#Do more of the things that make you feel alive

[yurinaa-world]

2# —"𝓝𝓸 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓮!"

💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Anaxa, Mydai, & Phainon x Gender-Neutral reader

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: giving and receiving so many kisses

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Fluff, & Spelling Mistakes

💫Part one: 💫“𝒩𝑜 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒!” (with Gallagher, Sunday, Aventurine, & Boothill)

💫𝒜𝓃𝒶𝓍𝒶 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒸𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒶𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒜𝓂𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓊𝓈"

He wants to feel you, every part. Evening going as far as to have you like this: your body straddling on top of his lap, his arms around your waist holding you in place—and even pressing your bodies.

His face was right in front of your neck. They can’t resist himself from utterly smothering you—which is exactly what he’s doing in this movement. His lips land on your neck, and in some places, he gently taunts you with the sharp ends of his teeth with warm breath ringing your neck—making you shiver and gasp.

“Anaxa…” you gasp his name.

"Say it again," he murmurs his voice a low, velvety growl that sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail slowly up your back, the roughness of his fingertips against your skin igniting sparks with every touch. His lips pressed heated kisses along your collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. 

“Say my name again…”

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, staring down to meet his eye.

 “Anaxa…”

You’ll actually be the death of him

💫𝑀𝓎𝒹𝑒𝒾 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝒜𝓂𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓊𝓈"

“You seem to be enjoying yourself, maybe even indulging too much.” 

Teasing Mydei was what you loved to do especially relating to indulging him with your love—which was constantly kissing him till he couldn’t think—but if you actually thought it would work, you are sadly mistaken.

Mydei’s lips curl into a sly grin, his amber eyes glinting with amusement as he leans closer, his face mere inches from yours while his arm around your waist pulls you right against him. "Oh, is that what you think?" he murmurs, his voice a smooth, velvety caress that sends a shiver through you. "If anyone’s indulging, it’s you. You can't seem to stop, can you?"

"And what if I don’t want to stop?" you counter, your voice steady, though your heart is racing. A smirk plays on your lips, daring him to make the next move. You press a little closer, your fingers tracing the line of his smile. "Then you’d better be prepared for the consequences," he says, his tone dropping to a low, teasing rumble. His arm tightens around your waist, holding you firmly in place as if to prove his point.

"How cruel, I just want to show my love and here you are threatening me," you whine, feigning innocence as your fingers slip into his hair.

Mydei's grin deepens in response to your comments, a sharp gleam in his eyes melting. He moves in even closer, his forehead almost brushing against yours, his breath warm on your lips. "Cruel?" he says, his tone low and playful. "If this is cruelty, then maybe I'm spoiling you far too much."

You scoff. "Are you going to spoil me? That's rich coming from the one who won't let me go," you respond, your fingertips playing with the tips of his hair

"And why would I let go?" he asks, his tone dangerously—he's about to eat you alive. 

"You keep walking into these traps, teasing me like this. I'm simply giving you exactly what you deserve."

💫𝒫𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓃𝑜𝓃 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑜 𝑜𝒻 𝒜𝓂𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓊𝓈"

 Phanion is a sly one. 

He’s got quick hands, slipping himself through your defences and leaving you with an agape mouth—He finds it quite adorable whenever he takes something from you, watching your hands touch and eyes skim around your body to see what is missing. When you did find what was missing you would immediately start complaining as he held the thing in his hand high, teasingly.

Maybe he likes this even better than the causal swiping he does.

Your face lies red as you gaze up at him with that cute face while he takes advantage of you even more—his lips land on each part of your face, You're so cute! Honestly, those feelings that adults get when they see a child and they just want to smother them with love are the same type of love he feels for you now.

He feels and sees you break beneath him, creasing your cheek with a thump, before leaning in to kiss on the lips. Even when you try to push him away from embarrassment he gently moves your hand to the side before planting another kiss place on your face with his lips.

“Don’t be like that, let me love you till you can’t think anymore.” Giggling even more so when you just shatter into little pieces.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his tone softer now, almost reverent. “I’ll take care of you, even if it means stealing every bit of composure you have.”

[sillymodezeenith]

I have a stupid rare blood disorder and I relate to this cat on a DEEPLY LITERAL level.

For background, I have Hereditary Hemochromatosis; which isn’t particularly rare. A lot of older adults discover they have it when it starts damaging their liver.

Basically, over simplified, you eat things, and absorb iron into your body. Yummy! Good for you! However, my body cannot get RID of iron, and absorbs more iron from the things I consume. Which means I have Too Much Iron. It’s dumb and painful (in a lot of weird ways???).

My liver damage started when I was 14. That is about the most abnormal thing that I could’ve possibly happened to me. There is one singular doctor in my entire state that’s had another juvenile HH patient, and he’d only ever met one (besides me). That’s STUPID. I genuinely cannot convey to you how fucked up and strange that is. I physically should not have been alive along enough to accumulate enough iron to make my organs upset. There’s definitely factors that made it worse, but to this day no one knows how or why I got enough iron that it was having profoundly negative effects.

I’ve been weird and fucked up my entire life and when I was 10~ish a doctor prescribed me iron supplements to see if I’d be, for simplicities sake, less fucked up. She did this without checking my iron levels, or doing any lab work. Anemia is common, some of my symptoms can look similar— Im also autistic and fucking love chewing on ice. That’s a stereotypical sign of anemia— so she just gave me iron and shooed me away. Unsurprisingly, I got worse relatively quickly (again, remember that most people don’t have issues with HH until they’re over 50). I stopped taking the iron supplements pretty fast, but that 4 years was the sharpest and most miserable decline of my life.

I picked up a LOT of weird, shitty, presumably unhealthy habits around then. At that point I still wasn’t diagnosed, and no one knew why I was so goddamn sick; but relevant to this post, I got a CRAZY caffeine addiction. A truly shocking level of caffeine intake. I mean, the amount and potency of what I was drinking meant that most doctors from that point on brushed off my medical issues as being a Freak with too much caffeine and told me to drink water and cut that out. Following medical advice had always made me feel Worse.

You will Never Guess what inhibits iron absorption.

Caffeine. Or, more specifically polyphenols, but the distinction doesn’t actually matter in this.

ALSO, related: You know how we all make fun of 17th century doctors for their obsessions with fluids and bloodletting.

Do you want to know the treatment for iron overload? They fucking took my blood. They just drained that shit and I FELT BETTER. The one treatment that’s pretty notoriously dunked on and made fun of for its lack of benefits. They just took my blood Out of my body, once a week, until I ran out of iron and just had normal blood. Therapeutic phlebotomies. That’s STUPID. It’s a stupid way for my body to work and it PISSES ME OFF!!!

Also final unrelated note, the doctor that discovered my iron overload was my PSYCHIATRIST— Hemochromatosis can cause/exacerbate symptoms similar to bipolar disorder, which I was in treatment for— and she was the ONLY DAMN PERSON to do her due diligence with ordering a full panel of labs, and discovering my iron was DANGEROUSLY HIGH. I owe her my fucking life. Not once did she do her job as my actual psychiatrist and spent 99% of our visits navigating the hospital system and finding specialists for me.

Sometimes I think a lot about my mom's cat

My mom's cat is a common domestic shorthair we found on the side of the road as a kitten

Regular cat, not a maine coon or one of those massive breeds. His mom was smaller than a loaf of bread

But in a sort of a Clifford The Big Red Dog situation, he grew super fast, and really really big, and took a super long time to stop growing

Worried that she was overfeeding him, she eased back his portions, but he stayed a massive round baby

When he started having kidney problems, she took him to the vet.

The vet took a look at him and said, "holy fuck, what are you feeding him", checked the nutritional listings on his chow, and told her "Yeah, maybe he's reacting badly to the amount of grain in this, try a meatier diet"

So my mom wound up special-ordering this specific high-protein prescription cat food made of like. Kangaroo meat or some shit that cost like sixty bucks a bag

And, as typical act two in an episode of House, he somehow got worse on the fancy specialized stuff that was supposed to be Primo Athlete Olympic Feline Blend

Like. WAY worse. His guts were inflamed and his kidneys were shutting down and he was all sore and HE WAS STILL HUGE, just miserable and sad

So shetook him back to the vet, where they had to help him pee (he was apparently close to bursting and had some kind of blockage too) and went "Yeah no this is NOT normal and we don't know what's going on, we're gonna do some tests but in the meantime you should go back to what he was eating before, at least that wasn't actively killing him" so she did

And he still wasn't great, but he also improved

And so they take his blood and do an ultrasound and a couple g's later she gets a call back like "this is gonna sound crazy, but we want you to put him on a low-meat diet. Just the least amount of protein and iron and shit. We need you to find the grainiest, filler-iest dollar tree kibble available and give him some of that bad bad shit"

And my mother is a woman of science. So she did

And he GOT BETTER

His energy picked back up, inflammation went down, he started drinking normally again, got back to pissing like a fuckin champion

And so it turns out that out of all the random ass freeway bonus cats we possibly could have scooped out of a ditch, WE got the one-in-a-million freak of nature with a SPECIFIC genetic defect that means a paleo protein free range diet is essentially poison and he THRIVES on cheap ass garbage

Like. He medically NEEDS junk food

I dont really understand how that works, but i cant argue with results.

If we had four of him, they'd outweigh my mom. And he's FINE

Also blind, but that's unrelated

Im not using him as a symbol or a metaphor or anything. I just keep catching myself thinking about my mom's Big Fucking Cat

[muzansfangs]

Nsfw alphabet – the Salesman (letters f, k, q, t, w)

Starring: the Salesman x f!reader;

Format: head canons;

Warnings: nsfw, vaginal sex, creampie, unprotected sex, sadism, gagging, masturbation, public sex, toxic traits, humiliation, dacryphilia, spanking, impact playing, slapping, dom!salesman, sub!reader, gun playing, handcuffing, mention to pregnancy, anal sex;

Plot: some nsfw head canons about the Salesman aka the Recruiter, based on some letters of the alphabet;

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

The Salesman has manhandled you in positions you did not even think were humanly manageable. Out of them, however, the salesman loves to have you either on your hands and knees, head pressed down in the pillow, or the good old mating press.

You could say it depends mostly on his mood. If he keeps the eye-contact with you, he is feeling somewhat more romantic, more human. Even if his cock brushes against your cervix unforgivingly every now and then. Your legs, pressed to your chest, make you look vulnerable and he loves that.

And, damn, is he not talkative when he messes you up like that?

“Fuck, I was thinking that fucking you raw is like playing the Russian Roulette. If I hit the nail on the head, we are screwed” he growled next to your ear, not minding the risk of impregnating you.

If he encloses the back of your neck with his hand and pushes your face down on the mattress, my dear, he is going to ravage you until you are sore. But he loves the way your ass ripple with each brutal thrust he gives you. The words falling from his mouth are far less loving than the possibility of getting you pregnant.

“Slut, you’re dripping like a cat in heat”.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

This man probably has a tattoo somewhere on his body reciting ‘kinky bastard’ in capital letters. The first one is dacryphilia. To some extent, he may care for your well-being during sex. It is rough, mindblowing. Obviously, it leaves you shaking, copious tears streaming down your cheeks. You have no idea how hard he gets, when you sob underneath him, needy, hapless and on the brink of breaking down.

Spanking and face slapping are a must. He does not hit you as hard as he does to the potential players he meets at the station. However, he does not go easy on you. You are bruised, at the end of the day.

If he is upset, expect him to lure you to have some anal sex. Your whimpers when he stretch you out himself are a manna from heaven. Unfortunately, it may last not as long as it does when he is messying up your pussy. It is all about pain. The more desperate you are, the faster he spurts into you.

The mention of honor goes to gun play. He never tells you if it is really loaded, or not, when he presses it against your temple. What you know is that you are still alive.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Our dear recruiter is a busy man, especially when that time of the year comes. When he comes back home, it is so late you are already alseep. Do not think he would have remorses in waking you up, if he needs to fuck you dumb, because he would.

The thing is he needs to rest too. Quickies are not his thing, but they are necessary. He is a sneaky bastard, not sticking to have them early in the morning, or when he is about to leave.

He may stalk you down the streets, easily becoming your shadow until you end up nearing an alley. My dear, this is when he clasps his hand over your mouth and shoves you against the wall. You are used to his antics by now. You do not feel ashame to walk off with a limp, afterwards. Not anymore, at least.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

This man has probably owns an arsenal of toys. And, no, we are not talking about his weapons. He is not the type to indulge in plain vanilla sex. There is always going to be some kind of an object among the bedsheets, when he pins you underneath him and reels at the lewd faces you make for him.

He is a sadist inclined to use the toys on his favorite victim: you.

Do not be surprised, if he handcuffs you to the bedpost, or involves ropes in the particularly intense sessions awaiting for you, when he had a bad day. You cry out in pleasure and pain and it is irking him? Fine. Gags it is.

He sees you as a small pet eager to please him. Drool for him, whilst he uses nipple clamps on your already sensitive buds. If you wince, when he is deep inside of you, he may just shoot his load deep in your bowels. Nothing excites him more than your teary eyes and wobbling lower lip.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He is definitely territorial. His jealousy takes over easily and, along with hickeys hard, if not impossible, to camouflage with a scarf and some make up, he jerks off with your panties. He does not see the necessity to make you wear your now cum-covered underwear, if he is by your side, though.

Yet, expect him to demand you to parade around the city, unable to hide the squelching sounds of your thighs brushing together, when the cum seeps from the fabric and stains the inside of your legs, if you are going out alone. Your boss, your friends, the men you cross paths with throughout the day, well, they just have to know you have a boyfriend and that you comply to his excessively unhinged and demeaning requests to please him.

When you reunite at home, he expects you to sit on his lap and narrate the mortifying experience of talking to strangers, or coworkers whilst entirely soaked and smelling of his semen.

Author note.

Hello there! This is my first time writing for the Squid Game fandom. Hopefully, I did not disappoint the audience! Let’s just say that my brainrot for this man was eating me alive and I had to write a little something for him. Your impressions and comments are greatly appreciated!

Love,

– Luce

[silverfairywings]

— IN THE WAKE OF FLAMES PT IV

eris vanserra x archeron!reader

summary: even before you became fae, your favourite season was autumn. it’s a little hard to hide this when your least favourite newly appointed high lord has made it his life’s mission to be the most annoying male in your life.

a/n: she's baaaack. this one made me a bit excited ngl i hope u enjoy and also the tag list is closed now sorry! thank u all for enjoying this story :) please lmk what you think <3

The first thing you become aware of is the cold. It seeps into your skin, sharp and biting as if the stone beneath you is sentient and determined to steal any ounce of remaining warmth in your blood.

For a second after you open your eyes, you start to panic when nothing but darkness comes into view and you blindly reach out for something to hold onto. Your wrists make a rattling sound with the movement and you realise there are chains around them. Blinking, your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness and it becomes apparent that the only light in the room is a dimly lit torch mounted on the wall far from where you’re sat.

When you try to move, your muscles scream in protest and you wonder if you’ve sprained your wrists because they feel like they’re on fire. The manacles are clamped tightly around them and you reach for one with your opposite hand to see if it has some give. As soon as your fingers prod around under the cold metal, you recoil with a sharp hiss of pain.

You inspect your finger as close as you can in the dim lighting and see that it’s now red and sore. Suddenly, the burning sensation around your wrists makes more sense and you lift them up to find that the insides of the manacles are lined with some sort of powder.

Ash wood.

Stomach turning, you slump against the damp wall and it’s almost as though the realisation that you’re physically being weakened has made you even more susceptible to it.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that it’s going to leave scars on both of your wrists.

Despite the pain and the fear that settles on your chest, you don’t cry. You’re too distracted wracking your brain, trying to remember how the hell you got here in the first place.

The last thing in your memory is rushing out of the High Lords’ meeting with Eris’ biting words replaying in your mind. Even now you feel scorned, despite your much bigger issues. You had left the gathering in a hurry and gotten a short moment of solace alone.

You were outside. Alone. And then…

Bile rises in your throat as the memory hits you — a hand clamping over your mouth and the smell of something strong and chemical before the world faded to black.

Biting back a sob, you force yourself to take deep breaths to avoid making any noises in case there’s someone stationed outside the cell you’re locked in.

Still breathing shakily, you decide to test your limbs and shift on the cold floor, swallowing down a gasp when a sharp pain flares in your ribs. You glance down at yourself and pull up your gown to inspect your side. Even in the dim light you can see the blossoming bruise, how the colour of your skin is starkly different to the injured area.

Your pulse thunders in your ears.

Clearly, whoever has thrown you in here doesn’t care about being gentle with you. Who? You think to yourself.

You think hard for answers, for any clue that might explain your predicament. Was this about the rebels? Did they think they could use you as some sort of bargaining chip against the High Lords? You’re sorely hoping they need to keep you alive in order to do that, and that you’ve not been taken just to make a point. Because in that case… you’re disposable.

The realisation that whoever took you may not need you alive for much longer makes your skin start to become slick with sweat, despite the freezing cold.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoes in the distance, pulling you from your spiralling thoughts. They’re slow and deliberate and grow louder with each passing second.

Body tensing, adrenaline surges as you scan the barren room for anything you could use to defend yourself. Using your powers is out of the question for now. The ash wood is weakening you and until each little bit of the ground wood has fallen from under your manacles, you’re powerless. You doubt whoever took you even did it for that reason. It feels more like a torture tactic.

The footsteps get closer and closer and you give up on thinking of any ideas, pressing yourself against the wall to make yourself as small as possible.

They stop just outside your door.

You hold your breath, your entire body trembling as a key scrapes in the lock. The door creaks open, revealing a figure silhouetted by the torches from behind them.

They don’t speak, but you can feel their eyes on you, taking in every detail of your weak form.

“Who are you?” you demand, your voice hoarse and raw. You hate how weak you sound, but you do everything in your power to infect as much force into the words as you can.

“Forgotten me so soon?” he says, voice flat and devoid of any emotion. Rage bubbles beneath your fear, hot and consuming.

“I can’t see you,” you growl, scowling as your impertinence makes itself known. You gesture around your cell with your hands, chains clinking. “You didn’t exactly spoil me with the warm and cosy lighting.”

The figure turns and closes the door to shut out the light that’s causing too much glare. You have to bite your tongue so you don’t beg him to leave it open, very aware that you’re at his mercy.

When he turns back around, you have to blink to adjust to the lighting again before having to squint as his face comes into view when he steps nearer the torch, silver braid glinting in the fire.

You blink, leaning back to slump against the stone wall. “Vaelith?”

Your scowl drops in favour of a confused expression that has the Spring Court official’s eyes narrowing in irritation. He was most likely expecting you to be afraid, but you’re simply baffled.

Vaelith. The same Spring Court advisor who had questioned you in the High Lords’ meeting which had prompted Eris to humiliate you the way he did.

His lips curl into a thin, cruel smile at your silence. “Surprised?”

For a moment, you can’t find the words. Your mind reels, trying to piece together how one of the Spring Court advisors — someone you’d see countless times at meeting, trusted even in a superficial sense despite him being an asshole — could be standing here as your captor.

“Slightly underwhelmed, if anything,” you mutter, only regretting your words a tiny bit when he clenches his jaw. You have to remind yourself that he’s in control of whether you live or die and it sobers you up a bit. “I don’t understand. Why?”

Vaelith sighs, as if your confusion is an inconvenience to him. “You really think that this rebellion we’re all trying so hard to stop, could have achieved even a fraction of what it has without someone on the inside?” He steps even closer, the flickering torchlight catching the cold gleam in his eyes. “You and your little circle and all the other High Lords were so focused on our precious borders… you never thought to look closer to home.”

Your ears start ringing as the pieces click into place. “You’re the one who let them into Spring. You’ve been feeding them information…”

“Clever girl,” he sneers, crouching down so he’s at eye level with you. “Not clever enough to stop this, of course. But clever.”

Your lip curls and you tug against your restraints, despite the pain. “Does Tamlim know? Or are you just another rat gnawing away at his Court.”

“Tamlin is weak,” he spits, venom dropping from his every word. “The Spring Court has been rotting from the inside for years. The rebellion is the future — Prythian’s future. And you… You and your sisters are nothing but obstacles in its path.”

You spit in his face.

Vaelith recoils, the spit glistening on his cheek, before he straightens, his lips bulling back into a dangerous smile. His eyes flash with anger, but there’s something darker, more unsettling in them as he wipes his face clean with a nonchalant gesture.

“You’re going to regret that,” he remarks, as though he’s pointing out an obvious fact.

You breathe heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly. “You going to kill me?”

Vaelith smirks. “You’re going to wish I had,” he mutters and the last thing you see is his fist flying out to connect with the side of your face, knocking you further down into the darkness of your cold, damp cell.

“I need to speak to the two of you,” Eris demands, not bothering to knock as he bursts into Tarquin’s throne room where he knew he would find the High Lord of Summer along with the Inner Circle. His eyes land on Rhysand and Feyre. “Alone.”

Eris knew something was wrong when he saw everyone departing for their own courts except the Night Court, their faces lined with worry. All except you.

You’re missing from this particular gathering too and the bad feeling in his chest progresses into a sinking feeling that has his footsteps slowing.

“And why would we allow that?” Amren asks, in a quiet voice that sounds almost challenging, if her eyes are anything to go by. She regards him like he’s a toy to be played with and he decided to ignore her completely, focusing instead on Feyre.

“You can’t find her, can you?” he says, not really asking. Eris attempt to keep his voice as composed and unbothered as possible, but the way Feyre doesn’t look surprised to see him suggests that maybe he isn’t being as subtle as he thought. “You haven’t seen her since she left the meeting room.”

Feyre hesitates and Eris doesn’t know if it’s because she deems him untrustworthy, or if she truly doesn’t know what to say.

Tarquin, who is still staring at Eris with a slight frown after he threw open his doors so unceremoniously, steps forward. “I have my people searching my court. As does Azriel,” he explains, gesturing to the Shadowsinger’s dark spies that swirl around him, whispering in his ear.

Cassian crosses his arms, glaring at Eris. “Why are you so interested? Do you know something?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Eris drawls, unable to help himself from provoking the Illyrian warrior. It works, although Eris doesn’t feel much satisfaction from knowing that, when Cassian steps forward menacingly. Mor hurriedly intercedes and whispers something in his ear that makes him hesitate and eventually allows her to lead him away.

Eris turns to the High Lord of Night again. “I need to speak to you,” he repeats. Rhysand simply stares at him, until Eris throws up his hands in exasperation. “Fine. Fine, just let me know when you find her corpse-”

“Alright,” Feyre interrupts him, holding up a hand to stop him speaking further. She sighs, turning to Tarquin with a strained smile. “May we use your room for a moment?”

Tarquin’s eyes flick over to Eris as if he’s worried that his throne room will be burnt to a crisp by the time he returns. Eris rolls his eyes.

“Of course,” the High Lord of Summer replies smoothly, giving Feyre a slight nod. He gestures for the Inner Circle to lead the way out of the room and it’s only when Rhysand nods at them that they follow. If looks could kill, Eris would be deceased six times over.

As soon as the doors shut, Eris whirls around.

“This is all your fault,” he says darkly, glaring at Rhysand. “You were the one who told us all to make her seem weak in front of the others. She never would have left if I hadn’t-“

He cuts himself off before he gets too worked up in front of them, inhaling deeply.

Rhys didn’t answer right away, instead watching him carefully. Then, with a calm that made Eris’ blood boil, he said, “You agreed to be cruel in that meeting. To deflect attention from her strength. It was a calculated risk to protect her — and you were more than happy to comply.”

Eris scowls at him. “And what good did your little strategy do? Because she left the room and disappeared into thin air. She’s gone.”

Feyre’s face tightens with concern. “Why did you wish to speak with us, Eris?” she asks, tiredly. “Do you know something?”

Eris’ hands fist at his sides. He had hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this. But the feeling of dread inside him wasn’t something he could just ignore. “I’ll help you find her. But I need something in return.”

Rhysand raises an elegant brow. “What could you possibly want from us?”

“Your silence.”

Feyre tilts her head and frowns. “About what?”

Shaking his head, Eris’ lips turn up into the ghost of a smirk. “Swear it. You need to swear it first.”

The two of them exchange a look and no doubt some words through their maddening bond. Eris nearly rolls his eyes at the secrecy, patiently waiting for them to finish talking to each other silently. Eventually, Rhysand sighs after Feyre gives him a stern look.

“If you help us find her,” Rhys says slowly, “we’ll keep your secret. Unless it becomes relevant to the safety of anyone in my court, including Y/N. And that’s non-negotiable.”

Eris meets his gaze, amber eyes blazing with defiance. “Fair enough,” he says, begrudgingly. “I accept your terms.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels the unfamiliar magic in the air arise. Eris doesn’t make oaths often. Lifting his arms, he pulls back his sleeves to look for the evidence of agreeing to a bargain with the Night Court. When he doesn’t find anything, he glances down his shirt to find inky black tattoos peeking up from his waistband and swirling up, just stopping short of his navel.

“Interesting placement,” Eris says drily, raising his brows at Rhysand. “Are you trying to hint at something?”

“Eris,” Feyre warns, gesturing at him to hurry up. “Don’t forget my sister’s life is at stake here. How are you going to help us find her?”

He wishes he could forget it.

Rolling his neck, Eris clenches his fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white. He takes a deep breath and meets the High Lady’s eyes directly. “Because she’s my mate.”

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[theabigailthorn]

I’m very scared as an American right now. Do you have any advice that might make me feel hopeful for the future?

I can give you the best hope and encouragement speech anyone ever wrote:

If we are mark’d to die, we are enough To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more, methinks, would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse: We would not die in that man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars. And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day: then shall our names. Familiar in his mouth as household words Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember’d; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day!

[petermorwood]

Chuckling at this, because my Mum - in Northern Ireland, generally considered to be about 20 years behind whatever The Current Times might be in the Big Island - was adding multiple cloves of garlic to one particular soup in the early 1950s.

(Not huge amounts, 40-clove chicken was yet to come, but way more than that timorous suggestion of one clove, unpeeled, and remove it before serving in case it makes you in-Continental.)

That same tentative caution applies to other spices: for instance @dduane & I inherited some of Mum's old British cookbooks which suggest things like a scant half-teaspoonful of "paprika pepper" in a recipe for goulash. Hungarian cookery writer George Lang recommends a couple of tablespoons at least...

I posted about garlic and "foreign seasonings" aversion HERE, along with the recipe for Mum's soup.

Here it is.

*****

I'm hugely grateful that my own Mum was a good deal more adventurous than most Northern Irish housewives of her generation. Being chummy with Signora Battisti, an actual Italian Mamma whose husband ran the fish-and-chip shop down the street, probably had quite a bit to do with that… :->

Here’s a recipe Mum learned before I was born.

Back then olive oil was something you got from the chemist (Olive Oil B.P., meaning British Pharmacopoeia, not British Petroleum), pasta meant macaroni, tomato soup was far easier to find than tinned tomatoes, and buying garlic if you weren’t “foreign” (Mum told me) meant you were “odd”.

Well, Mum was odd…

Peter’s Mum’s “Italiana Soup” (courtesy of Signora Battisti ca. 1953) 2 x Tbsp olive oil 4 x cloves garlic, sliced very thin 2 x medium onions, chopped 2 x 400g / 14 oz tins tomato soup 2 x tins water 2 x potatoes, peeled & diced 2 x handfuls macaroni ( @dduane​ suggests 1 handful = 1 cup, so about 150g; she also points out that in the US, a 400g can of soup usually means Campbell’s Condensed. However Mum always used Heinz Cream of Tomato, which wasn’t condensed, so YMMV.) Heat the oil in a saucepan over low heat. Add the garlic and cook for a couple of minutes. Add the onions and cook until starting to soften. Add the soup and water. Bring to a simmer and add the potatoes. After about 10 minutes, add the macaroni. After about 10 minutes, check texture: potatoes and macaroni should finish at about the same time. Serve garnished with chopped parsley, and a stack of hot buttered toast on the side.

BTW, forget trying to keep the pasta al dente. If the potatoes are waxy they’ll have far more texture than the macaroni, but usually everything goes soft and unctuous and garlicky, hence the beneficial contrast of nice crisp toast. I have no idea what the original Italian soup might have been, and I’d long thought adding spuds was an Irish modification, but much, much later, when @dduane and I were travelling through Cividale and Bolzano, we discovered that dishes including both potatoes and pasta were correct for that region, right up north where Italy bumps against Austria.

Though we've never been to Southern Italy, Pasta e patate con pomodoro (pasta, potatoes and tomato) is a standard dish there, too. That link is in Italian, but Google Translate works fine.

(I can't recall, if I ever knew, whether the Battisti family were from North or South.) Better olive oil, chopped tomatoes in juice rather than canned soup, and actual cream, will make it taste more Italian and authentic, whatever “authentic” means here. You can whizz it canned-soup smooth with a stick mixer before adding the potatoes and pasta, but that's not compulsory.

However the original Heinz-based version is my preferred comfort food whenever I’m feeling down, or when the weather’s lousy, or when I have a cold…

Or when I want to go back in time to when I was young, and my parents were alive, and a bowl of home-made soup was enough to set the world to rights.

Side-note - if the weather's really lousy, add in a splash of Worcester sauce and a generous dash of Tabasco or similar chilli sauce. It works. Alternately, or additionally, swirl a drizzle of that better olive oil onto each bowl, add a dollop of sour cream to the middle of the swirl and dust that with chopped parsley.

The result imitates Italy's red-white-green national colours (Margharita pizza does it too) and also looks jolly flash.

This screenshot from a gardening Facebook group has been on my phone for several years and I'm not sure I'm ever going to be able to delete it. Apparently it comes from a British gardening book from the 80s. I know we all joke that the English are afraid of flavor, but I assure you, you are not prepared for this.

GARLIC

Until quite recently, scientists smiled at all the wonderful medicinal powers claimed for garlic, but recent research has shown that there is some truth in a few of the old wives' tales. Garlic, of course, has an important role in Continental but not in British cookery — it really isn't worth growing unless you are a fan.

Any well-drained spot will do. Buy a head of garlic from the greengrocer or supermarket and split it up into individual cloves. Plant them 2 in. deep and 6 in. apart in March. Apart from watering in dry weather there is nothing else to do until the foliage turns yellow in July or August. Lift the bulbs and allow to dry under cover, then store in a cool, frost-free place.

If you are a beginner with garlic, you must use it very sparingly or you will be put off for ever. Rub a wooden salad bowl with a clove before adding the ingredients. Rub the skin of poultry before roasting and then you can try dropping a whole unskinned clove into a casserole or stew, removing it before serving. If by then you have lost a little of your garlic fear, you can try using crushed (not chopped) garlic in meat etc. as the Continentals do.

[nimuraz]

WORD COUNT — 2.3K

WARNINGS — have you ever tried this one? fingering, pet name usage, sub!jake, hand jobs, cum eating, sex toys (let me know if i missed anything)

NOTES — hii guys thank u for the support on just for now, i will be splitting juno up into 2 parts so stay tuned for the next part! at the end of the fic i did include the pics of the lingerie that u can imagine wearing hehe~

jake was the sweetest man alive. always bringing you flowers, buying you food, being the shoulder you cry on, yes everything about him was so so sweet. even in bed he was so gentle and sweet, you didn’t hate it by any means but you were starting to get bored.

“jakey… can we talk for a sec?” the hesitation in your voice is unmistakable—how on earth are you supposed to tell your sweet, caring boyfriend that you want to go at it like rabbits?

“yea, pretty. what’s up?” he says enthusiastically. somehow that’s making it harder for you.

both of you are on the couch, your legs pulled up to your chest while he sits normally, his hand resting on your knee. as you call out to him once more, the touch makes it even harder for you to find the words.

“in the most normal way possible… do you have anything you’re into? like… i don’t know… any kinks?” you try saying this sweetly. his eyes widen and a soft chuckle escapes his lips.

“mm… i dunno really…” he trails off into thought and to be honest now that he thinks of it he does wanna try some things out.

“i wouldn’t consider them kinks but probably more of like… things i would be down to try?” he says before laughing again softly. his hand on ur knee trailing down to squeeze your thigh.

“let’s hear it!” you say laughing shortly after. his hand on your thigh ignites a fire beneath your skin. ‘this is gonna be a long night’* you think, before offering him a reassuring smile.

“maybe you on top?” he suggests, biting his bottom lip with a smug grin spreading across his face. “want you to be a little rough with me too… tug on my hair, yank me around here and there.” he squeezes your thigh a bit tighter. your glossy eyes meet his, you nod your head softly, encouraging him to continue.

“make me feel good, but also use me, princess.” he whispered before scooting closer to you, his hand now in your inner thigh.

“use you…?” you whisper back. your breath was caught in your chest.

“mhm… do whatever you need to get yourself off, worry about me after.” his voice barely above a whisper. you look at him and smile before putting your legs back down, your feet hitting the floor.

you thought about what jake had said and ever since then you hate to admit it but you were so so needy and per usual, you texted jake.

you: jakeyyy

jake: yes baby?

you: can you come over? pretty pleaseeee

jake: give me like an hour

is that okay?

‘more than okay…’ you thought to yourself. it felt like a lightbulb went off in your head.

you: yea that’s perf muah see u then

jake: see you my love

you hop in the shower and somehow manage to shave everything. once you’re out, you head to your closet, searching for something to wear. yes you wanted to sleep with him, but you definitely didn’t need him struggling to pull down a pair of blue jeans to make it happen.

you sift through all your clothes until you remember—the baby pink lace lingerie you bought a few days ago, still sitting in its packaging. squatting down, you search through the shoe boxes, hoping to find it, and finally, you do.

you unpackaged it and smile to yourself before putting it on. glancing in the mirror your smile widens. you continue getting ready, doing your usual makeup routine and fluffing out your hair.

after what feels like forever, an hour passes, and you finally hear a knock at the door. you quickly put a robe on and walk over to the front door of your apartment.

“jakey!” you say softly before wrapping your around around his shoulders.

“someone’s in a good mood,” he teases, giving you a gentle squeeze in the hug. of course you were in a good mood. you pepper soft kisses all over his face as he closes the door behind him.

he lets out the cutest giggle you’ve ever heard come out of him.

“just missed you…” you say sweetly before dragging him to the couch with you. the quiet background noise of the tv playing a random channel plays as you focus on jake.

“so what’d you wanna do hm?” he says softly as he wraps his arm around you, pulling you close to his chest. his other hand running slowly up and down your thigh.

“anything… everything…” you mutter before looking up to him sweetly. you shift, draping your legs over his thighs, so close to settling onto his lap.

the bottom of the robe rides up, bunching up on the top of your thighs, of course this doesn’t go unnoticed by your sweet boyfriend who’s trying so hard to not look.

“mm… wanna watch a movie?” he murmurs softly, his breath catching as you move your free hand to untie your robe, letting it fall open without fully taking it off just yet.

“we can… or we can do something else…” you whisper against the shell of his ear, sending shivers down his back.

unbeknownst to both of you, the tv starts cycling through various pop star performances. this hour’s feature is sabrina carpenter, her playful voice and melodies perfectly complementing the atmosphere.

jake runs his slender fingers through your fluffed out hair. “yeah?” he whispers, his eyes locked on your glossy gaze. with one swift move, he pulls you onto his lap, you let out a tiny yelp causing the both of you to laugh softly. he thumbs at your outer thigh gently.

“what do you wanna do, pretty girl…?” he whispers before grazing your neck with his lips. he starts kissing so softly the way he always does. a soft huff escapes your lips before you speak again.

“wanna make you feel good…” your voice barely above a whisper. “wanna have fun with you.” you let out a louder moan as he starts sucking on the skin of your neck. his free hand moves to your shoulders, gently sliding the robe off.

you let him remove the article of clothing, it soon falling to the arm of the couch behind you.

“oh…” he gasps lightly as he looks down at you. the pink lace top lingerie covering just above your soft buds. “you look so pretty… not that you don’t always do just-“

you cut him off, kiss harsh and demanding. an unusual feel to what you both usually do with each other. his eyes flutter open at the sensation before he cups your cheek, deepening the kiss. his eyes slowly start closing again. he lets out a soft hum as you bite his bottom lip.

you pull away and peck his lips before shifting over to straddle him.

“better…” you whisper before wrapping your arms around his shoulders and dipping back down to kiss him again. his hands running up and down your sides gently.

“do you like it…?” you mumble against his lips.

“what? the surprise of you in this skimpy little outfit?” his tone playful. you smile against his lips before kissing him again. he takes this opportunity to rub your hips gently, this sparks an idea in your head too.

you start shifting your hips back and forth gently, a quiet groan tries to release from his lips but they were muffled by your sweet kisses. his grip on your hips tightens before he starts moving you himself, grinding you harder against his aching core.

“bed…” he mumbles against your lips before swiftly lifting the both of you up from the couch. he lays you down on the bed gently before putting his hands back on you.

“so pretty… my perfect girl…” he says in between kisses. you clench around nothing. “s’tied on the sides? how cute…” he starts toying with the ribbons on the side of the lace panties before undoing the knots on one side.

“i wanna try what we talked about.” your words come out in soft pants.

“only if you’re comfortable, angel…” here he goes being the sweetest person alive.

“but i want you to be rough with me too.” you pant once again.

“are you sure?” he gazes up at you. fluffy strands of hair framing his face as he dips down to get closer a better look of you. you nod quickly.

“i also have… toys, we can use.” you hesitantly say. his ears perk up. he nods slowly, taking in what you just said. you tug him back down by his neck, eager for more kisses, and fuck, he can feel you everywhere—your lips on his, your hands digging into his chest, clawing at his shirt, your legs pressing against his. a sweet whimper was all he could let out when you pull away from the kiss.

he pulls you closer by the waist, squeezing the skin that laid on your bones so perfectly, he thought to himself. he leans his body down to suck on your neck, his tongue licking stripes up and down the skin earning a soft moan from you.

“more jae…” jae. it’s what you seemed to only call him during times like this or when you’re sobbing after a long day and he’s there to hold you.

“i’ve got you, baby doll.” and that’s what he calls you.

the soft music from the living room tv drifts into your room as the tension rises. what a coincidence—your favorite sabrina carpenter song, juno, is playing.

he continues his kisses down your neck before untying the other side of the lace panties, his kisses get harsher and hotter. his tongue licking softly at your bottom lip. you instinctively open your lips just enough for him to slip his tongue in, all he could think of was inhaling you. your scent, your taste, the feel of you. he needed it all so deep inside of him. he takes the hand he used to undo the knot and slips the lace covering your bare core to the side before rubbing your clit in soft circles.

you moan into the kiss before trailing your hands up to his nape, tugging on the soft strands just like he told you too. he moans, but not like the moans you’re usually used to. he sounded so spent and needy and all you’ve done was kiss.

he starts rubbing your sensitive bud faster before dipping his fingers down to your soaking hole just to play with your arousal, smearing it back up to your clit.

“baby…” he babbles as you keep tugging on the strands, his fingers working faster against you. you buck your hips up seeking more friction, it just wasn’t enough. he chuckles softly against your lips before biting down on your bottom lip.

“just like that jae— mmh…” you moan out.

“you feel so soft… so perfect…” he murmurs into your lips, craving the warmth, the sounds, the touch—desperate to be consumed by it all.

“check- nngh jae- check the box under my bed…” you manage to whisper out. a soft gasp leaves your lips when he stops his motions.

he dips down next to the bed and reaches for the box, sliding the pink plastic box towards him then up onto the bed.

you smile hazily at him. “open it…” so he does.

dildos, vibrators, a cock ring, and… fuzzy pink handcuffs?

“ooo…” jake playfully says, earning a soft giggle from you. he takes the hand cuffs out and dangles them in front of your face. “so who goes first?”

“you’re asking as if you aren’t dying to go first…” you roll your eyes playfully before sitting up on your elbows to get a better view of him.

“you caught me!” he jokes as he puts his hands up in surrender, a stupid smile on both your faces.

‘this feels so fun…’ you thought to yourself before immediately gasping when his lips meet your collarbones. he nips and nips, your eyes flutter shut at the feeling. never has he ever even thought about leaving hickeys on you, god he always treated you like a porcelain doll during your intimate moments.

he sucks, and nips, and licks, all causing you to grip onto his biceps. he pulls back and looking at the small bruises forming. “pretty.”

you smile softly before sitting upright and taking the cuffs from his hands. you slowly guide him down the bed so he’s laying next to you before you kiss his lips again, the taste of mint and was that mango?* lingering on his tongue.

“off. everything.” you mutter, he wastes no time in removing everything but his boxers. “these too.” you say softly. he nods rapidly before taking his boxers off leaving him completely bare in front of you. you look down at his half hard cock and grin. “lay back.” and again he follows, without hesitation.

you loop the hand cuffs around your bed frame, the clanks of the metals clashing arousing jake up even more, his cock twitching.

“arms up.” you speak firmly, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him. he glances up at you with those endearing eyes, knowing full well that you can't resist him when he looks at you that way. you finally lock the hand cuffs and smile sweetly at him. “just hold still jakey…”

it didn’t take long for you to have jake trembling under you. your hand stroking his aching cock as your lips left marks all over his abs.

“s’too much y/n please-“ a strangled moan leaves his mouth, only motivating you more. you wrap your lips around his red tip, leaking precum and twitching while his veins protrude. it almost looked painful. you chuckle softly around his head, earning a loud groan from him.

“think you can keep being a good boy for me…?” you tease before kissing down his shaft. he pathetically nods his head.

“anything for you please i’ll do anything…” he breathes out, his voice cracking in the process. you release his length and move to the side of the bed, leaning over to get something from your nightstand.

“just relax for me jakey… just wanna make you feel good…” you say reassuringly before lubing up your fingers. “deep breaths baby…”

the sweet whimper that leaves his lips at the feel of you in his walls has you shaking. “y/n holy fuck-“

you start pumping your middle finger in and out of him in a more steady pace before using your other hand to stroke his leaking cock again. he squirms and whimpers beneath you, you gaze up to look at his face— it was enough to have you dripping in your own arousal.

you tighten your fist on his dick and start picking up the pace of both hands. he’s shaking and almost yelling at this point. the hand cuffs creating red marks around his delicate wrists.

“you wanted this jakey didn’t you… you wanted me to play with you and be rough right?” you speak in a gentle tone, a harsh contrast to your actions as you add another finger. he can’t form a response, the words lodged in his throat, refusing to come out.

“s’good…” he babbled. “gonna cum… please i’m so close y/n…” and then he breaks, strings of his release landing on his flexed abs and your soft hand.

you gently remove your fingers from inside him and look up at him before licking up his release that dripped down the side of his waist.

yea this was gonna be a long night.

[solelifauna]

Definitely NOT Invincible (Yandere Invincible & Reader)

Pt.5

Guys, I'm cooked. Anyways, thank you for all the kind words!!! Also Y/n's cooked too...anyways! Enjoy!

ALSO!! EVERYONE THANK @oof-spoof!! THIS SERIES IS NOW BASICALLY DEDICATED TO THEM!!! Thank you @oof-spoof for supporting me!

The group fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your words sinking in as if the world itself had pressed down on your shoulders. It wasn’t just about stopping Omni-Man and Invincible or sending that crucial tip to the Guardians of the Globe—it was about surviving long enough to make any of it matter.

The irrefutable fact lingered in the back of everyone’s mind, unspoken but looming: you might be killed again.

Your stomach churned at the thought, the memory of your father’s hand crushing your skull replaying in vivid, excruciating detail. The sound, the pressure, the blinding pain—it haunted you in ways you couldn’t even articulate. And if not that, then what? Would it be a more horrific death this time? Burned alive? Torn apart?

You looked around the table, the same realization written on the faces of your friends. Hallie was biting her lip, staring blankly at the table as her fingers drummed nervously. Connor’s jaw was clenched, his fists curled tightly on his lap. Weston was silent, his expression unreadable, but his tired eyes betrayed him.

Finally, Weston broke the silence. “I’ll figure out how to send the tip,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. His gaze shifted between each of you before landing back on his hands. “You guys focus on keeping our… other obligation in check.”

Shit. You’d completely forgotten about the Demogorgons. Those damn things hadn’t been on your radar for the past few days, but they were still out there, roaming the town, lurking in shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Judging by the groans and sighs from Connor and Hallie, they’d forgotten too.

“Everyone still has their things, right?” you asked, already mentally cataloging what you had at home.

Hallie sat up straighter, brushing her hair out of her face. “Got my pump action and bolt action in my trunk and in my closet,” she said, her voice steadier than her posture.

Connor leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Got ammo and a G-48, Haymitch's axe, and the machete,” he listed off, his tone bordering on exhaustion.

“I still have the smoke bombs and my dad’s rifle he thinks he sold,” Weston added, his voice low but firm.

You nodded, storing the information away. “Good. We’ll need all that and more.”

The silence that followed was thick with understanding. You’d fought these monsters before. You’d survived the impossible. But this time, it wasn’t just about survival. It was about holding the line, balancing the dual threats of the Demogorgons and the looming Viltrumite takeover.

"I say we prepare for the worst," you finally say, your voice cutting through the silence. "Stock up on ammo when you can, supplies, canned food, and whatever else we’ll need. We have to be ready in case everything goes to shit again, in case… in case what we do doesn’t work—"

“Don’t.” Connor’s voice cuts you off, sharp and sudden. “Don’t say that, (Y/n).”

You flinch at the rawness in his voice, the sheer force of his words.

“Connor—” you start, but he barrels forward, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking.

“It has to work!” he says, his voice trembling. “It has to, or else—” He looks away, jaw tight, his hands clenching into fists. “Or else that means we fought for nothing. That means all those people who died—who are going to die—died for nothing. That means we came back for nothing.”

His words hang in the air, raw and painful. You feel them hit you like a punch to the gut.

Your lips press together tightly as you try to find something—anything—to say. Connor was always the "strong" one of the group, the silent type, the brash one who rarely let anyone see how deeply he felt things. He was the backbone, the shoulder everyone else could lean on when things got tough. Seeing him like this, unraveling, hurts more than you want to admit.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Connor,” you finally manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes watery as he scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. His voice cracks slightly as he continues, “You—you’re just doing what you always do, trying to keep us alive. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize, Con,” you say quickly, leaning forward slightly, trying to catch his gaze. “I—I get it. Really, I do.”

The tension around the table is palpable. Hallie and Weston exchange uneasy glances, their worry for Connor evident in the grim lines of their faces.

“Connor,” Hallie starts gently, her voice low and careful, “nobody’s saying what happened before will happen again, but—”

“I know,” he cuts her off, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He lets out a shaky breath and sinks back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know. But we have to consider the high chance it will.”

The stakes couldn’t be higher, and the thought of failing—of going through all of it again—was unbearable.

But you didn’t have a choice.

You glanced at each of them in turn, taking in their tired faces, the fear lingering in their eyes. They were your family, your only anchor in a world that felt increasingly impossible to navigate.

“We’ll make it work,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the storm inside you. “I don’t know how yet, but we will.”

You don’t know if they believe you, and honestly, you’re not even sure if you believe yourself. 

Weston’s hand comes to rest on Connor’s shoulder, rubbing little circles in that gentle, soothing way he always did to calm the group down. It was such a Weston thing to do—he had always been physical with his care and affection, expressing his love in small touches and gestures that reminded you all you weren’t alone. You see Connor’s shoulders relax just slightly under Weston’s touch, though the tension doesn’t completely leave him.

You shift closer, moving to sit beside Connor, offering your silent presence as support. Across the table, Hallie slides her water bottle toward him, her brow furrowed in worry. “Here,” she says softly. Her voice doesn’t waver, but her eyes betray the depth of her concern. Connor takes the bottle with a small, muttered “thanks,” and sips from it, his gaze distant.

The weight of the moment settles over all of you, thick and suffocating. No one says anything for a while, and for a brief moment, the only sound is the distant hum of chatter from other tables in the courtyard.

Then the lunch bell rings, cutting through the stillness like a knife, signaling it’s time to go back to class. The sound sends a jolt through you, and you see the same dread reflected in everyone’s faces. None of you want to go. Yet, there was nothing you could do.

You all stand reluctantly, gathering your things in silence. Before you split up, you squeeze Connor’s shoulder gently, hoping it conveys what you can’t find the words to say. He offers a faint smile.

You walk into the crowded hallway, your mind scrambling as you try to recall your next class. What was it? You swear you knew just minutes ago, but now the information is gone, like a wisp of smoke slipping through your fingers.

You glance around desperately, hoping to recognize a familiar face, someone who might share the class with you. But the sea of students around you is a blur of faces you barely recognize. Who the hell are these people? You don’t remember their names, their voices, their stories. They’re strangers, even though you know you should know them.

Panic creeps up your spine as you weave through the hall, your breathing growing shallow. You’re losing it. You’re losing yourself, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. The realization claws at you, sharp and unrelenting.

You hate this. You hate what this world, what this second chance, has reduced you to. What it’s reduced all of you to.

Your hands tremble as you tighten your grip on your bag, willing the shaking to stop, but it doesn’t. You pass classrooms, peeking inside, hoping something will click—a desk, a teacher, a face. But nothing does.

The hallways start growing emptier as students file into their classrooms, the bustling energy fading into a deafening quiet. You glance around, the panic tightening in your chest. Where the hell were you supposed to go?

Your mind scrambles, trying to latch onto something—anything—that will tell you your next class. The answer eludes you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You fumble with your phone, attempting to log into your student portal. At least that would show your schedule, right?

Except the password isn’t auto-saved. Of course, it isn’t.

You sit there staring at the login screen, willing your brain to remember your credentials, but nothing comes. It’s just another blank void. Great. Now you can’t even see your schedule, let alone your grades. Not that grades should be at the top of your concerns right now, but still, the thought gnaws at the back of your mind. You’re so screwed.

You lean against a row of lockers, the cold metal biting into your back as you let out a frustrated sigh. What the hell do I do now? Asking the front desk for help is out of the question. It’s the middle of the school year, and no one forgets their schedule this far in. It would raise questions. And why couldn’t you just look it up yourself? The idea of facing that judgment makes you cringe.

No, you can’t do that.

Instead, you resign yourself to staying in a random, empty hallway, slumping down against the wall. The quiet envelops you, a brief respite from the overwhelming noise in your head. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around you. God, you didn’t realize how much your eyes were burning, how much your body ached.

The idea of just staying here, hidden and still, is so tempting. Maybe you could just chill here for a while. Yeah, that sounded nice. Just a little break.

You don’t realize how much time passes as you sit there, your mind drifting between the chaos of your thoughts and the exhaustion weighing you down. For a brief moment, you feel the smallest sliver of peace.

Until a voice shatters it.

“Playing hooky, (Y/n)?”

Your stomach drops. No. Not him. Not now.

Mark’s voice carries that unmistakable mix of smugness and sharpness, the tone that always made you want to squirm. “Tch, Mom and Dad are not going to be happy. Especially after the last meeting your counselor had about your little habit of skipping classes.”

You open your eyes, and there he is, standing over you with a smirk that makes you want to curl in on yourself. His eyes bore into yours, sharp and calculating, as if he’s dissecting you piece by piece.

“W-what? When did—oh shit,” you stammer, the memory hitting you like a brick. He’s talking about the meeting. You’d skipped a bunch of classes last semester to deal with the Demogorgons. Sure, you kept your grades up, but that didn’t stop the school from calling your mom. And to say she was upset was an understatement.

Mark’s smirk widens as he watches the realization dawn on your face. “Ah, there it is,” he says mockingly, leaning against the wall. “I’m sure Mom will love hearing about this. You know how she feels about second chances.”

You glare at him, the panic in your chest now mixed with frustration. “Mark, I—look, just don’t. Please.”

His expression softens, but only slightly. There’s still that edge to his voice, that unnerving mix of concern and menace. “Don’t what? Tell her? You’re not making this easy, you know. Skipping class, hiding out like this… It’s like you want her to freak out.”

“I just—” You falter, your words failing you. The exhaustion, the stress, the sheer overwhelming nature of everything—it’s all too much. You can’t think of a good excuse, and Mark’s gaze feels like it’s cutting through every lie you might try to tell.

He crouches down, leveling his eyes with yours. “What’s going on with you, (Y/n)?” he asks, his voice softer now but no less piercing. “You’ve been off. I know you’re not telling me everything.”

You look away, unable to meet his gaze.

Mark’s words linger in the air like a trap, waiting for you to fall in. “Are you depressed or something? Maybe it’s a boy? I don’t know, (Y/n), but something’s off. I know it is,” he says, his tone dripping with faux concern. “Just tell me. Tell your big brother, and I can make it go away.”

The irony of it all hits you like a freight train, and you can’t help it—you huff, then giggle, and then it all spirals out of control. A laugh bubbles out of you, wild and uncontainable, quickly escalating into full-blown hysterics. You’re wheezing now, clutching your sides, and you know you must look insane. Maybe you are. How could you not be?

It’s funny, really. The idea that he, Mark, could fix your problems. That he could “make it go away.” It’s laughable because a massive chunk of your problems is sitting right in front of you, watching you unravel with that same calculating smirk. How utterly absurd.

Your laughter devolves into choked breaths as your chest tightens painfully. The tears come next, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. You’re sobbing now, loud and ugly, your body shaking uncontrollably.

Mark’s expression shifts, surprise flickering in his eyes. Then something darker takes hold—something intrigued, almost amused. He wasn’t expecting this, but oh, was he glad. He leans in closer, his lips curling into a softer smile. There was something seriously wrong with you. He knew it now. And that knowledge only made him more eager to figure out what had happened to his weak, adorable little sister.

“Oh, (Y/n),” he coos, his voice deceptively sweet as he cups your cheek with his large, warm hand. His thumb brushes against your tear-streaked skin, wiping away the evidence of your breakdown. His touch is firm but gentle, an unnerving mix of comfort and control.

You try to flinch away, your instincts screaming at you to get out of his grasp, but your body betrays you. Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into his hand, your head tilting slightly as if seeking solace. You hate it. You hate yourself for it. But you’re only human, and his warmth feels like the only anchor keeping you from completely spiraling.

“St-stop this,” you choke out between sobs, your voice barely audible. “Puh-please.”

Mark tilts his head, his expression almost mockingly innocent. “Stop what, (Y/n)?” he asks softly, his voice laced with feigned confusion.

“This,” you gasp, your voice trembling. “This—what you—you’re doing. Please, it—it isn’t fair.”

His hand doesn’t move from your cheek, and his thumb continues its slow, deliberate motion, wiping away fresh tears as they fall. His smile softens further, but his eyes remain sharp, predatory.

“Fair?” he echoes, as if tasting the word. “Oh, (Y/n). Life isn’t fair. You know that.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “But you don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to worry about anything. That’s what I’m here for.”

You shake your head weakly, your sobs growing quieter but no less intense. “You—”

He interrupts you gently, his voice soothing but utterly condescending. “Shh. Just let me take care of you.”

The words send a chill down your spine, the weight of his intent pressing down on you. You know there’s no escaping him now, not when he’s latched onto you like this. Not when he’s decided you’re his problem to solve, his little sister to protect—even if it means breaking you further in the process.

Mark’s gaze lingers on your trembling form, his hand still cradling your cheek. He studies you with a mix of curiosity and calculation, the wheels turning in his mind as he contemplates your place in all of this. Maybe he could make something useful out of you. Maybe you could be shaped into something worthy of the Viltrumite cause.

But as he takes in your tear-streaked face, the way your body shakes beneath his touch, he doubts it. You’re too weak. Too small. Too soft.

It’s almost pathetic how fragile you are, how human you are.

Still, the thought lingers—what if? What if you could prove yourself? What if, against all odds, you showed even the slightest potential? Perhaps then he could convince their father to keep you after the takeover. It would be difficult, of course. Nolan had little patience for weakness, and you were the embodiment of everything the Viltrumite race despised. But if you somehow managed to prove your worth, there was a chance.

Mark’s lips curve into a faint smile, the thought of sparing you for his mother’s sake bringing him a strange sense of satisfaction. You weren’t ideal offspring, no, far from it. But you were her daughter. Debbie would appreciate having you around, he’s sure of it, especially when their father inevitably takes her away from Earth to shield her from the chaos of their conquest.

“You’re lucky, you know,” Mark murmurs, his voice low and smooth. His thumb pauses for a moment, pressing lightly against your cheekbone as his eyes bore into yours. “If it weren’t for Mom, I wouldn’t even consider giving you a chance. But maybe… maybe you’ll surprise us.”

You blink at him, your chest tightening as his words sink in. “A-a chance? Mark, what are you—”

He cuts you off, his smile widening slightly, but there’s no warmth in it. “You’ll see,” he says cryptically, pulling his hand away and standing to his full height. His shadow looms over you, and for a brief moment, you feel like you’re shrinking under his gaze.

“Just remember, (Y/n),” he adds, his tone shifting to something colder, more deliberate. “This world isn’t kind to people like you. But you’re lucky to have me. I’ll make sure you don’t get left behind.”

The words feel like a promise and a threat all at once, leaving you frozen in place as he turns and walks away, his presence lingering long after he’s gone.

You’re left alone in the empty hallway, your breaths shaky and uneven, the weight of his intentions pressing down on you like a vice. Lucky, he said. But you don’t feel lucky. You feel trapped. And no amount of tears can wash that feeling away.

You sit there, slumped against the wall, trying to process what the hell Mark was talking about. “If it weren’t for Mom?” What does that even mean? Why would she have anything to do with whether Mark decided to “give you a chance?” What kind of chance was he even talking about?

Your mind spirals as you try to make sense of his cryptic words, the unease clawing at your insides. The idea that your mother somehow factored into whatever twisted plans Mark had for you only made the knot in your stomach tighten. What was he planning? What did he mean by not getting left behind?

Your thoughts race, one question bleeding into the next as panic wells up inside you. You can’t piece it together. You don’t have enough information. But the way he looked at you—the cold calculation behind his eyes, the way his words felt like a threat wrapped in false care—it makes your skin crawl.

You bury your face in your hands, your breathing shallow as your mind loops through the interaction. What the hell is going on?

Meanwhile, Mark is on his way out of the school building, his phone already in hand. He dials the familiar number, his expression cool and composed. The phone rings only twice before the unmistakable voice of his father, Nolan, answers.

“What is it?” Omni-Man’s voice is gruff, direct, as always.

Mark leans against the wall outside, his tone calm but tinged with a quiet urgency. “It’s about (Y/n),” he begins, cutting straight to the point. “There’s something off with her. More than usual.”

On the other end of the line, Nolan sighs. His voice is bored, disinterested. “Mark, your sister has always been like this. Emotional and a bit erratic. It’s nothing new.”

Mark clenches his jaw but keeps his tone steady. “No, Dad, this is different. She’s acting weird—like, really weird. Come’on, I’m sure you’ve noticed how she’s stopped constantly asking to go out with us? Or how everytime she looks at one of us, her heart rate always increases, hell, I could smell the adrenaline rush that gets triggered.”

Nolan’s silence stretches for a moment. “Dad, why is she having a fight or flight, fear response triggered, huh?”

“Of course I’ve noticed, Mark,” Omni-man sighs out. “If it’s worth worrying about, I’ll handle it. But until then, she’s just…” He pauses, and Mark can practically see the look on his father’s face. “She’s still a human.”

Mark exhales sharply, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better than to push Nolan when he’s like this. “Fine,” he says, his voice tight. “But if I find out something important, I’ll let you know.”

“Do that,” Nolan replies curtly, and the line goes dead.

Mark slips his phone back into his pocket, his expression unreadable. He’s not entirely satisfied with his father’s response, but he’s also not surprised. Nolan has never had much patience for what he considers “mundane human nonsense.” If (Y/n)’s behavior didn’t involve anything worthy of the Viltrumite cause, it simply wasn’t a priority to him.

Still, Mark can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this than his father realizes. And if Nolan won’t take it seriously, then Mark will.

[springtyme]

since youre feeling a little burnt out it could be like three sentences and id jump for joy but could you do Arthur Morgan realizing you do not know how to ride a horse and how have you survived this long without riding a horse?

Thank you thank you thank you thank you

𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 ♡

Thank you for the request, dear <3 As a certified horsegirl, I really loved your idea, so I might make a part 2 sometime.

Arthur Morgan x f!reader || Masterlist || Arthur playlist

summary: After recently having joined the Van der Linde gang, you still have a lot to learn about your new life. Good thing that Arthur is willing to help you learn.

word count: 2.1k

warning/tags: Fluff. Arthur is a horse stealing sweetheart. Very brief mention of a dead deer. Perhaps a little occ, haven’t played the game in a while.

The camp is alive with the sounds of crackling fire and low conversations as you sit by the flames, warming your hands against the chill of the evening air. You’ve recently joined the Van der Linde gang, finding a strange sense of belonging among these outlaws, but there’s still much to learn. The thrill of the freedom they embody has drawn you in, but the reality of their life is far more complex than you initially imagined. Each member of the gang has their own story, their own scars, and their own reasons for being here.

As you watch the flames dance, you can’t help but reflect on your own past and what led you to this moment and how your life has changed. The things you have to learn are as varied as the faces around the fire. You do feel welcomed by the gang, but you can’t help the nagging in the back of your mind telling you that you don’t really belong. At least not yet.

You are pulled from your thoughts as you hear the familiar sound of hoofbeats approaching the camp. The rhythmic thud of hooves on the ground cuts through the quiet evening, and you turn your gaze toward the sound. The flickering light casts long shadows as you squint into the darkness, anticipation lacing your thoughts. The gang is often on the move, and late-night arrivals usually mean news—good or bad. The hoofbeats grow louder, and soon the silhouettes of a few riders come into view. A few of the members of the gang left earlier in the day to scout the nearby town for supplies and information and have now returned.

And there is one rider in particular who you are the most excited to see coming back. You recognize the figure of Arthur immediately, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the glow of the campfire, and the familiar outline of his hat pulled low over his brow against the dusky sky.

Ever since you became part of the gang, you’ve felt an undeniable attraction to him. It’s as if you’re a ship caught in a powerful current, swept along with a momentum you can’t resist. There’s a strength in him that you find captivating, and an unspoken vulnerability that tugs at something deep within you.

You step away from the fire to get a better look as the men ride into the camp. You notice the glint of something large strapped to the side of Charles’s horse—a hefty buck they must have hunted. But that is not the only thing they have back with them. Led by a rope, a horse you have never seen before trots alongside Arthur’s own chestnut mare. A palomino, its shiny golden coat glimmering in the light from the fire.

Arthur rides forward, dismounting with a practiced ease, and you can’t help but admire the way he moves—confident, yet grounded. You stand frozen for a moment, drinking in the sight of him as he guides the two horses forward, desperately trying to quell the fluttering in your chest.

He catches your eye, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It’s a fleeting expression, quickly replaced by his usual reserved demeanor, but you saw it. The warmth in his gaze softens the rugged lines of his face, the weariness etched by countless hard days seeming to melt away for a brief instant.

He nods a greeting, a silent acknowledgment of your presence. You give him a slight smile and a nod in return, feeling a little embarrassed to have been caught staring, but you hope it comes off as you being interested in the new horse. You are ready for him to turn his focus back on the animals, but instead he calls your name, gesturing with his head to the palomino beside him. “Got someone here I’d like you to meet.”

Your heart skips at the sound of your name on his lips. You make your way over to him, curiosity piqued as you step closer. You have always admired horses from a distance, captivated by their grace and power, but have never had many interactions with them up close, and you can’t help but feel a tiny hint of trepidation mixing in with your curiosity.

The new horse stands patiently beside Arthur while he ties up his own to remove her saddle. You can’t help but reach out a hand, letting your fingers gently brush against the soft, smooth coat of the palomino’s neck, feeling the warmth radiating from its body. “Where did you get it from?”

Arthur loosens the girth of his mare’s saddle and glances over at you, a hint of pride in his expression as he watches you interact with the palomino. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that, darlin’” he replies with a teasing lilt in his gruff voice as he lifts off the saddle.

You feel how your cheeks warm from the name of endearment, rivaling the warmth you are feeling from the fire at your back. You try to compose yourself, focusing on the horse instead of the way his voice wraps around you like a comforting blanket. “It’s beautiful,” you say, your fingers continuing to explore the palomino’s neck, smoothing over the soft fur. The horse leans slightly into your touch, and you can’t help but smile at the connection you feel, even if it’s fleeting.

“Yeah, he is.” Arthur glances at the gelding with a fondness that brings a smile to your face, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes light up when he speaks about it.

“Have you given him a name?” you ask, your curiosity now peaked further.

“No…” Arthur shakes his head, a thoughtful look crossing his features. “I figured I’d let you do that yourself.”

You feel a rush of surprise and delight at his words, your heart racing at the thought of Arthur letting you name the horse. The palomino stands patiently, as if aware of the importance of this moment, while Arthur watches you with an intensity that sends butterflies swirling in your stomach.

“Me?” You say softly, trying to mask your excitement with a light laugh. “I’ve never named a horse before.”

“Well, he’s yours now, so it’s only right that you name him.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, a mixture of disbelief and exhilaration flooding through you. “You got him for me?”

Arthur’s expression softens further, and he nods, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a small smile. “Yes, I figured… well, you don’t have a horse. Thought you could use one.”

You swallow hard, feeling a swell of gratitude, as well as a wave of deep apprehension. The weight of his gesture sinks in, and the reality of it is almost overwhelming. “Thank you, Arthur. That’s really kind, but…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat. You want to express your gratitude, but the hesitation lingers. “I’ve never had a horse of my own… I don’t even know how to ride one,” you admit, an apologetic tone to your voice.

Arthur’s brows furrow in disbelief. “You don’t know how to ride?” he repeats, shaking his head in bafflement. “How the hell have you survived this long without knowing how to ride a horse?” There is nothing in his tone that indicates judgment; rather, it’s a mix of incredulity and genuine curiosity. Still, you can’t help but feel a rush of embarrassment and a twinge of fear that the gang, who have welcomed you in, will start second-guessing their choice if they realize just how unaccustomed to their lifestyle you really are.

You shrug, glancing away from Arthur’s penetrating gaze. What does his eyes also have to be so piercing blue for? Sometimes it is as if he can see straight through you. “I grew up in a town, I could walk everywhere. And on the occasions I had to travel it was by wagon or train.”

Arthur shakes his head, chuckling softly, but there’s a glimmer of something else in his eyes—concern, perhaps? “Well, darlin’, if you’re gonna be part of this gang, you’re going to need to learn. A horse is your lifeline out here.”

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a heavy blanket. The idea of riding a horse, of being free, and of truly belonging to this life, both excites and terrifies you. But you can see the sincerity in Arthur’s eyes, the way he believes in you.

“Okay,” you finally reply, determination creeping into your voice. “I’ll learn.”

Arthur nods, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that makes your heart flutter. “Good. I’ll help you. We’ll start tomorrow,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ll have him running like the wind in no time.”

The campfire crackles behind you, casting a warm glow that feels almost like a cocoon, wrapping you in a blend of excitement and nerves. “Tomorrow, huh?” you repeat, trying to envision the scene. The thought of being on horseback, feeling the rush of wind against your face, stirs a thrill deep within you, but at the same time, the uncertainty of it all sends a shiver down your spine.

Arthur seems to catch your momentary uncertainty. “And hey,” he says, his voice low and reassuring, “you don’t have to worry. I’ll be right there with you. And we’ll take it slow, one step at a time.” There’s a tenderness in his gaze that calms you, and you can’t help but feel a sense of safety in his presence.

His words wash over you like a gentle tide, soothing the apprehension that had begun to rise within. You meet his gaze, feeling the intensity of his attention, and for a moment, the world around you fades into the background. It’s just the two of you, standing amidst the chatter from the camp and the hum of the night.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you say, this time with more confidence. “I really appreciate that.”

A flicker of something deeper passes through his eyes, and you wonder if he feels the same current of connection that you do. He looks younger in the soft glow of the campfire, almost boyish, the gentle smile on his face softening his rugged features. “Anytime. You’re one of us now, and we look out for each other.”

For a heartbeat, it’s as if the air thickens with unspoken words, lingering like the smoke from the fire. But then he clears his throat, breaking the spell.

“Now, let’s get this big fella settled, and then we can grab some food. If you’re feeling anyway like my, I reckon you must be starving.” His voice is warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the chill in the air, and you find yourself nodding in agreement, feeling a sense of ease settle over you.

You glance back at the palomino, who stands with an air of quiet patience. “I could use some food, and I better start thinking about a good name for him.”

Arthur steps closer, helping you untie your new horse. “Why don’t you take your time with that? You’ll know his name when you spend some more time with him. It’ll come to you.”

With Arthur’s help, you lead the palomino to the horse line, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness as you navigate the unfamiliar task. You watch as Arthur works with the horses, his movements fluid and confident. It’s easy to see that he’s in his element, and you can’t help but admire the way he connects with the animals. Arthur seems to command respect without even trying. It’s as if the horses know they’re in good hands.

With your new horse now content in his spot, you take a step back, allowing yourself to breathe and absorb the moment. The laughter and chatter of the gang surrounds you, a reminder of the sense of community that you’ve only just begun to understand. You feel a flicker of hope that maybe, you really can carve a place for yourself within this chaotic family of outlaws.

“Hey, you coming?” Arthur’s voice breaks through your reverie, drawing your attention. He’s looking at you with that same warmth, inviting you to join him and the others around the fire. You nod, a smile breaking across your face as you make your way back to him.

As you settle into the circle, the fire crackling cheerfully between you and the gang, you realize that for the first time in a long while, you feel a sense of belonging.

[v4mpvelocity]

KANG DAE-HO X READER NSFW HEADCANNONS

pairing: Kang Dae-Ho x female reader

SMUT MDNI

A/N : literally my man sigh, all of these headcannons start sfw with how you met kinda but the rest IS nsfw

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who put his life on the line to ensure your safety during red light green light. Pushing you behind him and shielding you with his body when Gi-Hun said for those who were smaller to get behind someone bigger.

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who you have been close to ever since, relying on eachother for survival in the games, a bond forming between you both. Although, as the games progressed that bond went beyond mutual effort to keep eachother alive. Eye contact that would last longer than for those who were just friends, lingering touches, unspoken words.

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who would do anything to protect you and ensure your well-being. Always keeping you at arms length whether it be making you sit next to him or keeping an arm around your shoulders. Hugs after games, sharing beds, sharing food, there was much more than just friendship going on between the both of you, and you both knew it.

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who's willing to fight somebody if they disrespect you, whether your around or not. His protective instincts working overdrive as he feels a primal need to declare you as his, making sure everybody knows it.

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who thrusts into you softly from behind when everyone is asleep, his strong arms keeping you close to his chest as he presses kisses to the side of your face. His thick cock filling you deliciously with each thrust, the tip kissing your cervix.

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who puts your needs before his, ensuring that youve finished at least twice before even putting his cock in to make sure that your prepped enough. Holding you to his chest as you whine whilst he slides his dick into your tight hole, stretching you to the point where you feel as if your being split in half.

'Mm shh...shh honey.... almost all the way in... that's it, good girl...taking it so well'

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who talks you through it, murmuring softly in your ear as you whimper and whine, trying to stay quiet as his cock abuses your oversensitive pussy. Softly caressing your tits with one hand as the other rubs circles on your clit, only intention to bring you the most pleasure he can.

'That feel good, hm? yeah? such a good girl?' or 'You want it harder honey? hmm..shh..shhh ive got you sweetie'

Kang Dae-ho, the man who has your legs spread at an almost embarrassing angle in the squid game bathrooms, but somehow manages to make you feel as if you were the most gorgeous being known to man. Pouring his love and affection for you into every thrust, eyes locked with yours as if he were proving his love for you through actions and unspoken words. Making the most vulgar words seem as if they were written by the gods themselves, as if it were angels singing praises from up above.

'Thats it honey, keep bouncing on that cock...fuckk..such a good girl' or 'So fuckin' beautiful.....my beautiful girl'

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who whines when he cums, and hes not ashamed of it either. His thrusts speeding up as his cock drives into you with an unfathomable speed, abusing your gummy walls. Hands gripping your hips as he pounded into your pussy, balls smacking against your ass causing the sound of skin on skin to echo throughout the room. He 100% has a breeding kink and will want to cum in you with any chance he gets, but if thats not your thing thats ok with him too!

'Fuckk..fuckkk...gonna cum honey....where you want it baby? you want me to fill you up hm? yeah? good girl.' or

'Fuckk....please can i cum in you baby......lemme fuck a baby into you.'

Kang Dae-Ho, the man who is the biggest softie and amazing at aftercare, ensuring you feel worshipped and loved before running you a hot bubble bath and lighting some candles. Providing you with anything you may need food, water you name it he'll get it for you. Then after he'll hold you close, ensuring your asleep before he can finally drift off.

[ivoraic]

you’re lying in bed with satoru, the room dark save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. he’s lying on his side, propped up slightly on one elbow. those vivid blue eyes that seem to hold entire galaxies, fixed only on you. his other hand is tangled gently in your hair, stroking leisurely in a way that makes your entire body relax under his touch.

“i love you,” he murmurs, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. the words are meant only for you and no one else. “i love you so much.”

you feel his hand trace from your hair to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with such tenderness and care. you look up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, the kind of gaze that makes his heart skip a beat.

“what?” he asks playfully, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “why are you looking at me like that? are you trying to steal my heart all over again? not fair, you’re too good at it.” he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i swear, you’re dangerous.”

you giggle softly, the sound making him chuckle as well. “there it is,” he says, his voice warm and adoring. “that laugh of yours. i’d do anything to hear it again, you know. anything.”

you feel the warmth of his body envelop you slowly, seeping deep into your bones. his presence is so comforting, it feels like nothing bad in the world could ever reach you here.

“you’re mine,” he says, the words carrying both a playful edge and an unshakable certainty. “you know that, right? i don’t care about anyone else. it’s you. it’s always been you. no one else even comes close.”

he tilts your chin up with his fingers, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your cheeks, your nose, your eyelids, your lips. “i love you,” he says again between kisses, his voice filled with so much sincerity that it feels like your heart might burst. “i love you more than anything. you’re everything to me.”

he pulls back slightly to look at you again, his gaze softening when he sees the shy smile on your face. “you’re so adorable,” he whispers. you feel his large hand trail up and down your back, his touch comforting and steady. “sometimes I can’t believe I get to hold you like this. I’m the luckiest man alive, you know that?“

your cheeks flush at his words, and you bury your face in his chest. you can feel the rhythmic beating of his heart. it beats just for you.

he chuckles again, the sound vibrating through his chest. “ah, you’re so shy,” he teases, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “but it’s okay. you don’t have to say anything. i know how much you love me too.”

his arms tighten around you, holding you as close as physically possible. “i’m never letting you go,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “never. I love you too much. do you hear me? i. love. you.”

he pulls back just enough to press one last kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment before he settles back down beside you. “goodnight, my love,” he whispers, his voice soft and full of adoration. “i love you. always.”

those blue, yet impossibly warm eyes. eyes that you could fall into, fall and never reach the end. they’re the last thing you see as your own gradually close.

a/n: sleep well. im sure he’s holding you close in your dreams.

[the-oblivious-writer]

Heavy

Tara Carpenter x Reader

One-Shot

Summary: After surviving a brutal attack that left you in a coma, you awaken to find the love of your life, Tara Carpenter, has vanished from your side despite the endless nights she spent holding your hand through the worst of it.

Warning(s): Trauma, no pronouns, references to past (Scream 6) violence, mental struggles, survivor's guilt, stalking, emotional manipulation (self-imposed), and PTSD.

Notes: I was listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers while writing this.

You never looked more beautiful than when you were dying.

That thought haunts Tara as she lies in her empty bed, tracing patterns on sheets that still smell faintly of your perfume. Three months since she last held your hand in that sterile hospital room. Three months of pretending she made the right choice.

The machines kept time with your heartbeat, a rhythm she memorized during those endless nights at your bedside. Sometimes, she still hears it in her dreams - that steady beeping that meant you were still fighting, still here, still hers. Until she decided you couldn't be hers anymore.

Sam stopped by earlier, concern etched in the corners of her eyes. "You're punishing yourself," she'd said, leaving a container of soup that now sits untouched on Tara's nightstand. Maybe she is. But isn't that better than the alternative? Better than waiting for the next masked figure to emerge from the shadows, seeking to add your name to the growing list of people she's lost?

Your coma lasted six weeks. Six weeks of Tara reading to you, singing softly when the nurses weren't around, telling you all the things she should have said before. How you made her feel safe in a world that had given her every reason not to be. How your laugh could chase away the darkness that sometimes threatened to swallow her whole. How you never treated her like she was broken, even when she felt held together by nothing but stubborn will and surgical tape.

She remembers the first time you kissed her, after that night at the bowling alley. You'd been so careful with her, like you understood without being told that touch wasn't always easy for her anymore. Your hands had framed her face like she was something precious, something worth protecting. If only you'd protected yourself from her instead.

The phone on her nightstand lights up with another missed call from Chad. He's been trying to get her to come out, insisting that isolation isn't the answer. But how can she explain that every time she closes her eyes, she sees you in that hospital bed? The bandages, the bruises, the way your chest rose and fell with mechanical precision because you couldn't breathe on your own. All because someone had wanted to hurt her, and you'd been brave enough - stupid enough - to step between her and the blade.

"I can't lose you," she had whispered to your unconscious form. "I won't survive it."

But when you finally opened your eyes, weak and confused but alive, Tara realized something worse than losing you to death: losing you by choice, pushing you away to keep you safe from the curse that seems to follow her like a shadow.

The breakup was clean, surgical - like so many of the scars that map her body. She'd practiced the words in front of her bathroom mirror until they stopped making her cry. "I can't do this anymore. I need space. I need to focus on healing." All the clichés that meant nothing and everything at once. You'd looked at her with those eyes that always saw too much, and for a moment, she thought you might fight her on it. Almost hoped you would.

But you didn't. You just nodded, pressed a kiss to her forehead that felt like goodbye, and walked away. Maybe you understood. Maybe you were tired of loving someone who carried death in her wake like a bitter perfume.

Tara rolls onto her side, pulling your old high school sweatshirt tighter around herself. It stopped smelling like you weeks ago, but she wears it anyway, a form of self-torture she can't seem to give up. On her desk, photographs mock her with frozen moments of happiness - you and her at the beach, your hair wild with salt air and sunshine. The two of you at The Twins' birthday party, your arm around her waist as she actually smiled for the camera. A quiet morning in your apartment, where you'd captured her making coffee in one of your oversized t-shirts, looking at peace in a way she rarely felt anymore.

Her friends tell her she's different now. Quieter. The spark that had started to return during your time together has dimmed again. Even Mindy, who never comments on anything serious, asked if she was okay the other day. Tara had wanted to laugh. Okay? How could she be when you're forced to bear wounds that were meant for her? When she spends her nights parked across from your apartment, engine off, watching the soft glow of your bedroom light like a moth drawn to flame?

She tells herself it's protection, not obsession. That someone needs to make sure you're safe, even if you don't know they're there. But the truth sits heavy in her chest as she watches your silhouette move behind curtains - the way you still favor your left side, a reminder of wounds that were meant for her. Sometimes, she catches glimpses of you leaving for work, and the sight of you walking alone makes her hands shake against the steering wheel. You look smaller somehow, or maybe that's just the distance she's forced between you.

Last week, you almost saw her. You were collecting mail from your box, and something made you turn, scanning the street with that sixth sense you always seemed to have. Tara had ducked down so fast she'd knocked her head against the dashboard, heart thundering so loud she was sure you'd hear it even from across the street. When she finally dared to look again, you were gone, but she could have sworn there were tears on your cheeks.

She knows it's wrong. Knows that if Sam or Chad found out about these nightly vigils, they'd tell her she's sliding back into old patterns, letting trauma dictate her choices. But how can she explain that sleeping is impossible unless she knows you're safe? That every time she closes her eyes without checking on you, her nightmares paint your death in vivid technicolor?

It's only a matter of time before you two cross paths again. It happens at the corner market three blocks from your old shared apartment. The same place where you used to buy cookie dough ice cream at midnight, where Tara would pretend to complain about enabling your sweet tooth while secretly loving how your kisses tasted afterward. She's reaching for coffee - your brand, though she'll never admit it - when she hears the soft intake of breath behind her.

Time stretches like taffy, sticky and overwhelming. Your reflection in the freezer glass is both familiar and foreign - thinner maybe, or just holding yourself differently. The scar above your collarbone peeks out from your shirt collar, a silvery reminder of everything she's tried to forget.

"Tara."

Her name in your mouth still sounds like coming home. She forces herself to turn, to face the reality of you standing three feet away with a basket of groceries hanging from your arm. The fluorescent lights cast shadows under your eyes that weren't there before, and she wonders if you're sleeping any better than she is.

"You look..." The words tangle in her throat. Alive. Beautiful. Like everything I've been running from. "...good."

Your laugh is hollow, nothing like the sound she keeps locked away in her memory. "Liar." You shift your weight, and she catches the slight wince - another reminder of what loving her cost you. "You've lost weight."

"Haven't been hungry much." The confession slips out before she can stop it.

Something flashes across your face - concern, maybe anger. You take a step forward, and she matches it with a step back, her spine hitting the cold glass of the freezer door. The coffee can in her hands shakes slightly.

"Don't," she whispers, but she's not sure if she's talking to you or herself.

"Don't what, Tara? Don't care? Don't worry? Because I tried that. It doesn't work." Your voice cracks on the last word, and she watches you swallow hard. "I see your car, you know. Outside my apartment."

The confession lands like a physical blow. Heat crawls up her neck as shame mingles with something else - relief, maybe, that you still know her well enough to notice. That some part of you is still watching for her too.

"I just..." She closes her eyes, unable to bear the weight of your gaze. "I need to know you're safe."

"Safe?" Now there's definitely anger in your voice. "You want me safe? Then stop making decisions for both of us. Stop deciding what I can and can't handle. Stop-" Your voice breaks, and when she opens her eyes, there are tears tracking down your cheeks. "Stop acting like your love is a death sentence."

The coffee can clatters to the floor, forgotten. Her hands ache to reach for you, to wipe away those tears she caused. But she forces them to stay at her sides, nails digging crescents into her palms.

"You almost died," she says, the words tasting like copper in her mouth. "Because of me. Because I thought I could have this - have you - without danger following. I was wrong."

"No." You step closer, and this time she can't make herself move away. "I almost died because some psychopath decided to come after us with a knife. Not because of you. Never because of you."

Your hand reaches out, hovering just shy of touching her face. She can feel the heat of it, the promise of contact that makes her chest tight with wanting. The market's muzak plays faintly in the background, some old love song that feels like mockery.

"I miss you," you whisper, and it's the gentlest violence she's ever experienced. "I miss you, and I'm not sleeping, and sometimes I think I see you everywhere, only to turn around and find empty space. And then I realized I wasn't imagining it - you were actually there, watching over me like some heartbroken guardian angel."

A sob builds in her throat. "I don't know how to stop loving you."

"Then don't." Your hand finally makes contact, cupping her cheek, and Tara breaks. "Don't stop. Just... come home."

She leans into your touch for one heartbeat, two, allowing herself to remember what it feels like to be held by hands that know all her scars. Then she steps back, away from your warmth, your forgiveness, your love that feels too much like salvation.

"I can't." The words taste like ash. "I'm sorry. I can't."

She runs. Past the dropped coffee, past the concerned clerk, past everything but the sound of you calling her name. It follows her all the way home, where she collapses against her front door and finally lets herself cry for everything she keeps choosing to lose.

The worst part is knowing that if she could do it all over again - live another life, make different choices - she'd still choose you. Still fall for the way you dance off-beat to every song, still melt at how you bring her coffee just the way she likes it, still love you with every broken piece of herself. She'd just do a better job of staying away before you could love her back.

Night settles around her like a familiar weight. In the darkness, she can almost pretend you're still here, that this is just another evening where you'll wrap your arms around her and keep the nightmares at bay. But the bed stays empty, and the shadows stay thick, and somewhere across town, you're probably sleeping peacefully for the first time since you met her.

"I love you," she whispers to the empty room, words she never said enough when she had the chance. "I love you, and that's why I can't keep you."

The silence offers no comfort, no contradiction. Just the steady tick of her bedside clock, counting down the moments until another day without you begins. Another day of being strong enough to keep her distance, of choosing your safety over her happiness. Another day of remembering that sometimes love means knowing when to let go, even when every cell in your body screams to hold on tighter.

Sleep will come eventually, bringing dreams of your smile, your touch, the way you used to look at her like she hung the stars. And tomorrow, she'll wake up and do it all again - loving you from afar, keeping you safe the only way she knows how. Because that's what love is to Tara Carpenter now: not a fairy tale, not a happy ending, but a sacrifice she makes every day to keep you breathing.

Even if it means she can barely breathe herself.

-----------

A/N: the meaning behind The Maria's "Heavy" inspired this.

[itsnesss]

taking care of junho after he returns with a gunshot wound??? (in s2)

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦 | hwang jun-ho × fem!reader

summary | the request

warnings | fluff, romance, a little angst, physical harm, care, vulnerability

word count | 1.5 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The early morning is calm when the phone rings. The sharp, piercing sound makes you jump out of bed. You grab it quickly, feeling a weight press down on your chest. Without thinking, you answer, still half-asleep.

"Hello, who is this?"

The voice on the other end is firm, somewhat worried, but clear.

"Are you Jun-ho's girlfriend? This is his mother. He's had an accident. He's hurt, but he's stable now, but I need you to come to the hospital. There are some things I need you to sign."

Fear settles in your chest, and your hands begin to tremble as you listen. The woman's voice keeps speaking, but the words fade into a background noise. Jun-ho is hurt. Seriously hurt. The image of him, his smile, his laughter, his warm eyes, starts to fade, replaced by a nightmare.

You dress quickly, fear blocking all rational thought. Time seems to slip away as you rush to the hospital. In your mind, there's only one image: Jun-ho. You just want to see him, be with him.

When you arrive at the hospital, the hallway feels strange, empty. The cold lights reflect the anxiety you feel with every step. In the emergency room, his mother is waiting. You don't know her well, but her eyes reflect the same anguish as yours.

"Hwang Jun-ho is here, he's stable. They took him to a private room after the procedures, he's awake but exhausted. I can let you in, but if you need to rest, you can do so as well."

You don't respond right away. You just nod, grateful that he's at least alive, breathing. You follow the woman to the room. When you enter, you see him there. Lying in bed, with bandages around his torso and an IV in his arm. His face looks paler than usual, but when he sees you, his eyes slowly open. A small smile forms on his face, though he seems in pain.

"You look... good, though it’s hard to believe," he whispers. His soft, raspy voice makes you feel a wave of tenderness, protection, and love.

You simply approach and gently take his hand. The warmth of his skin is a comfort. You stroke his hand, noticing how weak he is, how fragile he seems in that moment.

"How do you feel?" you ask, trying to stay calm.

"Not so bad," he replies, his smile widening slightly, but his eyes reflect deep exhaustion, as if he still can't believe what's happened.

The following days are slow. Jun-ho's recovery progresses, but slowly. Every day you care for him with more tenderness. You bring him water, prepare his meals, make sure he's comfortable at all times. Sometimes, you just sit and watch him sleep, waiting for him to wake up, waiting for him to see in your eyes all the love and concern you feel for him.

Nights are the hardest. As the silence deepens, so does the stillness of the room. Jun-ho seems relaxed, but there are still moments when his face twists in pain. You make sure he's always comfortable, that his medicine is within reach, that nothing is missing. And when you can't do more, you curl up next to him, pressing your body against his, seeking comfort in his presence. The warmth of his body reminds you that he's alive, that he needs you, that there's still hope.

A couple of days later, the doctors say he's well enough to go home. You take care of the paperwork and the formalities, hoping everything is in order. You take him home, to his apartment, the place you both know so well. He's weak, but his hand never leaves yours as you guide him to the sofa. You carefully settle him, making sure he's as comfortable as possible. Jun-ho's eyes are tired, but when he sees you, he smiles weakly.

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice trembling from exhaustion.

You sit beside him, stroking his hair. The simple contact with him fills you with calm, though you can't stop worrying. You observe him closely. His eyes, the shadows under them, the paleness of his face... You know he's still weak, but the most important thing is that he's here, by your side.

"You don't have to thank me. I'll always be here," you say, kissing his forehead softly. The expression on his face changes, softening, as if the weight of what has happened is beginning to fade.

The following days pass, and the routine of taking care of him becomes easier, though no less important. You make his meals, make sure he does his recovery exercises, give him his medications. Even when he resists, when his pride gets in the way, you let him know with a smile that he has you, that he needs you. And though he knows it, he can't help but feel grateful for your care. Sometimes, when he feels stronger, he asks you to help him get up, walk a little, not feel so weak.

The love you share deepens with every moment, every gesture. He looks at you with a tenderness you can't describe, and you return the same look, feeling that words are no longer necessary. You love each other with the simplicity of everyday life, with the certainty that you will always be there for each other.

One night, after you've fed him dinner and placed him in bed, you curl up next to him. You're exhausted, but being with him, in his arms, everything seems to fall into place. He wraps his arms around you, holding you gently, carefully, as if afraid you might disappear. His warm body gives you a peace you can't find anywhere else.

"Do you feel better?" you whisper, brushing your lips against his neck.

"Much better, now that you're here," he replies, his voice still deep and raspy, but full of affection.

You look into his eyes, and in that moment, everything you've feared fades away. You see him, with that weak but loving smile, and you know everything will be fine. No matter what the future holds, there will always be time for the two of you, there will always be space for love between you.

"I'll always be here," you whisper softly, your hands caressing his face, tracing the lines of his jaw.

"I love you," he says, his words soft but firm. And you, with your heart full, return that love in a deep kiss, one that reflects everything you can't put into words.

The kiss is soft at first, as if time stopped, as if the whole world disappeared around you. Then, it intensifies, as if both of you were searching, through that kiss, to heal any remaining wounds. The embraces become stronger, more constant, as if you never want to part.

[sunsburns]

the sweetest taboo — arcane (league of legends) !

⟢ content summary. tropes & relationship headcanons with arcane characters

⟢ characters. vi, jinx, cait, ekko, jayce, viktor

⟢ authors note. love making cute little stuff like these, thx sm for this request anon <3

vi & enemies to lovers (imagine vi joined the firelights instead of the pigs)

you wanted to see her fall so badly.

from the moment ekko introduces you to vi, there’s no denying the tension between you. whether it’s a disagreement about how to handle a situation or something personal, you're constantly at odds.

every conversation feels like a challenge, and you’re always testing each other’s limits.

in every interaction, there’s a fight—both verbal and, occasionally, physical. she doesn’t pull any punches, and neither do you.

you and vi are paired up for a high-stakes mission that requires precise planning and execution. what could possibly go wrong?

vi, not used to following orders, pushes back against your every suggestion, questioning your methods and trying to take shortcuts.

you feel your patience wearing thin as vi constantly does things her way, disregarding your carefully laid plans. every decision becomes a battleground—she insists on rushing in without thinking, while you want to take your time and survey the situation first.

by the end of the mission, you’ve somehow made it through despite the odds—frustration, arguments, and near-failures (and death). the sense of accomplishment feels sweeter because you did it together, even if it wasn’t easy.

as the two of you spend more time together, you start to see past the tough exterior that vi puts up. In rare moments, she shows a vulnerability that surprises you. maybe it's in the middle of a fight where she hesitates, or maybe it's in a quiet moment when the chaos around you both settles, and you see her exhaustion—physical and emotional.

these glimpses into her real self make you start questioning the assumptions you had about her. is she really just a hothead, or is there more beneath the surface?

after a particularly gruelling mission, you both find yourselves sitting in silence, patching up your wounds. vi’s usually the first to crack a joke or make light of the situation, but tonight, she’s quiet. you notice her rubbing the scar on her arm, and you can see the tiredness in her eyes. for the first time, the animosity between you feels a little lighter. you don’t say anything, but you sit in comfortable silence, the distance between you shrinking.

you’re both forced to work together more often, and as time goes on, you begin to realize that vi’s brashness and unpredictability balance out your nature. when you argue, it’s less about who’s right or wrong and more about learning to adapt to each other’s methods.

slowly, you start realizing that you rely on her just as much as she relies on you—she covers your blind spots, and you bring stability to her chaos.

she jumps into the fray with reckless abandon, and you follow her lead—trusting her instincts for the first time. when the dust settles and you both make it out alive, you catch her looking at you with something unspoken in her eyes. she gives a half-smile and you cannot stop thinking about it for a few weeks.

you start noticing small things. vi isn’t as quick to argue with you anymore; in fact, she starts making little sarcastic remarks and playful jabs that are different from the insults you used to exchange. the teasing becomes more frequent, but there’s an undercurrent of something more intimate now. she might nudge your shoulder when she’s pleased with something you did, or shoot you a smirk when she catches you staring at her for a little too long.

jinx & fish out of water

even though you feel out of place in zaun, jinx instinctively feels the need to protect you. seeing how uncomfortable you are in the chaos of zaun, jinx acts as a shield, drawing attention away from you when things get dangerous, whether it’s with hostile locals or threats from other groups.

jinx might not be the most traditional teacher, but she guides you through zaun's tough environment. she shows you the ropes, from how to barter with street vendors to how to defend yourself if things get physical.

your differences are stark when it comes to how you approach danger. jinx is spontaneous and unpredictable, while you are more cautious, always thinking about the potential consequences.

this sometimes leads to tension, especially when you're trying to slow jinx down from acting on a wild idea, but it also shows how you balance each other out.

jinx’s chaotic nature is overwhelming at times, but it also brings out a side of you you never knew existed. where you once clung to stability, you now find yourself caught up in jinx’s wild adventures, learning to enjoy the rush and thrill of unpredictability, even if it scares you.

despite the wild, chaotic surroundings, you and jinx share moments of unexpected intimacy. whether it’s sitting side-by-side in the dark, sharing stories about your lives before the downfall of zaun, or lying next to each other after a rough day, these moments make you realize that you’ve found something real in the madness.

jinx expresses her affection in her own unique way. sometimes it’s in the form of an impulsive kiss or an unexpected act of care, like fixing your hair or bringing you something she thinks will make you smile.

ekko & second chances

the fight that tore you apart wasn’t just words—it was emotional, raw, and devastating. maybe ekko was so focused on his mission for zaun that he pushed you aside, saying something hurtful like, “this is bigger than you and me—you wouldn’t understand.”

the words lingered, and no matter how much you wanted to stay, it felt like ekko had chosen his crusade over you.

years later, you’re mid-mission in piltover, tracking a stolen resource. you hear his voice before you see him.

his voice is a mix of shock and disbelief when he realizes it’s you. you turn, and there’s ekko—older, sharper, with an air of maturity, but his wide eyes and hesitant smile are pure nostalgia.

ekko doesn’t immediately try to explain everything—he’s smart enough to know it won’t fix things overnight. instead, he focuses on showing you he’s changed.

when your equipment breaks during a mission, he’s already fixing it before you even ask.

he shows up to help, even when you don’t want him to. when you call him out on it, he shrugs and says, “you can hate me all you want, but i’m not leaving you to handle this alone.”

during a mission in zaun, you find yourselves hiding in one of your old hangout spots—a small nook under a collapsed bridge where you used to plan wild schemes as kids. it brings back old memories, and the two of you try not to comment how you do not fit in there anymore.

he gives you a makeshift communicator as an apology.

you don’t immediately forgive him, but you start to let him back in little by little. asking him for advice on a job, checking in on the firelight base every once in a while.

he let you stay the night, showed you to your old room and everything. and then you stayed the night after that. and the night after that.

when you’re working late on a plan, ekko shows up with food, claiming he “just happened to be in the area.” you roll your eyes but let him stay.

as time passes, you notice how he listens more—how he makes a point to ask your opinion and actually consider it. he’s grown, and it shows in the small, thoughtful ways he interacts with you.

during a dangerous mission, you’re cornered, and ekko jumps in to shield you. it’s reckless, but it reminds you of the boy who always put others before himself, even at his own expense.

ekko doesn’t make a big, dramatic declaration of love. instead, it’s quiet and vulnerable, like him.

“i didn’t just miss you,” he says one night, while you’re sitting on a rooftop overlooking zaun. “i loved you. i think i always did, even when i didn’t know how to show it.”

jayce & friends to lovers

inserperable. no other word to describe it.

people constantly assume you’re already a couple because you’re rarely seen apart. jayce just laughs it off, saying, “nah, we’re just close,” while you both ignore the way your cheeks heat up.

whether it’s work, errands, or grabbing food, jayce naturally gravitates toward you, like it’s second nature to have you around.

you’ve developed little routines together without even realizing it. maybe it’s getting coffee every morning from the same spot, trading lunch when one of you forgets, or walking each other home after a long day.

you two have endless conversations about everything and nothing. jayce loves bouncing ideas off you, and he’s constantly sharing his thoughts, whether it’s about a new invention or a random observation.

“does it ever freak you out how fast hextech is evolving? like, what if we accidentally invent something terrifying?” he muses while you laugh and call him dramatic.

your friendship is filled with countless inside jokes and nicknames that no one else understands. jayce loves seeing the confused looks on people’s faces when the two of you burst out laughing over something random.

jayce likes fixing things for you, whether it’s repairing something broken or building something new just to make your life easier.

he loves surprising you with practical but meaningful gifts, like a gadget he made specifically for your needs.

jayce has moments that feel a little too intimate for “just friends.” maybe it’s the way he brushes his fingers against yours when handing you something, or how he gets distracted watching you talk about something you’re passionate about.

jayce is the kind of guy who doesn’t immediately realize he’s in love. it hits him in the middle of a mundane moment, like seeing you laugh at something, and he thinks, oh. oh no.

he starts doing things he wouldn’t normally do for just anyone, like learning how to cook a dish you love or reading up on something you’re sincere about so he can talk about it with you.

he’s big on physical affection. even as friends, he was the type to give casual hugs or drape an arm around your shoulders. in a relationship, he’s almost always touching you—holding hands, leaning into you, or brushing hair out of your face.

viktor & academic rivals

he does not fuck with you at all at first.

viktor finds your work frustratingly impressive, often critiquing your methods to hide his own admiration.

the two of you are constantly debating and trying to outdo each other, whether it’s in experiments, theories, or even harmless bets (like who can finish designing a prototype faster).

he does warm up to you eventually.

not by choice, though.

it's because heimerdinger put the two of you as lab partners for a project.

mutual respect grows slowly, as viktor starts to see your perspective and vice versa.

viktor loves having late-night brainstorming sessions with you, where the two of you drink tea (or coffee, if the stakes are high) and talk until the early hours. he secretly enjoys how your conversations stray into personal topics.

he isn't one for grand gestures but shows he cares in small ways—like leaving extra parts for your inventions or staying up to help you with research, even if he’s exhausted.

he remembers every detail you mention, no matter how trivial. if you once offhandedly said you like a certain type of snack, he’ll "coincidentally" have it in the lab.

viktor gets quietly jealous when someone else praises your work too much, though he'll never admit it. instead, he'll just throw himself deeper into his own projects to "prove" himself.

you often lose track of time when working together, forgetting meals and proper rest. while viktor is typically the culprit of this, you will sometimes pull him away, insisting on taking a break. this becomes their unspoken routine, with you caring for viktor when he pushes himself too far.

if you openly compliment him—whether it’s his work or appearance—he struggles to respond and often mutters, "it's nothing," while his ears turn red.

when you catch him staring, viktor pretends to be deep in thought about something else.

outside the lab, viktor loves quiet evenings with you, reading books or sketching ideas while the other works nearby. it's in these moments he realizes how much he treasures his presence.

oh, and don't forget that he is incredibly sassy omg. like when the two of you get heated, things get heated.

[thelov3lybookworm]

Journals (part 2)

Part 1

Summary: new realisations and hauntingly beautiful words

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Word Count: 2059

Warnings: heavyyyy angst, mental health issues, depression, feeling unworthy of love, panic attack, self harm (alluded to), self hate. thats all i can think of right now, but let me know if i need to add anything

A/n: based on old poetry by @garden-of-runar 🤭i had reblogged them to my drafts on a side blog that i dont use at all, so i couldnt reblog them on my main, but i have put them in the fic, so ig that works🤷🏻‍♀️ also, if i ever write a part 3 (which i might based on feedback) azzie would be the love interest <3

ALSO MY GIRLIE IS SO TALENTED DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED I LOVE THESE POEMS 🥹

(im also tagging people who asked for a part two hope u dont mind <3)

anyways, enjoyyyy!!

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Lying on the ground, despite how it hurt her joints sometimes, was one of Y/n’s favourite pastimes. Maybe because sometimes she did not have the energy to crawl into her bed, but that was not the point.

They hate you.

The hardness of the wood panels was oddly comforting, the way the grains sometimes raised enough for her to feel them with her fingers, the soft creaking when she stepped on them. It reminded her that she was here, that she was alive. That she was getting what she deserved for being so pathetic.

The soft mattress did not give her the same level of comfort. Sure, it was warm and cozy, but did she deserve it?

No.

You deserve this.

You deserve the worst.

Y/n sniffled, lying on her side as she lifted her hand higher next to her, dragging her nails down the planks, the feeling overwhelming in itself but better than not feeling anything. She watched her fingers jerk with the motion, pale and bloodless.

She could feel her tears collecting in a pool and seeping under her cheek. She glanced at the foot of the bed in front of her.

It looks so majestic from down here.

Do people who are worse off think the same way about me?

I don’t want them to. Because I am not worth being thought of like that.

I am nothing. I am pathetic.

It became harder and harder to take in a breath from her nose, as it continued to grow clogged from all her sobbing.

It was one of her least favourite things about crying.

Pathetic.

Stop it!

You’re pathetic. Crying over nothing.

You don’t deserve anything good.

The thoughts kept echoing in her head, louder and louder. She couldn’t breathe any longer.

And it was not because of anything physical.

Her chest began to constrict, forcing her lungs to let out precious air. She tried to breathe it back in, desperately wishing to cling to any remnants of oxygen like a child clinging to its mothers skirts.

Please. Just one inhale.

Her throat tightened.

Just one.

She gasped, futilely trying to breathe one last time to breathe before she knew she would collapse, faint because of the lack of air in her body. It gave her some reprieve, and her eyes focused back to the bed.

The longer she stared at it, the more drowsy she became. Her eyelids were drooping, and she finally, finally decided that maybe letting herself submit to her body’s needs wouldn’t be too bad, if it meant that the thoughts would stop. Maybe if she gave in to the tiredness in her bones after hours of sobbing, her mind would stop being so cruel.

Maybe it would take pity on her.

Maybe.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

"We should go out tomorrow!"

Y/n smiled a little. A rare smile that only recently had begun showing on her face.

It wouldn’t be considered a real smile. But it was still there on her face. The tilt of her lips.

We. Not me. We.

They wanted her to be present too.

Cassian jumped up, looking at Y/n with a grin. "I always wanted to take Y/n out to Rita’s."

Her smile grew.

The other members talked, making plans for tomorrow. Slowly, the conversation spiralled, as it always did between them all.

Azriel leaned close to Y/n, whispering jokes in her ear that made her giggle. Rhysand sat on the same couch as Cassian, fighting like children. Mor sat next to Amren, amusement shining in her eyes as she added fuel to the fire, while Amren looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

They talked well into the night, politics, food, court gossip bleeding into one another as the time trickled by.

But the moment the conversations wandered into their future, Y/n’s smile faded. She wondered, would they want her to stay in their life?

She didn’t have to wonder long, as the words they uttered were enough to give her peace.

They talked of vacations, of parties and new traditions. Of getting married, of being with their partners. Of celebrating lives and years and months, of celebrating ends and new beginnings.

They talked, and included her.

They talked in ‘we’s’. Not in ‘me’s’.

And that was enough for her little heart to be happy.

For it to heal, for the blood to return to her face.

For her to smile, free and unbidden.

But then, time passed. And just like the sand in an hourglass trickles away, so do all good things.

As she watched, the scene changed from only housing six people in the living room, to adding three more members. And slowly, she was pushed out.

And they began talking in ‘me’s’.

Some ‘we’s’, but it never meant Y/n.

No, it meant them. Them and their partners.

It meant Feyre and Rhysand. Their new lives and baby.

It meant Cassian and Nesta. Their new mating bond and blooming love.

It meant Azriel and Elain. Their growing infatuation.

Y/n doubted the infatuation had ended, as Azriel no longer sat next to Elain at dinners. Lucien’s visits to Velaris had increased too.

But everyone’s visits to Y/n and their thoughts about her had decreased. No one seemed to remember her existence.

And she deserved it.

They chatted among themselves, and the armchair she sat on vanished from under her, leaving her standing knee deep in the freezing snow. Watching from the outside as the warm interior that had seemed so welcoming just a moment ago turned into a nightmare.

Her worst nightmare.

It left her whimpering, leaving her to curl on the cold ground.

All alone, just like she deserved.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

It was almost sunset, and finally, Rhysand had built up the determination to read the damned journal.

He walked downstairs, peering into the living room before stepping in front of it.

Mor had departed after Y/n had left, tears in her eyes. Azriel and Cassian had been sitting in the living room for the whole two hours since then, staring into space, looking haunted and horrified at the way they hadn’t realised what was going on with their friend. Amren too, sat in an armchair in the corner, looking as unbothered as ever. But Rhys saw the cracks. The shifting eyes, the too hard hold on the book she held in her lap, the downward tilt of her lips more pronounced.

"I think it’s time we read the journal."

Four sets of eyes shot up to his figure.

"Are you sure, Rhys?" Cassian mumbled, standing up uncertainly.

Rhys nodded. "It is the only option we have."

Azriel sighed, mirroring Cassian’s movements and moving closer to Rhysand.

Feyre perked up. "What is going on Rhys?"

He clenched his jaw, guilt and regret festering in his gut. He had been so busy in his newfound happiness, so wound up in enjoying every moment with his mate that he had forgotten family. He had forgotten her to the extent his mate didn’t even know what the slight tang of copper in the air meant.

"Nothing, Feyre." He mumbled, turning away.

"Elain was asking-"

"Tell her to stop asking, then." Rhysand froze at the coldness in Azriel’s voice, his eyes going wide. Azriel never used that tone of voice with anyone outside of work, let alone Feyre.

Feyre stepped back, her calves hitting the couch as she stared at her friend in shock. "Az?"

Azriel pushed past Rhysand, making his way towards his study where the journal sat, looking as frustrated and unapologetic as ever.

After a shared glance, Rhysand and Cassian followed, Amren hot on their heels.

Azriel was already seated in one of the chairs at Rhysand’s mahogany desk, his eyes fixed on the journal that lay in the middle, his jaw clenched. He seemed to be the most affected, and Rhys only had the faintest idea why.

The four of them sat in waiting until Mor finally arrived, shutting the door behind her. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she sniffled lightly as she came to stand next to Cassian.

"Rhys, do we really have to read it? It will be an invasion of privacy."

Rhys swallowed. Thought it over. "We don’t really have a choice, do we? We need to figure out the root of this. She won’t tell us if we ask, we know that. Plus, she might already be way down the path of another breakdown after what happened today."

"That is why I think that instead of sitting around on our arses," Azriel ground out, "we should go and check up on her."

Rhys raised a brow, though concern festered in his gut. "Azriel, we’ve been through this before. She will feel worse about herself, thinking she inconvenienced us."

A muscle feathered in Azriel’s jaw, but he said nothing.

And so they began reading.

Rhysand opened a random page, his breath catching at the sudden tang of copper, and began reading. As he stared at the words before speaking them aloud, he remembered seeing the exact poem in a book he recommended to Y/n over fifty years ago.

Forgotten.That is my nameThat is the path I walkIt has been so longI don’t remember what it is like to be seenAnd I spill, my tears lining the path to the woods where my body lies,Forgotten.- from GardenofRunar

Instantly, Rhysand’s blood ran cold. He leaned back, exhaling. The pages were decorated in flowers and hearts, tiny little clouds and doodles in the margins so at odds with the thoughts spilled onto them like a hauntingly beautiful scenery.

At this point, Cassian and the others had moved to peer over Rhys’s shoulder. Rhys watched as Cassan reached over to turn the page with a shaky hand, pulling it back almost instantly as if the page had burned him. There, just above the words was a small handful of doodles, and he knew the small figures resembled the inner circle before Rhys had been taken under the mountain.

The poem was more a letter than anything, except it contained so few letters but thy hit everyone with a guilt so hard it was almost like a mountain fell onto them.

So like Y/n, to say so less yet still make an impact.

I didn’t forget about you.Can you say the same for me?Don’t bother.I know the answer.-GardenOfRunar

Under the poem, were a few words.

The poet is so talented. Every poem of them I read, it makes me want to sob.Maybe because I relate to these. Maybe that’s why.

Quiet sniffles came from Mor, but Rhys turned another page. It was the first page where blood began dotting the corners, a few drops on the center of the page veining out towards the edges, as if trying to exit but being unable to.

The almost poeticness of the sight was not lost on them. The blood droplets were almost like Y/n, trying to escape a cruel mind but unable to.

My friends are living lives, and I’m trudging through a million little days,Wasting away.- GardenofRunar

A hand snaked towards the book, slamming it shut. Rhysand jumped, his eyes flying to the owner of the scarred hand that appeared.

"Enough." His voice was still, quiet, but so cold it could freeze even the summer court over. And Rhysand knew. He was blaming himself for not paying attention to Y/n.

Rhys nodded, feeling guiltier by the second.

Everyone went back to their places, sitting in silence. Contemplating.

Wondering how they had become so oblivious to the point that they couldn’t see what was right in front of them the entire time.

The regret, the sadness was heavy in the air. It was getting hard to breathe it in.

Finally, Azriel stood, grabbing the book.

Then he turned, and walked out the door without a word, his wings pulled tight against his back.

And Rhysand wondered again.

Was this just some friendly concern, some self blame, or something else entirely?

Needless to say, suspicion took root. But guilt and hate overwhelmed it once more, and the family was left to sit and roil in it.

To wonder, how could they have been so busy that they ignored such an important part of them?

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

(ps. the first part in the memories/dreams Y/n has is based off this poem

You talk in ‘we’s’ Not ‘me’s’ And it heals my heart, just a little. Puts a smile on my face, just a little. You talk about a future One with me in it And I feel the color Return to my face. Just a little. - Runar

)

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[meadowfics]

boredom got a new bestfriend

kang dae-ho x pregnant!reader

pregnancy has been exhausting, but luckily your partner is here for you.

warnings: post-squid game au. ptsd themes included but this is mainly comfort I swear

it felt like you were feeling postpartum depression before you even gave birth to the baby.

your daughter is the best thing to be happening for you right now, a human-being sharing the dna of you and your sunshine of a husband.. but you hate the discomfort.

your belly is a little bit bigger for someone who is 34 weeks along.

the doctor predicts that your girl will come out a little bit more developed than the average infant.. great.

growing up for all of your life, you slept on your stomach.

sleeping on your side and/or back during this pregnancy makes you wake up each hour, ready to throw up or cramped due to the uncomfortable position.

the lack of sleep has been killing you, and you know it will not get any better once the girl arrives.

don't worry, dae-ho has been the best partner ever, doing as much as he can to help you!

he doesn't know how it feels to carry a baby for nine months, especially a baby thats in a bigger percentile (thanks to his genetics), but he can see how much its affecting you mentally.

the man will cuddle you to sleep, give you foot massages, head massages too.. but it seems like his daughter wants to give you hell.

you're bored throughout the day as well.

its all of the time.

before your pregnancy, you used to go on walks and do chores and run errands for other people for money.

well, you had to before you joined the games.

the games are apart of the reason as to why you barely get any sleep, scared that you will wake up to someone killing you with a fork to add money to the pile.

however, you remind yourself that you are safe.

the baby is safe, you are with dae-ho, and you're all alive and safe.

even if you aren't comfortable due to your belly..

now, you cannot do a simple task like going to the grocery store without getting tired.

you've had enough, you cannot wait for the six weeks until your daughter is born.

one night, it reached its point when you went to sleep beside dae-ho.

the man's arm was wrapped around your fully developed belly, he loved to hold his daughter that you carried.

you laid on your back, your head laid down on the pillow looking up at the ceiling.

it was 12:02am when you fell asleep.

a big kick caused by your daughter made you jump awake.

dae-ho didn't wake up after you moved his arm from your stomach.

thankfully since you want him to get his sleep at least.

when you checked the time, tears immediately poured out of your eyes.

its 12:12am..

you couldn't even get ten minutes of good sleep without your body, or your daughter, stopping that.

walking out of the bedroom into the living room, you decided to turn on an old sitcom rerun that played on the overnight channels.

that did not entertain you.. nothing seemed to.

you tried to romanticize the moment, going to quickly grab some water and a fruit bowl so you could eat and relax.. but nothing worked.

sleeping was the best option, but waking up every ten minutes is driving you insane.. so why sleep at all?

"baby?"

you saw dae-ho enter the living room, wiping his tried eyes with his hands.

he is just wearing his plaid pajamas and no shirt. sexy.

sex could help the boredom, since intimacy with dae-ho is never boring, but you were too exhausted to even move at all.

"why are you awake?"

you softly ask, unaware that he could ask you the same thing.

which he is..

"I was going to ask you the same thing, since you're watching a sitcom marathon at one in the morning.."

dae ho mumbles, his big hand resting on your thigh as he looks ahead at the show on the television.

"your daughter is not letting me sleep, so I figured that watching television could pass time.. but that is not helping."

you frown.

dae-ho frowns too, moving his hand from your thigh and gently rubbing your belly.

he moves his head down towards your belly as well, going to talk to your daughter through your nightgown.

"awh, sweetheart, why are you being so mean to your mommy?"

you smile at this gesture, knowing your daughter will go right back to kicking your organs all over the place.

"I can't sleep and I am very bored.. I don't know how I am going to last these six weeks, dae."

you plead.

the man looks up at you, guilt in his eyes, as he tried to think of a solution.

"well, I can offer besides cuddles and physical affection to help you sleep comfortably.. but maybe I could stay up with you so you are not so bored as well?"

the tired man speaks through his raspy voice.

"no, dae-ho, you need your sleep."

"you need it a lot more than I do.."

dae-ho smiles,

"you will need to gain enough energy when its time to push next month!"

he's right.

how were you supposed to birth your daughter if you were too tired to push?

the man sees worry flash before your eyes and retracts his words,

"wait I was kidding, I--"

"dae-ho, I know, don't worry!"

you giggle.

you relax into your man's arms while watching the boring show on the television.

it feels like your daughter stopped her soccer/football game happening inside of your uterus.

so you close your eyes to see if your mind will take you to sleep.

you focus on dae-ho's scent since your nose is against his chest.

the first thing you notice is that dae-ho used your body wash while he showered at some point.. your vanilla body wash.. wow!

suddenly, you couldn't process anything else as you fell asleep with dae-ho.. since he already fell asleep before you.

when you wake up, the sun is shining through the curtains and you were back in your bed.

you were... comfortable.. woah.

something you haven't felt since before your belly starting growing with your baby.

the soft ivory blanket was warm against your cool skin, the pillow soft underneath your ears.

dae-ho is still asleep, his back facing towards you.

you move yourself to get behind him, big spooning him as your belly pokes his lower back.

"goodmornin', my baby."

dae-ho's raspy voice speaks, taking your small hand and kissing your knuckle lightly.

"good morning, handsome."

you smile, feeling refreshed.

looking over at the alarm clock, the time reads 10:38am

taking a huge sigh of relief, you cuddled into dae-ho more, happy to finally get some good rest after months of failure.

"how did you sleep?"

dae-ho mumbles against your soft hands.

"I slept good, for once."

you giggle.

"see, I knew my little talk to (daughter's name) would work!"

dae-ho smiles and you giggle.

"thank you, love."

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