#*i will lean more. not i will not learn more

[reignpage]

His Loss, Their Gain

Synopsis: in which you get stood up and the jjk men are more than ready to step up for you (pre-relationship) Warnings: a little cursing, vaguely sexual language or allusions, a little angsty, but mostly fluff, crack and comfort, one-sided pining perchance, not proofread Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna Word Count: 3.6k

Gojo

He heard all about your date from Shoko when he took a student to her dark, miserable corner to get all fixed up that morning. To say he was peeved was a massive understatement. In fact, the man had been muttering ‘ooh y/n’s got a date with some non-sorcerer ooh good for her’ under his breath pretty much the entire day. 

The students are both amused and irritated by his constant yammering. 

“I go on loads of date!” He grumbled, flicking a leaf as he leans against a tree, watching the kids spar. “What’s the big deal?”

At lunch, he strolled into the teacher’s lounge and whistled some tune. As always, you were sat by the window enjoying a bento box that made his mouth water — man, what would it be like to enjoy a meal made by you.

Casually, he mused, “I heard through the grapevine, you’ve got a hot date tonight.”

You threw him an unimpressed glower. 

“Who the hell told you about that?”

Satoru shrugged. “Oh, y’know, just the grapevine. So, what’s he like?”

Nonchalant as he may have seemed, he had enough self-awareness to know that he was pretty bothered by how spruced up you’ve gotten for this guy, whoever he is. God, did you have to make your hair all pretty like that? And oh hell, is that a new perfume? 

You didn’t entertain his game, choosing to ignore his thinly veiled attempt to pry, and chose simply to poke his side, tickling him away from the path to the exit he was blocking. The white-haired man rolled his eyes, desperate to quell the smile twitching at the corner of his lips. 

That one interaction, that fleeting touch he never blocked out and that momentary glimpse at your shy smile, smothered the complaints that had been festering inside since he visited Shoko. You looked anxious, embarrassed, but more than anything, excited. Happy.

He was quiet the rest of the day. 

The students didn’t know what to make of his sudden shift in mood; he was contemplative, focused and serious. None of them complained, after all they were finally learning a thing or two but it was an odd sight, him without a smile on his face.

When the sun was lowering, and the students had all headed home, Satoru leisurely exited the school feeling, for reasons he wasn’t ready to acknowledge, more tired than usual. But then he saw you, standing at the gates staring at your phone. Checking his own, he frowned.

You were supposed to be long gone by now. 

When he appeared right beside you, you weren’t the least bit taken aback by his sudden voice. 

“Ugly loser not coming?”

Muttering, you weakly replied, “You’ve never met him. How can you possibly know he’s ugly?”

Satoru threw back a retort that you didn’t respond to. He sighed. With his hands tucked into this pockets, he nudged you. “Alright, stop pouting, let’s go get dinner. I’m starving. God, being a teacher really takes its toll on the body.”

“You barely do anything.” 

Despite yourself, you smiled. 

So did he. 

“Yeah, well, I’m still hungry anyways. So, let’s get going. Your treat.”

And despite his incredibly annoying, pretentious tone, you found yourself walking away from the school, the dwindling warmth of the sun setting behind you, with Satoru. He tried to hide his self-satisfied grin and the slight pep in his steps, and especially the peak under his blindfold at the two shadows you cast. 

For as long as other men sucked, he knew he still had a chance.

Geto

“Got plans?” 

You gave him a side glance, pulling your panties back up your legs. That arrangement of yours was complicated, to say the least. An on and off thing, neither of you could really keep your hands off each other, and all while staying as friends. Of course, the being friends part was easy — he’s fun and you’re sweet. But the staying as friends, and just as friends, was oh so difficult. 

Clearing your throat, you took the bra he was dangling from his finger with a brow raised. And you said, “Yeah. Kinda. Some guy asked me out so we’re gonna get some dinner or something.”

“Sounds exhilarating,” he mused. 

He was always like that — judgemental, mocking, and irresistible. Desperate to not be that weak, pathetic girl, you’d force yourself to move on, to see what else was out there because that thing you had with him?

It was unsustainable. 

With a sigh, you shrugged on your shirt. “Suguru, don’t.”

He chuckled and raised his arms up in surrender. And then you turned to leave but you didn’t get every far, how could you when he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back to his chest? You were breathless when he brushed your hair back, skimming his lips down the curve of your neck to plant a soft, barely there kiss on your shoulder. 

“Have fun.”

And then you were off. 

Leaving a long-haired man alone and frowning. Truthfully, he was itching to keep you there, to distract you with some more pleasure or a movie, but he knew that wasn’t fair. The unspoken part about the type of arrangement you two was that no one could get jealous or lay some moronic wolfy-claim on the other. 

He focused his attention instead on showering, washing away the remnants of you and even tried to wash away the idea of someone else taking you away. If this date of yours worked out, then that would effectively end your special relationship, devolving back to just ‘friends’. 

How pathetic.

No, that wasn’t the most pathetic thing about the entire ordeal. What was truly more pathetic was that he was sat, in his car, outside your place, waiting for that light in your bedroom to go and for you to leave. 

You didn’t. 

Geto groaned and threw his head back. Relieved as he was that you weren’t with some other prick, he couldn’t shake off that discomfort in his chest at the thought of you being disappointed, embarrassed or anywhere close to sad. He sent a quick text to you. Come out, he said. 

Your reply was, I’m not in the mood for sex.

Good. Neither am I.

'...' danced on the screen for a solid minute or two and he thought you were coming up with colourful ways of telling him to disappear, like 'walk off a cliff' or the classic 'fuck off', but you didn’t. Instead, he got a thumbs up and he sighed. 

Guess neither of you were willing to give up the game after all. 

Choso

He heard it from his brother. 

Who heard it from Megumi and he in turn heard it from Nobara. And the details might have differed somewhat as the information got passed along, like the time and place and with whom, but one thing remained consistent. 

You have a date. 

And man, was Choso distraught. At first, he was speechless, eyes blinking and jaw hanging. Then, he was making odd noises like steam was coming out of his ears. No one knew what to do, no one had ever taught them what the procedure was when a half-curse, half-man suffered from a nervous breakdown.

Eventually, he regained enough life to splutter, “WHAT?”

He fainted.

When he awoke, laid down on a bench, he was very surprised to find you looming over him. You looked beautiful. Positively stunning, and he was certainly stunned. He had a terrible dream, one that left him trembling, but your laughter stilled his shaking hands. 

“Choso, did you actually pass out? That’s so crazy.” 

The man couldn’t even blush. He was just so happy you were there, with him, talking and laughing, and he could pretend nothing was wrong in the world. Because, if you could smile at him with so much warmth and light and familiarity, there didn’t seem a plausible way for things to be wrong.

Pushing himself upright, he said, sheepishly, “Yeah, I think so. Um, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, y’know, just stopping by to check up on you –”

“That’s really nice of—”

“Before I head off to meet my date!”

"...what.”

You blinked at him. “I have a date. Surprised you didn’t know since the kids have been bothering me about it all day. Well, anyways, happy to see you figuratively back on your feet. Gotta get going now. Bye!”

And then you were gone, completely oblivious to the twitching of Choso’s eye and the way his pigtails quite literally deflated. 

There was a pout on his face the rest of the day. 

Only on his way back home did that pout disappear because, there, at the end of the street, was you. Only you could look that pretty when miserable. Oh, he was so happy to see you! 

Sure, you looked upset, and you were kicking a streetlamp, but he wasn’t the least bit discouraged from skipping over to you, pigtails swinging and a big, wide grin on his face. He shouted your name. You looked up, still mad, but brows relaxing ever so slightly. 

“Oh, hey, Cho. What’s up?”

“Nothing! Just heading home. What about you?”

You shrugged. “Well, I was supposed to be on a date, but he never showed up. Didn’t even text me so I guess I’m gonna head home too.”

“Oh, no. That’s terrible.”

The amused look on your face clearly conveyed your disbelief. Choso was many things, a great man, loving brother, fun friend. But a convincing liar? He was not. 

“Well,” he began, scratching the back of his neck, “do you wanna just be with me? I mean! Do you want to spend some time with me? Hang out?”

You shrugged again, this time with a smile. And the both of you began walking side by side with no particular destination. He didn’t talk much, just wandered the streets with you. The sun, or at least what remained of it, was warm and the roads were empty. Neither of you could think of a better thing to do than just exist. 

Together.

Toji

“Whatd’ya just say?”

He was staring at his kid, the little boy peering back at him with a look of pure innocence. The father, holding a spoon up to his lips, was pissed the hell off. Immediately, he was calling you, still feeding the baby. Your nonchalant voice on the phone made him even more irritated. 

“Ya going on a date? Whatd’ya mean ‘none of y’r business? ‘Course it’s my business. Mother of my son prancing around with some other guy ain’t a good look on me, is it? Oh, yeah yeah, the divorce didn’t look good on you either, whatever. So? Is it true? Oh, hell. Can I use my veto? Whatd’ya mean I don't get a veto? What kinda bullshit is that?”

The little boy blabbered, rubbing salt in the man’s wound, as he reminded him his diaper needed changing, immediately, and he had blueberry compote all over his face and clothes. How the hell did the kid manage to get food on the window?

You didn't sound impressed at all, but that was always how you talked to him. And the conversation wasn't going anywhere, much to Toji's frustration. Why did he have to find out from a toddler?

Call ending soon after that, the two boys decided to make the most of their day together. 

Sat on his lap, they watched a football game on the TV. Of course, his son wasn’t really paying attention, he was far more interested in the rattling toy in his hand, and in all honesty, neither was Toji. He just kept thinking about the fact that you should be there, with them, cuddled up to his side. Not with some fucking loser. You should be home, comfortable, looking pretty for him and with a ring still on your finger, the way his ring remained on his. 

But who was he to say shit?

It was his damn fault to begin with that you were living apart. If only he had cut back on the bad habits and the dangerous jobs. Regret was a damned thing, like a coin dropped in a well and never hearing it drop. 

And then searching for another coin so you could wish to get back the fucking coin you should have never dropped to begin with ‘cause you weren’t a fucking pussy. 

Ah fuck it. 

“Wanna go piss off y’r mum?”

The kid grinned. 

And so there the two were, showing up at the door, both with shit-eating grins contrasting your stern glower. You were in a dress, a very sexy dress and Toji wasn’t shy about letting his eyes wander, and you weren’t shy about the finger you showed him. 

“Are you kidding, Fushiguro?”

“Kid couldn’t stop asking for ya, so just wanted to let him get a peek before you go off on y’r fancy date,” he replied. 

You let them in and with embarrassment lacing your words, you admitted, “Well, date’s cancelled. So, good timing.”

Grin widening, he assured you, “Ah the bastard doesn’t know what he missed out on.”

And soon, you two fell into old routines. You cooked dinner whilst Toji set the table, kid on his back. The conversation shifted from anything and everything and nothing. And after, he cleaned up as you put the baby to sleep. He followed soon after, looping an arm over your shoulder.

“We did good with him, didn’t we?”

When life was that easy, that simple, and good, one was left wondering where did it all go wrong? When did you, or him, or both start wanting more? Or was it the case that things just didn’t work out? Was there still a chance? Should there be? And for whose sake?

Guess none of that mattered. Whether that piece of paper was still there or not, the core of your relationship would never change. Not really.

“Yeah. We did.”

Nanami

There you were, a vision in your suit, sitting at your desk, the way you did every day. He loved his seat; he had the best view of the entire office. Kento especially loved that, for you to get to the water cooler, you had to walk past him, and every single time you did, you’d always stop by, asking how his day was going and whether he’d like his water bottle filling up. 

Of course, he declined your very kind offer, but only so he could walk to the water cooler with you, and for the five minutes you two had, you’d chat about all sorts of things – he was more of a listener than a talker, but you never seemed to mind. 

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that you were the one good thing about this office, and he certainly looked forward to every little interaction with you. 

Until one such interaction became his worst nightmare: you had a date. Oh, and how casually you brought that up to him, as if the fluttery atmosphere between you was a figment of his imagination and the way you gushed about this other man certainly left no doubt in his mind. 

You did not like him the way he liked you. 

That was all he could think about the rest of the day. Even as he wrote up a progress report, attended a client meeting, ate his lunch with the interns he was in charge of, and even when he went to the bathroom to splash cold water on, what he was only then realising to be, a very pale face. Kento must be coming down with something. 

For the first time ever, when you got up from your desk and strolled over to his, heels clacking, and asked if he’d like his bottle filling up, he declined. It came out faster than he could process and the shock evident in both of your faces was like a crack in his glasses. 

Oh, dear. 

You were silent until the end of the day. He didn’t walk out with you, didn’t even get to say goodbye and ‘see you tomorrow’, and he had never been more miserable in his entire life. 

With a heavy sigh, he walked out of the office an hour or so later than everyone else and pulled on his tie. A nice warm bath was all he could think about, at least until he spotted you, waiting on the side of the road. You were restless, shuffling on your feet and checking your watch every couple seconds. Being of above average intelligence might not have meant he was a genius but it sure did mean he was smart enough to figure out what had happened. 

That bastard. 

“Would you like to have a drink or two with me? There are some things I’d like to talk to you about,” he said. Perhaps he shouldn’t have walked up so quietly but it was a habit of his. In that moment, as his pulse was beginning to speed up, all he could think about was how creepy he sounded – he certainly wouldn’t blame you if you ran to HR. 

“What things?” You asked. 

He smiled, a desperately casual smile to show he was sorry for his cold display. “Well, for one, I’d like to make my case clear; I’d never leave you waiting for me on a date.”

And he never did.

Sukuna

“Repeat that for me. Slow.”

You bit your lip, not at all surprised by his reaction. The King of Curses wasn’t known for his calm disposition, in fact, he was known for exactly the opposite. Still, he was nice to you, an ordinary servant in his grand estate doing this and that. One could not put a finger to exactly when this...friendship, should we say... developed but it was one you so terribly cherished. 

Working at the estate of a mass murdering, sadistic monster – your family’s words, not yours – meant you didn’t maintain many friendships. So, to have one with him felt like standing in the eye of the storm, even if that storm was always so fickle and the eye kept moving. 

“I’m. Going. On. A. Date,” you recited, enunciating every syllable loud and clear. When he gave an instruction, you’d found it was always best to be quite literal, lest he tired of your mortal limitations. 

“No.”

Blink. 

Blink. 

Adjusting your robes, you clarified, “No? Sorry, my Lord, but whatever do you mean by ‘no?’”

The tall, hulking man, or rather curse, walked on, his long legs taking him so far within seconds you had to run to catch up. He loved doing that. He thought it funny, you supposed. “Just that. No.”

“But, my Lord, I don’t think you can really interfere with my personal life.”

He stopped. 

You bumped into his back, the smell of sweet death and gentle fire filling your senses. And when he turned, looking down at you with all those eyes, one of his hands gripped your jaw, pulling you upwards and much closer to his face than ever before. 

“Can’t I?”

Then he was gone. 

You didn’t see him the rest of the day. Neither did any of the servants. Perhaps he was mad at you, after all you had no business, and no authority at that, to tell him what he could or couldn’t do. You got complacent, too confident and cocky. You overestimated the depth of your friendship and the limits of his patience. It would be a surprise to no one if you were found dead before dusk. 

There were no texts from your date. Not a single one. Not even after you texted to ask if you were still on for night. And when every call when to voicemail, you were so sure you had been ghosted before you could even meet the guy. Sukuna was right. 

Men were no good.

Living at the estate had its perks: no commute, easy access to your necessities lest you forgot something essential, and the walk over to your quarters was magnificent. The well-kept garden was beautiful and that was really as far as your feeble mind could go in terms of putting into words the glorious sight you saw every morning and night. 

But that evening had been different. 

Your master was there, in his robes, bottom set of arms tucked into the sleeves whilst the top set were crossed. He looked just as regal as he always did, and the sight made your heart clench. One secret you’d take the grave would be that the friendship you so sincerely cherished was one you also sincerely resented; to be a teased with all that you could have but would never get was a torturous pain you wouldn't wish on your worst enemies.

“My Lord, may I help you?”

He beckoned you over. When his hand reached for your head, you were sure it was to slice it clean off, but instead he picked at a fluff and flicked it away with so much disgust, revulsion, and abhorrence you couldn’t help but laugh. 

Something flashed in his eyes. And then his features softened. 

“You did not go on your date?”

You couldn’t even pretend to be sad. “No, he never replied so I guess he lost interest.”

He hummed.

The two of you began strolling again, just as you did most days, sometimes even multiple times a day when he was feeling especially irritable. The tone of his voice held a certain sharpness you couldn’t quite place and when he met your gaze, the soft glow of the lanterns making him look gentler, much more human, more...attainable, you finally spotted a speckle of what you knew to be blood, having cleaned it off the floors and walls yourself too many times. 

And your imagination ran wild, a frenzy of butterflies appearing in your stomach. 

Sukuna really was too sweet for your own good.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS Severance AU: Get me out of here.

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men If You Turn Evil

AN: istg I keep getting all these ideas while working out 💗

Pairing: Lads boys x gn reader

Genre: DRAMA

Summary: after eons of nurturing the world with fragments of your heart, you learn the truth. Every death, every rebirth, burns in your heart. And now you want to burn the world.

(I do not own these characters)

Rafayel:

He looks at the destruction around him, the fragments of a broken city, the wrath in your eyes.

You pace the room, your steps unyielding to the passage of time.

He has been awake with you for countless nights, his ears filled with the cries of his kin, burning, drowning in the boiling seas.

He tugs at your arm, pulling you into his embrace, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Why can I not be at peace?" you whisper, cupping his cheek. "All our enemies have fallen, but why is there no relief? Who else must I seek to bring us justice?"

"It is my fault... I should have prevented this," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I should have never allowed it to come to be."

To watch you fall was his fall. To witness beauty drain from you was his failure. He has you back, but at what cost?

"But I will make things right," he whispers, pulling you closer.

"No more pain."

A gasp tears from your lips as his dagger pierces your back.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt, your blood soaking into his hand. "How dare you…" you seethe, your rage flickering even as your strength wanes. "I should have—"

Blood gurgles in your throat as he pulls your head against his chest, his shoulders trembling.

He would rather bear your hatred than lose your soul.

The cries of the world fade as a new one begins to take shape.

But all he can hear now are his own ragged sobs as he holds your cooling body.

Xavier:

"You have lost your mind!" Xavier’s voice is sharp, his fury barely masking the horror in his eyes.

He looks down from the castle walls, your castle now. Below, corpses rot on pikes, writhing with maggots.

Philos will never come to be. The world has already shifted on its axis.

You pin him to the wall, leaning him over the edge. "You will not talk to me like that, Xavier." Your voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is absolute. "This is my world. I may do as I please. It would do you good to listen, to stay as my consort, not the crown prince of Philos."

His breath hitches as he stares at you, searching for something, hesitation, remorse, restraint.

But you are resolute.

Your eyes soften at his distraught expression. Gently, you pull him back from the edge and release your grip. "Do not let this drive a wedge between us. I do not wish to lose you...I’ve only just remembered you." You press a kiss to his lips, warm, fleeting, achingly tender.

"This is merely a necessary cleansing," you murmur, as if explaining the weather. "A precaution, so the world understands the new order. So all who bled me for ages finally know what it means to bleed."

And so, bound by love, Xavier became a puppet to your wishes.

He waited for the new world you promised, sought desperately for the salve to soothe the wounds your changing forms left in him.

With time, he learned to ignore the mangled bodies outside the capital. The sunken faces beyond the castle walls.

He learned to be happy.

Zayne:

He never stands idle.

Not even at the first signs of your fall. Not even when the shadows lengthen, and the world begins to crumble at your feet.

He does everything he can to undo the damage.

He is a doctor, ridding people of pain is his purpose.

He funds revolutions, smuggles food and medicine, seeks to turn your heart away from vengeance.

But he does not leave you.

Not when you’re hurting. Not when the weight of the world fractures your soul. He stays, doing all he can to hold the world together before it collapses entirely.

For the first time in years, he prays to Astra.

He begs his god to aid the world.

Until you find his secrets. Until you strip him of the power you once gave him.

You lock him away in a tower, bound to you. And then...then, true helplessness sets in.

He watches his betrayal fuel your madness. Watches as your fury, once directed at tyrants, turns upon the innocent.

In the frozen chamber, you loom over him, his knees pinned to the ground by the weight of your power.

"Do you wish to leave me, Zayne?" Your fingers tilt his chin upward, forcing him to meet your crazed gaze. "Tell me, do you wish to escape?"

He does not flinch. His neck is littered with the climbing scars of his evol, of his futile resistance. It is all a proof of the turmoil within you, that settles upon his skin. He knows it better than any.

"No." His voice is steady. Resolute. "I wish to stay next to you."

He means it. Earnestly.

Even if your presence comes at this cost, he is willing to pay.

He has never wished to abandon you.

Not even at the cost of himself.

Sylus:

You are his moral compass.

So when you fall, he falls with you.

There is nothing to stop you both.

His days are spent treasuring the reality of having you back, of having your love.

And if the cost is the world, then let it burn.

The core in his eye revels in the doom. It rejoices in the love that blooms within you, in the hunger that consumes you both.

It is fulfilled.

He is fulfilled.

He does not make you ruler of just the Earth, he crowns you sovereign of the universe.

After all, he has always been willing to kill and die for you.

Devoured by your bloodlust, he kneels.

Your consort. Your ruin.

He is content in this fall.

Caleb:

He is your sword.

The day you pledge destruction, he is the hand that pulls the trigger. No questions asked.

He is content, more than content, being the only one to receive your love.

The world had it coming. To condemn you to such pain was their undoing.

He bleeds millions to warm the world that once sought to devour you. He has no mercy for those who cower beneath your gaze.

He has your love.

But why, then, does his heart fall at the sound of your hollow laughter?

Why can he not bring himself to burn the memories of the past?

Why has he kept your hunter’s gear, carefully stored away in his rooms?

He so dearly wishes to keep you pleased. But he knows, this destruction is not born of greed. It is the consequence of centuries of pain.

And no matter how much blood he spills, it will never ease that pain.

No matter how many bodies pile beneath your feet, he cannot bring back your joy.

That was stolen, broken, snatched by those who now rot in unmarked graves.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

OMG you're writing is actually so good, you're fics are the absolute. cutest

Could I please request more protective dad charles, maybe with teen daughter reader who is growing more independent and Charles is both proud and sad that his little girl is growing up and wants to spend even more time with her. I feel like clingy and protective dad charles would be cute but funny as the same time

His strong, independent girl

The first time Charles held Yn in his arms, he knew—without question—that nothing in the world would ever matter more to him than his daughter. Not his career, not the roar of the engines, not even the red car he had once thought was the love of his life. Yn was his heart walking outside his body, and from the moment she came into the world, she held that heart in the palm of her tiny hand.

It hadn’t changed over the years. Not when she took her first steps, not when she lost her first tooth, and certainly not now that she was eighteen and full of bright-eyed independence. If anything, Charles only loved her more fiercely. But with that love came a deep, gnawing ache—an ache he felt every time she left the apartment with her friends, laughing as she tossed a quick “Bye, Papa!” over her shoulder. She was growing up, slipping through his fingers faster than he could hold on. And while he was so proud of her, the thought of his little girl no longer needing him twisted something tight in his chest.

So when Yn asked him to teach her how to drive, Charles didn’t hesitate. If this was how he could hold onto her a little longer—by guiding her hands on the wheel, by being the one she turned to when she wanted to learn—then he would gladly give her everything he knew.

And if he happened to use his favorite car for the lesson? Well, she deserved nothing but the best.

---

"Are you serious?" Yn’s voice was filled with disbelief as she stood in front of the sleek Ferrari Pista Spider, its back paint gleaming under the warm afternoon sun. "You're letting me drive this?"

Charles leaned casually against the hood, arms crossed as he grinned at her. "What? You didn’t think I was going to teach you in some boring car, did you?"

Her green eyes widened as she shook her head. "I thought you’d make me learn in the Volvo or something!"

He laughed softly, pushing off the car to open the driver’s side door. "Please, ma chérie, you’re my daughter. You should learn how to drive properly. And that means driving the best."

Yn rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed how excited she was. "I’m not going to crash it, I promise."

"I know you won’t." He said it with such quiet confidence that it warmed her heart. No matter how much of a perfectionist he could be with himself, when it came to her, he always believed she could do anything. "Come on, get in."

She slid into the driver’s seat, her hands gripping the leather steering wheel as Charles moved around to the passenger side. When he sat down, the familiar scent of his cologne and the faint aroma of the car’s interior wrapped around her.

"Alright," he said, his tone soft and patient, "first things first—adjust your seat. You need to be close enough to the pedals but not too close that you feel cramped."

Yn wriggled forward slightly, testing the pedals under her sneakers. "Like this?"

"Perfect," he praised, reaching over to tap the steering wheel. "And your hands—ten and two. Seatbelt. Always. This isn’t a video game."

She laughed under her breath but did as he instructed. "Okay. What next?"

Charles leaned back in his seat, watching her with a mixture of pride and something softer—something that made his heart ache. "Put your foot on the brake. Then press the ignition."

Yn followed his instructions, but as soon as she pressed the button, the engine let out a sharp, sputtering noise before falling silent. She froze, a flash of panic crossing her face.

"I broke it," she blurted.

Charles chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "You didn’t break anything, ma chérie. It’s fine." He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Take a breath. Try again."

She did, exhaling slowly before pressing the button once more. This time, the engine purred to life beneath them, smooth and powerful. Yn’s face lit up with excitement.

"There you go," Charles murmured, his voice filled with quiet pride. "See? You’ve got this."

And from there, he guided her through the basics with endless patience. Steering, braking, accelerating—every movement was accompanied by his calm instructions, his voice as steady as if they were simply sitting at the kitchen table rather than in a car worth more than most people’s houses.

When she pressed the accelerator too gently and the car barely rolled forward, he bit back a smile. When she jerked a little too hard while turning, he only said, "You’re doing great—just ease into it."

And when Yn got a little too confident and sped up along the empty road, Charles didn’t scold her. No—he laughed softly to himself, thinking that it wasn’t her fault everyone else drove too slowly.

---

After an hour, Yn had the hang of it. Her hands moved smoothly on the wheel, and her confidence grew with every turn. Charles couldn’t stop watching her, pride swelling in his chest at how quickly she was picking everything up. But beneath that pride was a pang of something bittersweet—because every mile she drove was another step toward a world where she didn’t need him to guide her anymore.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Charles finally directed her back toward their apartment. When she eased the car perfectly into a parking spot, he let out a long breath and smiled.

"You did it," he said, his voice soft with wonder. "You’re a natural, Yn."

She turned to him, her smile radiant. "I had the best teacher."

He laughed, but when he looked at her—really looked at her—he felt a lump form in his throat. When had she grown up like this? When had his little girl become this smart, capable young woman who didn’t need her father to hold her hand at every step?

Before he could sink too deeply into those thoughts, Yn threw open her door and rushed around to his side. Without warning, she flung her arms around him, holding him tight.

"Thank you," she whispered against his chest. "For everything, Papa."

Charles’ breath caught, and he held her just as tightly, his arms wrapping around her as if he could shield her from the entire world. His hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Je t’aime, ma chérie," he murmured. "More than anything."

---

Later that night, when they returned to the apartment, Alexandra was sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine. She glanced up as they walked in, raising an eyebrow at the wide smile on Charles’ face.

"So," she drawled, "how did it go? Is our car still in one piece?"

Charles scoffed, dropping onto the couch beside her. "Our car? Please. That car is practically Yn’s now. And she’s a genius. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone learn that fast."

Yn, who was grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchen, laughed softly. "You’re exaggerating, Papa."

"I’m not!" Charles insisted, turning to Alexandra with an earnest expression. "She’s incredible. So smooth on the wheel, completely calm—"

"You’re ridiculous," Alexandra teased, though her smile softened as she watched the way Charles practically glowed with pride.

"I’m right," he shot back. Then, his expression softened as he glanced toward the kitchen where Yn stood. "She’s amazing," he repeated quietly. "And I’m so proud of her."

And in that moment, Charles knew—no matter how fast time moved, no matter how independent Yn became—he would always be her biggest supporter. Because she wasn’t just his daughter.

She was his heart.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

[theemporium]

a luke blurb where him and his gf don't show much pda but quin and jack accidentally walk in on them making out? i feel like it would be really funny

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

You and Luke were never big on PDA. 

It wasn’t a conscious choice either of you really made. Truth being told, you never really noticed how ‘un-coupley’ the two of you acted until a friend had pointed it out to you somewhere in the first few weeks of college when they were shocked to learn that you and Luke were a couple. 

But it never bothered you. It wasn’t a big surprise considering the evolution of your relationship with Luke was something that changed gradually over time. You had been attached by the hip since day one, each other’s best friend for as long as anyone could remember. You were always together, always found together, would always be together. There was no one in this world that you would consider your bestest friend over Luke Hughes.

It just so happened that somewhere between the years of high school, that friendship evolved into something a little less platonic. But he was still your best friend. He would always be your best friend before he was your boyfriend. Neither of you acted differently after you got together because nothing in the relationship had really changed after the two of you confessed that night, except for the fact you just happened to make out with him as much as you laughed at the stupid jokes he told.

So even though you and Luke had been together as a couple for the better part of six years, you never really acted like one in front of people. 

Which is why Jack and Quinn tended to be so dramatic whenever the two of you did anything remotely coupley. 

“Did you put sunscreen on today?” 

Luke paused, pulling back and slowly blinking his eyes open to look at you with an incredulous look. “Why the hell are you thinking about sunscreen whilst making out with me?” 

“Because your skin feels really warm,” you retorted, unbothered by the way his lip jutted out with a small pout as you poked the reddening skin on his shoulder. The hiss he let out instantly made you snort. “Fucking knew it.”

“You were hogging the bottle,” Luke retorted, smacking your hand away when you tried to poke him again before it returned to its rightful place on your ass. 

“No, you were more focused on putting sunscreen on me to remember yourself,” you corrected with a smile.

“Yeah, well, you whine so much when you’re sunburnt,” Luke huffed, laughing a little when you lightly smacked his chest. “Kidding, babe, love you.” 

“Whatever,” you muttered as you leaned down, pressing your lips against his and letting out a content noise as he squeezed your ass, pulling you further onto his lap before he pushed his tongue into your mouth and—

“OH MY GOD, MY EYES! MY FUCKING EYES!” 

Luke let out a heavy sigh, his head falling against your shoulder as he grumbled under his breath. “Every fucking time.” 

“Gross, guys,” Quinn frowned at the sight of you two on the sunlounger whilst Jack dramatically continued to gag behind him. “So gross.” 

“What happened to the two of you doing a grocery run in the town?” You questioned, making no move to shift off your boyfriend’s lap, though his hands moved to rest on your waist now. 

“We did it and came back already to find you—” Jack paused, placing a hand on his chest as he shuddered. “Defiling the furniture.” 

“Drama queen,” Luke grumbled.

You snorted. “As if you didn’t do much worse three summers ago when I saw you and that girl on the boat—” 

Jack’s eyes widened. “LALALA! SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT SHE IS TALKING ABOUT!” 

Quinn whirled around to look at him with narrowed eyes. “What the fuck did you do on the boat?” 

Luke grinned, turning to look at you as his brothers continued to bicker in the background. “It’s kinda hot when you blackmail people.” 

You grinned back. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm.” 

You tucked your bottom lip between your teeth. “Wanna show me how hot? Preferably in a room with a lock so we don’t have to repeat of the other day.” 

Luke scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Quinn should learn to knock. That is not our fault.”

.

[halsteadlover]

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 & 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥

*Pics not mine credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Female!Reader.

• Requested by anon: can you please write charles x reader she give him a blowjobs while he drives 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

• Warnings: oral sex m. receiving, dirty talk, swearing, semi public sex, unprotected sex (y’all already know what to do), this is just smut and pretty much zero plot lol

• Word count: 3.2K

• A/N: PLEASE READ THIS ONLY IF YOU’RE 18+. This is straight up ass but here we go anyways lmao

You were always meant to be a passenger princess not because you were lazy or you didn’t want to drive, but because you could sit there for hours and admire your husband for as long as you wanted.

Seriously, he had no business looking so good while driving and no matter how many car rides you took together, you’d never get used to that sight. You couldn’t even understand how lucky you were to have that man and being able to say he was your man.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him, not even if you wanted to.

One hand on the wheel, veins prominent under his golden skin, the other resting on your thigh, casual, effortless. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms, and there was a crease between his brows as he bit his bottom lip in concentration. It was the kind of look that made it hard to think straight, let alone behave.

His fingers drew imaginary circles on your inner thigh, absentmindedly, unaware of the effect he was actually having on you. You were going crazy. You wanted him so much you couldn’t even think straight anymore.

“You’re awfully silent chérie, what are you thinking about?” he asked, waking you up from your daydream. Even his voice was so sexy, with that accent that could send you into a total turmoil.

He looked at you for a moment before returning his gaze to the road. You didn’t answer right away, you continued to let your gaze travel along his face, the profile of his nose, the outline of his lips, his jaw, the column of his throat, his Adam’s apple, down his chest and his arms. And fuck, his arms.

“Nothing,” you finally answered, never taking your eyes off him as you hand rested on his—the one on your thigh—caressing his skin with your nails.

“Liar. You’re staring,” he shot you another look, a half-smirk plastered across his lips. He knew you by now, after years together he had learned to know every expression, every nuance, it was almost as if he could read your mind.

You dragged your fingers up and down his bicep, caressing it, feeling it, squeezing it.

“You just look so good baby, so damn hot.”

You watched as he inhaled deeply as his finger flexed almost imperceptibly on your thighs. You leaned down to leave a kiss on his arm, then more up his bicep, his shoulders and then—as you moved closer to him—his jaw, his cheek and then the corner of his mouth.

He exhaled deeply and his fingers tightened around your thigh. “What are you doing?” He whispered, turning his head and stealing a kiss on your lips before returning his eyes to the road.

“Didn’t you sway you wanted to know what I was thinking?” You whispered back, continuing to pepper his face with kisses. They seemed innocent but—combined with your voice so sexy and seductive—it was enough to make him harden and you noticed, to your delight.

“No… Yes… Fuck baby I’m driving,” he begged and you giggled. You took off your seatbelt to make yourself more comfortable and rested one hand on his chest while you stroked his hair with the other.

“I was just thinking about how much I want you,” you nibbled his earlobe, making him sigh heavily as your hand moved down his chest, slow and sensual, “how wet I’m right now just thinking about sucking your dick, how much I want you to fuck me in this car right now…”

“Putain,” he cursed under his breath, both hands now on the wheel, knuckles clenched so hard they turned white, “you—” he cut himself off, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe what you just said that. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he quickly glanced at you, his eyes now darker, hungrier. “You can’t say things like that while I’m driving baby.”

“Why not?” you challenged, fingers grazing dangerously close to his crotch. “Can’t handle it love?”

You took your time, letting your fingers grace over the bulge straining against his jeans, light enough to make him twitch under your touch but nowhere near enough to give him what he wanted.

What he needed.

“Please don’t do this to me…”

“Already so hard for me mon amour?” You whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. “Is this all for me?”

His breath stuttered, and for a second, he said nothing, just gripped the steering wheel tightener, knuckles pale against the leather.

But you weren’t letting him get away that easily.

Your fingers fiddled with his belt, slow and unhurried as you popped the button and eased the zipper down. He made a sound deep in his throat, half curse, half plea, and you felt his hips shift, like he was trying to give you more room to touch him.

You slipped you hand inside his pants and rubbed the palm of your hand on his hard dick, making him moan and curse again. “Merde bébé…” he groaned, a low, desperate sound that made your pussy clench.

“Answer me,” you urged, slowing your movements. “Is this for me baby?”

His head fell back against the seat for a split second, jaw clenched so tightly you thought he might break it. “Oui…” he finally breathed out, voice rough and wrecked. “Yes, fuck—all for you, baby. Always…”

You slid your hand beneath the fabric of his boxers and wrapped your fingers around his dick and let out a moan so hot and sexy. “Please—oh my God… You’re going to make me crush.”

Your touch was soft at first, just enough to make him tremble beneath your hand. You stroked him lazily, dragging your thumb over his sensitive and wet tip, feeling his dick pulse in your palm.

“No, I’m not. You’re going to keep us safe won’t you baby?”

His thighs tensed beneath your fingers, and when you squeezed him just a little tighter, he let out another moan.

“You’re not being fair,” he muttered, but his voice broke on the last word when you gave him another slow, deliberate stroke.

“Who said I play fair?” you teased, leaning in to press a kiss against his jaw. “I just want to make you feel good, don’t you want that?”

“Fuck yes,” he answered so fast it made you chuckle. You lowered his pants and underwear further, until his hard dick finally sprung free. “You’re—fuck—you’re going to ruin me.”

You didn’t answer to that, but leaned down and darted your tongue out before giving a slow and deliberate lick along the shaft of his dick, making him hiss. You slowly drew imaginary circles on his tip, tasting his salty precum.

“Holy— Ah yeah chérie just like that.” His hand left the wheel for a second just so he could tangle his fingers in your hair, tugging at it like he knew you liked. You took him all in your mouth and Charles swerved the car slightly before quickly regaining control, letting out a curse that was somewhere between a moan and fear.

“Mon Diey you’re going to get us killed,” he groaned and the words only seemed to fuel you up even more. Your lips circled his dick as your tongue traced circles around his soft silky skin, leaving streaks of saliva with every movement.

The car was filled only with the sounds of Charles’ uncontrolled moans and gasps and the noises you made as you gagged on his dick while he kept pushing your head down, fucking your mouth. “Yeah baby just like that… My beautiful wife takes me so fucking well…”

Your pace grew bolder now, each lick firmer, more purposeful, and the tension in his body was undeniable, the way his breath came faster, the way his thighs trembled beneath your touch. He was close. You could feel it.

His grip in your hair tightened, and when you hollowed your cheeks, taking him so deep into your throat as your hand wrapped around the base of his dick, he let out a guttural moan that was pure sin. “Putain—” The French slipped from his lips once again like a prayer, raw and desperate. “I need to touch you, I want you so fucking bad—I can’t…”

But he couldn’t, he had to concentrate with every fiber of his being on driving, keeping his eyes on the road and focusing to not crash his car into someone. He couldn’t concentrate on the beautiful woman who had her head between his legs and was sucking his dick so voraciously as if she physically needed it to live.

He thanked the Lord in that moment for having tinted windows or it would’ve been hard to explain to his bosses why images of him receiving a blowjob from his wife while driving were printed on all the newspapers and magazines.

His head fell back against the seat for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, struggling to hold himself together.

“God baby your mouth feels like heaven, you’re going to kill me,” he rasped again, though the way his hips jerked mimicking your movement, chasing the heat of your mouth, told you he didn’t want you to stop.

Charles felt like he was about to come but he didn’t want to, he wanted to explode inside you, filling your hot, wet pussy to the last drop.

So, the car swerved suddenly, and before you could process it, Charles yanked the wheel and veered onto the side of the road with a rough, urgent movement. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as he slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a sharp stop.

Your head lifted in surprise, lips still glossy and swollen, and you barely had time to catch your breath before his hand was on you—pulling you up, dragging you into his lap with a hunger that felt heat rushing straight through you.

Charles grabbed your hair in a fist and crushed his lips against yours in a kiss that sucked the soul out of your body.

“You really think I was going to let you finish me like that?” his voice low and dangerous against your ear. “Not a chance. I’m going to come in this tight little pussy and you’re going to take it like the good girl you are.”

The words barely registered before his mouth was on yours again, hot, demanding, like he needed to taste you, to claim every inch of you after the way you’d wrecked him. His tongue slid against yours, making the kiss messier, urgent, filled with the kind of heat that made your head spin.

His hands were everywhere, skimming up your thighs, tugging at the hem of your dress as he freed your breast, on your ass. You gasped against his mouth when his fingers slid beneath the fabric, tracing along the edge of your underwear with a touch that was anything but patient.

“All that teasing,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your breast as his tongue traced a wet circle around your nipples, his fingers slipping beneath the thin fabric and stroking over your already-soaked pussy. “And you’re this wet for me?” He repeat your words.

You whimpered, hips rolling into his touch, and the sound you made had his jaw clenching, like it was taking everything in him not to lose himself completely.

“Charles,” you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please… Oh yes… I’m always wet for you baby…”

A dark, satisfied chuckle rumbled from his chest. “You were so bold a minute ago,” he taunted, dragging his fingers through your slick folds before slipping one inside you. “What happened to that confidence, mhh?”

You couldn’t answer, not when he curled his finger just right, pressing against that perfect spot that had your body arching and trembling against him.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, adding a second finger and groaning softly at how easily you took him. “You love being like this for me, don’t you? So needy… So ready. My wife is so perfect for me.”

The ache between your thighs grew unbearable, and you shifted against him, grinding against his hand in a way that made him curse softly under his breath.

“Fuck just like that,” you moaned, your hands in his hair as you pulled it in a vain attempt to survive that wave of pleasure. “You’re so good baby.”

“God, you’re driving me insane,” he rasped, pulling his fingers from you and taking them in his mouth, licking every drop of your wetness. “Merde I need to be inside you.”

He barely gave you a moment to catch your breath before he kissed you again, pulling your panties to the side. You felt his thick, heavy dick pressing against you, and the sheer desperation in his touch sent your heart racing.

“Come here, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough but desperate as he guided your hips over him. “Sit on my dick, let me make you feel good.”

The stretch was delicious, hot and perfect as you sank down onto him, and the groan that came from his lips when you took him made your head spin. His hands gripped your ass tightly, holding you there, like he needed a second to compose himself or he’d come in a second.

“Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his head falling back against the seat. “You feel so good, so fucking tight around me.”

You leaved open-mouthed kisses on his neck, licking the column of his throat, every inch of his skin. You braced your hands on his chest but also caressing his face, rolling your hips slowly, and his jaw tensed, letting out a deep, broken moan.

“Still think you’re in control husband?” you teased, though your voice trembled slightly as you rocked against him, savoring the way he filled you so perfectly.

His heated eyes snapped open, as he met your gaze and the look he gave you felt a delicious shiver down your spine.

His hands tightened on your ass, slapping it before thrusting his hips into you, deep and hard, stealing the breath from your lungs. And when his mouth found yours again, hungry and unforgiving, you knew you were completely done.

His kissed grew messier, desperate and claiming. His hands kept guiding you as you moved over him, his dick filling you with every roll of your body.

“Look at you,” he groaned against your lips, watching the way you took him, how your body clenched around him with every deep thrust. “So perfect. So fucking tight, baby.”

The praise sent a rush of heat straight through you, and you moaned, tilting your head back as his mouth trailed along your throat, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin. Your arms circled his neck, your fingers going through his thick hair as he left marks, evidence of just how wrecked you made him. You knew it but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“You’re so deep baby, fucking made for me,” you gasped, your fingers pulling his hair as you rocked against him harder. “You feel so—oh, God—”

A rough, broken curse slipped from his lips, and his grip on you grew almost bruising as his hips snapped up to meet yours faster, more relentless.

“You like being fucked like this? While everyone can see us?” he groaned, his voice thick and broken as he thrust up into you again like he wanted you to feel him for hours. “When can’t I even wait to get home?”

“Yes,” you breathed, clenching around him as pleasure coiled low in your stomach, hot and aching, winding tighter with every punishing stroke. “I love it, Charles. I love you.”

You tried to say something else, but every time you tried to open your mouth nothing came out but moans and gasps which—along with Charles’ and the sound of your skins clashing together—filled the car.

His mouth trailed down your chest, taking one breast between his lips and sucking it before doing the same with the other. “Fucking mine,” he sucked the spot under your ear, “mon Dieu I love you,” he rasped against your ear, each word punctuated by a deep, precise thrust that made your vision blur. “And I’m going to make sure you don’t forget it.”

“All yours baby, forever,” you whispered against his hair, not even sure he heard you. You whimpered his name again and again, nails dragging down his back as you kept riding him, pushing you closer to the edge with every stroke of his dick.

The car windows were fogged now, the air thick and heavy with heat, but nothing mattered, nothing except him, the way he claimed you.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered grabbing your face with his hand, his voice raw and commanding in a way that made you clench around him. “I want to feel you come around me.”

The need in his tone was too much to resist. Your hand slipped between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the moment you brushed against it, a loud and breathless moan escaped your lips.

“Merde,” Charles cursed again, his teeth grazing your jaw as his hips bucked up harder. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this—”

His words, his touch, everything, was too much and not enough all at once. Your body trembled against his, the pleasure building faster, hotter, and you knew you were right there.

“I’m so close baby, oh yes—you’re gonna make me come so hard…”

“Yeah, let go for me chérie. Come on my dick, I want to feel you.”

The filthy command shattered whatever restraint you had left. With one more swirl of your fingers, hot and blinding pleasure crashed over you, your body clenching around him as waves of ecstasy washed through you.

You cried out his name, and he groaned in response, burying himself deeper in your pussy as your walls kept clenching around him, making him completely lose his mind. His rhythm stuttered, his grip on your waist and ass bruising as he thrust into you one last time, hard and deep, before he finally let go.

His head fell against your shoulder as he spilled inside you, his hips jerking messily until he filled you till the last drop of his cum, his breath coming in rough bursts while the aftershocks of pleasure coursed through both of you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, just tangled together in the dim heat of the car, bodies still pressed close, hearts racing in unison.

“My God baby.” Finally, he exhaled a soft, breathless laugh, his lips brushing against your neck. “You wear me out. I swear I’m not going on a road trip with you ever again.”

You chuckled, brushing your fingers through his hair as you pressed a soft kiss to his temple. You then placed your thumb and forefinger under his chin and forced him to lift his head to look at him. “You sure about that?”

He smirked before shaking his head and kissing you softly on the lips, his arms tightening around you. “Nah baby I was kidding, I’m five seconds away from dragging you in the backseat because I’m dying to eat your pussy.”

And by the way his hands were already sliding down your back again, still hungry, not quite satisfied, you had no doubt he meant every word.

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[kiera-raelyn]

I will acknowledge it takes skill to make good art/writing/whatever with AI. Getting the program to do what you want without some crazy proportions or whatever is difficult.

However. Those skills are different from the skills artists and writers use. Artists and writers are continually developing their skills, refining them, in order to express themselves in the way they want. The point of art is twofold: to express and share your self with the world and, through that expression, to connect with others.

The struggle is part of the point. It is through that struggle that we learn. If you feel you aren't good at it - practice! Art is not an innate talent you have or you don't. The desire to express ourselves and connect with others through the various arts is a feature of being human. It's encoded. Just do it. If it's not pleasing to you, then do more. Every sketch, every draft, every new act of doing the art, improves your skill. Yes, some people are "naturally" better. But that doesn't matter. If you're not trying to make a living with art, you don't have to be "good" at it. The point is expressing yourself.

Capitalism tells you the final result should be something others will pay for, a product. But that's not true. The final result is a memento of the process, or the emotions you were expressing. But it's the process, the expression that is the point. We've been painting since we were in caves, and singing and telling stories longer than that. That's what I mean when I say that art is encoded.

Don't be afraid to lean in to your humanity. Make the art, and exult in it. Don't let a computer program take that from you.

Unpopular opinion but if you don't enjoy the process you should find a different thing to do.

And I think this is true in general but now I'm talking about it in the context of AI.

If you don't enjoy making art and only care about the end piece and how it'll look and how much traction it"lol get online then making art is not something for you, find something you enjoy from start to finish.

Same goes for writing: if you do not enjoy writing and rewriting and then some more and instead want AI to write for you, being a writer is not something you should pursue.

Sure, not every part of creative process is going to be equally enjoyable but you should get satisfaction from solving the problems along the way and you should get a sense of accomplishment on your way of "making the piece yours" and you should have a sense of ownership once you are done.

None of these things will come from typing in a prompt into chatGPT. And I am sad to see so many people are missing on the opportunity to experience the joy of making something with their own hands and brains.

[celestialgalaxyglow]

Batfam and Danny, Part 26

At Jason's office at his Gang's Headquarters.

Danny: Nice office.

Jason: Thank you. Now before my governors arrive remember, the Red Hood that they work with is not the Red Hood that works with the Bats. The Red Hood that works with the bats is a wannabe and only wears a simple domino mask, while I am the original Red Hood who wears a helmet that covers my whole head.

Danny (trying not to laugh): And the two Red Hoods have major beef with each other.

Jason (smiling): Yes it's a little dumb, but I can't go around as both a vigilante and a crime lord, I need to keep both of those identities separate.

Danny: But why the same name? You already have two entirely different suits for both Red Hood identities.

Jason: I thought it'd be funny.

Danny: I guess.

Jason: And you're not Phantom, you're my new righthand man, Phantasm, a extraterrestrial child who I adopted.

Danny: I am born of the stars themselves, I have not flesh but am made of stardust, look into my eyes for they hold the universe itself.

Jason (proud dad): Making your skin look like the night sky was a nice touch to hide your identity both as Danny and Phantom, but did you really have to make your face devoid of features except two green voids for eyes? It's a little creepy.

Danny smiled, revealing razor sharp teeth in front of a green void. Jason leaned back, a little scared of his son's flair for the dramatic.

Jason: Case and point... the suit is nice though, I like the sci-fi look.

Danny: Thanks dad.

There's a nock at the door.

Jason (sat up): You may enter.

The doors opened and four goons walked in.

The Goons (happy): Good morning boss!

The four goons walked towards Jason's desk and stood in front of it. Only then did they notice the strange alien child. They looked at Danny, then at Jason, then back at Danny, then finally back at Jason.

Jason: Good morning everyone, I would like you to meet my new righthand man, Phantasm, he is an alien child that I have adopted.

Goon #1: You're a dad?

Jason: Yes.

Goon #2: We have a nephew!

Goon #3: I'm an aunt!

Danny: What...?

Jason (embarrassed): We're all family here, if you wear my bandana you're my family, speaking of here you go.

Jason handed Danny a red bandana with the silhouette of Jason's hood embroidered in the middle with white silk.

Danny: It looks like you.

Jason: That's the idea, that way people know that if you mess with this person, you're messing with the Red Hood's family.

Danny (wrapping the bandana around his neck): It's cute.

Goon #4: It was your dad's idea.

Goon #3: We love it, we may be criminals, but we do crime with style.

Goon #2: By the way welcome to the family, little boss.

Goon #1: "Little boss," that's so cute, can we call you that?

Danny: Sure thing!

Jason (clearing his throat): As sweet as this is, we're here to talk about past month's reports. Sarah, do you mind stating us off?

Sarah "Goon #3": Sure thing boss, the Northern Sector has done well this past month, we were finally able to stop the drug ring that popped up there two months ago, we deposited the ringleaders at Commissioner Gordon's station.

Jason: Good, those bastards should have never showed up there in the first place, we're going to have more diligent in the future.

Sarah: My apologies, the north is my sector, I should have never let that happen.

Jason: It's alright Sarah, we all make mistakes, I wouldn't have made you one of my governors if I wasn't confident in your skills.

Sarah: Thank you.

Jason: Robert, what of the Eastern Sector?

Robert "Goon #1": All is well, the orphanage just opened its new wing, now we can accommodate another hundred kids. The new home ed. classrooms have also finished construction, but we're still looking for teachers properly qualified to teach.

Jason: Let's get working on that, those kids need to learn basic life skills, but remember to do thorough background checks, those kids have been through a lot, they don't need a maniac teaching them how to cook or how to use a circular saw.

Robert: You got it boss.

Jason: Amelia, what of the south?

Amelia "Goon #2": The Southern Sector is doing well, our food bank is still going strong thanks to Wayne Enterprises' weekly food donations. There is one thing however, this week the WE agent overseeing the delivery approached our head of operations for the food bank and said that Mr. Wayne would like to make a direct donation of 100 million dollars so we can expand our current location, as well as open a few more around the city. Elizabeth said she would have to talk to her superiors before accepting such a large monetary donation, the agent is expecting a response by the next delivery in five days.

Jason: How n̵͓̟̏͌i̴͎̎̔͜c̸͍̺͆̔è̷̢ of Mr. Wayne, I should pay him a visit to thank him in person. Amelia you can tell Elizabeth that she can accept Mr. Wayne's g̴̞̲̈́e̷̺͌n̶̞̝̉͒ḛ̷̹̍̀r̵̤͙̅o̶͎͆u̷͎̎s̴̪̒͌ donation. I'll also entrust you with setting up a committee to appropriate those funds, simply show me the names for approval.

Amelia: I'll start drawing up a list.

Jason: Henry, what of the west?

Henry "Goon #4": Uneventful, the arts academy is almost ready to open, the whole placed is furnished, we have staff lined up, final details should only take us a few more weeks, at most a month.

Danny: Arts Academy?

Henry: Hood's Academy for the Arts, a school to teach kids more artistic subjects, painting, pottery, acting, dancing, music, photography, cinematography, poetry, and the boss' favorite writing.

Jason: A well rounded education should allow kids to express their creativity, the Academy will hold classes during the weekends, as well as a summer semester for those who would be interested. We will be able to enroll as many as 5,000 students.

Henry: We made sure to hire a large staff, there will be plenty of teachers to ensure each classroom is a reasonable size, as well as many deans, councilors, library staff, and other members of administration, everything and anything that will make the students' time at the academy as easy and assessable as possible.

Jason: Thank you Henry.

Henry: Sure thing boss!

Jason (standing up): Well if that is all, then we're done here.

Sarah: Boss, wait!

Jason: Yes?

Sarah looked at Amelia.

Amelia: We're throwing a party, to celebrate all the progress we've made this month.

Robert: We know parties aren't your thing, but everyone would be happy to see you attend.

Henry: It'll make everyone's day.

Jason looked unsure about accepting the invitation, he looked over at Danny who was giving him a "please dad, let's go" face.

Jason (sighed): I suppose I can make an appearance.

Sarah, Robert, Amelia, and Henry: Yes!

Robert: You won't regret this boss!

Sarah: I'll run ahead and tell everyone!

Henry: Tonight it's going to be lit!

Amelia: We'll party till dawn!

Sarah, Robert, Amelia, and Henry ran ahead, Jason and Danny followed behind.

Jason: Kid, we will not be able to leave that party till well past dawn, my gang are party animals.

Danny: That's fine, besides you still need to introduce me to the gang at large.

Jason: I suppose that's true.

Danny: Come on dad, relax, you guys did a lot of good this month, you deserve to celebrate.

Jason: Ok, one night, but tomorrow it's back to work.

Danny: You got it!

(Master Post)

[p3achyxdoll]

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝑩𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑩𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑭𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒆

Not everyone can afford the obvious immediate surgical interventions (boob jobs, lip fillers, Botox, lipo), so I've decided to focus on things that you could implement instead of injectables and surgery.

Become your best bimbo self!

𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈:

❥ Change up your outfits to be more feminine.

❥ Go thrifting for new ones if you don't own any that fit your vision. Or learn how to sew and make your own (my current dream goal.)

❥ Look for more feminine fabrics and colours – or which fit your bimbo aesthetic.

❥ Go with a silhouette that is flattering on you and makes you feel confident. Figure out your body shape to do this.

❥ Learn how to walk in heels.

❥ Accessorize: Bags. Jewellery. Piercings.

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝑺𝒆𝒍𝒇-𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆:

❥ Develop a skincare routine.

❥ Look after your body – moisturize, have uncalloused and soft feet that you take care of, learn lymphatic drainage techniques.

❥ Maintain your hygiene always.

❥ Look after your mental health. Perhaps journal, speak to a professional, or meditate.

❥ Use a guasha for natural face shaping and pampering.

❥ Nourish your body with foods that show you respect it.

❥ Shape your eyebrows. Pluck or wax.

❥ Shave your body hair. Or wax.

❥ Look after your teeth. Whiten them. Floss. Avoid foods and drinks that stain.

𝑬𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂 𝑻𝒊𝒑:

𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆! 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒆.

𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒖𝒑:

❥ Learn how to do your makeup well and for different occasions.

❥ Putting emphasis on different elements of your face can highlight your femininity and best features. Don't try to hide them. I personally love wearing pink or even purple-toned eye shadows in a smokey look to bring out my greeny eyes.

❥ Learn your face shape and how to work with it.

❥ Femme faces tend to be smaller, softer, and more rounded. Even if you don’t have these features naturally, you can make your face look more feminine through makeup and the right hairstyle for your face. (Know your face shape and then go from there with tips.)

𝑯𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑵𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔:

❥ Maintain your hair and develop a good haircare routine – use heat protecting spray if you style it with heat, for example.

❥ Incorporate feminine hair accessories like hair bows or bands.

❥ Keep your look simple, clean, and soft.

❥ I get my nails done every three weeks or so, gel nails. But you can be just as feminine with natural or shorter nails. Just make sure they're clean, well kept, and shaped – learning to do your own is super simple.

𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑰𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔:

❥ Act like the girl you want to become until it becomes your reality. Fake it until you make it.

❥ Work on your mannerisms and inherently feminine body language.

❥ Improve your posture.

❥ Watch etiquette videos, voice and elecution lessons. Avoid cursing and shouting.

❥ Defer to the men, who you trust, when possible.

❥ Socialise and try to lean into your extroverted side. People enjoy the company of those who are at ease with themselves.

❥ Giggle more. Flirt more.

❥ Put your happiest self first when interacting with others. Feminine energy is nurturing and comforting.

❥ Find confidence in the new you. You only get to live one life, so you're already taking more steps than the average person by becoming the authentic and happy you! Take pride in that.

𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆:

❥ Join the gym or find a physical activity you enjoy to ensure you're toned – or if you need to, lose weight. This is also great for your mental health and general wellbeing.

❥ Write down mantras and repeat them every day. These can be bimbo or feminity related. Or they could simply be your goals for the day, week, or year.

❥ Surround yourself with female friendships, feminine women or bimbos like you.

[rhiannonsknife]

😭 Thank you so so so so so much for writing my request!! There's absolutely no rush with this I just wanted to ask another one, Because I'm kind of obsessed with your work-

Perhaps Jackie Taylor X Reader where they have been married for a long time. Like 10 plus years. She wakes up ready to go to work but their reading is standing in the kitchen, And it reminds Jackie of when they were so young and in love. It just makes her fall in love with the reader all over again and she decides she just has to take the reader and eat her out on the counter!

-🦜

── RUNNING HOME TO YOUR SWEET NOTHINGS

— summary: slow mornings with jackie.

— warnings: established relationship/marriage. fem!reader. domestic fluff & nsfw content. mdni.

jackie stretches as she wakes, letting consciousness settle over her slowly. the sheets are warm, cocooning her in their familiar weight, too tempting to leave just yet. from the other room, the quiet sounds of morning drift in; the rustle of pages turning, the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic.

jackie’s muscles, untrained but prominent from years of soccer in highschool and college, uncoil as she turns her head toward your side of the bed. it’s empty but still holds the warmth of you, the shape of your body faintly imprinted on the freshly washed sheets. not gone long, then. she smiles to herself, fingertips tracing the dip where you had been.

a soft weight presses against her shin, pulling her from the last remnants of sleep. glancing down, jackie finds your cat curled at the foot of the bed, paws tucked neatly under its chin. she reaches out, running her fingers over its soft fur, scratching lightly between its ears. the cat barely stirs, only flicking its tail once before sinking deeper into sleep. even after all these years, it still favors you.

with another stretch, she swings her legs over the side of the bed, the morning air cool against her skin. reaching for the worn sweater draped over the chair, jackie tugs it on quickly. yours, technically, but she’s long since claimed it as her own in the mornings. the fabric is too large on her, with sleeves hanging way past her hands, but it smells like you and the lavender laundry detergent you always buy and feels more comforting than any of her own clothes.

once she pulls it over her head and untangles her limbs from the sheets, she moves from the bedroom. jackie already knows exactly where she’ll find you.

as she walks through the hallway, she passes all the little signs of your life together: the framed photo from your honeymoon hangs slightly crooked on the wall, something you always insist you’ll fix but never do. tucked into the frame is a worn polaroid from your first apartment, covering a small crack in the glass. in it, jackie is holding up a wine glass, while you’re caught mid-laugh, leaning into her the same way you always have, even in the wedding photos that follow further down the hall.

the entryway table holds a vase of dried flowers, a bouquet she had given you months ago, now preserved because you couldn’t throw them out. nearby, a small stack of mail she keeps meaning to sort through, books piled beside it, some hers, some yours, overlapping in the same way your lives always have. it’s a cozy kind of mess, one that makes her smile even in passing.

and then there’s you, the centerpiece of jackie’s existence now, standing in the kitchen, bathed in the light that spills through the curtains.

you’re still in your nightgown, its hem skimming the curve of your thighs, and your hair is a little mussed from sleep. one hand cradles a mug, while the other flips absently through a book on the counter, your lips quirking every so often at whatever you’re reading while you wait for the eggs to cook.

jackie freezes in the doorway to watch you for a bit.

it’s been over a decade. over ten years of this, of waking up and falling asleep to you, learning every single one of your habits, and still, she finds herself caught off guard by how much she loves you and how much she still wants you, in all the ways that matter.

she remembers mornings like this from the beginning, back when you were both in high school, and time alone was a rare thing. the only moments you had to yourselves then were tucked into the short window between her parents leaving for work and shauna pulling up to drive you both to school.

everything felt like new territory back then. your presence in her house had meant rushed breakfasts at the kitchen counter, stolen kisses between sips of coffee in the too-large home of the taylors, always cut short by the sound of an approaching car and the reality that you couldn’t stay.

now, here you are, still stealing her breath away.

you glance up as if sensing your wife, and your face softens into a smile. jackie swallows, her heart doing something embarrassingly teenage in her chest.

“you’re staring,” you tease, taking a sip of your tea. jackie hums, pushing off the doorframe and crossing the room. “can’t help it,”

you laugh. before you can say anything else, she’s there, warm hands finding your waist, pulling you into her. sighing into the touch, you instinctively set your mug down on the counter as she buries her face against your neck and breathes you in.

“mhm, good morning to you too mrs (y/l/n),” you murmur.

god, jackie never tires of hearing that: your name, now hers.

it had never even been a question. the moment it came up in a long conversation spent curled up bare under the sheets of the cottage where she’d proposed, jackie knew. you had tilted your head, fingers tracing lazy patterns against her shoulder, and asked, ‘so, what do we do about names?’ she had just shrugged, as if the answer was the simplest thing in the world. ‘i’ll take yours’

and that was that. no hesitation or second thoughts, just certainty, like so many things when it came to you.

“you still like the sound of that, huh?” you tilt your head enough for her to kiss you properly.

“best decision i ever made,” jackie whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. she can feel your smile against her lips in response.

“aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for work?”

she lets her hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt. “i changed my mind…”

“oh?”

“yeah. i think i’d rather stay here,”

you hum, and your fingers move into the hair at the nape of her neck, tugging just enough to make jackie sigh against your mouth.

she always knows where you need her before you do yourself, and her hands slide further up beneath the silky fabric, over warm skin, cupping all of your breasts in her palms. her teeth graze your bottom lip just enough to make you whine into her. she swallows the sound greedily, tilting her head to kiss you deeper, her fingers tightening like she wants to pull you even closer. like close will never be close enough.

just as smoothly as she works your lips apart to slip her tongue in, she hooks her hands under your thighs and lifts you onto the counter. with a startled laugh, you let her move you. jackie grins when she steps between your legs, roaming the expanse of your bare thighs.

“easy,” you tease.

jackie’s palms caress up your parted thighs, the heat of her touch leaving a trail in its wake until settling firm at your hips. she holds you there and you exhale against her, fingers slipping back into her hair, curling it in your fists.

your legs tighten around her waist, pulling her in closer until jackie swears under her breath, clearly feeling the warmth that radiates from your center. she breaks the kiss just long enough to press her forehead against yours, breathing heavy, lips agape.

“you,” she accuses with her index poking your sides. “are trying to kill me here!”

“i’m not doing anything!” you protest.

jackie scoffs, quick to steal another kiss. then another. and another, like she has all the time in the world. right when you’re sure she’s going to lose herself entirely, the kitchen timer beeps.

the eggs.

for half a second, jackie looks almost offended at the rude interruption, but then your head drops against her shoulder and your body shakes with laughter. she groans, but your laughter is contagious, and soon enough, she’s laughing too.

jackie doesn’t let go of you, blindly reaching behind herself to fumble for the stove dial until she manages to turn it off.

“you’re just going to leave them sitting there?”

she nods, lips trailing down your jaw again so her voice comes out muffled. “they’ll survive”

you wrap your arms around her shoulders whilst she kisses her way back to your mouth.

jackie’s fingers fumble with the tie of your nightgown, working it open without needing to break the kiss. years spent learning where to tug and pull to free you from your clothes are to blame, the different motions muscle memory by now.

no matter how familiar jackie is with your body, she will never not take her time savoring the sight of you: you’re not wearing anything underneath, save for a thin pair of panties, so with the way she’s pushed the gown open your chest is on full display.

“so pretty,” she purrs, already closing the distance again. her hands cup your breasts, rolling your nipples gently at the same time as she’s kissing you. jackie’s mouth wanders to the side of your throat, then further down.

there’s no longer need for claim, for desperate encounters that aim to prove something. jackie will occasionally enjoy ravishing you (sinking her teeth in your flesh until the skin between them bruises all while she’s really fucking you), but it has become this for the most part: gentle lovemaking whenever you have the chance, still unable to keep your hands off of each other.

her lips briefly graze over the valley between your breasts, then slide below your belly button as she lowers her weight to the ground in front of you. with a smile, you cup one side of her face, taking your own share of time to admire your wife.

jackie doesn’t let you have a lot of it, though: before you know it, her mouth is on the fabric of your underwear and your head falls back against the wall as she feels you up with her tongue and lips, pressing in the places she’s memorized by heart.

“is that okay?” she breathes against you, still fully clothed, but aching with want.

“mhm,” you tighten your grip and jackie, who sighs happily in response and reaches out to peel your panties off. she’s careful with it, making sure you won’t slide off the counter while she lifts one leg after the other, just to pocket the underwear once that is done.

an invitation would not be necessary, and still, you spread your legs wider, not out of urgency but trust, shame and self consciousness long outgrown.

she has seen you in every state, knows every scar, every curve, every place where time has left its mark and, still, jackie looks at you like you are the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. her hands brush over skin she’s traced a thousand times before, never with any less reverence.

you look down just in time to find jackie pressing a first kiss to your mound, her ragged breath ghosting over your soaked sex that pulses impatiently lower.

with the index and middle finger of her right hand parted, she runs them through you, spreading your labia open in awe. a breathless sound tears from your throat, aware of how easily her digits slide through your wetness.

“come on,” you urge, lifting a leg over her shoulder. easier access.

jackie complies; her lips are parted when she presses them against you, applying just the right amount of pressure. the moan you let out at the first contact is loud and ragged, echoing through the kitchen.

“right there,” you cry.

right there, not because jackie needs guidance but because you know she loves it when you’re open. loud. when you let her know that she’s making you feel good, whether it is by letting your moans slip or by praising her verbally.

the vibrations of the noise she makes in response go straight to your core, more arousal dripping for her mouth to drink up hungrily. it is coating her, slick and wet as she traces over your clit and swirls in clockwise circles.

for a while, jackie eats you out like this, getting lost in your taste just like you are in the sensations of her tongue flicking from side to side, licking broad strokes through you, then fucking into you deep.

her hair, a little longer now but still the same golden brown she’s been maintaining, clings to the thin film of sweat on her forehead in delicate strands, proof that she’s just as affected by what she’s doing to you, whilst her neatly manicured nails dig into your flesh. soft pastel pink almond shapes drag lines of red down the side of your thighs, goosebumps and shivers rising from the touch.

“you taste so good” she says softly once, then leans right back in to continuously flick your clit.

you can tell she’s toying with you, avoiding your most sensitive spots with purpose, only ever ghosting it briefly until you’re grinding yourself against her face in frustration you cannot contain. she knows exactly what you would need to get close to the edge, pretends to give it to you, then withdraws once pleasure starts building up.

“jackie,” you whine.

between your legs, she holds your gaze, reaches out and runs a hand through your folds. when she tilts her head, asking for permission silently, you immediately nod and jackie pushes forward, two fingers sinking into the heat of your cunt.

this draws the loudest moan from you yet, though you wouldn’t dare to try and stifle it.

that’s a habit you’ve long since left behind, discarded like the passed down furniture and mismatched dishes from your first apartment. then, everything had been hushed, kisses stolen behind locked doors, moans muffled into pillows. the walls were thin, the neighbors close, and the fear of being overheard turned every moment into a careful mix of restraint and want.

in the home you live in now, there are no walls to mind, no need to press a fist to your mouth to quiet yourself. here, you are free to gasp when jackie’s lips press against your clit, free to let her love you without reservation.

jackie has taken her mouth off of you to watch the way your face contorts in pleasure as she rubs the tips of her fingers against your g-spot, allowing you to see the arousal smeared across the lower half of her face, glistening beautifully in the light.

she’s moaning too, quieter and less desperate of course, but moaning all the same when she feels the way you flutter around her as though she could actually get off from this. your pleasure had always been jackie’s, too.

“good?” she rasps.

“mhm,” you lift your head from the wall behind you, watching in awe as jackie puts her tongue back to where you want it. you don’t even know what it is about jackie’s mouth but she could probably make you cum from nothing but gentle kisses if she tried, always knowing exactly where to move to coax the most pleasure from your body.

her hair curls up between your fingers when she starts sucking on your clit gently, drawing a contented hum from her mouth.

the words jackie is saying morph into muffled babbles against your cunt, her voice white noise to the pleasure that sets your nerve endings alight as she sucks, her eyes rolling back in their sockets at the taste of you.

“jackie” you gasp, your hips pushing further into her face. an unreleased tension starts building in your abdomen, making your whole body tremble wildly.

“are you close love?” jackie asks, her fingers thrusting into you at a faster pace. “it’s okay,” she sits back on her heels to look at you, her hand making up for the momentary loss of her mouth. “i got you. just let go”

your free hand reaches for hers, fingers lacing together so that she can give you one long squeeze. jackie’s mouth starts sucking your clit harsher, pushing into you deeper, making your walls clench around her fingers. the sensation is so much. it’s not nearly enough. it’s perfect, sending you over the edge in mere seconds.

with a strangled cry of jackie’s name, you cum against the feeling of her mouth on your clit and her fingers buried deep inside you. her voice feels distant as pleasure rushes through your veins.

“that’s it” jackie praises, holding you through your orgasm. “oh my god, that’s it. fuck, you’re so beautiful” she talks you through the entire height, her voice cracking whilst she watches you fall apart and come undone. she continues her licking and sucking too, until you comfortably move her head away, spent and on the verge of overstimulation.

with a wet pop, she releases your throbbing clit and presses a last kiss to your knee before rising to her feet. you’re still perched on the counter, catching your breath, warmth buzzing under your skin.

jackie reaches for the edges of your nightgown next, making quick work of pulling the fabric back together, tying it loosely at your waist. you watch her fuss over it with amusement, as if she hadn’t just spent the last several minutes undoing it in the first place. “very modest of you”

“someone’s gotta keep you decent,” she quips, a teasing smile on her lips as she slots herself back between your legs, hands settling at your waist. the kiss that follows is slow and sweet, her mouth still carrying the taste of you. jackie lingers until the soft scent of something cooking reminds you of the world beyond her touch.

your gaze flickers past her to the stove, where the eggs still sit, long forgotten. “so...you still want breakfast?”

jackie glances over her shoulder at the abandoned pan, then back at you, considering. “i mean, we did work up an appetite, huh?”

you roll your eyes, swatting at her arm playfully before slipping down from the counter. she doesn’t let you go far, her hands finding your waist again as she stands behind you, holding you close while you move around the kitchen.

[terrestrialnoob]

"John." Bruce said with so much accusation he could see the man suppress a flinch. The toddler in front of them started to crawl to the edge of the table. Bruce reached his hand out and stopped the child. It stared at his hand in fascination before reaching out and touching it curiously.

"Bats..." John wanted to deflect, but Bruce stared at him until he cracked. "The texts said it- he?- was forged in lightning on the edge of life and death. That's not- I don't know how in the seven hells that could make a baby. An adult wouldn't be able to survive what that implies."

"But that's what we have." Bruce said, the baby had tried to put his gauntlet in his mouth, but Bruce had a small, soft dog toy in his utility belt, clean and safe for a toddler to chew on.

"Yeah, I think I need to do more research... A lot more." John said and stood up. "You don't mind taken care of him, yeah? I mean, I wouldn't trust me with a baby."

"I want a copy of all your research so far and to be kept updated on all new information." Bruce said. He had his own list of things to help figure out what the toddler was. First thing he was going to do when he got home was a DNA test.

John nodded stiffly and walked out of the room like a man on a mission. Bruce was thankful the man was taking this seriously.

"Oh, this is going to be great!" Dick said leaning in where John had been. "A little brother I can finally have a good first impression on."

"Aren't you Robin's favorite?" Bruce asked as Dick offered his hand to the toddler like he would a new pet.

"Not at first." Dick said as the toddler ignored him in favor of the toy. "You remember how we were all stunned when he showed up and interacting with him had a real learning curve."

"Red Ro-"

"Neither of us were in a good headspace when we first met him."

Bruce sighed, he didn't bring up Jason, but, "Black Bat?"

"Sister." Dick answered quickly. "This time, I'm going to be nice right from the start."

"So does this mean no burgers?" Barry asked with a sigh.

Clark answered for him, "B probably wants to take the kid somewhere safe. The three of us can still go though."

Barry smiled, but Bruce knew it wasn't the same when he wasn't there. Sure, Barry, Clark, and Diana got along- actually were real friends who enjoyed each other's company. But Barry was looking forward to sharing work stories Bruce. Clark could keep up with the technical aspects, and Diana valued his knowledge, but Bruce was actually interested in it.

Clark was the least disappointed since he and Bruce hung out far more out of costume. Diana was right in the middle, wanting to spend time with her friends, but she values duty enough she would never ask Bruce to put herself over a child.

Diana shook her head and laughed at Bruce. "I do believe this means you have more children than friends."

Bruce gave her a look that meant, "yeah, you're right but it's rude to say so."

"Hey, Bats, can I have a word?" John asked as everyone started filling out of the meeting room.

Batman gave him the side eye. "You don't usually come to meetings."

John raised his hands in surrender. "Caught me, I'm really here to ask you a favor."

Batman looked over by the door, where it looked like Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Flash were there waiting for him. But, he turned back to John and asked "What do you want?"

John tried not to cringe at the tone in his voice, telling himself that's just what a tired after meeting Batman sounded like. "I need help with a puzzle box."

John pulled said box out of his coat pocket and held it up for Batman to take, but the man examined it closely without touching it. "What's in it?"

"A world-ending weapon, probably. There's like, a 10% chance it's a world-ending monster." John helpfully provided.

"And you want to open it..."

"Yeah..." John sighed then explained, "It's part of a pair, with this-" John pulled a gear shaped dial puzzle out of his pocket. "But, since I solved this one, that one wont work for me."

"Why do you want to open it?"

"Because, whoever solves the puzzles control it."

"But you've been magically locked out of solving this one." Batman pointed at the box still in John's hand.

"Yeah, so I need someone good at solving puzzles -you- and who's dabbled enough in magic to effect the box -you again- and who I trust not to use whatever's in it to destroy the world."

Batman gave him the patented bat-interrogation glare. "You still haven't explained why you want to release this weapon."

"It's a fail safe. Like the two keys thing governments put in front of their nuclear bombs. According to the texts I read, this isn't the only way to release the whatever-it-is, but once we solve both these puzzles, you and I will have control of it and absolutely no one else can get it." John wiggled the box at Batman. "We do this now, we don't have to pray I can track down all the alternate methods, and neither of us can use it without the other's permission."

Batman closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You're certain this is the best method to ensure the safety of as many people as possible?"

"Yep."

"And you're certain I'm the right person you want as the other half of your fail safe? Not another magic user?"

"I feel the degree of separation will be useful in determining what situations call for using a world-ending weapon."

Batman let another deep sigh and took the puzzle box.

"You two staying late?" Superman asked as John and Batman sat back down at the table. Him, Wonder Woman, and the Flash came over to check on them.

"Sorry, we can get dinner together another time." Batman said without taking his eyes off the box. Each side had nine squares, each with a rune on them that glowed when pressed. There was a pattern, John was sure, but after he'd solved the dial puzzle, the runes where blurred and the squares didn't light up when he pressed them.

"How long do you think your puzzle thing will take?" Flash asked, looking over Batman's shoulder as he seemed to solve the puzzle quickly. Or so John hoped, again, he couldn't actually see what kind of progress Bats was having.

"Ten minutes, tops." Nightwing interrupted. Batman did glance at him, but then went right back to work on the box. "We still have plenty of time to go to Bobby's before closing."

"I thought you had better things to do?" Superman asked.

"And pass up on burgers with you? Never." Nightwing said with a wink. "Is John joining us when this is done?"

"I'll have to take whatever comes out of the box back to the house of Mystery." John said, though burgers did sound good at the moment.

Silence lapsed into the room as they watched Batman work. And ten minutes later, it was done. The puzzle box glowed and one of it's faces folded into itself, leaving a hole shaped just like the gear puzzle. Batman held it out and John dropped the gear into it. The room filled with a bright flash, and once it faded, sitting on the conference table between John and Batman was a toddler. He had black hair and bright blue eyes and freckles scattered across his face. He reached out a little hand towards them and started babbling.

"Fuck."

[aspenmissing]

I don't know if you've done this already, but would you be able to write what the arcane characters would be like as parents? With Sevika and the usual characters?

ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 7131 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴏɴᴇꜱ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛ! ɪᴅᴋ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙʀɪɴɢꜱ ᴀ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

JAYCE

The morning sun filtered through the curtains of your shared bedroom, casting a golden glow over the peaceful form of Jayce. His arm was draped over your waist, his breathing steady and deep. For all the chaos that Hextech and politics brought into his life, these moments—the quiet ones at home—were what grounded him.

A soft rustling from the adjoining room had you both stirring. You smiled as Jayce groaned, burying his face into your neck with a muffled, "Five more minutes."

"Tell that to your daughter," you teased, pressing a kiss to his temple before slipping out of bed. Jayce grumbled, but the sound of tiny feet pattering against the wooden floor had him moving.

Your daughter, whom you named Aline, was a bundle of energy with bright eyes and wild hair that matched her father’s. She peeked around the corner with an eager grin. "Mama! Daddy! Wake up!"

Jayce chuckled, running a hand through his tousled hair before lifting her effortlessly into his arms. "Alright, little one, what’s the emergency?"

She giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Breakfast! I'm hungry!"

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as you watched the two loves of your life. Jayce’s expression softened, his love for his daughter evident in the way he held her close. "Alright, sweetheart, pancakes sound good?"

The enthusiastic nod she gave him was answer enough. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before setting her down. "Go set the table with Mama, and I’ll whip up the best pancakes Piltover has ever seen."

=

Breakfast became a ritual in your home. Jayce took pride in making the fluffiest pancakes, ensuring that mornings started with laughter and warmth. Your daughter often insisted on helping. She would sit on the counter, stirring batter while giggling at Jayce’s exaggerated expressions. "You see, Alina, the secret to the best pancakes isn’t just the ingredients, but the love you put into them," he would say, making her eyes widen with wonder.

Raising Alina with Jayce had been an adventure in itself. He was fiercely protective, always ensuring she was safe and cared for. He shielded her from the darker parts of his work, never wanting her to feel the weight of the expectations he bore. But he was also her biggest supporter—whether she wanted to build something in his workshop, learn about the constellations, or even practice fencing, Jayce encouraged her every step of the way.

"Daddy, look! I made something!" Alina exclaimed one afternoon, proudly showing him a small wooden figure she had carved.

Jayce knelt beside her, examining the details with exaggerated seriousness. "This is incredible, sweetheart! Your craftsmanship is already better than mine when I was your age."

Alina beamed with pride, and you watched the moment unfold with a full heart. There was no doubt in your mind that she had inherited her father’s brilliance.

=

One evening, as the three of you sat on the balcony, watching the city lights, Alina curled up between you both, sleepily murmuring about how she wanted to invent things like her father. Jayce’s grip on her tightened just a little as he whispered, "You can do anything you set your mind to, my little spark. And I’ll always be here to help."

You smiled, reaching for his hand. Parenthood wasn’t easy, but with Jayce by your side, it was the greatest adventure of all.

=

As the days passed, the bond between father and daughter only grew stronger. Jayce would take Alina to his workshop, where she would watch him tinker, fascinated by the glowing blue crystals of Hextech. "What makes them shine, Daddy?" she had asked one day.

Jayce chuckled, lifting her onto his worktable. "Well, sweetheart, Hextech is a combination of science and magic. It’s about understanding the laws of the world while daring to push beyond them. Kind of like how you build towers with your blocks—sometimes you have to try different ways to make them stand taller."

Alina nodded seriously, absorbing his words. You couldn’t help but laugh, seeing the determination in her expression. She had so much of her father in her.

Jayce’s protectiveness showed in different ways. When Alina scraped her knee, he was there in an instant, lifting her into his lap and gently tending to her wound. "It’s okay to fall, sweetheart. What matters is that you get back up."

And when the time came for her to attend her first school event, he was the proudest father in the crowd, cheering her on as she recited a poem on stage. The love he had for her—and for you—shone in every glance, every reassuring touch, every bedtime story whispered under the glow of her nightlight.

=

One night, after Alina had fallen asleep, Jayce pulled you close, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. "Thank you," he murmured. "For giving me this. For giving me her."

You cupped his face, smiling against his lips. "We built this together, Jayce. And there’s no one else I’d want by my side."

As the city of Piltover bustled beyond your home, the three of you remained in your own little world—one built on love, laughter, and the endless possibilities of tomorrow.

VIKTOR

The soft hum of Piltover’s ever-present machinery filled the warmly lit apartment, blending with the rhythmic creaks of Viktor’s cane against the polished wooden floor. The scent of oil and parchment lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of tea that Y/N had left unfinished on the bedside table. He moved carefully, balancing his weight as he stepped closer to the cradle—no, cradles. Two identical wooden frames side by side, each occupied by two tiny, peaceful bundles—Mira and Alric. His golden eyes filled with an emotion so raw and deep it nearly overwhelmed him.

“Shhh, Moje malé hvězdičky,” he murmured, his accent thick with exhaustion and love. “Let your mother rest a while.” (My Little Stars)

Viktor had never imagined himself as a father. His life had always been an uphill battle, dictated by the sharp mind he was gifted with and the frailty of his body. But now, as he cradled one of his children in his arms, while the other stirred gently in their bed, he knew he had never loved anything more fiercely.

A small, furry creature stirred at the foot of the bed—Bramble, their ever-curious poro, blinked sleepily before rolling onto his side, his tiny paws twitching in his dreams. The poro had been a gift from Heimerdinger, a small companion Viktor had grown impossibly fond of, and now, he was just another part of their little family.

Y/N stirred from the bed, her eyes heavy with sleep but filled with warmth as she watched him. “You should rest too,” she whispered, her voice soft yet knowing. “Your leg—”

Viktor waved off her concern with a tired chuckle. “I have spent many nights awake for far lesser reasons than our children.” He settled onto the nearby chair with careful precision, adjusting his cane against the armrest before shifting Mira in his arms. Alric stirred slightly, and Bramble let out a soft, content snuffle before curling closer to the cradles. “Besides, I enjoy this.”

He did. Despite the exhaustion, despite the pain that often gnawed at his joints, there was a peace in these quiet moments. The way Mira’s tiny fingers curled around his own, the warmth of Alric’s small body tucked into the quilt—it was grounding, in a way nothing else had ever been.

He had spent years seeking progress, chasing knowledge and innovation with a single-minded desperation. Piltover was a city of advancements, a beacon of brilliance and invention. He had once believed that was all he needed. But here, in the soft glow of lamplight, with his children nestled safely in their cradles, he found something he had never sought but now realized he needed: a future not built on science alone, but on love.

Y/N smiled at the sight of him, knowing all too well that Viktor would deny any talk of his exhaustion, but that he would never deny their children a moment of his attention.

“You are so patient with them,” she mused, shifting to sit beside him, her head resting against his shoulder. “I think they adore you more than me.”

Viktor huffed a quiet laugh. “That is impossible.” He kissed the top of her head before gazing back down at Mira and Alric. “But if true… then I can hardly blame them. I am quite fond of them myself.”

Alric let out a small noise, shifting slightly before settling back into sleep. Mira followed suit, her tiny hand grasping at Viktor’s sleeve as if she knew exactly where she wanted to be. Viktor ran a gentle hand over the soft wisps of their hair, his expression softening even further.

“I do wonder what they will grow to be,” he murmured, his mind always lost in the possibilities. “What they will dream of. What they will create.”

Y/N sighed, content. “Whatever they choose, they’ll have us to guide them.”

Viktor nodded, his grip tightening ever so slightly around his daughter. A silent vow, unspoken but deeply felt. No matter what came their way, no matter how difficult the road ahead, he would be there. For Y/N, for Mira, for Alric.

Because love—this love—was the greatest thing he had ever created.

=

As the night deepened, the city of Piltover carried on outside, the hum of its mechanized heart never ceasing. But here, in the quiet of their home, time felt still. Viktor sat there for hours, his mind drifting between the future and the present, between science and family. Every so often, one of the twins would stir, a tiny yawn escaping them, and Viktor would press a kiss to their forehead, murmuring soft reassurances in his native tongue.

Bramble let out a soft purring sound as he stretched and curled up closer to the base of the cradles, his warm, fluffy presence adding another layer of comfort to their little family.

Viktor thought of the future, of the knowledge he could pass on, of the things he and Y/N would teach their children. Of the wonders Mira and Alric would one day discover, the brilliance they might inherit. Would they take after their father’s ceaseless curiosity, their mother’s boundless warmth? Would they build, explore, create?

=

As the years passed, Viktor imagined them toddling after him in his workshop, their small hands eager to tinker with the devices and tools scattered across his desk. He pictured Mira’s determined frown as she studied a schematic with the same intensity he did, Alric’s laughter echoing through their home as he chased after Bramble in the morning light.

He imagined them growing older, standing by his side, listening to his stories of his past—his triumphs, his failures, the lessons he had learned along the way. He thought of their hands, once so small in his, growing stronger, capable of shaping the future as they saw fit.

No matter what, Viktor vowed, he would be there to witness it all. To celebrate their victories, to comfort them in their struggles, to remind them that no matter how much the world changed, they would always have a place in it—together.

JAYVIK

The workshop smelled of warm metal and ink, the scent a permanent part of their lives. The hum of Hextech crystals and the soft scratching of Viktor’s pen against blueprints blended with the laughter of their children—chaotic, beautiful, and ever-present.

Lucian, their eight-year-old, sat cross-legged on Viktor’s worktable, a small contraption in his hands. His dark brown curls bounced as he turned the device over, careful, yet brimming with excitement.

“Tatínek, do you think if I adjust the pressure valve here, it’ll make it faster?” Lucian asked, tilting his head toward Viktor. (Papa)

Viktor, cane resting against the table, gave a small, proud smile. “That depends on what you want it to do. More pressure might increase speed, but stability is just as important, můj malý vynálezce.” He tapped the blueprints beside him, adjusting his glasses. (My Little Inventor)

Across the room, Jayce sat on the floor, holding a giggling Liana upside down while Felix clambered onto his back. “Alright, alright, I surrender!” he laughed, his broad frame barely wobbling under their combined weight.

Liana shrieked in delight, her tiny fists grasping at Jayce’s arms. “No surrender, Daddy!”

Felix, the quieter of the two, pressed his cheek against Jayce’s shoulder and sighed happily. “We win,” he murmured, victorious.

Jayce grinned and reached up to ruffle Felix’s golden hair. “You’re getting heavy, kiddo.”

Y/N watched from the doorway, arms crossed, amused at the contrast between their two partners. Lucian, the child she and Jayce shared, was quiet, thoughtful, and deliberate in all things—so much like Viktor that it was almost eerie. Meanwhile, Nova and Felix, their wild, boundless children with Viktor, were a force of nature, as if chaos had been bottled up and released into two tiny bodies.

=

Viktor’s parenting was meticulous, full of gentle instruction and quiet pride. He wasn’t one for running around, but he made up for it with bedtime stories, soft reassurances, and a keen awareness of their children’s needs. He saw them, truly saw them, whether it was Lucian’s fascination with mechanics, Felix’s curiosity or Liana’s boundless energy. He had a way of making each of them feel special,

Jayce, on the other hand, was all action. He built pillow forts that took up entire rooms, carried the twins on his shoulders like a living jungle gym, and never turned down a game of tag—even when it meant knocking over a carefully placed stack of Viktor’s notes. He encouraged their energy, their boldness, and met their every demand for attention with laughter and open arms. And though Lucian wasn’t as prone to chaotic bursts of energy like his younger siblings, Jayce made sure to include him too—whether it was by playfully challenging him to engineering contests or scooping him up into a bear hug when he was too deep in thought. Jayce never let Lucian retreat too far into his own head, keeping their son grounded with warmth and enthusiasm, knowing how important it was to balance intellect with play.

“I hope you know you’re teaching them to be absolute terrors,” Viktor mused, watching Jayce let Liana climb onto his head.

Jayce chuckled, catching her before she could tumble. “Terrors? No way. They’re gonna be strong, brave, and maybe a little reckless.” He gave Y/N a wink. “Just like their parents.”

Lucian adjusted the tiny gears in his hands, looking up. “Tatínek's not reckless.”

Jayce smirked. “Not now, but back in the day? Let’s just say he—”

“Jayce,” Viktor warned, a light flush dusting his cheeks.

Y/N laughed, stepping forward to press a kiss to Viktor’s temple. “I think we all know you’re the mastermind behind half of Jayce’s past chaos.”

Viktor huffed, but the way his hand brushed against Y/N’s waist betrayed his fondness.

Liana and Felix, meanwhile, had abandoned Jayce and were now engaged in their favourite activity: climbing whatever structure was closest. At the moment, it was Viktor’s bookshelf.

“Felix, Liana—off,” Viktor said firmly, his golden eyes narrowing.

“Aw, but tatínek, we were gonna touch the top!” Liana whined, pouting. Felix nodded, as if that argument was fool proof.

Y/N sighed and shook her head. “If you two want to climb something, go outside with Jayce. The bookshelf isn’t a jungle gym.”

The twins groaned but obeyed, darting out of the workshop, pulling Jayce along with them. “Come on, Daddy, let’s race!” Liana shouted, and Jayce barely had time to react before she and Felix took off.

Viktor exhaled, rubbing his temple. “How do they have so much energy?”

Lucian smirked. “They don’t sit still long enough to lose any.”

Y/N chuckled and leaned against Viktor. “At least they make life interesting.”

Viktor huffed but didn’t disagree.

Their home was loud. It was messy. It was filled with Hextech parts, scattered toys, and the occasional faint scent of something burning (thanks to one of Lucian’s early experiments). But it was theirs. And as Viktor leaned into Y/N’s touch, and Jayce was pulled into another game outside, one thing was certain—

Their little family was perfect.

VANDER

The bustling sounds of The Last Drop hummed softly in the background, a familiar lullaby of clinking glasses and murmured conversations. Vander leaned against the counter, his broad arms crossed as he watched Y/N cradling their daughter, Reina, in her arms. The toddler had just begun speaking in full sentences, and tonight, she was babbling excitedly about the stories Vi had told her before bed.

"Papa, Vi says she punched a guy bigger than you!" Reina's big eyes shone with wonder as she looked up at her father.

Vander let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. "That so?" He glanced over at Vi, who stood near Powder and Mylo, grinning with pride.

"You should've seen it, Vander! He was talking trash, and I—" Vi mimicked a punch, making Mylo wince and Claggor smirk.

Y/N sighed, shifting Reina higher on her hip. "And you taught her this?" she asked, her voice laced with mock disapproval as she raised a brow at Vander.

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well, maybe she picked up a thing or two from watchin'." He crouched down to Reina's level, ruffling her thick curls. "But don’t you go punchin’ people, alright? That’s Vi’s job."

Reina giggled, resting her tiny hands on his scruffy beard. "I wanna be strong like Vi and Papa!"

Vander let out a hearty laugh, pulling her into his arms. "You're already strong, sweetheart. Strongest little one I know."

Powder, who had been quiet up until now, tugged at Y/N’s sleeve. "Mama, can I braid Reina’s hair before bed? I learned a new one!"

Y/N smiled warmly, brushing a strand of Powder’s blue hair back. "Of course, darling. She’d love that."

"Yay!" Powder gently took Reina's tiny hand, leading her toward the worn-out couch where she often played with her dolls.

Vi stretched, cracking her knuckles with a grin before flopping down next to them. "You should let me teach Reina some moves when she’s older, Pops. She’s got potential."

"Oh no, no, no," Y/N interjected, shaking her head. "One brawler in the family is enough."

Vander smirked, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s waist. "Gotta agree with your ma, Vi. Though, I’ll admit, Reina’s got the spirit."

Vi huffed but smiled. "Fine, but at least let me teach her how to dodge. That way, she won’t get hit."

Claggor chuckled. "I dunno, Vi. She might end up better than you."

Vi gasped dramatically. "Betrayal!" She flopped back on the couch as the others laughed.

=

Meanwhile, Powder was diligently braiding Reina’s dark curls, her tongue poking out in concentration. "Almost done! You’re gonna look so pretty, Reina!"

The little girl beamed. "Like a princess?"

"Like a warrior princess!" Powder corrected, tying off the braid with a small ribbon she’d scavenged earlier that week.

Vander watched them, his expression softening. He wasn’t a perfect man, but he tried. He tried for the family he had built from scraps of a broken world. Y/N, the love of his life, had given him another reason to keep fighting. Their daughter was the very proof that good could still be found in the Undercity.

He felt Y/N’s hand slip into his, and he squeezed it gently. "Y’know," he murmured, watching their kids chatter amongst themselves, "I never thought I'd get somethin’ like this. Not in a place like Zaun."

Y/N leaned against his arm, her warmth grounding him. "You built this, Vander. Our family. You kept them safe."

He exhaled deeply, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I’ll keep ‘em safe always. No matter what."

As the dim lanterns flickered in the quiet of their home, Vander knew—he'd fight for them till his last breath.

=

Later that night, after the kids had been tucked into their makeshift beds, Vander and Y/N sat on the small worn-out couch in the back of The Last Drop. Reina was curled up on Vander’s lap, breathing softly in her sleep, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. Y/N traced absent patterns on Vander’s forearm, their quiet moment of peace feeling almost sacred.

"Think she’ll be a troublemaker when she’s older?" Y/N teased, glancing up at him.

Vander huffed a tired laugh. "With this lot? No doubt about it."

Y/N chuckled, resting her head against his shoulder. "She’s lucky to have you. All of them are."

He sighed, watching the glow of the lanterns flicker against the old wooden walls. "I’m the lucky one, love. They gave me a reason to be better. To do better."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten in the warmth of their shared love and the steady rhythm of Reina’s breathing.

For a moment, Vander allowed himself to believe that they’d always have this—that their family would always be whole, safe in the little world they’d built together.

SILCO

Zaun belonged to the restless, to the desperate, to the ones who carved their names into the undercity with blood and ambition. It had no room for weakness, no tolerance for sentiment. The strong survived, and the cunning thrived.

And among them stood Silco—The Eye of Zaun, the man whose voice could break kings and whose hand could build empires. Ruthless, calculating, unshaken.

But behind the steel doors of his sanctuary, he was something else entirely.

He was a father.

Their son, Lior, was still small, still soft in the way all children were, but Silco could already see the sharpness forming behind his storm-gray eyes. There was a quiet weight in them, a knowing look that reminded him of himself. Too perceptive for a child. Too thoughtful.

Perhaps that was why Silco found himself reaching for him more than he should.

=

In public, Silco played his part well. He walked with Lior at his side, his long fingers resting lightly on the boy’s shoulder or curling around his smaller hand with just enough pressure to anchor him. He did not dote, nor did he allow himself the indulgence of affection.

He never called his name too sweetly. Never offered a soft word in the presence of others. Never let the boy out of arm’s reach, but never held on too tight. To the world, Lior was merely a shadow trailing behind him, his existence acknowledged but never openly protected.

Silco knew what weakness in the open could invite. The vultures of Zaun, and worse—Piltover’s wolves.

Lior never complained about the distance, never questioned the way his father’s grip remained firm but never too warm. But sometimes, when the crowd pressed too close, when unfamiliar eyes lingered too long, he would squeeze Silco’s fingers just slightly.

A silent question. A reassurance.

Silco would barely glance down, his expression never shifting, but his thumb would brush over the boy’s knuckles in a rare, fleeting motion.

"I’m here."

It was all Lior ever needed. But behind closed doors? Behind closed doors, he could not put the boy down.

=

The moment the weight of the world was locked outside, Silco would find his son and lift him without hesitation, pressing him against his chest as if he needed to reassure himself that he was real. That he was safe.

Lior never protested. He simply curled into his father’s embrace, his tiny fingers clutching at the fabric of Silco’s coat. He knew better than to expect affection outside these walls, but here—here, his father was different.

There was no cold detachment, no distant authority. Only quiet whispers and steady hands, the soft rustling of Silco’s coat as he shifted, adjusting his grip to keep Lior close. The boy’s head would rest against his father’s chest, his breathing slowing to match the rhythmic rise and fall beneath his ear.

Y/N would often walk in to find them like that. Silco seated in his chair, legs crossed, one arm bracing Lior against his chest while his free hand absentmindedly stroked the boy’s dark hair. It was an unconscious motion, a habit formed from a love too dangerous to be shown to the outside world.

"You'll spoil him," Y/N would tease, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe, watching the way Lior all but melted into his father’s hold—a sight so rare, so fragile, that she never truly tired of it.

Silco never looked up. The only sign that he’d heard her was the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

"Then let him be spoiled," he would murmur, his fingers still threading through Lior’s hair, slow and deliberate. "Let him know his father’s arms will always be strong enough to hold him."

And hold him, he did.

=

On nights when the city was restless, and Y/N woke to the rustle of fabric, she would find Silco sitting at the edge of their bed, Lior cradled in his arms. The boy would be fast asleep, his face buried against Silco’s chest, completely unaware of the world beyond the warmth that surrounded him.

Silco would sit there for hours, unmoving, as though the slightest shift might cause the moment to shatter.

Y/N knew better than to say anything in those moments. She could see it in Silco’s gaze—the unspoken fear that clawed at the back of his mind. The same fear he never voiced but that always lingered.

He had built an empire, made himself untouchable, but power was fragile. A child was fragile.

And he would not lose his son. Not to the city. Not to fate. Not to anyone.

=

Morning always brought a shift in the air.

By daylight, Silco was back to his usual self—composed, detached but never unkind. Lior was expected to be observant, to listen more than he spoke, to learn the undercity not just with his eyes but with his instincts.

The world would not wait for him to grow.

Silco never coddled him in the streets. He did not scoop him up when he fell, did not shield him from the grime of Zaun, did not soften the lessons that needed to be learned. When Lior tripped, he was expected to stand. When he made a mistake, he was made to understand it. Silco never raised his voice, never scolded without purpose. He simply watched—waiting, assessing. And when Lior found his footing, dusted himself off and raised his chin without complaint, his father would nod in quiet approval.

But he was never alone.

Silco’s hand was always there—a firm, steady weight on his shoulder. Not forceful, not indulgent, but present. A silent promise.

=

Lior didn’t understand at first. As a child, he had only known that the streets were different from home. That in public, his father’s voice was sharp and cutting, his movements purposeful and unyielding. He was not a man who lifted him without hesitation, not the same father whose fingers carded through his hair when the city was locked away behind steel doors.

But as he grew, he began to see.

He began to notice the way people looked at him when they realized whose child he was—the weight of their gazes, the calculation in their eyes. He began to hear the way voices shifted when his father entered a room, the way some grew sharp with resentment, others lowered in quiet fear.

He began to understand why.

One day, when he was older, he would remember the times he had reached for his father’s hand in the crowded streets of Zaun. How Silco had let him, but only briefly—only until the moment passed, until the air grew still again. Until it was safe.

“There are people who would see you as a weakness,” he finally said, his voice even. “I cannot allow that.”

One day, he would understand that love, when tied to power, had to be protected.

The world of men like Silco was cruel, unyielding. It did not permit softness, but that did not mean Lior would grow unloved.

No—he would know love in the way only his father could give it. In the security of his grip. In the strength of his arms behind closed doors. In the quiet, whispered reassurances at night.

And one day, Lior would understand why his father had to be both things at once.

SEVIKA

The dim glow of the Last Drop’s neon sign flickered against the rain-slicked streets of Zaun, painting the pavement in a dull red haze as you finally stepped inside your apartment. The weight of the day pressed down on your shoulders, exhaustion creeping into your bones, but the familiar scent of oil, metal, and smoke reminded you that you were home.

Sevika’s presence was unmistakable.

She was seated at the small, battered table in the corner, her usual spot, methodically disassembling and cleaning her mechanical arm with the precision of a well-practiced soldier. The candlelight flickered against her sharp features, casting shadows across the deep scars that marred her skin. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, focused on her task.

A small, warm weight squirmed in your arms.

Your son, Cassian, let out a quiet giggle, his tiny hands clutching at the worn fabric of your coat.

“Mama home,” he murmured sleepily, voice thick with drowsiness as he tucked himself further into your embrace.

Your heart swelled as you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Yeah, sweetheart,” you whispered, rocking him gently. “I’m home.”

Sevika’s eyes flickered toward you both.

For a brief moment, something in her expression shifted—so subtle that if you weren’t paying attention, you would have missed it. A flicker of something softer, something uncertain, before her face hardened once more. Without a word, she turned back to her arm, running the rag over the metal plating, the only sign of her tension being the slight clench of her jaw.

She never quite knew how to react when Cassian called you that.

You had been together for months now—long enough for her to get used to your presence, your touch, the warmth you offered despite the cold, unrelenting reality of Zaun. But when it came to your son?

Sevika kept her distance.

Not out of hatred. Not out of disinterest. But something else. Something quieter. Something like fear.

=

That night, when you were half-asleep, you felt the bed shift.

The mattress dipped slightly under her weight, and a heavy sigh filled the room—one of those deep, wearied exhales she let out only when she thought no one was paying attention.

Through the dim candlelight, you cracked open an eye and found Sevika sitting on the edge of the bed, her broad shoulders hunched forward, her gaze locked onto the small, sleeping form across the room. Her usual hardened mask was gone.

For once, she wasn’t scowling, wasn’t exuding her usual air of indifference. Instead, she just stared at him—watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his little chest, the way his tiny fingers curled around the edge of his blanket.

Something unreadable flickered across her face. Something vulnerable.

Reaching out, you brushed your fingers lightly against her back. “You can hold him, you know,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

She tensed under your touch, her shoulders locking up for a brief second before she shook her head.

“I don’t wanna break ‘im.”

A quiet chuckle slipped past your lips. “You’re not going to break him, Sev.”

She scoffed, but it wasn’t her usual rough dismissal—it was hollow, uneasy. “You don’t get it,” she muttered, voice low. “I don’t do… kids. I don’t know how to be—”

She cut herself off with another sigh, running a tired hand down her face. How to be what?

Gentle? Safe? A mother?

You didn’t push her. Not yet. Instead, you curled up closer to her, resting your head against the warm, solid strength of her back.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Sev. He already has me. But he could have you, too.”

She didn’t respond. Just sat there, eyes still locked onto Cassian’s small, sleeping form.

=

The change wasn’t immediate.

Sevika was still Sevika—sharp, rough-edged, and unapproachable in the way only someone who had spent years hardening herself to the world could be. She didn’t know how to be soft, didn’t know how to offer warmth the way you did.

But little by little, the cracks started to show. She stopped avoiding Cassian so much.

At first, it was subtle. When he toddled around the apartment, chattering excitedly to himself about whatever wild, nonsensical things a child’s mind could conjure, she didn’t immediately leave the room anymore.

She lingered.

She would stay seated at the table, pretending to be focused on cleaning her blade, or adjusting the mechanics of her arm, but her eyes would flick toward him every so often, sharp and observant. It wasn’t disinterest—it was caution.

She was watching. Learning.

Trying to understand this tiny, chaotic creature that had somehow become a permanent part of her life.

Then came the moments where her presence became more than just a passive one.

=

When you sat on the floor with Cassian, rolling a little wooden ball back and forth, Sevika would pretend not to pay attention—arms crossed, expression unreadable. But every time the ball tumbled just out of Cassian’s reach, and he scrambled to grab it, she would watch closely.

And then, if he caught it—if his tiny fingers finally wrapped around it without fumbling—you’d hear it.

A low, almost imperceptible, gruff: "Good job, kid."

It was barely anything, really. Just two words, muttered as if she wasn’t sure why she was saying them.

But to Cassian, it was everything.

The first time she said it, he lit up, beaming so brightly it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. He turned to her immediately, as if hoping to catch her gaze, to confirm that yes, she was talking to him.

Sevika, realizing her mistake, grunted and looked away, pretending to be more interested in the scratches on her gauntlet. But you caught the way her lips twitched—just a little.

She was cracking. And Cassian noticed it too. Because after that day, he started looking for her.

=

"Sevika, look! Sevika, watch me!"

Every time he figured out how to stack his blocks higher, every time he coloured some messy, indecipherable drawing, he would turn to her. His little hands clutching whatever prize he had just created, his wide, bright eyes searching for her approval.

And for the first few weeks, she didn’t know how to handle it.

At first, she would only grunt, offering vague hums of acknowledgment, trying not to encourage the idea that she was interested. But then came the day when you caught her off-guard.

You had stepped into the other room for barely a second, just long enough to grab a rag to wipe down the counter, and when you returned, you found them.

Cassian was standing by her chair, holding up a crude little drawing in his tiny hands. Sevika, who had spent weeks acting like she wanted nothing to do with him—was holding it. Holding it with her flesh hand, turning it slightly as if actually studying it.

It was a mess of smudged crayon and clumsy shapes, mostly scribbles that barely resembled anything at all, but Cassian was waiting. Waiting for her reaction.

Sevika exhaled heavily through her nose. Paused. Then—softer than you had ever heard her speak before—she muttered:

“Not bad, kid.”

And that was the moment it all changed.

Because Cassian grinned—this wide, toothy, purely delighted grin—and without hesitation, he wrapped his little arms around her leg, hugging her.

Sevika tensed immediately, her entire body going rigid, as if the sudden contact had physically struck her.

For a split second, you thought she would push him away. Not out of cruelty, but out of pure panic, the same way a soldier reacts on instinct when something unexpected happens.

But then— She didn’t. She didn’t push him away. She let him stay.

And for a second—just one second—her flesh hand twitched, hovering awkwardly before finally, carefully, settling against his small back.

It wasn’t much. Just a single, brief pat. But it was enough. More than enough.

And as Cassian pulled away, his tiny voice filled with pride, he beamed up at her and said something that made Sevika’s entire world tilt.

“I like you, Sevika.”

You swore you heard her stop breathing. The words hung in the air for a long, aching moment. And then, after what felt like forever, she swallowed hard and muttered—rough, hesitant, but genuine:

“…Yeah, kid. I know.”

She wouldn’t say it back. Not yet. But the walls were cracking. And she didn’t try to rebuild them.

=

It happened one quiet evening, Cassian had been toddling across the room, his small hands clutching a worn wooden toy, the paint chipped and faded from years of use. He had claimed it as his favorite weeks ago, always keeping it close, dragging it across the floor as he moved with that unsteady, fearless energy that only children possessed. His tiny feet pattered against the old floorboards, his laughter filling the apartment, an innocent sound in a city that had very little innocence left to give.

And then—he tripped.

It happened so fast—too fast.

One small misstep. A tiny foot catching on a loose floorboard. The sharp, startled gasp that left his lips just before his little body pitched forward, too quickly, too suddenly.

Your chest tightened. Instinct kicked in, panic seizing every muscle in your body as you moved, heart lurching toward your throat—

But you didn’t get the chance. Because before you could even react— Sevika was already there.

She moved like a shadow cutting through smoke, reacting before thought, before hesitation could creep in, before the fear of touching him could take hold.

Her flesh hand caught him mid-fall, strong, steady, effortless, while her mechanical arm hovered awkwardly at her side, twitching slightly as if wanting to help but too afraid to touch.

And then—she froze.

Her entire body locked up, muscles tense, shoulders rigid as if she had just caught a live grenade instead of a child. Her breathing grew uneven, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as she held him—not pulling him closer, not letting him go, just holding him.

She was stiff, uncertain, like she had just realized what she had done. Like she didn’t know what came next.

Cassian sniffled, his big, teary eyes blinking up at her, tiny fingers grasping at the fabric of her vest in a quiet plea for comfort. For a brief moment, you expected him to cry—to reach for you, call for you, the way he always did when he needed reassurance.

But instead— He giggled.

Soft. Light. Completely unbothered.

As if being caught by Sevika, of all people, was the most normal thing in the world. Then, before she could even begin to process it— His little arms wrapped around her neck.

His body curled into her chest like he had done it a thousand times before, the kind of trust that was so pure, so absolute, that it felt impossibly heavy in a way Sevika had never known.

And then— One small, earth-shattering sentence.

"You're really warm, Mom."

Sevika went completely still.

Her breath hitched, her body stiffening as if the words had physically struck her. Her grip on him faltered for just a second—not enough to drop him, but enough for you to see it. That moment of absolute disbelief.

The way her jaw clenched, the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, the way her entire world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t do anything except stand there, frozen, as the weight of those words settled over her like a tidal wave, drowning her in something too big to contain. You could see it breaking her down.

The way her usual sharp, hardened exterior crumbled at the edges, unravelling into something raw and aching.

You had seen Sevika take hits that would have shattered another person. You had seen her face death without flinching, without hesitation, without fear.

But now?

Now she looked like a woman who had just been laid bare—a woman who had spent years building walls around herself, only for a single sleepy, innocent voice to tear them all down in seconds.

Her flesh hand, the one still clutching Cassian, slowly relaxed. Her metal fingers, which had always hesitated, always hovered just out of reach, finally—carefully, cautiously—brushed against his small back.

A light, almost hesitant touch. Like she was testing whether she was allowed to hold him. And then—so softly, so quietly, you almost missed it—

She exhaled.

The tension in her body eased—not completely, but enough. Her flesh hand shifted slightly, adjusting, settling, cradling him with more certainty than before.

Her grip, once stiff and unsure, became something else. Something solid. Something secure. She still looked overwhelmed, still looked like she wasn’t sure what to do with the small child pressed against her, but—

She didn’t let go. She didn’t pull away. And her eyes—her sharp, battle-worn, haunted eyes—shimmered.

She wouldn’t cry.

Not in front of you. Not in front of him. But you knew. You took a quiet step forward, closing the space between you, placing a gentle hand over hers. Sevika startled slightly, like she had forgotten you were even there. Her gaze snapped up to meet yours, and for the first time in a long, long while—

She looked afraid. Not of Cassian. Not of breaking him. But of losing him. Of losing the one person in this world who had just called her ‘Mom.’ Her lips parted slightly, her voice barely above a whisper, raw and unsteady.

“…Guess I’m a mom now.” You smiled, your fingers squeezing hers in silent reassurance.

“Yeah,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “You are.”

And Sevika— who had spent her life closing herself off, keeping people at a distance, choosing steel and strength over softness— Held Cassian a little closer.Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you noticed. And for the first time in a long, long while—

Sevika didn’t look so afraid.

[katebishopsbaefy]

PROMPT 3. DOM BILLIE. EDGING.

NEED THIS MORE THAN AIR

prompt list

3) fully clothed x stark naked

words: 577

You squirm underneath her, but don’t get very far. Her hand is trapping your wrists over your head too firmly. You know she won’t be happy with all of your movement, but you can’t help it; not with three of her fingers pounding into you.

All you’d done was talk to some girl at a party. It meant absolutely nothing; she’d just asked if you had a girlfriend, you'd said yes, and she left. That was all it was, but Billie loves to take that kind of thing and run with it. She likes to pretend she's jealous, pretend she’s angry with you, which is how you ended up here.

She’s got you completely naked on the bed. She’d been threatening to tie you up, but you know she won’t. She wants you completely bare, even your wrists and ankles, just to make it more humiliating for you, especially considering she was still fully clothed. All she would allow was her hand pinning yours into the mattress.

“Shhh… hold still. You’re just gonna make it worse,” she murmurs lowly into your ear, continuing to fuck into you. She’s got three fingers shoved into your cunt, and that’s it. She knows it takes you forever to cum like this, with just her fingers, so it’ll make you even more frustrated. More fun for her.

“Billie-” you start to choke out. You barely even did anything wrong, and even though you know her anger is all fake, her fingers in you aren’t. 

She quickly shushes you with a particularly harsh thrust. She probably knows your body better than she knows how to spell; she knows exactly what spots make you tick, exactly what spots make you scream, exactly what spots will work you up the most. “Don’t complain. Jus’ shut up and take it, baby. Don’tchu wanna be good f’me?”

Of course, you're nodding before you can even register you are. All you want is to be good for her, even though you know you never stepped out of line in the first place. And so, to be good, like she wants, you know you have to tell her when you get close. “G-Gonna come… please…”

When she bites her lip and smiles, you know you’re fucked. She pounds into you for about ten more seconds before abruptly pulling away, leaving you trembling on the bed with wide, tearful eyes. You whine and sniffle and squirm, but she just holds you down and giggles way too sweetly for what she’s doing to you.

She watches you come down from your edge, and only when she’s sure you’re completely calm does she press her fingers back into you. They immediately find your sweet spot which is already sore from the first edge, and you have to force yourself to relax. You know you’re in for a long night of crying and lost pleasure, but you want to be good for her.

“See? Not so bad, right?” she mumbles against your shoulder, starting to place open mouthed kisses to your bare skin. You can feel the material of her shirt on your chest when she leans down (which happens to be incredibly sensitive from her abuse on your nipples just before this), and it serves as a reminder of your position. She’s got complete control. You shake your head, and she grins against your shoulder. “Good. Jus’ keep bein’ good f’me. We’ll keep goin’ ‘til I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

[edenesth]

5 Steps to Losing to You

Pairing: student council president!Yunho x vice president!fem!reader

AU: high school au (enemies to lovers)

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: The student council president of KQ High had five simple steps to surviving his vice president: outshine you, outsmart you, outlast you, annoy you, and — definitely — never fall for you. Too bad every step brought him closer to late-night arguments, unexpected truths, and one unforgettable confession under the fireworks. Somewhere between enemies and uneasy allies, Yunho took five steps too far — and ended up losing (his heart) to you.

Genre: romance (duh), comedy

A/N: Thank you, @itstheghostofmypast, for giving me the urge to write another high school AU. This one's heavily inspired by one of my favourite animes of all time, Kaguya-sama: Love Is War.

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Do you ever meet someone for the very first time, and somehow, without a single word exchanged, you just know — from the very core of your being — that you can't stand them? No logical reason. No past history. Just pure, gut-level irritation.

That was exactly how Jung Yunho felt the second you stepped into the student council room, your posture straight, your expression unreadable, exuding the kind of effortless confidence that set his teeth on edge.

You were the new transfer student — the one the teachers haven't been able to stop raving about, the one who somehow landed the coveted vice president title before even learning the school layout. And now, here you were, standing beside him, the council's golden boy, as if you belonged there.

"Dude, that's her? Oh, they weren't lying when they said she'd be eye candy," Wooyoung, the council treasurer, whispered with a smirk, elbowing Yunho's side. Yunho didn't even glance at you. He just scoffed, nudging Wooyoung back hard enough to make him stumble. "Yeah? Well, too bad a pretty face isn't enough to survive my council. I give her two weeks before she runs back to wherever she came from."

He said it loud enough for you to hear — on purpose — just to see if you'd flinch. But you didn't. You only lifted your chin slightly, eyes flicking toward him for a single, scathing second. And in that moment, you hated him just as much as he hated you.

Because from the moment you locked eyes, you knew exactly who he was — the adored, untouchable president who had everyone wrapped around his finger. The boy who carried himself like the school was his kingdom, and every student his subject. And now you were supposed to serve under him?

Absolutely not.

You hadn't transferred here to play second to anyone — least of all some arrogant, overhyped, self-proclaimed king. Back at your old school, you were always at the top: top grades, top leadership positions, top of every ranking that mattered. You weren't just a vice president — you were a future president in the making.

If Yunho thought you were here to play a supporting role in his perfect little reign, he was dead wrong.

You weren't here to make friends.

You were here to take his crown.

────

Yunho leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he watched you skim through the thick binder of council documents that Seulgi, the council secretary, had just handed over. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you like you were some kind of unwelcome intruder trespassing on his territory.

"Hope you're not too overwhelmed," Yunho said, voice dripping with fake concern. "Student council here isn't exactly… beginner-friendly."

You didn't bother looking up, flipping another page instead. "Don't worry, President," you replied, tone sweet but sharp. "I've dealt with more organised councils before. This is nothing I can't fix."

The room went still for half a second — just enough for Seulgi to glance between you both like she was watching a fuse being lit.

Yunho's smile sharpened. "Fix? That's a bold word for someone who hasn't even seen our term plan yet."

You finally met his gaze, leaning forward just slightly over the table. "Oh, I've seen it. Last year's records were so charming, especially the part where half the events went over budget and the spring festival had a typo on the banner. Spring Festivel, was it?"

The muscle in his jaw twitched, but his grin didn't falter. "Funny. You talk big for someone who just transferred here. But I get it — new girl syndrome. All ambition, no clue how things actually work."

You rested your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the table. "And you talk big for someone who's clearly too comfortable sitting on his throne. Guess we'll see who adjusts faster — me to this school, or you to having actual competition."

The president's smile froze in place. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was being challenged — especially not by someone who hadn't even been here a full week.

Seulgi cleared her throat awkwardly. "So! Uh, why don't we go over this semester's goals together? You know… as a team?"

You and Yunho didn't break eye contact. Neither of you smiled.

"Can't wait," you said.

"Neither can I," he replied.

And like that, the war had officially begun.

────

To the outside world — to teachers, students, and anyone not trapped in this cursed room — Yunho and you were the dream team, the picture-perfect president and vice president duo. Smiling side by side during assemblies, coordinating in perfect sync during meetings, and even exchanging polite nods in the hallway.

But inside these four walls, away from the prying eyes of your adoring audience, it was an entirely different story.

It started small. The first time Yunho reached for the meeting agenda, it was mysteriously missing from his file. "Alright, let's get started with today's agenda—" he paused, flipping through his folder, only to find the neatly printed schedule gone. His eyes snapped up, narrowing instantly at you.

You sat across from him, filing your nails with deliberate slowness, not even trying to hide your smug smile when he had to wing the entire meeting from memory. "Looking for something, President?" you asked sweetly.

Wooyoung watched the exchange from the corner, whispering to Seulgi, "That's the second time this week. If this keeps up, he's gonna staple the agenda to his forehead."

The secretary sighed, already immune to the madness. "At least they're creative."

Then there was the presentation. Monthly council update in front of all the teachers, a perfect opportunity for the president to shine — until Yunho confidently clicked to the next slide… and instead of student council statistics, the screen flashed an embarrassingly tragic childhood photo of him mid-sneeze, teeth crooked, hair tragic.

Gasps filled the room. His eye twitched. From beside him, you covered your mouth, the picture of shocked concern, while under the table, your finger rested innocently on the laptop's trackpad.

"Oops," you whispered sweetly.

"You're dead," Yunho mouthed back.

The teachers would later praise your teamwork for handling the "technical difficulty" so gracefully.

The coffee war escalated next. Yunho, ever the gentleman, brought you coffee before morning meetings — extra bitter because he knew you hated it with a passion. You retaliated the next day, handing him a cup that smelled amazing but was actually salted beyond salvation.

Wooyoung took a cautious sip from his own drink, eyeing both of you. "This is why I only drink from the vending machine now."

"Smart," Seulgi muttered.

When it came time to make festival posters, the battle turned artistic. The school festival posters were a joint project — one half handled by you, the other by the president. What should have been a cohesive design turned into visual warfare.

Yunho's side was classic and professional, clean fonts and crisp colours. Your side? Bold, flashy, practically neon — and just slightly crooked, making his side look off-balance.

"It's like watching a couple divorce through graphic design," Wooyoung whispered.

"Except they were never married," Seulgi muttered. "Thank god."

The final straw — at least for that week — came during the morning announcements, when the president confidently read out the list of upcoming events — only to realise someone had swapped his script. Instead of the council's official calendar, he was now announcing a fake bake sale where Yunho himself would supposedly be dressing as a bunny mascot to promote sales.

His death glare found you through the broadcast window. You waved back cheerfully.

The students roared with excitement. "Bunnyho!" they chanted.

Seulgi buried her face in her hands. Wooyoung filmed everything.

And yet, the moment those council doors swung open, you both snapped back into your roles like pros. Smiling in sync at the cameras, cutting ribbons together with practised grace, even finishing each other's sentences when teachers asked about the upcoming festival. It was a performance so convincing that even Wooyoung — who knew the truth — found himself applauding.

"It's terrifying," the treasurer started, watching the two of you gracefully cut the ribbon at a new club opening ceremony. "They look like they actually… get along," he whispered, equal parts horrified and impressed.

"Tell me about it. They're scarily good at this," Seulgi agreed, clapping along with the crowd. "It's like they're starring in a romcom where only they missed the memo."

If only they knew.

If only the rest of the school knew.

If only anyone knew that beneath all the staged smiles and synchronised speeches, it would only take five steps for the mighty president and his infuriating vice president to lose — not to each other, but to something neither of them ever saw coming.

────

Step One: seeing each other.

It started like any other day in the student council room — a battleground polished to perfection.

You arrived first, flipping open your notebook, already plotting your next move. Yunho followed shortly after, shooting you a glare so subtle no one else would notice, but you caught it. You always did. The latest round in your ongoing war had been yours — you'd managed to replace his entire project folder with a stack of fake documents detailing a made-up proposal for a "Student Council Talent Show," featuring him as both host and performer. He'd spent an hour in front of the principal before realising the whole thing was a setup. You were winning.

So when Yunho swept into the room, you were already bracing for his retaliation. And sure enough, it came — a stack of freshly printed minutes from the last meeting placed squarely in front of you. Except every instance of your name had been replaced with "Her Royal Highness, The Vice President of Perfection".

You stared at it. He smiled, all teeth and zero remorse.

"Thanks for the edit," you said coolly.

"Anything for my vice president," he shot back.

But that wasn't the real blow. The real sabotage came during the club funding review later that afternoon. It was your turn to present the approved budgets for each club, a dry, boring task — until Yunho, in a voice far too innocent, asked, "By the way, Your Highness — didn't your old school have a fencing club? You were captain, right?"

You froze for half a second. It was microscopic — no one noticed. Except for Yunho. Of course, he noticed.

"Yeah," you said, flicking through the papers like the question meant nothing. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing. Just wondering why you transferred out so suddenly. From what I hear, you were practically royalty back there, too."

You knew what he was doing. Fishing. Trying to unearth whatever dirt might be hiding under your perfect exterior. You forced a smile. "It was boring," you lied. "Needed a challenge."

He hummed, unconvinced.

Later that evening, you found your chance to return the favour. You'd overheard a conversation between Wooyoung and Seulgi, something about Yunho always leaving in a rush after school, barely staying long enough to clean up. So you set a trap — a simple one. You "accidentally" scheduled a last-minute meeting that ran late, forcing him to stay behind.

You expected him to blow up at you afterwards. You were ready for it. What you didn't expect was to follow the tall and lanky boy out — purely out of curiosity — only to watch him walk straight to the convenience store down the street, throw on a part-time apron, and start restocking shelves.

You stood outside, stunned, watching the golden boy student council president clock into a job like any regular kid. Except he wasn't just any regular kid, was he?

For the first time, you saw him without the shine — no polished uniform, no cocky smirk, no sharp words ready to fire at you. Just a boy with his sleeves pushed up, quietly stacking instant noodles, stopping every so often to check his phone like he was waiting for a message.

And when his phone finally buzzed, you saw him smile — small, tired, real.

You didn't mean to see the text, but you did.

Mum: Yunho-yah, don't forget to bring home eggs if they're on sale.

You stepped back before he could notice you watching, heart thudding with something you couldn't quite name.

That was the first crack.

The next day, Yunho found a neatly folded discount coupon for eggs tucked into his student council folder. No signature. No note. Just a coupon.

He stared at it for a long time.

For once, neither of you said anything.

But it didn't end there.

Later that week, Yunho caught sight of you outside the school gates, long after the council room had emptied. He hadn't meant to linger — in fact, he had every intention of ignoring you like usual — but something about the way you stood there caught his attention.

You weren't scrolling through your phone or chatting with anyone. You just stood there, posture straight, hands clutching your bag like it was the only thing keeping you upright. A sleek black car pulled up, polished until the surface gleamed, and a middle-aged man in a pressed suit stepped out to open the door for you.

He scoffed quietly to himself. Of course.

Princess treatment. Figures.

But as you slid into the back seat, something about the way you moved made him pause. Stiff. Formal. Like you were stepping into a stranger's car, not your own. He caught a glimpse of your face through the tinted window before it rolled up — your gaze fixed straight ahead, unfocused, mouth pressed into a thin line. You looked... distant. Detached.

Not proud. Not smug.

Not like someone who had it all.

Just... tired.

Yunho frowned, stuffing his hands into his pockets, muttering under his breath, "Must be nice to have everything handed to you... so why do you look like you've got nothing?"

He didn't have an answer. And that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

That night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the memory of your empty eyes lingering longer than they should.

Neither of you knew it yet — but the game was already changing.

────

Step Two: the unexpected rescue.

The rain came down hard — the kind of storm that soaked you to the bone in seconds, drumming against the pavement with no mercy. You stood just outside the school gates, shoulders hunched slightly under the awning, arms crossed tight as your phone buzzed non-stop in your hand.

Driver (5 missed calls)

Driver: Stuck in traffic. 15 minutes.

Driver: 20 minutes.

Driver: Sorry, Miss. It's a mess out here.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, locking your screen before shoving the phone into your pocket. This was typical — your family's staff was always prompt when it came to your father, but for you? Delays. Excuses. You were used to it. Didn't make it any less irritating.

The rain intensified, and you took a careful step back, just barely avoiding a splash from a passing car. That's when you saw him — Yunho, already halfway down the sidewalk, hood pulled up, backpack slung over one shoulder.

He could have kept walking. You expected him to. Hell, you would've preferred it.

But he stopped.

He stood there for a second, back still facing you, before you saw his shoulders rise and fall in what looked suspiciously like deep, begrudging contemplation. Then, without a word, he turned back, marched toward you, and thrust his umbrella out with one hand.

"Don't make it weird," he muttered, hood shadowing half his face. "I'm not leaving my vice president to drown. People would talk."

You stared at him, dumbfounded, before slowly stepping under the umbrella's cover. Your shoulder brushed his — just barely — but it was enough to make the air between you heavier than the rain itself.

"You're still an arrogant ass," you said, mostly out of habit.

"And you're still annoying," he shot back.

But neither of you moved away.

The walk to the nearby bus stop was silent, save for the rain pattering against the umbrella's canopy and your synchronised footsteps on the wet pavement. The silence should have been awkward — it always was between the two of you — but this time, it felt... almost easy.

At the stop, he held the umbrella steady over both your heads until the bus pulled up, wiping rainwater off his forehead with his sleeve.

"Don't think this means I like you," he said, voice quieter than usual.

You snorted, climbing up the bus steps. "Please. I'd be more worried if you did."

But when you found your seat by the window, you caught a glimpse of him outside — standing there in the rain, umbrella still in hand, watching the bus pull away. Neither of you knew why this moment stuck so firmly in your minds. You just knew something had shifted.

The next morning, you were absent.

Yunho should've been pleased. A day without your sharp tongue, your constant presence, your infuriating need to challenge his every decision — it should've felt like a vacation. But instead, an uncomfortable unease gnawed at him from the moment he entered the council room and saw your usual seat empty.

He shouldn't care. He knew that. But for some reason, his mind kept circling back to the night before — the rain, the bus, the fleeting glimpse of your tired face in the window.

Did you even get home safely?

He scowled at the thought. Not my problem. I already did more than enough. But no matter how much he tried to shake it off, that knot of regret just sat there in his chest, stubborn and unrelenting.

By mid-morning, his irritation boiled over. Slamming his pen down, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Where's Vice President Pain-in-the-Ass today?" he asked, tone far too casual to be casual.

Wooyoung's eyebrows shot up — before a slow smirk stretched across his face. "Why? Miss her already? You two were so cute sharing that umbrella last night."

Yunho's chair scraped violently against the floor as he sat up straighter. "What?! Who said— That's not— I'm only asking because I was expecting her to submit the student committee reports today!"

"Suuure," Wooyoung drawled, dragging out the word until Yunho was ready to fling a stapler at his head.

Seulgi, ever the peacekeeper, stepped in with a sigh. "She called in sick. Probably caught a cold from getting drenched yesterday."

The president's stomach did an uncomfortable flip, though he masked it with a disinterested shrug. "Serves her right for not bringing her own umbrella," he muttered.

But later that night, during his shift at the convenience store, he nearly rang up a customer's items twice — his mind completely elsewhere. Each time the door chimed, he half-expected to see you storm in with some ridiculous complaint about student council policies. He hated the way that thought made his chest tighten.

He hated it even more when, the next morning, he found himself at his kitchen counter — brewing herbal tea.

When you returned to school the next day, you dropped your bag onto your desk, only to pause, brow furrowing. Sitting there, completely unassuming, was a flask of warm herbal tea. No note. No explanation.

You glanced around the empty room — only one other person was there this early, and of course, it was him. Yunho, head down, pretending to be engrossed in a report he had already read twice.

You nudged the flask aside and pulled out your notebook instead, determined not to play into whatever weird game this was.

Across the room, his pen froze mid-sentence. After a few beats of silence, he huffed, loud enough for you to hear.

"For heaven's sake, it's not poisoned," he said, still not looking up. "Drink it if you want to actually recover."

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious — but curiosity (and the faint scratch in your throat) won out. You unscrewed the lid, steam rising in a gentle curl. It smelled... comforting. Soothing. Like something homemade.

Reluctantly, you took a sip.

"...It's good," you admitted quietly.

He didn't respond, but when you looked up, you caught him — just for a second — sneaking a glance at you over the top of his file.

Again, neither of you said another word.

────

Step Three: forced vulnerability.

For a while, it seemed like the umbrella incident and the flask of tea never happened. Whatever fleeting kindness had passed between you both was quickly swallowed by your usual dynamic — sharp words, constant one-upping, and a relentless need to prove the other wrong.

That fragile truce didn't stand a chance.

It all came to a head after yet another brutal fight — the kind that had papers flying across the table, voices raised loud enough to make the underclassmen passing by the council room door wince. Seulgi had to physically step between you, arms stretched out like a human barricade.

"You always have to hog the spotlight, don't you?" you seethed, finger jabbing toward Yunho. "President this, President that — it's like you can't function unless the whole school is watching you."

"And you're any better?" His voice came sharp and fast, eyes blazing. "You waltz in here acting like you're saving us all, like this council should be grateful to breathe the same air as you. Spoiled little princess who can't handle not being number one."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Wooyoung, who usually lived for drama like this, suddenly found his folder of expense reports incredibly fascinating.

You stormed out before anyone could see the flicker of hurt flash across your face. No way were you going to let Jung Yunho of all people make you feel small.

You walked blindly down the hall, fury pulsing in your veins, until you froze at the sound of his voice — quieter, softer, so unlike the boy who had just ripped into you moments ago.

"…No, Mum, I can't cover that shift. I already stayed late for council." A pause. "It's fine, really. I'll figure it out."

The reminder hit you hard. Yunho, the golden boy, the president everyone envied — was working part-time jobs after school. The same boy who seemed to have it all was just another kid juggling too much, carrying more weight than he let on. You didn't mean to eavesdrop, but you couldn't move either. Something about the edge of exhaustion in his voice made you stay.

Suddenly, the arrogant bastard didn't seem so untouchable after all.

A few days later, the roles reversed.

Yunho had gone to the library to grab an old council binder when he spotted you tucked away at a corner table. You weren't working — just sitting there, blankly staring at an open textbook like the words weren't even registering.

Next to you, a small pile of letters lay scattered — some still sealed, others torn open, the papers inside slightly crumpled like you'd held them too tightly. He didn't need to read them to know what they were. Letters from parents who cared more about achievements than feelings, words dressed up as 'encouragement' but laced with disappointment underneath.

He hadn't meant to stop, but something about the way your shoulders curled inward — that tiny, defeated slump — made him pull out a chair across from you without a word. He opened his own notebook, flipping through pages like he had a reason to be there.

The silence stretched, but for once, it didn't feel awkward.

Eventually, Yunho broke it.

"Not everyone's parents show up for them either, huh?" he said quietly, still pretending to read.

Your head snapped up, startled by the unexpected understanding in his voice. But he didn't look at you. He just kept twirling his pen between his fingers, as if the words had been said casually — like it wasn't the first time either of you had ever acknowledged this shared emptiness.

You didn't answer, but you didn't push the letters away either.

And just like that, things further shifted.

For the first time, you both saw each other — not as rivals or enemies, but just two kids quietly drowning under the weight of expectations neither of you had asked for.

────

Step Four: defending each other.

It happened so fast, you didn't even have time to think.

You were passing by the courtyard on your way back to the council room when you heard them — two students sitting on the low wall, voices pitched just loud enough to be overheard.

"I heard she only got vice president because her family donated a new wing to the school."

"Yeah, everyone knows Yunho's the real deal. She's just there to smile and look pretty. Riding his coattails the whole way."

Your hands curled into fists, steps already veering toward them — but someone else got there first.

The sharp thud of a bag hitting the ground made the gossipers jolt upright. Yunho stood there, shoulders squared, eyes dark with something dangerously close to fury.

"Say that again," he said quietly — and somehow, the softness of his voice was far more terrifying than if he'd shouted.

The students stammered, scrambling for excuses, and he didn't even spare you a glance as he slung his bag back over his shoulder and walked off, leaving you standing there — stunned silent.

Because for all the times you had accused him of being full of himself, Jung Yunho had defended you like it was second nature. Like the idea of anyone else insulting you was unthinkable.

You didn't know what to do with that.

The universe, however, was nothing if not fair. Because just a few days later, the rumours shifted — this time, about Yunho.

"Did you hear? Student council president's working at some convenience store. Imagine seeing him behind the counter after school, bagging snacks for pocket change."

"Golden boy's not so golden after all."

The words grated against your ears so sharply, you were standing in front of them before you even realised you'd moved.

Arms crossed, chin lifted, you gave them a smile so sweet it made your words all the sharper. "Funny. I didn't realise students who can't even pass basic math had opinions anyone cared about."

The stunned silence that followed was delicious. You didn't wait for their response — just turned on your heel and walked off like they weren't even worth your time.

That should've been the end of it — except Yunho was waiting for you by the lockers later that afternoon, arms folded, gaze unreadable.

"I didn't ask you to defend me," he said, tone somewhere between exasperation and confusion.

"Yeah, well." You shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "Couldn't let my rival's reputation get dragged through the mud before I beat you fair and square."

He stared at you for a long moment — long enough that you felt heat creep up your neck. And then, to your utter disbelief, he smiled. Just a little.

"You're insane."

"You're welcome."

Neither of you admitted what was really happening here.

Neither of you wanted to.

Because rivals didn't protect each other like this — right?

…Right?

It was supposed to be a one-time thing.

That's what you both told yourselves. Yunho stepping in when people ran their mouths about you? Just defending the council's reputation. You shutting down rumours about his part-time job? Basic professional courtesy. Nothing more.

Except it kept happening.

You noticed when he looked more tired than usual, dark circles smudged under his eyes like he hadn't slept a wink — and then you caught yourself caring. Which was ridiculous. You didn't care. You were just making sure the president didn't screw up his responsibilities because he couldn't handle his personal life. Right?

And Yunho? He wasn't watching out for you. No way. He just… happened to notice when you didn't eat lunch (because of course a spoiled princess would be picky), and maybe that's why he tossed a protein bar onto your desk without looking at you. Totally normal. Not thoughtful. Just practical.

The mental gymnastics you both performed to justify each and every concern were Olympic-level.

When you caught the president absently saving you the better seat during meetings, you told yourself he was just being tactical — easier for you to see the projector, of course. And when Yunho overheard you grumbling about forgetting your calculator before a math quiz, and then somehow one appeared on your desk five minutes later, you were definitely not touched. It was probably a spare he didn't need. Nothing more.

Wooyoung and Seulgi, meanwhile, were losing their minds — because the two of you were so deep in denial it was physically painful to watch.

"She just snapped at him for using the wrong pen colour for the event banners, then turned around and gave him the last slice of cake at the meeting," Seulgi whispered, wide-eyed.

"And he's been pretending to hate her handwriting, but I caught him saving one of her post-it notes in his folder," Wooyoung whispered back.

"Should we help?"

"Nah. Let them suffer."

Because to everyone else, it was painfully obvious: the two of you cared, far too much, and it was eating you both alive.

Neither of you could sleep without replaying your arguments, wondering if you'd crossed a line. Neither of you could look at the other without searching for signs — were they okay? Were they pushing too hard? Were they... thinking about you too?

Of course not.

You hated each other.

That's what you told yourselves.

That's what you needed to believe.

────

Step Five: the breaking point.

The final planning meeting for the year-end festival — the crown jewel of student council events — was supposed to be smooth sailing.

Supposed to be.

Instead, it turned into a sudden crisis and full-blown disaster. Miscommunications piled up like wreckage, schedules clashed, vendors were double-booked, and somehow, two essential permits vanished into thin air — all thanks to the endless assumptions of he'll handle it or she'll settle it.

In truth, the entire student council had been stretched too thin. With final year exams looming and everyone juggling revision sessions alongside festival planning, it was inevitable that details would slip through the cracks. Messages were missed, notes went unshared, and somewhere along the way, every member — even you and Yunho — had trusted that someone else would catch the mistakes.

No one did.

And now, with barely a week left until the biggest event of the year, it was all on the verge of collapse.

The council room was a war zone by the end of the day, with papers scattered across every surface, and half-eaten snacks abandoned next to rapidly-drained cups of instant coffee. The rest of the council had long since been sent home after nearly combusting from secondhand stress.

That left just the two of you — sworn enemies, or at least that's what you both kept telling yourselves — sitting across from each other in the wreckage, sleeves rolled up, hair undone, exhaustion written into every breath.

Somewhere between fixing the vendor placements and rewriting the schedule for the third time, you both cracked.

Laughter. Actual, delirious laughter. It started small — you snorted at something he mumbled under his breath, and he stared at you like you'd grown a second head before dissolving into laughter himself. The kind that made your stomach ache and your shoulders shake, the kind fueled by stress and sleep deprivation until it was impossible to stop.

"This is actual hell," you groaned, collapsing onto the table, cheek smushed against a poorly drawn map of the festival grounds.

"Yeah," he leaned back, arms hanging off the back of his chair, head tilted to stare at the ceiling. "But at least it's not boring."

You turned your head to look at him — hair sticking up in every direction, tie loosened, shirt wrinkled, sleeves unevenly rolled, and yet somehow still the same Yunho who drove you insane. Except, right now, he wasn't the 'golden boy president.' He was just… a boy. One who was just as tired, just as human.

"Yunho," you said softly, surprising even yourself. "Why do you hate me?"

His laughter faded. He didn't look at you right away — just exhaled long and slow, fingers tapping against the table.

"Because you make me feel like I'm not enough," he admitted, voice low, like a confession dragged straight from his chest. "And I hate feeling that way."

The honesty knocked the air from your lungs. Because it was exactly how you felt too — and you'd never meant for him to see you like that, just like you never thought you'd see him like this.

"I never wanted to hate you," you whispered, voice small. "I just wanted to beat you."

He finally turned his head, gaze meeting yours — and for the first time, there was no sharpness, no competition, no battle lines drawn between you. Just understanding.

And maybe, just maybe, something softer underneath. Something neither of you were ready to name.

"It's late. We should go," he murmured.

The air was cool, the sky stretched inky black above you, and the silence between you wasn't exactly uncomfortable — just unfamiliar. After months of snapping and snarling at each other, the absence of sharp words felt almost too quiet. Too fragile.

The two of you walked side by side down the empty street, your steps slower than usual, like neither of you wanted to be the first to break the strange peace that had settled over you.

But eventually, you couldn't hold back.

"…Are you okay not making your shift tonight?" you asked softly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

He took a moment before answering, the faint scrape of his shoes against the pavement filling the gap. "I'll just work a double another time," he said with a shrug, like it was no big deal.

It made something pinch in your chest — this casual acceptance of overworking himself like it was second nature. You hesitated, then asked the question you realised you'd never actually known the answer to.

"Why do you work so hard?"

He didn't answer right away. His hands slid into his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly under the weight of the question. But eventually, his voice emerged, quieter than you expected.

"For as long as I can remember, it's just been me and my mum," he said. "She works really hard, but money's always been tight. When I was old enough, I took as many jobs as I could — bagging groceries, tutoring, working at that convenience store. And I kept my grades up because… I just wanted to make her proud. Wanted to give her a life where she didn't have to worry anymore."

You slowed your steps, turning your head to look at him properly. And once again, you saw him — not as your rival, not as the frustrating golden boy — but as a son. Someone's son, trying his best.

"You're a good son, Yunho," you said softly, with a smile that felt more genuine than any you'd given him before.

He smiled back — just a little — until you added, just as softly, "Can't say the same for myself though."

Yunho's footsteps halted. You stopped too, eyes falling to the sidewalk beneath you.

"You wanted to know why I transferred here, right?" you asked, voice quieter now.

Without waiting for an answer, you bent down and pulled up the edge of your right sock, revealing a thin line of surgical scars tracing across your ankle. The streetlight caught on the pale skin, glinting faintly.

"One bad match," you said, almost to yourself. "One opponent who played dirty during championships. That's all it took."

His brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"Like you said, I used to be fencing captain. Top-ranked in my old school." You let out a soft, bitter laugh. "And after the injury, I couldn't compete. I fell from first place — took months off to recover, missed exams, missed everything. To my parents, that was all it took for me to become… a disappointment."

You let your sock fall back into place, hands brushing down your skirt, voice tight with forced cheer. "So, they sent me here to start over. To rebuild whatever glory I lost. To make me their perfect trophy again."

The president didn't say anything right away. And for once, you didn't try to fill the silence either. You just stood there together, in the middle of a quiet street, under a flickering streetlamp — two students who had spent so long trying to outshine each other, only to realise they were both just chasing shadows.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you'd ever heard it.

"They were wrong."

You glanced up at him, blinking.

"They were wrong to make you think you're only worth something if you're perfect."

Your throat tightened, and you had to look away — because if you didn't, you might actually cry, and you weren't ready for that. Not in front of him.

"Come on," he said gently, nudging your arm. "We still have to survive this festival. One tragedy at a time."

You laughed — watery, but real. And without thinking, you bumped your shoulder into his.

For once, he didn't bump back harder.

────

Five steps later, you were finally here.

The festival had somehow, miraculously, come together — the chaos you and Yunho had wrestled into order was now a blur of glowing lanterns, flashing booth lights, and bursts of laughter floating up into the night air. From the rooftop, you could see it all — your shared battlefield turned into something beautiful.

You should have felt victorious. But instead, your chest ached with something you couldn't name.

Footsteps behind you.

You didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"Shouldn't you be down there soaking up the praise, President?" you asked, arms folded across your chest, voice deliberately casual.

He stepped up beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets, gaze flicking down over the festival before settling on you. "Shouldn't you be down there taking credit, Vice President?"

You side-eyed him, lips twitching up despite yourself. "I thought you hated sharing your spotlight."

"I do," he said — quieter this time, almost too honest. "But… maybe I don't mind sharing with you."

You froze.

This wasn't the usual banter. There was no smirk, no teasing edge to his voice. Just Yunho, standing there under the open sky, the glow of the festival washing a soft colour over his face.

"I spent this whole year trying to beat you," you admitted softly, your fingers curling around the cool metal railing. "Trying to prove I was better."

"Same," he said — too quickly, like he'd been holding it in. Then he shook his head, a breathless laugh slipping out. "But every time I thought I was close to finally taking you down, I just… ended up liking you more."

Your heart stuttered. "Liking me?"

"Yeah." He exhaled hard, like saying it out loud physically knocked the air from his lungs. "I hated you so much I couldn't think straight, and then somewhere along the way, I just wanted to know you. All of you."

The first fireworks burst overhead, painting the sky in red and gold. The light caught in his hair, in his eyes — and you realised you'd been staring at him this whole time.

"You're such an idiot," you whispered, even though your throat was suddenly tight.

"Why?" He turned toward you fully now, his shoulder brushing yours. "Because I confessed first?"

"No." You took a step closer — close enough that the heat of him bled into your skin. "Because I've liked you too. For longer than I wanted to admit."

Another firework cracked, sending sparks raining down like stars.

Neither of you looked at it.

Yunho's hand found yours on the railing — the touch hesitant at first, until your fingers curled back around his. His thumb traced along your knuckles like he couldn't believe this was real.

"I still want to beat you," you said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Good." He leaned down, forehead almost brushing yours. "I wouldn't like you if you didn't."

And then — under a sky exploding with light — he kissed you.

It wasn't sweet or shy. It was a clash of everything you'd ever felt for each other — every argument that left you breathless, every late-night meeting where silence spoke louder than words, every sharp-tongued insult meant to cut but only carved deeper into longing.

His lips were warm and urgent, tasting faintly of festival cotton candy and the mint gum he always chewed when stressed. His hand slid up, fingers threading into your hair before settling at your jaw, his thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone so softly it left your skin tingling.

He pulled you in like you were something fragile and precious and dangerous all at once — something he couldn't risk breaking, but couldn't stand losing.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands fisting in the fabric of his blazer, tugging him closer until there was nothing between you but heat and heartbeats. You could feel the tremble in his breath, the subtle shudder that ran through him when your fingers brushed the back of his neck. His heart hammered so loudly against your chest that you could swear it was echoing your own.

The fireworks painted streaks of gold and crimson across your closed eyelids, but none of it compared to the colour blooming beneath your skin — the dizzying warmth curling low in your stomach, the ache of every unsaid word bleeding into every touch.

When you finally broke apart, panting slightly, foreheads pressed together, you both laughed — breathless and dazed — like you couldn't believe it took you this long to get here.

The fireworks were beautiful.

But they were nothing compared to this.

────

The following Monday after the festival, the entire school knew.

Some claimed they'd caught glimpses of you and Yunho sneaking off together just before the fireworks, while others swore they saw his arm casually draped around your shoulders during the late-night cleanup. And, of course, the boldest rumours came from those who witnessed you both at the council table, sipping from the same straw like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But none of that was the real giveaway.

The real giveaway was how you two fought — exactly the same as before, except now he called you baby in the middle of arguments, and you shot back with a saccharine sweetheart, both said with enough venom to curdle milk. The council meetings were still battlegrounds, but now they were laced with something sharper — affection disguised as irritation, fondness hidden under barbed words.

"We should focus on next month's fundraiser," Yunho declared, tapping his pen against the table.

"We should focus on midterm review sessions first," you countered, not even looking up from your notes.

"You just want to show off how perfect your study guides are," he accused, eyes narrowing.

"And you just want to procrastinate so you can rewrite your precious 'president's welcome speech,'" you fired back.

"It's called leadership."

"It's called an ego trip."

The room went silent — council members exchanging wide-eyed glances, already bracing for the explosion.

But instead of storming off like you used to, Yunho just leaned back in his chair, tilting his head with that infuriating smirk. "I'm still your boss, Vice President."

Your smile was too sweet, too dangerous. "And I'm still the one who covers your ass when you forget deadlines, President."

Somewhere in the back of the room, Wooyoung silently started a betting pool: kiss or kill — which would happen first?

Together, the two of you became the undeniable, unstoppable force of the student council — a perfect storm of brains, charisma, and sheer chaos. When Yunho's charm and golden-boy smile couldn't win over the principal, your cold logic and flawless presentations sealed the deal. When your sharp tongue and brutal honesty made freshmen tremble, his easy grin softened the blow. Together, you raised more funds, pulled off bigger events, and terrified more slackers than any council duo in school history.

And yes — you still argued like your lives depended on it.

But now, the fights ended with lazy kisses behind closed doors, fingers brushing under the table during meetings, and softly muttered threats of "I'm still going to beat you at this" whispered like a love language.

Some days, he walked you to your chauffeured car, fingers laced with yours despite the stunned looks from every passing student. Other days, you waited at the convenience store until his shift ended, pretending to browse the snack aisle while secretly watching him work — admiring the boy who once drove you insane, and now, somehow, made your heart ache in the best way possible.

And every night you walked home together, sharing an umbrella or splitting a can of soda, your shoulders bumping softly in the dark.

"We're still enemies, right?" you asked once, voice quiet under the stars.

He grinned, tugging you closer by the waist. "Always."

Then he kissed you again — and just like that, the fight for power had never tasted so sweet. Because somewhere between rivalry and romance, between every clash and compromise, you both realised: there was no winning without each other.

If you've watched Kaguya-sama: Love Is War and are also a fan of it, just know that I love you. The way Wooyoung was initially going to take Miyuki's role, but on second thought, Yunho seemed more well-suited for it. Wouldn't you agree?

Also, I hope y'all liked the rooftop kiss🙈

And if you haven't watched the anime, I love you too! For taking the time to read this, I genuinely hope it was enjoyable hehe I know I had a lot of fun writing this.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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[shanastoryteller]

Tracking down a prince of hell is surprisingly easy. The other demons can’t avoid them if they don’t know where they are, after all.

Castiel gives up arguing against it, but instead he’s taken to brooding in the corner, arms crossed, and glaring at him. As his main source of human bodily expression, Sam wishes he wasn’t so good at it. He doesn’t look like that, does he? Jesus.

Sam knocks on Ramiel’s door. There’s no reason to be impolite.

“Huh,” Ramiel answers, wearing the face of a weathered old fisherman. Which, from all accounts, is exactly how he’s been spending his infinite life. Sam learned how to fish like he learned all of his father’s lessons, grudgingly, but compared to how he’s living now, he has to admit it sounds peaceful. “You’re the kid that killed my brother.”

“What,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “were you close?”

Castiel makes some sort of choking sound that Sam knows he didn’t learn from him. Maybe he should be monitoring his television usage.

Ramiel cracks a grin. “You here to kill me, boy?”

“Do you want to be killed?” he asks.

“Not especially,” he says. “But if you killed Azazel, then you can kill me. We going to fight about it?”

“You’re not hurting anyone,” Sam says. He’d checked. “I don’t think you’re especially loyal to Lucifer.” If he was, he would have made an appearance during the apocalypse, would have been helping Azazel find Lucifer’s vessel, not hiding out in the middle of nowhere fishing and drinking. “If he comes back, that’ll be a problem for you, I think. So helping me is in your best interest.”

“Well, if it’s in my best interest.” He steps back, nudging the door open a little wider. “Come on in.”

Ramiel is surprisingly open giving Sam his blood. He looks fascinated and doesn’t question what Sam wants it for, apparently already well aware that Sam and Castiel are in the process of destroying the remaining seals.

“He wants to destroy Lilith,” Castiel says, the first thing he’s said since Ramiel opened the door. Sam wishes he was close enough to hit, which is probably one of the reasons Castiel is staying propped against the wall rather than sitting down with them. His vessel doesn’t feel tiredness, so Sam’s impressed he’s leaning at all.

“You don’t think he can?” Ramiel asks. “Sure, not now, but at all?”

“You think I can?” Sam interrupts, hope causing his stomach to flip over. This whole thing is his idea, he remembers killing Lilith before, but Castiel has been so sure it wouldn’t work.

Ramiel looks him over, something in his eyes that he can’t quite place. “You remind me of him.”

Sam tenses.

“You must see it more clearly than I do,” Ramiel says to Castiel. “You knew him before the fall. I only met him after, obviously.”

“Lucifer and I were not well acquainted,” Castiel says stiffly.

“I’m nothing like him,” Sam snaps. He can’t be. He won’t be. Even in the memories from the future, when he’s drinking demon blood, he’s not the damn devil.

“That’s a shame,” Ramiel says. Sam stares. “He was the strongest angel in heaven, a general among kings, God’s most beloved son.”

Sam swallows. “Propaganda.”

Ramiel raises an eyebrow and looks over at the angel in the corner.

Castiel holds out for several long moments before saying, “No. Lucifer was that. Once.”

“God asked of Abraham to do to Isaac what he could not do to Lucifer,” Ramiel says. “He had no deity of his own to appease and so Lucifer was cast out rather than eliminated. He was brilliant, in the beginning, of course we followed him. He shone so brightly, so righteous in his certainty, so compelling in his grief.” His hand falls heavily on Sam’s shoulder. “I see him in you so clearly. It’s not a damnation. Until the moment he fell, Lucifer was the brightest star in the sky.”

He's silent for probably too long, trying to find some way to respond to that. Finally he says, “I won’t fall then.”

He can’t.

He won’t.

He’s going to ensure Lucifer stays in the cage forever and whatever it costs him will be worth it. But he won’t fall.

~

Sam is startled out of a dead sleep by his name.

SAM! Echoes through his head and he’s rolling out of bed, rolling upright and still half asleep when he shifts from one place to the other. The urgency in the call has him standing there still half asleep, barefoot in sweatpants and a grey t shirt just tight enough in the shoulders that he thinks it’s his brother’s.

He runs a hair through his hair, smoothing it back from standing every which way, and blinks at the crowd of people in front of him. “Uh. Hi?”

He’s in the Roadhouse in the middle of standoff, a couple dozen people blocking off the door while pretty much everyone else in the bar has their guns drawn and pointed. He notices his father among them and refuses to react, not daring to look at his dad’s face for long enough to read anything there besides shock.

Ellen has her rifle aimed, but Jo’s slumped against the bar, her arm around – “Dean!”

He’s out of it, eyes squeezed shut and curled half over. It’s only Jo that’s keeping him partially upright. He sees the blood dripping on the ground and is already moving towards them, grabbing Dean’s shoulders and pushing him upright enough to see the blood soaked across his torso, his stomach split open just like Jessica’s had been, just like their mother.

Sam sees red.

“Sam,” Jo says in relief.

“Sammy,” says someone else, and this time when he looks over, those people in front of the door all have black eyes. “Samuel. You killed Azazel.”

“Loyalists?” he snarks, shifting to stand in front of Dean and Jo. He’s going to fix his brother, but he has to take care of this first. Dean’s not dead, and he’s stronger than he was when he brought Jo back, but he doesn’t know what kind of shape healing him is going to leave him in. Better not to risk it.

“Yes,” says the man, eyes still black. “You have earned the throne, Samuel, but it remains not empty. You’re meant to lead us, Samuel, but you’ve been missing. We’ve been forced to go to extreme measure to get your attention.”

“I’m not mean to do shit,” he snarls. He’s so tired of this crap. His future self had that part right – taking the destiny Lucifer had wanted for him and making him choke on it, using that infinite power to send his memories to his younger self so Lucifer wouldn’t ever get a chance to taste fresh air this time around – good. He didn’t like it when it was his dad trying to dictate how he lived his life, and he has even less tolerance for it from Lucifer. These ass clowns? It should be a joke, would be, even, if he didn’t have his brother’s blood on him.

He raises a hand and all the demons choke on air, eyes going wide and feet glued in place. He doesn’t pay any attention to the hunters at his back, hoping that they won’t be stupid enough to try and kill him while he’s saving their asses. Even if they succeed, Castiel will bring him back.

He walks forward, eyes narrowed, wondering if they’re flashing gold and not caring. “Well, good job, hurting my brother does get my attention.” He leans in close to the man who had spoken, voice whisper soft and yet carrying easily in the near silent bar. “You don’t want my attention.”

Pulling the demons from their hosts is easy. Smothering them into nothing, turning black smoke into black dust as he kills them permanently isn’t much harder than that. The people start coughing and groaning, others limp and likely in need of a hospital if they’re still alive, but Sam ignores them to focus on one woman who’s still trembling and terrified, the one demon he’d left behind.

He moves her hair away from her face, hoping the woman inside of her isn’t aware of what’s happened to her. The demon looks at him in terror. “You tell everyone. You tell them what happens when they spill my brother’s blood.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I will, please. Please. I’ll tell everyone. I will.”

Her fear isn’t satisfying. He has to remind himself that it’s not this girl looking at him like this, but the demon inside of her. It doesn’t help much. He’d never wanted to be anyone’s nightmare. “Go.” Her head snaps back and he adds, “Gently.”

She hesitates then her head drops forward, black smoke oozing out her mouth, nothing quick or violent about it as the demon does it’s best to leave without doing any damage. As soon as it’s out, it disappears, running form him as quickly as it can.

The woman sways in front of him and he grabs her elbow to steady her. She blinks at him, dazed. “What happened?”

“You’re okay,” he says, patting her shoulder and letting go. She stays on her feet, although she still looks confused, but Sam turns away from them.

The hunters are still all silent, all still watching him. Most haven’t lowered their weapons, although some have. Ellen’s gun is still raised, but it’s not towards him, which is both comforting and not. He wonders who she thinks is most likely to try and kill him.

Dean’s passed out, out cold on the ground with Jo holding him up and pressing a hand towel from the bar against his stomach. “Sam,” she says again, eyes huge, but she doesn’t look afraid of him. That’s good.

“Thanks for calling me, Jo,” he says. “I’ve got him.”

He pulls Dean back against him, his brother’s chest rising and falling too quickly. He’s gone cold with blood loss and this wound might have even been the thing that killed him if Sam wasn’t here.

That’s never going to happen. Dean isn’t going to die. Dean isn’t going to go to hell. Sam is doing all this for his brother and just because he won’t be able to keep him doesn’t mean he’s willing to lose him.

He hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and presses is hands against the wound on his stomach, feeling fresh hot blood spill over his fingers. He tilts his head just enough to graze his lips against Dean’s cheek, holding him steady as his body seizes under him.

Castiel heals with a touch, all if it happening too quickly for it to hurt. Sam’s not that good at it yet.

“Sorry,” he whispers, feeling Dean’s skin knit back together and his body go warm with new blood. Dean groans and coughs, body rebelling against being healed but not having much choice.

“John,” Ellen barks. “Don’t do anything stupid now.”

Sam looks over his shoulder to see that his father has stepped forward, the Colt directed at him. Dean got hurt by demons and Dad had the Colt and didn’t use it. Only two bullets left and more than two demons, sure, he gets it. But still.

“Don’t waste a bullet, Dad,” he says. He's still refusing to look at his father's face. He doesn't need to know.

Any gun will do. Although he wonders if being killed by the Colt would prevent Castiel from bringing him back. He’s not much interested in testing it.

He tips Dean back towards Jo, who braces him with an arm around his waist. “Take care of him for me.”

“I’m trying,” she says, honesty and dry and exasperated, which is how he knows she means it. He smiles, might have even laughed if things were different. He likes Jo. He’d thought he did, from his memories, but he hadn’t felt it. He feels it now.

“Sammy,” Dean says, eyes glassy and movements still weak as he reaches out to him. “Sam.”

He grabs Dean’s reaching hand, gives it a quick squeeze, and is gone as soon as he hears the sound of a gun being cocked.

Apocalypse Never

They help Dad into the cabin, more coherent than he was when they first broke him out, and Sam heads back to the car for their bags, for the Colt, and tries not to think about how everything has gone so quickly to shit. Mom and Jessica’s killer got away, again, but they’re all alive. That’s not nothing, that’s –

The pain hits him so completely and suddenly that he has no chance to brace himself for it. Usually it builds, first prickling pain then greater, but this is something else. It feels like nails are being shoved into his skull, images coming almost too fast for him to follow. He doesn’t realize he’s screaming until it stops, until he comes to with his head in his brother’s lap, Dean’s arms pinning him down and his face white and terrified above him. “Sammy? Sammy, you’re bleeding. What’s wrong?”

His throat is too raw and tight to speak even if he wanted to. He does want to, but he can’t, he can’t say a goddamn thing.

I saved the world for you, he thinks wildly, and I didn’t even get to keep you. How fucked up is that?

~

He doesn’t know if his future self couldn’t send it all back any further, or if he thought that this would give Sam less time to fuck things up.

For a couple terrifying minutes, Sam had taken control of Lucifer. For a couple exhilarating minutes, Sam had the power of an archangel.

That sending the knowledge of the future back four years in the past was the best thing he could think to do with it leaves Sam with a poor opinion of the man he became. Then again, he had saved the world, so. There’s that.

He doesn’t want to think of the him that had fallen into the pit with Lucifer and Michael. He hopes he can save him by making different choices, but maybe he can’t. Alternate universes, or parallel ones, or whatever. Maybe that Sam is damned for good and the best he could do was save a different version of himself, a different version of his brother.

There’s not much point in wondering about it. He’ll never know either way.

It’s memories with no emotions, thank fuck, because just the knowledge of it all is enough to drive him to his knees, to edge him to weeping and whimpering and slitting his wrists if he lets it.

He’s not going to. He has work to do. There will be time to fall apart after, when the world is safe. When Dean is safe.

Dean after Dad had died and given him that ultimatum had been bad enough. Dean after forty years in hell had been nearly unrecognizable.

He wipes the blood from his face, ushers Dean back inside, and tries not to think too hard about what he’s about to do.

Dean figures out it’s Azazel in Dad’s body and they’re pinned to the wall and Sam waits until Azazel is hovering over him, hand next to his head as he tilts his head back and breathes over Sam’s lips. It’s a torture and a powerplay, to let the want in his eyes come out in his father’s face, to make it John’s body that’s pressed so nauseatingly close to his own.

Sam isn’t the same person he was four years ago, ten minutes ago.

Breaking out of Azazel’s hold is easy. He’s using the equivalent of a single finger to keep them down, like pinning down a butterfly, and it's only enough until it isn’t.

He grabs Azazel’s face and pulls him close, hears the beginning of his laughter before Sam seals their mouths together. He’s making a deal here, selling his soul sure as anything, just not with Azazel.

Azazel leans into it, just like Sam knew he would, shoving his tongue in Sam’s mouth and getting off at his instinctive flinch of disgust, of the way Dean’s screaming bloody murder behind him. Azazel hasn’t hurt Dean yet. Sam’s going to make sure he never will.

He bites down hard. Blood fills his mouth and he sucks on his tongue, drinking as much as he can. It doesn't tase like iron, not like it should, instead it's sweet and thick like honey. He thought Azazel would pull back now, but he’s still laughing into Sam’s mouth, even bites the inside of his cheek to add to the blood from his tongue, and he just lets Sam drink his fill. Of course, he doesn’t know what Sam knows. If Sam had done this the first time, the only thing the blood would have done would be to get him high and useless.

It means he gets more than a mouthful, that it’s long minutes of keeping his eyes closed and swallowing and trying not to think too hard about how it’s Dad’s hands on him and Dad’s hard on at his thigh and Dad’s tongue he’s sucking on. He’s already got four years’ worth of nightmares in his head. No need to add more than necessary.

His skin is buzzing, feeling stretched out over him like his body is too big for it suddenly, almost like the aches of growing pains but more electric. Azazel pulls back and licks up the side of his face, leaving blood and spit behind, and breathes into his ear, “If you missed me feeding you, boy, all you had to do was ask.”

Yeah, that’s enough of that.

He shoves Azazel back without moving his hands, hard enough that he stumbles, and he has to move fast, before he gets a smart idea like snapping Dad’s neck or bursting his heart. He raises his hand and he’d settle for an exorcism, but power is lying heavy and thick in his veins. Destroying Lilith nearly killed him and Azazel is more powerful than Lilith and the blood he drank shouldn’t be nearly enough.

But fear sparks in Azazel’s yellow eyes and he starts choking, black smoke leaking from his ears and out his mouth. “How-”

Sam doesn’t let him finish. He remembers killing Samhain, killing Alastair, killing Lilith. He knows what to do.

Azazel dies screaming. Mom and Jessica are avenged. It’s not as satisfying as he thought it’d be.

Dad is on his hands and knees, taking in deep lungfuls of air. Sam knows from experience that being possessed isn’t pleasant.

“Sammy?”

He forces himself to look over, sees his brother approaching him with hands outstretched. The fear hasn’t gone anywhere even with Azazel dead, even with Dad alive, even though he doesn’t have any of the devastating injuries he sustained last time.

He doesn’t have the emotions to go along with the memory of the first time Dean saw him drinking demon blood, but he imagines it was something like this. “I’m sorry.”

“Sammy,” Dean says again, but Dad’s getting to his feet, Dad’s looking at the Colt, and Sam can’t die yet. He still has work to do.

It’s not a conscious thought, not something he actively tries to do, it’s just one minute he’s there in a cabin with his father and brother and the next he’s in the middle of a field, the night air crisp and clear and a million stars shining above him.

He couldn’t do that before.

There’s something wrong, he thinks, because he doesn’t remember what drinking demon blood felt like, but he remembers describing it, and this isn’t right. He should be drained after that, should feel almost normal again, but instead it’s like there are bees pinging around inside him, like there’s molten lava in his veins, like he’s dying.

He’s dying, he realizes suddenly, the power threatening to eat him alive. He looks down at his arms, like he’s expecting to see them crisping up beneath moonlight, but they look normal, like skin. Of course it’s not killing him, no matter what it feels like. He’s Lucifer’s perfect vessel. There’s no power his body can’t contain, none except God’s, maybe, and it looks like he’s long past making house calls.

It won’t kill him, but it hurts like hell, and he can’t think, he needs to burn it off somehow. He’s never had this problem before, not even when he drank all that blood for Lucifer.

He’s standing in Bobby’s living room and he doesn’t understand why until he sees the body on his kitchen table wrapped in a white sheet. He doesn’t know how Bobby got rid of the paramedics, if he’s maybe holding the body for her family, but Sam thinks he knows how to get rid of some of the itching along his skin.

Sam died a lot, in those weeks he and Dean were apart. Lucifer was true to his word. Sam came back every time.

He pulls down the sheet, sees the ways Meg’s face has settled into death in the past day, how decay has started to take hold and left her blue and cold and her skin slack. He leans down, presses a kiss to her cheek, and thinks that this is the least he owes her, for what she endured because of him, for trying to help him even at the bitter end.

She gasps to life beneath him, warmth flooding her skin and air stuttering into her lungs. “Sam?” she asks, fear and confusion and a pain that’s not physical.

Maybe she won’t want to live, considering everything she’s been through, but at least now the choice is hers and not a demon’s. There are footsteps and he turns to see Bobby standing in the doorway, gun pointed to the ground and mouth open in shock. Sam doesn’t have time to worry about it, instead he’s gone, the same burning still clawing its way out of his bones.

Caleb lies slumped in the chair Meg had tied him to, throat slit and eyes empty. Sam puts his hands on his shoulders, presses his lips to his bald head, and feels the moment his heart starts beating again. He sends the ropes falling with barely a thought and he’s gone the moment he hears his first confused groan.

Pastor Jim is laid out in his home, church workers Sam vaguely recognize huddled around him in prayer, his final send off. He’s just glad he got here before they burned him. They start screaming when they see him but he leans down, internally wincing at how Jim’s going to explain his way out of this one, and kisses his forehead, a reversal of the paternal tenderness Jim had shown him as a child.

His chest rises and his eyes open and his eyebrows push together. “Sam, what-“

He doesn’t stick around to hear the end of that question, figures it’s not anything he can answer anyway.

It takes him a long moment of staring out at the snow covered peaks and too close sky and the brilliant sun hitting his face even though it was just the middle of the night for him to place himself, even though it shouldn’t be enough, but he knows where he is even though he shouldn’t.

The air’s too thin and he’s going to give himself altitude sickness if he lingers and he should probably be freezing to death but his blood is still running too hot. Not burning, not like it was before he brought three people back from the dead, but still far from comfortable.

Still. He can’t say he ever thought he’d ever get to see the view from Mt. Everest.

“Castiel,” he says. “It’s Sam Winchester. We need to talk.”

Nothing. Typical.

“I know about God’s plan, about Lucifer and Michael, about my role as his vessel. I know about you, Cas. You’re going to want to hear me out.”

There’s the rustle of wings behind him and he turns to see Cas, younger than he looked before. Jimmy Novak younger than he’d been before. He wonders about that for a moment. He’d half expected Cas to show up as a sherpa rather than nip to America for a vessel, but Cas had kept the shape of Jimmy Novak even after his physical body perished, so maybe there’s a deeper preference there than just convenience.

His face is as cold as their surroundings. “You have strayed from God’s light.”

“Yeah, well, what good has he ever done me?” he asks tiredly. He used to believe. He believed yesterday. He prayed this morning. Even when he met Cas the first time, he believed. “I can’t explain. Can you just read my mind? We don’t have time.”

His eyebrows push together, but Cas has to be curious, otherwise he wouldn’t have said anything. He steps forward and presses two fingers against Sam’s forehead. He doesn’t feel any different, but when Cas lowers his hand, he’s lost his stoicism. Shock, despair, and anger chase themselves across his feature and Sam can’t blame him.

He’s not the only who lost his faith in the future.

“You said there were thousands of seals,” he says. “How many exactly?”

His eyes snap to Sam’s. “What?”

“God loved Lucifer,” he says. “It’s why he imprisoned him rather than destroying him. It’s why he left him a way out. Maybe it’s why he set up the apocalypse in the first place. I don’t know, I don’t care. All I know is that I’m not letting him out, ever. So we’re going to destroy every seal we can.”

Some can’t be undone, like the first one, a righteous man torturing an innocent soul in hell. But there are plenty that can, hopefully enough, hopefully most. If there are less than sixty six seals available, then Lucifer is never getting out of his cage.

“There were originally ten thousand seals,” Cas answers and Sam gets lightheaded for reasons that have nothing to do with thin air. “Only two thousand and thirty four seals are still viable.”

Okay, that’s better. Not great, but better. “Let’s get that number down to sixty five.”

“You are different,” Cas says.

Of course he’s different. His father’s alive. His brother never went to hell. Sam has never known the utter desolation of being completely alone, of grief and guilt so heavy he’s surprised it didn’t break his spine as surely as Jake’s knife in his back. He doesn’t actually remember feeling it, which is no small mercy, but he saw the effects of living with it, which is almost as bed. He'd thought what he’s feeling because of Jessica is as low as he could get. It’s not even close.

He wants to dig up her bones and breathe life into them, but at almost a year dead he thinks that’s beyond even this strange new power. Even like this, he’s failing Jessica one more time.

“Got any ideas?” he asks. “It wasn’t like this before. With the blood.”

He’d drank Ruby nearly dry more than once. It had been a high and then a crash and never did it give him access to this type of power.

“Azazel is – was a prince of hell,” Cas answers.

Sam frowns. “I thought he was king?”

“He was regent,” he corrects, “but to be a prince is separate from being ruler of hell. Lucifer created Lilith from bone, as Adam and Eve were made. The princes were created from his blood. Azazel’s blood is, in a way, Lucifer’s.”

Lucifer’s blood. Sam, his vessel, drinking down Lucifer’s blood, as a baby and now. Except as a baby he’d only had a few drops. He’d consumed a lot more than that back at the cabin.

Demon blood always wore off. The few drops of Azazel’s blood he’d gotten as a baby never had. He probably should have taken that into consideration, but there hadn’t been any time.

“Lucifer is evil but he is not a demon,” Cas continues.

Sam realizes suddenly that he did have power like this once. When he locked away Lucifer inside of him and took his power for his own. It’s not the same, not even close, but it’s similar. “This is what angel blood does?”

“No,” he says. “This is what Archangel Lucifer’s blood does to his perfect vessel. I believe. This has never happened before, so I cannot be certain. You are, as always, one of kind, Sam Winchester.”

It’s not quite a compliment, but it’s not as combative as he remembers Castiel being in the beginning. He’ll take it. “Guess we’ll figure it out together, then. If you’re sticking around to help prevent the apocalypse.”

If he’s not, this is going to be more than difficult. Tracking down all the seals without an angel on his side isn’t going to be impossible, but pretty damn close. And he doesn’t know how much time he has. Hell is going to be pissed about him killing Azazel. Heaven is probably going to take notice once he starts destroying seals so they can never be opened. Not to mention, he’s definitely going to be on hunters’ radar. Even if Dad can keep his mouth shut about him drinking demon blood, which he knows better than to rely on, him bringing back people from the dead is going to spread quickly. He’s going to be hunted at all sides, just like last time.

At least last time he had Dean, even broken, even when he was broken himself. He still had his brother.

But this is the price for saving him. For making sure that Dean is never in the position to kick off the apocalypse in the first place, to make it so Lucifer never again walks the earth even if heaven and hell reincarnate him and Dean and try and start this all over again.

He’s going to be killed for it, he knows, by demons or angels or hunters. But that doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things.

“Yes,” Cas says. “It is better for us all if the future you saw never comes to pass. I will help you.”

He grins, clapping Cas on the shoulder, and only laughs at the glare he receives in return. They have to get out of here before the altitude makes him loopy. Maybe it already has.

He’s going to save the world for his brother and he’s not even going to get to keep him.

How fucked up is that?

[00valentina-writes00]

I JUST REMEMBERED IT'S MY BIRTHDAY IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS (March first)

Can I get a hc or something about ambess on your birthday please?i LOVE YOUR AMBESSA

RAHHH ONE DAY LATE (but Ambessa AND Grayson)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY (late, but…I tried guys, and yes I’m braking hiatus to post this)

♡♥︎ Birthday with Ambessa and Grayson ♥︎♡

….i wrote drabbles for you!!!

♡ Ambessa ♡

It was your birthday, and you couldn’t have asked for a better celebration. Ambessa, in all her fiery elegance, had planned everything with precision—something she rarely let others see. It was one of the first things you learned about her: beneath the sharp exterior and the commanding presence, Ambessa had a soft side, a side she only revealed to a select few. You, being one of those few, got to experience it all today.

The day started early, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, casting the world in soft shades of orange and pink. You’d been awoken by the sound of her voice, low and soothing, calling your name from the other side of the room. She stood in the doorway, a slight smirk playing on her lips as she held up a tray with your favorite breakfast on it: pancakes, fruit, and coffee.

“Happy birthday,” she said, her voice hushed but warm.

You smiled, sitting up in bed, your long curls tumbling over your shoulders as you stretched. Your fingers grazed the soft tray she placed in front of you.

“Ambessa… you didn’t have to do this,” you murmured, reaching for the coffee cup.

“I wanted to,” she replied, her eyes softening as she watched you take your first sip.

Ambessa never was one to do things without thinking them through. She always had a plan, whether it was strategizing in battle or crafting the perfect morning for you. As you ate, you could feel the weight of her gaze, always so intense, always so focused. But this time, it was different. This wasn’t the gaze of someone plotting or preparing for something—this was the gaze of someone who was simply enjoying your company, who wanted you to feel loved and cherished.

Once breakfast was finished, Ambessa stood, offering her hand. “There’s more. Come with me.”

Her grip was firm yet gentle, guiding you out of bed and toward the window. Outside, the city stretched before you, and the sunlight danced on the buildings. The air was crisp, a perfect spring morning. Ambessa’s plan was clear now: she had made sure this day would feel like a celebration from the start.

Your hair was still a little messy, curls not fully tamed yet, but Ambessa didn’t mind. She never minded how you looked. To her, you were beautiful no matter the state you were in. You chuckled softly as she adjusted a loose curl that had fallen over your eyes, her fingers brushing gently against your temple.

“You’re always so meticulous,” you teased.

“Someone has to keep you in line,” she smirked, her voice playful.

The day unfolded in the most charming way. Ambessa took you to a small, intimate café that overlooked the city, the two of you seated at a corner table with a clear view of the streets below. She didn’t need to do anything extravagant—no large crowds, no loud music—just the two of you, enjoying each other’s presence. You had noticed, after all this time, how Ambessa never cared for the flashy displays of wealth or power that others might expect from someone of her status. What mattered to her, in these moments, was the quiet comfort of being with you.

Later, after the café, she whisked you away to a small garden tucked away behind the café. It was quiet, peaceful. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the air smelled of blooming flowers. Ambessa had arranged for a small picnic in the garden, complete with candles that flickered softly in the dimming light. You sat together on a blanket, the world quiet around you. There was no rush, no pressure, just the calm of the evening settling in.

As you sat, Ambessa leaned back, her arm casually draped over your shoulders. She smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sweet, a scent that was uniquely hers. You couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread through your chest as you settled into her side. It was simple—just the two of you, the stars beginning to dot the sky—but it felt like everything. You could hear the distant hum of the city, but here, in this moment, it felt far away. It was just you and Ambessa, and that was enough.

She took a deep breath, her fingers brushing against your hair. “You know,” she started, her voice low, “when I first met you, I never thought I’d find someone who made everything feel… softer. Everything was always about control, about power, about winning. But you… you make me want to just stop, breathe, and enjoy the simple things.”

You looked up at her, your heart swelling at her words. “Ambessa… you’re making me blush.”

“Good.” She smirked, her fingers gently tugging at a loose curl that fell over your shoulder. “You deserve to feel special today.”

You rested your head on her shoulder, your curls falling around you like a soft curtain. The warmth of her body next to yours was comforting, and you could feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, beneath the fabric of her clothes. It felt like everything had slowed down, the world fading into the background as you simply existed together.

Later, she presented you with a small, carefully wrapped gift. The box was delicate, the wrapping paper pristine. “I thought this might suit you,” she said, her voice a little quieter now, more serious.

You carefully unwrapped the box, revealing a beautiful necklace—simple, with a small pendant in the shape of a crescent moon. You gasped.

“It’s beautiful… Ambessa, I love it,” you said, your eyes wide. “Thank you.”

Her eyes softened as she watched you. “I wanted something to remind you that no matter what happens, I’m always with you. You’re never alone, not with me.”

You smiled up at her, your eyes sparkling in the dimming light. “I don’t think I could ever be lonely when you’re around.”

She chuckled, a deep, rich sound. “Good. That’s how I like it.”

As the night drew on, the two of you stayed in the garden, talking and laughing, sharing stories, and simply enjoying the time you had together. It was everything you had wanted—no grand gestures, no overwhelming celebrations—just a quiet, intimate birthday spent with the woman who made you feel truly seen and cherished.

When the time came to leave, Ambessa stood and offered her hand to you once more. “Shall we go home?” she asked.

You nodded, taking her hand. As you walked back to her private quarters, you couldn’t help but feel content—like this moment, this day, had been perfect.

Ambessa, ever the fierce protector, had found a way to soften her edges just for you. And in return, you had found someone who would never let you go.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered as you reached the door.

You smiled, brushing a stray curl out of your face. “Thank you, Ambessa. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll make sure every one is just as good”.

♡ Grayson ♡

Grayson stood in the kitchen, a faint smile playing on her lips as she glanced at the clock. The evening was approaching, and she had spent the entire afternoon preparing for tonight—your birthday. She knew better than anyone that you didn’t need grand gestures or elaborate plans; what mattered was the thought behind it all, and she wanted to give you something truly special.

She had picked out your favorite cake—vanilla with strawberry frosting—and set it on the table, carefully decorated with candles that she’d lit only moments before. The living room was dimly lit, soft string lights twinkling above, casting a cozy glow throughout the room. A movie had already been queued up on the projector, one of those comfort films you both enjoyed watching on lazy nights.

You weren’t home yet, but Grayson had made sure everything was perfect. She wanted tonight to feel intimate—just the two of you, no distractions, no stress.

When the door finally opened, her heart skipped a beat. You stood there, a little tired from the day but smiling nonetheless. Your long hair was a bit messy, and your eyes lit up when they landed on her, the warmth in your gaze making her chest tighten with affection.

“Happy birthday, my love,” Grayson said softly, walking over to you. She wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. You smelled like your favorite perfume, and for a moment, Grayson just stood there, holding you. She felt the quiet comfort of being home with you, the weight of her armor and responsibilities falling away. This was her sanctuary—being with you.

You pulled back slightly, giving her a playful look. “What’s all this?” you asked, motioning toward the setup in the living room.

“It’s a surprise,” Grayson replied, her voice filled with affection. “I know you don’t like big celebrations, so I thought we could have a quiet night together.”

Her fingers gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, and you smiled softly, your heart fluttering at the way she always knew exactly what you needed.

You followed her into the living room, where the atmosphere was serene, just as you liked it. Grayson poured you both a glass of wine, handing you one as you settled on the couch, the flickering light from the projector casting shadows around the room. The film was one you both loved—one of those nostalgic, feel-good movies that always made you laugh.

For a moment, you both just watched in comfortable silence, sipping wine and laughing at the movie’s silly moments. Grayson kept glancing over at you, her eyes softening every time they landed on your face. You were her world, and the joy of seeing you so content on your birthday made her heart swell.

After a while, Grayson turned to you, her voice quieter now. “I have something for you.”

You looked at her, surprised. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Grayson.”

“I wanted to,” she said, smiling with that gentle warmth you adored. She stood and walked over to the small table she’d set up, picking up a small, elegantly wrapped gift. She handed it to you, her hands lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you unwrapped the gift. Inside was a delicate necklace—a simple gold chain with a small, heart-shaped pendant. The heart was etched with intricate designs, a subtle nod to the mark of a protector that Grayson had earned over the years.

“Grayson, it’s beautiful,” you whispered, running your fingers over the pendant.

She sat beside you again, her gaze soft and earnest. “I thought it would be something you could wear always. Something to remind you that no matter where I am, I’m with you. Always.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them away. You leaned over and kissed her, gentle but full of love. “I love it,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

Grayson smiled, her hand reaching up to gently wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “You’re everything to me.”

After a moment, Grayson gestured toward the cake sitting on the table. “Now, how about we cut the cake?” she asked, her voice teasing, though there was a warmth in it.

You nodded eagerly. “I’ve been waiting for this all day.”

Grayson stood, and with a playful flourish, she cut the first slice and handed it to you. You both laughed as you dug into the cake, savoring the sweetness and the fact that you were able to enjoy such simple, beautiful moments together.

As the night went on, you watched the movie, ate the cake, drank the wine, and simply enjoyed the quiet rhythm of being with each other. There were no grand speeches, no huge surprises—just love, shared in the most perfect, effortless way.

Grayson eventually turned to you, her voice soft but sure. “Happy birthday, my heart. I’m so grateful for you.”

You smiled at her, feeling the weight of her words in the depth of her eyes. “And I’m grateful for you. Every day.”

With that, you snuggled into her side, and she wrapped her arm around you, holding you close. The rest of the world fell away, and all that mattered was this—this moment, this love.

As the movie ended and the night stretched on, Grayson kissed the top of your head, her hand brushing through your hair. She had given you everything she had—her time, her love, and her heart—and it was more than enough.

It was perfect.