#because of track closures

[goddessofroyalty]

Did you get another anon ask or did it get swallowed?

Maybe.

The two anon asks I have currently tha I haven't gotten to answering yet or haven't done the prompt receipt post for are about:

- Sounds babies make in omegaverse

-Comment on the ficlet I wrote about Jinx calling Silco a pumpkin carrier

[right-there-ride-on]

I hate being obsessed with diejoni because it’s like the ultimate what-if of a relationship. what even happened here. ten bazillion hints of something we never got to see. why is johnny apparently the only person diego trusts or is even unprofessional with. why can johnny read him like an open book. yeah johnny treats him like a cheating ex don’t question it. for some reason diego is kind of obsessed with him. they know exactly what the other is going to do all the time in any circumstance despite allegedly not spending all that much time with each other. it’s natural okay! it’s like all the puzzle pieces are there but there’s never actual closure. unless there is. but not with each other. i feel insane

[celticwoman]

at last... starting the raven king today

[sunderwight]

SV fic where Luo Bingge discovers that Shen Jiu had a long-lost half-brother or something, and subsequently decides that he's going to infiltrate the minor sect which this "Shen Yuan" belongs to in order to get close to him and then indulge in revenge fantasy 2.0 when it inevitably turns out that Shen Yuan is like Shen Jiu (i.e. a horrible abusive scum teacher).

So Bingge uses some magical object or technique or other, makes himself look like a scrawny 12-14 year old, then puts himself in Shen Yuan's path in hopes of convincing the man to take him on as a disciple. The idea being that after Shen Yuan abuses him, Bingge will be justified in reenacting his Shen Qingqiu Revenge Arc again and maybe finally feeling some closure about the whole thing.

Yes, this is a very deranged plan. No, no one is going to tell the emperor of the three realms that. Bingge also wants it to be clear that this has nothing whatsoever to do with his recent escapade in an alternate universe, except that he was inspired to find Shen Jiu's relative as a consequence of that. But he's absolutely sure that this guy is going to turn out just as rotten as his brother, given the opportunity. That is definitely the only reason he is doing this!

Flash forward about four years. Bingge's retainers are begging on their knees for him to actually come back and do some administrative work. The harem is running itself at this point and they're all very terrified of the situation with Liu Mingyan and Sha Hualing (i.e. ruling with lesbian iron fists) and whatever the heck Ning Yingying is up to (no one is certain but it's something). The outer provinces are rebelling. Mobei Jun's somehow found another weird human surnamed Shang to cavort with, except this one is basically running admin for the entire northern kingdom now and no one's even sure if they're fucking or if it's some kind of mind control situation or what.

Bingge is annoyed. He doesn't have a good explanation for why a bunch of demon lords would be showing up on the doorstep of Tiny Cultivation Sect to beg him for anything. They're going to spoil his cover! And they're interrupting his schedule! It's already four o'clock and he hasn't started on Shizun's dinner yet! Shoo! Get lost!

Anyway, eventually some of his demon followers get desperate and dramatically kidnap him. Shen Yuan is horrified and grieved when it seems that his precious disciple, so like white lotus Luo Binghe from the novel, has been captured by demons. He tries to track the assailants down, but they've covered their tracks too well. In the end, there's only one path left to him to pursue: taking this matter to the protagonist!

Yes, the protagonist! Because the thing is, Shen Yuan noticed the similarities between his disciple and the book character he so admired. Not only that, but he did manage to glimpse Bingge one time from afar. It wasn't anywhere near to a real interaction, but it was enough for him to notice the strong resemblance between the protagonist and the mistreated little lamb who showed up at his doorstep. A resemblance for which there can only be one explanation:

Shen Yuan's disciple is one of Binghe's kids!

Yes, he had it figured out since fairly early on. Not only was there a resemblance, and not only were their dispositions quite similar, but also the boy showed a lot of signs of some demonic heritage. Shen Yuan was just working up to broaching the subject, partly because he had been trying to avoid any direct or even indirect interactions with the emperor, and partly because he... became somewhat reluctant to part ways with his student. Sue him! He got attached! And anyway, he knew how missing child plots usually went. There was probably someone in the harem who was out for his disciple's blood, and it wouldn't be safe to send him back into that mess until he was strong enough to look after himself.

But as is inevitable, the plot seems to have reclaimed Shen Yuan's student all on its own.

He just... needs to make sure that it isn't a tragic outcome. It seems it falls on him to make the emperor aware of his son's survival, and subsequent peril, and help launch a rescue!

Which also means approaching Luo Binghe in person, which he knows is very risky indeed, due to his connection to the infamous Shen Qingqiu! He'd been avoiding the protagonist at all costs for that exact reason.

But if it's his only hope of rescuing his disciple, he will simply have to take the risk, and hope that enough time has passed that Luo Binghe doesn't read too much into a shared surname and a passing resemblance. Or that restoring the emperor's long-lost son to him will be worth seem lenience for the crime of being connected to Shen Qingqiu. Maybe if he's lucky, he will even be allowed to continue visiting his disciple! (Ha, yeah right! More likely, Luo Binghe's going to take his head for hiding his own kid from him for so long!)

Anyway, cue Luo Bingge running around swapping between his Emperor and Disciple forms, dramatically trying to orchestrate a situation where he can fake the emperor's death and go back to the sect with Shizun as his disciple, or something, only for it all to blow up in his face because Shen Yuan keeps flinging himself between Bingge and potentially fatal threats that could plausibly kill him???

[glitterypinkconverse]

─ ⊹ ⊱ IN THE HEAT OF IT ALL

e-42!miles x fem!reader

summary after having an argument with miles, you get mad as to why he always brings up your plushies while you guys are arguing. so, you threw them all away.

request by @friedturtlewhispers ! i accidentally posted this without writing actual story, so sorry your request got deleted 😭

a/n this is a continuation of the 42!miles headcanon from these headcanons! i’m a sucker for angst so ofc i has to write this 🤷‍♀️

warnings angst to fluff, cursing

“Ma, you’re the one who sleeps with stuffed animals at night.”

You two have been fighting over God knows what for at least 30 minutes, and whenever he brought up the fact that you sleep with stuffed animals at night pisses you off. You scoffed, stuck your middle finger up at him, and went to his doorway.

“Fuck you, Miles.” That was all you said before you walked out of his bedroom, and out his apartment door.

New York at night was chilly, so as you left the building you silently cursed to yourself. You forgot your jacket again, as it was hot during the day but then it cooled down. Luckily, your apartment building was only a block away, so it wasn’t that bad of a walk.

His words still rang through your head. That was his only comeback nowadays ever since he found out. You thought he hated it, for how much he teased you about sleeping with the stuffed animals. But secretly, though he would never admit it, he found it cute that you do. It made him happy seeing you happy, although you weren’t feeling it right now.

You thought actually sleeping with them bothered him, so as your mind was overflowing with rage, you did the petty thing.

You threw them all away.

Well, not really. You just stuffed them all in a bag and put it in your closet. But, it felt like you did because your once overfilled bed was now empty, the only thing on it was your clothes, pillows, and obvious blankets.

Your phone was blowing from texts and calls from Miles. You looked over at it and rolled your eyes. You put your phone on do not disturb, charged it, and then got in bed. All you needed right now was some rest, so you closed your eyes and tried to fall asleep. Though, it was hard without at least one thing to hold.

Miles on the other hand, was freaking out. He was pacing around his room angrily, you guys never ended on bad terms. You would always make up, because he knew how important it was for you to have closure. He wanted to make this relationship work, and right now he felt like he was failing it.

“Pick up the phone, Y/N,” he mumbled, silently cursing everytime it went straight to voicemail. He groaned and left his room, saying a quick goodbye to his mom before leaving the apartment.

He walked, practically ran to your apartment where he barged in because you forgot to lock the door. Your parents were out on a work trip right now, so he reminded himself to scold you later on this. But for now, his only priority was to set things right and make it up to you.

He slowly opened your bedroom door, from the light being off he figured you were asleep. That was all until you turned around to look at the light that was entering your room, and groaned when you saw Miles standing in your doorway. “Fuck off.”

He scoffed and made his way towards you, “That’s no way to talk to me, now is it?” He joked, though you weren’t having it.

“What the hell are you doing here, Miles.” You turned away from him, so he couldn’t see the anger that was still looming on your face.

“Whatchu think I’m here for? I’m here to make it up to you. We’re not leaving on bad terms, and I swear by that.”

You didn’t respond, and that left Miles quiet. He observed the position you were in, and noticed your bed looked different.

“Ma, where’s all your stuffed animals?” He asked, concern in his voice. He shuffled around your bed, looking over you and looking at the end of your bed.

“Gone,” you mumbled. He paused in his tracks, looking over at you even though you couldn’t see him. Your back was facing the wall, so he immediately turned you around to face him.

“Fuck you mean gone?”

“I mean, gone, Miles. Like, they’re not here.” He was shocked, you loved those things more than anything. He looked around your room, for any sign of them.

None.

“I’ll be right back,” he mumbled before hurrying out of the room. You rolled your eyes and turned around in your bed again, feeling slightly bad that you lied to him.

However, Miles was going to the nearest store to get you something. He walked down the aisles of the store, searching for the perfect plushie. He grimaced at all of them, as they all looked unintentionally creepy. He decided on a pink teddy bear, as it looked the most tame and he knew how much you liked teddy bears. He went up to the register and paid for it, then rushed back to your apartment.

You were almost asleep when he barged in once again and sat on your bed. “Turn around.” When you didn’t, he turned you around himself and what you saw in his hands shocked you.

You sat up to face him, you didn’t expect him to buy you a teddy bear. You took it from his hands, admiring it slightly. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Y’know, I actually find it cute how you sleep with these.” You looked up at him and smiled, then fell into his arms.

“It’s alright, I guess. Thanks for the bear,” he hummed in response, to which you continued, “there’s a bag in my closet, do you think you can get it?” He pulled away slightly and raised an eyebrow at you, watching as you giggled against his chest.

He peeled away from you and walked to your closet, silently cursing when he saw the bag full of stuffed animals. “You’re full of shit, y’know that right?”

You laughed as he threw the bag at you, you throwing one of your pillows back at him in response. “You loooove me though.”

He walked back to your bed and put the pillow you threw at him back on the bed, and laid down with you. “You got one thing right,” he said as you adjusted in his arms.

“Oh, and also, don’t forget to lock your door. Can’t let anyone taking m’ girl away.”

“Go to sleep, Miles.”

TAGS ↣ @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

[jane-the-good]

SYLUS: letting go

WORD COUNT: 3.8K

SUMMARY: You're really upset with Sylus, and he reassures you that everything will be okay and you both will get through it

TAGS: smut, angst, fluff, Sylus loves to praise ♡

WARNING: smut, oral sex, mentions of throw up

AO3 sylus masterlist

The mission is over. The Wanderer lies in ruins, nothing more than a smattering of dust at your feet. And yet, even as the weight of victory settles over you, something else lingers—something dark, something clawing, something you don’t want to name.

The air is heavy, thick with the kind of silence that precedes a storm. It’s the silence of two people bound by something deeper than fate, something older than memory. Something that has bled into every life before this one and will stain every life after.

You slam the door behind you, the force rattling the marble floor, but it does nothing to shake the feeling that festers inside. Your chest rises and falls with the remnants of adrenaline, your skin still buzzing with the memory of battle. But beneath it, beneath the heat of combat and the sharp edge of exhaustion, there is anger—raw and unrelenting.

You were ready. The moment had been yours. Your blade had been aimed, your hands steady, your soul set. The final strike should have been yours to deliver, the last act of vengeance to carve its name into history through your hands alone. But he had taken it from you. Again.

Sylus, with his unshakable presence, with the weight of his choices pressing into yours, had stepped in like he always does. As if he knows better. As if you need him to protect you.

But you don’t.

Not from this. Not from yourself.

You didn’t need to be the one to kill the Wanderer, but you wanted to be the one to end it. To be the one to make the choice, to claim the closure. That should have been yours. This wasn’t just about now. This was about lifetimes—about all the lives that had come before, all the suffering that had accumulated in the rusted chains around your soul.

Revenge was stitched into your being, woven so deeply into your existence that you couldn’t untangle yourself from it even if you desperately wanted to. And you don’t.

But Sylus? He doesn’t get to decide for you. He doesn’t get to steal this from you just because he cares.

The shower doesn’t wash away the anger. It only sharpens it, hones it into something colder, something more precise. You let the water scald your skin, let it turn your breath ragged, but it does nothing to quiet the war raging inside you.

Sylus sits on the edge of the bed, his expression unreadable, the same implacable calm armor wrapped around him. It’s always been like this with him—always a fortress, always untouchable in ways you will never be. His dark eyes track your every movement, unwavering, unflinching.

On the nightstand: soup, tea, medicine.

Your heart twists violently.

You don’t want this. Not from him.

Not from the man who has killed before. Not from the man you shouldn’t trust, shouldn’t want, shouldn’t love.

But you do.

And that love is centuries deep, carved out of blood and sorrow, built on foundations of ruin and regret. It is the kind of love that is a wound as much as it is a salvation. The kind of love that is a trap, a noose, a promise that neither of you will ever break free from.

And yet, despite everything, despite him, despite you, Sylus does this.

Soft things.

Kind things.

Things he shouldn’t be doing because he shouldn’t be this way. He’s a criminal. A murderer. A man who has bathed in blood, who has ruined lives, who should not know how to be gentle.

You stare at the nightstand, then at him, and the words that leave your lips are sharp, jagged, broken.

“I didn’t need you to step in for me, Sylus.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t rise to your anger, doesn’t flinch at the venom in your voice. He just watches you, as if he’s waiting for you to understand something you refuse to see.

And that only makes you hate him more.

He doesn’t flinch. He never does. “I wasn’t stepping in,” he says, voice rich and steady, the kind of voice that uses silk as threads—too smooth, too sure. “I was saving your life.”

The words are simple, but they crack something inside you, something you don’t want to name.

You want to snap back. To tell him you can save your own life. That you didn’t need him, or his 8 spindly legs, that you could have finished the job. That his hands, the same ones that have shattered bone, have no right to hold onto yours.

But the words don’t come. They catch somewhere deep in your throat, tangled in a history that neither of you can rewrite.

The tension is suffocating. It stretches, pulls, until your breath feels too tight in your chest. And when you finally move, it’s not to lash out, but to sink onto the bed beside him, stiff and sharp-edged, keeping distance between your bodies even as your soul aches for something closer.

“I had it under control.” The words sound hollow even to you.

“Is that so?” His voice is insulated with cotton and fiberglass, soft but edged with something unyielding. “You were thrown into a wall so hard you threw up on the spot. You didn’t look like you had very much control.”

You wince. The memory slams into you harder than you’d like. The Wanderer had been faster, stronger. You had barely managed to stay standing, let alone finish the fight. You remember the way you watched the ground as it spun, the way your legs had nearly given out—until his hands steadied you. Until his presence anchored you.

"You were swaying on your feet," Sylus continues, gaze unreadable. "I wasn’t going to let you get yourself killed. Not when we’re in this together."

The words cut deeper than you want them to. Not because they’re wrong, but because they hold a weight you can’t deny. Because part of you—some foolish, aching part—wants to believe them.

But he shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be helping you.

You shouldn’t want him to.

In a mantra you repeat: His hands are stained, his heart is entirely twisted and everything he’s done should make you hate him. And yet, against every ounce of reason, you don’t. You never have.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice quieter than you’d like. “I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”

Sylus exhales slowly, measuring his response. And then, his fingers brush against the back of your neck—not to restrain, not to control, just there, steady, grounding.

“I know,” he says simply. His voice is calm, unreadable, but underneath it, there’s something softer. Something that makes it worse. “But you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve spent lifetimes fighting, burning, chasing vengeance because it’s the powerful enough to tether you to this world.

“I didn’t want to take that moment from you.” His voice is quiet now, edged with something you can’t place. “It was yours. But I have more experience with this kind of thing. And I’m glad you don’t.”

That makes you pause.

He presses his lips together, as if weighing his next words. “That means you haven’t had to be.”

There it is again. That unbearable weight in his voice, that quiet sorrow that makes your stomach knot. He doesn’t just see you—he knows you. He knows what you’ve lost, what you’ve suffered. And he still wants to keep you from sinking as deep as he has.

“I didn’t do it because I think you’re weak.” His voice is steady, certain. “I did it because you matter more to me than whatever point you were trying to prove.”

A tether, somewhere lost within you, snaps.

He steps back then, giving you space, but his presence lingers.

“Next time, don’t waste time feeling like you have to match me,” he says. “You have nothing to prove.”

His words settle at your feet, firm and unshakable.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, and this time, the words carry weight. “I didn’t want to be so stubborn. I know you were trying to help.”

For the first time, the teasing glint in his eyes softens. Just a little. He brushes his fingers against your hand, a quiet gesture, but enough.

“I know you hate it,” he murmurs, voice almost gentle. “But sometimes, we need help.”

He pushes the soup and tea toward you. A silent insistence. A small offering of care.

“Drink this.” His voice is softer now, but unrelenting. “Let me take care of you.”

And for once, you don’t have the strength to argue.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the cup, but exhaustion makes the choice for you. You lift it, let the warmth be what it is, though you don’t drink just yet.

“The twins are your help, hm?” you murmur, almost as if reminding him.

“They’re supposed to be.” A shadow of a smile tugs at his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And they do their job well.” His gaze flickers over you—not judging, only seeing. “Most of the time.”

“And Mephisto.”

Sylus exhales through his nose. “Mephisto hardly counts as someone to lean on.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Sylus,” you whisper, just barely audible. “He can hear you.”

He chuckles low, warm and familiar. A silent understanding, a truce.

Once the soup is gone, Sylus finally leaves to shower. When he returns, you’re already asleep, curled up on the bed. He hesitates in the doorway. Watches the steady rise and fall of your breath. He should let you rest, knows you need it, but still—when he finally climbs into bed beside you, he pulls you close. His hand settles against the dip of your spine. His breath evens out with yours.

You wake before him.

Sylus is sprawled out, half-lost in sleep, his shirt undone—you’re usually the one to button it for him. You leave kisses across his chest when you do, but last night, you never got the chance. His skin is warm where the fabric parts, golden in the morning light.

“Are you really just going to stare at me?” His voice is thick with sleep, eyes still closed. “And not say good morning?”

You smirk. “Well, you haven’t said it first.”

He groans softly, rolling over, arms pulling you into his warmth.

“Good morning, kitten.”

“Good morning, Sylus.”

His fingers trace slow circles against your back. “Are you feeling better?”

You nod. “Yes. I appreciate you helping me.”

You let your hand drift along his chest, tracing absent lines over his skin.

“Are you sore?”

“All over.” You hum, pressing closer.

“You’ll have to sleep it off today.”

“Mm.”

You lean down, pressing a kiss where you hadn’t the night before—soft at first, lingering just enough to feel the heat of his skin beneath yours. The scent of him, familiar and comforting, fills your senses, and you can’t help but deepen the kiss, your lips molding against his with a quiet urgency.

Feeling his warmth seeping in, you press yourself fully against him, every inch of you aching for something more, something steady. Your fingers find their way into his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you tug him closer, the kiss growing more heated with every passing second. You feel his pulse against yours, steady and strong, as if he's anchoring you in this moment, this space between what you want and what you fear.

But the tightness inside you hasn’t gone. The tension that makes it impossible to relax, to just be. You pull back, just enough to breathe, to see his face, but the words come out anyway, rasping and raw.

"Sylus... I’m not able to relax, please help me." Your voice is smaller than you want it to be, vulnerable and unfamiliar, but necessary.

He chuckles softly, a low, almost teasing sound that echoes through you in a melody you’re still learning to dance to. There’s something in it that makes you shiver—not with fear, but with the weight of the connection that lingers between you.

"Kitten," he murmurs, his voice rich and knowing, "you’re such a quick learner. I’m so proud of you."

His words send a jolt through your chest, but it's not the discomfort you thought it would be. There's something grounding in his praise, something that reminds you that maybe—just maybe—you’re not as lost as you sometimes feel. His hand brushes your cheek gently, his thumb sweeping across the curve of your skin, as if he’s trying to erase the remnants of all the chaos that had once made you feel so alone.

“You’re safe with me,” he whispers, his eyes locking onto yours, dark and steady. "Let me help you feel it."

He leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, lingering kiss, savoring the moment. His hand glides down your body, fingers tracing the curves of your waist and hips with deliberate care. A soft moan escapes you, your body instinctively arching into his touch, drawn to the warmth of his hands.

His mouth trails lower, lips and tongue leaving a heated path down your neck, his breath warm against your skin. When he reaches your collarbone, he lingers, pressing a kiss there before continuing downward. His hands move to your chest, fingers teasing, coaxing shivers from you with every precise movement.

"Sylus," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper, your body trembling beneath him.

He chuckles, the sound low and indulgent. "You're incredibly frustrating," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin. "But I could never resist you."

His hand continues its descent, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants. His fingers move with ease, teasing, exploring, drawing out every reaction as if he’s memorizing the way you respond to him.

His lips follow the same path, trailing lower, his tongue leaving a warm, electric sensation against your stomach. He pulls your pants away with a slow, deliberate motion, his eyes dark with something unreadable—something intense.

His lips find you first. A kiss—soft, yet claiming, as if sealing an unspoken promise. His movements are patient, controlled, the heat of his breath sending a ripple of anticipation through you before he deepens the pressure.

Your legs tighten instinctively around his shoulders, but he catches them, strong hands holding you in place. His grip is firm, steady, grounding.

"You were doing so well, darling," he murmurs, glancing up at you. His voice is smooth, teasing, but there's something gentler beneath it. "You said you’d let me take care of you."

Before you can respond, his lips are on you again, and the words dissolve into a breathless moan. Your fingers dig into the sheets, your body trembling against his hold. His rhythm matches your breath, slow at first—exploring, savoring—until he finds exactly what makes you fall apart.

The pressure builds, overwhelming in its intensity, a delicate balance of wanting more and never wanting it to end. His grip tightens as he feels you teeter on the edge, his pace unrelenting, guiding you toward something inevitable, something shattering.

"Sylus," you gasp, voice unsteady.

He hums against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure coursing through you. "I've got you," he whispers. "Let go.”

Relief crashes over you in waves, rippling through your trembling body. For a fleeting moment, you feel suspended in a stillness only possible in a moment like this—your body weightless, mind blank, utterly lost in sensation. Your breath catches, then escapes in shallow, ragged gasps as aftershocks pulse through you.

When you finally regain enough clarity, your gaze drifts downward, drawn to the sight of him. Sylus is watching you, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes filled with satisfaction, admiration. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, his lips parted as if he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t. He only watches, mesmerized.

His tousled hair is damp, strands sticking to his forehead, making him look even more devastatingly undone. But it’s the shirt—the one he never took off—that suddenly pulls at your focus. The fabric clings to his torso, wrinkled from where your hands had clutched at him, damp in places from sweat and the heat between you.

You want to take it off him. You need to. The urge is almost visceral. Not just to see him fully—though you ache for that too—but to strip away that last remaining barrier, to feel his skin against yours without anything between you. Your fingers twitch, already reaching before you can think twice.

“Why are you still wearing this?”

He chuckles, a low, satisfied sound, and leans in, brushing his lips over yours. “You can take it off me, darling," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice an invitation, a challenge. and you do.

you’ve seen him like this, bare and so willing, too many times to count. Right now feels different. Yiu shake your head, barely able to form words. "I just—"

His breath warm against your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Please, tell me what it is that you want," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, his fingers still moving inside you with slow, deliberate strokes.

Your breath hitched, pleasure clouding your thoughts as your body tensed beneath him. "You… Sylus, I want you," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with need.

His grin was dark, full of heat and satisfaction, his eyes flickering with something primal. He moved over you, his body pressing you into the mattress, solid and warm, surrounding you. The hard length of him pressed against your thigh. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he kisses you, deep and lingering, pouring silent praise into every movement.

Physically, he told you how proud he was—how much he cherished you. He wasn’t just taking; he was teaching, guiding, showing you how to ask for him, how to trust him enough to need him. And he adored that trust. He thrived on the way you depended on him, he needed you just as much.

His hand slid between you, aligning himself with you as your lips continued to move together, breathing in each other’s gasps. Then, with aching slowness, he pushed inside, drawing a sharp inhale from both of you.

"Take a second, darling," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours. His voice was steady, grounding. He waited, giving you time to adjust, to feel every inch of him, his grip firm but gentle as his hands traveled down your body.

One hand slid down your thigh, coaxing it around his waist, his fingers kneading the sore muscles, working out the tension with care.

"If you’re hurting, please tell me," he said, voice low, his concern laced between the desire in his tone.

You shook your head, biting your lip. "No—I'm just… too sore to match your pace. I—I really need you to lead."

A slow smile spread across his lips, something fond and reverent. "I've got you, darling," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You’re getting so good at telling me what you need. I'm so proud of you."

With that, he started to move—slow, controlled strokes, giving you time to adjust, to melt into him, to understand exactly where you needed to lean on him. His moans against your lips were beautiful, each one sending shivers down your spine. His grip on your hips tightened, steadying you, holding you close as he built a rhythm.

And then, gradually, his pace quickened. The friction, the heat, the way he filled you—it all became overwhelming in the best way, each thrust drawing a sharper cry from you. Your fingers dug into his back, clinging to him, feeling every ripple of muscle beneath his damp skin.

When his hand slid between your bodies, teasing, adding to the intensity, your breath stuttered. "Sylus—" you gasped, your body trembling on the edge.

He chuckled against your neck, his breath hot and uneven. "Let go for me," he murmured, voice laced with command and adoration, his fingers working in tandem with his movements.

And then, it hit—pleasure crashing over you in waves, your body tensing before unraveling completely. A cry tore from your lips as you clung to him, your body trembling with the force of it.

Sylus groaned against your skin, his pace stuttering, his own release finding him in the wake of yours. He pulsed inside you, his grip tightening for just a moment before he let out a deep, sigh.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, only the sound of your shared breathing filling the space between you. Then, slowly, he collapsed beside you, his body slick with sweat, his arm wrapping around your waist as he pulled you close.

"Thank you," you whispered, your body warm, sated, and blissfully drowsy.

He let out a soft chuckle, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk. "Anytime," he murmured, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jawline with lazy affection.

And as your eyelids grew heavy, sleep tugging at you with a quiet insistence, you felt it—the safety, the warmth, the quietness in your head wrapped around you like a soft blanket. It wasn’t just his presence in the moment that you felt; it was him, in every sense of the word. Sylus wasn’t just beside you physically—he was there in a way that went deeper and flew through your breaths and the rhythm of your heart.

There was something about his calm, unwavering certainty that made everything else fall away. The tension in your body seemed to melt with every touch, every whisper, every reassurance. The weight of the world didn’t feel so heavy when he was there, grounding you, even in silence.

You could feel his steady heartbeat beneath your fingertips, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that mirrored your own. And as the soft hum of sleep began to pull you under, you heard his voice again, low and soothing, just as you were drifting away.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he murmured, a promise wrapped in warmth.

He was here. And when you opened your eyes again, he would be waiting.

With a sigh that carried the last remnants of the day, you allowed yourself to let go, surrendering to the peace he had given you.

[xinganhao]

📺 now watching: "hotel del luna" (jihoon x reader)

part of my svtflix milestone event. warnings: cussing/swearing, mentions of death. more content under the cut. enjoy watching!

hotel del luna's guestbook, as managed by lee jihoon.

Name: Han Seung-woo Check-in date: August 17, 2019 Reason for stay: Seung-woo was a street artist who passed away in a tragic car accident at the height of his career. He stayed at hotel, haunted by the regret of never completing his masterpiece mural, which he planned to dedicate to his late mother. Reason for leaving: The hotel manager tracked down Seung-woo's original sketches and helped arrange for a modern artist to complete his mural at a public plaza. Witnessing his vision come to life brought him peace. Check-out date: January 11, 2024

Name: Choi Min-ji Check-in date: May 4, 1997 Reason for stay: Min-ji was a nurse who sacrificed herself to save patients during a hospital fire. She lingered at Hotel del Luna because she couldn’t forgive herself for leaving her younger brother behind, feeling she hadn’t done enough to care for him. Reason for leaving: Decades letter, her brother passed away; the manager brought him to the hotel. During their reunion, he reassured Min-ji that her sacrifice inspired him to become a doctor and save lives, fulfilling her legacy. They crossed into the afterlife together. Check-out date: October 9, 2024

Name: Kang Mi-young Position in Hotel del Luna: Receptionist Check-in date: July 8, 1975 Reason for stay: Mi-young was a renowned opera singer who lost her voice in life. She became the hotel receptionist to welcome guests with warmth and kindness, making up for the bitterness she had shown in her final days. Reason for leaving: A guest, who was a devoted fan of her opera performances, recognized her and reminded her of how much her art had inspired others. This helped her regain a sense of purpose and release her regret. Check-out date: December 31, 2024

Name: Park Jin-ho Position: Concierge Check-in date: January 12, 1843 Reason for stay: Jin-ho was the very first staff member of Hotel del Luna. He accepted the role of concierge after passing away as a penniless merchant who regretted his life of greed and failed relationships. He hoped to redeem himself by helping guests find closure. Reason for leaving: After serving at the hotel for over 180 years, Jin-ho finally forgave himself when the manager thanked him for teaching them the value of love and selflessness— something he had yearned to learn in his own life. Check-out date: June 8, 2024

Name: Lee Jihoon Position in Hotel del Luna: Proprietor Check-in date: August 23, 1290 Reason for stay: Jihoon lived over a millennium ago during the Goguryeo era. He was the leader of a band of thieves and was devastated after the massacre of his loved ones; namely, his bandit group and closest friend. Fueled by vengeance, Jihoon killed various people in his fury. Deity Ma Go punished him for his sins by bounding him to the Hotel del Luna. He was warned that he would only be unshackled from the hotel once he is able to replace his fury and grief with remorse and love. Reason for leaving: You N/A Check-out date: N/A

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[storiesforallfandoms]

moved on ~ thomas shelby;peaky blinders

word count: 2213

request?: no

description: in which his ex comes back after two years, and his fiancée is worried about what this means for their engagement

pairing: thomas shelby x female!reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

masterlist (one, two, three)

Tommy didn't expect to fall in love after Grace had ran off. He had loved her more than he loved anyone, and he thought he'd never find that love again.

Until he met (Y/N).

They met at an event Tommy had to attend. He only went to make an appearance, and was looking for a way to leave when he spotted her. Right away, he was taken by her. He spent the rest of the night talking to her, and even drove her home at the end of the night.

Within two months, Tommy had proposed. He couldn't risk losing this one. She made him feel even better than he had with Grace. (Y/N) was the one, he was sure of it. So, he asked her to marry him, and he was beyond ecstatic when she said yes.

Everything was perfect, until the day Tommy took (Y/N) to the races.

It was a scorching hot day in Birmingham. Tommy and his brothers were set to go to the races, and obviously he had asked (Y/N) to come with them. She was wearing a summer dress that Tommy had bought for her and, as he had predicted, she looked breathtaking in it. He couldn't keep his eyes - or his hands - off of her.

"You're going to cause a scandal," (Y/N) teased as Tommy's hand made its way under her dress again.

"No one's looking, love," Tommy assured her, moving her hair from her shoulder so he could start kissing her neck.

(Y/N) fought the pleasure his actions were giving her to push him away. As good as Tommy made her feel, she was no going to let him have his way with her in public.

"Can you get me something to drink?" she asked. "I'm parched, and quite hot."

"Of course, darling."

Tommy gave her a quick peck before going to find a concessions stand.

He was waiting for their drinks when a familiar voice said, "Tommy?"

He thought he imagined it, but he realized that couldn't be it. He hadn't even thought of her in years. There's no way he would suddenly be imagining her again. So, he allowed himself to turn, and there she was.

Grace.

Just as beautiful as the day she left him.

"I didn't expect to see you here," she said.

"I didn't expect to see you anywhere," Tommy responded. "I thought you fell off the face of the Earth. Since I never heard from you and all."

A flash of guilt showed on Grace's face. It made Tommy happy to know she felt guilty for what she did.

"I can't apologize enough - "

"No, you can't," Tommy said. He was finally given his drinks. He took them and began to walk away from her.

"Wait!" She took hold of his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Please, let me explain. I'll tell you everything."

Tommy looked down at her hand. It was hard to miss the diamond ring on her ring finger.

"Will your husband be okay with that?"

She seemed to bristle a little at the comment, but she managed to keep her composure. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind me catching up with an old friend."

Tommy held his tongue from correcting her. He wanted to know the truth about what happened with Grace. Even if that's all their meeting was - which it would be - then it could at least be some closure for him. He agreed to Grace's proposal, but only under the condition that she meet him at the Garrison. He needed to have some sort of control in this situation.

It was only as Tommy was walking back to his seat that he realized he hadn't told Grace he was engaged. In fact, he had completely forgotten about (Y/N) for those few moments.

She was still in her seat wen he got back, eagerly watching the current race. The moment he laid his eyes on her, Tommy felt his heart swell. He realized that he felt nothing but contempt for Grace. He wasn't eager for their meeting at the Garrison as he would've been nearly two years ago. It was nothing more than a business meeting to him now, because his heart belonged to one woman.

(Y/N) looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. "You've been gone for some time. Did you get lost?"

He smiled back. Instead of responding, he sat with her and kissed her cheek. (Y/N) giggled and leaned into him.

Tommy thought about telling (Y/N) about Grace, but he wasn't sure how to. He didn't want her to get upset over Grace's appearance, and their agreement of a private meeting, but he knew there was no way to bring it up without (Y/N) getting upset. He couldn't blame her either. If the roles were reversed and one of (Y/N)'s exes were trying to reconnect with her...well, that person wouldn't be around much longer.

(Y/N) looked up at Tommy and nudged him. "Are you alright? You look deep in thought."

"I saw Grace," he blurted.

"Grace? Like...the Grace?" Tommy nodded. "When? Just then?" He nodded again. "Oh, wow. What did she say?"

"She asked if we could meet up to talk about her leaving."

"What did you say?"

"I told her we could meet at the Garrison."

(Y/N) nodded, her face unreadable. "When?"

"Tomorrow night."

"And...did you tell her about me?"

Tommy was silent. He couldn't lie to her, and his silence was enough of an answer. She turned away from him to focus on the race again. She felt so many emotions that she couldn't even place them. She knew Tommy loved her, and she knew he was loyal, but she was also aware of Tommy and Grace's past. He told her everything about their relationship when they first got together. So she knew how intense Tommy and Grace's relationship had been, and how broken he was when she left.

Tommy reached over and put his hand on her leg. "Love, look at me."

(Y/N) reluctantly turned to face her fiance.

"I will call the meeting off if it makes you uncomfortable," he said. "Or you can come and be there when it happens."

She shook her head. "No, I think that will likely make it more awkward."

Tommy cupped her face. "Do you trust me?"

"My mind is screaming that I shouldn't, but my heart says I do." She chuckled and added, "That sounded so cheesy."

"It did," Tommy agreed. He pulled her towards him to place a kiss on her lips. "I promise this is nothing more than a meeting to get some closure. Any love I felt for Grace disappeared when she did. You are the only woman who has my heart, and that will never change."

(Y/N) smiled and leaned into Tommy. "I believe you. Just...tell her about me the moment she shows up, okay?"

"I will, love."

~~~~~~

The next night, (Y/N) was pacing her and Tommy's shared living room. Tommy had left for his meeting with Grace moments ago. He had kissed her and told her he wouldn't be long, and she had smiled at him but didn't speak. Once he was gone, she had stood and immediately began to walk around the house. Her nerves were making it impossible to be still.

She told Tommy she had trusted him, and that wasn't a lie, but she couldn't help the gnawing feeling of unease and jealousy. It was a cliche to say, but it was Grace she didn't trust. She didn't know Grace besides what Tommy had told her about their previous relationship, and the fact that Grace was now married. But would that be enough to stop Grace from wanting to make a move on Tommy? Would Tommy's engagement be enough?

Her mind would not rest. She was starting to regret telling Tommy she wasn't going to accompany him to the meeting. Even if it would've been awkward, at least her mind would've been at ease.

Before she could register what she was doing, (Y/N) was pulling on a coat and heading out the door. She started walking towards the Garrison. She knew it was a bad idea to just drop in on Tommy and Grace's meeting, but the not knowing was killing her. She couldn't just stay home and wait for Tommy to come back.

It was a slow night at the pub. There were a few men sat along the bar, and three men sat around one table. Harry was wiping down some glassware at the bar when (Y/N) walked in. He regarded her and nodded towards the private room that the Shelby's frequented, signaling that Tommy was still in there. (Y/N) walked towards the room, intending to knock before entering, until she heard a woman's voice on the other side.

"I never meant to hurt you, Tommy. I know I betrayed you, and nothing can ever change that. But you have to know that I did love you - that I do love you. I left Birmingham because I knew it would be better for you if I did, but I never stopped thinking about you."

"What about your husband?" came Tommy's voice.

"I love him, but I'm not in love with him. He has been a marriage of convenience more than anything. He was there, and he had a good job and a good life, and I hadn't hurt him."

There was silence. (Y/N) could only imagine what was happening on the other side of the door. She hadn't missed Grace admitting to still being in love with Tommy, and even if it seemed Tommy had. Or maybe was just ignoring the fact that she said it.

Or maybe he was happy to hear it?

"I've missed you so much, Tommy," came Grace's voice, soft. "I've thought about you every day since I left. I've been hoping for a day where I could see you again, just one more time, and as for you to give me another chance."

(Y/N) could feel her heart breaking. Tears were welling up in her eyes as she backed away from the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Harry looking at her. She wouldn't look directly at him, but she could make out the look of pity on his face. He must've known what was happening in that room, or had some idea anyways.

She was about to leave when she heard Tommy say, "Any chances you had left when you did, Grace."

(Y/N)'s ears perked back up as she moved back towards the door.

"I loved you once, Grace. If you had come back, even after admitting to me your betrayal, I might've taken you back. But I've moved on now. I have found a woman that I love more than anything in this world, and who loves me just as much. There is nothing and no one in this world who could convince me to leave (Y/N), not even you."

There was a silence on the other side. It wasn't until the knob started to turn on the door that (Y/N) realized Grace was leaving. She quickly stumbled away from the door just before it swung open and hit her. She was stood frozen as she looked at Grace - beautiful, blonde, elegant Grace, stood in a crimson red dress and her hair curled. Grace seemed just as shocked to see someone standing on the other side, but swiftly moved around (Y/N) to exit the pub as quickly as possible.

Tommy was sat at the table with a lit cigarette to his mouth. He didn't look surprised to see (Y/N). He took a long drag and blew it out of the corner of his mouth, before motioning with his fingers for (Y/N) to join him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to - "

"How much of it did you hear?" he asked.

"Well, I arrived sometime before her love confession."

"Which one?"

(Y/N) felt an angry heat rise in her face. "There were multiple?"

"There was two. Three, if you count her asking for another chance at the end there."

"Well, in that case I arrived before the second one."

Tommy reached out for his fiancée, gently touching her arm and pulling her to sit next to him.

"So you heard what I said to her, then?" he asked. (Y/N) nodded. "And you know I meant every word."

"Of course I do," she said. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just shown up like this. I just couldn't settle down at home while I waited for you. I needed to be here."

"I did offer for you to sit in on the meeting." His tone was light and there was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. That's how (Y/N) knew he wasn't being serious, or that he wasn't upset about her appearance.

"I know. I should've taken you up on that," she said. She leaned close to Tommy and kissed his cheek. "I love you."

"I love you, too, darling. Don't ever think that I don't."

"I won't. I promise."

[codename-adler]

Baby Pics pt. 3 (final part)

Kevin is being silent in the chat because he fell down some stairs while looking at Baby Aaron

Robin’s parents have religiously kept and cared for all her baby pictures from before she was kidnapped; this one is a few years before she was stolen.

one of the very few things Nicky left with when he got out of his parents’ house are his photo albums; he couldn’t bear leaving any trace of this kid in that house, and couldn’t keep letting his mother enter these phases of grief where she cried over page after page of baby Nicky.

though the internet is full with baby pictures of Kevin from tabloids, for the longest time he has no physical photographs of himself or his mom; when the Nest closed, he was finally handed back Kayleigh’s things that were rightfully his; that was truly an enormous moment of closure.

Aaron went through the effort of digging through the garbage in the attic of the Columbia house to find a semi decent picture; Nicky had some in his own albums, which he offered, but Aaron needed to do that himself, work though some shit.

Andrew told Bee what bullshit the Foxes were doing these days, then told her he knew who had some photos left of him here and there, then told her to make some calls if she was ever feeling bored of her life; because Neil asked; Bee managed to track down 10 photos from adoption agencies and foster families; Andrew chose that one because you can’t see his eyes (and he thinks he looks pretty cool).

Stuart sent over the one photo he has kept all these years, from a time Mary was able to visit London after having Neil; the full picture he cropped is below; only Andrew was shown Neil and his mom, Mary Hatford; the mom he lost, the mom he wants to remember.

>> 21 next >>

[thewitchblue]

You frowned as you rolled two live grenades under Joker's feet. You managed to sneak up on the bastard after finally locating him. He's as hard to catch as a flailing fish using your bare hands. Fortunately, Joker noticed too late.

You watched with a grimace as the two grenades exploded Joker into chunks of body parts before anybody could say anything or run away.

You wanted to kill Joker for Jason's death. Someone had to avenge the kid, and the psychopath should've died a long time ago. You don't think Jason would have wanted that, not the Jason you knew, anyway, but you felt like you had to do it. Robin and Batman were on the opposite side of Gotham on a wild goose chase through the city looking for the rogues that escaped Arkham tonight, and Nightwing was stuck in Bludhaven because one of his rogues escaped. It was the perfect time to kill him.

You kicked Joker's decapitated head with sorrow. You thought you'd feel better, but all you felt was hollow. You shook your head with a sigh. You have to move to the next rogue, but you look at the Joker smile and blinked back tears as you thought about Jason. He was your best friend. You should know that your sorrow wouldn't be erased when you killed Joker, but it felt like your heart was being ripped out of your chest all over again.

You couldn't stop your sobs. Jason wouldn't want this. Little Jason valued life and believed people could change for the better.

Your heart was shattered, and your body was shaking with grief. You looked at the grenade pins in your hands with tear-blurred eyes. This hurts. It kills you that you had to go so low to get closure. You never got to see Jason's body. They said he was too badly harmed, and it was a closed casket funeral.

You were a grenadier hero, but you normally use non-lethal grenades (think bombs that release various gases and smoke bombs). You had to make those two grenades specifically to kill Joker. They are the only lethal grenades you've ever made.

Grief hit you hard, and you weren't sure if you were sorry about your actions. You kneeled on the ground and fiddled with a grenade you have hooked on your utility belt. You didn't expect your revenge to hurt so much.

You don't know how long you were crying on the floor, but you eventually put on your helmet and moved on. The best part about having a helmet is that nobody can see your tears as you handled Clayface. Robin was taking on Harley, and Batman was focusing on Ivy. The two rogues tag teamed tonight.

You left the corpse quickly. There's no time for you to grieve when there are so many lives at risk. You'll have to cry more later.

You hunted down Clayface first. He might be the riskiest for the new Robin, so you need to take him out first. You eyed your target carefully. He was pretending to be a panicked civilian when he felt a pair of predatory eyes on him. One of the heroes was onto him, but it was too late as you used a glitter bomb to mark him. He can't blend his way out of this now. He'll be forced to fight.

You dropped silently from the rooftop while another grenade explodes. You had a special gas to turn him human again and neutralise his powers.

"There's nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, Clayface."

Your voice modifier turned your voice dark and intimidating. He can't see you in your shadows, and your voice echoed on the walls of the alley. He can't tell what direction the bombs are coming from.

You were his most hated opponents. You actually were hated by all the rogues, but Clayface had the misfortune of you showing up instead of Batman and Robin.

You were impossible to see and even more impossible to track. It was as if you cornered him in an alley that helped your evasion. He couldn't go anywhere with your predatory eyes tracking his every move.

He didn't notice he was surrounded by bombs until it was too late. He hissed in pain as shards of metal hit him from all sides. You somehow always pick the right bombs to disarm him, but he's not going down without a fight.

Your heart wasn't in the fight he was trying so hard in. Not really, anyway. You were focused on taking out Clayface as quickly as possible to move onto the missing rogues.

Clayface panicked as he looked around. Nothing. You were a ghost. He's not sure he's even fighting a physical being. He managed the kick the next bomb thrown at him. Unfortunately for him, it was a contact grenade and exploded on his foot.

He howled in pain and surrendered very quickly. He couldn't run with his foot the way it was. He couldn't hide, and he couldn't fight a ghost. You were a good fighter, but you shined on taking away hope when you fought a villain. What can they do? They can't see the bombs until it's too late. They can't see you. They can't even hear you. The winds don't whisper despite your cloak, and the moon doesn't illuminate your shadow.

"Boo."

You whispered in his ear as you tied him up. His face whipped around, but you were gone, and he was tied up with no means of escape. His powers were gone, and he was covered in glitter. He didn't know whether to thank you for the mercy or curse you.

You had already moved on by the time the police showed up to take Clayface away. You run across Two-Face first, but you found him already in the midst of being tied up by a man with a red helmet. You blinked in surprise.

The man was massive, 6'3 with muscles the size of your thighs, but his suit could use some work. He wore a simple leather jacket, cargo pants, and a black shirt. He was strapped with guns much like you were strapped with grenades, and you could bet that there were more hidden like yours.

Your voice echoed in the empty warehouse as you said,

"Did I show up late to the party?"

You leaned against a nearby wall. You didn't reveal yourself, but you could see the man tense. You quickly noticed his crowbar and frowned. You shrugged off the bleeding crowbar desite noticing the extent of the injuries.

"Something like that..."

He also had a voice modifier, but you could tell his voice is naturally deep, and his tone was dark, as if he, too, didn't like the events that transpired.

You eyed him warily. You could tell he was looking for you, but you weren't anywhere. Are you going to have to fight him? His hand gripped his gun as if it were his lifeline.

"Did you come out to play?"

He asked the air. He tried to sound cocky, but he sounded more nervous than anything. He knew you were dangerous, even to the Bat family. You work alone and often aid by chance more than by choice. They don't know who or what you are exactly, and it concerned them all.

"Yes, but it seems my date was busy."

You replied smoothly with a sharp smile. That seemed to affect him even more because his grip tightened somehow. He was blushing under his helmet. He had always liked you. You gave him a thrill like nobody else and seemed to be clarifying his head. The rage he has settled into a cold and collected calm.

"Why don't you come out of the shadows and dance with me then?"

You smirked. Oh, you liked him already. Two-Face was starting to get annoyed now. He started struggling against his ties until Red Hood put a gun against his head.

"That's a negative, hoodlum. I have rogues to catch."

You had no idea that was your previous best friend, and Jason had no clue it was his previous crush. He waited to see if he could hear you with his slightly improved hearing, but nothing. You smiled a real smile for the first time in months as you walked out.

You spent the night going through Batman's mess and assisting civilians when you could from gangs or robbers. The good news was that everybody was taken care of that night with the help of Batman, Robin, and now this Red Hood guy.

Red Hood found the remains of the Joker and the grenade shards before Batman could, and he disposed of the body parts with a smile. You must know Jason then. Otherwise, you never would have used lethal bombs. That's a start to unmask you. Maybe he'll thank you personally. He's sure he'll see you on the streets again. Your flirting solidified that you will come back to him for more, and he can't wait.

[oct0bra1ns]

can you do a platonic yandere teacher? like maybe the teacher kidnaps the darling (his fav student) because he has always wanted a child and you just seem like the perfect child to have! and he kinda gets pissed off if you mention your old family. Reader can be High school or Middle school age i don’t care which.

teehee, i hope you don't mind but i combined it with another another ask which was similar, i went to keep both aspects of the ask so there'll be two yandere characters, they can be a couple or just two people who live together, whatever you want. once again, no names :P

Reblogs and comments are appreciated

Yandere Teacher and Yandere headmaster who used to argue all the time despite the fact that they live under one roof. Yandere teacher hates what the headmaster deems as necessary for the students and teachers while the headmaster hates how the teacher never listens to anything he says.

All the staff hate whenever a meeting is called, not because their day was disrupted, no, but because they have to sit and listen to these two arguing over the most stupid things.

They couldn't seem to agree on anything until they met you. Yandere teacher had always kept an eye on you, the one student in his class who used to submit everything on time, complete every assignment to perfection nd rather well behaved.

He usually hates having to explain himself over and over again but if you ask him to repeat something, he will, even if he has already gone though the topic like 100 times.

If by chance you don't do well on a test, he'll give you another assignment to make up for it, or be less harsh with his grading on that certain paper.

He'll let you disturb his free time if you have any doubts or topic you don't understand.

You've always been his favorite student, so well behaved, never causing a scene in class and doing everything he assigned you to the best of your abilities.

With all this in mind, there was no surprise when you decided to run for the President of the student council, with your track record, you were bound to be selected by the teachers*.

That was until he found out one student from a more well off family was planning to run as your rival and for once he went to the headmaster to ask for help.

The headmaster has always kept an eye on you, someone who managed to impress the Teacher who was known for being nitpicky with everything his students did. Of course, that wasn't the only reason, always participating in events, getting awards, representing the school in inter school events, all made him quite interested in what you could achieve within your school years.

Naturally the moment the Teacher came in, asking for you to be selected as the next president he agreed without hesitation,bringing down the reputation of a spoiled child in the eyes of the teachers was no problem for him.

It didn't take long for both of them to agree it would be better if you were staying with them, after all, being the child of the headmaster of one of the most prominent schools was nothing to scoff, that too along with a teacher who had years of experience and a well known reputation in the eyes of various boards.

Of course, being the student council president meant that you had lots of duties to attend to, ones which included you staying late in the school while most of the staff and teachers left, as such, it was quite easy for them to bring you the unfortunate news that your family perished in an accident, when in reality, they made sure to use their influence to make sure they'd never be found.

Under the disguise of being concerned for you, they'd offer to let you stay in their houses. They'd use the first week to make you forget your old family under the guise of giving yourself closure and giving you time to yourself.

They wouldn't rush anything, in time they'd start acting as if you had no other family except them, both of them would step in the role of your parents.

They'd do anything to keep you happy, learning all your likes/ dislikes, cooking whatever dish you wanted, helping you with whatever and buying you everything you ask for.

The headmaster is not someone who cares if you mention your old family, they don't matter because they're gone and as long as he has you with him, he doesn't care while the Teacher on the other hand, tends to get irritated if you mention your old family, he'll bear it to a point before he snaps and goes on a long lecture of all he's doing for you and how clinging onto the past is not good for you.

At that point the headmaster steps in and drags him aside to have a few words with him and he'll come back and apologise to you over his behaviour. The next time he goes on such a rant, one look from the headmaster and He'll stop talking.

Being the headmaster's child comes with a lot of perks, teachers giving you much more respect, students also making sure they don't upset you. If even after all that a teacher or student manages to do something that makes you upset, the headmaster deals with them personally.

*In schools over here, the student council is always decided by the teachers after a few rounds of interviews and 'tests'

[kay-jaye]

when it finally happens, crowley freezes where he’s standing in the bookshop. he’s between shelves, fingers lingering over the spines of books like he’d been running his hand along the leather. he hadn’t. crowley can’t bring himself to touch anything in here, sit on any of the furniture, move a single item out of its place. it’s stupid, he’s afraid to burn himself without the angel here. stupid.

there was no bell chime of the door opening. only a shift in the air, like warmth returning to the limbs after falling asleep, and suddenly there’s an angel standing where no angel should be, just inside the entrance.

they find each other immediately. the angel looks surprised but not by much, and very, very tired. he shoulders bated relief and fear, while managing to look determined still. crowley doesn’t know what he looks like. drunk maybe.

“i’m back,” aziraphale finally says, breathes, really.

crowley says fuck somewhere in his mind, but what comes out is “i can see that.”

you’re bound to experience déjà vu when you’ve been alive as long as he has. crowley sees this playing out somewhere nicer with an apology dance and champagne over dinner. but that would’ve been months ago, and he knows better.

the angel knows better, too. that’s how crowley justifies it.

“forget something?”

that breaks aziraphale’s shaky resolve down into something shameful, and crowley is equally ashamed at the painful satisfaction it gives him. “crowley—” the angel tries.

“no, that’s not it.” crowley’s aware of the ice-cold wave that washes through the room and how it’s probably his own doing. “i’m pretty sure you knew you were leaving that behind.”

there’s a pause, and then aziraphale says, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

crowley lets out an unimpressed noise. they’ve known each other for too long. “lying never looks right on you angels.”

the silence that follows is awkward and angry. the longer they stand there, unmoving with miles of space fitting in the feet between them, the more it begins to feel like an act. the scowl on crowley’s face starts to edge off, and he’s afraid of whatever real expression will be there when the mask drops.

aziraphale refuses to move or say or do anything. crowley thinks maybe this place is neither of theirs anymore. maybe aziraphale needs permission to be here. maybe crowley will burn if he stays.

but maybe there’s nothing left they can give each other.

crowley is bitter, but he’s also done.

“do whatever you need, aziraphale. i was just leaving.”

he should’ve waited for the angel to come to his senses and move out of the doorway, grab whatever book, paper, or trinket he missed so badly in heaven that he had to come back down here for. but crowley can do it. he can walk past him and hold it together and get in the bentley and go to sleep for a couple years like he should’ve months ago. crowley starts for the door.

closure is for humans who have expiration dates and ducks to get in rows.

he’s almost in the clear, so close to the angel that he can feel the nervous energy radiating, and crowley already knows he’ll be dreaming of that cologne for the next decade. he thinks briefly that there will be some magnetic force that kicks in and things will be like they were supposed to.

then the angel moves, reflexively, and a hand to crowley’s chest stops him in his tracks. the pressure is minimal, but it still knocks all of the air out of his lungs.

crowley barely gets a good look at the angel before arms are wrapping around him. it only takes a moment, and then, like warmth waking up the limbs again, he’s hugging back without another thought.

it’s nothing like the kiss—rushed, desperate, final. it’s wrong and it’s right. it’s over and not.

aziraphale says something into his shoulder, but crowley won’t let go to pull away because he doesn’t want to hear. to know if this is goodbye. the angel just continues, and crowley realizes he’s singing softly. out of tune and out of breath.

something about nightingales.

it both fills and breaks his heart.

“i would’ve followed you anywhere,” crowley whispers, “just not there.”

aziraphale nods, quiet, and eventually slides his hands away. crowley lets him. the angel looks him in the eyes, as if the sunglasses aren’t even there, and then without sparing a single glance at anything else in the room, the angel leaves.

[solvyn]

A new anon here! I was wondering if you could do a LaMelo Ball fic where reader is a singer and Melo and reader were in a long term relationship but recently broke up and reader releases a break up album about it

track seven - l.ball

summary: after releasing an album about your breakup with lamelo, you struggle with the weight of your emotions and the quiet aftermath, only to find that some things left unsaid might still find their way back word count: 1.1k warnings: angst (a/n: i left this as a cliffhanger because i wasn't sure whether to give them a happy ending or not. should i write a part two?)

you don’t check your phone when the album drops.

it’s not that you don’t care. god, you care too much. but you know if you pick up your phone, you’ll see his name. and right now, you can’t handle that.

instead, you sit in your apartment, curled up in the oversized hoodie you stole from him months ago—back when everything was good, when you thought forever meant forever. your hands are curled around a mug of tea that’s gone cold, your mind buzzing with anticipation and dread.

it’s out now. the world knows.

your pain, your heartbreak, your sleepless nights and empty mornings, they’re all out there, woven into melodies, laced between lyrics that tell the story of love and loss. of him. of you.

lamelo ball was your first love. your greatest love. and now he’s your greatest heartbreak.

it’s been four months since the breakup, but it still feels raw, like an open wound that won’t close. you’re doing what you do best—turning your emotions into music—but you know it’s going to hurt him. it’s going to hurt you, too. but this is how you heal. or at least, how you try to.

when your best friend calls, you hesitate before answering.

“girl, have you been online?” they ask, their voice buzzing with equal parts excitement and nerves.

you sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “nope. avoiding it.”

“well, you might wanna start preparing yourself because it’s trending. everywhere.”

of course it is.

you exhale slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. you knew this was coming. you just didn’t expect it to happen this fast.

“what are they saying?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“mostly good things,” your friend says. “they love it. they’re calling it one of the best breakup albums of the year. some are even comparing it to s.o.s. and red.”

that makes you smile, even if it’s small. you poured your heart into this album, and to see people resonate with it, to see them feel it, means everything. but you know that’s not all there is.

“and?”

your friend hesitates. “and… he posted.”

just like that, your stomach drops.

“what did he say?”

“it’s a story. just a black screen with a caption. ‘damn.’”

your heart clenches. that single word carries so much weight. you can picture him saying it, the way he does when something catches him off guard. you wonder what he’s thinking. if he’s angry. if he’s hurting as much as you are. if he regrets the way things ended.

but you can’t afford to think like that. you wrote this album for you. not for him. not for closure. not for revenge. for you.

so you don’t respond. you don’t reach out. instead, you let the music speak for itself.

three days later, he calls.

you shouldn’t answer. you know better. but your fingers betray you before your brain can catch up.

“hey.”

his voice is deeper than you remember, raspier. like he hasn’t been sleeping much either. there’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“so that’s how you really feel?”

your throat tightens. you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “melo…”

“nah, i just—” he exhales sharply. “i didn’t know it was like that.”

“what did you expect?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “we broke up. i wrote about it.”

“yeah, but—” he pauses. “some of those songs… you made me sound like the villain.”

your chest aches, because part of you knows he’s right. but the other part? the part that spent nights crying over him, over the way things ended, over the pieces of you he took with him when he left? that part doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“if that’s how you heard it, maybe you should ask yourself why.”

he’s quiet. too quiet. you can hear his breathing, uneven like he’s trying to hold something back.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” he says finally. “you know that, right?”

you swallow the lump in your throat. “i know.”

he sighs, a heavy, uneven breath that crackles through the phone. “then why does it feel like i lost you all over again?”

because maybe he has.

maybe you’ve lost him, too.

silence lingers between you, thick with words unsaid. you could tell him that you still think about him when certain songs play, that sometimes you reach for your phone only to stop yourself, that you still sleep in his hoodie because it’s the only thing that makes your bed feel less empty. but none of it changes the fact that you’re here, on opposite sides of something too broken to fix.

“melo…” your voice wavers. “i don’t—i don’t know what to say.”

“yeah.” his voice is barely above a whisper. “me neither.”

there’s a pause, a second where you think he might say something else, something that could undo the space between you. but then the line goes dead.

and just like that, he’s gone again.

time moves forward. the album continues to climb the charts. the songs that once felt too personal to share are now being sung by strangers, their voices carrying pieces of your story. of his. of yours, together.

you don’t know if he listens to it anymore. if he still thinks about you when certain lyrics play. if he regrets calling you that night. you don’t reach out. neither does he.

but sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the world is still and your heart aches just a little bit less, you wonder if he’s out there listening, remembering, missing you the way you miss him.

and maybe, just maybe, he is.

because one night, long after the world has quieted and your apartment is bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, your phone buzzes.

a text.

it’s him.

“i heard track seven.”

just five words, but they knock the breath out of you. because track seven is the one song you almost didn’t put on the album. the one where you weren’t angry, or bitter, or drowning in sadness. the one where you admitted, in soft harmonies and raw lyrics, that you still loved him, in some small, stubborn way. that a part of you always would.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. you could ignore it. you probably should. but instead, you type.

“yeah?”

his response comes quickly.

“yeah.”

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

It has been very amusing for the past twenty years to watch people burn out over the MCU, citing exhaustion from things like the proliferation of films, the pressure to see every film in order to keep track of the convoluted plots, the cheap reliance on gimmicks like cameo appearances, the lack of fresh ideas, the incoherent characterization, the increasing implausibility of the artificially inflated stakes of each new arc, the endlessness, the monotony, the impossibility of closure as characters and plots are resurrected to keep the machine running, and so on

it's funny because this is exactly what it was like to be into the comic books

[soapyghostie]

Hi! It's the Chucky anon! Here's my request <3

Chucky has murdered reader, but now she is stuck following him around as a ghost. She isn't like... an unstoppable evil, she just messes with him since she has no other option. Something like...

Chucky, whispering: "Don't you fucking dare..."

Reader, looking at him dead in the eye: (shatters a vase alerting the potential victim)

She has a lot of fun teasing him even when he is not out for the kill, so they end up warming up to each other during the moments where she doesn't try to frustrate his schemes

Thank you again! <3

Sorry for when I had to reject your request because my inbox was closed at the time. Also, I’m sorry you had to wait so long for me to write your request Chucky Anon. I’ve been so busy with finals and finishing up the Track and Field season that I haven’t had time to write. 😫 However, I hope this was worth the wait. Hope you enjoy!

Charles ‘Chucky’ Lee Ray

It’s been several weeks since Chucky killed you. The police had already uncovered your body, ran tests, identified that it was a murder, sent you off to the morgue to get you cleaned up for your funeral, and buried in the ground. Now here you are in all your glory, haunting his ass for all eternity. At first your ghostly presence initially terrified him. You can’t blame him because wouldn’t every killer’s worst nightmare be getting haunted by their victims??? Anyways, however, as time goes on, he begrudgingly starts to enjoy your company, finding it less lonely than being on his own. 

When you discover that you have the power to manipulate objects, it’s all over for Chucky. You are constantly pulling pranks on him, like rearranging his possessions or making strange noises at night. Chucky would be like: “I’m pretty sure I left my knife right here… where the hell did it go???” While you are snickering, knowing damn well where you hid it (on top of the cabinet where his short midget ass can’t even reach it). 

You often play tricks on Chucky to prevent him from completing his kills. This sometimes even inadvertently saves his potential victims in the process. Such as when you accompanied him on one of his killing sprees and he caught you staring at a vase, knowing exactly what you were thinking. “Don’t you fucking dare…” Chucky whispered threateningly and you just stare him dead ass in the face, shattering the vase anyways. Let’s just say that his victim got away that day.  

Although you reluctantly accomplice Chucky and assist him in his schemes, you love to sabotage them for fun. However, You often feel guilty about the innocent lives Chucky takes and you struggle with your role in enabling his actions. Due to that, you sabotage his schemes whenever you can (you have fun at the same time doing it though).

Despite all the pranks and tricks, you and Chucky develop an odd bond through shared experiences and a dark sense of humor. He’ll often find himself venting his frustrations and insecurities to you while seeking your advice and your companionship in moments of loneliness.  

Despite the close bond you and Chucky created, you secretly long for peace and closure, hoping to find a way to move on from your ghostly existence. Due to that, there will always be tension between you two, as you never forgot that Chucky is ultimately responsible for your death.

[actuallyjustabiscuit]

I wanna break down the FunnyGummy farewell scene real quick because there’s so much to it that it’s making me feral

Pomni catches Gummigoo and it seems like she wants to try and reconnect with him despite knowing that’s not her Gummigoo.

Now I know there’s a lot of people who believe this Gummigoo subconsciously remembers her, but I genuinely think he doesn’t and that he’s a complete factory reset, because you can see just how uncomfortable he feels being followed by a woman who somehow knows his name yet from his perspective they’ve never met.

And if Pomni wants to rekindle the friendship she lost, or at the very least try to explain how she know’s Gummigoo, she’d have to tell him everything.

The fact that he’s an NPC.

The fact that his buddies as NPC’s as well.

The fact that any memories and personality he has are manufactured for the role Caine wants him to play.

The fact that he fucking died.

That’s a lot to dump on a guy just as he’s walking out the door after having a nice breakfast.

And as Pomni’s struggling to make her next move, we then get this little moment

She turns back…to look at Ragatha. (btw I think it’s cute how Rags is having a nice conversation with an NPC she never got to interact with because she was uh…little occupied during that particular adventure)

Ragatha who’s been consistently been making an effort to welcome her and trying to be her friend despite the rough start. Who she finally decided to show her appreciation for her continuous efforts. Who she can still make good memories with.

And it’s here that Pomni realizes that as much as it’d be nice to have Gummigoo back in her life…he’s not real…but Ragatha is. (Which is incidentally exactly when the track “Somebody Real” begins to play in the background here, which is the same track that plays during Pomni’s convo with Gummi in ep 2)

Gummigoo means a lot to Pomni because he’s the first friend she made in the Circus, but she also feels partly responsible for his entire worldview becoming shattered. She doesn’t want to put him through that again, man was devastated the first time he had to learn about what he was.

Not only that, but she also failed to help him feel like a real person when she took him back to the Circus.

It was never going to work out.

So she lets him go, but also gives herself the chance to say a proper goodbye. She gets the much needed closure she was denied when Caine decided to just obliterate him without warning. And Gummigoo gets to go live in complete ignorance and bliss.

I also like to think that the last thing on his mind as he left was “What a strange little character.”

Also…I think Ragatha would be happy to know that Pomni decided to stay and hang out with the rest of them over continuing to “flirt” with the GummyGuy.

Gay ass