#because how could he love her and not even bring himself to look at her or hear her voice

[pricetagged]

Idk how to label this. Wifehunter John?

The idea of possessive/obsessive John manipulating a situation and stealing a wife for himself struck me, so just coughing the idea up while I sneak away for a coffee before I actually have to start work in 20 mins 💖 entirely unedited, abrupt ending

________

For someone married to his job, he has put quite a bit of thought into what he is looking for in a wife. Namely, that she's already married.

His reasoning is threefold. He can admit to himself, firstly, that it satisfies his need for control. Competency. He's a busy man with a demanding job. Not quite retired yet, no time to build his own from scratch. With this, he gets a wife boxed up and ready-trained. Broken in.

Secondly, the need for control bleeds into his saviour complex. She'll need a shoulder to cry on, someone strong and capable to get her back on her feet. She'll be feeling a little fragile. Needy. Perfect.

And thirdly, it does something wild to his jealous, possessive streak. The idea of taking something precious, of breaking her bond to another man and tying it to him? Delicious. The idea that she used to be someone else's, that he has to imprint himself onto her knowing that in doing so he is erasing the imprint of another man? It has his teeth aching, grinding even as heat rises in his belly. Stirs at him.

The idea swirls lazily in the back of his mind, never quite finding the right time or right partner. He bats at it a few times, lazy cat playing with the notion, seeing how far it can stretch before it snaps. Eyes up pretty things everywhere he goes, glancing down at their left hands just to check, but nothing quite tugs on that string. Until one day it does when he's outfitting the security system at your house.

It's side work. Cash in hand, word of mouth. Something to keep him busy when on mandated leave. Something to keep in mind as his retirement from active duty creeps closer. And your husband is a real piece of work, all blustering braggadocio energy. Young buck, not knowing his place in the herd. Not knowing that he'd be better scratching his antlers off on a tree than going head-to-head with a gristled thing like John.

It's like John's energy, his presence in the house, sends alarm bells ringing in your husband's mind (Be the man. Don't back down. Puff up your chest and strut). And it plays so perfectly into John's hands because your young buck doesn't realise that what he's really doing is fawning. To John. (Look at me, be impressed by me!) He makes his biggest mistake in putting you down in front of him, trying to sidle up to John and create some kind of desperate camaraderie. Ordering you to bring tea to the men at work. Rolling his eyes at your attempts to talk, to ask questions about the work being done. Waving you off so he can stand and watch the proceedings. Like he could supervise. Like he has any clue what he's doing.

Only the promise of the long game keeps John from levelling him with a hard look, from calling him outblike he'd love to.

He hears you both in the in the other room, having swatted the young buck off like a particularly virulent pest. Noisy and bothersome. Not needed - or wanted- in this home. And entirely too stupid to realise that John wasn't being jocular in his dismissal.

You've been scribbling away for the past few days, something occupying your time, keeping you happy and hidden away in the kitchen.

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Well, yes," he hears the slight quaver in your voice before you find your footing. You've got at least a bit of spine. Good. "You said that I should find an occupation. Not just 'laze around the house playing housewife'. This is what I-"

"Oh come on, I didn't mean- You don't think that this is viable, do you?"

"Well... I love gardening. And I'm good at it. And there's no reason that it can't be more accessible for people, especially with the current economic-"

He cuts you off with a scoff. "Dear, just- I don't want you to be disappointed. I think you don't quite understand the time and effort this will take. And you know nothing of marketing, publishing. Why don't you put that away and start on dinner?"

And oh, isn't that delicious. He can taste it now, that idea that has been swirling. It's thick, almost tangible on his tongue. The tension in the house, the bitter lacryma of stifled tears. The slight acidity of words you left unsaid. It has his mouth watering, pupils dilating.

And when he's packing up that evening, tools and materials tucked in to the heavy workman's case, he swings by the kitchen on his way out. Catches the way something is jutting out slightly from the bin, lid slightly askew. When he pulls it out he realises it's some kind of notebook, carefully (lovingly) bound. Pictures pasted, mindmaps and notes and plans scribbled in the margins. Your gardening tips. Kitchen scraps, window boxes, rooftop plots. Urban gardening. It's deeply thoughtful, well researched.

A labour of love, lying in the rubbish.

Sweet, clever little thing. That just won't do.

He leaves your house with a little piece of you tucked away in his toolkit and a nice plan forming. He'll be back, of course, not quite finished with his work. He'd planted a few little links into the system he'd almost installed, projecting not just to the monitor in your home but also in his. Got to keep his eyes on you, keep you safe and cared for in ways that your useless husband can't.

Finding that book was a boon. He'd say it was divinely ordained if he believed in all that. It weighs heavy in his toolbox as he whistles out the door.

Now, how to get you alone and return it to you..

________________

This idea may have been done before? I'm not sure, sorry! I've seen a lot of possessive John floating around. Tagging @stellewriites because I said I would last time, and you've been so encouraging of my nonsense.

Anyway I've got like 4 long-form WIPs that I'm working on, so I may never actually write this one but thought I'd share since that image set I just reblogged made me feral 💖

[sugurusfavemonkey]

A Helping Hand (Part 2) read part 1 here summary: after a long winding wait you and Gojo finally take your relationship to bed the next level. pairing: Satoru Gojo x reader word count: 4.5k warnings: MDNI; fluff and love confessions, cursing, oral (female receiving), creampie (this is a work of fiction, wrap it before you tap it irl!); rough s&x; canon divergence - both Gojo and reader are over 18 when Gojo takes in the Fushiguro siblings.

a/n: I lied, put your clothes back on... we're going on a fluff ride (roughly 1.6k words) before the sexy bits make an appearance (the other 2.9k), because, apparently, I cannot control myself once I start writing.

Unfortunately for you and Gojo, things did NOT progress as expected that night.

Tsumiki insisted they should help you with the cleaning after dinner and dessert and then launched into an animated retelling of the debate club happenings earlier that day as she dutifully dried the dishes you handed her.

It was many hours later before the kids finally were ready for bed.

You put both of them to their beds with a parting forehead kiss for each - the embarrassed blush on Megumi's cheeks never failing in making you chuckle.

By then you were exhausted, hand covering a big yawn that had Satoru laughing.

He threw his arm over your shoulders, using the leverage to pull you away from the kids' bedroom as he closed the door behind you with his other hand.

"Tired, sweets?" 

"Completely wiped." you admitted, letting your head fall onto his shoulder, the realization of just how well you fit under his arm making you giddy "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Well, I guess I just wanted to have a wild night of rowdy pleasure with my new boyfriend, but I can't even fathom the idea of keeping up with his stamina right now."

"This boyfriend of yours sounds like a dream." Satoru's casual comment made you snort with constrained laughter. The man really had the greatest ego you'd ever seen.

"Except when he's being a self-centered dimwit." You tried to untangle yourself from under his arm, but Satoru had a different idea. You momentarily thought you were falling until the realization that he had reached his free arm underneath your knees and picked you up before you had time to protest set. A yelp of surprise the only noise you managed to release as you threw your own arms around his neck for support.

"I'm sure he has good reason to think so highly of himself." Satoru spoke as he rearranged his hold to support your weight with one arm under your rear in an impromptu display of strength, so he could open the door to the other bedroom. 

"Stop praising yourself, Gojo." You chastised, but there was no heat behind your words.

He kicked the door shut behind yourselves as soon as you crossed the threshold. "Nuh-uh. That's Satoru to you. We went over that already." 

"Not when you're being insufferable, no." Your words were barely discernible through the yawn you let out as you let yourself relax against him. 

"Hmm. Let's get you to bed, sweets."

"Yeah? You gonna do unspeakable things to me in the master bedroom, Gojo?" Your words were slurred, breath fanning teasingly against his neck, eyelids heavy with sleep.

"It's Satoru," he insisted, "and no. Not tonight. Even though I'd like nothing else than just taking you, you're so sleepy you sound drunk right now."

"Look at you being all gentlemanly. I though Nanami was the last one left of those." 

"Why are you bringing up Nanamin when we're talking about sex?!" Satoru sounded absolutely disgusted at the notion and you would probably have laughed at that if you had the energy to do so.

"You jealous?" you hummed, eyes already closed.

"Pfff! As if I had any reason to be jealous of that emo nerd."

"I don't know... I think he has his charms." just as you finished uttering the words Satoru unceremoniously dropped you on the bed, "what the fuck, Satoru?!"

"That's for talking about other men in my presence." He huffed, a cute pout on his lips.

"Oh my god, Satoru! Are you really going to be that much of a possessive boyfriend? What did I even get myself into?" There was no way you were letting him live his near tantrum at the mere mention of Nanami down.

"Too late to back off now, sweets." He playfully stated, leaning over you teasingly before dropping to the other side of the bed and making you bounce on the mattress again.

You turned your head, staring at his annoyingly perfect side profile as he brought his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles. You mused his words for a second, focusing specifically on the nickname he used. The pet name Satoru had always used when referring to you

"Why do you always call me that?" Though you always wondered the nickname's origins that was the first time you proffered the question aloud. 

"You know how much I love my sweets." His matter-of-fact demeanor threw you in for a loop.

"Who would have thought you could be so corny? I'm serious, Satoru."

"So am I," he turned his head to face you as well, "I think I've loved from the moment we've met." his small confession has your heart stuttering in your chest, your smile faltering a bit at the vulnerability etched to that simple whispered phrase.

"Now, that just can't be true. If I remember correctly, you called me weak and said I'd never be able to keep up with you and Su-" you cut yourself off before you said something that would potentially strike a sour note in an otherwise wholesome occasion. 

Still, you weren't fast enough. You saw the moment Satoru's face fell, his expression becoming somber. He looked away from you and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, well... everyone is weak compared to me."

You sighed bitterly, annoyed at yourself for spoiling the moment.

The heavy silence that fell over you begged to be ruptured, so you did just that:

"I shouldn't ha-"

"You're not-"

Apparently Satoru had the same idea because the both of you started at the same time, pausing once you realized the other was also talking. Satoru was the one to break the repeated tense quiet following the sudden standstill: 

"I was wrong. You're not weak. You never were." his voice was quiet, serious. So different to his usual laidback disposition. It was a night for many firsts, it seemed.

"I mean, I'll never really get anywhere near your level." You shrugged, showing you understood his point.

"Still. You are strong. You're efficient and resourceful. And you care. You care so much sometimes I'm scared you'll wear yourself thin." Somehow you knew he wasn't just talking about your prowess as a sorcerer. "Just like- just like him."

"Satoru. Baby. Look at me." You pleaded, turned your entire body this time and tenderly grasped his chin, coaxing him into looking your way once more.

"I'm not leaving." You stared intently into his impossibly blue eyes as you made the vow. "You won't get rid of me that easily."

His hand found yours on his face and gently entwined your fingers before guiding them to his lips, where he placed a soft kiss to your knuckles.

You're not sure if he ever said anything in reply because you soon doze off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。

Satoru was no longer in bed with you when you woke up the next morning to a chime on your phone.

You sighed and sprawled onto your back, hand skimming over your face to find creases in the shape of the ruffled pillowcase under your head and a bit of dried drool at the corner of your lips before finally picking up the offending gadget to find 4 new messages from one strongest hoe🫸🟣:

Leave it to Satoru to make you go from embarrassed to delighted in less than a minute.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。

You spent the rest of your Saturday with Megumi and Tsumiki, thankful you weren't summoned for anything. You were suspicious that had something to do with Gojo, he probably took on more curses just to spare you - it would explain the two whole days of a job when he usually handled curses in less than a minute.

Sunday came around and Satoru called you by noon, letting you know he threatened the elders into leaving the two of you free at least up until Monday and also asked Shoko to watch over the kids for the night.

"Huh. The damn curse is tougher than I thought. Gotta go finish this. See ya tonight. Love ya, sweets!" He ended the call before you even processed his words, your heart skipping a beat.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。

You had left Tsumiki and Megumi back at the apartment in Saitama with Shoko and went back to your own home in Tokyo to get ready for your first date with Satoru a few hours before.

The clock had just hit 7pm and you were anxiously pacing the living room back and forth when there was a knock to your door. Your feet carried you forward without you even noticing, still lost inside your own head.

"I love you." You snapped as soon as you opened the door for him, immediately regretting the outburst at Satoru's smug face.

"That would have been awkward if it wasn't me. What happened to hello?" He laughed extending the bouquet of red roses in his hands to you.

"You fucking hung up on me before I could say it back and this has been hammering in my head ever since." you explained with a small shrug, cheeks going warm in spite of your attempt at nonchalance as you took the offered flowers to arrange them in a vase.

You put the arrangement on the center of your dinning room table after filling a priori empty container with water from the kitchen sink and it wasn't until his hands found your waist and Satoru welded his chest you back that you realized he has followed close behind you as you moved.

"Say that again." his lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, warm breath causing a shiver to run down your spine, your hands falling to the table for support when your knees wobbled.

"Say what exactly?"

"Don't tease me, sweets." His warm lips leisurely glided down with each word. You gasped, head falling back against his shoulder and leaving your neck open to the butterfly kisses he purposefully left to the column of your throat.

"I l-love you, Satoru." You mumbled brokenly.

His grasp on your waist went impossibly tight, his breath stuttering and a low groan erupting from his chest.

"You have no idea what you do to me, sweets."

He sounded absolutely wrecked and the knowledge that you were the one causing Gojo Satoru to lose his cool made you throw your caution to the wind. You pushed your hips back against him and, sure enough, you can feel his hardness pressing back into you.

"Hmm. I think I may have an idea." You crooned teasingly.

"Brat!" He reward your taunt with a bite to the junction of your shoulder to your neck, immediately followed by his tongue lapping away at the harsh sting.

You stretched one arm backwards, hand reaching for the short hair on the nape of his neck as he relentlessly attacked your neck.

"I love you so fucking much, sweets. Have I mentioned how fucking stunning you look right now? I mean, you're always hot, but this look... I just wanna bend you over and fuck you right on this table." there was something nearly unhinged to the way he babbled, like those words had been stuck at his throat for too long and he was finally letting loose.

"And what's stopping you?"

"I don't know, maybe the reservation I made for our dinner in 30 minutes." Even though Satoru tried to stop your advances, the way his hips kept lazily rocking against yours sent a different message. He nuzzled against your neck, inhaling the sweet perfume you sprayed just for him and mumbling something about how you smell good enough to eat under his breath.

"I can't think of a lot of things we can accomplish in 30 minutes."

"Ugh! You'll be the death of me. I'm trying to be responsible for once here!" He nearly whined.

You turned around in his grasp and had to crane your head to look into his eyes with the way he looms over you "Gojo. I don't need you to be responsible or a fancy restaurant date to make this real. I think we're way past that anyway. I just need you."

He seemed conflicted, eyes searching yours through the dark lenses of the sunglasses still perched to his nose.

"Please."

"Fuck it." Your last plea was all it took to break his resolve.

In a flash, Satoru had hoisted you up and sat you at the edge of the table, slotting himself in between your parted legs and lips taking yours possessively, his tongue shoving itself into your mouth, savoring your taste. His hands were suddenly all over you, sliding and grabbing at you like he owns you. You readily opened up for him.

When you finally did part ways, you felt his thumb tracing your swollen bottom lip. He stared at the skin, glistening with your mixed saliva in a daze for a moment before his eyes flicked up to meet yours.

"I wanna taste you. Will you let me taste you, sweets?" Satoru's hands found and toyed with the button to your pants, eyes begging silently for your assent.

You nodded mutely, throat suddenly dry.

The green light you gave was all the encouragement he needed to drop to his knees, finger dexterously popping open the button and sliding down the zipper before nearly pawing the offending piece of clothing down your legs. Satoru didn't have the patience to remove your boots, so the cloth remained bunched up at your ankles. He nibbled at the skin of your inner thigh, slowly inching closer to where you needed him the most.

"'toru!" You whined, letting yourself fall back against the table, head knocking loudly against the wood.

"What is it, sweets? What do you want."

"Touch me!"

"But I am touching you."

"You little- Aw!" You complained when he bit into your thigh as a warning, head lifting from the table to glare half-heartedly at the man in between your thighs.

"Watch it." Satoru alerted, a dangerous glint to his electric blue eyes.

"Ugh. Fine." You relented, not wanting to test him that night. You'd have plenty of time for that on other occasion. "Touch my pussy, Satoru."

"Have you no manners?" He rested his cheek against your thigh, his earlier rush hidden beneath his commitment to have you begging for him.

"Pleas- Oh my god!" You bellowed when he finally dove in, practically french kissing your pussy. His tongue easily found your clit, making random shapes against the bundle of nerves that had you seeing stars behind closed eyelids.

He moaned loudly and shamelessly when your hand found purchase on his soft white hair, encouraging you to pull harder as his own fingers dug into the soft skin of your thighs.

Satoru let go of your hips to hitch your legs up, spread your thighs wider and then one of his hands roamed down until he's brushing your entrance, whining pathetically at the slick that gathered on the finger prodding at your hole. The muscles on your thighs tightened in response and you forced yourself up on your elbows so you could take the delicious show playing out down there.

His free hand reached underneath your sweater, slowly gliding upwards, finger teasing the edge of your bra while his mouth changed its path and traveled up and under your sweater, kissing, licking, nibbling at the skin of your tummy and ribs. The comical sight of his head disappearing beneath the warm fabric had a giggle bubbling up at his silliness, but the feeling of the pad of his thumb striking wet and sticky across your clit draws out a sound deep from your chest instead, something sweet and guttural that made Satoru wish he could record to hear over and over again.

Gojo pulled your bra down and didn't waste a second before taking one of your nipples in his warm mouth at the same time he pressed his ring and middle finger into you, curling them upwards to touch that sweet spot and thumb rocking against your clit with each thrust of his hand. You were squirming as he pressed down on your clit just hard enough. A cry left your lips as the fingers of his other hand pinched your nipple.

His actions made it seem as if he's not sure where to touch first, like a man starved, Satoru needs to feel all of you.

Without warning, he popped out from under the sweater, raising himself up and using both hands to reach for the offending piece of clothing and pulling it up and off of you before reaching behind your back for the clasp of your bra. You sat up again to help him remove it as he slid the straps down your arms.

"You're so hot." Satoru sounded winded, wide eyes traveling all over your body in awe.

"Toru. I need you, please." You begged when you could no longer take his gawking.

Satoru smirked deviously and you nearly regretted pleading with him, knowing he was scheming something.

"I Got you, sweets" was all he said before abruptly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder, hand smacking your ass with a resounding slap sound. Your shriek only making him laugh. "Let's move this to bed so I can fuck you into the mattress."

Soon you joined in on his laughter even as he jolted you around. Just as it has always been, Satoru had a way of making any moment with you lighter.

When you reached your bedroom he thoughtfully placed you on the mattress, kneeling by the bed to help you with your boots and finally remove the pants and underwear that has still been stuck at your ankles up until then.

Once you were completely bare you expected him to do the same. Instead, he passed you by and sat down against the headboard, patting his lap excitedly when you twisted around to follow his movements with a curious gaze.

"You're still too dressed, Toru." You frowned.

"Yeah, and? Come here before I make you, brat."

Even though you were unsure of what he had planned, you trusted Satoru enough to do as he told you to. You got up and walked around the bed, slightly sheepish at your state of undress, but the astonished look on his face gave you enough confidence to move forward.

You went to sit on his lap, but Gojo was faster, hands picking you up by your waist and settling you down, knees on each side of his legs, so you have no choice but to settle your hands on his shoulders to keep yourself balanced.

Satoru hummed in delight as he pushed you back and forth until you got the idea. You braced your hands against his chest, your hips taking up the rocking against his hard length through his dress pants, your bare slit dripping all over his bulge.

“That’s it, sweets,” Satoru grunted, eyes hungrily following your movement “Get yourself nice and wet and ready for me. Rub your sweet little cunt all over my cock.” At his urging, you rolled your hips harder, eyes falling closed as you took your pleasure from his body.  

Your knees spread even further so you could press down on him harder, your slick staining his pants.

When you opened your eyes, you found Satoru's blue stare already on you, an overjoyed smile etched onto his face.

"I'm gonna fuck you so deep you're gonna be feeling me for weeks."

You moaned at the dark promise, unconsciously speeding up your hips as your hands grasped the lapels of his shirt in tight fists.

"Does the thought turn you on, sweets?" His hips thrust up from below, forcing another moan from your lips. "Having your pussy so abused you can still feel it for days on end afterwards?"

“Oh god,” you moaned, letting your head loll back. But Satoru wasn’t having none of that. He brought his hand to your throat, tugging your head until you had no choice but to meet his blazing gaze.

"Hmmm... I wanna feel you, Toru." You sobbed, desperate for more. “I need it—I need you, please.”

In an instant, Satoru had pushed you onto your back, one of his hands pinning you to the bed by your throat as he forcefully snapped his hips against yours, your head towards the foot of the bed.

You reached up, yanking at the buttons of his shirt and pulling it free from his slacks with a hushed demanding "off."

"I should have know you would be bossy even when underneath me." He chuckled, letting go of you momentarily to shrug off the shirt. Meanwhile, you went for his belt, deft fingers unbuckling it before unbuttoning and pulling the zipper on his pants down. "Eager much?"

"Satoru. We've been dancing around each other for years, you can't blame me for being impatient now."

"Trust me. I get it." He licked his lips, eyes damn near burning a path through your skin as his gaze travelled your form. "You have no idea how many times I've pictured you just like that, naked and wet for me."

"Yeah? You jacked off to the thought of me?" Your pleased smile was not lost on him.

"Like I said, so many times." Satoru admitted unashamedly. "And I gotta say... the real thing is even better than I imagined."

You wanted to giggle at the notion the both of you had unknowingly been pining for each other at the same time for so long, but the sound got stuck in your throat when he finally bared himself to you.

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight of him bare. You watched intently as he hastily stood up to kick off his shoes before pushing his pants, underwear and socks down and throwing it all behind himself. Revealing corded thighs and a magnificent long, twitching cock, so big you were glad you were wet and ready for him.

A soft smirk played on your lips as he leaned over you, one knee between your legs, arms caging you in against the comforter.

He gripped his cock and rubbed the bulbous tip up and down your slit, teasing your clit and making you whimper. You rocked your hips up against his dick, trying to find the angle to take him inside you. When that didn’t work, you resorted to begging, whimpering, “I'm so empty. I need you inside me, please Toru."

"Yeah, want me to fill you up sweets?"

You nodded, tangling your legs behind him and attempting to draw him in. For once in your life, you cursed his superior strength, because he sure was having a great time making you desperate for his cock.

“Toru,” you cried with a gasp, your arms around his neck trying to pull him closer, "Please!”

"Since you asked so nicely..."

Satoru captured your lips, pouring his passion and desire for you into a searing kiss. As his lips slid against yours, he pressed the tip against your entrance. 

He drank down your sounds of pleasure as he pushed inside you, inch by inch. You broke away with a gasp when it became too much.

"You're taking me so well, sweets." He mumbled almost incoherently.

Brows knitted and thighs trembling, your eyes didn’t leave his as you basked in the shattering, yet sublimely pleasurable sensation, slowly allowing yourself to relax around him.

Gentle caresses of his thumb to your tight nub made you feel like the smallest push could tip you over edge and into ecstasy. Tight circles that didn't relent until he could bury himself inside you entirely, the air getting punched out of your lungs once he bottomed out.

"Fuck. So tight for me." Satoru remarked with a low moan at the feeling of your walls firmly hugging his dick. "You good?" He checked when you didn't say anything.

"Y-yeah. You can move."

He started off slow but worked up to a gentle but intense rhythm soon enough, wanting you to be comfortable above anything else.

"You feel so fucking good." Satoru praised, one hand moving to hold onto your wrists and push them together against the bed above your head.

"Satoru. Don't stop. Please, don't stop." You begged.

"Don't worry." He rasped, "I don't plan to stop any time soon." timing the words with each frantic drive of his hips, gradually picking up speed until you felt his heavy sack slapping feverishly against you.

His girth stretched you out and filled you to the brink with each hard stroke until there were tears trickling down your cheeks as you drowned in the overwhelming pleasure of it.

"You crying?" Satoru quipped, peering down at you with a smirk.

You swore you would have slapped him if your hands weren't being held down by the very man torturing you with delectation. You couldn't even respond, only unintelligible garble spilling past your lips.

"What? Have a fucked you dumb, sweets?"

Instead of allowing you time to recoup, Satoru gave into whatever restraint had been holding him back and lost himself in the pleasure of your warmth, thrusting with abandon. He just kept going until your moans turned into cries, the lewd and sloppy sonance of your coupling reverberating throughout the otherwise quiet room. His free hand rubbing at your clit and, too fast for your liking, sending your body straight to cloud nine. 

Satoru let his forehead rest against yours while he rutted into your body.

The pleasure you felt so grand it had you unconsciously trying to scoot away, but Satoru was unwavering in his foraging, "Nuh-uh, come back here." he mumbled, dropping kiss after kiss to your lips.

"I-I can't. It's too much. Too bi-big!"

"You can do it, sweets. You're doing so-" He moaned, "good. You can give me one more. C'mon."

The grasp keeping your hands in place relented as his fingers extended, entwining with yours and making the experience that much more meaningful.

Your free hand went straight to his back, nails finding residence sliding down his back, a move which rewarded you with a hiss from the white haired sorcerer. Your legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs helped you meet him thrust for thrust, the two of you writhing together in a frenzy.

He looked at you like you were something meant to be cherished, his lips finding yours with wordless devotion, his tongue slipping into your mouth to slide against yours decadently.

It wasn't long before your eyes were rolling back into your skull and you sensed your thighs begin to tremble once more as you fell over the edge, white heat running through your veins and stars exploding in your vision. Satoru let go once he felt your walls fluttering widely against his cock and buried himself inside with a final thrust forward, warm ropes of cum painting your insides as he traded the firm motions of his thumb with a gentle bit of contact and, finally, halting it all to a complete standstill.

He fell forward, but still made sure not to completely crush you against the bed in a sweaty and jumbled pile.

Your thighs were still quivering when Satoru slid out of you and turned the both of you around so you lied on top of him, his fingers brushing against the skin of your back soothingly.

"Holy fuck." it's all you can say at first.

"Second that."

And then you're both laughing breathlessly, because there's so much love and happiness and oxytocin laden in that moment that you just feel high on it.

"I can't believe we haven't done this before." Satoru chortled, dropping a tender kiss to your head. "How am I suppose to get anything done now?"

"Get your head out of the gutter!" You chastised half-heatedly "I need some time to recover in between sessions. Speaking of which... I'm kinda hungry right now. Is it too late for that reservation now?"

"By nearly two hours, I'd say."

"Whatever. We can just order in."

a/n: this was much harder than I thought it would be to write. How do smut writers do it regularly??

[strnilolover]

vampire!matt calling himself a monster and asking human!reader why she loves him but she makes sure he knows that he's not a monster in her eyes

living like a vampire wasn’t always bad — there were a lot of pros that came along with it. Like the strength and the heightened senses and such.

But, the cons of it is what really fucked with Matt’s head a lot. Even though he’s been alive for 121 years and 100 of it has been spent like this — feeding on humans was the one thing he hated doing. Criminals or not — just the knowledge that he’s taking someone’s life from them is something he can’t always stomach.

So one night after feeding on some dude in a random dark ally, when he was supposed to be home with you — made his mind run in circles as he made his way home for the night.

He doesn’t understand how you could love him, or what you even saw in him. He’s a monster — a no good who feeds on other people and who could potentially hurt you without meaning to.

When he had gotten home, walking through the door and taking his shoes off — you were immediately up and bolting over to him asking questions about where he was.

“Matt? where were you? i tried texting but you didn’t answer-“ your eyes flicked down and caught notice of the blood staining his mouth. Flicking back up your eyes were wide. “-were you feeding?” you asked, but it wasn’t in disgust, just curiosity.

And — Matt felt a pang of guilt and doubt run through him. He thought your tone of words were different, his mind warping them to seem as though you were utterly disappointed in him.

His eyes darted from yours, nodding slowly. “I couldn’t help it i…there was just this urge — god - i watched the life drain from his eyes. I’m such a monster.” he said, the last words mumbled under his breath.

His gaze remained away from yours, “I’m sorry..why — why do you even love me? what is there to me that you find so good?” he rambles.

Your brows pulled together, a frown tugging at your lips. “Matt baby-“ you bring a hand up to his face, turning his head back to look at you. He looked so…sad. You shook your head, “-you are not a monster. and i love you because you are you. i don’t care that you have to feed on humans or other things just to keep yourself strong and alive — at least i know you’re taking care of yourself when you do. I know you would never hurt me, and you mean the world to me. okay?” you whispered, bringing your thumb to wipe at the blood.

“You are not a monster in my eyes — and you never have been. I see the man who let me take photos of him at the park..the one who sat with me at a café just to talk and watch me drink coffee even though you don’t like coffee.” You said, now moving his face to yours and pressing a kiss to his lips. Matt froze, eyes wide before melting into your touch, reciprocating the kiss.

His arms coming up to wrap around you, landing on your lower back to pull you closer.

Matt’s mind subsided, letting your words sink into his bones — his soul. And before he could register what he was doing, his body moved to push you up against the wall close by.

Pulling away, you both panted — breaths mingling with one another’s. “You mean it?” he whispered, his breath hot against your face. You nodded, “Wouldn’t lie to you baby.” you said, smiling before your hands grabbed the collar of his shirt and smashing your lips back against his. He let himself believe you — his nerves calming.

And the rest of the night was a blur.

© strnilolover

[cuubism]

now, this one got REAL. unfortunately. do you want some angst (+hurt/comfort +fluff)

cw burnout, depression, animal death

--

It started when Jessamy died.

Or.

Well.

Hob is pretty sure it started when Dream was a teenager, if not even earlier. But it comes to a head nearly fifteen years later, when Hob comes home from work and finds Dream sitting on the floor by the couch, Jessamy held in his arms. She is still. And Dream is equally still, equally numb, staring off into space.

Hob knew it was coming someday soon. Dream had had Jessamy since he was twelve, when he’d found her as a kitten by the side of the road and somehow convinced his parents to let him keep her, so she was not a young cat, and while her health had generally been good she’d been increasingly tired and wobbly lately. And cats didn’t live forever.

She looks peaceful, there in Dream’s arms. It isn’t a bad death for a cat, Hob thinks, to curl up in a patch of sunlight on the couch and just not wake up again. Not that that will make Dream feel much better.

Hob sits down beside Dream on the floor. Doesn’t say anything, but lays his hand on Dream’s knee. Dream just keeps staring off into the distance, one hand lightly stroking Jessamy’s fur.

“She didn’t come to greet me,” he says, eventually, when they’ve been sat there for some time. “She always comes to the door.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Hob says.

Dream sits there for a long time, just holding her. Later Hob helps him bury her in the garden, then Dream goes upstairs and buries himself under the blankets in their bed and doesn’t come back out for the rest of the night.

Later Hob will think, that was the first domino to fall. Even later, he will realize it wasn’t the first, but the last.

~

Dream was often seen as stoic. Unemotional. Hob thought so too, when he’d first met him. But he’d quickly come to learn that the real Dream was extremely sensitive and had simply learned to keep all of that inside and present a functional front to the world. And Dream was, indeed, exceedingly functional. Not just functional, Dream was brilliant. He’d graduated top of his college, and he’d gone to Oxford, and then he’d launched a tech company, and even published a novel on the side simply because he enjoyed doing it. When it came to standard metrics of success, Dream was one of the most functional and successful people Hob had ever met.

And Dream was crashing.

~

Hob comes home from work a bit late one day to find Dream slumped on the couch, face pressed into a pillow. The TV is on, but he doesn’t seem to be watching it. There’s a book on the table beside him, but he isn’t reading. He’s just lying there. Listlessly.

“You alright, love?” Hob asks, and Dream just shrugs one shoulder under his blanket.

“I fell asleep on the couch in my office,” he says, “so I came home.”

This immediately rings Hob’s alarm bells because Dream doesn’t do that. He doesn’t come home early from work. He barely takes a lunch break.

“Feeling ill?” Hob asks, perching on the couch beside him.

Dream shrugs again.

“Want some dinner?”

“I suppose.”

He’s barely looked at Hob. He’s not even budged from his sprawl on the couch. But when Hob gets up to get dinner, Dream reaches out, snags a hand in his sleeve, squeezes once and lets go.

Hob leans down to kiss his forehead, and Dream sighs.

Hob brings dinner back to the living room a half hour later, and Dream sits up with him and eats but barely says a word. He listens as Hob talks about his own day but barely contributes beyond brief answers to Hob’s questions.

After dinner he lies down with his head in Hob’s lap and goes quiet again. Hob is starting to get worried, but he gives him the benefit of the doubt. It could just be an off day.

Dream falls asleep in Hob’s lap, and then later gets up and goes to bed at barely 9pm despite how he’s normally a night owl.

“Dream?” Hob says, before Dream retreats to their bedroom. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am just tired,” Dream says.

Then he sleeps for ten hours and wakes barely early enough to get to his office on time. And doesn’t seem particularly concerned about it. Then again, Dream does own the company, and can hardly fire himself for being late. But he’s normally much more particular about it.

Then it’s an off two days. Then it’s an off week. Then it’s an off two weeks.

Hob comes home from work and, instead of finding Dream back on his laptop doing more work, or working on his novel, he’s just lying in bed with the covers over his head. Earbuds in, listening to music or an audiobook. I’m tired, he says when Hob asks. I don’t feel well.

Do you want to work on your novel? Hob asks. Usually cheers you up.

Dream’s novels are an escape from the stresses of his other work. He’d published the first one under a pen name so it would have no connection to his company or anything else about him. He’d been so proud when it hit the bestseller list.

No, Dream says. I don’t care. It’s meaningless.

Worry is starting to sit heavier and heavier in Hob’s chest.

Hob’s known for almost as long as he’s known Dream that Dream struggles with a latent, underlying level of depression, but it’s been well managed thus far and he’d thought Dream had found an equilibrium with it.

Apparently it was a much more fragile equilibrium than he’d realized, because now everything seems to have tipped and flipped over.

At first he thinks Dream isn’t doing anything about it. But then Hob learns that he is, and that almost feels worse, because now Hob doesn’t know where to even start helping him. Dream has already taken medication for years. He’s recently increased his dose and it’s done nothing. He already sees a therapist. He’s started going twice as often as he did before and still nothing seems improved. He hasn’t pulled away from Hob. He still curls up to him in bed at night, and lays on the couch with his head on Hob’s lap while they watch TV. He lets Hob drag him around doing things he thinks might cheer him, like walks in the park, feeding the pigeons, going to the botanical gardens to look at flowers. If Hob cooks something, he’ll eat, but he makes no effort to eat otherwise.

He goes, he does things, but he isn’t there. He’s checked out, distracted, and his smiles are hollow.

Hob watches him pick up books he would normally love, read one page and then put it down again. Watches him abandon the newspaper crossword puzzles he usually likes to do over breakfast after solving only one or two questions. Watches him get dressed in the morning, putting on his usual all-black attire with a mechanical precision that suggests he’s operating on autopilot and not thinking about it at all. He just doesn’t seem to care about any of it, and Dream normally cares so much about everything that it’s really starting to freak Hob out.

Hob asks him if he’s okay and he says he’s just tired. Hob asks him why and he says he doesn’t know. And the worst part is, Hob believes him. He doesn’t think Dream does know what’s wrong. It’s not just grief for Jessamy that’s doing it. Hob thinks it’s more that Jessamy was a tiny piece of a support structure that was far more meager than either of them realized, and now all the rest of the heaviness has come crashing down. That doesn’t mean Dream has the words for what any of that is, though.

Hob worries about him when he’s at work. He worries about him whenever Dream is out of his sight. He thinks about how relentless and intense Dream usually is and contrasts it with his current listlessness and he worries.

He thinks about Dream graduating university with honors while he built a whole fucking company in his dorm room and wrote the first half of a novel on the side, and he worries.

Dream had always made time for Hob then, too. And he always has since. Or maybe being with Hob was the sanctuary he carved out for himself amidst the whirlwind of all that he was.

Now more often than not Dream comes home and immediately collapses on top of Hob on the couch and doesn’t speak a word for a least two hours. Hob is just glad that, whatever’s going on, he at least isn’t fully isolating himself. He’s still coming to Hob for comfort, in whatever way he knows how.

The next time it happens, Hob messages Lucienne, Dream’s COO. In fact he does it from his phone while Dream is lying on top of him, and Dream doesn’t even notice.

Has Dream been alright at work recently? he writes.

Lucienne responds fairly quickly. She’s a bit of a workaholic, just like Dream. I am not sure he would want me sharing all his business without his knowledge.

Hob sighs. He supposes it’s fair that she’s protective of her boss. Lucienne. Come on. Please. I’m worried about him.

He seems tired lately, she writes, at length. And distracted.

Anything in particular going on?

No, if anything, we are in a bit of a slow down at the moment. There is not as much on our plates.

Odd.

Do take care of him, Hob, Lucienne adds.

Always will, Hob says.

He puts his phone aside, and pets Dream’s hair. Dream hums in pleasure, nuzzling into him. “Sweetheart. You want some dinner?”

“If you desire,” Dream says.

Hob’s not convinced he would eat anything at all if Hob didn’t push him.

“Come on, up, we’ll get something to eat,” Hob says, and Dream groans, but lets Hob maneuver him up, and sits placidly in the kitchen with the cup of water Hob pushes into his hands as Hob cooks. He is so placid, lately, in general. Hob is used to Dream being strong-willed and opinionated. It’s upsetting to see him passive.

All he can do for now, though, is take care of Dream as best he can. As he always does.

~

It hits a breaking point when Dream simply doesn’t go into work at all.

Hob is working from home that day, and doesn’t notice at first that eight o’clock has passed and Dream hasn’t left the house. At around nine he goes to make more coffee and realizes, suddenly, that Dream’s shoes are still by the door, his coat still hanging on its hook. So Hob goes to find him.

He finds Dream still lying in bed, not asleep, just sort of staring blankly at the wall, arms wrapped around himself. Hob lays a hand on his shoulder. “Hi, darling. You getting up for work?”

“No,” Dream says, flatly. “I cannot. I don’t want to.”

So Hob calls Lucienne to let her know Dream’s sick and won’t be coming in. He can hear her concern over the phone. Dream almost never calls in sick. If he gets something contagious, he just works from home instead of resting.

Maybe this is part of the problem. Maybe this is all part of the huge, looming cloud of pain that has apparently been covering Dream like a shroud for longer than Hob’s even known him without Hob ever truly seeing it.

When he puts his phone away and comes back Dream is still lying in the same position. Heart in his throat, Hob climbs into bed to sit beside him. “I told Lucienne you’d be out today,” he says gently. Dream turns over to face him, wrapping his arm around Hob’s thigh to pull close. That gives Hob some hope. That Dream still wants to reach out. “She was worried about you.”

Dream looks up at him solemnly. “And you?”

“I’ve been worried about you for a long time, darling. Talk to me.”

“I meant to go in today,” Dream says. “I have things to do. I suppose. But. I realized that I don’t care about any of it. I tried to remind myself how to care about it. But I could not remember. And so there was no point in getting up.”

“Perhaps you’re a bit stressed about it all,” Hob suggests, but Dream shakes his head.

“I do not feel anything about it at all. I think the company could disappear entirely in this moment and I would feel nothing but this... numbness. I ought to care. But I don’t. It’s meaningless.” He presses his forehead into Hob’s thigh. “I think it ought to scare me. But I don’t feel that either. I don’t feel anything.”

Hob breathes out hard. “Okay. Alright.” He pets Dream’s hair as he thinks. He doesn’t feel very equipped to handle this, but Dream’s regular therapy and meds don’t seem to be doing anything so he’s going to have to try. And if Dream’s regular routine isn’t helping then maybe it’s not his usual depression. Then maybe Hob can work out something to begin to help. “Maybe we need to take you on a very, very long holiday. So you can have a rest.”

Dream lets out a choked laugh, though when he speaks there’s no humor in it. “Hob. I think if I stop moving for that long. I will not get up again. So if you wish to have a functional partner, you may want to withdraw that suggestion.”

Hob feels his heart break in two. “What if I want an alive partner?”

“I am not planning to kill myself.”

“Recently it seems you’re well on your way to it, Dream.”

Dream is silent for a long moment, then says, voice cracking, “I am not trying to—”

“I know, I know, honey,” Hob slides down the bed to rest beside him, pulling Dream into his arms. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know any other way to be,” Dream cries, pressing his face into Hob’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, my love.” They have been together since university. He’s seen Dream go through bouts of depression before. But he’s never seen him like this. Fracturing at the seams. It’s frightening. “I love you so much, do you know?”

“I know.” He squeezes Hob close. “I do know.”

“I don’t care how functional you are,” Hob says, making a clear mockery of the word, and Dream laughs weakly. “I do actually like you, you know. You. Not Mr Great Tech Innovator.”

Dream groans. “Please do not call me a ‘tech innovator’ or I may have to actually kill myself out of shame.”

Hob remembers when Forbes had wanted Dream to be in their thirty under thirty issue and Dream had refused because he thought it was ‘stupid and self-aggrandizing’ and because he ‘didn’t put in years of work for the purpose of being on the cover of an insipid magazine.’ Hob loves this stupid idiot so much.

Dream doesn’t do any of it for fame. Hob doesn’t entirely know why he does it. He think maybe pouring all of himself out is the only thing Dream knows.

“When’s the last time you feel you got an actual break?” Hob asks.

Dream thinks about it. “Year 10,” he says at last. “I spent the summer holiday doing nothing but reading. It was blissful.”

“Dream, that was fifteen years ago."

“After that summer I was always working somehow. Doing advanced class prep work. Then university prep.” He gives Hob a sly sidelong glance, and despite the heavy topic, Hob internally cheers to see a bit of his humor come back. “Needless to say, I was not spending my free time partying when I was in school.”

No, Hob knew that about him. Dream is practically incapable of having fun. Even one of his supposedly stress-relieving outlets, writing, he’s managed to turn into a side career as an author. And Hob knows that, unless one is a verifiable genius, one doesn’t earn the perfect marks Dream had all through school without sacrifice. Hob had gotten good marks, too, but Dream had always been a step above.

And he knows Dream’s parents had always demanded utter perfection. Whether they ever rewarded him for any of it, Hob doesn’t know.

“Hey, darling,” he says. “You’re doing a good job.”

Dream whimpers, pushing his face into Hob’s chest.

“You’re doing enough,” Hob continues. “You’re doing so well. I promise. It’s all okay. It’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” Dream says. He clings to Hob, wrapping his arms around him, slipping one leg in between Hob’s thighs. “So much.”

It would be easy to feel insecure around Dream’s level of success, except that Dream’s love for Hob is so obvious. To Hob it is, at least. Dream cares for him so deeply, in his way, and he never acts like he thinks Hob is lesser for not being someone Forbes is pursuing for their lists. If anything, Dream usually discounts his own success, and is, generally speaking, obsessed with Hob and everything Hob does.

This is also a visceral reminder of the costs of this type of success.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he says, rocking Dream in his arms.

“I have been feeling. Somewhat unwell, recently,” Dream admits. “Increasingly so. I suppose I ought to be grateful, in a way, that my mind forced me to shut down before my body did.”

Hob’s not sure he himself feels quite grateful about it, but he is glad Dream at least recognizes the problem.

“We’ve just got to send you to the seaside for your health,” he says.

Dream laughs, genuinely this time. “Truly.”

“Get you a little break. It’ll help, I promise. You’ve just been over-working yourself, hm?”

“I do not think it is my current level of work that is the problem,” Dream says. “I think. I have been running so long. I simply cannot anymore. Effort, itself, is not a problem for a marathon runner. But duration eventually becomes exhausting.”

“I know. It’s okay. Might need a bit longer of a break, is all.”

“I do not know how,” Dream says.

“You let everyone else at work take breaks, don’t you?”

“I used to not,” Dream says. “Not enough of them. Until Lucienne made it quite clear that I was being unfair to them. I was not trying to be. I was simply… used to my own work patterns and did not realize the strain it was putting on them.”

“But you changed it,” Hob says. “You can change it for yourself, too.”

“Perhaps,” Dream says.

“Hire someone who can do some of your tasks and then give yourself a little break. Go somewhere warm and sit on a beach and drink sugary cocktails.”

Dream laughs. “I don’t know if my brain is suited to that.”

“Exactly why you should do it.”

“Will you come with me on this… health retreat by the sea?” Dream asks, some humor back in his voice.

“Course. I’ll take a sabbatical and go with you. But also. Do you think you might want a bit of time to yourself?”

“By myself?” Dream questions. “I do have time to myself. I am already quite solitary.”

“I know. But. Do you think you’d want a bit of extended time to just do what you want to do?” It would hurt, to be away from Dream for an extended period of time. But he wants Dream to have that, that freedom to be completely unburdened, to have no expectations, if it will help him.

“Hmm.” Dream considers. “Perhaps a bit. But I like to be with you.”

“I like to be with you, too, my love. Think about somewhere you’ve always wanted to go. And we’ll go. Or if you just want to rest here, that’s fine, too.”

“You don’t have to do all this,” Dream says quietly.

“I want you to be well,” Hob says. “More than anything, I want you to be well.” He kisses Dream’s forehead. “Besides if you don’t think I’m already imagining us on a beach—”

Dream laughs. “I see.”

“Come now, you want to see me shirtless, don’t you?” Hob teases.

“I see you shirtless every day,” Dream says dryly.

“Don’t you want to get extremely drunk and naked and fool around in a luxury villa?”

“What counts as ‘extremely’ naked?” Dream asks. “Taking off my skin?”

“Dream.”

Dream chuckles. “I do. That sounds enjoyable. I would like to leave my laptop at home and perhaps wander around a seaside village, drinking wine until I have killed all of my brain cells.”

“Now you’re getting into the spirit of it,” Hob says.

“Hob,” Dream says, serious again.

“Yeah?”

“What if I take a break,” Dream asks, quietly, “And then I cannot convince myself to go back?”

There’s true grief in his voice, but still Hob counters, “What if you take a break and you feel better?”

Dream smiles, faintly, Hob feels it against his skin. “Always the more positive attitude.”

“One of us has to.”

“But what if,” Dream continues, “I take a break and I learn that I never wanted to do any of it at all?”

This is a stickier question. “Why would you have done any of it, if you didn’t want to? You must have wanted to on some level.”

“I don’t know,” says Dream. “It is just what I’m used to.”

“Maybe you’ll want to again,” Hob says. “Maybe you won’t. Can’t we take it one day at a time?”

Dream lets out a long, aggrieved breath. ���You are so nonchalant.”

“Thought that’s one of the reasons you liked me.”

“It is,” Dream says, sounding incredibly frustrated about it. “Yet I do not understand it in the slightest. You truly just… have faith that everything will work out regardless?”

“I have faith we can figure it out,” Hob says. “And that I’ll always have your back. That you’ll never have to work through it alone.”

“You are a wonderful partner,” Dream says. Then, “I would like to go out tonight.”

“You… would?”

Dream nods. “I would like to remember what it was like when we first met. And I feel sorely lacking in romance and I’m well aware it’s my own doing. I know it may not feel the same right now but I want to... try. And. I miss you. Will you take me out on a date?”

Hob is thrilled by this turn. “Of course I will. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Can you also tell Lucienne I will be out sick this week and then hide my laptop and phone somewhere I will not find them?”

Hob laughs. “Alright, darling. Get some rest for today, hm? We’ll go out for drinks or something later. I have missed you. I’ve missed seeing you cheery.”

“‘Cheery’ may be pushing it,” Dream says, with a small smile. “However. I would like to have sex tonight.”

Hob bursts out laughing, not at the idea, but at the absolutely flat way Dream says it. He really does have a way about him.

“It’s been too long,” Dream whines.

It has been too long. “Oh, don’t think I’m saying no,” Hob says, and slips a hand up under Dream’s shirt to feel up his back. Dream laughs, snuggling closer to him. It’s so good to hear him laugh.

“Anything you want, anything that will make you happy,” he says. “I love you more than anything.”

Dream leans up to kiss him, long and sweet, then collapses atop him again, as he has nearly every day for weeks. Except this time it doesn’t feel quite so defeated. It feels like it could maybe be rest.

[gabessquishytum]

The ton of London is abuzz with the latest drama unfolding between Morpheus Endless and his father, Lord Time, over the question of the former’s marriage and just who is meant to meet him at the altar.

From almost the beginning of the Season, everyone had been treated to the sweet and clear courtship of Morpheus by Mr. Hob Gadling. It seemed to be love at first sight, and from a practical standpoint was considered to be a rather good match; Hob might have been new money, but what he lacked in connections he more than made up in wealth, looks, and honest charm. The Endless family are well-connected and well-respected, and while Morpheus could possibly have held out for a more equally-connected match, he was a third child (thus bringing little status to a marriage, when compared to his elder siblings), and furthermore had been considered rather unapproachable, aloof and cold, at least until Hob had managed to melt that icy exterior.

It had gotten to the point where anyone paying attention expected to hear of a proposal any day now, when chaos erupted: Lord Time, who had evidently not been paying any attention to his son or his courtship, heard the match being talked of as a settled thing, and quite firmly announced that he would not allow it. That he had in fact been arranging Morpheus’ betrothal to Mr Roderick Burgess!

Society is shocked by such a choice. The Burgess family was nearly as nouveau riche as Mr. Gadling, but with a much worse reputation (and possibly less rich). And to Roderick, to whom most of the poor reputation belongs, and who has a grown son of his own! By every measure Hob Gadling is clearly the better catch, besides which Morpheus Endless’ honor is quite firmly engaged at this point, and it would be scandalous to jilt Mr. Gadling after such a blatant courtship for such an inferior alternative.

Yet Lord Time refuses to budge on his decision, and no amount of attempted persuasion by his acquaintances, children, or even his wife (who normally presents a united front with her husband), will convince him that this course of action will damage his family’s reputation and his son’s happiness.

Morpheus doesn’t intend to take this lying down however. He plans to put himself in increasing compromising positions with his real fiancée (who is fully on board with the plan), until he is either officially engaged to Hob or considered so thoroughly ruined that the Endless family’s reputation can never recover.

And so the ton holds its breath at this game of chicken, waiting to see which happens first: the son bending to his father’s stubborn will and submitting to the sanctioned match, or the father breaking against the son’s determined willingness to drag the family name through the mud in order to marry his preferred suitor.

(Little does the ton know just how unlikely the former outcome is, as Morpheus loves Hob Gadling as strongly as he hates Roderick Burgess. Thus he is fully ready if necessary to bring himself and Hob off in the middle of a crowded ballroom, and make it very clear that this is not the first time they’ve engaged in pre-marital relations, if that’s what it takes)

Yes!!!!! I love these Bridgerton adjacent ideas for dreamling because those two are SO dramatic, you just know that they'd thrive in those conditions.

The nice thing about Hob being new money is that he doesn't really have much of a reputation to ruin, and no family to be disappointed in him. He cares very little about what anyone thinks of him; the only person he's interested in pleasing is Morpheus! And although he'd certainly prefer to save Dream’s reputation, for the sake of his beloved's place in society, Hob has no trouble at all in following Morpheus’s orders and misbehaving all over the place!

And it's certainly convenient, since they've been fucking ever since the Season began. Now Hob doesn't have to bother trying not to mark Morpheus’s neck above the line of his cravat. Hob has some well-placed conversations with some of the most notorious gossips in the ton, and soon enough everyone is craning their necks to see if the love bites are visible on Morpheus’s pretty white neck today...

Finally, Roderick Burgess seemingly can't take the idea of marrying a ruined slut like Morpheus any longer (despite the connections to the aristocracy, and all the benefits that would come with the marriage... Burgess can't cope with the fact that he would not be the first to break Morpheus in, so to speak). He breaks the deal with Lord Time, and what do you know, less than a week later, Morpheus and Hob are quietly married at an intimate little ceremony.

The ton decides to conveniently forget about the couple's scandalous behaviour - they're safely married now, so it's all quite alright. It was for the best that Morpheus married the man he clearly adored! And the honeymoon period seemingly hasn't ended either... at every ball of the next season, the newlyweds are bound to sneak off for old times sake, to some secret corner where they can renew their marital bliss. Not to mention what they get up to on the carriage ride home! It's quite clear to everyone (thanks to all the noises of satisfaction coming from behind the curtains) that Morpheus chose the right husband <3

[goldsainz]

# HIGH INFIDELITY — CHAPTER TWO !

SERIES MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ rafe’s feelings are conflicting, both for him and for you.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ nothing, i think.

003. NOTE !

✯ kinda filler (but not actually) chapter

word count : 1,6k words

Rafe Cameron likes to pretend that nothing in the world can hurt him, that nothing can truly bother him. Though he does hate, and he hates a lot. He hates the shrill sound of Rose’s voice, he hates the expectations Ward places on him, but most of all, he hates not having control. And tonight, at the party at Tannyhill, it feels like control is slipping through his fingers.

The party is everything Rafe Cameron loves and hates about his life rolled into one. On the surface, it’s perfect—just the right mix of chaos and control. The music is loud enough to drown out any awkward silences, the drinks flow as freely as the insults behind polished smiles, and every person in the room knows their place, even if they won’t admit it.

Rafe thrives in this world, the effortless ruler of his gilded kingdom, but tonight something is off. His usual sense of control feels… frayed, like a taut wire on the verge of snapping. He leans casually against a wall, scanning the room, and his jaw tightens when his eyes land yet again on Joshua Diaz.

Josh has always been likable in that unassuming, easygoing way—popular without being cocky, charming without trying. It’s infuriating, really, how people just gravitate toward him, and now you have fallen for his charm too. Because of course you have.

Rafe’s eyes follow you both as you weave through the crowd, your laughter bubbling up every time Josh leans in to whisper something. It’s a sound that cuts through the haze of noise, sharp and impossible to ignore. And Rafe hates that he notices it.

He tells himself it’s not jealousy. It’s something else—something easier to swallow, like irritation. Annoyance at Josh for bringing her here, into his space, when you so clearly don't belong. You’re a Pogue, for crying out loud. What is Josh even thinking?

But deep down, Rafe knows it’s not just about you being a Pogue. It’s the way you carry yourself, like you're unaware of the lines you’ve crossed just by stepping into his house. Like you don't care. It’s the way you laugh, uninhibited and real, in a way that no one in his world ever does. It’s the way you look at Josh, eyes bright and full of warmth that Rafe hasn’t seen directed at himself in years.

It’s maddening.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed over his chest, as he watches Josh place a hand on her back, guiding her through the crowd with ease. Rafe clenches his jaw, a low simmer of frustration building in his chest.

What does he see in you?

The question gnaws at him, and he hates that he’s even asking it. Hates that he’s wasting mental energy on a girl who should be nothing more than a passing annoyance. Yet he can’t stop watching you, can’t stop the irrational churn of emotions every time you smile at Josh like he’s the only person in the room.

He convinces himself it’s not about you. It’s about Josh. It’s about protecting his friend from making a mistake, from getting too close to someone who could never understand their world.

You’re looking out for him, Rafe tells himself, though the words ring hollow.

Rafe tears his gaze away, forcing himself to look anywhere but at you. The room feels suffocating now, the press of bodies and the buzz of conversation blending into a dull roar in his ears. He grabs a drink from the table beside him, more out of habit than thirst, and downs it in one sharp gulp. The burn of alcohol barely registers; his mind is too tangled in thoughts he refuses to name.

It shouldn’t matter to him. You shouldn’t matter to him. Yet, as much as he tries to push the feelings down, they bubble up like a poison he can’t shake. Every laugh, every fleeting touch between you and Josh grates on him, a reminder of just how out of control he feels tonight.

And control is everything to Rafe Cameron.

He sets the empty glass down harder than necessary, drawing a glance from one of the partygoers nearby. He ignores it, his attention already drifting back to you despite himself. You're standing near the pool now, the soft glow of the lights casting a golden hue over your skin. Josh is still by your side, but his focus has shifted to someone else. You’re alone, if only for a moment.

The logical part of Rafe tells him to let it go, to stay where he is and let the night play out. But another part—a louder, more reckless part—urges him forward. Before he can second-guess himself, he’s moving through the crowd, weaving between groups of people with single-minded determination.

When he reaches you, you don’t notice him at first, your gaze fixed on the water as you swirl the drink in your hand. There’s a calmness about you, an ease that feels so foreign in this world of his. For a moment, Rafe hesitates, caught between wanting to ruin it and wanting to understand it.

“You look out of place,” he says finally, his voice low but cutting.

You turn, startled, and meet his eyes. There’s no fear there, no shrinking under his scrutiny. Instead, you raise an eyebrow, your lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk.

“And yet, here I am,” you reply, seemingly unfazed.

The simplicity of your response throws him. Most people would stumble over themselves trying to appease him, but not you. You hold your ground, unbothered, and it both infuriates and intrigues him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the words come out weaker than he intends.

“Neither should you,” you counter, tilting your head. “You don’t even look like you’re enjoying your own party.”

Rafe opens his mouth to respond, but for once, he’s at a loss. You’re not wrong—he hasn’t enjoyed a single second of tonight. Yet, as much as he wants to push you away, he finds himself rooted in place, unwilling to leave.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out why Josh brought you here,” he says, falling back on the sharp edge of his words.

For a moment, he thinks he sees a flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Maybe you should ask him,” you say lightly. “Or is it easier to corner me instead?”

Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to. For all his bravado, all his carefully crafted masks, he feels exposed under your gaze, as if you can see straight through him.

And he hates that too.

For a moment, the world around you seems to fade, the noise of the party muffled by the weight of the silence between you and Rafe. His sharp blue eyes hold yours, and though he tries to mask it, there’s something raw and unspoken lingering there—something that sets your nerves on edge and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Neither of you say a word, but the tension is palpable, stretching between you, ready to snap.

Then, like a switch being flipped, your expression changes. The barely-there softness in your gaze hardens. Without so much as a word, you turn your attention away from Rafe and lean into Josh. The move is deliberate, calculated, as if you’re making a point. You whisper something into Josh’s ear, your voice too low for Rafe to hear, but the intent behind it is clear.

Josh’s easy going demeanor shifts almost instantly. His brows furrow, and his head turns sharply in Rafe’s direction. There’s no mistaking the glint of surprise—and maybe a hint of irritation—in his eyes as they lock onto Rafe’s. Whatever you said, it’s enough to make Josh stand a little straighter, his shoulders squaring as he regards his friend with a newfound wariness.

Rafe stiffens under the weight of Josh’s gaze, his fists clenching at his sides. He feels exposed, like he’s just been caught in the act of something he can’t explain. The simmering frustration he’s been trying to suppress threatens to boil over, but he forces himself to stay composed. Barely.

Josh leans in closer to you, murmuring something he can’t quite catch, and you respond with a casual shrug, as if Rafe isn’t even worth a second thought. The sight of it—the ease with which you brush him off—grates on Rafe more than he cares to admit. It’s as if the two of you are speaking a language he doesn’t understand, leaving him on the outside looking in.

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron feels like he’s lost control. And he hates it.

He hates that he can't tear his gaze away from the two of you as you weave once again through the crowd. Hates the way he barely moves from the spot he was standing, as if his feet are rooted to the floor by some invisible force, forcing him to watch you slip further away from him with each passing second. 

The longer he watches, the more he feels himself unraveling. Every smile you share with Josh, every glance exchanged between the two of you, twists something inside him, something raw and unexplainable. He’s not supposed to care. He knows that. You’re just another person in his world, another blip in the endless sea of faces he can’t be bothered to remember. But tonight, it feels different.

And he can’t stand it.

[mc-lukanette]

"Clear as a music note, sincere as a melody. You've been the song stuck in my head since the day we first met."

Luka meant every word of it. He hadn't known Marinette for long but he knew people. Whether one called it intuition, a sixth sense, or nothing more than a "feeling," he didn't care. Marinette was a special girl and anyone who didn't know didn't understand her. It was the way she talked, the way she laughed, and even the way she was constantly stumbling over herself because she cared so much about others.

He felt it in her designs and had seen the process himself, how she would sit in the same spot for hours until someone snapped her out of it. He wore his Kitty Section costume proudly because of it and swore that it made him play better, just by having a piece of her with him.

That was all he needed, as far as he was concerned. Whether she loved him or not was irrelevant, and he only confessed at all in the first place because he wanted to alleviate whatever doubts she'd had. He was just happy to know her and to be called her friend.

She looked so beautiful against the colorful stage lights too. Had he not needed to leave, he might've told her so. He only hoped she wouldn't run off to let them take all the credit if there were any interviews afterward. She was just as big a part of the band as he was.

He smiled and released her shoulder, turning around to face the stage where he was set to play with the others. He took one step, two steps—

and then his wrist was snagged, pulling him back. He tried to keep his balance, especially as another hand grabbed at his jacket to bring him downwards. Everything was happening too fast, his vision only able to register the blur that was Marinette's face coming towards him.

Heat flooded his system as her lips came into contact with his skin, just to the side of his mouth. She'd kissed him on the cheek before, but that had come off entirely friendly as opposed to the one she'd given him now.

"Worse" still was that he knew she'd missed her intended target in her rush, which was definitely not his cheek.

It was over too soon, but he registered the voices behind him calling him to the stage as Marinette let him go and pulled away. Despite the bold move, she looked away sheepishly and cleared her throat, her blush obvious even in the lighting.

"U-um... good luck?" she said, giving him a fluttery wave.

His shoes felt like they were filled with very selective lead, keeping him firmly in place unless he was moving towards her specifically. Alas, his bandmates were still calling and not going would've ruined all the effort Marinette had put into getting them to this point.

Thus, he turned - for real this time - and went to set up with the others.

—————

Luka somehow managed to concentrate throughout the entire performance. The nice thing about his Kitty Section mask was that he could look around freely without being noticed, particularly at the siren of a girl standing in the background watching his every move. Her fingers were steepled in front of her mouth, making it hard to gauge her exact expression, but her eyes never left his.

Each note he played felt like a pleasant shock through his body, a positive feedback loop that kept going throughout the whole song. It'd happened before when he was in a good mood, playing his feelings through the strings, but not like this.

Not after being kissed by the one he was in love with, and not on a stage where the energy surrounding him was so high. Whenever he turned to the other bandmates, they were staring at him in bewilderment, but not in any bad way. He wasn't overshadowing them or throwing off the song, he was just more of what was already there, and the stage crew was getting into it.

It was fantastic.

By the time everything was over and the recording was done, there was nothing stopping him anymore. He wordlessly passed his guitar to a confused Rose, then walked off the stage, past the crew, and past a reporter who had snuck in and was asking him questions he didn't bother listening to. He pushed his mask up and took a straight path directly towards Marinette, who was bouncing from the thrill of the moment.

"That was incredible, Luka!" she squealed. "It sounded even better than in the video! People are going to love it, I—"

He grabbed her face and kissed her. It momentarily occurred to him that he could've said something romantic like, "I only played so well because you were there," which was true, but kissing her the way she'd tried to kiss him seemed like a far more appropriate response to what she'd done.

It felt equivalent to getting to play a song she'd written just for him, which was almost a shame. Had he known she could've made noises like she was just by him kissing her, he would've suggested a different type of song for the music video.

There was a shriek in the background that was probably Rose, which he paid no mind to. He broke the kiss, but remained hunched over to Marinette's level, still holding her blushing face and cherishing the warmth against his palms.

"Did you love it?" he asked quietly, stroking her cheeks. "That's all I care about."

Her voice had raised an octave when she replied, "O-of course? I said it was incredible! I love you—it! A lot!"

She managed to fit her hands between his, covering her face with an embarrassed whine. He sighed blissfully, dropping his hands to wrap his arms around her and bury his face into her shoulder.

"I can't believe you tried to kiss me," he began, then added even though he could've left it at that, "right before I had to go on stage."

"Sorry," came the muffled apology behind her hands, though he smirked when he caught the hint of not actually being sorry in her voice. She returned his embrace, squeezing and shaking a little as she whispered, "I should've done it sooner."

When Luka had thought just a few minutes ago that he would've been perfectly happy just getting to know Marinette and be her friend, he meant it, but he wasn't about to complain about being thrice as perfectly happy either.

[bisexualbellamyblake]

a quiet undoing

buddie - post-808 coda - read on ao3

“Eddie’s moving to Texas.”

Maddie blinks at Buck, processing his words. It’s barely a second before her head tilts, and her eyebrows draw in, and she’s looking at him like he’s six again, like he’s fallen from his bike and all she wants to do is patch him up.

Protect him from the world.

“Oh, Buck,” she says, soft like she’s worried he’s fragile, like he might break, and maybe he will, because he doesn’t even remember it, driving to her house.

It’s all a blur.

Going to Eddie’s with a basket of baked goods.

Using his key and feeling that quiet thrill in his chest at the click of the front door unlocking.

Teasing Eddie about whatever he was looking at.

And then, being hit with something that Buck never imagined he would be. The prospect of Eddie leaving LA.

Of leaving him.

“I don’t — I’m not sure why I’m here,” Buck says, voice feeling tight with a fresh wave of tears. The first lot came when he was sitting on Eddie’s couch, when Eddie was no longer watching him and he allowed himself a moment not to pretend. They’re harder to swallow down this time. “I just got in my car and somehow ended up here.”

“That’s okay,” Maddie says, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, coaxing him inside. “I’m glad you came.”

She leads them to her couch, and Buck sits down, trying not to think about Eddie’s couch.

How many times has he sat there with Eddie? With Chris?

How many times has he slept there?

How many of Buck’s memories have been born on Eddie’s couch?

And now, he’s just spent an hour there on a call with a real estate agent, trying not to be anything but supportive as Eddie asked about different properties in fucking Texas.

Because how could he be?

Eddie misses Chris more than anything in the world.

He needs to be with him.

Buck understands, even if it feels like his own heart has been carved out of his chest.

“He wants to be with Chris,” Buck says, he’s not sure how long later. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving quite like normal. “He’s looking at houses. I don’t understand why he doesn’t just fly there and bring him home. This is his home, Maddie, not Texas.”

“Buck…”

“I know, I’m not — I would never say this to him, don’t worry. I’ll let him go, even if it kills me. Even if I…”

The words get caught in his throat, and god, it’s love that’s strangling him right now, he knows it.

Another thing he can always associate with Eddie’s couch.

His eyes burn, and his chest feels cracked open, and it’s as Maddie’s pulling him in for a hug that he finally breaks. Tears hot on his cheeks, half-formed breaths shuddering out of him, his entire being — body and soul — aching with grief.

He’s always been an easy crier, always felt things too hard, too much, but he can’t recall the last time it felt this overwhelming.

Not when Tommy broke up with him.

Not when he was coming to terms with his own death — three minutes and seventeen seconds.

Not even when Maddie left, as much as it killed him.

It was probably when Eddie was shot. When Buck broke down in front of Chris.

Now, it’s Maddie who holds onto him as he sobs, murmuring soft words he can’t quite process as his body shakes with sorrow, as he tries to come to terms with the reality of yet another person he loves leaving him.

It’s minutes, or maybe hours, until he’s wrung dry, until the tears have stopped and his face feels tight and sticky and his heart continues its confused, worried beat within his chest: how will we go on?

Buck doesn’t know.

But he wipes at his eyes, and takes a slow breath, and this is what he does know:

He’s in love with Eddie.

And it’s because of that love, that he’ll let him go.

[whosscruffylooking]

steve harrington x fem! reader Open Arms Masterlist word count: 6.3k ~1984~

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Later that evening, Steve finds himself pacing the length of his living room, running a hand through his hair for what feels like the hundredth time. The silence of the house is unbearable, filled with his swirling thoughts and unanswered questions. He doesn’t know what to do, and the frustration of it all is starting to feel like too much.

Finally, he grabs his keys and heads out the door. He doesn’t have a plan, but somehow, his feet lead him to Dustin’s house. If there’s anyone who might have an answer—or at least say something that could make sense of this mess—it’s the kid who seems to know way too much about life for his age.

When Dustin opens the door, he’s holding a partially dismantled walkie-talkie and wearing a look of mild confusion. “Steve? What are you doing here? And…why didn’t you drive your car?”

“I need to talk to you,” Steve blurts out, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He sinks into the nearest chair, his head dropping into his hands. “It’s about Y/N.”

Dustin’s eyes widen, and he immediately shuts the door, tossing the walkie onto a nearby table. “Oh man, this is gonna be good. Spill.”

Steve hesitates, unsure how to even start. “I don’t know what to do. Last night, things… things got intense, and I thought we had this moment, you know? Like, we finally said what we’ve been too scared to say for years. But now she’s pulling back, and I don’t know if I should—” He stops, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I should keep pushing or just… leave it alone.”

Dustin crosses his arms, tilting his head as he considers Steve’s words. “Okay, first of all, what exactly did you say? Because if you half-assed it, that’s on you.”

Steve groans, leaning back against the chair. “I didn’t half-ass it. I told her she’s my whole world. That I couldn’t survive if something happened to her. I meant every word.”

“Okay, cool. So you laid it all out there,” Dustin says, nodding approvingly. “And now she’s avoiding you?”

“Pretty much.”

Dustin shrugs. “She’s probably just freaking out. I mean, think about it, Steve. Last night was crazy. People don’t just process stuff like that overnight. Plus, she’s probably wondering if you meant it or if it was, like, adrenaline talking.”

“I did mean it,” Steve says quickly, his voice firm.

“I know that, and you know that, but does she?” Dustin points out, raising an eyebrow. “You’re gonna have to prove it.”

“How?”

Dustin smirks. “By being the guy she already knows you are. You’ve been in love with her for years, right? So don’t stop now. Show her you meant what you said. Don’t let her run away just because she’s scared.”

Steve leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes in Dustin’s words. “And what if I push too hard and just end up making it worse?”

“Steve,” Dustin says, his tone surprisingly serious. “The only way you’re gonna make it worse is if you give up. She’s worth it, right?”

Steve doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. She’s worth it.”

“Then stop overthinking it and just… be there for her. Give her time, but don’t let her forget you meant every word.”

Steve nods slowly, Dustin’s advice sinking in. Maybe the kid’s right. Maybe it’s not about pushing or pulling back—it’s about being steady, being there, and letting her see that his feelings aren’t going anywhere.

“Don’t let her forget I meant every word,” Steve takes a mental note. “Thanks kid.”

“Anytime, big guy,” Dustin replies, grinning. “But, uh, maybe next time, bring snacks. We’ve got brainstorming to do and we’re doing it on an empty stomach.”

The kid pulls out a notebook and begins scribbling ideas into it. 

Steve leans back in Dustin’s chair, arms crossed as his mind drifts, until he blurts out, “I wrote her a note once.”

Dustin freezes mid-sentence. “A note?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Back in ninth grade. It was, like, this stupid thing where I wrote down all the stuff I… liked about her.”

Dustin’s pen drops onto the desk, and he swivels around in his chair to face Steve, his expression somewhere between shock and delight. “Hold up. You wrote an actual love note, and you’ve just been sitting on this information? What did it say?”

“I don’t remember,” Steve lies, avoiding Dustin’s eyes.

“Bull,” Dustin says, narrowing his gaze. “You remember every word, don’t you?”

Steve sighs, defeated. “Okay, fine. I remember some of it. But it doesn’t matter because I never gave it to her.”

“You still have it?” Dustin asks, leaning forward like he’s about to discover buried treasure.

“I think so,” Steve mutters. “It’s probably in some box in my closet or something.”

Dustin practically leaps out of his chair. “We’re going to your house. Right now.”

“No way,” Steve says, shaking his head.

“Steve,” Dustin says, crossing his arms and giving him a look that’s far too confident for a 13-year-old. “This note could be the key to unlocking her heart. You’re always telling me to take risks and go after what I want, so why don’t you take your own advice for once?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine, but only if you agree to stop badgering me about it.”

Dustin smirks. “And?”

“And,” Steve adds, “I’ll help you prepare for the winter formal.”

“Sold!” Dustin says, already grabbing his coat.

They rummage through Steve’s closet for nearly half an hour, tossing aside old yearbooks, basketball trophies, and forgotten sneakers, until Dustin shouts, “Found it!”

He holds up a folded piece of paper, yellowed slightly with age, and waves it triumphantly.

Steve snatches it from him, his face already burning. “Give me that.”

“Absolutely not,” Dustin says, dodging out of reach. “This is a historical document. It belongs in a museum!”

“Dustin, I swear—”

“Relax,” Dustin says, finally unfolding the note. He scans the page, his smirk slowly fading as he reads. “Dude,” he says quietly, glancing up at Steve. “This is… actually kind of sweet. ‘The way you always sticks up for people, even when you’re intimidated.’”

Steve shrugs, avoiding Dustin’s gaze. “Yeah, well…”

“‘Or how you always get mad when I cheat at Monopoly,’” Dustin’s voice softens. “That’s… wow, man.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “Can we not make a big deal out of this?”

Dustin keeps reading. “‘The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking too hard.’”

“Okay, now you’re just embarrassing me,” Steve mutters, trying to grab the note again.

But then Dustin freezes, his eyes widening as he reads a particular line. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Steve asks, suddenly nervous.

“‘The dream I had about you in that red bathing suit….” his eyes gleaming with mischief. “What dream, Harrington?”

Steve’s face turns beet red. “Nope. Not happening.”

“Was it romantic? Or… did you have to wake up in the middle of the night to take a shower after?” Dustin teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Dustin, I swear, if you—”

“Does she know about this dream?!”

Steve grabs the note and crumples it in his fist. “Forget you ever read that.”

But Dustin is already cackling, doubling over with laughter. “Oh, this is too good. You had a secret ninth-grade fantasy about her, and now you’re still pining after her? Man, you’re pathetic!”

Steve groans, running a hand down his face. “Why do I even talk to you?”

“Because I’m your only hope,” Dustin says, still laughing as he throws an arm over Steve’s shoulder. “Now, let’s go use this note to win her over. Minus the dream part, obviously. Unless you want to make things really interesting.”

Steve sighs, shaking his head but unable to keep the small smile off his face. “I’m so going to regret this.”

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Steve grips the steering wheel a little tighter, his knuckles turning white as Dustin leans over from the passenger seat with that insufferable grin plastered on his face.

“You realize the more you avoid it, the worse it sounds, right? Like, was this dream so scandalous it could ruin your life?”

Steve groans, rolling his eyes as he pulls up to a stoplight. “No, it wasn’t scandalous. It was… Look, it’s none of your business.”

Dustin leans closer, his grin widening, “Was it one of those superhero moments where she saved you from drowning?” He pauses dramatically, tapping his chin. “Actually, no—let me guess. You were the one saving her…chest compressions, mouth to mouth.”

Steve nearly chokes on his own breath, his hand slamming against the wheel. “Dustin, I swear—”

“Oh my God,” Dustin cuts him off, gasping in mock realization. “Was it one of those dreams? Like, she’s there in slow motion, water dripping off her, and you’re there rubbing tanning oil all over her body?”

“Cut it out, Henderson!” Steve snaps, his ears burning.

Dustin smirks, leaning back in his seat. “Man, you’re so red right now. It must’ve been some dream.”

“You seriously need a hobby.”

“This is my hobby,” Dustin says proudly. “Now, tell me about the dream, or I’ll tell her there’s a dream.”

“You wouldn’t,” Steve says, eyes narrowing as the light turns green. He presses the gas a little harder than necessary.

“Oh, I absolutely would,” Dustin replies, grinning ear to ear. “She’d love to know how much you’ve been thinking about her—dream Steve and all.”

“Fine!” Steve shouts, throwing one hand in the air. “It wasn’t even that bad! It was just… we were at the pool at my house, and she was… laughing, okay? It wasn’t some weird thing. It was just her, and she was happy, and it stuck with me. End of story.”

Dustin blinks at him, unimpressed. “That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Steve says firmly.

Dustin leans back, letting the silence hang for a moment. “You’re the lamest romantic I’ve ever met.”

Steve sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

“But I’m still going to tell her about it.”

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The next afternoon, you sit cross-legged on your bed, staring at your phone and chewing on your bottom lip. Inviting Nancy Wheeler over wasn’t exactly something you’d planned on doing in this lifetime. You’d always been friendly enough, sure, but hanging out one-on-one? Never happened. Still, if there’s anyone who might understand what you’re going through, it’s her.

When Nancy arrives, she hesitates in the doorway, tilting her head curiously. “Hey,” she says, giving you a small, cautious smile. “This is… unexpected.”

“I know,” you admit, stepping aside to let her in. “It’s weird, right? Me, asking you over. But I—well, I need some advice. About Steve.”

Her brows shoot up, and she gives a small laugh of surprise. “Steve?”

You nod quickly, leading her to your room. “Yeah, and before you say anything, I know it’s probably strange. I mean, he’s my best friend, so I should probably know how to handle this myself, but…” You flop onto the bed with a groan, running a hand through your hair. “I just—I feel like I need a different perspective. And you probably know him better than anyone else—aside from me, of course.”

Nancy sits at the edge of the bed, folding her hands in her lap as she listens. “Okay,” she says slowly, her tone thoughtful. “What’s going on?”

You exhale sharply, tugging at the hem of your sweater. “The other night, during all the chaos, Steve said some things. Big things. About… how he feels about me.”

Nancy blinks, her expression unreadable as she processes your words. “What kind of things?”

“Like… intense things. Like, ‘You’re my whole world,’ kind of things.” You let out a nervous laugh. “And now I don’t know what to do with it. What if it was just the adrenaline talking? What if he doesn’t really mean it?”

Nancy leans back slightly, tilting her head. “Why would you think he didn’t mean it?”

You shrug helplessly. “Because… it’s Steve. He’s been in love with you before. He’s dated other girls. What if I’m just… another phase? Or worse, what if this ruins everything between us?”

Nancy softens, a small smile forming on her lips. “Steve doesn’t really do phases. Sure, he’s dated other people, but he’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you.”

You blink, her words catching you off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that even when we were together, it was obvious how much you meant to him. He talks about you like you hung the stars, Y/N. And I know you’ve been there for him in ways I never could be.” Nancy pauses, then adds gently, “But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. What do you want to happen?”

You hesitate, your cheeks warming as memories of that night with Steve flash through your mind. You almost tell her—that one time, late at night, when things between you and Steve had finally boiled over. When you’d crossed a line that had been hovering between you for years. But instead of making things clearer, it had only complicated everything. And you’d been the one to say it: We should just stay friends.

You stop yourself before the words can escape and opt for something safer. “One time, we… broached the topic of maybe having feelings for each other. But I was the one who shut it down. I was scared of losing him, and I told him it’d be better if we stayed friends.”

Nancy nods slowly, her gaze thoughtful. “And do you still feel that way?”

Your throat tightens, and you struggle to find the words. “I just… I’ve always loved Steve. Not just as my best friend, but more than that. But I never thought he’d see me that way, you know? And now that he’s said this, I don’t know if I can let myself believe it.”

Nancy offers a small smile, her voice steady. “If Steve said it, he meant it. He doesn’t just throw those words around, especially not with you. But I get why you’re scared. It’s a big leap, and there’s a lot at stake. I guess the question is—do you trust him enough to take that leap?”

You sit in silence for a moment, her words sinking in. Finally, you let out a shaky breath. “I want to trust him. I just don’t want to lose him.”

Nancy stands up, grabbing her bag. “I don’t think you’re going to lose him. But you’re never going to know unless you talk to him. Steve’s stubborn, but he’s also patient. He’ll wait until you’re ready.”

You follow her to the door, her words echoing in your mind. “Thanks, Nancy,” you say quietly. “I needed that.”

She offers you a knowing smile. “Anytime. And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not just his best friend. You’re his person. Don’t forget that.”

 Nancy’s words settle into the air, and a pang of guilt twists in your chest. You sit back on your bed, nervously picking at the frayed threads of your sweater.

“Nancy,” you start, your voice quieter than before. “Can I ask you something? And you can be honest, okay?”

She tilts her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Of course.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of what you’re about to say. “Did I… ever make things harder for you and Steve? When you two were together?”

Nancy looks surprised for a moment, but she recovers quickly, shaking her head. “What? No. Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, guilt gnawing at you. “It’s just… he was my best friend, you know? And I guess I always worried that maybe—maybe I got in the way. Like, maybe my relationship with him made things weird or caused tension between you two. Every other girl broke up with him and blamed me.” 

Nancy’s expression softens, and she sits down beside you on the bed. “Y/N, listen to me. Whatever issues Steve and I had, they weren’t because of you. It’s on Steve and I. It’s on me. And, honestly… I’ve felt bad about it for a long time.”

You glance at her, your brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Nancy exhales deeply, brushing a hand through her hair as she glances at you, her expression tinged with guilt. “I guess I should just say it,” she starts hesitantly. “Everything that happened at Murray’s last week… it wasn’t exactly planned. But it also wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment thing, either.”

You blink, confused for a moment before realization dawns. “You mean… when you were with Jonathan?”

Nancy nods, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah. I feel awful about it, especially because—well, Steve and I weren’t officially broken up yet. We were in this weird place, like we both knew things were falling apart, but we hadn’t said it out loud. And then…” She pauses, guilt flickering in her eyes. “I said some things I can’t take back.”

You hesitate, “Steve…kind of hinted that you did.”

She sighs, dropping her gaze. “I told him I didn’t love him. Not really. And I was drunk, so I just blurted it out. And after that, I… I slept with Jonathan when we were at Murray’s.”

Her voice is heavy with regret, and for a moment, you’re unsure of how to respond. She looks at you again, her eyes searching yours. “I hate that I hurt Steve like that, but honestly? After everything with Barb and Will last year, I waited. For a whole month, I waited for Jonathan to make a move, to say something, to give me some kind of sign. But he didn’t. And when he didn’t… I went back to Steve.”

You frown slightly, the pieces of their complicated history falling into place. “So, you and Steve…”

Nancy nods. “We weren’t perfect, not by a long shot, but it felt safe. Familiar. Like maybe if I tried hard enough, I could make it work. But deep down, I think I always knew it wasn’t going to last.”

Her words leave you quiet, a strange mix of emotions swirling in your chest. “Do you think he… knows how you felt?”

“I think he does now,” she admits softly. “After everything that happened last week, I think we both finally faced the truth. We weren’t holding onto each other because we were in love. We were holding on because it was easier than letting go.”

Her honesty feels like a weight lifted, and yet it also leaves you with a strange pang of guilt. “Nancy, I never meant to… I don’t know, make things harder for you two.”

She shakes her head quickly. “You didn’t. Trust me, Y/N, you were never the problem. If anything, I think you were part of what kept Steve grounded when everything else was falling apart.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she cuts you off, her tone firm. “Listen. Whatever happened between Steve and me, it was on us. You’ve always been his best friend. And honestly? You were what he needed—what he always needed. Don’t feel guilty about that.”

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Nancy pulls into the driveway of her house just as she spots Steve’s unmistakable car parked at the curb. She furrows her brow, stepping out of her car as Steve gets out of his.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, crossing her arms.

Steve jerks a thumb toward the passenger side of his car, where Dustin is already halfway out, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Dropping off the little twerp,” he says, his tone teasing.

“Hey!” Dustin protests, shooting a glare at Steve before turning to Nancy. “Don’t let him fool you—he’s practically begging for my advice every time we hang out now.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Get inside, Henderson.”

Dustin smirks but doesn’t argue, heading toward the front door. As he disappears inside, Nancy tilts her head at Steve, her curiosity piqued.

“So,” she says, leaning casually against her car, “what’s really going on?”

Steve shifts uncomfortably, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “What makes you think anything’s going on?”

Nancy raises an eyebrow, giving him a knowing look. “Because I just came from Y/N’s house.”

Steve stiffens, his expression guarded. “Yeah? And?”

“And,” Nancy says slowly, “she’s… confused. But in a good way. If that makes sense.”

Steve lets out a bitter laugh. “Confused. Right. That’s one way to put it.”

Nancy frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s the one pulling away,” Steve says, frustration creeping into his voice. “And it’s not the first time, either. Every time things get close—too close—she just… runs. Like I don’t mean enough for her to stay.”

Nancy crosses her arms, her expression softening. “Steve, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he snaps, before immediately sighing and running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I just… I don’t get it. I put myself out there, and she shuts down. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Nancy steps closer, her tone firm but gentle. “You’re supposed to remember that Y/N’s been through a lot. She’s not pulling away because you don’t mean enough—she’s pulling away because you mean too much, and it terrifies her. You know that.”

Steve leans back against his car, his jaw tightening. “I’m tired of being the one who’s always chasing, Nancy.”

“I get that,” she says softly. “But you’re not exactly easy for her, either. You think it’s been simple for her to figure out where she fits into your life? Especially with… everything that’s happened?”

Steve looks at her, his frustration giving way to something more vulnerable.

Nancy sighs, her voice softening. “Steve, she cares about you. So much. But she’s scared—of hurting you, of getting hurt, of all of it. You’re both trying to protect each other in the most backward ways possible.”

Steve looks down at the pavement, her words sinking in.

“You know her better than anyone,” Nancy continues. “If you really care about her—and I know you do—you’ll be patient. She needs that from you right now, even if she doesn’t know how to say it.”

Steve nods slowly, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “And if she keeps running?”

Nancy smirks faintly. “Then you stop chasing her like some knight in shining armor and just be her friend. Show her you’re not going anywhere. That’s what she really needs.”

Steve exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “You really think I have a shot?”

Nancy nods firmly. “I do. But you’re going to have to stop letting your ego get in the way and start listening to her.”

Steve offers a small smile. “Thanks, Wheeler. You’re not half-bad at this advice thing.”

Nancy chuckles, stepping back toward her car. “Don’t let it go to your head, Harrington. Now, go figure it out.”

Steve watches her head inside before climbing back into his car, her words still echoing in his mind. For the first time in a while, he feels like maybe he has a chance.

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Steve stands on the porch, his hand hesitating over the doorbell, unsure if he’s doing the right thing. Every nerve in his body is telling him to turn around, to give you the space you’ve been demanding, but something in him refuses to walk away. Not this time.

He knocks. A soft, quiet sound that somehow feels louder than it should be. He waits, but when the door finally creaks open, he’s not sure what he’s expecting. There you are, your eyes red, face blotchy, but it’s the exhaustion in your expression that hits him hardest. Like you’ve been carrying the weight of the world, and he hasn’t been there to help you with it.

You stare at him for a long beat, silent. Then, your eyes flicker away, and you step aside, almost reluctantly, like you want to pull away but can’t quite make yourself do it.

Steve steps into the dim hallway, pausing for a moment before looking at you again, his voice shaky as he finally speaks. “We’re good,” he says, the words feeling foreign on his tongue now. He calls to mind what he told you the other night, the words that had earned him a response from you that felt so much more promising than this silence between you now.

You look away, a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head. He swallows hard, the rawness of what he’s saying clawing at him. “Look, we don’t have to talk about it, okay?” he mutters, stepping closer, but careful not to push you. “I just need to be with you tonight. Like we used to. Listening to Queen, being there for each other. We’ve been through so much the past few days, so much we haven’t even—”

He cuts himself off, his voice trailing off in the heavy silence that fills the space between you. He wants to say more, wants to explain how terrified he is that he’s losing you, how much he’s been aching in this silence, but the words catch in his chest, too painful to speak aloud.

Your gaze softens for just a second, but it’s fleeting, and when you look at him again, there’s a distance that wasn’t there before. The ache in Steve’s chest grows sharper, but he doesn’t move. He’s here now. He’s not leaving.

With a sigh, you slowly nod, and it’s the smallest of gestures, but it feels like a concession, like you’re letting him in even though you’re not sure you should.

Steve steps past you, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He doesn’t know how this will play out, or what the next day will bring. But tonight, for a few hours, he wants to hold onto the part of you he still knows. Maybe tomorrow he’ll figure out what to do with the mess that’s left between you. But for now, he just wants to be there.

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You lay on the bed, your eyes tracing the familiar cracks in the ceiling as silent tears slip down your face. The weight of everything—the words, the feelings, the confusion—presses down on you in a way you can’t escape. You’re torn between wanting to stay close to Steve, to believe that there’s something real between you, and the fear that maybe all of this is just a result of the chaos surrounding you.

Steve lays next to you, the soft hum of the record player filling the room, but the silence between you is thick and suffocating. Neither of you speaks. Both of you are lost in your thoughts, drowning in the unspoken tension that’s become impossible to ignore.

After a long, painful silence, you reach out, your hand trembling as you pick up a crumpled-up note from the bed beside you. It’s a familiar weight, one that you’d hidden for years, and now it feels like the only thing you can offer him. You hand Steve the crumpled letter. Your fingers linger for a second before letting go, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Read it when you get home, okay?”

Steve hesitates, glancing between the letter and you. “Are you sure?”

You nod, eyes fixed on the ceiling, unable to meet his gaze. “Just… not here. Please.”

He doesn’t push, sensing the fragility of the moment. Instead, he tucks the letter carefully into his jacket pocket and lays back beside you, the weight of unspoken words thick in the air. For the rest of the night, neither of you speaks, the silence both comforting and charged.

When it’s time for him to leave, Steve rises quietly, his steps deliberate and slow. He pauses at the door, glancing back at you one last time, curled up under the covers, your face turned away. He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper—the note he found with Dustin.

Without a word, he places it on your dresser, hidden just enough for you to find it later, and slips out of the room.

As the door clicks shut, you close your eyes, the heaviness of the night settling over you. Little do you know, the words Steve left behind are waiting to change everything.

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Steve steps into his darkened house, the familiar silence pressing in around him. Tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter, he pulls the crumpled letter from his pocket and unfolds it carefully, smoothing the creases as if the words might slip away if he isn’t gentle enough.

The handwriting is unmistakably yours—slightly slanted, the ink smudged in places. His chest tightens before he even reads the first word, the weight of what this letter might hold hitting him like a freight train.

Dear Steve,

I’m not sure I should even be writing this. Maybe I won’t even give it to you. Do you remember in the fifth grade when you asked me to marry you? I told you boys were gross and I’d never marry one. Later that night, you climbed the tree outside my window for the first time and knocked on the glass to propose again. You said your mom had told you about Romeo and Juliet, and how Romeo climbed up to her window because he loved her. You promised you’d never stop climbing my window until I said yes because you loved me.

As his eyes scan the page, memories flash through his mind like a reel of film. A small smile tugs at his lips, bittersweet and nostalgic. He does remember. He remembers the way you rolled your eyes at him, how he’s never stopped climbing that tree outside your window and he never will.

A year later, when we were twelve, some kids in our class started talking about kissing, and everyone thought it was gross. So we tried it. We both liked it. A lot. I think that’s because we liked each other. 

His breath catches. He’s suddenly back in that moment—young, nervous, and exhilarated. He remembers the way your laughter had bubbled up after, the way you had looked at him like he was the only person in the world.

Here’s where the problem is, Steve—I don’t think I ever stopped liking you.

Steve swallows hard, his fingers gripping the edge of the paper as his heart pounds in his chest. He reads the words again, slower this time, as if savoring them will make them feel less surreal.

I didn’t fully realize it at first. Sure, I’ve had crushes on other boys, but none of them made me feel the way you do. You’re the one I actually enjoy spending time with. When Mom and Dad fight, she always tells me that if I ever get married, I need to marry someone who’s my friend first. She says the key to a happy relationship is falling in love with your best friend. (I still think marriage is kind of gross, and boys are too. You’re just the least gross, I guess.) And, well… you’re my best friend.

Sometimes I think about being an adult with you—no school, just us. We could listen to music and watch movies all day long. We could kiss whenever we wanted to. (I’ve wanted to kiss you again for a while now, but you’ve been kissing Julie from science class, and I don’t want it to feel like I’m kissing her by kissing you.) Honestly, I’d love to just laugh with you for the rest of my life.

A soft, shaky laugh escapes him, but it’s lined with something deeper—regret, maybe, or longing. He presses a hand to his face, trying to process the flood of emotions washing over him.

The letter feels like a window into a version of you he never fully understood, a version that had been hiding in plain sight all along. You had felt this way for so long, and he had been so blind to it, too caught up in his own confusion and fears to notice.

You’re always telling me how much I annoy you because I can never pick a favorite anything. But the truth is, I do have a favorite—and it’s you.

You’re my favorite person. My favorite way to spend a late night at Lover’s Lake. My favorite pair of eyes to get lost in when we’re hiding under the covers, trying not to get caught after you’ve snuck in. My favorite arms to wrap around me. My favorite voice.

You’re all my favorites.

Okay, I’m grossing myself out now, so I’m going to stop writing. But I guess… I hope I fall in love with you. And maybe one day you’ll feel the same. I think I’d like that a lot.

Y/N

As he reads the final lines—You’re my favorite person… You’re all of my favorites—he feels something inside him crack open.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible in the empty room.

He sets the letter down on the counter, staring at it as if it might disappear. A lump rises in his throat, and he swipes at his eyes quickly, irritated at himself for being this emotional.

But he can’t help it. The words you wrote, the vulnerability you had poured into them—it’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear and everything he’s terrified of.

Grabbing the letter, he folds it carefully and tucks it back into his pocket, a newfound determination lighting his eyes.

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You stand in front of the mirror, smoothing out your dress for the winter ball. It feels strange dressing up for an event that’s not even about you—but the kids deserve this, and chaperoning is part of the deal. The fact that Steve might be there too only adds to the weight pressing on your chest.

As you reach for your jewelry box on the dresser, your hand grazes something unfamiliar. You glance down to find a folded piece of notebook paper, tucked just out of sight beneath your hairbrush.

Curious, you pick it up, noticing the boyish scrawl of handwriting on the front. You immediately recognize it. Steve’s.

Your heart stutters. You sit on the edge of your bed, fingers trembling slightly as you unfold the note. The edges are frayed, and the ink is faint in places, as if it’s been folded and tucked away for years.

You start to read:

Y/N,

I don’t know why I’m writing this, but if I don’t, I think I might lose my mind. I can’t say this to you out loud, and maybe I’ll never give this to you, but at least it’s out of my head.

You’re my favorite person. You’re the one I think about when I’m having a bad day, the one who makes me laugh so hard I forget about everything else. 

But it’s not just that. It’s so much more. So, I put in here a list I’ve made of all the reasons why you’re my favorite person.

The way you always sticks up for people, even when you’re intimidated. It’s the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking too hard. Or how you always get mad when I cheat at Monopoly, even though you know I’ll never stop doing it. It’s how everything feels easier when you’re around, like nothing can touch me. Don’t even get me started about the dream I had about you in that red bathing suit. You know the one…Yeah. I’m definitely never letting you read this.

Anyways, I think I like you, Y/N. Scratch that—I know I do. I like you in a way that feels way too big for me to handle. But I don’t know if I’ll ever tell you because what if it messes everything up? You’re my best friend, and I’d rather keep you in my life like this than risk losing you completely.

So, yeah. I like you. A lot. And if you ever find this somehow, just know that even if I never say it, it’s how I’ve always felt.

Steve

You lower the note slowly, your vision blurred by the tears pooling in your eyes. The boy Steve was back then—earnest, vulnerable, and so full of quiet, unspoken affection—is written all over these words. And now, looking back, you can see him in the man he is today.

He’s always felt this way.

Your chest tightens as the truth settles over you, undeniable and steady, like the weight of the letter in your hand. This wasn’t adrenaline, or chaos, or the heat of the moment making him say what he did at the Byers’ house. It’s always been there—this love he’s carried for you, just like the note. It was there the day you told him it was best to just stay friends. It was there on every night he’d sneak under your covers or you under his. And it was there in every knowing look from your friends, every teasing question about where you’d both disappeared to when no one else could find you.

Carefully, you fold it back up, your hands trembling as you slip it into your jewelry box like a secret you’re not ready to let go of but need to protect. You glance at the clock, realizing you’re running out of time, but the thought barely registers.

Taking a shaky breath, you brush away the stray tears threatening to streak your makeup. And for the first time in days, there’s no confusion, no doubt. Only the exhilarating, terrifying truth: Steve’s feelings weren’t born in a single moment—they’ve been there for years. Just like yours.

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[callum-23]

just discovered ur acc, who's ur fav character? (and yeah, this is me asking for u to rant abt ur fav)

L A N C E !!!

Lance is my favourite!! For many reasons, but mostly because I relate to him on a lot of levels, mainly with

- self recognition issues, aka what happened when Lance doubted his skills as a paladin, and was thinking about stepping down.

I struggle with this, mostly as an artist, as I've seen my friends, and other people I know in life, have better skills, and most of the times doubting myself about my artist skills 😔 But I've gotten better at just focusing on my own art and in turn I felt like it helped me get better!!

- value in relationships, platonic, family, romantic even. I love how he values his relationships with the other paladins, about how he's always willing to take steps for others, comforting his friends, and always willing to step up as a person, even though he's cocky and can be full of himself (mostly in the earlier seasons) he's got a heart of gold underneath all that!!

Lance tends to put up this persona of himself being a "ladies man," the cocky flirt even. But there's so much more to his character than just that, he's not just the love interest, he tends to be the emotional support of others, a hard worker, he's also a pretty good well rounded character, he has his own flaws and insecurites, which help him become a better paladin throughout the show. Honestly, though, later, seasons mainly treat him as the "love interest," and I don't think that's really a way to describe him, as he's just SO much more than that!!

I love his dynamic with other characters, SO SO MUCH!

There's Hunk and Lance. They're basically best friends!! Best friends since the garrison, I love their moments together, even though it's not much, and mostly joking and small banter, but in the end they're really close friends who've always got eachothers backs, and knowing how close they are, makes them a really good team. They show their best values and bring out the best in each other!!

There's Pidge and Lance, who are more like a brother/sister duo, with Lance being like a second brother to Pidge. A moment that really stood out to me was Pidge dragging Lance along to help her find enough GAC to purchase a video game from the space mall, I love how Lance just simply went along with it, spending time with her as if she was his own sister, and in return, Pidge traded away a video game so that Allura could get a dress for her date with Lance, as Pidge knew how much this meant to him, even though she was reluctant at first!

Coran and Lance, having a father-son bond, similar to Shiro, being the guide for the paladins, acting as a father figure (space dad)

And then there's Keith and Lance, Keith and Lance, the "rivals" who compete for Np reason, who grow to accept eachother. A good example of acceptance shown between their bond is when the Black Lion had chosen Keith as the paladin, while at first, Lance was jealous, he learned to realise and proceeded to comfort Keith about his new position, showing that yes its going to he difficult, but he says to Keith that he is the one for the job, and gives him a fond look, stating that even though no one can replace Shiro, Keith can lead the team, and that he'll always be there with Keith. (Kinda cute as Lance sorta becomes his right hand man!) And the fact that Lance trusts Keith enough to get some words before his date with Allura, Lance going to Keith of all people when he was unsure about his place as a paladin, Lance even comforting Keith, and helping him during missions, being by his side, the jokes, the playful name calling. Everything, I love their dynamic!!

I love Lance as a character, sure, I'm still SUPER upset on how his life is after the events of the series, but in short, Lance, Lance McClain is my favourite vld character.

Literally the best sharpshooter ever !! ⬆️

[athenamikaelson]

Chapter 22 just had me screaming, rolling, "aw"ing and gave me butterflies, and I just have so much to saayyy!! I love how it just focused on every Mikaelson sib, bringing out deep parts of them, some deeper than others. Each wonderful part made me think so many different stuff that I wanted to share with you, so I thought I'd send you my thoughts in 2 parts; the first (this one) being about the sibs, and the other focusing on Nik and Elijah CUZ YOU JUST TRIGGERED SO MANY FEELINGS WITH THAT CHAPTER.

First, can I say that I loved every bit of her interaction with Finn? I watched this season when I was very young - I was like 11 or 12 years old, I think, and I never got to rewatch it, so I never just thought of Finn on a deep level. So, it just hit me how he was actually not the eldest - cuz of Freya - but he suddenly found himself the eldest when he lost his protector and playmate, his older sister. Knowing Mikael, he probably put a lot of responsibility on the boy... Or just ignored him entirely if he had reminded him of Freya. Then, more sibs kept coming, taking more of Finn's space... Meaning it just got "loud" (Mikael's abuse, Esther cheating, Elijah and Nik fighting over Tatia, Henrick's death, so many younger sibs to look out for but he couldn't protect them from anything really) 🥺💔 It must have hurt him so much to be daggered and shunned by his siblings, because he was the only one who actually knew and remembered when they used to be a healthy family before Freya was taken. Aaand I can see how he could still tell Reader "you're peculiar" when he sees her in New Orleans! It could just be their thing. I will die inside when both Finn and Sage died. Probably the way I should have felt when I first watched the episode, buuutt I was 12, so I didn't really feel anything to them.

Also, it really came to my attention how you wrote that Theo was chatting Rebekah's ear off, and she way just smiling at him, and I couldn't help but tell mysef that he probably reminded her of her baby Henrick. 🥺 I love that when Reader said "he probably has a tracker on me", Bekah went "girrrll, they probably both have trackers on you, your bro, your car and any potential car you might ever think of stealing" because Bekah knows how far they can go, and we know she knows. 😂 I love their bond and how natural their friendship is, Pukey can deny that all she wants, but their friendship is just so easy. But I can totally imagine Theo trying to hook Bekah up with Matt.

Kol, this chapter, was the polar opposite of Finn. But let's face it, he was obviously the nonchalant middle sibling back when they were human - Esther and Mikael had probably forgotten they even conceived him, so he felt he won at life (which he did). Having spent centuries making friends with witches and caring about magic to use against Lijah and Nik before he was daggered, was probably why he didn't know a thing about anxiety. I can understand how he and Theo might not like each other, because it so makes sense. Kol trying to kill Theo's boy, Jeremy, so Theo not liking Kol... That, I can totally understand. In addition to that, we have a saying in my dialect "A bean wouldn't get wet in their mouth" which refers to the inability of a person to keep a secret as in "oh, they spit secrets out so quickly and easily that a bean can be spit out just as fat so it wouldn't even get wet in their mouth". That was the only thing going through my mind as he told her what was supposed to be Elijah and Klaus' secret.

This brings me to my favourite brother, though! Not a Mikaelson brother, but a brother, nonetheless! The best brother, might I add? Theo, our diva queen, just glowed this chapter. I love how lrotective he is, and how his personality just showed. Our bro doesn't know how to back down even when Kol was up in his face. I adore how he only listens to two people: his boy, Jer, and his real mom, his older sister. He really reminds me of Molly from Alice in Wonderland. He just keeps waving an imaginary sword around, threatening everyone, but as soon as Pukey tells him to shoo, he shoos.

Now, let us discuss Pukey's older brother from another father and mother, Damon Salvatore! He is her brother, and I will stand by that to my last breath. As soon as I read-

"Pukey, we're leaving." Damon's tone was harsh, but something in his eyes made my heart tug.

-I instantly remembered the chorus of My Demons by Starset.

"We are one and the same

You take all of the pain away.

Save me if I become my demons."

He was sad and reckless and just wanted to leave, yet seeing how worn out she probably looked, he knew she wanted to leave just as much as he did. And even when he was acting stupid, he reached out to her. He's her brother - the uncle of any babies she might have with Nik and adopt with Elijah. He's simply her platonic soulmate.

STOP I LOVE THIS.

I’m so glad this chapter was able to bring so many thoughts and emotions out for you

Finn definitely deserved better!!!

[palaceoftears]

Magnificent Century Rewatch: One Picspam per Episode

Episode 17: The Double Joy

-My dear mother used to say "walk barefoot on earth and it shall take away all your troubles and sorrows, earth shall give you happiness and joy"

-Your mother spoke well, one can only find peace in earth. But I'm not sure if it is on earth or in it.

[hauntingblue]

Jayce telling vi she won't make it on her own.... okay mr. projector...

[the-halfling-prince]

Me: Yeah pretty much all of my poems only take up one page, maybe only half.

The bitch I argue with in my head: What about that four page long poem about orpheus?

Me: ... I dunno.

[writersdrug]

Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of man who:

In your shared home, always sits with his legs spread. Manspreading king. Adores it when you cross your arms and give him a disapproving look, saying there's no room for you. "Course there is, luv. Jus' sit between my thighs."

Refuses to let you do simple tasks around the house, like making tea, folding his underwear, or putting away the dishes. One might think it's a sweet, husbandly gesture - but he's just super picky. You made tea in the microwave once, and now you're banned from ever touching his tea stash. Likes his underwear folded in a specific way, and you don't understand the importance of it. He got tired of you stuffing his underwear in his drawer, so now he folds it himself. And the dishes? Couldn't stand how you put them away. "There's no rhyme or reason to 'em." "I didn't think there had to be, Si-" "Just gimme the damn bowl." Fewer chores? You aren't complaining.

Looks like he's always on edge - and he is, kinda. When he's out with you, he can't help but be alert and watchful, and extremely protective of you. You've tried to get him to loosen up - it's the supermarket, what could happen? - but have just come to accept it as his nature. Plus, you get that giddy feeling when you see other men look straight down at the floor, avoiding Simon's stare as the two of you pass.

Is the grumpiest, poutiest, and most indignant man ever when he gets sick. Doesn't want you doting on him in case you catch whatever he has. But, wait - where are you going? "Get your ass back in this bed - 'm cold." Grumbles like a child when you force him to let you get up to grab him soup, tea, or medicine. And no, he doesn't care how sick he is, he's not wearing that stupid, floppy ice pack hat.

Brings Johnny over unannounced, and you've grown used to it. The moment you hear that Scottish yapping out the front door as the key unlocks, you grab a third plate for dinner - he insists you don't need to feed him, but you always make extra for Simon's lunch the next day regardless, and the last time he'd said that, he ended up grabbing an extra fork and picking from Simon's plate. Which, of course, had Simon up at 1 am making instant ramen because he was still hungry, but didn't have the heart to ask you to make him a decent meal. So, yes, Johnny would be fed.

Loves spoiling you on your birthday. What is a man if not someone who spoils his partner rotten? Orders in food from your favorite bakery, sets all your presents neat and nice on the table (the excellent wrapping job done by yours truly, Gaz), flower petals sprinkled on the ground and the table top (also Gaz's idea), and a seat on his lap so for you while you open your presents. Loves watching your face light up, and each little "you remembered?!" fall from your lips as you open each gift. Scoffs and shifts in his seat. "I's not that much of a fuss, luv..." as you squeal excitedly, but you know he's biting back a proud smile. The blush, he can't even attempt to hide.

Is somehow a magnet for your young nephews. Every time he comes along to your sister's place, he's either making conversation with her husband in the living room, or he's interrogated and cornered by her two sons. And, lord help him, he doesn't understand it either. He'd always expected kids to look at him like a monster, but, especially with these two, that was never the case. They'd ask him for stories about "being in war" - half of the time, he'd make up some not-too-gory adventure, sparing them the details of real war. The rest of the time, he'd talk about "Soap, my mate who blows everything up." And they'd listen with wide eyes and jaws on the floor.

Has scared you unintentionally, more than too many times. He'd come home at three in the morning from a mission, and all he wanted was to quietly peel his dirty uniform off and slip into bed with you. His main intention was to avoid waking you up, because you'd force him to shower before joining you in bed - and he was too tired for that. However, you'd been rounding the corner, up for your 3 am glass of water - you screamed as you saw the hulking, dark figure by the front door, launching your phone at him. He'd caught it effortlessly and shoved it into his back pocket. "What've I told ya 'bout using the bat?" "I was just getting water!" "I coulda been anyone." "Well you're not." "Missed ya, luvie." "Missed you too- but you're grimy. Go take a-" "No." He grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder, ignoring your protests as he hauled you back to bed.

[izvmimi]

"You follow her around like a dog, man," Sero says finally, and even if the surrounding ballroom chatter doesn't cease for a moment as the table set for ten starts to receive their first course salads, the parallel conversations among the group of old friends halt abruptly to a stop. Eijiro gives Sero a raise of the eyebrow, then turns to Katsuki, expecting to have to mitigate his hot temper.

The latter clearly has heard the jeer, but he's not the same as perhaps a decade ago, where any one of Sero's teasing comments could have set him off. Glancing back for a second in the direction where you left just moments ago to go to the bathroom, followed by most of the other women at the table, he then turns to look directly at Sero.

"Yeah, that's love, right?" he says, calmly.

Kirishima blinks for a moment, incredulous, then exchanges a look with Kaminari beside him.

Katsuki, as if he hasn't said something highly uncharacteristic of himself, reaches for a bread roll in the middle of the table and then a butter knife.

"You didn't see me follow her into the bathroom, did you?" he adds. Sero snorts, but leans back into his chair.

"I mean no, but-"

Katsuki smears butter on the roll, and sets it on your empty plate, then takes another piece of bread to and butters it the same before taking a bite.

"But what?" he asks. The edge to his voice is back, something that paradoxically puts Sero back at ease.

"It looks strange on you," Denki finally points out.

Katsuki chews for a moment, then swallows, his eyes making a quick scan across the room. At another table, Midoriya's partner is focused on adjusting the lapel of his suit, and at yet another table, Iida is trying to convince Mei to keep her gadgets off the table before the MC starts another toast.

The bride and groom continue to cruise around the venue, and Katsuki cannot stop thinking about how beautiful you would look in that exact dress.

Or something of your own.

"I just can't imagine what the fuck she did-" Sero starts again before Eijiro cuts him off.

"Just knock it off for a second," he says, gently but assertively. Katsuki doesn't pay any mind to him as he observes the table favors.

These flowers are beautiful, but they aren't your favorite. They're gorgeous, but made of plastic while you'd prefer hundreds of real ones.

You've told him small weddings feel more intimate. This wedding isn't in the right season for you, but it's your second choice. You don't yet know how many people will be in the bridal party but you've floated some ideas.

You don't yet have a ring on your finger.

The many thoughts dissipate when your hand rests gently on his shoulder as you slip back into the seat next to him.

"Oh, they didn't bring out the food yet," you say, and Katsuki points to the bread on your plate, reminding you to eat.

His friends are captive audiences as you smile and take a bite, and perhaps horrified as he smiles back warmly, genuinely.

Love does look strange on him, perhaps.

But they'll have to get used to it because it will not go away.