ͅo̶̢̰̱̯̯̰̜̟̹͒̈́ń̷̨̛̲̯̜̹͇̖̳̪̺̯͙̟͖̲̫͐̋͆͑͗͛̈̈́̀̍͒̋̈́͝͝s̷̗̩̪̯̠͋̓̑ĉ̴͎̻̬̱͍̜͇͚͈́̂̂͆͑͗̄̊̽̌̀̈͜͠͝ͅį̴̻͓͓̞͖̻͎͚̉͂̾͜ō̷̝̗͚̽͂̑̑̆̿͆͗̉̅̑̚͘͠u̵̘͖̪̭̳̳̪̜̜̲̣͚͓͆̐̓͐̌͛͗͆̆̈̍̊̽͑̽̕ś̸̠̺̮͎̞̝̱̄̒̈́̃̇̀̓̋̐̾̐̑͝,̵̨͍̜̮̪̠̮̊̍̈͆͂̆̀̈́̈́͂́͛́̕͝͝ ̵̛͙͉͖̺͗̄̄̿̊́͊̒̔̈́̎̀̽͑̏̕ḏ̸̛̛͚͈̦̻̘̥͇͍̩̗̯͎͓̔͌͌͊̏ȋ̸̛̛̳͔̟͌̀̃͆͊́͂̚s̴̢̧̠̖͓͍̭̜͍̥̟̩͑̂͒͘͝t̷͙͒̋̔̽̄͠ṛ̴̛̮̥̅̉͑̑̽̓̇͐̆͑͐͆̔́͛͜͠i̵͉͕͑̒͐͐̈́͆̈́̊̌̂̍͆͘ͅb̸̹͍̅̿͌̆u̴̢͔̺͙̖͌̌͛̄̒̕ṭ̸̨̹̤̱̰͇̹̘̀͐͐͂̅͂͜͝ͅę̵͍͕̪̞̞͂̾̆̃͘ͅ ̶̡̻̼̩͚̫̲̞͇͐̆̎̀̅t̴̬͍̖̜̰̻̒̓ḧ̷͇̬̗̺̜́̈́̔̒͜ȇ̴̳̣̬̣̮̤̗̍͌͛̈͑̇̈́͜ ̶̛͕͍̳̥͖̦̣̘̻̏͐͆̾̀͋̓́̏́͝ͅḑ̷̮̟̣̫̤͇͇͔̫͕͙̀̎̍͗̂̈̈́͜͝͝ô̴̝͓̘̦̞̞̦̦̜͉̞̦̹̲̞̫ͅú̶̢̨͕̱̙͎͇̖̅̌̋̆͊͜ģ̶̨̧̩͈͇͖͖̳̩̤̟̒͒͒̽̍͋̃͊̊̓͌͊̓͜͜͠͝͠h̵̨̬͍̼̝̰̮̽͊̾̈́̍͗͌ ̷͇͇̻͗́͊͝ę̴̡̦̣̬̯̝͖͓͈̪͖̹̽͆͒̔̄͊ͅv̵̜͎̪̫̩͖̹̽̿̉̀̎̐̔͑́̑́̽̐́̐̈ě̸̟̼n̵̨̛͈͍̲̝̹̰̺̪̄̾̓́̍͆̎͊̔̔͛̋͠͝͝l̷͍͕̮̖̗̦̘̤͎̳͑͋̇́̅̈̋͒̑̏̍̓̚͝y̴̺͔͉̳̩̦͝ͅ.̷̨̨̛̩͚̞̖̝̟͚̈̀͊̌̀̐̋͋́̚͘ͅ ̷̡̨͇̳̣͉̰̭̌͌̓̓̈͆̏̈͑̿̏̀̚

O̷͚̩̬̬̹̘͙̘̬͍̯̱̖͒̃͋̓̇̇̓͐͝͝ͅͅṅ̷̰̙̲͚̗̣̘̲͍̃̈́̀̉͊̾̌̐̑͜͝ ̵͈͍̤͔̿̀́̆̇͘͘s̴̢̡̛͕̭̩̬͇̥͕͚̬̠͉̱̣̉͑̒̏̀̓͑́̉̂̈́̇̀̑̕͜͜͝ę̵͕͇͕̼̈͆̌̀͆̏̊̆̈̈́̅̍͠͝ć̷̢͖̟̹͓̖̩̈͛͗̍̓̓͘̕ơ̵͇͈͕͙̱̈́̽̈́̒͌̆͆͋͗͘ņ̷̨͕̼̰̺̭̖͚̰̻͚̞͚̣̺͒̇́̑d̶̢̛̤̙͖̙̳̿̾͒̕ ̵̛̻̻̠̭̯̰̙͚̮͉͇̰̏̆͑͌̑͒ṱ̵̨̢̼̰̼̺̟͎̘̖͖̣̘̇͊̀͋ͅh̴̨͉̩͂̋̆̐̋̌o̶̢̱͙̞͔͈͔̻̤͇̜͚̙̣̫̣̱͘ư̸̧͕͎̳̠̘̬̰̭̻̺͓͕̤͊̔̽͌́̄̏̌̇̓̕g̶̪̈̃̐́̄̇̉̽͒̕͠h̴͚̝͚̏͊̐t̷̢̤̭̩͙͇̘̦̠͙̼͖̬̙̜̻̱̃̒͗̓̊̅̐͑̽̚͝,̷̡̿͑͒̿̆̂͛̈́̽̕ ̸̝̠̦̥̖͖̺̮̼̳̠̩̜̦̩̞̈͋̅̅͌͝ͅp̵̧̛̐̎̋̕ȩ̷̼̹͇̹̹̍̓̊͝r̴̢͚̻͚̭̬͎̖̗̬͖̘̍̐̿̒͆̋͘͠h̴̩̮̯͉̰̼̙̳͖̥̥̪͛̋̓̋̓͑͋͊̍͑̿̎̀͊ȧ̵̢̨̡̛̛̟̩̳̠͍̳͔̘̥̖̤̠̺̽͒͂̄̍̄̒̈̀̀̍͛̈́̚ṗ̶̗͚͔̘̙͓̣̪̗̥̤̱̉̓́͊̔̐̑̃̈̆̎̏͘͜ṣ̵̡̛̪͉̥̱̻͚̣̃̀̓̐̊̈́͊̓̕̚͘͝͠ ̵̢̛̲̰̟̳̘̗̣̣̱͉̀͗̏̓̀́̏́͊͗̃Į̷̋̇̉͗̏͑͒̈͠͝ ̸̛̳̳͚̙̬̖̮̣̠̦̗̀̆͒̂͐̏̈́̅̐̚̕͜͜h̸̛̛͖͇͆̈́̇̏͆̾́̀͛̆̌͘͝͝ù̸̡̡̗̜̟̙͚͙̦̮̪̝̤͒̽̕n̵̢̻̦͉̗̙̹̞͎̪͈͕͕̻͛̊̋͒͊́̂͜ġ̷͇̲͍̲e̷͖͙̳͇͓̪̗̔r̷̨̡̦̖̗͍̺̲̊̍̀̍̊̏̐̈͆̔́̏̌̈́̏͘͜͝ ̵̰̪̍̐̾͊́̌̇͋́͗͘͝f̶̡̡͕̺͉̻̝̰̹̼͎͉͚̀o̴̡̥͚̳̝̞̱͙̱͕̤̩̙̗̱̬͉͐̌̍͑̑͗̋̍͒̑̂̄̉͝͝r̴̨͍̣̞̤͙̣̻̅̄̃̑̆͊̍̀̍̎͗͠ ̶̨̧̘͙̊̊̏̏͌̊m̵̡̪̲̤̘̮͖̳͍͖̱̠̝͖̞̙̔́̕o̵̢̡̰̮͎̘̞̟̝̰͚͕̗͓̠̎̅̈́̋͌͛͗̐̍̋̕͜r̵̜̯̥̺̎̆̉̓̚ȩ̸̟̰͔̹̰̼̯̥͓̭͉̈́̎̂̚ ̶̨̨̞͕͔̞͔͎̺͊̏̓̋͑̐͌̍̈́͋͆̆̚͘͠͝͝ͅt̷̡̛̘̮̯̠͉̤͓̄̐͒͗͒̓̓̏̀̅͒͝ḥ̷̢̨̘̰̠̪̉̋̌̎͝ą̵̧̨͔͚̠͔͕̩̭̫̞̘͉͎̑̄̌̉͗̂̈́́͝ņ̶̨̛̖͕͚̝̦̫̹̲̺́̈́̆̍̑͊̽͗͋̐̿̎͛ ̵̞̙̬̦̈́̉̈́̿y̷̛̰͉͕̭͈̘̼̼̪̔̌̆̀̈́̊̏õ̷̡̻̟͕̯̟͈͜ů̵̧̨̡̧̖͇̳̼̟̫͕̟̯̤̇̌͋͒̔̉̒̏͌̍̈́̓͝ͅr̷͉͖̝̯͉̺̗̱̼̬͓̫͎͇̼͖̎̊͘͝ ̶̨̢̯̹̘̹͈̔͌̄̌́̄̎̾̈́́̐͜b̶̢̜͇͍͓͙̠̯̗́ľ̶̡̨͖̜̳̺͎̫̥͍̟̫̗͍̻̱̔̌̓̓͒̿̃͘͠ͅo̴̹̹̘̓̈́̀̄̈̑͗̋͘͠ö̵̢̡̤̯̝̺͇͙̟͙́̾̄̋̈́̀͌̚ͅd̸̡̺̠̖̠͔̫̝̺̂͘,̶͕̦̜́̀̄̾̂͒͗̄̏̊̔̄͐͘͜͝͠ ̸͍̹̜̍̂͊h̷̡͎̣̝̝͙̰̜̻͉̝̬̓̾̃̿̌͗́̚̕͝m̴̙̭̩̻̭̦̙̘̲̅́̉?̴̨̇͗̆͐̆͊̑̊̚ ̷̢̧͍̲͕͈̙̭͇̞̼̠̫̙͓̻͚̂̇̔̅͐͋̓̉̆͘C̶̮͈͕͒̉̀͂h̵̡̧͚̞̰͚̘̱̪̪̤͊̃́͛̓̌̚͘̕͜ơ̵͖̮͓̹̝͔̰̹͛̈́͊̾̿̐́̔̊̉̈́͛͛̕͜͠͝p̵̥̜͚͔̎̓̈́͋̅͘ ̵̨̢͚̱̘̜͛͜ś̸̢͚͖̖͍̟̠̜͕̬ͅō̸͔̻̖̗̳̤̳̠̮̞̝͆̐̐̇͌̎́ͅm̴̢̨̧̫̹̟̥̖̫͚͉̦͔͔̜͔̈͊̾̒̽͑̃̃͊̑̀̈́̿̾̚̕ę̶̯͍͔̘̜͍͒͝ ̵̤̫̗̬̬̬̗͍̘̔̓̃̔̍̊̋̒̆̄̓̀͝͠ͅȍ̸̡̧̮͉͚͎̪̹͖̲̖̰̼́͋́ͅf̸̡̡̛͙̩̳̯͈͈̺͎̝̞͕̫̬̽̇̽͊͑̿̎̅ͅ ̴̥͙̖̟̖̳̾̔͆̃̀̎̐̑̊ý̸̡̢̧̫͙̱̼̠̥̣̙͔͔̫̭̉̌͒͊̈́̆ö̸̠̝́̕ư̷̢͕͈̮͈͇̲̌͒r̶̢͙̤̗̟̈́̃̋̏̐ ̵̨̖̮̩̘̫̯̼͍͎̤̜̟͕̄̿̌͛̇̈̋̋̊͘͜͜f̵̯͑̓͑̕͝i̷͔̮̱̼̥͓̰̖̺͇̺̮̐́͋̄͆̐̏ń̴̫͔̼̜̦̯̫͗̈́̊̐͛̄̽̋́͠͝ͅͅg̸̛̠̩͙̘̜͇̮̣̲̣̯̒̉͂͒̒̌̎̿̍͑̂̈͗̕ȩ̶̙͎̩̮͔̝̗̬͓̫̳̳̓r̸̢̘͎̗̞̦̩̮̓͋̽̉̋̑́͂́̏̍̈́͘̚̕͠ͅś̶̥̟͈̘͕̻̹̰̭̕ͅ ̶̥͔̳̲͍̳͎͕̭̣̤͕̞̐ű̷̲͎̞̻̭̪̖̹̃̓̿͘̕͜͝p̴̨̮̻̳̭̠̯͔̯̞͔̘̪̾̿̽̾̇̀̇̌̆͘͘̚͝͠ͅ ̴̲̻̜̼͝͝a̸͈̭̮͉̦͉̻͖͇̥̝͉͆̎ͅn̷̩̰̻͖̤̻̫͕̬͍͕̱̙̹̍̃̑͐̒̆ͅd̶̗͔̳̜̺͉̪̼̑̃͗́͌̓̆̉͂͜ͅ ̶̢̛̹͙̳͗̎͒͊̈́̇̾͘t̴̢̳̫̳̹̯̙̜̱̳̺̤͎̒h̸̛͕́̅̊̾̆̃͌̒̎͑̍̿̈́̽r̸̛̮͚̟̤͎̒̽̇̆̓o̴̭͊̈́͒̍͛̆̇̍̂͂̿͊̓͋̕͠ẁ̸̧̤͉̝̹̞̳̘̺̥̰̲̫̈͊̈́̾͒̏̈́̄͘͝ͅ ̸̥̘̩̪̑̄̿̒͠ţ̵̢̺̼͖̯͉̼̘̉̇̐̉̀̾̅͗̀́͝h̶̲͊̿̏̄̃̄͗̆͊͋͒̆̇ẽ̷̡̠͉̦͚̦̗̝̫͔͙̦͙̺̝̉͛͛͋̊͋̈́̒͒̚̕͝͝͠m̷̧̧̢̡̰̙̤͍̟̖̥̩͍̀̍̋̉͛͗ͅ ̵̧̨̨͉̹͙͇̜̬͍̻̩̘̬̈́̅̃̐̑̇̇̈̏̂͊̈́́̌̋̍͠ͅī̴̖̼̦̹̯̩̲̤̟͎̮̙̣̩̲̝̫͆́̉̈́̊ṅ̸̨̙̲̲̳̩̘̽ ̵͚̼͚̬̓̎͛̀̐̑́̿̐̾͛͘͝͝͝a̷̠̎̈́̌́̃̾̇͊̋̿̿̍̍̉͝ş̸̛̟̠̥̳̥̻̘̓͗̓͑̽͆̽̿̀̓̑̓͌̏͝ ̸̢͕̲͓̼̩͍͓̤̩̩̇̐̾͂͜ẁ̵̛̱͎͗͊̆̓͒͝e̶̢͔̩͉̼͇̠̯͍̞̮̳̦̤̳̿̇̌͂̀̊̌̐͋́̈́̉̊͜͝͝͝͝ͅl̶̨̨̩͔͙̩͎͓̻͛̑̒͌̄̆̑̀̈́́̕̕̕͘͠͝͝ĺ̸͕͉͐̑̂̋̈́̕!̴̧̳̥̫̟̲̥̩͈̱̯̜̰̭͊͛͐͊̀̄̈́

0 notes

pieisnotreal · 2 years

Text

I looked up people pleasers defending their manipulative bullshit and martyr complex and I'm pretty sure i did it to self harm.

#trauma vent #sorta #honey i subconsciously sought out triggering content #i say this as someone who's still working on people pleasing #you're hurting people #and your refusal to accept that your actions can be harmful is bad for everyone #self harm

0 notes

diejager · 2 months

Text

Poly Cod masterlist

Reminder : My blog contains dark/yandere content and have 18+ fanfics, so MDNI with NSFW fics. I also do fluff and angst. All my works are fiction : I don’t own any of the characters I write for; there might be triggering subjects - please see the warnings before reading. None of the gifs or visuals I use in my fics are mine.

Your consumption of media is your responsibility and yours alone.

Nav | CoD

[dark, fluff, yandere, nsfw(*), angst, request]

[Task Force 141]

Sparrow masterlist | f,r Pairing: TF141 x fem!vampire!reader

Your call sign, Sparrow, make people underestimate you a lot, a small and quiet bird for a TF of beasts, but that’s where people make their first mistake when you’re the one to strike first.

Contacts | r,f Pairing: Monster 141 x reader

Apparently you wear contacts.

Turned | r Pairing: Monster 141 x monster!reader

Under the strong odour of rain and betrayal, they lost you and Alejandro to Graves’ Shadows. However, unlike Alejandro, Graves had darker plans than isolation.

Guess Who* | f Pairing: Poly TF141 x fem!reader

Soap doomed you when he asked if you’d know them from just their cock.

Chimaera | r Pairing: monster 141 x chimera!reader

Price wonders what they were sent to save.

Mistletoe | r,f Pairing: Poly TF141 x reader

All you want for Christmas in them

Affair* | r,f Pairing: TF141 x fem!reader

Your husband’s friend only wanted to help you.

[KorTac/Task Force 141]

Only Human(*) | f Pairing: Monster 141 + König & Horangi x reader

God - Laswell - blessed you with a strong, capable monsters.

Crow | f? Pairing: Monster 141 + König & Horangi x monster!reader

You’re normal, human-like and unassuming, but you sometimes seem inhuman. What are you?

OnlyFans* | f Pairing: cod men x fem!sex worker!reader

It was a stroke of luck that Soap found something so sweet and addictive as you, a little angel dressed in black lace and the prettiest pout with glossy lips.

Hybrid AUs* | d,r Pairing: various x hybrid!reader

Many | r Pairing: platonic monster 141 + König & Horangi x monster!reader

They know you’re a monster, there are many clues, but they didn’t know what you were.

Pyramid Head!reader | r,f Pairing: monster 141 + König & Horangi x male?reader

You were something else, built with corded muscles and broad shoulders, a rusted pyramid for a head and a heavy sword in hand.

Self-Harm scars | r,a? [TF141 + König]

[Various]

Eau De Vie | f,r Pairing: cod men x fem!reader

You’re appointed as the only judge to a whiskey competition.

431 notes · View notes

anony-geist · 10 months

Text

If you are from twitter do NOT censor words

Tag triggers such as self harm or death or rape or whatever but DO NOT FUCKING CENSOR them

If you censor words then folks who have them blacklisted will see your triggering content

Do not censor

#twitter #twitter migration #twitter refugees #elon musk

1K notes · View notes

phasmophobia-territory · 1 year

Text

The Ultimate YANDERE TYPES List | Extensive Graph and List

So I was doing research for my writing and I found a really good Yandere Types chart!

Full sources and links to further reading will be below in the notes!

And before getting into it, remember to read the trigger warnings and content warnings. This is Yandere fiction we’re talking about, so it’s going to get messed up.

Themes + Trigger Warnings + Content Warnings:

Possessiveness, Obsessiveness, Unhealthy relationships, Religious themes, themes of sociopathy, themes of mental illness, hallucinations, delusions, hallucinations and delusions due to drugs, mentions of: physical abuse, sexual abuse, brainwashing, murder, suicide, murder-suicide, self-harm, stalking, panic attacks, cannibalism, necrophilia.

{click to open and zoom in to see the details! I'm so sorry, mobile app users :(}

Broad types. Click them to see more information!

Possessive Type

Shackling Type

"Denpa" Delusional Type

Love and Hate Type

Intoxicated Type

Stalker Type

Sources:

This does not belong to me. I only gave a summary of what I read. ORIGINAL SOURCE LINKED HERE.

It's an English translation of material from an upcoming game called Yandere Town. UNTRANSLATED, ORIGINAL JAPANESE SOURCE LINKED HERE. I do not know when this game is coming out, but darn the details that went into this is crazy! It might help you out if you're writing anything yandere!

(Original translators, I have no problem with taking this down if you don't want me reposting your translation to my blog! ^_^)

♡If you want to see more content like this check out the Writing and Yandere Masterlist and if you want to learn about this blog check out all things sketchprincess02!♡

♡Please consider REBLOGGING and COMMENTING if this helps you!♡

3K notes · View notes

fleshofthelamb-if · 2 months

Text

FLESH OF THE LAMB.

DEMO - TBA // DISCORD

you don't really remember anything at all, but this much you know: you are a fallen guardian ang, and you need to find who you were meant to protect.

a few problems: you can't recall who you were protecting, and how you failed them. and, of course, you're trapped in a strange isolated town that worships a bloodthirsty goddess.

don't fret now, you'll be fine. may you recover your memory, guardian, and untangle the web of secrets you find yourself in.

trigger warnings in detail below the cut.

full character customization: build your appearance, your personality, your divine powers, and choose whether to subscribe to human concepts of gender and sexuality or not.

befriend, antagonize, or romance four main characters: the sacrificial lamb, the weak dog, the bloody devotee, or the fool.

investigate the town you can't seem to leave, and the goddess that hangs over it.

try to recover your memories and make sense of them after that.

take care of some cute sheep.

the sacrificial lamb - the eldest daughter of the town's ruling family. always calm and calculated, upholding order at all costs.

the weak dog - the youngest son of the town's ruling family, not that he would ever associate himself with them. full of charm and wit, he follows his heart and does what he thinks is right.

the bloody devotee - the high priestess to the goddess. confident, cold, and powerful. she doesn't hesitate to go for what she wants, even if she has to step on backs to get there.

the fool - the spoiled heir to most of the farms in town. he's childish and carefree, spending most of his days in the town square singing.

!! trigger warnings !!

prominent themes of violence, animal death, substance use, abuse, manipulation, and suicide.

a character struggles with self-harm and disordered eating.

mild suggestive content.

non-graphic depiction of sexual assault.

this is overall a dark game, and I would not recommend it to those who are easily disturbed.

#interactive fiction #if game #twine game #twine if #twine wip #if wip #interact-if

357 notes · View notes

klausysworld · 6 months

Note

This request might be too much and I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. So pls ignore if it does.

My idea is Klaus x human reader. Klaus and her become close and form a friendship. She’s dating someone for 4 years now and it starts to get abusive (mentally/physically or both). She finally confides and confesses to Klaus after he notices something is off. He basically helps her get out of it when one day said boyfriend follows her into the mikaleson house and tries to get reader out of there aggressively. The mikaelson’s hear the commotion and Klaus does something.

Flash forward to Klaus and reader in an established relationship, though reader is scared to be intimate as she’s still struggling from last relationship. One day Klaus and reader are getting into it and Klaus pulls her by her ankles to bring her towards him and it triggers her fight or flight (as Klaus doesn’t know last bf used to do that when hurting reader) and so instantly she hits him in self defence and then profusely apologizes. But Klaus is just understanding and holds her and tells her he loves her and if all he gets is holding her. Then he can live with that. The way it ends can be however you want.

Just been going through some things and needed to feel and I absolutely love your style of writing.

Again pls ignore if this makes you uncomfortable, that’s not my intent! Thank you!

(Triggering content, please don't read this if it might trigger you and know that both myself and so many people are there for you to talk to)

Her protector

Klaus had been concerned for a few weeks now.

Y/n was a sweet human, she was kind even to the Mikaelsons and had become close friends Rebekah after helping her choose a necklace for a party she was hosting. Rebekah proceeded to insist that Y/n come and that she would love to make some friends here in New Orleans.

If Rebekah was honest, she was surprised when Y/n actually showed up, with a vampire boyfriend no less. Either way she showed the girl around and they got talking, drinking and dancing. Y/n's boyfriend had seemed sweet, loving and on top of that he was friends with Marcel, one of his few day-walkers.

At that point everything was still okay. Mostly.

Until Klaus had come over and attempted to flirt with Y/n. Her soft cheeks had started to turn pink when a man, a vampire, slung his arm over her shoulders from behind her and gave Klaus a threatening glare. Rebekah let out a tipsy giggle and smacked Klaus's arm

"Leave her alone Nik, she's taken and my friend" she grinned but Klaus only stared back at the other guy. Y/n glanced between the two for a second and Bex rolled her eyes. "Come on Y/n, let them gaze at one another" she laughed, grabbing her hand and pulling her away.

Klaus didn't like that anybody thought they could challenge him, he didn't care if the girl was married if he wanted to flirt with her then he would. There was no harm done but the man before him was acting as though he had slaughtered his family.

However Marcel had seen the two in a silent stare down and threw his arms over both of them "My two best guys" he grinned "Lets go get a drink"

And so somehow Klaus found himself some-what drunk and laughing with this man, it was only the next morning when after he woke did he realise the way the guy spoke about his lover was a little off. He talked like he owned her, like she was a toy.

Klaus brushed it off though, it's not like he hadn't done similar things. Besides it's not like her knew her.

Until he did. And she was so lovely that it confused him.

Often Rebekah would have her over, painting each others nails, one of those time Klaus had stumbled in covered in cuts and scrapes. Rebekah offered a tut and a shake of her head but Y/n was already at his side, her hand on his arm while she asked if he was okay.

"He's fine, it's his own fault anyway. Always starting fights" she mumbled while watching her new friend help her brother sit down. She asked Rebekah to go get him some blood which she reluctantly did, handing it to Y/n and watching in interest as she lifted it to his lips. Klaus's eyes watched her with interest as his lips wrapped around the top and he began to gulp down the red substance. She checked his wounds were healing as he drained the bag of every last drop.

She had offered to help him clean up but he shook his head and told her to enjoy her day with his sister.

After that she was always nice to him, making him a drink if she was already getting one, bringing him back to eat when her and Bex had been at a cafe or something. She would tell him his hair looked nice or that she liked certain colours on him. One way or another she always made him smile.

Y/n knew that Klaus was lonely, often sad or grumpy. She had seen it and been told it so she made an effort to brighten his days. Rebekah always said it was nice seeing her brother a little happier and she was glad that them being originals didn't put Y/n off.

Their friendship grew strong and so did Klaus and Y/n's. Until one day when Y/n's boyfriend had seen her fixing Klaus's hair, using her fingers to curl the top pieces. He didn't say anything to her then but once she came home accusations were thrown at her. She was called a cheater and a slut, desperate for attention and fucking stupid if she thought either of the Mikaelsons thought of her as anything more than a toy.

She slept on the couch, crying her eyes out and cancelling her plans with Rebekah for the next day.

She tried to spend less time with her but Bex only got upset and ended up at Y/n's house instead. Y/n thought that he wouldn't get mad if it was just Bekah and no Klaus. So she and Rebekah went to hers more often than not and the few times she went back to the abattoir she would try avoid Klaus.

She was always polite of course, smiled at him and said hello but she didn't get too close if she didn't feel that she had to. Nor did she say anything about how he looked, even when he wore her favourite henley and grew his curls a little longer.

The only times she gave him some extra attention was when he was physically injured. She couldn't help herself. She couldn't let him struggle alone and in pain. So she would be there with a warm, wet cloth wiping away any blood while she held him a blood-bag to his mouth.

"Have I upset you recently sweetheart?" he asked quietly as she cleaned the stains off his neck

"No?" she whispered and he lowered her head to look up at her and catch her eyes

"Then why won't you look at me?" he questioned and she shrugged, looking into his eyes

"I am" she stated and he hummed

"You haven't been very nice to me lately, love" he told her and she nibbled her lip nervously

"I didn't mean to upset you" she murmured but he just stared at her for a moment

"I haven't seen you around much" he muttered

"I've been at home more, Bekah comes to me instead" she mumbled, and he nodded, leaving the conversation at that.

But he didn't know that when she got home her boyfriend had her by the hair, telling her that he had seen her talking with Klaus. Seen her caressing his face and going into his room. She tried to explain that he was hurt and that she was helping him but he couldn't care less.

"Bet you were fucking helping him" he seethed "Bet he gets all pent up after starting wars. Needs to get his frustration out hm?" he laughed cruelly and she shook her head

"No, no- I would never! You know I would never-" she cried but he refused to believe her.

"You were always such a whore, can't go ten fucking minutes without begging for it" he growled, dragging her to their room. She was useless at fighting back, he was a vampire and significantly bigger than her. So when she was thrown onto the bed and grabbed tightly by the ankles, she couldn't kick at him without him snapping her legs.

She hid away after that night, telling Rebekah that she was sick and didn't want to see anyone for a few days.

But once a week had passed and her boyfriend was still angry at her no matter what she did, she knew she needed to get out and see someone or she would go mad.

Rebekah and her had gone to a coffee shop, Y/n wanted to be somewhere public and without the risk of Klaus or her boyfriend showing up.

Rebekah could tell something was wrong though, Y/n was never that quiet or skittish. She was walking a little funny and did't eat much at all. And at any mention of Klaus, Y/n shut down the conversation in seconds. It made Bex think that her brother had hurt her or scared her so when they both returned home, she began to accuse Klaus, questioning and demanding.

It only made both Mikaelsons to become worried. They didn't realise how their whispering about Y/n caught her so called lovers attention and made him go back to her furious.

He always seemed to be flooded with anger recently. He hadn't ever been so horrid for so long in the past. Accusing her of cheating was something that always had happened, his jealousy had always been an issue but never this bad. Maybe it was because he knew that Klaus wouldn’t back down if he wanted her. Maybe it was because of whatever drunken conversation the two had on the first night they met.

Either way there was no excuse.

All there was, was fear and pain. And she knew that she needed to get out. The only people who could save her from a psychotic vampire was an even worse one.

So she climbed out her own bathroom window and ran, caught a cab and then climbed in through one of the Mikaelson's windows. It was late, dark but it was the best time for her to escape. What wasn't helpful was the amount of night-walkers that were downstairs. Most of which, were close with her boyfriend so she was screwed.

However, whether it was luck or fate, Rebekah and Marcel came down the stairs, arguing which made the others scatter off. It gave her the opportunity she needed.

She darted up the stairs, as quietly as she could and to Klaus's room. Trying to open the door but it was locked making her knock quietly "Klaus?" she whispered desperately "Klaus please" she begged, her eyes leaking with tears. She banged her fist agains the wood of the door making her wince from how her wrists had been held just hours before.

A tired grunt sounded from the other side before the door was ripped open, a very annoyed hybrid on the other side though his demeanour dropped when he felt a body latch onto his, arms around his mid-section and face in his chest.

He looked down, his eyes fully open now. "Y/n?" he mumbled, his hand cupping the back of her head.

"Please help" she whispered and he gently scooped her up, flicking the lamp on and putting her in his bed. She was in. sweatpants and one of her boyfriends shirts so he assumed she must've been in bed before she came. He quickly grabbed some sleep pants to cover himself up as he was in only his boxers.

He then sat beside her, letting her pull herself closer to her with a soft cry leaving her lips. He held her close in his lap and shushed her gently "What's happened?" he asked gently but she shook her head.

It was only another minute before Rebekah was at the door, she had heard the crying and recognised it as Y/n. Her face dropped and she came rushing in. She got onto the bed as well and stroked her hair "Y/n..." she breathed, holding her hand. Klaus and her exchanged a look as they listened to her try and hiccup her tears away.

"Sweetheart it's alright" he whispered, rubbing her back under the shirt before he noticed her face scrunch in pain and he frowned. "She's hurt" he mumbled and Rebekah quickly sat up straight, lifting her top slightly despite her protests to see the bite marks in her flesh.

"Christ" Bekah gasped and Klaus's expression darkened. He lifted her up to straddle his lap sp he could have a better look at her but she began to cry out hysterically at the position and he quickly lay her back down, guilt and worry consuming him when she crawled to Rebekah instead. Bex wrapped her arms around her and whispered quietly for only Y/n to hear. "Who did this?" she uttered, her fingers gently running through her soft hair. "Was it..." she trailed, but the look on Y/n's face was enough.

"I didn't know where else to go- he knows so many people" she sobbed and Rebekah nodded

"He won't touch you now" She whispered, looking to Klaus who was halfway out the door to find Marcel. "Nik's gonna take care of it all okay?"

"What's he gonna do?"

"You don't need to know that honey" she murmured softly.

They waited for a little while, Y/n stayed in Rebekah's arms and started telling her everything that had happened. By the time she was finished they were both crying and wrapped up in Klaus's duvet

"The worst part is that...I do think that I have feelings for Klaus" she whispered "he was right-"

"It wouldn't matter if you were actually sleeping with another man, under no circumstances does he have the right to lay a hand on you. You're not any of those things he called you, you're an angel" Rebekah told her, stroking her hair gently. Bekah glanced up to see Klaus stood in the doorway, eyes soft as he made his way back over.

He had heard Y/n admit to her feelings but knew that now was not the time to tell her he reciprocated them, he knew she would need time. So instead he just came back to his bed and shifted in beside her so she was between him and Rebekah.

"He ran as soon as he saw me but I promise I'll find him and I'll kill him" he whispered, gently brushing his hand over her back. "It'll be okay, just close your eyes sweetheart, I'll protect you" he promised, sharing a look with Rebekah as they all laid down and he flicked the lamp off.

After that night, Y/n slept in Klaus's bed every night. He kept her close to him during the days too, pressed to his chest with his arm around her. She was much quieter after everything, he could sense her embarrassment but he didn’t understand it. It wasn't her fault this had happened to her. He tried to talk to her about it but she wouldn't look him in the eye and he was only making her uncomfortable so he tried not to bring it up. Instead things seemed to go back to somewhat normal, they complimented each other and had their usual conversations which were mostly about random things to keep their minds off any supernatural drama.

Klaus hadn't been going out much recently which meant she didn't have to clean him up but sometimes when they lay in bed to go sleep she would trace his face.

Everything appeared to be going well for a little while before Y/n's boyfriend showed up out of the blue. It was one of those unfortunate times that Klaus was out.

He sped behind Y/n while she was in the kitchen, slapping his hand over her mouth to silence her screaming as he lifted and dragged her toward the exit. Growling in her ear and called her a filthy whore, saying she would never escape him.

What he didn't know was that one of the other vampires saw him and were under direct orders to call Klaus if he was spotted.

Klaus came rushing in, his teeth straight in the man’s neck causing him to drop Y/n to the floor and cry out in agony as the werewolf venom too quick affect.

Klaus had Y/n in his arms within a second, vamp-speeding them to his their room. Her face was held against the crook of his neck, encouraging her to breath in his scent and calm her breathing.

“He’s gone” klaus whispers “He’ll be dead by tomorrow” he told her gently “And a werewolf bite is a slow and painful death for a vampire” he reminded. “He deserves to suffer” he muttered and she nodded slowly.

“I hate him” she uttered.

“I know you do sweetheart” he mumbled as he pressed soft kisses to the side of her head.

Everything was a little better after his body was found. She felt safe in the house without the risk of him grabbing her. She was able to sit with Klaus and Rebekah without the worry of someone watching her.

But it didn’t stop the night terrors. She would wake up screaming thinking that he had come back to life and had taken her, tortured her. Instead, however, she would find Klaus. Out of breath with a healing bruise on his face from where she hand fought back in her sleep. The apologies would start tumbling amongst her sobs but he would just pull her close and kiss her better. Promising it didn’t hurt and that he understood.

Often he would go into her mind, with her permission, and give her better things to think about. Give her peace.

That helped her a lot, between Klaus’s affection and Rebekah’s constant company, she began to feel happy.

She and Bekah went shopping a lot, went out for lunch again or just sat in Bex’s room talking and giggling. They both felt as though they had gained a sister of sorts. Rebekah was so glad to have Y/n and to be able to help her, she also really hoped that Y/n and Klaus would get married so that they were sister-in-laws.

Rebekah was their biggest supporter, always telling Y/n that Klaus wouldn’t ever hurt her and that he already loved her so she didn’t have to worry about the rejection. But Y/n was still nervous, she wasn’t sure if she was ready for another relationship.

But eventually, months down the line, kisses on the head became kisses on the lips. Their hugs became cuddle sessions and instead of eating in the same room they cooked together and ate together. Klaus planned extravagant dates while Y/n arranged much simpler but just as intimate ones. Klaus would beg Y/n to let him paint her and she begrudge dress up for him and pose.

The only issue in Y/n’s mind was that she didn’t feel comfortable enough when Klaus would touch her more sexually. As soon as the gentle touches became more frustrated, more needy, she couldn’t handle it.

But over time she got a little better, heavy make-out sessions became more and more common and part of her thought that maybe sex was on the table until something triggered her.

Klaus had his hands all over her, his tongue in her mouth as she moaned softly. Her hands were curled into his soft curls as she tugged gently. His hands slid up her top and her back arched slightly. Everything was going well, her legs were round his waist and soft little pleas left her lips for him to give her more.

He pulled away slowly, his nose just brushing hers as he sat up. He smiled down at her as she followed suit and sat up with him, her legs dropping down.

“You ready sweetheart?” He whispered and she nodded, his smile widened and he took ahold of her ankles. Just as he went to pull her closer, a panicked cry left her and her foot kicked him in the chest, hard.

His hands let go of her and he held his chest in confusion before looking up and seeing the fear in her face. His expression softened and he raised his hands in surrender “Y/n, love, it’s just me” he told her gently. “It’s okay” he whispered, cautiously he shifted closer.

“I’m sorry” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears “I’m so sorry” she repeated, pulling her knees to her chest.

Gently he brought his hands out and picked her up, pulling her onto his lap “it’s okay, it was my fault” he mumbled, kissing her lips gently

“It’s not your fault- it’s mine, I’m broken” she cried but she shook her head.

“It’s his fault” he whispered and she let out a soft sob. “He hurt you, but you’ve never been broken. You’re just still hurting”

She sniffled and nuzzled close “I just…I wish could-“

“I know…I know but we can wait. We can wait for as long as you need” he murmured softly.

“But…what if I can’t…like ever?” She whispers but still he smiled

“Then I’ll just hold you and kiss you and take you to dinner like usual. I believe I owe you a bouquet of flowers, no?” He hummed and she wiped her eyes with a sniff

“You do?”

“I do, come on, we’ll go pick a bunch” he held her close and lifted her as he stood, carrying her down the stairs listening to her little laugh as she pressed her face to his chest. She knew not many men would be as loving and understanding as he was, she knew Klaus wouldn’t hurt her nor would he ever leave her.

597 notes · View notes

netherfeildren · 4 months

Text

At the Restaurant

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: It’s three days til Christmas, and you’ve never known want like this, and his eyes are glossy with emotion and everything he won’t ever let himself tell you or anyone else, and you so badly want to tell him that it’s only that it’s hard to be casual when your favorite bra lives in his dresser, and also that you’re in love with him.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Modern AU; Christmas fic; Angst; Fluff; Miscommunication; Emotionally unavailable idiots; But also idiots in love; Toxic relaationships; Situationship; There is nothing well adjusted about any of this pls don’t come into this house if that’s what you’re looking for; Trigger warning for man with an avoidant attachment style; Condolences to all my fellow victims of The Situationship; Size Difference; Unprotected Sex; Creampie; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Frankly some pretty pathetic behavior; Girl stand UP; Fuckboy Din; Plan B and Delusion as a form of birth control; Pull and pray baby pull and pray; Possessive Behavior; Jealousy; Insecurity; Trigger warning for Right Where You Left Me by Taylor Swift references

A/N: Hello and welcome to my contribution to the holiday fic pool! This is not at all what I was planning as my holiday piece, but I woke up a few mornings ago and was just completely taken hold by this. Much love and thanks and gratitude and all the kisses in the world to my friend @f0rlornmyths for all the help on the idea and brainstorming and for the gorgeous edits she made for this little story. Mai baby, this is all for you, and I know it's not the Christmas gift I promised you, but I swear, one day that too will get written.

I’m wishing you all the happiest and most relaxing of holiday seasons. I think of you all constantly and wish you all the best always, and I hope you’re taking care of yourselves during this time ❣️🎄✨

Word Count: 8.2K

Read on AO3

He gets this sparkle in his eyes when the bar’s extra busy, cheeks flushed and curls damp with sweat and this shine that speaks; that tells of all the things he does that make a woman belong to him whenever he’s giving her his singular attention. Eyes that laugh and crinkle at the edges with happiness. Eyes that tell you how much he does or does not want you at that specific moment. And he’ll laugh and blind the room into seduction under the Christmas lights, and then he’ll turn, suddenly remembering you’re here for him, and look at you all serious-like, while you sip on your tequila soda, with two limes always because he knows that’s how you like it, and it’ll be a serious, cool look for just a second before it blooms into the best smile anyone’s surely ever had in all history, and you love him.

It’s three days til Christmas, and you’ve never known want like this. You’ve never practiced restraint of this kind either. A restraint that suffocates and kills and could probably be taken as a form of self harm were you in a righter, more clear mind, but it’s the only thing you have left against him. Din. A control over yourself that falsely feeds you the illusion of power. You never call him. Never. Any interaction, any late night fuck, any time he comes over and comes inside you, it’s always, always because he calls you, he looks for you. You never beg, not with words at least, and you never text first and you never ask him if you can see him, and it’s the only way you tell yourself you maintain even a semblance of control. And at night, when you’re alone and it’s dark and you’ve only got the cat for some sad company, or you’re crying in bed because he hasn’t called, and you know he’s not at work and he’s obviously not at home, so he’s somewhere you don’t want him to be, that false sense of control that says you’re never the one reaching out, it’s always him coming around so surely that must mean something… it’s all you have at the end of it.

He’s not your boyfriend. He never has been. And there’s always been that excuse you use to soothe yourself with of, well, we’ve never really talked about it, and he’s not really my boyfriend, so it doesn’t really matter. Does it? Doesn’t it? You’re sure you don’t know anymore. And you tell yourself, lie to yourself, comfort yourself, whatever it is your tired heart needs in that moment, because it truly is so tired, the push and pull is the most exhausting game in the world, that if he’s coming to you it’s because Din’s choosing you. Even if just for a night, even if just for now, even if tomorrow he’ll be with someone else, he chose you for tonight, and so surely that must mean something. It’s the worst thing you do to yourself, but it feels so good in the moment. You just can’t help yourself.

“Another one?” He calls over his shoulder with a smile.

You’d had a little bit of a… well, you don’t really know what to call it. A falling out, perhaps, because the two of you never have fights. You never fight, you never discuss the things the two of you should discuss, like feelings or anger or resentment or boundaries and wants and needs. Nothing. Nothing that indicates anything that might define what it is the two of you’ve been doing for two years with each other now. Fights are something couples do, and you two are not a couple. But up until three days ago, you’d not heard from him for two weeks. Two weeks of nothing, of hearing from your friends that they’d seen him out with his friends and other girls who you know probably mean nothing, even less than you do, but still. It’d made you insane. A little bit irrational, and so when you and your friends had gone out over the weekend, picked up a group of guys at the new bar you’d chosen for the night, since Din’s bar was off limits at the moment, and brought them back to your apartment at your roommate, Bo’s, insistence, well, you’d thought you’d give him a taste of his own medicine. After a slightly tipsy, teary eyed rant, explaining to your new friend for the night, a one Toro Calican, who had a very nice smile and very pretty eyes and not at all bad arms, all about your terrible situation with this man who you were not really in a relationship with, but who you have sex with, and only with him, regularly, unprotected, enthusiastically, but who is still not your boyfriend and not even anything close, he’d arranged himself very nice and cozy-looking in your bed with your twinkly lights sparkling in the background and your pink pig stuffy which Din loved to make fun of you for, and you’d taken a very tasteful, in your opinion, picture of him for your Instagram story. Again, a taste of his own medicine.

Din had been at your front door forty five minutes later, angry. Angrier than you’d ever seen him before, and not at all trying to hide it. Pushing past you and into your apartment all tall and broad and wearing your favorite dark blue hoodie he knows you love, curls mused as if he’d been pulling his fingers through them in agitation. There’d been a sneaky, smarmy little devil inside of you doing a happy dance at that moment, and his eyes when he’d turned to glare at you after giving poor, Toro – casual, entirely unbothered, Toro with his big smile stretched across his handsome face as he’d looped an arm over Bo’s shoulders where he’d been sitting beside her on the couch – a look that said Din had half a mind to take him outside and wipe the floor with him. But your new friend had laughed him off, taking Din’s terribly cocky onceover, the sort he liked to set people down with, in stride. All arrogance and the sort of self assuredness only a man who knew what he was made of and how to take care of himself could possess. He was too hot for his, or your, own good.

And when he’d turned and pushed you into your bedroom, a little tipsy, a lot desperate and pleased and wet, because yes, finally you were getting exactly what you wanted, exactly as you’d asked for it, and he’d flipped your skirt up and ripped your panties down and buried his face in your cunt from behind, all: this pussy’s mine, what the fuck was another dude doing in your bedroom? You’d been nothing but pleased giggles and hiccupy little moans as you’d come on his tongue just as he’d demanded of you.

It was wrong. The two of you were wrong and maybe even bad for each other, but also, and this was only your own personal, fanciful discernment, addicted. A mutual addiction. The way he fucked you, hard and deep and possessive, like you belonged to him. Tugging you up by the hips and pulling you back onto his hard cock, the wet slap of your pussy dripping for him so that it surely echoed through the thin door of your shitty little apartment for the man who’d threatened what Din saw as rightfully his could hear exactly what was happening in here. You should have cared more about this ridiculous display of a pissing contest. You should have been bothered by it. You absolutely were not. And when he’d gone harder than stone, shoved deeper than you could comfortably take him so that you were coming around his cock one last time from the stretch and sting of it, and he’d filled you to leaking without even asking, you’d not even blinked at it, had been nothing but contented sighs.

It was all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Even worse, you’d never been on birth control. It made you sick, tired, moody, and the two of you worked around it… sometimes… kind of. Condoms when you remembered, usually ripped off mid fuck, pulling out… also sometimes. Never very responsible or dedicated to the practice of safe sex and level headedness, more focused on how fucking good it always felt when he was inside of you like this all bare and wet and hot and his. And if he fucked other girls, well, you tried not to think about that. Got tested, told yourself you were the only one he didn’t use protection with because you were special when they were not. And if there was, that last horribly misguided whisper that said, well, if he’s taking this risk with you, then obviously that means something too, right? Then so be it.

Again, like you’d said, bad for each other.

But he always gave you so many reasons to be stupid, delusional, like the way he’d kissed you before he’d gone the morning after, while you were still sleepy and warm and a little sweaty from where you’d been pressed together so close through the night, wet and sticky between your legs from his come. He’d wrapped his arms around you and pressed you so, so close to his chest, nipples bare and tight against hard muscle and wispy hair. The musky sleep smell of him as he’d started at your shoulder, mouth slow and damp, kissed and nibbled his way up your collarbone, your throat, your jaw, settled at your ear to taste that soft place behind, pressed his tongue there to feel the echo of your pulse moving through your whole body, the flutter of his long lashes against your skin because he’s just that close. Your toes had curled and spasmed, little and cold, bracing against his hairy shins and big feet, hard cock nestled between the warmth of your thighs. And he always makes the best sounds, you know, deep and rumbly and all man. Familiar sounds that you’re able to replay again and again in your mind afterwards when he’s gone, sounds that make it easy for you to pretend he’s yours because you know them so well, and you want to keep him so bad it makes your stomach hurt. Gotta go get the kid, he’d said, by way of explanation for why he wasn’t pushing up into your come soaked cunt and having you one more time again, but he’d stayed and kissed you. And when he’d finally found his way to your mouth, sipping on you, tasting behind your teeth, along the wet of your tongue, that was all that really mattered anyway.

Sometimes, he kisses you like he loves you, and it makes you hate him.

He hadn’t called in the three days since then, but he’d been kind enough to DoorDash you a Plan B and a bag of your favorite Dove dark chocolate bites, and you want to hate him and maybe even run him over with you car, you really do, but then tonight, out of nowhere while you’d been at home telling yourself you weren’t going to cry, tired and sweaty from lying under your duvet for too long, fingers slippery between cunt and cotton, too many unsatisfying orgasms and a tear worthy film already chosen as your excuse for later, he’d sent a: come to the bar tonight, baby, I want to see you. And well, he’d come looking for you, right? He’d texted first. So really, this was all him wanting you and choosing you.

You need help, electroshock therapy, a lobotomy, anything. But you’d gotten your butt up and dressed, begged Bo to come out with you, and now here the two of you sit, good friend that she is, waiting for him to finally come over and say more than three stringed together words to you. Shaved, lotioned, perfumed, pathetic little ass sitting at the end of his bar in a too sticky, too uncomfortable stool waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

You shake your head no at him and his proffered next round. No you don’t want another fucking drink. What you want is his attention.

And the worst part is, probably the worst, for there are so many bad parts to this, is that you don’t truly think he’s a terrible person, Din. He’s just so… he’s just– you don’t know. Sad, busy, exhausted, selfish, overwhelmed, so many things. But not bad, not actually a bad person. You’re sure of it. And it might look so differently from the outside, like you’re nothing, like he uses you, and sure, in ways, he does. You’re not so stupid or naive to not see this for what it is, because if there is one thing that is crystal clear here, it’s that you’ve always known what this is and what it is not. But you also see him. You also know him, as hard as he’s tried to keep you at arms length, to not let you see, to not let you in, you’ve weaseled your way inside anyways, or, better said, and something you don’t let yourself dwell on too much for the things it makes your stupid brain and heart feel, he has never been very good at not letting you see him. Because despite all the truths of how this thing between the two of you is, or is not, there is also something, as small as it may be, that is real here.

So no, Din is not bad, or not all bad. And it’s easy to call them excuses, but you’re not so sure that’s the only thing they are, the ways in which you justify his behavior or yours. Because there is also context to him, and his life, and the things that drag his attention away from you when you so desperately need and want it, why you know he won’t commit to one single thing because he knows how easily lost a good thing can be.

You take a pull from your straw, paper, and it’s already coming apart in wet flakes on your tongue because this dumb bar he works at pretends to be swanky, and paper straws are obviously a signifier that it’s not the cheap, shitty dump it actually is. Mean, but you’re in a bad mood tonight. Peli, the owner, had him string up multicolored lights and decorations everywhere for the holiday season, and it sort of looks like Santa threw up in here, but it’s also nice. Cozy or comfortable or welcoming, something happy and cheerful about the crowd surrounded by the sparkle of the holiday and loose from the heavily poured liquor. Or maybe it’s just that you know he put up the decorations. That he’d been good and patient and helpful as the older woman, eccentric and curly haired and a little stern and potty mouthed as she is, but always kind to him, had directed him as she pleased. Giving orders so that the bar could look as lovely and warm and cheerful as it does now. He always looks at her with such care and warmth, and you alway see it, as much as he tries to hide it.

He’d added a splash of sweet grenadine and a maraschino cherry into your drink tonight, and called it your slutty Shirley Temple, said you looked like you needed something sweet followed by one of those cocky little winks he thinks make him look hot, they do, but you tell him only make him look like an asshole. All of which you know is only his way of telling you, without actually telling you, that he’s going to be shoving his cock down your throat later tonight. Something sweet… yeah, sure. There’s nothing sweet about him.

He always tells you so many things neither of you want the other to know with his eyes. The stupid things, the silly things, the real things, it doesn’t really matter. He can’t ever help it.

The first time he’d told you about his parents, you’d thought: this is it, this is something real. The come down had been a singular type of devastating you don't think you’d recovered from to this day. They’d died in a home invasion, a robbery gone terribly, terribly wrong, when he’d been two months shy of eighteen; left him with too much responsibility and too much grief for a boy of seventeen to bear, to ever be able to grow into without growing a little bit skewed in the process. When he’d introduced you to his little brother, the first time, you’d been better prepared, better in control of yourself and your expectations. But still, still you’d let a small, small part of you let it mean something. Grogu, Greg, but they used to watch this cartoon together about this man, a warrior, a space cowboy of sorts, who finds a little green baby, more frog looking than baby looking, called Grogu and takes him in as his own, bringing him along on all his adventures through the big, wide galaxy. They’d always joked that Greg looked like the frog baby, and so, Grogu.

The first time he’d asked you to come over, you’d forced yourself to not throw up as you’d seen the text come in, had to force away thoughts of this has to mean something, please, please, let this mean something more. And the kid had been asleep already anyways when he’d smuggled you inside, quick and quiet, locking the door to his bedroom behind you, messy and lived in and Din, Din, Din everywhere, pressed you into his rumpled mattress, and fucked you til you’d cried and bit your tongue until you’d tasted blood to keep in all the things you had inside to tell him. And in the morning, when he’d made you a cup of coffee and oh, isn’t he nice for that? The kid had stumbled out of his bedroom, dinosaur pj’s and sleep rumpled curls the same warm mahogany shade as his older brother’s turned pseudo father, and he’d had his waffles while you’d sat there between the two of them as Din’d clucked around making lunches, sipping from your mug trying as best you could to be a good girl and not whip around and scream at the man that this has to mean something more, please.

The kid had eyed you skeptically, as if you’d had two heads, little fuzzy brow cocked high up towards his curl covered hairline while he chomped loudly on his waffles. More syrup than bread, but who were you to judge?

“Are you Din’s girlfriend?”

And rather than drop dead on the spot or bear the devastation of hearing the refusal come out of his older brother’s mouth, the second you’d seen Din’s own eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, mouth falling open to probably tell him no, absolutely not, she’s nothing even close to being my girlfriend, you’d said as easy as you could manage, “No, we’re just friends.” Even added in a fake, tepid smile as you’d said the words. And now, as time’s passed since then, when you think back on the memory, you tell yourself that you’d imagined the frown and scowl that’d pulled Din’s face down into something that looked a little like annoyance or anger or confusion. He’d never done anything to make you think you were anything otherwise, and so what good did it do to dwell on the maybe false memory of his look of disappointment at your words? None at all, surely.

But you’re pretty sure you’re the only girl that’s ever been let into their space like that.

He’s at the other end of the bar now, engrossed in a conversation with someone who’s too sparkly and too pretty and too blonde to be anything but trouble for you. His tall, deceptively lanky form that you know beneath the dark baggy, long sleeved tee he’s wearing is strong and muscled and warm as a furnace, curved over the lip of the bar to lean further towards her. They’ve been talking for about five minutes now, yes, you’ve been counting, and your heart is doing that horrible thing it does where it hurts so bad it feels like it’s ripping in half all on its own. You want to look away, especially as you watch the long, gorgeous form of his hand, big, strong hands that you know exactly what they feel like wrapped around your throat, clutching your breasts, lift slowly towards the glowing Christmas lights necklace the girl’s got hanging around her neck, the cheery red and green lights nestled deep in her cleavage. He plucks at the necklace, giving it a little tug and says something to her that has her throwing her head back, and she sparkles, she really does, with those sort of laughs that tinkle like bells or something equally fucking ridiculous.

“We should just go, babe,” Bo says from beside you, glaring down at him so intensely you’re shocked he hasn’t keeled over dead at this point.

“Just a little bit longer, Bo, please.”

“God, I can’t watch this shit anymore.” She pushes up and out of her stool with a roll of her eyes, but passes a loving hand down the back of your hair as she goes. “I’m gonna go try and pick up that red head sitting in the back. She’s been eyeing me all night,” she smirks at you.

“You cannot date another ginger. That is too much ginger for one household.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re in love with the devil, I can do whatever I want. And I can’t watch him anymore, I don’t have the stomach for it.”

You try and protest as she walks away from you, tell her that you’re not in love with him, that he’s not the devil, that you don’t have the stomach for it either, but she’s gone before you can muster your lies. When you turn back towards the bar he’s abandoned his Christmas lights blonde and is pouring drinks for a group of frat guys, checking I.D.s and making easy, charming conversation. He’s strange in that way, quiet and reserved by nature, which you know now because you know him, but he puts on a face in here, in Peli’s bar in front of the customers and the pretty girls and the people expecting him to perform for them, making nice and pleasant. It’s just one more thing that feeds your delusion, the fact that you see his smile for what it is, the too handsome, too shiny version you know isn’t the real one.

You know that despite the fact that Bo loves you, she also thinks you’re a little sad, a lot weak, when it comes to him. Maybe even, and you know she’d never say this because she’s a good and loving friend, but maybe even a little pathetic or desperate. And maybe you are, or definitely, you don’t really care about the details of it at this point, but maybe there’s also something about him that’s slightly desperate too. Desperate for love or attention or companionship. Maybe that’s why he always feels the need to search for it in so many different places. Maybe he wants it so bad he’s scared of it. Or maybe he’s just easy. Maybe he’s just a whore.

You don’t know if the why’s of it all really matter anymore.

He serves the group their shots and beers, all of them clinking their glasses together loudly, hooting and wishing each other a Merry Christmas, and you want to snap that it’s not Christmas yet, it’s still the twenty third, it’s a special day that should be remembered, but you turn away. Try to swallow the heat in your face and throat, take deep breaths. Bo’s right, the two of you should go, but when you turn to search for her, she’s deep in conversation with the red head, gorgeous, strong and tall and just her type. Their two heads huddled closely together beneath the red lights that turn their hair both brighter shades of auburn. And you know you can’t interrupt. At least one of you should have a good night tonight. But when you turn back around, ready to join the frat bros in on their shots, he’s there.

You swivel in your stool, catching yourself on the lip of the bar, digging your nails into the wood grain until it hurts, staring at him in silence.

“What?” he asks with that slightly provoking smile he forces on you when he knows you’re bothered and refuse to open your stubborn mouth and just speak up.

“Nothing.” Stubborn, sullen. Terrible.

He hums, laughter dancing in his eyes that pisses you off. He knows you’re bothered, knows you won’t say anything about it either. “Want another?”

“Sure.” You might as well get drunk if you’re going to have to watch him be a jackass all night long.

He starts to move about, gathering the things for your cocktail. “You like the grenadine I added?”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

He looks at you with a half smile and a cocked brow as he measures the shot. He never makes your drinks as heavy handed as the others, says you’re a bad drunk. Whatever. “Yeah? You like the Christmas decorations?”

“They’re nice.” He hums again at your sullen tone. And you want to be nicer, happier, peppier, whatever it is that would be enough to make this all right and better between the two of you, inside of you, but you just can’t. You can’t force yourself into a shape that’s okay with being without him, and it’s getting harder and harder to pretend it’s something you’re capable of.

He adds your two limes and tops the drink off with a Santa printed mini umbrella Peli had gotten an order of in bulk, pushing the glass into your hand. He braces his hands against the bar edge, watching you as you bring the drink up to taste, peering over the edge to keep your eyes on him. The lights twinkle over head, washing him in a glow of greens and reds and warmth, and his eyes do that terrible sparkle you hate in return.

Sometimes you think he likes it when you’re pissy. Turns him on or something which sickly, stupidly, in turn, riles you up, knowing he’s turned on by your anger.

You take a long pull of the fizzy, mildly sweet drink, licking your lips of the tang and bubbles when you pull it away, and watch as his eyes go a little hazy, glassed over as he watches the wet of your tongue peek out to lick up the drops of sweet liquor. You watch a swallow pass through the strong column of his throat, and his gaze is still on your mouth when he cocks his head at you. “C’mere,” he murmurs, eyes shifting to take in the crowd, the customers and the status of their drinks before he’s tugging at your hand over the bar, drawing you out of your seat and along the length of it from the other side.

“To where?” You whisper at him, nerves of excitement, of want, fluttering in your belly and throat all fizzy and sweet. He tips his chin at the cracked open door of the stock room, the warm glow from within peering out, and then back again once over at the crowd before you’re at the end of the bar, and he’s tugging you inside after him. You tip your chin over your shoulder just before he kicks the door shut behind you, taking in Peli’s knowing look and the laughing shake of her head, and then it’s just the two of you. Hungry and hurried as he’s pulling you into himself, big hands immediately cupping your ass to tug you up into him with a cracked groan. “Want to fucking kiss you so bad,” he licks into your mouth, tasting like the coffee he drinks too much of and the cinnamon gum you know he’s always chewing.

“Din–” and you’re about to protest, say that everyone’ll have seen the two of you come in here, Peli, the blonde Christmas light girl, that the whole bar is going to think he brought you in here for a quick fuck, but you and he both know you don’t really care if anyone thinks that. That probably, if you’re really honest, you’d be glad for everyone to think you’re his that way. So you kiss him back. Arms looping around his neck to hang off of him, fingers twining in the thick curls at the nape of his neck, the hair there so silky smooth, cool at the ends but warm and damp at the roots. And this is what you were talking about, when he kisses you like he loves you which makes you hate him. All tongue and teeth and desperation. His mouth sliding against yours, spit slick and heat heavy. Big hands kneading at your ass, clutching at the short skirt of your dress, pulling it up so he can shove his palm between the nylon of your tights and your warm skin and cup you over the wet mound of your cunt.

“Fucking warm and soft for me, baby.” He kisses his way down your neck, licking at your cleavage, tugging at your ear. “You smell so good,” and he squeezes you against himself, dragging his palm back and forth over your pussy as best as the constricting tights let him. “I can’t wait to fuck you later.”

“Me either, Din,” you say because there’s nothing else to say besides, I love you. Please, love me back. He groans into your mouth, pressing you back into a little arc hooked over his arm, something frenzied and a little sloppy about the way he kisses you like he wants you so much he can’t control himself. And when the two of you stumble out a few minutes later, hair tousled and flushed with heat, the shine of your lipgloss transferred onto his own lips and those sparkly eyes of his cranked up to blinding so that the whole bar can see what it is the two of you have been up to in the stock room, there’s nothing but sweet, fizzy pleasure suffusing your belly. Even if it isn’t real, everyone else thinks it is, maybe for tonight that can be enough.

“The tree’s really cute,” you say as he helps you out of your coat, unwrapping the scarf from around your neck, round and round until he lets it slither from his hand onto the messy floor of his bedroom.

“Yeah, well, G wanted a real one so… my ass went out and got him a real one.”

You reach up to card your fingers through the floppy curls falling over his forehead, pushing them back to twist in your fingers and pull his head down towards yours. “Good brother,” you murmur against his mouth. You want to ask him if he remembers what tonight is; wanted to ask him all night but kept your mouth shut for fear of that utterly vacant look in his eyes when he’d have no idea what you were talking about.

He settles into your kiss, knees bent to come down to your level, sighing deep and long as he licks at you slowly, sucks on your bottom lips, a gentle nip. “Looked so pretty for me tonight,” he says, and he’s such a good kisser, and all you can say is a breathless thank you, trying to swallow the immediate lump in your throat back down because the only other thing to say would be you’re right, it’s all for you, or I hate it when you say these things to me, I hate it when you’re nice to me and then turn around and act like I’m a stranger, like I’ve never meant anything to you at all. You press up higher, insistent, on your tiptoes, trying to get closer, more of him. He runs his hands up the length of your spine, one arm banding around your waist, the other coming up to twist in your hair, tugging your head back sharply and pulling your mouth from his.

“What do you want, sweet girl?”

And what a cruel, terrible question. You, is what you should say. Ruin the moment or the false magic, glass shattered on the white cloth. And so, “Fuck me,” is all you say instead because that’s all this is anyway. He peers down at you, fathomless look on his face, no more bright sparkle in his eyes, something more like an ember. You think you like this look better, it’s more for you, and there's something satisfying about that.

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.”

He pulls your clothes from you slowly, and he can be so tender sometimes, slow and precise in the things he does, the way he moves. Sometimes he fucks you hard and fast and sloppy. But not always. Other times he does it in a way that is much, much worse. Slow and deep and intentional. He lays you out across his messy bed and spreads you open for himself. Starts at your feet, kissing the soles and the creases and marks over the arches and around your ankles from your tights and boots. Up the slope of your calf, teeth dragging sharply, a little too hard over the muscle. He kisses the backs of your knees, a place only he has ever thought to kiss, and you won’t cry, but you’d like to. His tongue along the soft of your thighs, stubble chafing and tickling, and when he finally gets to your cunt, soaking wet, glossy with your slick for him, his tongue drags up your slit slow and teasing one second, deep, fucking inside of you the next. He makes you come on his face twice before he even thinks of being nice and letting up. Sucking on your clit, taking each soft lip gentle, gentle between the edge of his teeth and tugging so soft you almost don’t feel it. He licks and licks and slurps up your wet, and you know he enjoys this because of his own sounds. When he rips his t-shirt over his head because he’s steaming with sweat and want, the zip of his jeans ringing so that he can get his fist around his cock and jack himself while he licks up the splash of your second orgasm.

He kisses you everywhere when he’s had his fill, twists and turns you this way and that, groping and kneading and taking every inch of you in so that no spot of skin is left uninspected or untasted. Pulls you up and under his arm so he can peer down at you from behind, lemme look at that little asshole now, he says all nasty the way he gets sometimes, and spreads your cheeks apart. You brace yourself against the column of his throat and hold on to the bulge of his bicep and try and breathe through your mouth and pray for control and temperance and the will to not spill all your truths to him. Difficult, when he manhandles you like this, when he pets and licks and kisses you all over and tells you how pretty all your holes are for him.

His cock is so hard when he finally settles on his knees between your spread thighs, on your back again so that you can see his pulse in the tiny, subtle beat of his erection as it stands up, curving towards his flat belly. No condom, and you want to say thank you for letting you feel him like this.

He pushes your knees wide and grips his cock, twisting his fist around the sticky glossed head, flushed red almost purple. You love it when he’s this hard, when you know it’s all for you, when you know you’re the only one in this moment that can fix it for him.

“Get it wet for me,” he nods his head at your slick cunt, parted and bared to him just like he likes. You dip your fingers into the well of wetness, play in it, watch the shiny string of slick stretch between your pussy and fingers, and no one makes you as wet or as desperate as he does, and like he can read your mind he tells you, no one makes me as hard as you do, and you do not tell him that that isn’t something you want to hear, that that isn’t something that makes you feel good. The reminder that there are others.

You wrap your slippery fingers around his cock, coating him in yourself and when you pull him towards you, notching him at the mouth of your cunt, and finally – finally, I’ve been waiting for this all night, and you can’t even tell who says it – it’s so fucking good that all the rest of it is worth it for this singular feeling right here.

He pushes in, in, in, heavy balls pressed against the wet curve of your bottom, and you’re so soaked it’s slid down between your ass, marked his sheets with you, swings his hips back all smooth and wet and shoves back inside. His mouth is at your tits, folded over you, caging you in, biting and sucking on bare, tight nipples he tells you belong to him, cunt he fucks hard and deep he tells you also belongs to him.

He pulls an ankle up over his shoulder, changes the angle and drills into you hard and fast, other knee hooked over his elbow so you’re pressed and folded and presented to him just how he likes and needs, and he makes you say his name over and over, tells you exactly how he wants you to come on his cock just for him. His pelvis bumps your clit on every push forward, too thick cock wedged inside your cunt so that you’re stretched around him and no matter how many times you do this, it always hurts just a little. Like everything else the two of you do together.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans. “You take it so fucking good. Don’t come yet– don’t come. With me– wait for me. I want it together.” And you do cry at that, when he changes the angle once more and shoves in hard against your g-spot, the fat tip of his cock punching against it over and over so that there’s heat pooling at the base of your spine, stars flashing behind your closed lids, your breasts going hot and heavy and tight, stomach clenching with the effort to stave off your orgasm and do as he asks. He breathes into your mouth, and it’s all hot and damp skin and your sweaty limbs sliding against each other, open mouth to open mouth.

“Now,” he says, pulls you onto him deeper with a tight grip on your ass, long fingers wrapped over the curve so that he can feel the wet, stretched place where he takes you, makes you his. “Take the whole fucking thing,” he whispers against your lips, and as your cunt goes tight as a knot, painful in that way that only he can make it, that’s so good, that way that always keeps you coming back for more, you finally start to cry real tears. Not just from his cock but from the whole of him, from everything he does to you. Your heart beats fast, fast, fast, and you count the days in the month til your period, the little game you like to play with yourself when the two of you are bad like this, and then decide you don’t really give a fuck as he starts to fill you with the heat of his come.

He stays inside of you for too long after the last throb of his cock. Rubbing his lips all over your neck and shoulders and tits, tasting you and giving you too much time to memorize the pattern and cadence of his breathing. And when he pulls out and pulls back to look at the slick, puffy sight of your cunt full of his come, he bends to lick you clean like he always does. Gives you one more orgasm, the last nail in the coffin or your heart.

Sated and spent, you glance at the clock, and it’s officially Christmas Eve. You know he goes all out for Grogu, milk and cookies for Santa, stockings and gifts, the works. He is an exceptionally good brother, all a child could need in a father figure, and there had never really been any chance of you doing anything else besides loving him.

When you pull the gift from your bag, heart in your throat and halfway to regret but more resolve than you’ve ever had in his presence, you tell yourself that if this brings on the end of everything, that you’ll find a way to be okay with it. If you’ve gone too far, done too much, you’ll accept it, count your losses, and what great losses they’ll surely be, but you’ll move on as best you can.

You’d picked some pretty, baby blue paper with little red robins on it, a soft gold ribbon tied around the package. The sight of it makes you want to cry. You’d tried so hard, you really had.

He’s quiet when you put it into his hands, staring down at it like it’ll reach out and bite his head off if he blinks even once. Swallowing several times before he says, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know. It’s– it’s for the both of you, kind of.” Him and his little brother.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“No– that’s okay. I know. You didn’t have to.” Your voice comes out all breathless and full of nerves. You should’ve put your clothes on before you did this, made for a quicker, easier get away if necessary.

He pulls the wrapping apart slowly, gently untying your ribbon, long fingers carefully picking at the little pieces of tape at each end so that he doesn’t tear the paper and disturb the robins.

“Where did you get this?” He says when he’s finally unwrapped it, his voice telling you instantly that you’ve made a terrible mistake.

“It– it was in your drawer. I–”

“You went through my stuff?” He says, eyes snapping up to yours, finally looking away from the photograph you’d copied and framed for him. A picture of him and Grogu and his parents. Grogu, a baby, Din, a boy of maybe eight, gap toothed, cheesy grin and messy curls between his smiling parents. They looked, very much, like a deliriously happy family, and you’d thought it such a shame it was stuffed in his sock drawer when you’d found it, left to be forgotten. You’d only wanted to do something nice for him.

“N–no. I mean… not intentionally. I was looking for my extra clothes – the ones you told me to leave here – and I–” your lashes flutter, overwhelmed. He suddenly looks so angry. “I saw it in your drawer. I didn’t mean– I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, I–” You don’t know what to say. All of your falsely held control in tatters at your feet and tears in your eyes as you take in the horrible look on his face. Shocked, angry, hurt, but his gaze leaves the photograph again, shifts back to your face at the crack in your voice.

He presses forward, as if to reach for you, realizing you’re about to cry. “It’s fine.” I’m sorry, Din, you murmur again. “It’s just–” He shakes his head, a frustrated noise in his throat, his voice all graveled and cracked like yours. He seems so much like a boy in this moment. A child confronted by a past he was too young to lose when he did, forced into the shape of a man too soon. “You know that this–we–” He motions between the two of you.

“Yes. I do,” you cut him off quickly. Assuming what he’s going to cut down here between the two of you before he gets the words out. He doesn’t need to say it, not out loud. He doesn’t need to be that cruel. The strength it takes the both of you to bite your tongues in that moment, as you take each other in, swells to a near painful pressure, and there is something so sick here between the two of you. His eyes are glossy with emotion and everything he won’t ever let himself tell you or anyone else, and you so badly want to tell him that it’s only that it’s hard to be casual when your favorite bra lives in his dresser, and also that you’re in love with him.

“Thank you,” he finally says quietly, and you can’t answer, looking away out at the dark night through his murky paneled window. It looks like it’s about to snow, all the ingredients for a perfect Christmas at play. The room is so warm and his bed is so comfortable, and you feel so full of fragile and soft things inside. “You’re going to see your family tomorrow?” He still has the picture frame in his hands, fingers smoothing methodically over the edges, thumb swiping gently over the happy faces inside.

You clear your throat, “Yeah, tonight. I’m going to my parents house, spending the night there.” And it’s on the tip of your tongue to invite the both of them to come too. You know your parents would love to have them, you would love to have them there, him, but the words stick in your throat with the fear of his rejection, and the two of you fizzle awkwardly into a heavy silence.

You look out at the window again, too much of a coward to look into those bright eyes, but you can feel his gaze on you, singing the side of your face, and suddenly you feel him scoot over towards you. Deep sigh, dragging the duvet with him, wrapped around his bare shoulders all messy hair and flushed cheeks still steaming from your sex. No one should look like he does. No one. It’s the most unfair thing that’s ever happened to you in your whole life. He grips you around the bend of your bare knee, pulls you halfway into his lap, and your eyes are still fixated out on the night, the dark much safer than anything that lives inside this room.

“You remember when we met?” He says. The tears are back. “It was tonight.” Two years ago.

You tip your chin at the window. “At the restaurant…”

“...Down on eighty seventh street. Two years ago.”

“Yes.” You finally look at him. “I remember,” you whisper. Your mouth feels so dry, your heart so flinty.

“The place had all those string lights put up, and we sat at that table outside in the back behind that group having their Christmas work party. You remember?” Of course you do. You only can't believe he remembers. He’d been wearing an olive green half zip sweater, and he’d smelled of laundry detergent and whiskey and cinnamon gum when he’d kissed you for the first time.

“I had the best old fashioned I’ve ever had at that place. We should go back. And it was so cold, you remember? You never stopped shivering.”

“Yes, Din. I remember.”

“That was a good night.”

“Sure it was,” and it comes out with a bite you can’t help, for so many reasons you can and cannot explain.

He gives one of those non committal hums he loves to provoke you with, that little glint back in his eyes. “Sure it was? What?”

“Nothing.”

“Is there something you wanna talk about?” The white elephant in the room, come to ruin everything, shatter all the glass, disturb the dust in your hair and break your heart.

He tips your head back by your chin, two fingers holding you there, never letting you go. You shake your head at him caught up in his grasp like that. “No. I don’t want to talk about anything.”

And he gives you the strangest look, and for one second you wonder suddenly if that look you’ve always taken as provoking is not so much teasing, but more pleading, more knowing. “No…” he says, chews on his thoughts, strong, scruffy jaw with the heart shaped patch moving side to side. “I know you don’t,” and leans forward to press one single soft, chaste kiss to your open mouth. “You know what you are?” He says then, and the look is now entirely unknowable, confusing.

Your eyes flick back to the window. “What?” Back to him again, breathless.

“You’re my girl.” And out of the corner of your eye, you can see that there, finally, is the Christmas snow.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#vic fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin AU #din djarin modern AU #the mandalorian AU #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine #pedro pascal characters #din djarin angst

366 notes · View notes

baddestbittyontheblock · 7 months

Text

tasm!peter parker fic recs

you are responsible for the content you consume‼️

✧*:·˚ hi everyone!! here is a list of all the fics that are my favs with tagged writers/authors ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ remember to like and reblog the works you enjoy in order to support each writer!! ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ however, make sure you read the information on each story themselves such as triggers & warnings ✧*:·˚

✧*:·˚ also, if you'd like me to remove your fic from this list, message me! ✧*:·˚

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

「❀」 earn it. by @3vergr3en fem!reader x tasm!peter parker | smut with little plot (public sex, unprotected sex (PLEASE WRAP IT), nipple play, orgasm control, peter has an obvious breeding kink, cream pie, choking, teasing, profanity, name-calling, humiliation, dirty talk, jealousy, established marriage.), 2.9K

-harry is hosting a birthday party for his best friend, peter. Everything runs smoothly until y/n’s best friend back in high school shows up and start flirting with the female. oblivious y/n doesn’t think much of it, being used to such playful manner. but peter can see through the man’s facade, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

「❀」 needy by @webslingingslasher tasm!peter parker x reader | angst

-peter parker and reader getting into an argument based off of peter parker saying something to his friends behind readers back about reader that hurts her feelings

「❀」 “stop it you’re being mean” by ^ tasm!peter parker x reader

-“If we’re really being honest here, honey, I don’t think that’s what it’s about, at all.”

「❀」 changed the wording around, still fits. by ^ tasm!peter parker x reader

-"why do you seem upset?" "why the hell do you think..."

「❀」 want you to be okay by @lovelyspooks tasm!peter parker x reader | fluff (at the start) but then angst with no comfort, uncommunicated feelings, 1.6k

-you're peter parkers main priority, he makes sure you know that but lately you feel second best to the city you both love

「❀」 smut blurb by @berrieluv peter parker x reader | mentions of sex

-peter and reader r having sex and he's really rough but at some point he hurts her bc of his powers he got after the spider bite. and then he just takes care of her and its cute and soft

「❀」 in the real world by @luveline tasm!peter parker x fem!reader | canon typical violence, bleeding, swearing, fluff, angst, hospitals, mutual pining, idiots in love, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, 5.4k

-you notice something about spider-man during a violent villain showdown, then you have to save his life.

「❀」 drunk!peter mini fic by ^ tasm!peter parker x reader

-drunk!peter and he’s all over reader telling her how he wants to marry her and being handsy

「❀」 honeybody by ^ tasm!peter parker x reader | fluff, friendship, idiots in love, falling in love, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, intimacy, the intangible breadth of the human experience or something similar, mentioned/implied past self-harm, 12k

-something about music makes you desperate to feel it. something about peter, pretty and magnetic and light, multiplies this immeasurably. or, you and peter want to try everything

「❀」 frat!peter by @withahappyrefrain frat!tasm!peter parker x reader | 18+

-frat!peter going from feral sex beast to passionate youre the only person that matter to me sex

「❀」 3 is the magic number by ^ tasm!peter parker x reader | smut (strong breeding kink, soft dom Peter, overstimulation, creampies, daddy kink, choking, did I mention breeding kink? also peter having baby fever.)

-you and peter decide it's time to start trying to expand your family

「❀」 peter mini fic by @bruisedboys tasm!peter x shy!fem!reader | 0.7k

-peter gets really excited for you when you do things for yourself like a dork. like ordering for yourself or asking for help at the stores finding something. it’s so basic but peter knows you struggle so he just gets really excited 4 u

「❀」 min peter fic by ^ tasm!peter x clumsy!reader | 0.7k

-you’re still in the process of patching yourself up when peter gets home, your knees scraped and a box of big band-aids waiting for you on the coffee table.

「❀」 tequila makes me sleepy by @cosmal tasm!peter parker x fem!afab!reader | drunk!reader, mentions of gross guys sexualizing reader

-pete comes to find you at a party after you call him.

「❀」 your girl by @lanadelreyscokewhor3 boyfriend! teter x girlfriend! reader | some swearing, and vomiting ofc. but petnames and lots of fluff:))

-“m’peter i’m done. no more.” you moaned, your body feeling weak and achey as you leaned against your forehead against the toilet seat.

「❀」 boyfriend! peter thoughts by ^ tasm!peter parker x reader

-always sitting on his lap. always. whenever you’re in his room and he’s at his desk doing work he pats his knee and you trot over and sit on his knee and he bounces it slightly while he explains his work while you just listen and nod

「❀」 ridiculous by @peterthepark tasm!peter parker x f!reader | 18+ graphic smut, not much plot, nsfw brainrot, blonde and fratboy peter parker, unprotected sex, kinda public sex, bathroom sex, mentions of smoking and party drugs, swearing as always

-peter parker was ridiculous, especially with that new hair of his. but deep down, you wanted nothing more than to experience one night with the douchebag of a blonde.

「❀」 extremely ridiculous by ^ tasm!peter parker x f!reader | smut (18+ graphic smut, rough sex, dirty talk, religious themes, partie, nsfw brainrot, blond peter parker, unprotected sex, mentions of smoking and alcohol consumption, swearing, sexualized halloween costumes, daddy kink, some roleplay, fingering, oral sex, slapping and pain kink, mentions of anal, just pure filth with 9k)

-ever since the bathroom incident, you’re the first person that peter parker looks for in every party. halloween is sinful, but so is the way you look at him from across the room. recommend reading the first part

「❀」 smut blurb by ^ tasm!peter parker x reader | graphic smut and stuff

-peter uses his webs to keep you still during sex

「❀」 peter parker imagine by @mareagirls tasm!peter parker x reader

-peter and reader are on a date, but reader feels nauseous. but, reader doesn’t want to tell peter because a: they’ve both been super busy lately between spider-man duties and college and/or work and b: because even if reader won’t admit it, being vulnerable and being taken care of kind of scares them. but peter finds out/figured it out and wants to help and fluff ensues.

「❀」 i say i hate you with a smile on my face by @stylesparker college!tasm!peter parker x fem!reader | 4k

-peter is fairly certain he should not have come to this party. the “friend” that he came with from one of his classes, he doesn’t exactly remember which one, ditched him as soon as they got to the door.

「❀」 kiss me more by @spidernerdsblog tasm!peter parker x reader | 18+, smut, minors dni, 69 (m & f receiving)

-your dad is the chief of NYPD and isn't fond of your boyfriend's secret alias spiderman but that doesn't stop him from sneaking into your room at night for a few kisses and a little more.

「❀」 morning after by ^ peter parker x stark!reader | 18+, smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

-last night after a drunk hookup you and peter aren't quite sure you used protection or not.

「❀」 size issues by ^ tasm!peter parker x reader

-you prank your husband by getting the wrong size of bra just to see his reaction.

「❀」 i'll crawl home to her by @embrassemoi tasm!peter parker x f!reader | 18+, fluff, nsfw, oral (m), light sub/dom, soft smut, mentions of violence, injuries + blood, thigh riding, cleaning wounds, bit of plot (?)

-After a long day, all Peter wants is a bit of love and someone to take care of him.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker smut #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #spiderman smut #smut #fic recs #peter parker imagine #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!spiderman x reader

490 notes · View notes

shoccolatine · 2 months

Note

Do you feel comfortable with writing stuff about mental health issues. Like, MC being depressed due to a mission going wrong or something similar and hiding it from Zayne while they spiral deeper into it until he catches them doing something bad - like idk, self-harm, looking up suicide methods, something like that. Gender neutral reader would be great <3

If you don't want to write this for any reason, feel free to ignore my ask :)

mission failure.

⚘pairing: zayne x gn!reader

⚘summary: after one too many failed missions, you reach a breaking point. zayne comes to your aid. ⚘tags: sfw, 2nd person POV, gender neutral reader, mental health issues, self-esteem issues, depression, suicidal thoughts, non-descriptive/implied self-harm, mild descriptions of morbid thoughts, hurt/comfort, angst ⚘word count: 2k ⚘a/n: thank you so much for your request, i hope i did it justice! this was a very interesting write and i enjoyed it a lot. i tried to be as delicate and vague with the s/h descriptions as i could so as not to trigger anyone, but this fic still deals with sensitive content so please be safe and take care of yourself! much love 💜

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This was it. You just couldn’t do anything right.

Another hunting mission had gone poorly. The third in a row, now. They do say all good things come in threes, but could the same be said of misfortune? It certainly seemed so. The first two mission failures had been played off as flukes, but this time…

You made the long trek back to Headquarters with the weight of a tail dragging between your legs, bearing a few cuts and bruises to show for it. Beside you was Tara, who was not quite so worse for wear and, although disappointed, didn’t quite seem to share the same sentiment as you. After all, she hadn’t been the one to let the Wanderer get away. Again.

“Hey, don’t look so down!” she says, in her usual cheerful tone. She pats your arm in an attempt to be comforting. “Can’t win ‘em all, right?”

You give her a look and a frown. “I mean, we should, shouldn’t we? It’s our job, after all.”

“No way! Those Wanderers were tough! I’m amazed we got as far into the Zone as we did!”

But we lost our main target, you thought, yet you held your tongue. There was no changing Tara’s mind once she was set on something. This mission was above her level, anyway, but with every other Hunter either stationed elsewhere or taking a well-deserved break, and Xavier being unreachable as usual, all you had was each other. It had been up to you, as the higher level Hunter, to uphold the team morale and guide you both through a successful mission. But lately, you just kept falling short. Even the most straightforward of missions went awry. Just what was happening?

The entrance doors slid closed behind you as you and Tara headed upstairs for the debrief. Your heart pounded with every step you took. Three failures in a row… Jenna was going to fire you for sure. She might as well do it now, to make space for a newer, better Hunter to take your place and finish your missions properly.

Instead, what came of your debrief was the offering of a week-long break. "Time off to clear your head and refresh," Jenna had said with hard concern, but it might as well have been an arrow to the chest. Just fire me now and get it over with, you thought. Stop wasting everyone’s time and resources and find someone else.

You didn’t need a break. You just needed to be better.

Getting better, however, came with a steep demand you placed upon yourself like a vase upon a pedestal, delicate and teetering. If Jenna wanted to give you another chance, then you would use this week to return to peak performance. You would train, and train, and train, until you were sure to succeed at every mission she threw at you. It was flawless. You’d be back at it in no time.

But as soon as you got off the train and back into your apartment, all you wanted to do was sleep.

And sleep you did. You slept until you couldn’t think of those missions anymore, and when the thoughts inevitably returned, you slept again.

“You’re not eating enough,” Zayne said during your following check-up later that week. He stated it so matter-of-factly, like he did with any other diagnosis, never looking up from his computer as he typed something. You never knew exactly what. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a break right now?”

“How do you know that?”

“Word gets around,” he said, the beginnings of a smile etched on his face. You didn't like the idea of people knowing things like that so easily. People sure do like to talk... Zayne's hazel eyes lifted from the screen and over at you. “You need to take better care of yourself. Now is as good a time as any to catch up on your body’s needs.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped. Sometimes Zayne needed to mind his own business. Wait, but he was your doctor, and one of your closest friends… What was the matter with you? You really needed to go back to bed and stop being such a nuisance.

Maybe it’d be better if you got out of his life, too.

You met his questioning expression and the heat of your response drained out of your face. At that, you decided you didn’t want to wait for a reply. Whatever he wanted to say to you with that curious expression of his, you didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t deserve to hear it. You quickly left his office and never looked back. If he called your name as the door to his office slid closed behind you, it went unheard.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

5 missed calls.

Your phone screen blares the message in your face, blinding against the darkness of your room and blurry against the tears that threatened to fall, that had already fallen, that fell and dried and fell again. Your fingers itch to reply, to call him back or send him a text, but what’s the point? He doesn’t really care. He’s probably just going to scold you for leaving your appointment halfway and being childish and not following doctor’s orders and being rude to him.

Not only have you messed up your job, you’re messing up your relationships now, too. When will you ever stop? Can’t it ever stop?

Your phone buzzes and lights up in your fingers as your ringtone sings into your sheets once more. It’s him again. Doesn’t he know when to quit? You watch his name as it waits idly on your screen. It gets tired of waiting, as it always does, and finally disappears. You sigh as another hot tear slips down your cheek.

Something new happens this time.

1 new voicemail, your phone screen reads. You start to slide the notification away, but against your better judgment, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you give in, tap the notification, and listen.

The line is silent for a moment, and part of you hopes he gave up and left you nothing.

Finally, after what sounds like a throat clearing, he speaks.

“Hey, it’s me,” Zayne’s voice comes through the speaker. It’s got that usual muffled crackly phonecall texture laid onto it, but it sounds enough like him that it feels like he’s right there with you, underneath the blankets. “Are you alright? …Listen. Whatever it was I said, I didn’t mean it. You know that. I was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner, but you left so suddenly. Call me when you’re able?”

The silence creeps in again, and you can almost hear him consider saying something more, can almost see his expression as his thoughts thunder in his brain but refuse to leave his lips, but then there’s a click, and the call ends. The robotic voicemail message drones monotonously about saving the message, and halfway through, you hang up, too.

The back of your throat clenches and burns, and you barely fight back a sob as it wrenches itself out of you. Zayne was worried about you. You made him worry. You thought he was mad, you wanted him to be mad, but he’s not. He cares about you. Why…?

You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, as if you could push back the sting of tears that rush, hot and salty, from your bloodshot eyes. It hurts, and you start to see flashes of bright white stars under your eyelids, but it’s better than succumbing to the pain in your chest. Your heart shares a galaxy with the stars in your vision, a dying star that’s fizzling out, or maybe even being consumed by the void of a black hole. How morbidly comforting. You suddenly want to rip it out.

You wonder, just how difficult would it be to separate the Aether Core from your still-beating flesh…?

You try to shake the thoughts from your mind but they hold fast. Throwing the blankets off of your body, you leave your room hobbling like a zombie, make a beeline for the kitchen, and pull open a drawer.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It’s late at night when there’s a knock at your door. A slight rap of the knuckles. A sharp one, two. Once, then twice, and on the third knock there’s another sound, too. A rattling jingle. And it’s times like these when you curse yourself for giving Zayne the extra key to your apartment.

He calls out your name as he steps in. You barely hear him. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s far away, or speaking quietly, or if you’re just that far gone into your own thoughts that everything else around you is muted.

He might have called only once, or a dozen times, by the time he reaches your room and spots your hunched figure on your bed. He says your name again, and this time you do hear him.

You meet his gaze, steeled with concern, and immediately regret it.

He sees you, really sees you, and all at once your façade crumbles once more. He approaches the edge of your bed, and you turn your eyes anywhere but at him as you brace yourself for impact.

“What are you doing?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.

Zayne grabs your wrist. Yet, his touch is gentle—firm enough to grip you, but soft enough that you could pull away if you wanted. You don't. You’re far too tired to fight anymore. You continue to stare at the floor with teary eyes, but there is resignation hanging heavy on your shoulders, like a wet blanket. Zayne takes your silent compliance as an okay to pull you along with him down the hallway of your dimly lit apartment and into the bathroom.

He sits you down on the toilet. The light clack of the lid hitting the porcelain beneath from your sudden weight seemed to jolt you awake a bit; your eyes refocus and follow his movements as he shuffles through the medicine cabinet. He pulls out a few things and then returns to tend to his patient.

"Hand. Here," he says as he holds out his own. You offer yours, and he meets you halfway. He always does. He’s as meticulous and calm as always as he cleans, disinfects, and wraps your wounds, ever the doctor, but there’s a certain softness in his motions that you’re sure he reserves for only his most cherished patients.

Only for you.

The thought rolls a warm wave over you, the once wet blanket that had been dragging you down now fresh out of the laundry and wrapped carefully around you, cozy and hot and certain. There’s still a bit of damp spots here and there, but those will also dry in time. And you know Zayne will still be here when that time comes.

Your thoughts are broken when long fingers drag against your cheek, wiping away yet more damp spots and fanning through your shining lashes.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Zayne says, repeating his words from earlier that day. Was that really only today? This day was lasting a lifetime. As with before, his tone holds no ice. You regret snapping at him when he was only trying to help. He must feel your tension, because he puffs a breath out through his nose just then, and the warm air tickles the hairs on your forehead. He places a kiss there, the barest brush of his lips on your skin. He pushes your hair back with long warm fingers, tucking a strand behind your ear. “If you need help with that, I’m here. Always. You need only ask.”

Later still and he’s tucking you into bed and giving your forehead another gentle kiss, making you feel like a kid again. He’s surprisingly good at that. You don't know how he does it.

Zayne follows you under the covers, and leaves you an open invitation to snuggle against him, if you wish. You gratefully accept, tucking your head under his chin as he envelops you. He’s very careful not to apply pressure to your bandaged skin.

Right before you fall asleep, he whispers a promise of breakfast tomorrow, and dinner, and whatever else comes next. A promise of staying, no matter what.

#soft zayne is best zayne #change my mind (you won't)#love and deepspace #zayne #zayne x reader #zayne lads #l&ds #l&ds x reader #fics

209 notes · View notes

joelmillers-whore · 7 months

Text

Hard Light | Chapter 1

summary: when a new english professor begins teaching your class for the duration of your semester, you can’t help but develop an innocent crush on him. he’s as off-limits as he can be, but that doesn’t deter you in the slightest. after a drunk night, you accidentally email him something that wasn’t intended to ever be seen by anyone. but that doesn’t matter. it triggers a misunderstanding that manifests into an affair with your professor who is twenty years your senior. nothing good could come of this, right?

pairings: professor!joel x college student!reader

word count: 2.2K

series or one-shot

warnings: 18+ explicit, minors DNI, no mention of Y/N, alternate universe, professor/student relationship, eventual smut, self-esteem issues, workaholic, joel x female!reader, infatuation bordering on obsession (stay delulu friends), some sexual thoughts, masturbation (f), joel being a huge tease lol, (will add more tags as i write)

AN: i am so excited by the response that my joel one-shot got a few days ago and i’ve been itching to get something else out to you all. big, giant forehead kisses for those who want one, i love you all. so, anyway, a mini-series about professor joel is coming at you fast. i’ve written the first few chapters, so expect those in the near future. i’m thinking once a week? this fic is going to be something else and i’m so excited to share it with ya’ll. enjoy, and let me know what you think. find my ao3 here for more content and other fandoms.

You were running late for your shift at the coffee shop on campus, rummaging around your dresser, trying to find the low-cut black top you always wore when you had a shift. You weren’t usually one to feed into the peer pressure of those around you, but push came to shove when you found it nearly impossible to keep yourself afloat as a twenty-something student without the added extra tips from your part-time job.

So what if you had to show a little bit of cleavage? Right? There was no harm. Student loans were a bitch and on top of rent and food costs, you had to get a job at the coffee shop and balance a full course load just to make ends meet.

A thought popped into your head and you rushed to your laptop, throwing it open as you checked the time; 5:45 AM. If you busted out your lightning-fast typing skills, you would have enough time to catch the next bus and make it to campus with five minutes to spare. If only your crappy second-hand computer would work.

The thing honestly sounded like a chopper engine, getting ready for lift-off. You were surprised you’d gotten this far with it. Not that you weren’t appreciative, your older brother had passed it down and it had relieved a huge weight— and expense off of your shoulders.

You tabbed into your school portal, typing in your credentials and selecting your English course. You sighed heavily, as you skimmed over the assignment for this week, something to do with a sonnet that you couldn’t care less about. You loved school but ever since becoming an English major, the spark that you once had for literature sort of just evaporated.

You couldn’t tell if it was because of how busy you were with everything else that you just couldn’t find the time to enjoy it, or the thought that really scared you, you had fallen out of love with it.

It had been two years of go, go, go and you were, for lack of a better word, burnt out. You’d tried dropping courses last semester, thinking that you just needed a little bit of ease when it came to your course load, but when that didn’t solve the problem and only made things worse for you, you spent the last two semesters trying to catch up and get yourself to a place where you could finally breathe.

But it wasn’t easy. You were only now caught up to where you had been, the illusion that you were someone who could afford to take time off and slow down was a distant memory.

In bold letters, the words Paid Internship jumped off of the screen. You smiled as you leaned in closer to the screen, making sure you read through everything correctly. This was the break above the surface that you needed, the reprieve that you had been chasing. A paid internship was exactly how you’d be able to make more money and maybe have a little breathing room before you worked yourself into an early grave.

You clicked the mail icon at the top and clicked into a new email, deciding that the worst-case scenario was that you wouldn’t get the internship. All you were doing was inquiring about the application process. Best-case scenario; you’d get it and make some extra pocket money.

You saw the time, cursing under your breath as you slammed the laptop closed, grabbed your phone out of the charger and ran out of the door. You couldn’t be late, not again. You texted your co-worker Jeremy to open the shop without you and explained to him that you were running a few minutes late, as you barely made it to the bus. You climbed on board, scanned your student pass and found a seat near the back. Your chest was burning from the rush of trying to make it on time, but you could breathe easy now.

You checked your messages mindlessly, scrolling through a bunch of unread ones that you didn’t have the heart to answer.

Before you knew it, the familiar monuments and buildings of UT Austin came into view, and the subtle change of scenery from downtown to a more densely packed area made your heart skip a beat. It was the same each time you were back on campus. Which, these days, was often. Sliding out of the seat, you made your way to the front, thanking the driver as the bus came to a complete stop.

The coffee shop was only a short walk from the bus stop but even still you quickened your pace. You didn't want to leave Jeremy alone for long, you already felt bad enough about letting him open by himself. You stifled a yawn as you pushed open the door to the small cafe, leaning your body into the door, slightly cringing at the shrill sound of the bell.

"There you are", a male voice called, making your head snap up. You wiggled your nose, the familiar timbre of your ex-boyfriend's voice ringing in your ears. "It's about time you got your ass down here".

You snickered, shrugging your heavy bag off of your shoulder, and dropping it behind the counter, turning around and greeting him with an unamused smirk.

Jeremy and you had gone out for a few months last year, it was your first and, as of right now, the only short-term relationship that you'd had in college.

Dating your co-worker, even in a relatively small place like the coffee shop on campus, almost always spelled trouble, but Jeremy was not the type to hold something like a failed relationship over your head. He understood that school was a priority for you and making a living for yourself came first, even above something like a relationship. It might not be the healthiest way to live, but it was how it always was.

Jeremy and you had developed a fast friendship, one that went beyond the romantic relationship that you'd had last year. You parted amicably and now, you had someone you could confide in, someone you could trust.

"Why don't you say that to my face?", you teased, raising a brow at him over the milk frother you were setting up.

Jeremy threw his rag down and stalked over to you. "You're snippy this morning", he chided.

You banged into his shoulder playfully, "Doesn't help that I have to see your ugly mug first thing in the morning".

You snorted out a laugh and Jeremy looked at you, feigning defensiveness, "Ouch", he paused, returning back to his post near the coffee machine, "Remind me how we ever went out?".

You scrunched your nose and threw your rag at Jeremy, hitting him square in the face with it, "That was rude".

He shrugged his shoulder, "You started it".

You both devolved into a fit of giggles and fell into a comfortable silence, setting up and getting the coffee shop ready for the day. You had a half-day shift to look forward to and then you had class until the late afternoon. The days were long and the nights were longer.

You usually found yourself nose-deep in your textbooks, more often than not, or some classic novel that was required for class, not moving from the couch until your eyes were red and you were seeing double.

Only then did you retire to sleep, crashing hard until you had to wake up and do it all again the next day.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The coffee shop had been bustling with people since six in the morning, and at one in the afternoon, it hadn't let up, only now you had to go to class. Waving Jeremy goodbye, you sidestepped Tara, the fourth-year who was covering the rest of the afternoon and closing shift.

You'd crossed the far side of campus, passing by the science building and one of the massive libraries that had acted like a second home to you back when you’d been studying for exams when you were a freshman. You could thank your obnoxious roommates for that one.

Entering the lecture hall, bodies pressed into you as you weaved through the growing crowd, trying to find a spot in the middle where you could see and hear your English professor. But also blend in with the masses. As if the universe had other plans in mind, and everyone suddenly showed up to the Tuesday lecture all at the same time, you found yourself picking a seat near the front, an exasperated groan leaving you.

You hated sitting at the front, not because you didn't want to get called on to answer something or because you didn't know the answers, but because you did. You wanted to get through your four years as quickly and unscathed as possible and if people knew, mainly professors, that you knew more about the subject matter than you needed to, you'd surely get called on more often, making you stick out in ways you didn't want.

It was a terrible curse, going through life with the self-esteem that you did. But it was how you were raised. Blend in. Don't be too loud. Be quiet and only observe. Nerves rapped at your insides when you thought about getting called on when class started. Your heart rate ticked up and you found that your hands were beginning to get clammy, your throat constricting with each breath.

You rubbed your hands up and down your thighs, grounding yourself with the sensation of the material.

With a jump, you sat up straighter in your seat, being jostled from your thoughts by a loud slam. You snapped your head toward the entrance, eying the person who had startled everyone. It was a man carrying a briefcase.

Your lips tilted up at the edges, amusement tickling you when you thought of anyone using a briefcase nowadays. But here this man was, head down as he made his way to the front of the room, toward the desk.

You couldn't help keeping your eyes trained on him. On how his slacks tightened around his butt, moulding to the shape and curve of it. You bit your bottom lip out of reflex, your eyes dragging down the length of the mystery man who had crashed your lecture. Maybe he was a TA? Your brows furrowed when you thought about how your professor was nowhere in sight.

The man with the briefcase placed his case on the desk, turning to face the audience of students who blinked back at him, who now settled down enough to hear him speak. Air caught in your throat when his eyes flicked momentarily to you, and lingered on you for half a second longer than you'd expected. He had massive, warm brown eyes, and soft wrinkles that danced at the edges of his eyes when he smiled, making him seem more boyish than he appeared.

He looked older than a TA would but then again, who were you to judge someone's position in life? You thought that his age did nothing to undermine just how attractive he was, if anything it added to it.

The man, who may or may not have been moonlighting as your English TA cleared his throat, nodding his head, "My name is Joel, well, Professor Miller to most, but 've always been a little bit more informal than my peers".

He began to circle the wooden desk nervously, his large hand finding the edge of it and stroking it far more sensually than necessary. You flexed your fingers, gripping the arm of your seat to stabilize yourself. "So, you can call me Joel from here on out... since we'll be seeing more of each other from now on".

Murmurs began to break out around the lecture hall, and confused and hushed whispers followed.

Professor Miller— Joel, mumbled something incoherent, and you were unable to hear it from where you sat. He cleared his throat again, "Professor McCarthy has taken a leave of absence, so I'll be filling in for him for the remainder of the semester".

You crossed your legs, feeling heat rise and a furious blush break out across your face, and shuffled in your seat, a loud creak emitted from it and you stilled, praying that the loud sound had only been heard by you and no one else. But when you lifted your gaze, Joel's eyes were already locked on you, blown and brimming with cautious inquiry. A touch of a smirk graced his lips.

"And I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you, personally". His eyes were still on you, not ready to release you from their hold.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips and you couldn't help but stare. You had every reason to look away from him, he was your professor and given the clear age difference, he was someone who was off limits. But when he didn't look away from you either, trapping you with his gaze, your face heated up, suddenly aware that he was purposely staring at you.

You swallowed thickly, heart hammering as Joel's eyes finally drifted away from you and back to the faces of your classmates. He continued on with addressing the class, and you noticed that he avoided your eyes for the rest of the lecture.

Only one thought rang through your mind as you tried and failed to focus back on the lecture. This was going to be one long semester.

469 notes · View notes

rancidpancakebatter · 2 months

Text

For Him - [P.P.]

Pairings: Peter Parker x Depressed!Reader

Summary: You were fine. He doesn’t understand. You were fine. You had been a little distant lately, but he had learned that was a pattern for you. When the months got colder and the nights got longer, you needed an adjustment period. Your space would get messy, and your naps would get longer. But you were always fine.

Word Count: 7.0k

Content: THIS FIC IS CENTERED AROUND A DEPRESSIVE EPISODE. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMTION.

Depression, language, Mentions of self-harm, Mentions of suicide ideation, friends to...open to being more?, Whump comfort, No actual harm comes to the reader, Happy Ending

( Masterlist )

A/N: I'm trying to get back into writing (I know I've said that before) and while my series are on pause, I've been trying to get back into a schedule with it. This piece is very personal to me and is very much something I wrote for myself. I'm sharing this only because I hope it can bring others the comfort it brought me. Or something close to it.

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!” Peter watched you helplessly as you continued to sob.

Your cries ripped from your chest, and you wished to reach inside the fresh gashes, grasp your heart, and grind it to dust. Anything to make it stop. It felt as if the tissue of your cardiac muscle was pulling itself apart, each painful pump shredding the fragile tissue further. You weren’t sure how much more you could take- how many beats you had left in you. You felt delirious.

It’s common knowledge that when your body is going through immense pain, such as breaking a bone, it goes into shock. Your sympathetic nervous system shuts off momentarily because your brain makes the executive decision that you can’t handle it. You wondered how much pain you could withstand before your body tapped out.

Everything was too much. Your brain couldn’t keep up. Neither could Peter. He watched on in horror as you screamed, clawing at the carpet, pushing your face into the ground, cradling your stomach, and rolling back and forth.

You were fine. He doesn’t understand. You were fine. You had been a little distant lately, but he had learned that was a pattern for you. When the months got colder and the nights got longer, you needed an adjustment period. Your space would get messy, and your naps would get longer. But you were always fine.

You had been ghosting Peter for six days (after two weeks of not seeing each other and you flaking on plans), and he had had enough. In his line of work, he tended to worry, however irrational that worry was, it was still there, palpable. You hadn’t been to class all week, he went to your job to surprise you, but you weren’t there either. He thought maybe you were upset with him, but the nagging thoughts racing through his mind couldn’t let you be. If something was wrong, he needed to know.

Peter has had a key to your place since you moved in. He was the only person you trusted, and you knew that sometimes he hated going home, finding it hard to leave “work” at work. You loved that your apartment was a safe place for him. Somewhere, he could rest his head and forget, for a moment, about Spider-Man and return to Peter Parker.

To say your place was a mess was an understatement. You were respectfully tidy; your space consistently looked lived-in, as opposed to Harry’s place, which always looked like a catalogue.

The smell of rotting food triggered his gag reflex momentarily. He soon got his bearings and saw dishes piled everywhere; the full plates looked almost untouched. Various fast food containers littered every surface. Clothes were draped over random furniture, and he could smell you too. He didn’t smell your strawberry shampoo and cocoa butter lotion but rather sweat and musk.

He entered cautiously, calling out to you, but heard no response. He surveyed his surroundings, looking for any possible distress. He worried for a minute that his Spidey-Sense™ wasn’t working. Obviously, something was wrong, but his sixth sense remained dormant in his nerves.

Then he heard it, breathing, a heartbeat. He moved in its direction, slowly approaching the couch. Curled up in a ball, you lay there, surrounded by malodorous clutter. You looked very uncomfortable slotting yourself between mounds of tupperware and dirty clothes. He called out to you again but got no response.

He lept over the back of the couch, landing in front of you, disregarding anything in his path. He brought a hand to your face and the other to your exposed wrist, checking for a pulse. You turned your face away from him, and he felt a rush of emotions surge through him.

Firstly, he was elated: you were alive, your pulsed drummed with the precision of a seasoned battlefield drummer, and you didn’t seem to have a fever or show any other indications of illness.

Secondly, he was angry: he hadn’t heard from you in a week, but he sees your phone on the floor in front of him. You were trying to move away from his touch as if his hand on your face was the broccoli your mother demanded you eat before leaving the table. And when he called to you, you didn’t respond- despite very obviously being awake.

Then, he was worried: he watched as your fingers trembled, your hand limp as he held your wrist. You looked dull, as if someone had turned down your saturation, drowning you out in the background of surrounding hues. Your eyes were glassy, seemingly unfocused as you stared ahead. You looked despondent, a husk of his dear friend.

He called out to you again, and you let out a small whimper. He was beginning to panic. You, on the other hand, were trying to find the will. The will to care, to respond, to look at him, to live.

“(Y/n), can you hear me?” again, you gave him nothing, and he felt panic rise in him again.

“(Y/n), come on, you gotta give me some sign of life.” You focused all of your energy, fighting desperately against your brain, and blinked, long and slow.

“Was that on purpose? Was that your response?” You blinked again, and Peter felt his chest tighten.

“Are you okay? You’re freaking me out, Bubs.” You blinked twice, and Peter stopped for a moment.

“Is two blinks a ‘no’?” You blinked again.

Peter ran a hand through his hair, and you realised he was stressed. You wanted to care so badly. Your friend was hurting, and it was your fault, and you couldn’t even care. Some friend you are. Peter deserved someone better, someone who could be there for him, someone who didn’t completely fall apart when the world became too heavy, someone who could convince themselves that breathing was a good thing. You felt someone shaking you.

“Hey! (Y/n), come back to me, buddy!” You blinked again, and the shaking stopped, but you could still feel his eyes boring into you.

“I asked if you were on drugs. Are you overdosing right now?” You blinked twice. You were feeling tired again. How ridiculous that you can lay here all day, but having to blink is too exhausting? You let out a yawn, and Peter relaxes some.

“(Y/n), can you try and talk to me? I’m freaking out here.” With a great amount of effort, you opened your mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

It was barely audible; your voice croaked due to its inactivity. You blinked a few times, forcing yourself to look at him. His brows were furrowed, and his eyes were wet. You had done that. The ache in your bones grew and spread at the realisation. Peter just shook his head.

“I don’t need you to be sorry; you need to tell me what’s going on.”

To anyone else, he would have sounded cold, but you knew this tone. Peter was working a case, searching for clues, answers. You were dealing with Spider-man. You felt bad that you had drawn that out of him, that he was so distressed he had to put on his suit of armour.

How could you tell him? There was nothing going on. Not one thing, at least. It was a bunch of small things that you were handling like a baby. Your parents were upset with you, your grades were slipping, your job was stressful, you were constantly fatigued, and everything just felt like so much work. Work that you didn’t sign up for. Work that you were done doing.

“(Y/n), what’s going on?”

He hadn’t meant to raise his voice at you, but he was growing annoyed with your crypticness. He wanted to help you- wanted to make sure you’re okay- and he couldn’t do that if you didn’t tell him.

You let out some sharp breaths that almost resembled crying, but no tears left your eyes. You wondered if you had run out; if your brain had decided you had met your quota and had cut off your supply. Or maybe you were just so dehydrated that you didn’t have enough water to spare.

You watched as a single tear rolled down his cheek. You had made him cry. You were uncaring and cruel. You were hurting him. You were a shitty friend. He was so worried about you, and you did nothing to ease his concern. He had called you many times, and you would watch as your phone danced on the table. You would listen to his voicemails, at first light-hearted before quickly turning to panic. You stopped listening to them three days ago, unable to process his emotions as well as your own.

“Bubba, please. What is going on with you? You haven’t answered my texts, you haven’t been to class, you haven’t been to work. I’m really worried. Please, please talk to me.”

He was begging and the thought broke your wretched heart. You attempted to curl more into the couch, to hide away from the pain you saw in his eyes. His hand on your shoulder stopped you, and you didn’t have the strength to resist.

“I’m sorry.”

You watched as Peter’s face contorted wildly between emotions: anger, fear, concern, sorrow. He chewed on his lip as he looked you over again. His mouth gaped as if he was tripping over his words before they could even leave his mind.

“Why? What-? Did you do something?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

How could he even ask that? He knows what you did. He had just listed half of your offences. How could he even stand to look at you? You were a monster, vile and vicious.

You blinked again, and Peter frowned. You knew he wanted to hear you speak, that it would ease his worry, but you couldn’t. Saying the words is hard, flexing all those muscles to use your voice. Too much. It was all too much.

“What did you do?”

You can hear the fear in his voice. It makes you sick to your empty stomach. The weight of his question weighed on your chest.

You knew what he was asking. It was a question you had been asked many times by your parents, by professionals, and your friends. You had lost many over the question. Some of them running away screaming at your honesty. Others have told you it’s not your fault, they just can’t carry the weight. So they leave you to carry it on your own.

You recognised the way his eyes quickly darted to your wrist, then moved to any possible exposed skin. You saw the way he checked his surroundings, looking for anything there. You knew what he was looking for, even if he didn't.

You almost wanted to laugh at that. It was funny to your fucked up brain. They always want to know. They insist on it. They have to know if you’ve done something to yourself as if their knowledge could rewrite time and change futures. As if they know they have the special combination of words that would make you see the light and bring you back. As if they could say something-- anything --you hadn’t heard before. But that wasn’t the funny part. The funny part was being right.

You knew that it was getting bad again. You knew if Peter saw you like this, he would get scared. You knew he would assume the worst. And here he was, doing just that. The funny part was knowing that when people see depression, they expect it to just be this, and if it’s not, you’re fine. And when it does look like this, you must be suicidal.

And honestly, you wish you were. And you shouldn’t say that, but it’s true. At least then you could do something with it. But instead, you’re curled up on your couch, immobilised, waiting for the storm to pass. You look and feel pathetic. But for now, it’s funny. Mostly because you can’t handle how frustrating this is.

You tug your sleeve down, and Peter’s eyes track the movement, tracing over the smooth skin as it’s revealed. His body remains tense even as you stop. You move the other one, and he’s just as attentive. When both wrists are revealed to be fine, you expect him to relax, but he doesn’t.

You watch as his chest rises and falls, not quickly but noticeably. As if he’s trying to stay calm. You appreciate that, though feeling like a bit of an ass for it.

He takes a deep breath, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “So then, why are you sorry?”

He looked at you expectantly, and you felt like crying again. It was too much. You knew what you had done, how shitty you had been. It’s all you could think about as his calls continued to go unanswered and your filth continued to pile around you. But he was asking too much. You didn’t want those words to leave your lips. You didn’t want him to hear them.

If he did, he might realise you’re right. He’d leave you here, and you’d never hear from him again. He’d be another soul lost to your devastation. Another broken person you made by knowing you. He’d realise how you tainted him, recognise you as sickness, and cut you off. And you couldn’t be mad at him when he did it. Because he would be right.

Or he would defend you. All that Peter Parker love pouring from him, insisting that everyone is good and deserves a chance. He would ignore all of your words, writing them off as nonsense. And maybe, maybe you’d start to believe him. You’d let him convince you that you’re okay. But soon, he would realise that he was wrong about you.

Either way, he would leave you. So maybe if you push him now, it won’t hurt so bad later. If you don’t let him build you up, you won’t fall as far.

So you said nothing, holding his gaze until you couldn’t anymore. His face shifted again, and you couldn’t take it. It was too much. It was your fault. You managed to roll over from your side to your stomach. You paid no mind to the various objects falling off the couch; you didn’t care that Peter had to dodge the debris. Especially when it distracted him long enough to let you hide. You buried your face into your crossed arms but didn’t close your eyes, the dark pocket you created being more than enough.

You felt hollow. Like life had finally broken you, taken everything that you were. You weren’t yourself anymore, just a husk. One that wouldn’t eat, or change clothes, or leave the house. But you weren’t empty. No, you had been carved out, but disgust and anger filled you now. But those big feelings left you feeling tired, tired constantly. No sleep was restful, no break long enough. It was baked in, carried in your bone marrow.

Peter was silent and you listened closely to his breathing. You couldn’t understand why he hadn’t given up yet, why he was sticking by your side. So you told him to leave.

You waited patiently for him to shout, for his footsteps to fade away, but he didn’t. He remained there, where you could feel his eyes on you. It was pissing you off.

“Leave!” you tried again, the sharpness of your tone muffled by the couch cushions.

You waited again, and this time, you heard movement. You heard a piece of silverware land softly on the coffee table and trash move around the floor. Finally, you thought. But then you felt a weight lean against the couch, then soft noises coming from a phone.

You peeked your head out to see Peter sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, scrolling through Instagram. He didn’t chuckle or laugh. He wasn’t really looking at his phone. His eyes were darting over to you every few seconds. You knew he knew you were watching him. This game went on for a long time. Nearly an hour passed in silence, one watching the other.

“I’m not leaving,” he said eventually, “not without you.”

That exhaustion was melting now, and all that left you with was anger.

“Fuck you,” you spit, then tucked your head back into your arms.

“I don’t think you mean that.”

Oh, fuck him. You snapped up, your arms supporting your body as you glared at him from the couch. He looked surprised, but not frightened. Peter had put himself in a terrible position. You were swirling with hatred, and now he had made himself a target. You couldn’t help the words tumbling from your mouth.

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean!” you shouted, your voice crackling like flames. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel! You don’t get to come in here where you’re not wanted and fuck with me. I don’t want you here! I don’t want to see you again!”

He winced at your words, and that made you feel a little powerful. You were hurting so much, seeing him feel a fraction of it made it feel smaller.

“I haven’t talked to you in days and you think, ‘Oh, I’ll just pop over.’ What a fucking joke!”

You laugh, though there’s no humour in it.

“I was worried.”

His eyes are wet again– his voice is so small –like he was seconds from breaking.

Good. Let him break as I have. Maybe then he can see, and understand. Or maybe he’ll leave, get the hell out of dodge. Doesn’t matter.

“No, you were selfish,” You bite. “You got lonely and figured I would be there. You didn’t want to think I just didn’t want you anymore, so you showed up. Because you know no one comes looking for you. Not without the suit.”

You watch as he recoils. He’s looking at you like a monster, and he should. You are. His mouth hangs open, his eyes locked onto yours. The air feels stiff, like a sheet of glass waiting to be shattered. He sniffled a little, and suddenly you didn’t feel so powerful. The game’s not fun if he’s not yelling back. He’s not telling you that you’re right or wrong, he’s not mad. He’s just hurt.

The anger drops from your face and now your eyes are wet too. You feel like you might vomit, but you know that’s just a bluff. You can’t remember the last time you ate something. Or more than three bites. Food doesn’t smell yummy anymore; it doesn’t taste flavorful. Your empty stomach isn’t as noticeable, and chewing is too much work for such little payoff.

Peter’s eyes soften slightly, like something’s clicked for him. His brows pull down and his lips pout.

Pity. He’s showing pity. You’ve hurt him, and he pities you.

You rise quickly, and Peter is quick to his feet to meet you there.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your mouth as you feel your breath quicken. You were going to break down again. “You should leave.”

You pushed past him, ignoring his calls after you. You beat him to your bedroom, where you shut and lock the door. Both hands cover your mouth as the tears begin falling and your chest starts heaving. It hurts; the muscles sore from how often this seems to happen.

You hear him jiggle the handle, calling your name through the door, begging you to open it. You sink down, your shirt bunching against the wood as you descend. But you wait. You can’t let it out now, not with him here. He shouldn’t have to see this. He shouldn’t have to put up with it.

Eventually, the knocking stops, and you hear him walk away. You wait longer still until you finally hear the front door open and close.

Then you scream.

It’s deep and guttural. A middle finger to the universe. It’s pure agony released from your throat. It’s all the words you can’t say fast enough. A battle cry from a broken soldier.

You continue to weep, crawling towards your bed, littered with clean clothes you haven’t folded, books you haven’t picked up, and various other trinkets you haven’t put away. But then the exhaustion comes back.

You curl in around yourself, crying out again in frustration.

You’re weak. You’re tired. You’re cruel. You’re pathetic. You’re fat. You’re too skinny. You’re disgusting. You’re heedless. You’re everything, but never enough.

Peter had never felt so defeated. He could see that you needed him, but you didn’t want him. That wasn’t a new feeling to Peter. He had long ago abandoned any hope that you would see him as more than a friend. Even if everyone you ever dated left much to be desired, you didn’t want him.

But this was different. This was something he hadn’t seen before.

He had gotten close. May had gotten pretty close herself. But it was never that. Whatever you were dealing with-- however you were dealing with it-- he didn’t know what to do with it.

You had never looked at him like that before, so full of hate. You had ripped him to shreds on your living room floor. Your words hurt, and it looked like you wanted them to. Like you enjoyed hurting him. It was scary. But then he saw it. That glint of fear in your eyes. The regret falling on your brows. And when you looked like you might cry, he knew.

That was something he did recognise, something he had seen in himself many years ago. The need to hurt. That primal urge to rip everything around you to ribbons. So it can look as ugly as you.

He followed you to your door, beginning to understand the hurt you were feeling. He didn’t want that for you. He wished he could remove it like a faulty wire, but you shut yourself off. He could hear your ragged breathing on the other side of the door, even through his pounding and shouting. But you wouldn’t open up, and he couldn’t do anything until you did.

He weighed his options and tried his best to leave. He wanted to trust that you would be okay, that you would someday unlock the door, but for now, he had to leave you be.

He picked up his stuff, made a mental note to come back and help you clean, and stepped outside. Before he released the handle, he heard you scream. A very real scream. He moved with urgency, panic rising in him. He fumbled with the key in his hands painted with red and blue nail polish. It was chipped from the many years of hanging on his keychain.

He called out to you but got no response. You continued to howl from the other room, and he rushed there. Trying the handle, he cursed, finding it still locked. He had never heard a noise like that before. Your guttural wailing filled his mind. He had one thought, banging and pulsing through his head: Save her. Save her. Save her. Save her.

He didn’t want to kick down the door and frighten you, so he spun hopelessly outside it, fingers tangled in his hair as he tried to make use of his big brain. There was pounding mixing in with your cries now, and Peter felt scared that you were reaching a peak he wouldn’t be able to get you down from.

He threw his backpack to the floor and began opening pockets. His eyes glanced over his wallet, and then he dove for it, pulling out the library card you made him get. You had drawn on it because he complained about how boring it looked. It was the spiderweb in the corner that caught his eye now. From it hung a little spider, but its abdomen was shaped like a heart. He had teased you relentlessly for it at the time, pointing out its anatomical incorrectness. You told him it was a reminder, but for what you never said.

He pushed the thought aside, sliding the card between the door jamb and the lock latch, wiggling it until he felt it release. Your cries could be heard from the other side, so he steeled himself. You needed him, and you needed him strong. He could do that for you. He could do anything for you.

He was taken aback, for a moment, by the display before him, his lips parting in a gasp. You thrashed about, showing rage in your despair. He felt a wave of disgust for himself. He supposed he had let this happen, let you stew too long.

All this time, he thought you were fine. In the same way he was always ‘fine’. But every time he wasn’t, you were there. You were by his side, ready to talk him down. But him? He just waited for you to do it on your own.

He would see the signs and put his head in the sand, remembering how embarrassing it is when someone notices and asks. Remembering the rage that would boil up in him, as if this person could even begin to understand where he was coming from. But he forgot how much he needed it too. How much that small kindness meant. He forgot the value of a shoulder to cry on and an ear to hear, even if they don’t understand.

But he couldn’t dwell on that now. He can’t focus on what he could have done, only what he can now. Because you’re here now, and he wants you around later.

He drops to his knees, his hands coming out to hold you before he stops himself. He calls out softly instead.

It’s apparent to him that you didn’t realise he was there, your wild eyes scanning over him, trying to decipher if he’s real. Your chest heaves as you lay on the ground, your face swollen and red. His heart breaks, for a moment, whispering an apology you don’t hear.

It hurts to have him look at you like that– to see you like this. But this is what you were afraid of, him seeing you and running. But so far, he hasn’t. And you’re selfish, bordering on desperate. It doesn’t matter why he’s here; it just matters that he is. And as much as you desperately want him to leave, to forget you and move on, you can’t help clinging to him.

The one ray of sunshine you have. The one who always gets it even if he doesn’t. The one that remembers to get things in your favourite colour and reminds you to change your water filter. Your rock. And you could use a rock right now, and you can't bring yourself to worry about it destroying him.

You begin heaving again, and Peter panics, still unsure how to help you. His eyes are too much, so you roll around onto your belly, your legs curled up underneath, your forehead against the carpet. Your hands are wrapped around your gut as everything in you comes out. All the rage, and despair, and confusion leaking through your broken cries.

Peter only intervenes when your fists start slamming down against your stomach. You can feel his hand trembling as it grabs yours, and you scream again. His hand retracts, uncertain how to move forward.

Snot is running down your face, and you can feel some dribble on your chin. You feel like a child. You feel like a disgusting mess. He shouldn’t have to see you like this.

It hurts, god, it hurts so much!

His name leaves your lips, broken and frayed around the consonants, and he scoots closer.

“What?” He asks, sounding nearly as broken as you. “What can I do?”.

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!”

You’re not sure why you asked. You weren’t sure what he could do. But you knew he would do it. That’s what he does, fix things. He fixed your laptop, and May’s stove, and your bad study habits, and your sour mood. He always did and asked for nothing in return.

But maybe this was too big of an ask. How could he fix this- A chemical imbalance that you’ve been fighting your entire life? How could he fix what doctors hadn’t? What if you couldn’t be fixed?

You slammed your fist back into you, each hit punctuated with an insult.

Disgusting Pathetic Selfish Broken Useless Dumb Weak

But then, you felt gentle, shaking hands once again. His touch was warm but different from the fire you felt inside. It didn’t burn, but sooth. He had come up behind you and guided your arms tighter around yourself, using his to keep them there, coaxing you into sitting up and resting against him.

He was all around you now; his heart beat steadily against your back, even as yours pounded fiercely. You screamed again, but this time Peter didn’t let go. He held you tighter, hoping desperately that if he held on harder, he could keep you from slipping away. That you would feel his love on your skin. That he could shove the broken pieces back together enough to help you set them right.

Your head hurts; pressure building behind your eyes. But you felt safe, even in this pain. Because Peter was here, holding you tightly. He was here, even if he shouldn’t be. He was here. And you found yourself relaxing into his hold, melting against him.

Your sobbing fell into a quiet whimpering, letting him soothe you with gentle shushes and his forehead resting on the side of yours. He readjusted his hold on you, rubbing up and down on your arm with one hand and pulling you closer with the other. You hung loosely like you had lost the strength to hold yourself up. Peter swore you wouldn’t have to.

“I got you,” he whispered, placing a kiss where his head once was.

Soon, your cries became sniffles, and you turned around to face Peter. His face seemed sad, maybe even tired, but he smiled at you nonetheless. It wasn’t out of sympathy, but true and genuine. That was still too much, feeling embarrassed by your current state, so you hid.

Peter let you wrap your arms and legs around him, trying not to shiver as your nose rubbed against his neck. He pulled you into his lap, relishing in your tight hold. You were coming back to him.

He rubbed soothing patterns on your back, resting his head against yours while whispering encouragements.

“Good job, sweetie, you’re breathing so well for me. That’s right, big breaths, you got it.”

The world slowly stopped spinning, and your body stopped spazzing. You got the feeling back in your fingertips, running them in circles across Peter’s back, trying to recalibrate. He breathed with you, praising for each one you took.

Then, you were still, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Peter could feel your eyelashes slowly brush against his neck as you blinked.

“Hey,” he called softly. You hummed, and he was grateful. “I know you're tired, but you should take a bath first.”

You shook your head no, curling into him deeper. His heart panged, wanting desperately to hold onto you longer, but not like this.

He scooped you up, and you whined, wrapping your legs around him tighter as his arm came around to hold your hips. You knew he wouldn’t drop you, but you weren’t used to being toted around.

He let you cling to him as he began filling the bath, making sure the water was warm but wouldn’t hurt. He then travelled to the laundry room to grab some fresh towels and threw in some bubble bath he had found under the sink.

“Come on, baby,” he tried, “In the bath, you go.”

You felt your cheeks warm at the nickname and tried not to think about how much you didn’t want Peter to let go.

It’s not him, You told yourself, he’s just here.

But it didn’t sound very convincing, not even to you. But regardless of your wishes, you knew he wouldn't always be, and what would you do when he left? You’d probably end up on the floor again, or worse.

“I’ll still be here when you’re done,” He said, as if he could read your thoughts, “I promise a bath will make you feel better.”

You took a deep breath, raising your head to look into his eyes. Galaxies lived there, swirling and teeming with life. Every emotion, every thought, bubbling in his irises. And one came through over all of them, ringing through the silence.

Love.

You saw it there as he looked at you. How could this be?

Love.

Had he not seen how monstrous you could be, how depraved and insane you truly were? How could he possibly find it in him to still love you? And how could you let something like that go? He had a love for you that you didn’t have for yourself, but you needed it.

You nodded your head, pushing the thought aside, as you rose on shaking legs. Peter smiled, then left, grinning at you through the crack in the door.

“Thank you,” he said before closing it behind him.

You peeled off your sweat-soaked clothes, feeling embarrassed once again when you realised you were only in a t-shirt and a pair of underwear this entire time. Peter was a very good friend, and you couldn’t imagine why he was thanking you for anything.

You got into the water, your muscles relaxing as soon as they broke the barrier. You stretched, letting yourself sink deeper into the water. You lay there for a moment, relishing in the peace, in the momentary break in misery.

You dunk your head under the water, holding your breath and counting. You come up gasping, feeling the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You feel alive again.

You do that a few more times before actually washing your body. You try not to wince as you scrub the film from your body and hair. You took the time to pamper yourself, letting the lavender scent surround you. You even shaved so you could curl up in your fuzzy blanket later and just feel the softness. Peter was right- a bath made you feel a lot better.

You wrapped yourself up in your towel, feeling fresh and a lot less heavy, and opened the door. Peter was there sitting on your floor, thumbing through your record collection. You gasped at the vision around you, and Peter jumped up, a smile on his face.

“Hey, you’re back!” He saw your surprise and hastily apologized, “I hope you don’t mind. Just thought I’d put on some music.”

You shook your head at the man, ignoring his apology completely. You didn't care about the music. Your eyes wandered around the made bed, with fresh sheets, and the clothes that once occupied them neatly folded. The dirty clothes on your floor were gone, the hamper was empty, and when you listened carefully, you could hear the washing machine running in the other room.

“You didn’t have to clean up,” you said, embarrassment rising to your cheeks.

“It’s all good,” he brushed off, like it was nothing. “I pulled these out for you to change into, but you can- you can wear whatever, of course. And...I don't have to tell you that.”

The way he fumbled over his words was adorable, but you remembered then that you were only in a towel, standing in front of your best friend. You clutched it tighter, and he seemed to notice then too. Redness grew from his neck to his cheeks, and he quickly turned around.

“Sorry!” He shouted. Then calmly, “Sorry, I’ll uh- I’ll let you change.”

You reached for the pyjamas he set out and slipped them on. It felt nice. I mean, the pj’s weren’t new, but wearing something Peter picked out for you, with you in mind, felt…sweet. And they were extremely comfortable. You smiled softly as you smoothed out the fabric, then opened the door.

Peter was standing just on the other side with his back turned to it, but upon hearing the handle, he turned. His eyes quickly skated over your form before he beamed at you. You invited him into your room and turned down the record he had put on so it was softly playing in the background.

He stood awkwardly in your room, hands in his pockets, like he didn't know what to do next. You felt a similar way, sitting back on your bed. The silence was loud; both of you stuck between wanting to ask a million questions and not sure how to make the words right.

You figured he had done enough of the work today; you could try for him.

“I’m sorry,” you began.

He turned to you, worry written across his brows and a retort on his lips, but you cut him off.

“I- I was cruel to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

His face falls as he sighs, then trudges over to sit at your side with heavy feet.

“It’s okay-” he begins.

“Don’t say that,” You spit, some of that anger you tried to bury coming back. Peter stilled, and you felt bad, but he had to hear you. It was important. “Don’t say that how I treated you was acceptable because it wasn’t. You don’t deserve that from anyone. If I had seen someone speak to you that way– or ignore you the way I did –I would have killed them. I don’t get to lash out at you like that, okay?”

Peter’s eyes were twinkling again, and you couldn’t understand it.

“You- you shouldn’t have to put with it,” you continue shakily, “and I don’t think you should stick around.”

Peter rolled his eyes, chuckling.

“Tough luck.”

You look at him baffled, but he remains unfazed.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he explains, “I spend most of my days chasing people who actually want me dead. You having a little outburst because you’re hurting and you don’t know how to say it? I can handle that.”

He grabs your hand, and you try to stop the butterflies taking flight within you.

“You disappearing for a few days? That’s nothing. Me leaving?” He laughs full-on now; it rolls through him, blooming from his chest, “That’s never gonna happen.”

“Peter-” you try, but it’s he who cuts you off now.

“No, I’m not hearing any of it. I’m not going anywhere,” he insists. “I’m not leaving you again. I will be right here, for as long as you need me, and even when you don’t.”

His hold on your hand is tighter now, as if he’s trying to press the promise into you. Placing it in your hand and hoping you never let it go. Or maybe it was more than the promise. You look into his eyes, and you see it again– love. You can’t make sense of it. Over and over again, that look. One you’ve seen so many times. Why?

“Because you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” He answers your silent question, “Because I don’t want you to do it alone, not when I’m right here.”

He lifts your hand and puts it over his heart. You can feel how fast it’s beating. Yours flutters in a similar way. It’s terrifying and thrilling, this promise he makes. You want Peter there, always. That’s why he has a key, free to pop into your life whenever he finds the time. Because you always want him there. It’s why he’s your emergency contact and the only person you trust (other than May, but you would never ask it of her) to water your plants when you’re away.

But if he stays, you’ll grow attached. More attached, at least. He’s seen one of many battles in a war you’ve been losing for as long as you can remember. He’s crazy enough to think he can handle more when you barely can yourself. But maybe that’s what you need, someone to fight with you. Someone to fight for.

You bring your arm around his neck, pulling him into a jarring hug. He accepts it, pulling you closer. You’re trembling ever so slightly, but you’re not fighting him anymore. He knows what this means. You’re letting him stay, and he’s so grateful.

You allow yourself to just breathe with him- to let him be here, and hold you. You never got that before, and accepting it now is hard, but you can do it.

“Do you wanna stay the night and watch some b-horror films?” you asked.

Peter smiled against you, and your heart leapt at the action.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You feel a bit selfish as he steps into the bathroom to change into comfier clothes, as he crawls into bed and lets you curl into him, as he drapes his arm around you and holds you close. You can’t give him what he wants right now, what he deserves, but you want to. It’s hard, it’s terrifying, but you know that you can. You can do it for him. You're strong enough.

Tag List: @actuallypeterparker, @barbecuetiddy, @cherriescherriesred25, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @mirrorballin24, @miwagila, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @onlyangel-444, @preciousbabypeter, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @remuslupinsdocs, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @supernerdycookietrashblrr, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

227 notes · View notes