#I think he deserved a chance for something more

[maskedbyghost]

Possessive reader has had partners before Simon, yeah? Don't suppose any of them are the same flavor of 'mine mine mine' regarding her? Cuz if so, Simon's gonna need to clean up those loose ends. Can't have them thinking they can try and object at the inevitable wedding like some kind of Hallmark movie!

Omg YES. The reader definitely has an ex or two still a little hung up on her, because let’s be honest, someone that obsessed, that intense, that ride-or-die? She’s not exactly forgettable.

You didn’t even react when the text came in. You barely glanced at your phone, just rolled your eyes, and went right back to folding laundry like it wasn’t worth your energy.

But Simon saw it. You knew he saw it because he stopped what he was doing, leaned over, and picked your phone up off the bed without even asking.

“Who’s that?” he asked, even though he was already reading it.

You shrugged. “Some guy I used to fuck around with before I met you. He’s been blocked since last year, so I guess he found a new number.”

Simon didn’t answer. Just stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the message.

You still with that guy? You deserve someone who actually sees how good you are. You know where to find me.

You didn’t even try to explain. What was there to say? You’d deleted that man like an app you forgot existed. Gone. Done. But Simon wasn’t looking at you—he was still staring at your phone, his jaw tight.

You sat back on your knees, watching him. “Don’t get quiet. You know I don’t give a shit about him.”

“I know,” he muttered, his tone calm. “But he doesn’t.”

That’s when he tapped a few things. Deleted the message, blocked the number again. Same way you would have. Except he held your phone for another minute after that, just looking at it. Not saying a word.

Then he handed it back and stood up like nothing happened. “I’ll take the trash out,” he said, heading toward the kitchen. Which was weird, because there was no trash. Not in the actual bin, anyway.

You tilted your head. “You mean metaphorically or—?”

“Both,” he called back.

And that was that. You didn’t ask, you didn’t need to.

You knew Simon wouldn’t do anything stupid, but you also knew he had a way of handling shit when it pissed him off enough. Not like you—loud, mouthy, dramatic, always saying shit like mine mine mine until he groans and tells you you’re a menace while literally pulling you closer.

But him? He didn’t need to scream. Didn’t need to threaten. All he had to do was decide something—and then it was done.

Still, later that night, you were sprawled across his lap, phone in hand, scrolling for something to watch, when you decided to poke the bear a little.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “if some idiot tried to object at our wedding, I’d probably laugh in his face and then throw my shoe at him.”

Simon didn’t even look up from where he was rubbing slow circles into your hip. “Wouldn’t get the chance.”

You smirked. “Why? ‘Cause you’d handle it?”

“No,” he said, finally glancing up at you. “Because anyone that stupid won’t make it to the wedding.”

You stared at him for a second.

Then you leaned in real close, grinning like the psycho you are. “God, I fucking love you.”

He kissed you hard, like he was trying to remind you he was just as gone for you as you were for him.

“Yeah?” he muttered, breath hot against your lips. “Then quit stressin’ about shit that’s already handled.”

And you did. Because you knew—anyone who still thought they had a shot with you? They didn’t anymore. Simon made sure of that.

Not because he was jealous. But because you were his just as loudly and unshakably as he was yours. And anyone who didn’t get the memo?

They’d be lucky to walk away with a warning.

--------------------------------------------

this was the last request i had sitting in my inbox for these two, so if y’all want more unhinged possessive nonsense, you’re gonna have to ask, i’m always down to write more of them, just need ideas to work with. you know where to find me <333

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

[tsunodaradio]

love on track ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

you wish, of course, that you could have accounted for yuki tsunoda. (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.)

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x graduate student!reader. ꔮ word count: 5.4k. ꔮ includes: romance. profanity. reader is studying something statistics-adjacent, a bit of numbers talk, isack is a plot device again, idiots in love. highly recommended that you read love at first flight before this one! ꔮ commentary box: the tsunodaradio yuki transportation verse expands! writing this sequel to my first ever yuki fic as a birthday gift for the man, the myth, the legend 🚆 without further ado.. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ take a chance with me, niki. oh shit...are we in love?, the valley. ? (who do you think of), any name's okay. me & you, honne & tom misch. maybe?, radi. happy accidents, saint motel.

The statistical probability of running into a stranger twice in your lifetime depends on a range of variables. 

There’s location to consider. Frequency of interaction. Shared activities or interests. The probability may be low, but it is never zero. Even a 1 in 100,000 chance is still a chance. 

So, in some ways, are you really that surprised to find a familiar face on this train? 

It’s your second trip to Japan. The first one had gone by in a blur, and that was why you came back. You hadn’t felt like you were able to sufficiently enjoy yourself and you figured a country as beautiful as this one deserved a little more respect. A longer stay. More touristy commitments. 

The Sunrise Izumo Express gave you that chance. A sleeper train route of 12 hours, boasting Pinterest-worthy views of the country’s mountains and lakes within the range of Tokyo to Izumo. You had timed your vacation specifically around the snowy season. 

Do you wish you could have gotten a private room on the train? Of course. 

Did you cheap out a bit so you could buy more wagyu? Definitely. 

You find yourself on the top berth of a double-deck sleeper. It’s not much. Curtains for privacy, a reading light, an overhead fan. A barely-there wooden separator will keep you from being shoulder-to-shoulder with whoever sits—or lays—next to you. 

As you squeeze yourself into the small space, you try to think of comparably positive experiences. It feels like… summer camp. Sure. That’ll work. 

The train is set to depart at 10 PM on the dot. You glance at your watch. Half past nine, and the space next to yours is still empty. If you’re lucky, it will stay that way. 

Unfortunately, luck has never been as good to you as numbers have. 

At approximately 9:22 PM, the Familiar Stranger climbs on to the berth next to yours. He grunts when his head hits the top of the train. He falls onto the thin mattress with an incoherent cuss. You offer him a rueful smile. 

He grins back.

Then does a double take. 

“Wait,” he says, words garbled with an accent you can’t quite place yet. “I know you.” 

You nearly start sprouting numbers about this being only your second time in Japan, about the low likelihood of you recognizing anyone in this foreign land. You hold back just enough to evenly say, “I don’t think so.” 

“No, no,” the stranger insists. “I know you. I know you from somewhere.” 

The thought is laughable. You’re a tourist, for God’s sake. Nobody—most especially the person you’re supposed to sit-slash-sleep next to for the next 12 hours—should know you. 

Despite your growing irritation, you stand your ground. “I’m sorry,” you say firmly,, “but I think you have the wrong girl.” 

You try to pull the curtain close. The stranger’s hand darts out, stopping you at the very last moment. You’re already contemplating how to flag a conductor down for potential harassment. 

The man opposite you opens his mouth, ready to push, when a voice rings out. “Hadjar? Is something wrong?”

Your head snaps up. 

Again, we go back to the plain and simple fact: 1 in 100,000 is still a chance. Today, that 0.001 percent glares up at you like a neon sign in a dive bar. Bright, oppressive, unavoidable. 

Yuki Tsunoda is standing at the foot of your bunk.

He looks a little different than you remember. To be fair, it’s been over half a year.

Six months ago, on your first flight to Japan—your first flight ever—happenstance had put you in the seat next to Yuki. You chatted. Fell asleep on each other.

Held hands throughout turbulence. 

And, at the end of it all, he had slipped you his number on a scrap of tissue, asking for the statistical probability of a text. 

“You,” Yuki chokes out, eyes widening almost comically. 

He says your name afterwards, and you wince. He doesn’t say it like a curse or an insult. It comes out more like a suspension of disbelief, like he’s just seen someone come back from the dead. At this rate, maybe he has. 

“Airplane crush!” the stranger next to you—Hadjar, right, that’d been his name—announces triumphantly. “You are Yuki’s airplane crush!”

That doesn’t help. At all. 

Yuki shoots Hadjar a withering glare before turning back to look at you. “What are you doing here?” Yuki demands. He’s gripping the edges of the bunk so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. 

“Vacationing,” you say defensively. “What are you doing here?” 

“This is literally my home country!”

“I mean,” you stammer, “this is the cheapest option on this train. Couldn’t you, like, afford a compartment or something?!”

“Yuki insisted on the regular seats,” Hadjar interjects. “He wants me to get the authentic Japan experience.” 

Oddly enough, it’s the way Hadjar says those two words—regular and experience—that finally clues you to his accent. French. Your seatmate is French. 

You have bigger fish to fry, though, because Yuki is still staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Before you can decide if you should apologize or brush the whole thing off, Hadjar is already making an executive decision that is determinedly bad for everybody’s welfare. 

“Let’s switch, Yuki!” Hadjar says, enthusiastic in the way only a wingman could be. “I will take the bottom bunk!”

No, you mean to say, but you don’t know how you’d manage that without sounding rude. Yuki has a little less tact. He immediately tries to refuse, stuttering words like don’t and Isack and I am going to kill you.

Hadjar only gathers his things and begins to scramble away, completely ignoring Yuki’s protests. Hadjar even throws you a conspiratorial wink over his shoulder, like he’s doing you a favor. Like your heart hasn’t sunk to your ass at the prospect of what the next 12 hours is going to be. 

You hear them bickering below you, just out of sight. Low voices, curt exchanges. A lot of the hissing seems to be coming from Yuki. 

You lay down on your side, facing away from the berth that’s either going to be an overzealous Frenchman or a guy you ghosted after a long-haul flight. You find yourself facing what seems to be an elderly Japanese woman, already setting up her nighttime skincare routine. It’s not the worst of sights. 

The bunk you’re pointedly trying to avoid creaks under the weight of a body. You hold your breath, lying in wait. And then—

“Why didn’t you text me?” 

You have to give it to Yuki. Getting the hard question out of the way, right off the bat, is admirable. 

You keep on holding your breath. Maybe if you don’t move an inch, he’ll leave you alone. Wishful thinking. 

“I know you’re still awake,” Yuki says, tone caught halfway between amusement and exasperation. “The train has just left the station.” 

With a sigh, you turn. Yuki is seated upright, leaning against the window. You hate to admit it, but he’s still as attractive as you remember. The mop of black hair, the faint five o’clock shadow.

In the dimming lights of the train, you zero in on things you hadn’t noticed before. His stack of chrome jewelry, his designer wristwatch, his muscles rippling with every small movement he makes. 

You blink. Woah. Where did that last thought come from? 

Anyway. 

You clear your throat. He speaks up again, his gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the berth across from him. 

“I gave you my number,” he says matter-of-factly. 

You sit up, leaning your own back against the window. This doesn’t feel like a conversation to have while you’re curled up over the mattress, ready for sleep. Now both you and Yuki are glaring into the distance if it’ll mean you don’t have to look at each other. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually be waiting for a text,” you confess as you pick at a loose strand of the train-issued blanket.  

When you found out who Yuki was—really was—it made no sense to act on the number entrusted to you. On the plane, he had just been a nice seatmate who you thought you could spin into a story. A tidbit for future Two Truths and a Lie games. 

But then you landed in Tokyo, and you found out he was a racecar driver, and suddenly reaching out to him was out of the cards. 

“Besides,” you add, aiming for levity, “I’m pretty sure you do that all the time.” 

“Do what?” 

“Give out your number.” 

A beat. One long enough to make you realize your mistake before Yuki points it out himself.

“I don’t,” he says, voice so soft and hurt that you can only pray, with every fibre of your being, that the ground might swallow you whole. 

It doesn’t. You reach for the second best thing. “I’m sorry,” you say sincerely, turning your head so you’re looking straight at Yuki. 

To your surprise, he mimics the move. You’re both looking at each other as the train rumbles out of Tokyo station, starting what will undoubtedly be a long journey.

“Are you sorry for not texting?” Yuki asks, and it strikes you what kind of person he is.

You recognize the lightheartedness in his tone. He’s probably still offended, but he’s trying to tease you right now. Trying to make light of the situation. 

“I’m sorry for assuming you have bitches in every city,” you offer in return. 

Yuki laughs. It’s a bark of a surprise sound, jolted out of him like he hadn’t expected it. But you had. You had wanted to get that exact reaction out of him.

It eases some of the tension in his shoulders, makes him look at you with a little less of the flight instinct. It’s not absolution just yet; you know you’re not out of the dog house. 

But you decide you’ll take it. This small win, this break in the surface pressure. What was the statistical probability of having another 12 hours with Yuki ahead of you? 

The very least you could do was try and make it tolerable. 

You had a plan.

This whole thing about sleeping during the first hour and waking up for the sunrise. You had stayed up during the day for it, eager to make sure you wouldn’t miss anything that would justify the trip or the price tag on it.

But you don’t realize how difficult it is to fall asleep here.

It doesn’t even have anything to do with Yuki. Okay, well, that’s a lie. It’s not entirely about Yuki. He’s part of the reason, though he’s mostly out of your hair as he tries to feign interest in whatever manga he’s reading.

Your shared history—or lack thereof—exists in the negligible space between you. He’s so close that you can hear the music leaking through his AirPods.

You’re intent on falling asleep. On keeping your back turned to Yuki, fixed instead on the snoozing grandma across you.

Someone is snoring like a chainsaw below you. Hadjar, probably.

Yuki steals the thoughts right out of your head. “You’re lucky you’re not next to him,” he says dryly, making you jump a bit. 

You’re still hopeful you’ll fall asleep, so you stay curled up in your bunk as the train hurtles past the sights of Japan. It’s too dark to see anything but shadows of buildings and trees.

“Does he snore like that all the time?” you ask quietly, not wanting to wake up the woman next to you.

“Unfortunately,” Yuki chirps from behind you. “I’m a bit jealous. He’s the type to fall asleep anywhere, at any time.”

“Are you two teammates?”

There’s a moment’s pause. “You know, I thought you would be a little more invested in F1 after getting a driver’s number,” he says, that hint of amusement back in his tone. 

A snort of laughter escapes you. Your F1-obsessed best friend had gone ballistic over the knowledge you sat next to Yuki the entire flight; you withheld the fact his number was now in your phone, knowing full well that it would become a whole thing. 

Maybe you had resisted the urge to Google ‘Yuki Tsunoda’ once or twice. Maybe you were a little more tuned in with your best friend’s ramblings over the championship standings. But it was never enough to truly get you into the sport, to see what all the hype was about.

Besides— “You told me you were a chauffeur,” you point out, still speaking to the divider. 

“You assumed I was a chauffeur,” he amends. “It was too funny to deny.”

“You could have corrected me.”

He pauses. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Would it have changed anything? If I told you I drove cars in circles?”

Well, when he puts it that way. You try to think of what that plane ride would have looked like if you knew from the get-go that he was a racecar driver, that he was revered in a sport you didn’t really understand. You like to think you might’ve just rattled off more car statistics—effectively scaring him off. 

But would it have changed anything, like the way you catalogued his laugh, the way you blushed when he flirted with you, the way you napped in his side like it was somewhere you belong? 

“No,” you say quietly. “Probably not.”

“Exactly.” The way Yuki says the word is loaded with implication. He sounds smug and sad all at once.

You try to unpack it, try to make sense of it the same way that you navigate numbers. But there is no equation to this, no logic. This is emotion, and sentiment, and the held breath of a situation neither of you thought you would be in.

After a beat too long, you hear him ask, voice softer now, “Is that why?”  

“Why—what?”

“Why you didn’t text me.”

He’s asking if it’s because he lied. Because he omitted facts of the story, twisted the narrative like he was hoping to make the medicine go down easier. 

You knew from the get-go that some white lies were being told. That was always the case with strangers, anyway. You could be whoever you wanted to be for a few precious hours, cosplay as an ideal self or somebody even far worse. You figured it was always going to be black and white with chance encounters like the one you shared. 

You weren’t meant to find each other again. Except Yuki had wanted to, maybe, with his stunt of his scribbled-down phone number, and you decide you can at least afford him a little bit of honesty. 

“Kind of,” you breathe. Him lying about being a chauffeur was only partly the reason why you never reached out. 

He picks up on the hesitance almost immediately. “There’s more to it?”

A corner of your lip twitches upwards. Yuki doesn’t see, and so you let the little smile tug. Just for a second. Just enough.

“There’s always more to it,” you say vaguely. 

“Come on, then,” he urges. “We’ve got time.”

You laugh. Soundlessly, because you don’t want to bother any other passengers. Your shoulders shake all the same as you try to dismiss him with a firm, “Good night, Yuki.”

You’re still not looking at Yuki, but you can hear the grin on his face when he says good night back.

You dream of race cars made of sushi, cherry blossoms with numbered petals, and the sound of Yuki’s smile.

When you wake up to the gentle vibrations of your phone alarm, you’re surprised to find Yuki is still seated upright. 

He has his back to the window, his eyes still trained to his phone. It’s attached to a power bank now, and he’s scrolling through what seems to be the same manga he had been reading earlier. You glance at your phone—confirming you had about seven hours of sleep—before properly curling in on yourself to look to Yuki. 

“You didn’t sleep?” you ask, voice raspy with drowsiness. 

He looks up from his phone, offers you a one-shouldered shrug. “Nah,” he says, though he doesn’t really go on to explain why. 

You try to wipe out the bleariness in your eyes. With a yawn and a pathetic excuse for a stretch, you roll over. A pinkish dawn is beginning to creep in outside the train window.

You left no part of your itinerary up to chance, so you’d noted everything from the time of the day’s sunrise to which berths had the best view. 

You wish, of course, that you could have accounted for Yuki Tsunoda. Yuki, who pockets his earbuds and locks his phone. Yuki, who awkwardly maneuvers so that he’s lying down on the bunk next to yours.

Yuki, who just outright copies you. Stomach flat to the thin mattress, gaze fixed on the countryside roaring past. You’re not about to escape him, you realize. Not today.  

“Do you have another race in Japan?” You hear yourself ask. Your voice is still pitched low, not wanting to rouse the other passengers who are all still getting up themselves. “Is that why you’re here?”

“There’s only one Japan race per season,” Yuki answers patiently. “The season just ended.”

“Ah.”

So, that time you’d seen him—that had been his only home race. You don’t know how any of the sport works, and it’s beginning to frustrate you a bit. Was it just a matter of who finished first? Did he have to drive any particular way? Were him and Hadjar in the same car or something? 

All those questions seem inconsequential to the one on the tip of your tongue. You stammer through it, not wanting to ask Did you win as much as, “Did you… do well?”

A flicker of an expression on his face seems to indicate the topic is a touchy one. But your question fully sinks into him, and he does that thing again. The one where he’s not-quite smiling; the corners of his mouth, lifting just so. 

“I drove safe,” he says, and it nearly takes the wind out of you. 

“That’s good,” you manage. 

And, just in case you forgot, he adds, “Because you told me to.”

Your parting words, blurted out in place of goodbye. Yuki, turning in the line of moving people on the plane, with damning hope on his face. When you had called his name, he had probably thought you might say something else. Ask for his number, maybe. 

Instead, you’d just said Drive safe, and now the words haunt you. 

“You’re just saying that,” you groan, burying your face in one hand. You’re trying to hide the way your own expression has betrayed you, the way you’ve cracked a grin. 

Peeking through your fingers, you see the way that Yuki has started to beam. It crinkles the crow’s feet on his face, shows off a gap between his two front teeth. He keeps his eyes on the scenery even as he glows like the day that’s just about to begin. 

“You’re right,” he agrees, words measured and slow. “Guess I just wanted to see you smile.” 

Outside, dawn breaks. You lift your head, your chin over your folded arms, to watch it happen. 

The December snow blankets Japan’s countryside in sheets of white, reflecting the orange and the yellow of the rising sun. It’s a stunning panorama, a postcard for halcyon days. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of words that could probably describe just how breathtaking the view is. 

All that comes out of you is a dazed murmur of “Pretty.” 

In your peripheral vision, you see Yuki stealing a glance at you. You hadn’t grown up on a diet of romantic comedies, hadn’t read fanfiction or watched as much TV as you might have liked. So how could you have known?

How could you have known he would respond, voice barley above a whisper—like he’s saying it to himself—”Yeah. Pretty,” while still looking at you? 

How was your heart supposed to stand a chance?

“Talk numbers with me.” 

You glance up from the Japanese city maps spread open on your lap. Yuki has abandoned his manga-reading and has also abandoned feigning disinterest in you. 

“Numbers?” you repeat dumbly.

“Numbers,” he confirms. 

You’re a little surprised he remembers. In hindsight, he’s remembered everything else; your obsession with statistics was probably much more defining than, say, the last thing you’d said to him.

“What kind of numbers?” you ask. A little defensive, a little suspicious. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “How much of Japan uses trains?” 

“69 million people daily,” you answer instinctively, knee-jerk in your admission. 

“69. Nice.” 

“Seriously?” 

Yuki shrugs, something glinting in his eyes as he continues to sit cross-legged across from you. You try not to mistake the glimmer for affection. “What else?” he prompts. 

You blow a strand of hair out of your face. “I don’t know what you want to hear,” you shoot back, a hint of annoyance finding home in your tone. “The railway system operates around 26,000 trains daily. You have great punctuality rates. Average delay of just 1.6 minutes per train. The model share’s at 72.2 percent, and—why are you laughing?” 

“I’m not laughing,” Yuki says in between laughter. 

You resist the urge to chuck a map at him. You only glare, waiting for him to calm down before you speak. “You asked for the numbers, man,” you grumble. 

Surely you can’t be blamed for sounding a little hurt. You’re not about to get into it with Yuki Tsunoda, of all people, but there’s a lot of history behind the sting. Years of getting made fun of for different interests. Grating laughter, scraped knees, side eyes.

Yuki sobers instantly. “I’m not… not laughing at you,” he offers apologetically, pulling his criss-crossed legs a little tighter around his body. 

The skeptical look on your face urges him to go on. “It makes me happy,” he says, “hearing you talk about numbers.” 

“It’s just me nerding out,” you deadpan. 

“It’s you lighting up,” he interjects. “It’s a good look.” 

“What is this, Yuki?” 

Record scratch. Freeze frame. Yuki stares at you, unblinking, unmoving. You stare back. The train chugs along. Your words hang in delicate balance. You wish, for a moment, that the maps in your hands could guide you through the next four hours, looming over you like a guillotine. 

“What’s what?” he asks. It’s his turn to sound wary, to try and build up walls. 

You chip at them anyway. “What are you doing?” you press.

“I’m talking with you.” 

“You’re flirting with me.” 

“I am,” he agrees without missing a beat. “I thought I’ve made it very clear that I’m interested in you.” 

“Why?” Your fingers are curled around the paper maps; your voice, surprisingly level amid the din of noise in the train car. “Why want someone you barely even know?” 

Yuki opens his mouth. 

“Yukino!”

Hadjar’s head pops up at the foot of the berth. He has a shit-eating grin on his face, which means he’s probably blissfully unaware of what he just interrupted. “I am going to try the noodle vending machine,” the Frenchman announces excitedly. “Coming with?” 

The moment between you and Yuki goes flat like a soda left out for too long. You glance away, angling your face back towards the window. The views are all still stunning, but the pang in your chest makes them feel a little less enjoyable. 

Yuki’s gaze lingers on you. When he finds nothing he can cling to, he gives a jerky nod to Hadjar and reaches for his wallet. 

As he steps down from the top bunk, ready to follow his friend to the mythical vending machine, Yuki calls out a question that jolts you out of your moping. 

“Do you know the statistical probability of love at first sight?” 

You look back at him. There’s no teasing on his face now. There’s nothing there but the serious set of his jaw, the purse of his lips that makes your heart thump, thump, thump beneath your ribs. It’s the kind of look you imagine he would sport before getting behind a wheel. 

“1 in 5 people,” he answers for you. “I looked it up the moment we got off our flight.” 

You’re half expecting Yuki to spend the last couple of hours with Hadjar. Out of sight, out of mind. Running from what was probably a love confession, all things considered. 

To his credit, Yuki doesn’t hide. He comes back an hour later, sure, but he still comes back. Climbs up the berth, settles into the bunk next to yours. 

Suddenly, it all feels so insufficient. The sheer curtain you could pull between you. The sorry excuse for a wooden divider that barely comes up to your knees. The one hour you have left to figure out what to do. 

What you want. 

You’re gnawing your lower lip, pretending to be very interested in the quaint prefectures flying by. Yuki, whether he’s conscious or not, mimics your stance again. 

For a couple of beats, all you two do is stare out the window. Then, simultaneously—

Your voice is remorseful; Yuki’s, contemplative. “I’m sorry.” 

You both start. You both laugh. It’s an awkward sound, but it makes things a little easier. 

“You first,” you say, and Yuki concedes without resistance. 

“I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” he says. “You don’t owe me anything. I—I don’t know much, just that I left that plane really hoping to hear from you.”

There’s a twinge in your chest, put there by the sincerity in Yuki’s words. “I know,” you say, and he shoots you a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Do you know how bad I was?” 

“How bad?” 

“I spent an entire night looking up academic conferences in Tokyo.” He laughs, self-deprecating but unyielding. It’s just a fact to him, just a story being pressed into your palm. “I tried to find the one you might be at.” 

But it’s not just a fact or a story to you. You try to imagine Yuki, folded over in some Tokyo hotel, scrolling through SNS  page after page of conferences in hopes of finding you. Finding you. “That’s crazy,” you say through the ringing in your ears.  

“Well, I’ve always been a little crazy,” he says casually, as if he hasn’t just tilted your world on its axis. 

The conversation lulls as the train speakers crackle. There’s an announcement, first, in Japanese, then heavily accented English. We will be arriving at Izumo station in thirty minutes. 

A ticking time bomb. Half an hour of honesty.

“Your turn,” Yuki urges gently. Like he, too, might detonate the time bomb by dissecting what’s still unsaid between you two. “What are you sorry for?” 

A lot of things, you think, but you decide on the most glaring one. “That I didn’t text.” 

Yuki doesn’t smile, but it’s a close thing. Something on his face seems to ask, We’re still stuck on that?

You are, very much so. You’ll be stuck on it until it’s out of your system, until Yuki understands.

“Are you about to tell me why you didn’t?” he challenges. 

You hedge him with a taunt. “If you ask nicely.” 

He chuckles. It sounds far too fond to be mistaken for anything outside affection. You’re not expecting him to actually take you up on it; you half-pray he lets it go. Because what business did Yuki Tsunoda have begging you for—

“Please.” 

There’s no shame on his face. Just an earnest sort of thing, a reverence you don’t deserve. It makes you burn from the inside. 

Yuki is asking you. Not commanding, not demanding. Asking, testing, seeing how much you’ll give and how much you’ll hold back.

And maybe you’re tired of holding back.

You take a deep breath. Steel your nerves.

“It’s not because I found out you’re Japan’s golden child,” you mumble. “It’s—it’s the numbers.” 

“The numbers.” You feel the tips of your ears flare at the way Yuki repeats the words. That heady mix of amusement, confusion, disappointment. Here we go again, he’s probably thinking, because he knows you but doesn’t know you.

He knows you enough to recognize that numbers matter to you, but he doesn’t know what numbers you’re talking about just yet. 

So you let him fucking know. 

Inhale. 

“40% of couples in long-distance relationships break up,” you blurt out, ignoring the way his eyes widen imperceptibly. “Usually, they already start seeing cracks four months in—” 

He says your name as a low laugh escapes him. That burns, too. How your name sounds on his lips. How you’ve liked the sound of it since that very first time, months and months ago.

You go on, “—and I looked it up too. Love at first sight has happened to about 60% of people. That may seem like a big number, but the results are inconclusive—”

He says your name again. A little more perplexed, this time.

You ignore him again. Breathless, red-faced, with your heart at your damn feet, you keep going. “—and I don’t know how to do this,” you say, that damn helplessness rearing its head. “Numbers don’t hurt you. People do. I don’t want us to end up as a statistic in some grad student’s study about why Formula One drivers can’t date.” 

Exhale.

He stares at you. You stare at him. Japan flies by; the world spins on. 

The time bomb ticks, ticks, ticks. 

His next words are a statement, not a question. “You didn’t text me.” 

It’s your turn to look at him like he’s beating a dead horse. “We’ve established that,” you say dryly. 

“That means the statistical probability of you texting me was zero,” he says before you’ve even finished your sentence. “Is that right?” 

You wince. There’s a lot of things you could say about hypotheses, about sample sizes, about his gross misuse of the term ‘probability’, but you’ll let him have this. It’s a callback to the scribbled note, the one you answered with your silence. 

“Right,” you respond.

He changes the whole equation with his next question. “How much of you wanted to text me?” he asks, his eyes a little wild, his hands clenched into fists in his lap.

Because this—this is the question that mattered. 

Not why didn’t you text, not what would have happened if I had. He’s asking about the nights you spent staring at the newly saved contact, about the moments you typed out something only to hit backspace. That Google search you made about How to text first. That one evening you got drunk and contemplated outright calling, just to see if he would pick. 

Countless variables. Endless numbers. 

How much of you wanted to text Yuki?

“A hundred percent,” you answer, and he melts. 

Not in an obvious way. His shoulders slouch forward; his hands stop fidgeting. He takes in a shaky breath, the sound of it rattling in his chest, and then he stares straight at you like it’s the last time he’s going to get to do it. 

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he confesses. Your heart damn near stops in your chest.

“What’s stopping you?” 

If it’s a matter of distance, you’ll close it. You’ll climb into his bunk and kiss him senseless if you have to. You mean to say all that, except Yuki’s laughing, his head thrown back and his brow scrunched, and you don’t want to miss a moment of that joy. 

You watch. You wait. You crack a grin when he manages, voice tinged with frustration, “Fucking Isack had me trying all these crazy ramen flavors. I think you deserve more than a garlic-flavored kiss.” 

And now you’re giggling, too, because Hadjar had tried to set you up but was also ultimately the one blocking your paths. You and Yuki probably look insane—weathering this laughing fit as the overhead speaker announces you’ll be at the end station shortly. 

You have an itinerary. Plans. Bookings. You’re not about to rearrange that for Yuki, just as much as you don’t want him to ditch his friend for your sake. You give the boy the next best thing. 

“Okay,” you say. “Next time, then.” 

Yuki chokes on air mid-laugh. “Next time?” he repeats, and, oh. 

The hope in his tone is enough to make you think garlic-flavored first kiss be damned. You’ll do it. You just want to see if his smile tastes as good as it looks, as good as it sounds.

You hold yourself back. Barely. 

You’ll take your chances instead. Any chance you have with Yuki—no matter how small it may be—you’ll take it. 

You fish out your phone from your pocket. Yuki watches, bewildered, until you show him your screen. A text, sent mere seconds ago, starting a conversation thread with a contact named Yuki 🐮✈️🚗—

next time. ⛐

[gay-dorito-dust]

i love your hc’s about dante and reader being Nero’s parents!! can we get a backstory on how they became his found parents or more hc’s about dante and reader being Nero’s parents?

you and dante had found Nero at an orphanage in the town of Fortuna after a mission, the boy with the glowing demonic arm and white hair that made his blue eyes pop obviously had sparda heratige. There was no doudt about that, especially not to Dante, who was hellbent on giving him the upbringing he deserved.

You pretty much punched someone for calling Nero a ‘child of the devil’ nobody insults your baby and gets away with it.

Dante did the exact same thing when another person called him devil spawn for having such an unsightly arm, an arm only belonging to that of the devil itself. He didn’t take too kindly to religious folk spouting their bigoted rhetoric, especially towards a small child like Nero who was giving you flowers he had plucked from the ground.

Neither of you mess about when it came to Nero and you both were sure as shit to make it known to all that if they spoke ill of your son, they’d have you and Dante to answer to or walk away with a busted nose.

‘Are you my new family?’ Baby Nero asked, his big blue eyes peering up at you and Dante’s he tried to hide his glowing arm behind his back, but was stoped when you grabbed both of his tiny hands within his own and smiled.

‘Yes we are my sweet boy, and you’ll never have to fight for your spot at the table nor second guess yourself or your worth. Not anymore.’ You tell him as you pressed a kiss to his head. ‘Your family Nero and family never give up on each other, never.’

‘Yeah kiddo, you’re stuck with us.’ Dante says as he ruffles Nero’s hair, causing the boy to pout and swat away his hand but it was clear to you and Dante that he was happy to finally having gotten out of the orphanage when he did.

You spoil baby Nero rotten by getting him whether you he wanted while cuddling and smothering your baby boy in kisses until he was laughing, trying to push you away as Dante watched from the doorway, happy to see his little family he was blessed to get back home to after each mission.

It was something that Dante didn’t think he’d ever get with how fucked his life had been thus far, but he was grateful that you had given him a chance and stay long enough to the point where you now have a son that you two would absolutely go to war for just to see smile.

He had to pinch himself most days, hoping that this wasn’t a dream he’d wake up from, alone and without a loving partner and a sweet little boy who’d he knew would one day grow up into a man who’d teach him a few things later on in life. Either way he didn’t want to wake up alone, so he joins you and little Nero by bringing you both into his arms as it was his turn to shower you both in kisses, his stubble tickling you both as you and baby Nero were left laughing and melting into his strong protective arms.

‘I’m thankful for you both’ was a phrase that came out of Dante’s mouth more often then not as he tucks you both into bed, kissing you both on your foreheads before joining you and Nero and holding you to his chest while you held Nero close to yours, a small family sharing a crappy bed but none of that mattered when you were together.

Baby Nero did get a little cheeky sometimes and had eaten some of Dante’s strawberry sundae once, he was immediately proven guilty by Dante as he wiped the melted ice cream from Nero’s cheek, gave it a sniff and knew that his son had taken a little bite out of his strawberry sundae that he had been saving for a while.

Yet he could never bring himself to be mad when Nero was most likely suffering from a brain freeze, and decided to hold his son close to his chest, kiss his forehead and hum a small tune his mother use to use for him and Vergil just before they went to sleep as the brain freeze subsided and Nero fell asleep within the warm embrace of his newfound father.

From then on Dante would split his sundae with Nero, but making sure the boy didn’t have too much for another brain freeze.

You had come across the scene one too many times where Dante and Nero’s face were smeared in the sweet sundae, looking at you with wide eyes as you laughed at the pair, ruffling their hair as you stole some sundae for yourself before reprimanded Dante for indulging Nero into becoming a sweet tooth like him.

‘Guilty as charged sweetheart.’ He’d show off those little fangs of his that he knew made you go a little nuts.

‘Then you’ll be responsible for when he gets a sugar rush then?’ You asked playfully as you picked up Nero after hearing him yawn, nuzzling his nose with your own as he practically clings onto you, babbling his baby nonsense as you rubbed his back.

‘Do I have you?’ Dante asks, pouting.

You peck his lips. ‘If you’re going to indulge our son, then you’re responsible for what happens when he has one too many strawberry sundaes.’ You tell him sweetly as you pecked his lips once more before walking up the stairs to put Nero to bed.

Dante would tell Nero of the tale of how you and him got together, the half demon and the angel as he’s called it becuase what else would he call it? You were borderline perfect -if not- the definition of perfection in his eyes. He told Nero how you’d fell in love, how you were always there for him and how he recalled fighting Hell itself in order to get you back, all the way to the softer moments where you and Dante would cuddle closely and kiss each other before missions and after missions.

‘Our relationship might not be a normal one in any sense but it’s ours and we love it regardless because we couldn’t ask for anything more then each other.’ He tells the quarter demon, who had only baby babbled at him.

‘Exactly son, exactly.’ Dante replies, acting as though he could understand Nero as the baby squealed and laughed, making the red coated half demon smile himself.

Your family maybe small but you and Dante loved your little family more then anything as you had a family album dedicated to all the moments you got with little baby Nero, mainly to embarrass him in front of his future girlfriend, but that was neither here nor there just yet.

[lushaletta]

miss potions expert / theodore nott

pairing: fem!reader x theodore nott

warnings: criminally mediocre writing, kinda mischievous, silly goofy!reader, theo being posh

summary: you effortlessly fix theo and his friends’ potion, then sabotage it again just for fun. theo’s more rattled by your smirk than the explosion you caused.

a/n: i truly don’t know where i was going with this but it was fun,, i like writing the slytherin boys

⋆ ࣪.  ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

The dungeon reeks of failure.

Theodore Nott stands over the simmering cauldron, his perfectly pressed robes now dusted in sneezewort.

“Is it meant to do that?” Draco raises a brow, staring into the concoction as it hisses and spits like an angry cat. Mattheo snickers.

“This is supposed to be emerald green. The book was very clear,” Theo mutters, frowning at the muddy blue mess before him.

“Yes, well, perhaps the book didn’t anticipate you foolishly adding scurvy grass before the lovage,” a voice drawls from the swung-open dungeon doorway.

Theo turns, irritation flaring, but his words die on his lips when he sees you.

You lean against the stone wall like you own the place, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. Your robes are a tad frayed at the ends, sleeves rolled and hair messy in a way that says you’ve either come from detention or caused one.

“Oh, good,” he starts, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Miss Potions Expert has arrived.”

You saunter in without waiting for an invitation, peering into the cauldron with mild amusement. “You know this isn’t a Confusing Draught, right? What you’ve got here is dangerously close to… well, something explosive.”

The boys exchange glances you can’t quite understand.

“And I suppose you think you could do better?” Theo says coolly.

You shoot him a lopsided grin. “I know I can. Move.”

Theo doesn’t make any move to slide over. You huff and push him aside, kneeling beside the cauldron, muttering under your breath as you survey the damage of his silly mistakes. Mattheo and Lorenzo murmur to each other, something about how furious Theo looks.

You stir counterclockwise, slowly pouring in more lovage and a dash of lacewing flies. The potion immediately settles, morphing into a green that shimmers just right in the torchlight.

Theo’s eyes widen, his friends swapping looks between you and him, and then at each other.

“You’re welcome,” you say impatiently, waiting for a thank you that you know won’t come.

He scoffs, inspecting the brew from the ladle. “How did you do that?” he says, disregarding the expectant expression on your face.

“I’ve made like a hundred of these before. Good prank stuff.”

His brows furrow, staring at you like you’re an alien. He blinks twice. “You’ve used these on people?”

“Only those deserving,” you say sweetly, lacing your hands together as you sway.

For a moment, Theo’s face changes. His lips twitch, a laugh threatening to slip out and ruin his awfully aristocratic act. He mentally curses himself because he knows you’ve caught it.

“What’s your name?” he says, swallowing, his pride going down with the lump in his throat.

You raise your brow. “Depends.”

“On?”

“If you’re going to thank me or not.” He scoffs and you wonder how many times a day he does that. You take it as a no. You give him another chance, anticipating. He doesn’t crack. “Then it’s Have-Fun-Fixing-This,” you say quickly, tossing a purple liquid into the cauldron, effectively maddening the potion once again.

Theo’s jaw goes slack as you skip out of the room, not bothering to shut the door. The sound of your trainers pattering against the cold floor mixes with the sizzle of the ruined concoction, the faint scent of mischief trailing behind you like smoke.

Enzo’s hysterical laugh breaks the quiet. “She’s awesome.”

Mattheo joins in. “I might be in love with her.”

He shoots his friends a glare, like they’re saying something they shouldn’t be. Enzo takes notice. “Chill, she’s all yours.”

Theo’s harsh stare lingers a beat too long. “She is not—”

“Yours?” Mattheo finishes, grinning.

Theo doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs his wand and begins a cleaning spell over the cauldron, but the potion hisses louder, as if mocking him. The spell fails to do much of anything, other than deepen the green into an aggressive chartreuse.

Enzo whistles. “Yeah, that’s definitely explosive now.”

Theo exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenched. But even as the cauldron bubbles over again, onto his expensive, perfectly polished shoes, his mind is elsewhere—on the swing of your skip as you left, on the sly grin you gave him before ruining his potion on purpose. On how you didn’t even bother giving your name.

“She’ll be back,” Enzo adds, like it’s comfort, leaning against the table.

Draco nods. “No way someone like that just walks in once and vanishes.”

Theo doesn’t say anything, but he can still smell the ghost of what could be your perfume, could be remnants of chaos. He knows they’re right.

People like you don’t just vanish.

You explode back into their lives exactly when they least expect it.

[starshideurfics]

Make a Wish

a follow up to these breeding kink ficlets

steddie, mpreg, wish pussy, wish baby, mdni🔞

Steve knows it’s stupid, that birthday wishes don’t come true. Not when he wished for a puppy on his 8th birthday so he would always have someone to hug, not when he wished for his dad to make it to one basketball game his freshman year, and definitely not now with this impossible wish.

But Robin said he should wish for what he really wants, that all the near-death experiences mean the universe owes them, like karmically. And Dustin made him a cake, counted out the candles, promised they weren’t going to reignite and ruin his wish.

His life is a mess, so different from where he thought he’s be, but he’s happier, too. There’s just one thing that would make him even happier. One insane, impossible, incredible thing that his newly 19-year-old heart wants more than anything.

Steve stares down the candles, flickering yellow flames and drips of pastel blue wax. He takes a deep breath, filling his swimmer’s lung capacity until his chest aches, and blows. He makes sure he gets every single candle as he thinks:

I wish I could have Eddie Munson’s baby.

Watching the smoke rise from the wicks, Steve smiles as Robin says, “I hope it comes true.”

“Yeah!” Dustin agrees, already picking the candles from the cake, before completely changing gears. “You’re still able to pick me up after Hellfire tomorrow?”

“What else would I be doing?” Steve answers with a roll of his eyes. Of course Dustin idolizes Eddie, is friends with Eddie, and being Dustin’s ride has put him more in Eddie Munson’s orbit than he ever was at Hawkins High. Steve has a whole routine now: work his dayshift at Family Video, take his fifteen during the last 30 minutes in the staff bathroom, jerk off to fantasies of Eddie eating him out, then drive to pick up Dustin all loose-limbed, waiting for his chance to catch Eddie’s eye.

He never does anything more than nod, a tiny gesture of thanks for looking out for the boy who has become his brother, and Eddie will nod back, that shared understanding. One time Dustin even said he should talk to him, that they were both so cool and should be friends. Steve brushed him off, too afraid of it backfiring… Of Eddie deciding Steve was a normie loser and telling him to fuck off.

It’s easier to dream of what he wants, to have his little fantasies. That’s all the wish really was anyway.

🎂🎂🎂

That night, Steve has one of his usual pregnancy dreams, the kind where he’s just got a bit of a bump and Eddie makes love to him with a hand cradling his belly, holding their baby. He wakes up sticky, underwear full of cum, still half-hard with an ache at his taint. Steve wishes he had time to finger himself, to relieve a bit of his need to be full, but he can’t.

Instead, he showers and dresses, tosses his work vest in the passenger seat, and drives in for his lonely, dull dayshift. It isn’t a deal day, so he’ll be surprised if anyone comes in before noon.

So, he obviously startles when the bell over the door jingles at 10:30.

Then his heart just about stops as Eddie Munson swaggers in and says, “Hey, Harrington,” like it isn’t the first time he’s ever directly spoken to Steve.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” Steve says, losing control of his mouth.

Eddie tilts his head to the side, like a confused puppy, even though his eyes say he’s very sure of himself. “I’m skipping Trig, can ya blame me?”

“No,” Steve says with a nod of understanding. “But why are you here? I can think of about a hundred better places to be while cutting cl-”

“I’m here for you, Steve.”

“What? Why?”

Eddie shrugs, lazy smile on his lips. “Henderson said it was your birthday-”

“Yesterday.”

“And I figure you deserve a little something special to celebrate,” he says, pulling a zip top bag from his pocket to show off the pair pre-rolls inside and waving it in front of Steve’s face.

“Can’t, man. Not while I’m at work. Keith will just… Know.”

“Keith needs to get over himself.” Eddie returns the baggie of joints to his pocket, and leans across the counter. “But I getcha. You could swing by my place for them after you drop Dustin at home. Maybe hang out a bit.” He grins up at Steve, a glint in his eye that feels like flirting.

Steve swallows, feels that tightness in his balls, clenches his asshole. Their faces are so close together; it would be so easy to lean in and press their mouths together. To finally taste the plush lips that live 24/7 in his brain.

He doesn’t. But he nods and says, “Okay. Yeah, tonight.”

“See you then, hot stuff.” Eddie pushes himself back to standing and leaves with a salute.

Steve watches him through the windows, until Eddie climbs into his van and drives away. Then he switches the sign to closed and takes his 15, needing to jerk off right that minute.

🎂🎂🎂

Steve can’t believe he’s knocking on Eddie’s door all these hours later.

He’d floated through the rest of the day in a daze, Robin throwing multiple crumpled up receipts at his head once her shift started, as Steve was spending more time in his daydreams than in the real world. Driving was enough of a thing to focus on to keep him present, and then the anticipation as he parked.

He’s of half a mind to turn around, even after rapping his knuckles against the door, because what even is this? Steve’s been pining for YEARS and he makes a stupid wish on his birthday candles and suddenly the object of all his secret desires wants to hang? It makes no sense.

But if this is the thing that gets him closer to Eddie, he has to take it.

And he’s still pretty sure Eddie was flirting with him this morning…

“Hey, come on in,” Eddie says, a little breathless as he opens the door. He’s got a different shirt on now than he had when Steve saw him in the parking lot twenty minutes ago, like he needed to freshen up for him. Eddie touches Steve’s shoulder, guides him inside, and Steve is pretty sure every one of his nerve endings is on high alert. He wants so badly to lean into the touch, and after a second’s hesitation, he does.

Eddie takes that as permission to squeeze before releasing Steve and sending him to sit on the couch. “Make yourself at home.” The joints are already waiting on the little coffee table.

“Thanks,” Steve says with his most charming smile, as he plucks up one of the joints and places it between his lips. He’s about to dig his own lighter from his pocket when Eddie takes a handful of steps to cross the room, offering a light. “Thanks,” Steve says again, softer this time as he leans forward and waits for the tip to catch.

He leans back to take a drag, dares to glance up as he exhales the smoke from his lungs. Eddie’s mouth is hanging open as he stares down at Steve. “What?” Steve asks, holding to joint out to him. “Something on my face?”

Eddie shakes his head emphatically and takes the joint, inhaling deeply, talking through his exhale, a grumbled, “I was gonna be cool,” only to choke on the smoke. Decidedly uncool of him.

Not that Steve cares in the slightest. “I’m not worth being cool for,” he murmurs.

“Don’t say that.” Eddie rubs at his watering eyes. “Henderson basically worships the ground you walk on, you always make time for him and Sinclair, and Buckley is-” He cuts himself short, like he has more to say—more he knows—but he knows he shouldn’t. “I’m just saying, you’re a good dude, and you’re so-”

“What?” Steve stands, taking the joint back and leaning into Eddie’s space, hoping beyond hope that he’s reading the situation right.

“Beautiful,” Eddie breathes, eyes darting between Steve’s eyes and his lips before squeezing them shut, like he’s preparing for a punch.

Lifting a hand, Steve cups Eddie’s cheek, feels the stubble beneath his palm, and closes his eyes as he brings their mouths together.

The kiss is slow to start, but soon enough Eddie is kissing him back with abandon. Both his hands cradle Steve’s face, guiding him to sit, the joint carefully abandoned in an ashtray. Once Eddie has joined him on the couch, Steve takes charge again, climbing into his lap and grinding down against him.

They’re both hard, Eddie moaning into Steve’s mouth, a whining sound, pleading without words. Eddie is the one to break first, taking huge, gasping breaths as he stares up at Steve in awe. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Steve whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What else do you want, Steve?”

“Just you,” he says, leaning down for another greedy kiss and rutting their clothed dicks together. “God, Eddie, want you to fuck me.”

“I’m dreaming. This can’t be real. You can’t be real.” Eddie traces a thumb over Steve’s cheek and down to his lips.

“I’m real, and I really want you.” Steve catches Eddie’s hand, and brings it down to press against his crotch. “I’m hard for you. Only for you.”

“Steve…” He sounds unsure, but Eddie’s fingers are on Steve’s fly, popping the button, pulling down the zipper.

“Touch me, Eddie.”

“Steve…” This time he says his name like a prayer, his fingers slipping inside Steve’s jeans, under the waistband of his underwear. His knuckles brush against Steve’s dick and they both shiver. “Something about you speaks to my- to my soul. Something in the back of my mind.” He swallows hard, and Steve guides his hand to grip his shaft.

Neither of them needs much to climax now, but it isn’t what Steve wants. “Take me to bed, Eddie,” he murmurs. “Strip me down and fill me up. I want you to fuck me, make me feel you everywhere.”

Eddie doesn’t need to be asked again. Together, they fumble and stumble, awkward as they rush down the hall to Eddie’s room. They continue to rush, helping each other from their clothes, two young men panting for air as hungry eyes rove over naked bodies. Steve plops down on the bed, putting himself eye to eye with Eddie’s leaking cock.

He looks up, asking for permission with a glance, and when Eddie gives it, he delicately kisses the head and takes it into his mouth. Just the warmth of his mouth, the wetness, is enough to make Eddie jerk forward, but Steve is careful and moves with him, hand around the shaft. “Too much?” he asks when he pulls off.

“If you’re serious about me fucking you,” Eddie says, his dark eyes nearly black with wanting.

Steve is quick to nod, knows it will be easier on his stomach so Eddie has better access, and he turns, leaning heavily onto the mattress, feet on the floor.

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, “Beautiful like this, too.” Then he laughs when Steve wiggles his ass as seductively as he can manage, and pets a hand over his flank. “I’m coming, sweetheart, just gotta grab a rubber.”

“No, don’t.”

“Steve?”

“I want to feel everything. Please.” Steve can feel hot tears clinging to his lashes, and hopes Eddie doesn’t notice. “Want you to come inside me.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees, voice small. “Still need lube, okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers shakily. He needs to be wet for Eddie, wants it to feel good for them both, and the ache in his taint is back. The need makes him clench, feels like his entire crotch is squeezing—

A hand caresses his right asscheck. “You sure about this?” Eddie asks softly.

Steve unclenches. “Yes. Want you so bad it hurts.”

The hand moves, thumb sliding between his cheeks and moving one to the side, exposing his hole and—

Eddie’s breath catches, thumb sliding lower, skirting past his asshole and down to press on Steve’s taint.

It gives.

New wetness is exposed to the air as Eddie’s thumb pushes into him. “Steve?”

“Oh my god…”

“Steve… You’ve got a pussy behind your balls.”

“What?” he gasps, clenching again, feeling the muscles grip Eddie’s thumb. “No, I…” He shifts, takes more of Eddie’s thumb inside him. “It came true.”

This time, it’s Eddie’s turn to ask, “What?” all breathy and light.

“I wished for this.”

“You wished for a pussy?”

Steve nods, strains to look over his shoulder, to meet Eddie’s eyes. “So you could fuck me the way I want.”

Something flashes between them, a frisson making the air thick as Eddie withdraws from the warm clutch of Steve’s inexplicable new pussy. He helps Steve to stand, turns him in his arms, and kisses him so gently, like he’s made of porcelain. “Tell me what you really want, Steve.”

“A baby. Your baby.” Eddie kisses him again, nips at his lower lip before letting Steve continue. “I want you to fill me with your cum, want it to catch. I want to hold your hand over my belly so you can feel her kick.”

“Her?”

“Or him. As long as it’s yours and you hold me and lo-” Steve chokes on the last words, tears streaming down his face that Eddie is trying to kiss away.

“Why me?” Eddie asks softly.

“It’s like you said, something in you speaks to my soul, too. You’re handsome and you care so much about everything. You look out for the little guy.” He raises his head, looks directly into Eddie’s eyes as he finishes, “You have a big heart; I hope it can handle me when I’m too much.”

“No such thing as too much of you, sweetheart.”

The kiss after that is slow and sweet, and wet from too many tears. Eventually, it grows heated again, and Eddie lays Steve down on his back, fingers sinking into his pussy and stretching him open. Steve uses one hand to lift his balls out of the way, the other slides into Eddie’s curls, holding him as Eddie’s cock breaches his entrance.

After that it all moves so fast, Eddie comings with a grunt, filling Steve with waves of heat on his final thrusts. Steve wraps his long legs around Eddie’s waist, keeping him inside as long as possible, long enough for Eddie to get hard again, to come again. They fall asleep tangled up in one another, saving their further confessions for the morning.

🎂🎂🎂

Steve and Eddie talk—after Steve calls Robin to report that the most amazing thing happened, but that he’s going to need her help figuring some things out—both a little embarrassed, but pleased to know they both want the same things. It doesn’t take long to decide they’re in this together, and they celebrate with a little cunnilingus, Steve coming and squirting at the same time.

With how much sex they have after that, it comes as no surprise when Steve is suddenly nauseated most days. He’s not sure the at-home test will work for him, but they still try, using the little beakers and double checking the positive result.

Steve cries in Eddie’s arms.

Their wish came true.

[imjustabeanie]

Flowers Exchange

For @tillichan

Dandelion— Are they protective? How would they protect you?

Xavier… protective? Well yes and no. While this man’s default setting is hovering like a very well-dressed, annoyingly handsome guardian angel who doesn’t know the meaning of personal space. He still sometimes bring danger home with him (I am talking about his cooking). You are safe from any enemy except his cooking and tendency to appear behind you. But the thing is, it’s not much in a suffocating way. I mean he doesn’t even tell you that he dealt with someone who targeted you because you’re his lover. But he will stand a little closer when someone’s giving you weird vibes in town. Or the way he always texts if you’re safe even when he left 30 mins ago cuz he got paranoid (spoiler alert he comes back in secret to check). But don’t blame him for this! When you sacrificed the throne, changed planets and waited who knows how long for your love then of course you’ll be protective.

Despite his aloof exterior (if I saw him outside I’d think he’s lost), he’s terrifying to his enemies. If someone actually dared to cross you? Xavier’s whole vibe would shift. That pretty-boy prince aura? Gone. Suddenly you’re looking at the man who’s fought wars across galaxies, and yeah, maybe it’s hot but also terrifying. He’s the kind to settle things with a calm, icy “I suggest you leave. Now.” And yet his hand is ready to take out his sword. Calm him down please. Or else he might do something bad.

But the cutest part? He protects you in ways you don’t even realize. Like learning your allergies so he can steer you away from danger without making a fuss. Or discreetly fixing something at your house and pretending it was “always like that.” (that’s when he knows how to fix it. He’s not as bad as Raf but let’s just say his skills sometimes make the matter worse) He protects your peace by trying to shoulder the hard things so your world stays a little gentler. And if you’re in fatal danger or worse, another mc situation? Then he’ll be this close to throwing hands with fate itself.

Jasmine — What is their biggest fear related to you? Are they insecure about something in your relationship? Do they share their fears/insecurities with you?

Well, with Xavier…his biggest fear? It’s losing you without knowing why. Like, not some big dramatic breakup. But you slowly drifting away, getting quieter, smiling less around him. He worries that one day you’ll wake up and realize you deserve someone simpler. Someone fully human. Someone who doesn’t come with cosmic baggage, weird alien quirks, and centuries of complicated history.

He’d never say it outright at first. He keeps it bottled up in that polite, prince-like smile. But you’d catch it in the little pauses. The way he sometimes double-checks if you’re really okay. The times he looks at you like you’re a fleeting dream he’s scared to hold too tightly. And when he does open up? It’s at night, when you’re curled up together under a blanket, his voice soft and a little hoarse:

“I know…I’m not easy. Sometimes I think you deserve someone less…complicated.”

And you’d have to kiss him quiet. Pull him closer. Remind him he’s not too much, he’s exactly right. He needs that reassurance sometimes—that no, you didn’t settle, you chose him. And every time you tell him? You swear he falls in love with you a little more. You make him believe that all his pain and suffering is worth it.

His other fear is that an mc situation happens again. That he finds himself in that same cycle. Only this time he doesn’t have anything to give (he already gave up his throne) so fate can offer you two another chance in another timeline. Sometimes he finds himself wishing to reincarnate as the same time as you cuz he knows it’ll be painful to see you age while he stays the same…

Daisy — How easy is it to embarrass them? What can you do to fluster them and make them melt?

Xavier? Embarrassed? Hell yeah. Have you seen the bunny card? This man can face down wanderers without blinking but call him by a pet name in public and he’s a tomato. He tries to hide it, to tease you back, but as long as it’s in public he will be flustered. In private it’s another story tho…we’ve seen in some cards how he can be when teased too much

Want to fluster him? One was is to praise him unexpectedly. Doesn’t matter what it’s for, he will immediately malfunction. He tries to play it off cool, runs a hand through his hair, maybe tease you back. But you can see the faint pink creeping up his neck. And one of his habits when flustered is to rub his neck and burry his face in your hair (even blowing raspberries) Bonus points if you say it while tracing his jaw or fixing his collar. He gets flustered when you touch him like that in public. And that’s from a man who insists on holding your hand and hugging you.

Next, use pet names. Especially sappy ones. Call him “my prince,” “darling,” or (if you’re feeling chaotic) “my E.T (you do this when you catch him eating reeses)” and watch him short-circuit. He’ll bury his face in your shoulder or pull you into a hug just to hide how flustered he is. And if you kiss his cheek out of nowhere, or worse, his lips? Congratulations, Xavier.exe has stopped working. Don’t do that while he’s in battle tho. He’d still win but will be very distracted.

Now, people might think he doesn’t like it cuz…He’s embarrassed, sure, but he also walks around the rest of the day glowing like he just won the cosmic lottery. He won’t even hide the marks you could possibly leave.

Now to finish this off…spoiler alert, he will get back at you once you two are home.

[i-like-media]

THIS episode was DOCTOR WHO again, finally! Inua Ellams is the only one this season who understands how to properly weave politics and social commentary into a story without completely taking you out of it. BY FAR my favourite 15th doctor episode!

There are so many good things I can say about this episode, but I need to talk about how utterly shite the other episodes have been first to fully drive home how phenomenal this episode was..

The robot revolution builds up this whole story about this oppressive world being ruled by robots, you know how it goes... There is a mystery with Belinda and you want to know why they need HER of all people. the story builds up and up and then towards the end it makes the big reveal that, the problem isn't oppressive dictators or the system of a society that oppresses a certain group of individuals......... it's incels. Yeah the truest and purest form of evil is incels and they should just be turned back to a sperm and killed with a vacuum cleaner YES QUEEN. I'm sorry. Since when has ANYONE been the ultimate evil in doctor who besides the Daleks and Cybermen. Why does this guy not deserve a second chance? Especially since you can look up studies about how guys in Incel communities are also really hurt people and that they can get OUT of this mindset with proper help? Why did that one alien that looked into the time vortex and became an egg get a second chance, but this guy should just be sucked up and killed? miss me with that. but you think, oh that's just one episode. what does the next one have to say?

Lux has a whole scene that takes you out of the narrative with doctor who fans who have a whole conversation with him about how he's fiction and also these are their favourite episodes. Scene went on way too long and made me forget what they were even there for again.

The well is just a good story thank god

then we have Lucky Day..... There's once again a whole narrative going on with aliens. there's a mystery, you get invested. But turns out, the whole problem isn't aliens who want to eat you, it's cancel culture! yep! oooooh the scary people online that are writing google docs about you and making podcasts! ooooh wouldn't it be scary if they ENTERED YOUR HOUSE and tried to TAUNT you right to your face? It reads as a vent episode the writer wrote after he got some negativity online. Instead of adding nuance and asking "where do these opinions come from? Is there any truth in what people are saying", they are instead all painted as outrageous villains who want to DESTROY UNIT. It's completely ridiculous and I should've expected nothing less from the person who wrote Kerblam! Had an eerily similar message when you think about it.

The Story & the Engine is FINALLY another breath of fresh air and a story that's WRITTEN WELL ENOUGH to not take you OUT OF THE NARRATIVE WITH ITS MESSAGES. This episode has perfectly woven it into the story! It is up front about what it's about, honest, and the story moves along with it. It is about the unique alienation black people experience and the tight COMMUNITY that formed because of it. It is about black hardships and tales of horror that shall forever be tightly bound to one's heart. It is about the meaning and value of black hair and the stories each strand carries. It is about what drives us and what keeps us alive. and just, so much more. When it mentions slavery, village fires, racism, the black community and how horrible the internet is, it doesn't feel like it's supposed to be a shock or like something the show is trying to score social points for. It's just, the narrative. It's life. Every day life, casual but awful facts. It focuses on the beautiful people born from it and the innovative ways people survived it. THAT is empowering. Every show and movie should take notes. THIS IS HOW IT'S DONE!

Inua Ellams, everyone.

[thirteenheavens]

hi icon! could you pleasepleasepleaseplease do a part 2 for NDA (i hope noone has asked you yet i dont wanna be annoying 😭😭)

NDA Part Two || Song Mingi x Reader

Notes: damn you guys wanted this one badly as well hehe you ask and I deliver hope you guys enjoy!!

Word counts: 2.5k+

Part 1

"No, Mingi. I can't do this anymore," you snap, moving away from him. "I deserve better than to be hidden away and paid for my silence. You may have money, but I have my dignity."

He flinches at your words, but continues to try and reason with you. "I didn't mean for things to get this complicated. I care about you, and I'll make it up to you. Just stay and talk to me." You shake your head, grabbing your purse and heading for the door. "There's nothing left to talk about. This was a mistake from the beginning."

As you walk out, Mingi calls after you one last time. "Y/N, wait! Please!" But you don't look back, letting the door close behind you with a finality that echoes through the hallway. Day after day, Mingi's texts and calls flood your phone. Each notification a reminder of the affair you shared and the emotional turmoil it caused.

"I can't stop thinking about you," "Please, just give me another chance," "I'll do anything to make things right." His words become increasingly desperate and needy. You ignore every message, deleting them without reading. The pain of your brother's anger and Mingi's betrayal still fresh in your mind. Weeks pass and the constant stream of notifications begins to slow down, though he never completely gives up. Each time you think about blocking his number, memories of his touch and whispered promises resurface.

Then the gifts start coming.The gifts become more extravagant with each passing day - designer clothes, jewelry, expensive chocolates, and more. They're delivered with the same message: "I'm sorry. Please forgive me." The flowers arrive daily, each bouquet more grand than the last. "Thinking of you," "Missing your smile," "I love you." His words haunt you, making it harder to resist the pull of his affections.

You know you should tell him to stop, but something keeps stopping you. A small part of you still feels drawn to him despite everything that happened. The gifts and messages continue relentlessly, slowly chipping away at your resolve to stay away from him.

The sound of rain pelting against your window is interrupted by frantic knocking on your door. You hesitate, knowing exactly who it is. But the desperate pleading and sobbing coming from the other side breaks your heart, and you find yourself opening the door to see Mingi completely drenched and shaking.

"Please... please let me in," he begs through his tears. "I can't take it anymore. I need to see you, to talk to you." His clothes are soaked through, clinging to his body as he stands there looking completely broken. The sight tugs at your heartstrings, and you step aside, allowing him to enter.

"Mingi, you shouldn't be here," you say softly, wrapping a towel around his shoulders. "You need to go home and get dry." He shakes his head, gripping the towel tightly. "No, I can't leave until we talk. I've tried everything else, but I can't stop thinking about you. Please, just listen to me." His eyes are red and puffy from crying, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. "I made a mistake with the NDA," he confesses. "I never meant to hurt you or make you feel like a secret. You mean so much more to me than that."

"I know I messed up," Mingi continues, his voice cracking with emotion. "But being without you these past weeks has been torture. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't function without you." He takes a step closer, reaching out to touch your face. "I love you, Y/N. I love everything about you - your smile, your strength, your loyalty. I don't care about the scandal anymore, I just want to be with you openly." His wet clothes drip onto the floor as he stands before you, vulnerable and exposed. "Please give me another chance. I'll do anything to prove how much you mean to me."

"Mingi, I..." you start, your heart torn between your feelings and the pain he caused. "I can't just forget everything that happened. The lies, the secrets, the NDA..." He drops to his knees in front of you, looking up with desperate eyes. "I know, I know. And I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Just please, please tell me you still have feelings for me." His hands grip your waist tightly, as if afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. The rain continues pouring outside, creating a fitting backdrop for this emotional scene.

"I do still have feelings for you," you admit softly, running your fingers through his wet hair. "But that doesn't mean I trust you completely." Mingi nods, understanding in his eyes. "I'll earn your trust back. I'll show you every day that you can trust me with your heart." He rests his forehead against your stomach, his voice muffled against your clothes. "Just give me one more chance. One more chance to love you properly."

"Please let me kiss you," Mingi whispers, looking up at you with raw vulnerability. "Just once. Just to remind myself what it feels like to be close to you." His hands slide up your sides, resting gently on your hips as he waits for your response. The tension between you is palpable, the rain outside providing a rhythmic background to the moment. You hesitate for a moment longer, but something in his expression - the longing, the desperation, the genuine love - breaks down your defenses.

"Just one kiss," you whisper back, giving him permission with a slight nod. "And then we're talking about boundaries." Mingi stands up slowly, his hands still on your waist as he leans in. His lips brush against yours softly at first, almost hesitantly, as if afraid you'll change your mind. But once the kiss starts, it deepens quickly. The pent-up emotions from weeks apart explode between you, and Mingi pulls you closer against him, his hands gripping your back possessively.

The kiss becomes more passionate, fueled by months of suppressed desire and longing. Mingi's hands roam your body hungrily, reacquainting themselves with every curve. He pushes you against the wall, his body pressed firmly against yours as he devours your mouth with years of pent-up need. The rain outside creates a symphony of background noise to your passionate reunion.

"God, I've missed this," he murmurs against your lips, one hand sliding down to cup your thigh. "I've missed you." You respond by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer as the kiss grows more heated. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you up effortlessly.

The feeling of his body against yours is overwhelming, making you remember why you fell for him in the first place. Despite everything that happened, the chemistry between you is still electric. Mingi breaks the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. "I need you," he whispers against your skin, his voice hoarse with desire. "Please tell me you need me too."

"I do need you," you breathe out, tangling your fingers in his wet hair. "But we can't just pretend the past few weeks didn't happen." Mingi freezes at your words, his forehead pressed against your shoulder. "I know," he admits quietly. "But right now, all I want is to be with you. To feel you, to hold you, to make love to you."

His hands continue roaming your body, but with more tenderness now. "Let me show you how much you mean to me," he pleads softly. "Please." Mingi follows your gaze to the bedroom door, then looks back at you with a mix of hope and desire. Without another word, he carries you towards the bedroom, his strong arms supporting your weight.

Once inside, he sets you down gently on the bed and starts unbuttoning his wet shirt. "I need to get these clothes off," he says, his fingers trembling slightly. "They're soaked through." The sight of him undressing in front of you stirs something deep within you, and you watch as his muscular chest is revealed inch by inch.

"You're beautiful," you whisper, reaching out to help him remove his shirt. Your hands trace over his defined abs, the contact sending sparks through your fingertips. Mingi shivers at your touch, his breath catching in his throat. "No, you're the beautiful one," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you again.

His bare skin presses against yours as he climbs onto the bed, his weight comforting and familiar. The rain continues outside, but inside this room, there's only heat and desire building between you. Mingi's lips move down your neck, across your collarbone, and to the exposed skin of your chest. His hands push your clothes up, revealing more of your skin to his hungry touch.

"I've dreamed about this every night," he confesses between kisses, his voice thick with emotion. "About touching you, tasting you, making you mine again." His fingers deftly undo the buttons of your shirt, sliding it off your shoulders. "You're perfect," he breathes out, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in the sight of your bare skin.

His lips follow the path of his hands, trailing hot kisses down your chest and stomach. "I want to worship every inch of you," he whispers against your skin. Mingi slowly strips you bare, his hands trembling slightly as he reveals your body. The heat in his gaze intensifies with each article of clothing that falls away.

"God, you're even more beautiful than I remembered," he says reverently, his fingers tracing patterns over your exposed skin. "I've missed every part of you." His lips follow his fingers, leaving a trail of kisses down your body as he positions himself between your legs. "Let me taste you," he murmurs, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. Mingi spreads your legs wider, his tongue tracing lazy circles on your inner thighs. Your body responds instantly to his touch, already aching with need.

"You're already so wet for me," he whispers, his hot breath fanning across your core. "So ready." Without warning, he buries his face between your thighs, his tongue delving deep into your folds. The feeling is overwhelming, making you arch up against his mouth as pleasure courses through your body.

"Mingi... oh god," you moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he devours you. His tongue works expertly, flicking over your clit in just the way he knows drives you wild. He groans against your flesh, the vibrations sending shivers through your entire body. "I could stay here forever," he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. "Tasting you, feeling you come undone."

His pace increases, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your hips rock against his face, desperate for more friction. Mingi senses you getting close, his tongue moving faster and more insistently against your clit. His fingers dig into your thighs as he holds you in place, determined to make you fall apart.

"Come for me," he commands huskily, looking up at you with dark eyes. "Let go, Y/N. I want to feel you come on my tongue." The pressure builds inside you until it becomes too much, and with a loud cry, you shatter completely. Your body convulses against his mouth as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you trembling and breathless. Mingi guides you through your orgasm, prolonging it with gentle licks and kisses. When your body finally stops shaking, he crawls up your body, his eyes full of love and desire.

"You're amazing," he whispers, capturing your lips in a deep kiss so you can taste yourself on his tongue. "I've missed making you feel like that." His hard length presses against your thigh, reminding you that he's still half dressed. "Now it's my turn to feel good," he says with a smirk, reaching for his belt buckle. Mingi quickly removes his pants and boxers, revealing his thick, throbbing cock. He settles between your legs again, his bare skin pressing against yours.

"I need to be inside you," he growls against your ear, positioning himself at your entrance. "Need to feel you surrounding me." Without waiting for a response, he thrusts into you in one smooth motion, filling you completely. The sensation makes you gasp, and you cling to his shoulders as he starts moving.

"You're so tight," he groans, his hips snapping against yours with increasing intensity. "So perfect." Mingi sets a punishing pace, his hips slamming into yours with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your shared moans and whimpers.

"Fuck, I've missed this," he pants out, burying his face in your neck. "Missed feeling you tighten around me like this." He hits that perfect spot deep inside you, making stars explode behind your eyelids. His movements become more erratic as he nears his release, his control slipping.

"Harder," you beg, your nails digging into his back. "Fuck me harder, Mingi." He groans at your words, his pace becoming almost brutal as he obeys your command. "You're so demanding," he manages to say through gritted teeth, one hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit.

"But I love it. I love how greedy you get for me." His thrusts become more forceful, each one sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. The room is filled with the sounds of your moans and the wet slapping of skin as Mingi pounds into you relentlessly. His fingers work magic on your clit, driving you closer and closer to another orgasm.

"I'm close," he warns, his voice strained. "Come with me, baby. Come with me again." He angles his hips to hit your g-spot perfectly, and the added stimulation is too much for you to handle. Your walls flutter around him as you scream his name, your second orgasm crashing over you like a wave.

Mingi follows right behind you, his cock pulsing as he empties himself deep inside you. He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing heavily and covered in sweat. Mingi nuzzles into your neck, still buried inside you as you both come down from your high. His heartbeat thunders against your chest, gradually slowing back to a normal pace.

"That was... incredible," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses along your jawline. "Better than I remembered." He shifts slightly to look at you, his expression soft and vulnerable. "I love you, Y/N. I'll never stop loving you."

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin as he holds you close, as if afraid this moment might end and take you away again. Mingi pulls back slightly, looking at you with serious eyes. "No more NDA," he says firmly. "No more secrets. I'm done hiding us from the world."

He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "I want everyone to know you're mine. I want to take you out, hold your hand, kiss you in public. All of it." His gaze is intense, filled with determination and love. "I don't care what anyone else thinks. You're worth it, Y/N. You're worth fighting for."

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

April: Another Chance to Fly

AU Types- Sports AU/Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Bilbo and Thorin had a chance to show the world of figure skating how a hobbit and dwarf can be the greatest, when a tragic accident lost them a world title and subsequently their careers. Four years later, Bilbo is ready to make another run at it, but will he be able to convince Thorin to shake off the trauma of the moment to give him another chance to fly?

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

“Just another chance to fly.” 

It was a phrase Bilbo used often, and it had stuck with him. Something of a mantra they would say right before heading out onto the ice. It was the last good moment Thorin could remember before everything went terribly, terribly wrong.

It was all just flashes of sights and sounds to Thorin now. Pieces of his memory that refused to go away no matter how hard he tried. The horrified screams from the crowd somehow louder than the track to their dance they didn’t quite realize should be turned off. The cold seeped into his knees as he cradled a small body close. The flashing blues and reds of the ambulance as he clutched tightly to an unresponsive hand pleading with every deity he could think of to let Bilbo Baggins awaken once more even as blood pooled from behind the gauze held tight over Thorin’s eye that he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he was going to get to keep. 

There were two things and two things only that he remembered with absolute clarity that night. The first was staring at Bilbo’s pale body in that hospital bed. The neck brace swallowing him as Thorin had to listen to the long, awful list of possible symptoms Bilbo could face after this. Paralysis being the one to stick in his brain and not let go. The second was Thranduil’s interview after the accident, and while Thorin had never wanted to punch the elf more, a small part of him told him he deserved it. After what he did to Bilbo, he deserved it and more.

“There’s an affliction in the skating world known as goldsickness where the desire to achieve gold invalidates everything and everyone else. I always suspected Thorin Oakenshield had it, especially considering it was the condition that essentially ended his grandfather’s career, and yet even I was unprepared for such a devastating and heartbreaking scene. My sympathies go out to Mr. Baggins who was dragged down by the dwarf’s madness, and my hopes that he can find solstice in a promising career cut short by greed.”

For more of this chapter, please click the AO3 link above!

[stars--eternal]

Unpopular opinion but Cassian should’ve defended Nesta when Rhys was yelling at her. Regardless of personal opinion, Cassian should’ve had Nesta’s back in public and shut down Rhys when Rhys was yelling. Because everyone knows if the roles were reversed, Rhys would never ever allow anyone to shout at feyre the way he shouted at nesta (even if he himself disagreed with feyre). He might argue with Feyre in private, but in public they are united.

That being said, Rhys wasn’t wrong in yelling at Nesta and being angry. Nesta put his entire court, including his infant son and postpartum wife, in jeopardy after they literally just died. Yeah, Nesta believed she was doing the right thing and Bryce is trying to save her own world - but let’s not forget Nesta handed over a weapon of mass destruction to a virtual stranger she just met. Of course Rhys was going to be upset - and of course Cassian was going to be upset as well.

Rhys was doing his job as high lord - he was reacting as a high lord and as a new father/husband. But Cassian being silent - was not acting as a husband, but as a commander. He always puts the ic/night court first while Rhys is more than willing to sacrifice everything for feyre.

I think this is the biggest reason why people ship Nesta and Rhys. They know that Rhys loves Feyre more than anything and anyone. They know if push comes to shove, Rhys would always choose feyre. He loves her so much that he would give up his power, his throne, and his family for her. With Rhys, it’s not even a choice - it’s automatically going to be feyre every time. Cassian is a lot more conflicted.

They hate Feysand. They think their relationship is toxic but they want nesta to be loved the way Rhys loves feyre. They want nesta to have everything feyre has - power, a family, and a husband who will put her first. And they can’t stand that feyre, a character they absolutely loath, gets everything they think Nesta deserves. It’s Feyre who’s high lady. Feyre who still has her power. Feyre who’s loved throughout prythian. Feyre who has a husband who’s willing to do anything to keep her safe and happy.

so, i haven't seen this scene in hofas that has everybody up in arms about cassian not being a good mate, but i heard that it made nesta stans upset, and that immediately puts a smile on my face 😄 (i'm half-joking).

i don't know what rhysand said to her, but just the fact that he yelled at her, for that alone, in theory, cassian should have stepped in, yes. rhysand would never allow anyone to do that to feyre, even if she had done something wrong. but i'm still willing to give cassian the benefit of the doubt because i really don't think he fucks with nesta like that, i'm sorry lol mating bonds ARE rare, we have proof of this with nessian and with elucien and with rhysand's parents, and so on and so forth. just because the cauldron mates people, it does not mean that these people will be unconditional soulmates, even if they accept the bond, chances of them being real lovers are rare. cassian has said so himself about feysand, how he admires what they have because it's the stuff of fairytales and how RARE it is to have a mating bond like theirs. it is not rare to have a mate, it is rare to have a FUNCTIONING mating bond. cassian feels shackled to nesta. he does not like her as a person, he wishes she was someone else, so he could have with her what rhysand has with feyre. and who can blame him? he literally hated her in acomaf, and were it not for the mating bond, he wouldn’t have looked twice her way.

and yes, nesta stans hate that. they hate that nesta's mate does not like her for who she is, they hate that he does not coddle her and he does not support her wrongs and he does not stand up for her the way rhysand does for feyre. they hate that cassian is not a high lord like rhysand, they hate that he is not powerful like rhysand, they hate that nesta and cassian are under rhysand and feyre's payroll and that they answer to them. just like nesta was always jealous of feyre, so are her stans lol and this is why they want nesta with eris, so she can have her own version of feysand but in the autumn court. the one who deserves better in this relationship is cassian, not nesta.

[marshmallowprotection]

I wanna make Ray laugh and then tell him he has an adorable laugh.................hehe.........

"So, what you're saying is this character is... silly?"

"Mhm! I know you're not too big on jokers since their personalities tend to bother you, but I think you'll like this one if you give him just an itty bitty chance."

"Well... he is my favorite color, after all. I suppose I could give him a chance for your sake. For what it's worth, I don't hate jokes when it's something where I can make the punchline instead of someone else."

"Oh? This is the first I've heard of this, Ray! I didn't know you liked to tell jokes!"

"Well, I'm not that good at it. But, I had a lot of fun playing that prank on the RFA the other day," his lips curled into a bemused smile. "That is the kind of joke I like to make. A punchline where someone has to see the ruse over their eyes slowly crumble... now, those are what I would like to call funny. None of that nonsense those people spout in the chatroom."

"No knock-knock jokes, then?" you asked.

He shook his head, "Well, I'm sure I would laugh if you told one. You have a way with words, [Y/N]. Your jokes would never fall flat."

Ray's smile was contagious and he was none the wiser to that fact. It might not have occurred to anyone else to beam ear from ear as soon as he entered the room, but they didn't know him the way you did. He had a laugh that could charm someone's socks off because when a giggle graced his lips, it meant that he was comfortable enough to be vulnerable with you.

Mint Eye was dreary, dark, and devoid of joy even though it was sold as a haven for those who wanted nothing more than to smile instead of frown. It sapped away at someone's life force until there was not a thing left but a hollow shell that only knew how to breathe and follow orders.

You'd seen that look in Ray's eyes before, and you weren't very keen on seeing it stay. You wanted it gone. You wanted him to laugh for as long as he wanted to, not for as long as he was allowed. A smile was such a simple gesture and yet, it was held at arm's length despite his desire to do it more. Being with you made him happy, but being that way in a place that wanted to destroy him would only serve to hinder him.

He couldn't smile, laugh, or sing when he was with you on the off-chance someone would punish him for it later. You hated that fact. The last thing he deserved was someone punishing him for such a simple thing. What crime was it for someone to be happy when he was promised a paradise of bliss? This bliss was nothing more than Rika's kingdom of lies.

So, you decided you would give him a reason to smile in a den of hungry wolves. He needed to laugh, to smile, and to know that he could have fun in ways that didn't hurt him or other people in the process. "What do you call a flower magician that only knows one magic trick?"

"Hmm. I don't know, what do you call them?" You giggled, "A one trick peony!"

It took him a moment to register the joke but once he did, he begin to laugh that fruitful chuckle that made your heart swell. Sure, it was no better than a dad joke but you didn't care about the quality. You cared about his amusement! His eyes sparkled with sincere mirth and your heart... well, it felt warm all over again. This was the happiest you had felt in days because he sounded happy, too.

He pressed a gloved hand to his lip but it did nothing to muffle the sound. "Hehehehe. That's a good one, prince/ss."

"Your laughter is adorable," you complimented. "I can't lie, I wanted to hear it again. Thank you for humoring my joke."

His cheeks began to burn. "If it will make you happy, my dearest one... I'll listen to every joke you have to tell, even if it's ridiculous because seeing you smile makes me feel good. Knowing that my laughter could make your day brighter... I could learn how to laugh more just for your sake."

"We'll laugh together," you said, taking his free hand in yours to make a point. "Don't just laugh for my sake, Ray. Make sure you're laughing because you want to laugh sometimes, too, okay?"

"...I'll try."

"Thank you."

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Greetings, kind sir. It is I, DR. STONE anon who came to lure you deeper into the dcst void. Today I present you:

Marathon sex, starring Ryusui Nanami. And how it's a definition of a hell on earth, because if it wasn't for a chance of Perseus ship sinking down and killing everyone in process, Ryusui could (and would.) fuck you for hours. Of course, he could've easily topped you if he wanted to, but he prefers to be your good bitch, for whatever reason. Hard to determine why exactly, but as long as he's enjoying it… First and foremost, Ryusui is a brat. Not just a brat, this man is a master when it comes to pissing you off. Witty comebacks and proud smirk playing on his face, it's like Ryusui is asking, no, begging to get in trouble. It's obvious he's having fun being getting pinned down and fucked into submission with his legs up on your shoulders, or pounded from behind with occasionally receiving harsh spanks that send jolts of pleasure through his shaky form... You gotta be ready to hear a snarky comment or two every round. Second of all, Ryusui's greed and endurance is humanity's most dangerous combo known to man of post-petrified world. Not counting brief breaks, he won't let you go until he's fully satisfied. Ryusui's a selfish lover, but you love him for that nonetheless — especially with all the lovely expressions he makes when you're balls deep inside Ryusui's throat, and the cutest moans spilling from his mouth when he bounces on your cock. Even trembling and filled to the brim, Ryusui will ask for more. But let's say you tamed to beast, what now? Cuddles, duh. Ryusui usually still got some energy after all the time you wasted on mating like animals, but he's nearly not mean enough to leave you without a well-deserved aftercare. Usually it's all about snuggling, feeling your scent all over his alluring curves, a proof that he's completely yours. Ryusui occasionally yaps something in your ear, or just lies there in your arms, enjoying every second of your union. Tomorrow's a busy day, but that'll be a fuss for later.

Next time I arrive? Who knows…

— DR. STONE anon.

DHAKEO2IFEFKQOW9DBWKEIWURWF EKWO662BQKF8E2BFKW9RODBFAKIDENCJS

Beautiful, exquisite, divine, showstopping, brilliant, one million out of ten stars, anon!! I'm literally drooling thinking about choking Ryusui with my cock and just laughing at his little remarks. Let the brat say whatever he wants, he won't say much after I'm done with his ass 😚💛

[crimsonboggarden]

I used to be just annoyed by the JJK's fandom response to Sukuna not getting the typical anime/manga/jrpg tragic backstory that shows how other ppls cruelty actually made him who he is. I think it's actually less interesting to go down that same story that's been told over and over and also reinforces the notion of prioritizing the feelings of the abuser over the abused as being the morally more evolved position, made even worse through the lens of a cortupted and malformed use of the Christian idea of grace and forgiveness. Now, it's way more than annoying it's kind of upsetting seeing how much thought was put into that part of the story and seeing how much crap Gege is getting for telling a different story.

JJK is instinsically seeped in folk spiritiality, Buddhism, and even a certain sense of its evolution in modern daily life, for fucks sake its in the goddam title of the series.

Looking at Sukuna's power set the art depicting Sukuna is that of figures that strive towards deification and power often by herectical means and rejection of standard folk/Buddhist morality what Western occultists would understand as bring akin to the Left Hand Path, it is explicitly SO importamt that we don't see Sukuna's past.

It is important that it doesn't matter how he got there, including the question of if it was all just him or others, what's important he chose that path as his karma (i.e. action, karma is the universe giving you what you deserve in time like some weird omnipotent life morality calculator). It is important that his past could have and in some ways is all possibilities and it just doesn't matter, because no matter what all this are part of the Buddha spirit and only Yuuji is able to find the means of accepting that into himself.

And its important for Sukuna that Yuuji does so without the tired arc of the protag feeling sympathy for the villain Because of the tragic backstory. Yes, he does it for Megumi. And I will die on the hill that they are intended to be a romantic couple, the kaisen, the small improvement to the cycle of Gojo and Seto's relationship. He also does it for Sukuna, because being what he is as he's chosen to be has rejected himself from the wholeness of being no matter how powerful. But most importantly he does it for his own karma, the fulfillmemt of the rightness of his own action and embracing his ability to shoulder the fullness of what humanity can become and unlike Geto still maintain himself.

By this act of acceptance Yuuji pushes the cycle of samsara for Sukuna, and drastically altars what could have otherwise been the "expected fate" for himself and Megumi / Geto and Gojo - the sin eater consumed in his role, the "gifted one" elevated to isolation and used to depletion. They all get a chance to let go of striving towards infinitely increasing power and isolation, for something less "glorious" but more connected.

It lessens ALL their stories to tell the same tired cliche just because its what the mass thinks is what's 'satisfying' or you want your bad boy redemption.

[cupidswurld]

last night i watched the first episode in supernatural and within 10 minutes i put it on pause because in NO way, through the 15 seasons, should anyone be happy with how dean's story ends with him dying whilst hunting

because in the 10 minutes that ive learnt about him is that he's spent his entire life fighting, and he dies FIGHTING

no satisfying narrative ends like that, especially not for one thats run for 15 years

[nnayomaise]

i think the thing that really gets me about all the "we've got to kill this guy kabru" meme redraws with mithrun is that in the very first conversation mithrun has with laios, he trusts him with, essentially the fate of the world and his life long revenge quest against the demon

[charafansmile]

Something about toriel hating the monsters outside of the ruins in similar way to chara hating humanity. Not only does she isolate herself from them, but the ruins monsters are also pretty intimidated by her. if she never made that agreement with sans then im pretty sure there would have been no convincing her to let us leave. Like at all.

God even the queen toriel ending might suck for her just a bit. Imagine being put in charge of your people who betrayed you and are all willing to play niceys NOW after 6 of your kids died (in the name of 2 of them!) and they would've killed the 7th if they didn't befriend everyone! No wonder she got rid of the royal guard and told everyone to be nice and welcoming as far as she would be concerned that's what they should have been doing from the start. I imagine it's very awkward between her and undyne. I know she fires alphys in Canon, but I imagine they would have eventually started to get along and she could join the human fanclub with mettaton. But God it'd probably be so awkward. So so awkward. I really think she develops a great disdain for monster kind during her exile that she has to workout.

I know what she says here is popularly interpreted as the 'them' being asgore/ the royal guard. But it always felt like to me she was referring to monster kind as a whole. (That and if chara has similarities to toriel, it makes sense that toriel would have similarities to them...)

Exiled queen is even WORSE for her cause now that disdain is mutual and the little kid she tried to protect killed people and a war is inevitable at that point. At least with asgore in charge she had the solace that he would be too much of a coward to go through with it. At least she has sans (and sometimes papyrus) in those endings for support but I can't imagine she in any way in a better mental place than before.