#but I think their relationship will remain pretty solid

[welcometoteyvat]

read baizhu’s stories. he wins for most balanced character of all time

[reignpage]

Basketball Captain!Toji

Toronto Raptors: home win

Word Count: 5k Warnings: fluff mostly, a little angst, cursing, mentions of darker themes but nothing too serious, not proofread, final pre-relationship chapter, thus concluding toji's story for now,

“Come on,” is all Toji says when you open the door to his solid knocks. 

He doesn’t say anything else as you follow him out to his car, where you strap in, confused and unsure. Still in his gym clothes, you can tell he came straight from training, and there’s tension in his shoulders that’s usually all worked out after a good session bullying his teammates relentlessly.

The man just showed up, unannounced, at your door after noon. He didn’t greet you with a kiss or a sneaky squeeze of your ass. He simply urged you to follow him and so you did. Silent, uncharacteristically so, he just led you down. 

With a sigh, you breach the silence when he starts the car up. “It’s pretty cold outside, Fushiguro. I don’t understand how you can stand to be in shorts every day.”

“It’s not that cold, ma.” He snorts. His veins are prominent, bulging from how tense he is, but he eases his grip on the steering wheel enough for you to lose that fear he���ll veer off a bridge or something.

“Where are we going?”

He throws you a side glance, hand falling on onto your thigh with a squeeze that you can’t be sure he means to be comforting but rather just to cop a feel. Though you appreciate it, you can’t help but feel even more anxious.

“You wanted me to prove that I’ve changed, that I’m willing to change. For you. So, that’s what I’m doing.”

There’s a conviction in his eyes, a fire you only ever see when he’s playing a game, when he’s facing all the opposing players dotted along the court but all he sees is the way through to get to glory. In your short time of knowing Fushiguro, you’ve learnt that he’s a pretty laidback guy. Rarely does he ever get riled up.

His ability to remain calm under any situation is one of the many things you admire about him -- he was reliable when he helped you with your ex, when he made dinner every night as your roommate, and when he picks you up and drops you off all over campus for this and that. 

Though the boundaries of your relationship had never been established, you can’t help but feel like dating him wouldn’t be so bad. After all, that’s practically what you’ve been doing this entire time when he brings you coffee after your class or when he just shows up at your door randomly with an overnight bag. 

You like him. 

You’ve never denied it. 

But you’re not stupid. 

Toji Fushiguro is a manwhore. It’s a term you dislike, and you know he’s so much more than his sexual history, but that history is extensive. And though you’ve daydreamed you could be more than a notch on the proverbial bedpost, you’ve never deluded yourself into thinking that he’ll propose to you after a night of great sex. 

It would be unfair of you to expect him to change anyways. 

However, this past week or two, something about him had shifted. He’s become more serious around you. You could tell when he scolds you for your unhealthy diet consisting of overly sugary cereal and fruit-flavoured candies. Or when he actually takes the time to read your work and sends even just a quick message expressing his thoughts. 

Nowadays, he walks around with an arm around you and introduces you not as a friend but by your name and his friends seem to understand exactly what he means. Now, people know who you are and they stop to greet you in the hallways, and all you can do is stutter out an awkward greeting. 

It’s all so very odd. 

Is it possible he really means it when he says he wants you to be his girlfriend?

“You’re doing a lot of thinking right now, aren’t ya?” He asks. 

You didn’t even realise he’s parked already. You’re in an unfamiliar place: a very nice, wealthy area in West Eden. Up ahead, you see a picturesque estate often visited by flocks of tourists day in and day out. What with its tall, golden gates and lush garden, even grander than Eden’s National Park. 

It’s a mansion belonging to an old money family. Even you know their name. The same kind of name often associated with the Gojos and the Ryomens.

“What are we doing at the Zenin Manor?”

He doesn’t answer, simply exits the car and opens your door. The arm strung over your shoulder does absolutely nothing to quell that anxiety inside, because written all over Toji’s face is that very same uncertainty and dread you’re feeling.  

His brows are furrowed, there’s no smile on his face, and when he frowns like that, his scar becomes even more prominent. He licks his lips, searching for the indentation on his skin as he eyes the towering fence lining the entire property as far as the eye can see. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

There’s no comment about how you should dress warmer, or how your ass looks in your jeans or how dead to the world he feels after training. Nothing. Except for a squeeze of your hand when it reaches his on your shoulder. 

You’ve never seen him look so…small. 

He doesn’t lead you to the gates but rather down the street, following the metal fencing. The manor is gorgeous and old. It carries the weight of centuries of wealth, power and integrity. Everything is calculated to perfection, from the symmetrically aligned shrubbery to the shiny windows. There isn’t a single leaf out of place, no blade of grass taller than the other, and even the cars parked down the road are all freshly washed and polished. 

There’s no doubt about it; the Zenin Manor is a work of architectural art. 

But there’s something off about the whole place, something detached or clinical. Perhaps it’s because there are no people — not in the streets, not in the huge lawn, and not in any of the windows. It’s like a ghost town. Or maybe it’s because everything is too perfect, too symmetrical and clean.

You’ve heard rumours about ghosts living in the Manor, stories of children’s screams echoing in the depth of the night, of blood splatters on walls, of monsters lurking behind huge trees. You know the stories the locals pass around about the Zenins – they dabbled in dark magic and colluded with the devil. Their descendants possess otherworldly powers and those that don’t are cast away, rejected by their kin. 

It’s the kind of folklore that attracts the tourists to begin with; they love the contrast of the pristine beauty of the home with idea of the horrors that fill it. 

As far as the building and the family is concerned, however, that’s as much as you know. Which doesn’t exactly fill you with confidence now that Toji is leading you into a maze of roads and alleyways of sorts. 

The fencing off the main street is weaker, the metal rusted and the shrubs sharper and sparser. You’ve lost your bearing now that Toji is leading you here and there, guiding you back and forth, left and right. And the houses across the street are smaller, older, and tightly packed. That sterile front is long gone. 

He stops.

When you look up at the Manor once more, you’re surprised to find it’s farther in the distance from the fence and you’re staring at what seems to be the back garden —though you’re certain no one would call it a ‘garden’ when it more closely resembles a park. 

“Toji, I’m being serious. Why are we here?”

He sighs, arm leaving you and tucking itself in his hoodie pocket. Rocking on his feet, he jerks his head and replies, “There’s something I wanna show ya.”

You follow his gaze to a big cherry blossom tree, leaves rustling and petals flowing in the wind. It’s the only tree littering on the perfect grass and it’s pretty, as all cherry blossoms tend to be. But that isn’t what he’s looking at. 

No, Toji is looking at a little boy. 

He has black, spiky hair and wears a plain black shirt with shorts. He’s alone. Reading a book, he sits under the tree and is completely obvlivious to the two people watching him. 

If this was under any other circumstances, you wouldn’t think much more about the scene. Sure, you don’t know many little boys who read but reading a book isn’t a crime. It’s actually great for children, according to a study you read some time ago. 

But this boy is different. Not just because there’s a maturity to him that makes your heart ache, or the fact that a boy his age should be out with friends or at the very least should be watched by an adult, but because he bears a striking resemblance to the huge man beside you. 

“You have a son?” You screech. 

Toji snorts, hand flying to smush your face like you’re just too adorable not to squish. With an amused tone, he scolds, “Don’t jump to conclusions, ma. I’ve never not wrapped it before I tapped it.”

“Okay, so why are we staring at this kid? Tell me it’s not because this is a hobby of yours ‘cause I swear to god, if you need to be on a register, I’m gonna…well, I don’t actually know what I’d do but I’ll do something.”

He doesn’t look impressed with your little rant. In fact, he doesn’t even grace you with a response and instead puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. 

You wince. 

The boy looks up, head jolting and gaze piercing right through you immediately. He sets his book down and runs over. Somehow, he looks even smaller when he reaches the fence, barely at your hip. He looks completely suspicious of you but says nothing. 

“Hey, kid,” Toji says, bending down to a squat. “How ya been?”

The little boy shrugs and holds the fence in his tiny hands. “Good. Who’s the pretty lady?”

There’s a look of pride that steals your breath when Toji looks up at you. He has that handsome smile on his face, the one that stretches his scar out and crinkles his eyes. The very same smile he gives you when he scores, and his eyes finds yours in the crowd. A smile that makes your heart beat a mile a minute and threatens to knock you on your feet. 

“This,” Toji announces with an exaggerated gesture to you, “is ma girl.” 

It isn’t the first time you’ve heard him say that, but it sure does feel like it. You release a shaky smile, bending down too to meet the little boy’s inquisitive gaze full on. Mustering a nurturing tone, you introduce yourself. “Hi, I’m y/n. What’s your name?”

“Megumi. He mentions you a lot when he visits. I thought you weren’t real, but I guess you are so, hi.”

“Oi, don’t be rude, ya little brat.” Nudging Toji and giving him a look, you urge him to explain further. “Oh, right. This is my little brother. Pain in my ass but he’s smart so I think I have to be nice to him when he becomes rich and shit.”

Aghast, you hiss, “Do you make it a habit of swearing in front of your brother?”

Something passes through his eyes, a spark of surprise and warmth, one that you can’t quite place. But you don’t have time to ponder it because shouting comes from the distance. 

“Shit, we gotta do. Come on, Megs,” Toji urges. 

With expert agility, the boy manoeuvres himself through the metal bars of the fence and reaches his arms up so he can be carried by his brother, who jerks his chin, signalling to run. 

You do. 

Ignoring the shouting behind you, you run through the maze of alleyways and roads, dodging trees and branches, and pumping your legs to keep up with the athlete in front of you. Despite holding up someone else’s weight, he runs incredibly fast. You’re not sure why you’re surprised and impressed considering he’s a basketball player but it’s all you can think about when you finally reach his car and strap in. 

Megumi sits in the back, fingers drumming on his bare knees as Toji drives off. 

You’re trying to catch your breath, panting embarrassingly whilst the other two seem unfazed, like the whole ordeal hadn’t happened, like Toji Fushiguro, captain of Eden University’s Varsity Basketball team, hasn’t just kidnapped a child from one of the country’s wealthiest families. 

“Gotta calm down, ma. Y’r gonna pop a blood vessel with how hard y’r grinding your teeth,” he advices, totally amused.

There’s no drop of sweat on his forehead, no flush on his cheeks, or a heave of his chest. He’s cool, calm and collected, and you hate him so much right now. 

“Fushiguro, tell me you didn’t just steal this boy away from his family.”

Toji’s jaw clenches. “I am his family.”

You groan, exasperated. What does any of this have to do with him begging to be your boyfriend? 

Does he think kidnapping impresses girls nowadays? Or maybe he thinks you’re the kind of girl who’s always wanted to be behind bars?

“Is this the right thing to do? Won’t we get into trouble?”

“We do this all the time,” the little boy remarks. He doesn’t look bothered at all, either. In fact, he smiles at you, teeth missing and gums showing, like he’s aware of the absurdity of the situation and is rubbing salt on the wound. 

You screech again, hands flailing as you heave for air. “I’m too young to go to prison, Toji. I can’t. I wouldn’t look very inspirational as a fugitive. And I don’t know how to fashion shanks out of forks!”

“She’s funny,” Megumi notes.

Toji laughs. He fucking laughs. 

“This isn’t funny, Fushiguro. Take him back. Take him back and explain that you found him wandering the streets or something.” 

Toji stops laughing. 

“No. I’m not taking him back. Not until I absolutely have to.”

He’s too casual about the whole thing, like he didn’t just make you an accessory to a crime. And it’s pissing you off in ways that’s making your brain malfunction. You’ve always known getting involved with him would bring you trouble but you assumed that trouble would manifest in a few jealous girls. 

That you could handle. 

Law enforcement? 

Your other hand reaches for the door handle, contemplating the possibility of jumping out and claiming he kidnapped you too. The door clicks. He locked you in. 

When you look up at him, he gives you a knowing smile, hand on the gearstick leaving to hold your thigh instead. You swat it away. Then, with a resigned sigh, he begins his explanation. 

“Listen. I know ya think this is crazy, and yeah, it kinda is. But he’s my brother. And I’m not doing anything to harm him. If anything, this is good for him.”

“Good? This is good for him? What are you talking about?” You stare in disbelief. 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it is good. ‘Cause you have no idea what those people do to him. They’re fucking insane. They never let him out. He never gets to play. He doesn’t even know any kids his age.”

“It’s the Zenin family. They’re all over the news. Would they actually abuse a child? Like, wouldn’t they want to avoid bad press?”

Both Megumi and Toji scoff. 

If they didn’t already resemble each other physically, that arrogant noise would have screamed their relation to each other. Guess being annoying runs in the family. 

“They control the media, babe. They decide what goes out on the papers. Trust me, I know.”

You gulp. He’s not suggesting he’s experienced it first hand, has he? 

His last name is Fushiguro, not Zenin. How could he be related to that family? 

He’s never been pictured with them, never mentioned his connection, and no one, not even in your Insider’s Line has that ever been whispered. But of course, he must be related somehow. His brother is a Zenin child, after all. 

“Y’r thinking that ‘cause my last name is Fushiguro, I’m not a Zenin, right?” Your silence is all the answer he needs. “I am a Zenin. Was raised as one. But I don’t want anything to do with them, so I changed my name as soon as I was eighteen. Emancipated myself and shit.”

Your voice is a little more than a whisper when you ask, “What did they do to you, Toji?”

He squeezes your thigh, thumb brushing before he answers, “They’re not good people. They don’t care about how far they push ya as long as they get results. They’ve started doing the same to Megs and I can’t get him outta there but I gotta, y’know? Even just for a little while. So he can get some fresh air, eat some fucking candy like a normal child or something.”

“They know it’s you, though, right?”

“Yeah. They bombard me with threats and shit, asking me to return him but it’s only when they show up at my door that I let him go. But I hate doing it every time. Hate having to say goodbye knowing he’s going back to that hellhole whilst I get to be free or whatever. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t pity us. We’re not a fucked-up charity case.”

You hold the hand on your lap, bringing it up to your mouth to lay a kiss along his knuckles. “I know.”

Neither of you mention the shake in your hand.

Toji pulls up to a drive through, ordering a bunch of junk food he’d always turned his nose up before but scarfs them down eagerly. He let Megumi order everything he wanted from the menu, even two milkshakes and a bunch of burgers no child could possibly finish. With no mention of the elephant in the car, you all feast on the mountain of greasy food from oiled up paper bags. 

Soon, the little boy is knocked out, crumbs all over his shorts and ketchup on his chin, a look of utter contentment on his face as he dozes off. 

You’re cleaning up the mess, crumpling up the papers and stuffing them into a big bag, busying yourself as Toji leans on a bent elbow through the window. You can tell he’s got a lot on his mind; he keeps looking at his brother through the rear-view mirror. 

Though you don’t think of them as a charity case, you do feel pity. It’s a situation you would never want to be in and it’s one they should never have to live through. But they do and you have no idea how to help. To think, that all this time, he’s been worrying for his brother, balancing his weird, messed up family history with his degree and games. You would have never figured it out. 

He’s always joking around, always working hard and living easy. How he has any time for taking care of a child, you would never know.

“He’s pretty cute, isn’t he?”

Toji is startled when you speak, almost as if he’s forgotten where he is. The tension in his face wears away though and his gaze softens when he takes in your adoring smile. Hand rising, he thumbs away a sauce in the corner of your lips before he leans forward, lips meeting yours.

It’s not rough and messy the way he kisses you before he’s ripping your clothes off as he pins you to the wall. It’s soft and gentle. A kiss just to feel and taste you. A kiss that shows his appreciation and you return it.

“Y’r a champ,” he says against your lips. 

You giggle. “I didn’t do anything.”

He playfully bites your bottom lip before he argues, “Ya did a lot. I’m always nervous doing this. The sneaking around and shit, but it helped that you were here.”

You kiss him again, hands cradling his face. 

The sun is setting and it’s growing colder outside but being in the warmth of your own little cocoon with Toji holding you close washes away any worries about what tomorrow will bring. 

“This is why I brought ya here,” he begins. “I wanted to show ya a different part of me. Wanted to explain some things.”

You shake your head. 

“You don’t need to explain anything you’re not ready to.”

He pecks your lips and with a laugh, he says, “You’re too sweet, ma. But I wanna. D’ya remember when you caught me with that girl in my place?”

You pull away. 

“Oh, come on, don’t get all mad again. I’m explaining that it was a misunderstanding. Well, kinda. I was sleeping with her, yeah. But not ‘cause I liked her or anything.”

Swatting his groping hands away, you scoff. “Are you seriously telling me you slept with her because you hate her?”

Toji laughs again. “Nah, ‘course not. Barely even knew her. She just works part time as a maid in that place. She takes care of him sometimes.”

“So?”

He grabs your thigh again. “So, I used her to keep tabs on him. Women tend to be more loose lipped after an orgasm or two.”

You’re blinking rapidly, trying to process the information. “You slept with her just to keep an eye on your brother?”

Shrugging like there’s absolutely nothing remotely crazy about that, he replies, “Yeah. Been doing it for a while. Not since then, actually. But since I ran away. Not just her, either. Anyone who can tell me what’s going on in that house. Sometimes, Megs can’t come out and he doesn’t leave for weeks and I just gotta know he’s safe, that they haven’t done something to him. I need to know that I’ll see him again.”

“Oh.”

It’s a pretty pathetic thing to say but it’s the only thing you can muster after an admission like that. Though it explains your relevance to the whole thing, you’re not sure exactly what he’s trying to say. Or maybe you are, and you just need to hear him say it. Maybe you need to hear it from his very lips, need to be sure that whatever’s going on between you isn’t just a fling, something to pass the time.

“Why are you telling me this, Toji? Spell it out for me.”

His piercing green eyes meet yours and there’s that warmth there again. It robs you of your breath and when his hand winds around your neck to bring you close, you don’t resist.

“I haven’t slept with anyone in over a month. Only you. Apart from my fuck ugly roommate, y’r the only one who knows about Megs, who knows about my past. Y’r the only one I trust enough to be around him. And I’ve never let anyone wear my jersey except for you. Y’r the only woman I’ve slept with more than like three times and I want to do it again and again and never stop. But that’s not the only reason I want to date you. Y’r fucking amazing. Y’r smart in ways I don’t really get, y’r funny and incredible and I fucking love ya. I think. I’ve never been in love before so I still gotta figure some shit out but I’m fairly certain.”

He kisses you again, hiding the heat in his cheeks and the nervous furrowing of his brows.

This time he kisses you with so much passion and fire you’re moaning into his mouth, and he swallows it with a bruising kiss. His possessive hands are everywhere, holding you close, feeling your body and you’re exploring his too, despite knowing it so well already. Neither of you can get enough of the warmth you’re generating. 

“I want to be with ya. And I know ya think I’m still sleeping around or something, but I’m not. I swear. I won’t sleep with anyone else. I’ll figure out how to keep tabs on Megs but don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine. I just want ya to know what y’r getting into if ya say yes to me.”

There’s an unsteadiness to his words as he mutters them against your lips, a quake and quiver you’ve never heard him have before. The way he holds you is lighter than usual too, like he’s expecting you to run away and never turn back, or he’s worried you’ll be swiped away. 

He looks so boyish in this very moment, so unsure of himself, so shy, you can’t help but smile. You brush over the bristles on his jaw and breathe in his musky scent, wholly enamoured with the strength you find in his body. 

“I do, Toji,” you breathe out. “I like you, too. I liked you a lot already and then you tell me you’re a really sweet guy who would do anything for his little brother? Fuck, I’d say yes if you asked me to elope.”

You’re joking. You think. It’s hard to tell when he’s kissing you again. 

“Let’s make it official, ma. Take me off the List.”

You gasp. “W-why? Don’t you like being on there? What about getting the best of Gojo?”

Toji skims his nose over the length of your neck, inhaling deeply before he mutters, “Don’t care about that freak. As long as ya like me, that’s good enough. Ya can still write about how hot I am and shit, won’t stop you there, but if I’m y’r boyfriend, people might accuse ya of favouritism.”

“You’re doing this to defend my journalistic integrity?” You jest, a low moan stuck in your throat as you rake your fingers through his hair.

He hums, lips dragging over your jaw to meet yours again. “Of course. Not gonna let anyone suggest ma girl is biased, even if she totally should be.”

Groaning in your mouth when you arch your chest into his hand, he tightens his hold and leans even closer. You’re losing yourself in the pleasure, that rush of something addictive as he lays it all out for you, and you greedily take everything.

You want more. You want all of him.

“Toji,” you whine.

Someone clears their throat. 

You part ways, panting.

“I’m still here,” is all Megumi says. 

Toji laughs and throws a balled-up tissue at the boy who slaps it away with a disgusted look on his face. “Had a good nap, kid?”

“I was until you started making kissing noises. Ew.”

You laugh and reach behind to give his knee an apologetic squeeze. Using a tissue, you wipe up that ketchup on his chin that’s been bothering you. Megumi doesn’t say a word, still eyeing you with suspicion, but he also doesn’t resist when you squeeze his teeny tiny hands. He’s just too cute. 

With a final look around at you and his brother, Toji starts up the car. “Alright, where to next?”

You don’t hesitate to announce, “My dorm.”

The car is lighter when he begins driving again. There’s a gleeful shine in his eyes as he throws you glances and clutches your hand. Your cheeks are hurting from how much you’re smiling but you don’t stop, you wouldn’t be able to even if you try. Something plays on the radio, and you hum under your breath, watching the scenery pass by. 

Megumi, lulled by the journey, falls back asleep and, after parking, Toji carries him in his arms as you lead the way to your room, making sure to keep quiet. Once inside, he lays him on the bed, tucking him in and brushing his hair back. 

For a little boy, he’s very well behaved. He sits quietly, listens and cleans up after himself. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t complain or get pouty. That just saddens you more. Sweeping his little figure, he looks a little lonely on a plain bed, hidden under feminine sheets.

There’s something wrong with the sight of a child alone at night and you know just how to fix it.

You ignore your boyfriend’s confused look when you venture over to your desk and pluck up the gift bag covered in dust. There’s no shame or embarrassment in the air as you finally address that looming object in your room, taking up space and reminding you of how quickly you opened your heart up. 

“I was gonna give this to you, but I think he’d appreciate it more,” you whisper. 

Toji takes offence to that and wrestles you into him, peppering attacks against your neck with his lips and tickling your sides. You fight him off with a barely restrained giggle. Fixing him a stern look, you distract him from touching you up by ripping the bag open and showing him what’s inside. 

“You made these?”

Shrugging, you explain, “There’s a crocheting society. I joined it so I could spy on the president because apparently, she’s been sleeping with a professor. I thought it would make for a good story.”

“Was she?”

You shake your head. “No. But she was sleeping with her cousin, so that was interesting.”

Toji snorts. 

“That happens way too damn often on this campus.”

“It really does!” You agree, with a look of disbelief. “Someone needs to do something.”

He comes up behind you, arms wrapping around your body and chin resting on your head as you both watch Megumi sleep soundly. It hurts your heart to think that the only fun the kid gets is when Toji finds the time and the opportunity to steal him away once in a while. And it hurts your heart even more to know that they have to say goodbye and wonder when the next time will come, if there’ll even be one.

Toji hums. “Kinda jealous he gets to have those all to himself.”

“You would have had them f you didn’t whore yourself out, Fushiguro.” 

He gropes your breast in apology. 

Placing the two handmade toys beside Megumi, you smile as he clutches them subconsciously, holding them close and inhaling deeply. Finally, the scene looks right. A child shouldn’t be without a toy, and from now on, he won’t be alone. 

Because, in his hands are two dogs, black and white, who’ll protect him from all that’s bad in the world now that they’ve been introduced to each other. Together, they’ll find a way to free him so that he can be with his real family. It might not be today or tomorrow, but eventually. It’s not good enough but it’ll have to. That’s what they both deserve. 

“Wanna fuck in the bathroom?” 

“Toji! Can you keep it your pants for one fucking second? Like seriously!”

[venusbyline]

5 HOTD characters who definitely like period sex?

HEADCANON: 5 HOTD characters most likely to enjoy period sex

— tags/warnings: female!reader, period sex, blood kink, blood licking, oral sex (female receiving), fingerfucking, fingering, rough sex (but kinda fluff too), scissoring/tribadism, lesbian sex, menstrual cramps, overstimulation, creampie, safeword use mentioned, implied underage sex, established relationship, canon divergence. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

1- CREGAN STARK

He's a Northman, he certainly wouldn't mind a little blood during sex. Actually... Cregan finds it so hot and it's one of his biggest kinks. Whether he's eating you out and getting his face all messed up with your lunar blood or just fucking your tight, velvety cunt and seeing the mess of his seed and your reddish liquid running down afterwards, staining the bedsheets.

Cregan always opens your legs to fuck you missionary style, then he can watch how your blood looks so delightful coloring both of your thighs as he moves in and out. His big, thick cock hitting so close to your cervix might make your menstrual cramps kinda worse, but Cregan will make it up to you later, warming you in his embrace, his large, sweaty body snuggling you and caressing your hair until you fall asleep.

2- DAEMON TARGARYEN

Guys... This man also loves giving oral sex when you're having your lunar blood. It's morally disgusting in some people's eyes, but for him it's one of the best tastes there is, better than any wine. I think Daemon is more a oral receiver than a giver, but if you're on your period he'll get addicted to your cunt.

As much as Daemon's focus is on using his mouth on you, he'll fingerfucking you for a few minutes, just so he can stick them down your throat then, forcing you to swallow the small but more solid red remains that came out of your own body. He'll definitely wanna make you cum (and bleed) in his mouth for hours, until you're so overstimulated that you'll actually have to beg him to stop.

3- ALYS RIVERS

Where are the readers who are in love with that "sweet" witch? Alys is definitely in the TOP 3 and also is the HOTD female character most likely to enjoy period sex (and blood kink in general). If you're on your period, she'll lick you, putting her fingers inside you until your lunar blood is all over her arm. She might even use your blood for some of her freaky potions.

If Alys is on her period, you can fuck her out as much as you want if you're into it, the feeling of your mouth around her sensitive clit will leave her moaning loudly and grabbing your hair tightly, pressing you even more against the pubic dark hairs and now also with red drops. If you're both menstruating at the same time, the mess will be even better, because Alys will definitely wanna fit her legs between yours to share each other's blood when the two of you are rubbing your cunts against each other.

4- JACAERYS VELARYON

Considering the canon and not my HCs about dark!Jacaerys (for the happiness of the harassing anon hahahah), I think Jace would be a fancier of period sex, but for softer and more romantic reasons. If you're his wife, he'll definitely try to help you ease your menstrual cramps by using sex to your own good (thanks to my dear @thesongoficeandfir3 and her Jace's fic "Mine to take care of", now I got the vision hahaha).

In my opinion, he focus more on using his tongue, so you can cum in his face while he eats you out gently and trying not to make your period pains worse.

5- RHAENYRA TARGARYEN

Princess and Young!Rhaenyra prefers you to focus entirely on her when she's on her period. She's totally spoiled and acting like a brat until you satisfy her sexual desires, as the Targaryen Princess definitely is the type of girl who gets even more horny when she's bleeding. Rhaenyra lays you down on the bed and sit on your face to being able to take control of the entire situation and use your mouth and even your nose, making your pretty face all bloody.

Queen or Adult!Rhaenyra in general is more a giver, but with dominant manners too. She gives you pleasure when you're on period, but putting you on all fours, your ass sticks up in the air as she fucks her fingers inside your cunt, the drops of blood splattering onto the bedsheets. After you cum so many times, Rhaenyra puts her dirty long fingers inside your own mouth to make you feel the metallic taste and kisses you soon after, saying praises and caressing your body with an almost worship way.

[gffa]

If you ever asked me, "How do you reconcile reading romantic fic for Obi-Wan with that he's one of the Ultimate Jedi characters?" I would tell you that it's actually pretty easy! Option 1: As long as their commitment to their duty is the highest priority in their life, I don't see that as a conflict with a Jedi having a romantic relationship and I think you can make a solid case for this with Obi-Wan knowing about Anakin's relationship with Padme and never telling him to stop it unless Anakin is verging on becoming deeply unbalanced over it. Obi-Wan explicitly says romantic feelings are natural and it's not like they're not allowed. Supplementary material straight up is fine with Jedi in relationships as long as they remain true to their vows. Option 2: I have zero trouble seeing Obi-Wan willing to leave the Jedi Order and not even just because he said he would twice in main canon (The Phantom Menace and The Clone Wars) and another time in supplementary canon (Obi-Wan & Anakin), but because he loves and respects the Jedi Order so much! Obi-Wan is a true believer in the Jedi way, so much that if he felt his relationship with someone else would become more of a priority, he would respectfully take his leave, because he understands that the way the Force works in the worldbuilding of Star Wars means he has to have his emotional shit on lock if he's going to be acting with the Force. He loves the Jedi way enough and believes in it enough that he would follow another path rather than half-ass the one he cares so deeply for. Obi-Wan as a Jedi is central to his character, but I genuinely don't see it as a roadblock to shipping him with characters if I want to! And that same feeling applies to just about every other Jedi character I love!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

No More

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, so much angst, hurt/comfort, small fluff at the end, pre-established relationship, past abusive/toxic relationship, soft Dean

Summary/Warnings: Some scars don't really fade. They just fester and rot, remaining unattended in your body because you can't really remember how to heal them.

And Dean can't fix this for you. But he can give you somewhere safe to fix yourself.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! This one's heavy guys. If you think that past abusive relationships might be a no go for you, make the right choice for yourself <3. If not, enjoy (?) the story.

Word Count: 4k

It had been a good hunt. An objectively good hunt. Done in two days, no bodies to burn or bury, an alright bar in the town, and Sam managing to get his own room because he’s sick of you trying to bang Dean in front of him.

“Hey, don’t blame my girl for how you’re always sticking your ass in our business-“

“We share a room, Dean!” Sam had said, half-throwing his hands in the air. “Where else am I supposed to stick my ass if not in our communal living space-“

Dean had snorted. “Communal living space? Dude, you sound like such a jackass-“

“Why, because I can use big words like space?”

“I- Watch it, Sammy-“

“I’ll watch it if you stop trying to fuck on my bed!”

They’d kept arguing. You’d remained silent, picking at the wood of the table and wondering if—should you actually attempt to—you could sink into Dean’s chest and just stay there for a while. It would be warm and solid, and probably not all that safe—that man got himself stabbed and shot a lot—but safer than being in you. Then your traitorous and useless body, made only to be snapped in half. It must have something written on it or in it, emit some kind of blacklight or stench that said weak. Dumb, weak little bitch, lucky to have this because you don’t deserve it. Couldn’t deserve it.

Better, you could turn to stone, right here in the booth. If you could do that, you’d never get another bruise on your throat or hear venomous words spat in your ear. Sam and Dean could leave you behind and never have to feel any guilt. Dean could stop having to pretend he likes you as more than a body, and pull away without beating himself up about abandoning you like a used and worn couch. 

Moth-eaten and stained, only still in the house because it feels wrong to throw it out. Because you have a little sentimentality for the couch when it was nice, before it had been beaten and abused and reduced to just a lumpen sack of feathers and cloth.

You don’t think that comparison is fair to the couch. 

At least the couch was once useful.

Because it had been a good hunt.

You were the problem.

You’d slipped and wavered and fallen. But the whole place had smelled like lavender soap, and it had carried you back to where that same smell had suffocated you. He had loved that smell, and said it made you seem prettier and softer than you were. 

This whole case had reeked of him. And you’d told yourself you’d be fine. That it was in the past, and he wasn’t supposed to have that kind of control over you anymore. That the world seems gray in that vamp nest, but it was winter, so that was to be expected. And when you’d been knocked flat on your back, you’d seen a crack in the ceiling—identical to the one that had been over his bed—but had been a coincidence. Ceilings cracked, and there were only so many patterns in the world.

And when a Vamp had wrapped its hand around your throat, that was just something that happened to hunters. You all got hurt and beaten and had close calls. That was the job. You’d faced worse than this. You’d faced blood coating your fingers and splattered on your face, guts pooling at your feet and long moments where you’d been sure no one would come and save you.

Dean had always saved you. Even before you’d started doing more—and then more and more and more, until it seemed pretty obvious you were dating and it was more exhausting to fight it than accept it—Dean had always been saving you. He’d had to do it today, yanking the Mare off your chest and cradling your head against his chest until you were breathing easily. 

Yet again, you’d been the problem. The hunt had been easy and simple, and you’d still fucked it because you sucked. You were dead-weight. You couldn’t stop feeling the hand around your throat—imprinted like a tattoo that made your words small and body smaller—and you couldn’t stop the weighed down feeling of hopelessness. Your brain stuck on a scratching loop around the Vamp’s hiss of dumb, annoying, weak little bitch, until you couldn’t manage to smile at anything at all.

It just made you feel worse, because Dean might be worried you don’t think he’s being funny. That whenever he makes truly horrible joke and you don’t giggle like a lovesick schoolgirl, it’s because he’s gone wrong.

He’s done nothing. You really hope he just gives up and tosses you aside, because he shouldn’t have to put up with worry about something so valueless. He’d find someone else. Someone better and more deserving. You’re just lucky he ever even looked at you, let alone bothered to try and stay. To try and be the hero that keeps rescuing the princess, even when the princess is just a peasant who can put on a show.

You’d tricked him into thinking you’re better than you are. Lied to him until you’d trapped him, and now he had to stay with you, because he’s a good man and you’re simply the fucking worst thing in the world to darken his path, and he’ll leave if he really saw you-

That’s not fair to Dean. He is a good man. Better than he was, by miles and stretches and eons, but that really just made it hurt more. Because Dean’s not him, but you’re still you. The same you who was weak, and stupid, and undeserving. That doesn’t change. It only grows now that you have someone you really don’t deserve. Someone who glows in the low light of the night, laughs in a way that fills the bar with life, and always touches you like he’d like to keep you.

You aren’t something that should be kept. But he’s doing it anyway.

And there’s some bile in your throat at the thought. And that’s just another way in which this—in which you—are horrible.

But the worst part was that things like this happened all the time, and you still weren’t strong enough to build an immunity. To just move on, like a big girl. To actually teach yourself that he was in the past, and this you—now, in the present, sitting with your smoking hot boyfriend’s arm around your shoulders—didn’t have any right to be afraid anymore.

“Are you feeling okay?” 

You blink at Dean as he guides you out of the bar, Sam walking a few feet ahead and the wind of the night is so cold-

Dean says your name, his brow furrowing in the way it does when he’s worried, and you give him your best, softest, most docile smile.

“Everything’s fine.” You say, and you can almost believe yourself. Your voice is gentle and small and doesn’t sound like you, but it’s the best way to end the questions. You’ll fold over. You’ll bend until you snap. And nobody needs to push you for that to happen. 

But Dean’s still frowning. “Are you sure? ‘Cause if you’re feeling well we can head back to the bunker tonight, and Sam won’t have to get his own room-“

“No, Dean, I’m-“

“Yeah, no, Dean.” Sam turns, shooting his brother a glare. “How would I get home?”

“You’re smart, Sammy, you’d figure it out-“

You tune out the rest of their fake-argument. You’re mostly listening to the wind. It’s loud, and strong, and cold. So cold, biting at your skin and making your joints stiff, but at least you can feel it. It’s not numbing, and it’s indifferent, and Sam and Dean don’t seem half as affected by it as you are, but they’re also not weak-

“C’mon,” Dean says your name, and you realize you’re moving again. That he’s guiding you into the shotgun seat, and a grumpy looking Sam is clambering into the back.

“Wait, why-“

“We’re dropping Sam off, then heading back.” Dean turns the engine on, his voice barely raising to match the rumble, and you’re not sure you heard him right.

“Why- I don’t-“

“I wanna go home.” Dean shrugs, and it’s too casual. “And Sammy’s a big boy, he’ll be fine without Mommy and Daddy watching him.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, built by Sam’s groan from behind you, and you can’t stop the words from slipping out. “I told you to stop calling us that.”

“Yeah, but you also told me that you were-“ Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly and clearing his throat. “That you weren’t into car sex, and that ain’t ever stopped us-“

You cover his mouth with a hand—his shit-eating grin just as blinding in only his eyes—and Sam makes a fake gagging sound.

And you think Dean knows. That he’s realized that you’re just so tired and weak and useless, and he’s trying to work out if it’s worth keeping you around. If you’ll listen to him and do what he asks—and you will, you always will, not because of the threat of being left but because he’s Dean and he couldn’t lead you astray if he tried—or if he needs to leave you on the pavement to scrape yourself back together.

So you don’t fight him, or insist that Sam can have his privacy and sanity without getting another room or you and Dean leaving, because you don’t really want to be touched like that right now. You just drop Sam off at the motel, grab your bags, and slump back into the Impala’s bench as Sam and Dean exchange low words outside.

By the time Dean joins you, you’re half asleep. And you try to stay awake—to entertain him half as much as he entertains you—but he pulls you right into his side, lets your head rest on his shoulder, and Dean doesn’t smell like lavender. He smells like evergreen and apples, he’s warm when your ears are still a little numb from the cold, and when he starts to hum along to the low music, you’re gone. Everything fades, and it’s just the deep sound of Dean’s voice like a lullaby and a big, firm hand on your thigh that isn’t going to leave a bruise.

Maybe you don’t deserve a bruise. 

Maybe you don’t deserve anything. Maybe you’re lucky to be stuck in this bed with stinging marks around your throat, and a voice like nails on your ears sneering that you’re a weak little bitch. If you were stronger you’d fight back, but you’ve been broken in and can’t be put back together. If you were stronger, you’d scream for help, but you’re also so horribly you that you know nobody will ever come and save you.

Who would try to save you? Who could possibly care about something like you enough to bother and patch up you up, to take string to your skin and heart and organs and tie them back together? You’re not strong enough to make anything stick. You’re made of glass and linen, and any attempt to put you back together would be futile, because you’d probably just break further. Someone would have to be patient enough to pull you back together when you spooled apart, and warm enough to fuse and meld you in a way that wouldn’t shatter with one touch.

You don’t think a person like that would be real. And if they are, they wouldn’t want you.

Because they’d be strong, and you really are weak.

If you were strong, you would’ve left. But you’re still here in this freezing cold bed, staring at the crack on the ceiling.

And you don’t think you’ll ever be more than that. Not as another hand wraps around your throat—you don’t remember what you said, but you must have said something—and there’s a heavy weight on your chest and you can’t breathe-

“Breathe.” A deep voice that sounds like it cares says your name, and you listen. “It’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe for me.”

For him. There’s a hand on your head that’s combing through your hair and pressing you into a place that warm and solid and safe. You’re held steady by an arm around your waist, and it fits so well there. You don’t think it could hurt you if it tried.

He’d sounds kind and caring, and he’d said your name like you mattered, so you’ll try to breathe.

And you don’t remember how to do it for yourself yet, so—just for now, until you can teach yourself to do anything for you—you’ll breathe for him.

“There you go, baby,” the voice mutters, and when you make a weak, choked sound his body tenses, but he doesn’t push you away. “I know, but I’ve got you. Swear I’ve got you.”

He says he’s got you. Dean says he’sgot you.

And you believe him.

So you start to cry.

He’d never liked it when you cried. He’d said it was useless, and that the sound was annoying.

Dean just keeps holding you, and muttering soothing words in your ear until the tears stop flowing. He only keeps rubbing a circle on your back until your breathing slows, and you can lean back to meet his gaze.

He’s not angry. Just worried. 

You’re going to start crying again.

“Are,” you sniff, trying to pull yourself back together by force, and look around the dark space. “Are we still in the car?”

“Pulled over earlier.” He mutters, tracing his thumb over your cheekbone with a care you don’t deserve. “You started doing that tossing shit when you’re about to have a nightmare. Wanted to get ahead of it.”

You swallow. You’d made him pull over, and you had enough nightmares that he knew what one looked like, and you were just a burden and problem and he should just shove you out of the Impala and leave you to rot like carrion on the highway-

“Stop doin’ that.” Dean grunts, and you tense.

“I- I’m not-“

“You’re freakin’ out. You’re freakin’ me out.” Dean scans over your face, pulling you close until you’re half on his lap. “If you’re hurt, you know you gotta tell me, sweetheart. I’m not looking to do a zombie bite thing, where we get home and you start bleeding all over the floor. So tell me.” He takes a deep breath, and his exhale is warm over your lips. “Please tell me.”

You can’t tell him. You’re not ready for him to leave yet.

You drop your brow to Dean’s, taking low, slow breaths and shaking your head. “It’s okay-“

“It’s fucking not.” He snaps your name, his grip tightening slightly, and you flinch. “I- shit- did I hurt you-“

“No.” You mumble. “I’m just tired-“

“You’ve been sleeping for five hours. You’ll get another seven once we get goin’ again. But,” Dean narrows his eyes, even as his grip loosens once more. “We’re not getting back on the road until you answer me. What’s wrong.”

“I-“ You cut yourself off with a choked sound. He’s angry. You’d made him angry, and he won’t hurt you but if he did you’d deserve it-

You start crying again, and Dean’s eyes widen. This is it. He’s going to push you out the window and you’ll have to wander through the marshes until the mud just swallows you whole-

Dean pulls you fully into his lap, holding you there carefully and muttering in your ear with a care and reverence you don’t deserve.

“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry, fuck, please don’t cry-“

“No, it’s- I’m-“ You take a long, strangled breath, wrapping your arms around his torso until you’re sure you’re going to suffocate him. “It’s not you, Dean, I- It’s not your problem-“

“Fucking hell it’s not my problem.”

You shake your head, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Maybe you really could move in there, and nothing would ever hurt you again. “It’s- You don’t have to-“

“I do.” He mutters, guiding your head back to meet his gaze. He brushes the tears from your eyes. You don’t deserve this. “You’re hurtin’.”

It’s not a question, but you nod anyways. Holding a lie too long has never done you a favor before.

“Tell me how to fix it.”

“You- you can’t fix this,” you mumble, staring at the bridge of his nose. You aren’t worthy of looking him in the eyes. “It’s, it’s just me, Dean. I’m just like this.”

He frowns. “Like what?”

“Weak.” You whisper. “I- I risked the hunt, I always risk the hunt, and I’m not strong like you and Sam are, and I just wanna go home-“

“We’re going home, babygirl.” Dean’s voice is soft, and low, and cautious, and you let out another sob that shakes your whole body. “And you’re not weak, you ganked like three vamps-“

“Could’ve done more.”

“There were seven of them. Three is pretty awesome numbers.” He gives you a nervous small smile. “You’re awesome. I don’t know who’s been telling you otherwise, but you are.”

That’s what breaks you. The floodgates don’t open—they’d barely held anything to begin with—but something snaps along your spine, and you can’t stop the horrible, rotten truth from falling out of your mouth. 

“But he was right.” You whisper. “I’m weak, Dean, and I don’t know why you can’t see it.”

“There’s nothing to see, and I- Who’s he?”

You wish that you’d slept better. If you had, your tongue wouldn’t be loosened with pure exhaustion, and you could lie.

But you’re so tired. Unbelievably tired. Mind-numbingly and persistently tired, all the time, and it’s grow so intolerable you just want to be anything else. And if what you are is weak and alone, at least you’ll know that’s where you're supposed to be. 

And you’d never wanted Dean to know. He was never supposed to learn from your own mouth how foul you are. He was supposed to find out himself, and then leave you like everyone always has the right to do.

But you’re telling him that you’re weak and fearful, that you’d never been able to fight tooth and spit and leave. You waited so, so long to leave and even then, it had only been because he’d been gone for a while, and you were so tired, and you needed to be anywhere but there. 

And you stepped out, and never gone back.

There’s not going back now either. It all spills out, from how you met him to the day you left. And Dean’s so quiet. Only watching you as you speak and squeezing his hold on your hips when you trail off or cry.

But he doesn’t kick you out. And when you finished, you’re still in his lap. You can’t read the expression on his face. The highway lights are dim, and there’s nothing obviously hateful or disgusted written over his features, but you might just be too stupid to see it-

“I’m-“ Dean clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You blink at him, the tears still blurring your vision. “What.”

“That’s- I didn’t know, I never even fucking guessed- I should’ve guessed-“

“How would you have guessed?” You whisper, risking a drop of your brow back to his. He lets you stay. “I never told you-“

“But I know you. I should’ve seen it, you- I should’ve made you feel like you could tell me, I-“ His face hardens in his second, his grip tightening, but not to suffocated you. To protect you. To wrap his whole body around yours and keep it there safely. “I should fucking kill him. Cut off his arms and stuff them up his ass, get Cas to put the fear of god in him-“

“Dean, no-“

“He doesn’t just get to fucking do that to you and keep walking around-“

“He shouldn’t.” You mumble. “But he did. Men do all the time. And, I- I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-“

“Don’t apologize.” He grunts, dragging his thumb over your cheekbone. “You’ve never done anything wrong, baby, it’s just that son of a bitch, who’s gonna get a knock on his door soon-“

“No knocking on doors,” you wrap your arms around his neck, shaking your head against his brow. “Please, Dean, that’s- that’s not what I want-“

“What do you want?”

His question is immediate, and it crashes into you like a tidal wave. Numbing your whole body and kickstarting it in the same second, because you don’t know. You haven’t really known, haven’t had a direction, in years. You wandered and wandered and just tried to keep on breathing, to keep on your feet,  and never let yourself look back. 

You’d never been good at that last part. You kept on breathing because you didn’t have a choice. You’d kept on your feet because if you faltered, you’d fall over and it would be so painful to get back up. 

But you’d always looked back. On nights like this one, over and over and over until your eyes were sunken and your neck was craned to always make sure nothing was behind you. 

It might be nice to rest. To breathe not because it’s a labor, but because it feels nice to breathe the same air as Dean. 

It would be amazing to keep looking back—it’s a habit, and it will die a slow and withering death until it’s gone, and you never pinpoint the moment you lost it—but to also start looking forward. Looking for that place to rest, that you already seem to have found.

What do you want?

“I want some food.” You whisper, leaning back to scan over Dean’s face. “And a nap. Please.”

Dean gives you a small grin, and nods. “I think we can do that. And after, you’ll give me an address-“

“Please don’t kill him, Dean.” You drop your voice slightly, holding his gaze. “I just want to stay with you, and to never see him again. Please.”

Two more wants. You’re on a roll. 

“Just me?” Dean asks, and you don’t he believes you.

But it really is the truth.

“Just you.” You say, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, and humming when he grins against them.

“Lucky you,” he mutters your name against your lips, squeezing his arms around you “I think I know a dude who can swing that.”

You let out a soft giggle—barely a breath, but there—Dean squeezes his arms again, and you really like how he does that. It’s not because he’s trying to remind you where you belong, it’s because he trying to check that you’re there. Like he’s just as afraid that you’ll flee as you are that he’ll shove you aside, and he’s trying to hold you together with everything he has before you slip away.

“You’re really cheesy,” you say, and he chuckles.

“You like it. We start drivin’ again, you think you’ll be able to get some sleep?”

“Yeah, but food-“

“We’re only a few hours out from home.” Dean shrugs, really making no attempt to move you from his lap. “I’ll order whatever you’re feeling when we get back.”

You pause, playing with the hairs on the back of his neck as you think. “How about pizza?”

“Who’s cheesy now-“

You lean back to give him a mock glower. “Dean Winchester.”

“What did you not like that one-“

“It was horrible-“

“That’s not a no-“ 

You cut him off with a long, soft kiss, and you like it here. Wherever Dean is, you’ll like it there.

“Can we please get pizza?” You mumble, and he nods. It’s such a small, normal movement. 

It makes you feel a little more found.

“We can get anything you want, princess.”

End Note: Oof that was a sad one. Sorry squad.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[mywhisperingwords]

old habits die screaming | fred g. weasley

summary: you move in with your ex, what could go wrong? word count: 7.9k masterlist

Living with your ex-boyfriend can only be a mistake, right?

It had been almost a year since you and Fred decided to end your relationship. You were better off as you had started—as friends.

It wasn’t easy at first. The wounds were fresh, the silences heavy, and the fights far too frequent. But somehow, you worked through it together.

After plenty of arguments, tears, and a lot of healing, you reached a point where you could be in the same room without feeling the overwhelming urge to run away.

If it had been anyone else, you wouldn’t have fought so hard. But this was Fred. Your friendship with him had always been the most important bond in your life, and losing it wasn’t an option.

Looking back, you were glad you’d chosen to fight for that connection. Sitting now in the corner booth of your favorite pub, surrounded by friends and laughter, you couldn’t stop the wide grin spreading across your face as Fred spoke.

You could’ve jumped into his arms at his offer.

A week ago, your life had imploded spectacularly: you’d been kicked out of your flat two days after losing your job. The domino effect of disaster left you crashing on your friends’ couches, hopping from one uncomfortable sofa to another.

And while you loved your friends dearly, the experience was testing your patience, your self-esteem, and your spine.

That’s when Fred, in typical Fred fashion, swooped in with the most ridiculous yet perfect solution.

“You could stay at my place,” he’d said, a casual shrug accompanying the suggestion. “I’ve got an extra room since George moved in with his ball and chain.”

The table erupted in laughter, Angelina rolling her eyes at his choice of words, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was Fred’s familiar grin and the weight of the offer hanging in the air.

“Are you sure?” you asked, the hesitation in your voice giving away the doubts swirling in your head. “It could get… awkward, you know. With us… well, you know…”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “We’re friends, aren’t we? I think we can do a pretty solid job of keeping our hands to ourselves.” Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he leaned closer. “Unless there’s something you want to tell me?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at you in that infuriatingly playful way he always did.

You couldn’t help but huff out a laugh, the tension in your chest easing as his old, familiar comfort washed over you.

The conversation quickly shifted, but the decision had been made.

What could possibly go wrong with moving in with your ex?

&

Not long after that night at the pub, you found yourself in George’s old room, surrounded by far too many boxes and not nearly enough energy to deal with them. Each box seemed to mock you with its disorganized contents, and you stood there, hands on your hips, debating whether to start with clothes, books, or the sentimental knick-knacks you didn’t even remember packing.

Before you could decide, Fred’s head popped around the doorframe. “Fancy some dinner?”

You sighed in relief, your indecision instantly forgotten. “Please. Anything to escape this chaos.”

Fred grinned, disappearing down the hall. You followed him into the small kitchen, where he was already busy at the stove, stirring something in a pan that smelled faintly of garlic and herbs. You sank into one of the chairs at the tiny dining table, resting your chin in your hand as you watched him work.

For a moment, the scene felt so familiar it almost hurt. It pulled you back to all those nights when the two of you had cooked together, laughing over burnt toast or spilled sauce, stealing bites from each other’s plates.

But things were different now. There was a distance between you—a carefully constructed wall you’d both built, brick by painful brick, to protect what remained of your friendship.

You could only hope that wall wouldn’t close in on you.

Fred placed two plates on the table with a flourish, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Ta-da. I call it ‘whatever-was-in-the-fridge pasta.’ A Fred Weasley original.”

You laughed, grateful for the lightness he always managed to bring.

Dinner was simple but comforting, the kind of meal that settled warmly in your chest. The two of you slipped into an easy rhythm, trading jokes and stories like old times. You found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks, the stress of everything—your flat, your job, your entire mess of a life—fading away, if only for a little while.

For the first time since it all fell apart, you felt at peace. You glanced at Fred across the table, his familiar lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and thought that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

How wrong you had been.

&

It was on a crisp autumn morning, just a fortnight since you’d moved in, that the thought first crept into your mind:

This was a mistake.

It was a fleeting moment, almost insignificant, but it clung stubbornly to the edges of your thoughts, refusing to be shaken loose.

Since you didn’t have much to do aside from scouring the job listings and managing the mess of boxes still scattered in your room, you had the luxury of sleeping in most mornings.

Fred, on the other hand, wasn’t so fortunate. Running the shop demanded early starts and long hours, which meant you rarely crossed paths until the evenings.

It was working.

Or at least, it had been.

Until this morning.

You shuffled into the sunlit kitchen, still half-asleep, the smell of coffee pulling you forward like a siren’s call. But as you reached the doorway, you froze, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

Fred stood at the stove, his back to you, clad in nothing but his briefs.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him like this before—you had. Too many times to count. But that was different. Back then, he’d been yours.

Now?

Now, you didn’t know where to look.

Your heart stumbled over itself as your gaze drifted, unbidden, tracing the familiar lines of his body—the broad curve of his shoulders, the strong planes of his back, the way his muscles shifted as he moved.

And then he turned.

A smirk spread across his face, that maddeningly familiar, cocky smirk, as he held up a spatula. “Eggs?” he asked casually, as if nothing about this moment was unusual.

You blinked, feeling rooted to the spot, your mouth suddenly dry.

There was something so mundane about it—Fred cooking breakfast in his kitchen. And yet, something about it reached deep inside you and pulled. Hard.

It was too easy to imagine this being your life again. Waking up late, wandering into the kitchen to find him there, teasing you while he cooked. The scene was almost domestic, dangerously so, and it sent your mind spiraling down a path you didn’t want to take.

Because it wasn’t real. Not anymore.

Your gaze drifted, unwelcome memories forcing their way into your mind. The way his hands now gripping the frying pan had once held your hips, firm and possessive. The way his bare skin had felt against yours in the dim light of his bedroom.

Your breath hitched, and you snapped yourself out of it, gripping the doorframe as if the wood could anchor you to reality.

You had no right to think of him like that anymore.

Clearing your throat, you forced a shaky smile and stepped further into the kitchen. “Don’t you own a shirt?”

Fred grinned, unbothered by your obvious fluster. “Not when I’m cooking,” he quipped, flipping the eggs with a practiced ease. “Adds a bit of danger to the whole process, don’t you think?”

You rolled your eyes, hoping he couldn’t see the way your cheeks burned. “Or maybe it’s just lazy,” you shot back, trying to sound unaffected as you grabbed a mug and poured yourself some coffee.

Fred chuckled, low and warm, and for a second, you let yourself bask in the sound. It had always been your favorite.

But then his voice broke the moment. “What’s got you up so early anyway?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said, sipping your coffee to avoid looking at him.

“Hmm,” he murmured, as if he didn’t entirely believe you, but thankfully, he didn’t press.

The conversation shifted to easier topics, and you tried to focus on his words, on anything other than the fact that he was standing so close, so familiar, and yet so utterly out of reach.

But even after he left for the shop, the image of him standing there, half-dressed and utterly at ease, stayed with you.

And for the rest of the day, that tiny, insignificant moment stuck to the edges of your mind, whispering the truth you didn’t want to admit.

Maybe this wasn’t working.

Maybe this had been a mistake after all.

&

The first snow of the season came unexpectedly.

You were sitting at the kitchen table, distractedly flipping through another edition of the Daily Prophet job listings, when Fred came bursting through the door, his hair dusted with flakes, a triumphant grin plastered across his face.

“It’s snowing!” he announced, shaking the cold off like an overexcited puppy.

You looked up, startled, and frowned at the wet footprints trailing in behind him. “Fred, you’re getting the floor all—”

“Forget the floor! Come outside!”

“Fred, I don’t even have shoes on—”

Before you could protest further, he grabbed your hand and tugged you out of your chair, pulling you toward the door.

“Fred!” you yelped as the cold air hit you, your socks instantly soaked when you stepped out onto the snowy stoop.

But you didn’t have time to be annoyed. Fred was already crouched down, packing a snowball with the expertise of someone who’d been doing it his entire life. He grinned up at you, mischievous and boyish, the sight of it almost enough to steal your breath.

“Oh, no,” you said, holding up your hands. “Don’t even think about—”

Before you could finish, the snowball hit you square in the chest, exploding into a flurry of cold, powdery shards.

“Fred!”

You didn’t even think. Instinct took over, and within seconds you were scooping up your own handful of snow, chasing him as he darted out into the yard.

The next few minutes were filled with laughter and shouted threats, snow flying as the two of you ducked and weaved around the garden like children. The world beyond the snow-covered fence seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you and the soft crunch of your footsteps.

Eventually, you managed to tackle Fred into a snowbank, both of you collapsing in a heap, breathless and grinning.

“You’re ruthless,” he said, brushing snow out of his hair.

“You started it,” you countered, trying to catch your breath.

Fred tilted his head to look at you, his eyes warm and sparkling with mischief. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to see you smile like that.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the weight of his words settling between you. But before you could overthink it, he reached out and gently brushed a snowflake off your cheek.

For a moment, everything else melted away.

It felt like old times—the way you used to laugh together, the easy intimacy that had always been so uniquely yours.

“God, I missed this,” you murmured without thinking, your voice barely above a whisper.

Fred’s smile faltered, just for a moment, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

The warmth of the moment lingered, but then Fred’s hand fell away, his gaze shifting to the snow-covered ground.

“But we both know how it ends,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that made your chest ache.

Reality crashed back in like a cold gust of wind. The fragile bubble of warmth and laughter popped, leaving you both shivering in its absence.

He stood up first, brushing the snow off his trousers, and offered you a hand.

“Come on,” he said, forcing a smile. “You’re going to catch a cold if we stay out here.”

You hesitated, then took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet.

As you walked back toward the house, the distance between you felt heavier than it had in weeks.

&

In early winter, you slipped up for the first time.

It started like any other day, except that another owl swooped through the window with yet another rejection letter. The sight of it sitting on the kitchen counter—crisp, neat, and utterly damning—felt like the final nail in the coffin of your hopes.

You didn’t even have the strength to open it.

By mid-afternoon, you were curled up on the sofa, a blanket draped over your legs, staring blankly out the window. The world beyond seemed vibrant, crisp leaves dancing in the wind, golden light bathing the streets below. But you felt none of it.

The warmth of the blanket couldn’t touch the cold knot in your chest.

Hopeless. That’s what you felt. Like a failure, floundering without direction, your life reduced to waiting for scraps of acknowledgment from people who didn’t even know you.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You hadn’t moved from the sofa by the time Fred came home late that night. You heard the familiar creak of the door and the soft shuffle of his boots as he tried not to wake you. But the moment he walked into the room, silhouetted by the dim hallway light, something inside you snapped.

The tears you’d been holding at bay all day broke free.

Fred froze, the exhaustion on his face melting into concern. “Hey,” he murmured, crossing the room in a few quick strides. “What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t even find the words to answer. You only shook your head, a sob catching in your throat, as he sat down beside you. His arms wrapped around you immediately, pulling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, resting his chin lightly on the top of your head. “Let it out.”

And you did.

You sobbed into him, every frustration and doubt from the past few weeks pouring out in hot, silent tears. His hand moved gently against your back, soothing without a word, while his other arm stayed securely around your shoulders, grounding you.

For the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel alone.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whimpered finally, your voice small and raw.

Fred’s grip tightened, his lips brushing your temple in an almost unconscious gesture of comfort. “Yes, you can,” he said softly. His voice was steady, unwavering, the kind of certainty you couldn’t find in yourself right now.

You shook your head, your hands gripping the front of his jumper like it was the only thing keeping you tethered.

He didn’t argue further, just held you tighter, letting the weight of his presence speak louder than words.

Eventually, the tears stopped, but the ache in your chest didn’t. You stayed like that for what felt like hours, curled into him, your breathing slowly matching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

When you finally pulled away, he caught your hand before you could retreat too far. “Come on,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.

You blinked at him, confused. “Where?”

“My bed,” he said simply. “You need a good night’s sleep, and I’m not letting you spend another second crying on that damn sofa.”

You wanted to argue that he did not have to do that, that you had your own bed across the hallway, but you didn’t have the energy. And maybe, deep down, you didn’t want to.

So, for the first time since you’d moved in, you found yourself in Fred’s bed.

It shouldn’t have felt as natural as it did. The way he curled around you, his arm slung protectively across your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against your back—it was too easy to sink into it, to let yourself believe, for one fleeting moment, that nothing had changed.

But everything had.

You told yourself this would be the last time.

You should’ve known how dangerous it was to live with your ex. There was a line you weren’t supposed to cross, and you’d already been skirting too close to it for weeks.

Now, you’d crossed it entirely.

And yet, as you drifted off to sleep in the safety of his arms, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it. Not yet.

&

One cold winter morning, Fred was running late for work.

The flat was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace, and you sat curled up on the sofa, cradling a steaming mug of tea in your hands. Meanwhile, Fred was tearing through the living room like a tornado, muttering to himself as he hunted for the various pieces of his wardrobe that were inexplicably scattered across the room.

“If only you knew what a closet is,” you murmured, hiding a smile behind your mug as he dropped to his knees, peering under the chair.

Fred shot you a mock glare, his brows furrowing in exaggerated offense. “No need. There’s order in chaos, love,” he replied, triumphantly holding up a lone sock as if it were a Quidditch trophy.

You snorted, setting your tea on the coffee table and reaching for the Daily Prophet. “Your chaos is just chaos, Fred.”

“Pff,” he scoffed, tugging on the sock and hopping on one foot as he tried to pull on his boot. “I don’t have time to argue with you—” He paused, glancing at his watch. His eyes widened in alarm. “Merlin’s beard, the shop was supposed to open—forty minutes ago!”

You raised an eyebrow, watching him stumble around the room with his hair sticking up in every direction and his jumper only halfway over his head. He looked utterly ridiculous, yet there was something about the scene that made your stomach flip. Maybe it was the way the morning light caught the freckles on his nose, or maybe it was the way his laughter used to sound against your ear—

No. You stopped that thought dead in its tracks.

But your mind betrayed you anyway, pulling you into memories of soft skin beneath your fingertips, rough hands tugging at the small of your back, and whispered words that once felt like promises.

The invisible lines you’d so carefully drawn between you had been blurred too many times now to count, and no amount of scolding yourself could erase the heat creeping up your neck.

“You’d better hurry, then,” you said, your voice raspier than intended. You cleared your throat, praying he wouldn’t notice the way your cheeks burned as you avoided his gaze.

“Right,” he muttered distractedly, grabbing his scarf from the armchair. His movements were quick, thoughtless, like second nature. But then—

He leaned down and kissed you.

It was brief, instinctive, and utterly devastating. The soft press of his lips against yours lasted no longer than a heartbeat, a fleeting goodbye born of muscle memory.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and you sat frozen, staring at the empty space he had stood in just seconds before.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t think. It was as if the world had tilted off its axis, throwing everything you thought you understood into question.

It had felt strangely right—so natural it almost didn’t register at first. But the more the moment replayed in your mind, the more you felt the weight of it.

Because it was wrong. So, so wrong.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Which was exactly what you told Alicia as you sat in the old, familiar pub.

The words spilled out in a rush—disjointed and jumbled—until you finally reached the part where Fred kissed you that morning. You hesitated then, your hands twisting in your lap, afraid to meet her gaze.

You already knew what you’d see there. That look of hers, the one that was a mixture of concern and pity, like she could already see you running headfirst into a brick wall.

The last thing you wanted was to hear her confirm what you were already screaming at yourself: that this was a mistake.

So instead of looking at her, you let your gaze wander across the pub, drawn like a magnet to the figure at the bar. Fred.

It was always him.

He hadn’t seen you yet, and for a moment, you let yourself watch him, trying to process the pull you felt every time he was near. That same pull that had existed when you were together and hadn’t let up since. If anything, it had grown stronger, tighter, like a thread wrapped around your ribcage, making it difficult to breathe.

You hadn’t spoken to him since this morning. The weight of the moment between you still hung in the air, unresolved and suffocating. You were too afraid to ask him about it, too afraid of what excuse he’d offer to explain it away.

Because talking about it would make it real. And you hated real.

Fred leaned casually against the bar, chatting with the bartender when a woman approached him—a woman with wide eyes and an even wider smile. She laughed at something he said, the kind of laugh that was too loud, too eager, and she placed her hand on his arm as if she’d known him forever.

Your stomach dropped.

It was as if the room tilted, the walls closing in on you as a bitter thought crept into your mind: Maybe this has already become too real.

You tightened your grip on your glass, trying to focus on Alicia’s voice, but her words faded into background noise. Your eyes were glued to the woman at the bar, to Fred’s easy grin, to the casual charm he wielded so effortlessly.

And for a brief, searing moment, you wanted to march over there and pull them apart. But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because no matter how much it hurt, you had no claim on him.

You downed your drink in one go, the burn in your throat dulling the ache in your chest just slightly. Turning back to Alicia, you tried to force yourself to listen, to focus, but your gaze betrayed you. It kept drifting back to Fred, your thoughts spiraling further into chaos.

Later that night, you walked into the flat right behind Fred.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of coats as you hung yours on the rack. You wanted to let it go, to shove your feelings aside and leave the night behind you. But you couldn’t stop yourself.

“So,” you began, your voice sharper than intended, “you seemed to have had fun tonight.”

Fred froze for a fraction of a second, his back to you. Then he turned, his expression guarded but not unkind. He opened his mouth, almost as if to apologize, but you didn’t let him.

“Don’t worry,” you said quickly, cutting him off before he could say something that would make it worse. “I wouldn’t get in your way.”

Fred’s brows knitted together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You folded your arms, leaning back against the wall as if the nonchalant stance would keep you from unraveling. “If you wanted to bring someone home,” you said, each word tasting like poison, “I wouldn’t get in your way.”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes then—something raw and vulnerable—but it disappeared almost instantly, buried beneath a mask of indifference.

“Right,” he said slowly, his voice unusually flat. “I’m guessing that goes for you too, correct?”

Your throat tightened, and for a moment, all you wanted was to scream No, it doesn’t. It never will. There’s no one else I want but you.

But you couldn’t say that.

Because you were friends.

And friends didn’t feel this way.

“Yeah,” you muttered instead, the lie twisting like a knife in your chest.

Fred held your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, turning on his heel. “Then it’s settled,” he said quietly, walking toward his room.

He paused at the door, his back still to you. “Good night.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the suffocating weight of everything left unsaid.

It was only until later that night, when the mess of your mind was keeping you up that you realized neither one of you had addressed the kiss.

&

The conversation clung to the edges of your mind, never quite letting go.

You hated that about Fred—you could never completely shut him out, even when you desperately wanted to.

Still, you tried to forget about it, preferably with some liquor and a good time with your friends. But fate had other plans.

It was a Friday night when Alicia called you to announce, in dramatic detail, that her food poisoning was “worse than a dragon pox outbreak,” and Angelina owled that she was stuck at work late.

That meant you had the flat to yourself. Just you and your thoughts. Merlin, you hated it.

After pacing the living room for a while and deciding that drinking alone wasn’t a good look, you grabbed a book and sank onto the sofa.

Reading was supposed to be a distraction, but the words blurred right in front of your eyes. Your mind kept wandering—to Fred. Specifically, to Fred tonight before he left.

His stupidly tight shirt. The way it clung to his arms, leaving very little to the imagination. His hair, just the right amount of messy, like he had spent hours perfecting that careless look. And his cologne—that intoxicating mix of spice and citrus that lingered in the air long after he was gone.

You cursed yourself.

You were halfway through debating whether to make tea or wallow in self-pity when you heard it—the sound of a key in the lock.

Your heart sank.

Why was Fred home already?

And then you heard her voice.

A woman’s voice.

Your pulse quickened as you bolted upright, looking around in a panic. You needed to escape. Now.

But before you could make it to your room, the door swung open, and you were trapped. The only viable hiding spot was the narrow space behind the sofa. It wasn’t your proudest moment, but you dove behind it anyway, crouching low and praying Fred wouldn’t notice you.

The woman sauntered into the living room, plopping onto the sofa with a cheerful sigh. Meanwhile, Fred’s footsteps padded toward the kitchen.

This was the worst night of your life.

You crouched there, frozen, as the woman began talking about something you couldn’t quite make out. Probably complimenting his laugh or his eyes or his stupidly perfect shoulders.

And Fred? Fred was doing exactly what you told him he could do—move on. See other people. Be happy.

So why did it feel like your lungs were caving in?

He returned a moment later, a drink in hand, and you peeked around the edge of the sofa. He sat down beside her, too close for your liking, and started talking about some prank he used to pull at Hogwarts.

“Oh, back in school, George and I used to—”

You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself. His story wasn’t even that funny. Or maybe it was, but you were too busy hating every second of this.

The woman’s laugh, high-pitched and syrupy, pierced the air. “You’re hilarious,” she giggled, leaning toward him.

Fred gave her a grin—the kind that made your heart ache.

You clenched your fists. This was fine. Completely fine. Totally normal behavior for two adults living together who happened to have a romantic history.

And then she said it: “Why don’t we take this party someplace else?”

Her voice was laced with suggestion, and you saw Fred freeze for a fraction of a second, his grin faltering.

Before you could stop yourself, you shot up like a Whomping Willow branch.

“Wait!”

The woman shrieked, nearly spilling her drink, and Fred whipped his head around, his expression morphing from shock to confusion.

“I, um…” You scrambled for an excuse, heat rushing to your face. “I think I lost my wand. Somewhere… in the sofa cushions.” You pointed vaguely at the seat beside her.

Fred’s brow furrowed. “You… lost your wand in the sofa?”

“Yes. Definitely. It, uh, slipped out of my pocket earlier.”

The woman stared at you like you were a particularly odd blast-ended skrewt, and Fred just blinked, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a laugh.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” you said, desperate to fill the awkward silence. “Help me look!”

Fred sighed, running a hand through his hair, but he obliged, leaning over to pat the cushions while the woman scooted a little farther away, clearly uncomfortable.

“This is… awkward,” she muttered, gathering her purse.

You couldn’t agree more.

“Well, I think I’ll just… leave you to it,” she added, standing up and smoothing her skirt.

Fred straightened, looking vaguely annoyed. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” she cut him off, already halfway to the door. “Maybe another time.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone with Fred in the now painfully quiet living room.

Fred turned to you slowly, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but definitely not pleased.

“So,” he drawled, voice thick with sarcasm. “Your wand, huh? Convenient timing, don’t you think?”

You clenched your jaw, heat rising to your cheeks. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, no, of course not,” he interrupted, stepping closer, his voice sharp. “Why would you mean to scare off the first person I’ve gone out with in over a year?”

“I didn’t scare her off!” you shot back, folding your arms defensively.

Fred arched an eyebrow, his tone cutting. “Really? Because hiding behind the sofa and then jumping out like a deranged jack-in-the-box wasn’t at all intimidating.”

You winced but refused to back down. “Maybe if you weren’t so quick to bring random women home, I wouldn’t have been caught off guard!”

Fred let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Right. That’s rich coming from you. You’re the one who said this—” He gestured between the two of you. “—was supposed to be fine. You’re the one who told me to meet other people. So excuse me for trying to have a life outside of… whatever the hell this is.”

Your chest tightened at his words, anger bubbling under your skin. “I’m not the one bringing strangers into our home like it’s some—some bachelor pad!”

Fred’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping into something lower, more dangerous. “Our home? That’s funny, because it feels a hell of a lot like my home, and you’re just squatting here until you figure out what to do with your life.”

The words hit like a slap, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

“How dare you,” you hissed, stepping closer until you were nearly toe-to-toe with him.

Fred didn’t back away, his jaw tight and his eyes stormy. “Well, if the shoe fits…”

“I’m not some charity case, Fred!” you snapped, your voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. “You think I wanted to be here, living with you, watching you move on while I’m stuck—”

You stopped yourself, but it was too late. The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Fred’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second, and then his expression hardened again. “Stuck on what? Me?” he demanded, his voice rising.

You didn’t answer, but the silence spoke volumes.

Fred let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Merlin, you’re unbelievable. You don’t want me to move on, but you don’t want me either. What the hell do you want, then?”

“I don’t know!” you shouted, the admission tearing from your throat. “I don’t know, Fred, okay? All I know is that seeing you with her—hearing her laugh, watching her touch you—it made me want to scream.”

Fred stared at you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to be jealous. Not after you ended it.”

Your heart pounded, your body thrumming with anger and something else you didn’t want to name. “It took two, didn’t it?”

The tension between you was suffocating, the air thick with everything you’d been avoiding for weeks.

Fred’s gaze flickered to your lips, and for one reckless moment, you thought he might kiss you.

And then he did.

It wasn’t gentle or sweet—it was angry, desperate, a clash of teeth and lips and frustration. You didn’t hesitate to kiss him back, your hands tangling in his hair as he backed you against the wall, his body pressing into yours like he couldn’t get close enough.

“This is a mistake,” you whispered against his lips, even as your hands tugged at his shirt.

“Probably,” Fred muttered, his voice rough, before pulling you back into another bruising kiss.

His hands roamed your body like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, and you clung to him, giving in to the storm you’d both been holding back for far too long.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this wouldn’t fix anything, as he lifted you up and carried you into his room. It wouldn’t erase the pain or the heartbreak or the mess of your situation.

But for now, you let yourself fall back into old habits, into him, and pretended for just a little while longer that this wasn’t the worst idea you’d ever had.

&

The next morning, for a fleeting moment, you woke up feeling weightless, the kind of lightness you hadn’t felt in months. The sun spilled through the curtains, warm and golden, and Fred’s steady breathing next to you was a sound you hadn’t realized you missed so much.

And then reality hit like a cold slap to the face.

The events of the last few months flooded back into your mind—the breakup, the awkward dinners, the unspoken tension, and now this. You and Fred, tangled up in sheets and old habits, pretending for one reckless night that things hadn’t fallen apart.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

This wasn’t sustainable.

You needed to move out.

The thought settled heavily in your chest as you forced yourself out of bed. You dressed quickly, careful not to make too much noise, and retreated to the kitchen.

By the time Fred padded in, his hair still tousled from sleep, you were already seated at the table with your hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Fred looked at you, his brow furrowing slightly, and you swore you saw a flicker of hope in his eyes—hope that made what you were about to say so much harder.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to look at him. “We can’t keep doing this,” you began, your voice quiet but firm. “It’s not fair to either of us.”

Fred froze, his hand still on the kettle. Slowly, he turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “What are you saying?”

You took a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the table like it might steady you. “I’m saying I need to move out, Fred. This—living here, being around you all the time—it’s not working. We’re just falling into old habits.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But instead, he just nodded slowly, his gaze fixed somewhere just past you.

“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he said, his voice bitter, almost mocking.

You flinched at his tone. “Fred—”

“No, really,” he interrupted, his eyes meeting yours now, sharp and accusing. “It’s like déjà vu. You decide it’s not working, and you leave. I don’t even get a say in it, do I?”

Your heart ached at the crack in his voice, but you couldn’t let yourself falter. “This isn’t about blame, Fred. It’s about what’s best for both of us.”

“Right,” he said, laughing humorlessly. “And you’ve decided that for us, just like last time.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away. “Fred, please—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, his voice sharp. “Don’t try to make this sound noble or selfless or whatever it is you’re telling yourself to make it easier.”

You stared at him, speechless, as the anger in his eyes softened into something far more painful. “You said we were better off as friends. And I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I thought you’d come back. That we’d figure it out. But you didn’t, did you?”

Your throat felt tight, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know how.”

This wasn’t fair. You might’ve been the one back then who initiated the breakup, but he didn’t argue, not really.

Fred ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “And now you’re running again. But sure, let’s call it what’s ‘best for both of us.’”

You stood abruptly, unable to sit still under his gaze any longer. “This isn’t easy for me either, Fred.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered under his breath.

You ignored the sting of his words and moved toward your room, determined to pack before you lost your resolve. Fred didn’t follow you.

By the time you’d stuffed a bag with enough essentials to last a few days at Alicia’s, the silence in the flat was deafening.

Fred was standing by the door when you emerged, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable once again. He didn’t say a word as you moved toward the door, your bag slung over your shoulder.

For a brief moment, you hesitated, turning to look at him. You wanted him to say something—anything. To stop you, to fight for you, to give you a reason to stay.

But Fred just stared at you, his face a mask of indifference. “Take care of yourself.”

So you opened the door, stepping out into the chilly winter air.

The second time wasn’t easier than the first. If anything, it was worse.

Because this time, you weren’t just walking away from Fred. You were walking away from the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things could’ve been different.

And Fred didn’t stop you.

&

When Alicia opened the door, she didn’t even need to ask.

One look at you—bag slung over your shoulder, eyes red from holding back tears—and she simply stepped aside to let you in.

“You know where the spare room is,” she said softly, shutting the door behind you. “I’ll make tea.”

For the next few days, Alicia didn’t push. She let you sit quietly on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around you, lost in your thoughts. She gave you space to unpack—or not unpack, as you hadn’t even opened your bag yet. She simply existed around you, chatting about work or gossip or Quidditch, letting you be quiet but never alone.

But Alicia wasn’t a particularly patient person, and by the third day, her concern boiled over.

“Alright,” she said, setting down two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table and sitting across from you. “Out with it. What happened?”

You stared at the tea, your fingers curling around the mug for warmth. “I moved out,” you said finally, your voice hoarse from disuse.

Alicia blinked, clearly trying to process this. “You what?”

“I moved out,” you repeated, your grip tightening on the mug. “I told Fred it wasn’t working. That I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Alicia leaned back, crossing her arms. “Why?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Why do you think? Because we’re a disaster waiting to happen. Because the first time we tried this, it ended in flames, and now we’re just… ignoring all of it, hoping it’ll magically work this time. Spoiler: it won’t.”

Alicia’s brow furrowed. “Ignoring it? Are you serious?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, for someone who’s ‘ignoring it,’ you two seem to have a bloody hard time staying away from each other.”

You frowned, thrown off by her point.

“Think about it,” she pressed. “You’ve been living together, falling back into each other’s lives. Sure, maybe you weren’t talking about it, but you were doing something. You were letting yourself be close to him again.”

“That’s not the same thing as trying to fix it,” you countered, your voice shaky.

“No, it’s not,” Alicia admitted. “But it’s not nothing, either. You can’t tell me you didn’t feel anything being with him again. And don’t even think about lying to me, because I know you.”

You looked away, your chest tightening. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It’s still going to end the same way. We’re just… Fred and I, we’re not meant to be.”

Alicia snorted. “Says who? You? Because from what I’ve seen, Fred seems pretty bloody convinced otherwise.”

Your jaw clenched, and you stared at the floor.

“Look,” Alicia continued, softening her tone. “I get it. You’re scared. You’re terrified of putting yourself out there again, of having it all fall apart a second time. That’s normal. But running away from it? That’s just—sorry, mate—stupid.”

You bristled, finally meeting her eyes. “It’s not stupid. It’s self-preservation. Do you know how much it hurt the first time? How much it broke me to lose him? I can’t do that again.”

“And what if you don’t lose him?” Alicia asked, leaning forward. “What if it actually works this time? You’ll never know if you keep running away.”

You opened your mouth to argue but hesitated.

Alicia sighed, her expression softening further. “Look, I know you think you’re saving yourself from the pain, but you’re also cutting yourself off from the happiness you could have with him. You’re assuming it’s going to end badly, but what if it doesn’t? What if this time, it’s different?”

“I just… I don’t know,” you murmured, your voice cracking.

“Then find out,” Alicia said gently. “You can’t keep running from something just because it’s scary. That’s not how love works. You have to fight for it, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Her words lingered in the air, wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. But as you sat there, sipping your tea and staring into the middle distance, a small, stubborn thought crept into your mind.

What if Alicia was right?

What if you owed it to yourself—and to Fred—to find out?

&

The hallway felt colder than you remembered. Or maybe it was the nerves pooling in your stomach, twisting tighter with every passing second.

You stood outside Fred’s flat, your hand hovering over the door as you debated knocking for the fifth time.

This is a mistake, your mind whispered. But Alicia’s voice was louder, pushing you forward. You’ll never know if you don’t try.

The peeling paint on the frame, the faint scuff marks on the floor where he always kicked his shoes off—it was all achingly familiar. And still, it felt like you didn’t belong here anymore.

But you were here. That had to count for something.

Your hand hovered over the door for what felt like forever before you finally forced yourself to knock.

The sound echoed in the quiet hallway, and for a moment, you considered running. The urge to flee was strong—you’d done it before. But then you heard shuffling from the other side of the door, followed by the unmistakable creak of the hinges.

Fred stood there, barefoot and in an old t-shirt that had seen better days, his hair sticking up in every direction like he’d been running his hands through it all morning. His face was unreadable, his mouth set in a hard line, but his eyes—those damn eyes—told you everything. They were wide and raw, flickering between surprise, confusion, and something you didn’t dare name.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stood there, staring at each other, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like a heavy fog.

“I—” you started, your voice cracking.

But before you could say another word, Fred closed the space between you in one swift motion.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you to him as his lips crashed against yours. The kiss was urgent and messy, filled with all the words you hadn’t said and all the feelings you couldn’t quite explain.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching at him as if he might disappear, and for a moment, everything else faded away. There was no fear, no doubt, no past mistakes—just Fred.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together as he refused to let you go.

“Fred,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Don’t,” he said quickly, his voice rough. His hands tightened on your waist, grounding both of you. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. I can’t—” His voice broke, and he shook his head like he was trying to push the words away.

“I’m not leaving,” you interrupted, your voice gaining strength. “I’m not running this time. I promise.”

Fred’s breath hitched, and his eyes searched yours, like he didn’t quite believe you yet. “You came back,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You nodded, your throat tight. “I was scared. I still am. But—” You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t. I want to try, Fred. Really try this time.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his brow furrowed like he was trying to make sense of what you’d said. Then, slowly, a soft, disbelieving smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Took you long enough.”

You laughed, a wet, shaky sound that was half relief, half exasperation. “You’re not exactly easy to figure out, you know.”

“And you’re impossible,” he shot back, his grin widening.

His words were teasing, but the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—made your heart ache.

“Fred, I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softening. “For leaving. For hurting you. I thought I was protecting myself, but I was just being a coward.”

Fred let out a shaky breath, his hands moving to cup your face. “I know,” he said quietly. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters.”

The weight of his words settled over you, warm and comforting, and for the first time in months, you felt like you could breathe again.

You stood there for a moment, letting the silence stretch between you, until a thought popped into your head and escaped before you could stop it.

“Can I move back in?”

Fred blinked, and then his laughter filled the hallway, rich and familiar and so very Fred. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re not getting your old room back,” he teased, his voice low and warm.

“Oh?” you said, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said, his grin softening. “You’re stuck with mine now.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Guess I can live with that.”

Fred’s smile turned tender, and he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that felt like a promise.

Home wasn’t a place. It was Fred.

[hyuckiefluff]

may i request a jaemin x femreader where he’s just fucking her dumb and she’s trying to say that her family is downstairs or in the living room? if you’re comfortable with it ofc !!

a/n: first of all THANK YOU SO MUCH for requesting! i would’ve probably disappeared for another two months if it weren’t for this lol! i didn’t know if you wanted something short and sweet or for me to go all out but hopefully you like this! i had fun writing it and it made me revisit my jaemin brain rot so yeaa

for a bit of context, i decided to write this as if jaem and fem!reader are already in a relationship and jaem is the picture of charm and good manners and he could never do anything wrong in his in-laws' eyes but he’s secretly a freak lol (also didn’t wanna make it too long so things move a bit fast)

wc: 1.7k ish

content: just pure smut tbh

warnings: cursing, oral sex and fingering (fem receiving), creampie, loud sex, marking, usage of pet names like princess and pretty girl, boob grabbing

m list

When Jaemin walked into your place your parents welcomed him grinning like they hit the jackpot with their son in law. Your mom invited him to stay for dinner, and your dad gave him a solid friendly pat on the back. But his mind was upstairs, where you remained clueless about his arrival, thinking he was off to visit some relatives.

When he walks into your room, you’re lying on your stomach with your headphones on and wearing nothing but your panties and one of his oversized shirts. The whole scene feels like the start of one of his wet dreams, and he's seriously struggling not to pounce on you. Instead, he sneaks up from behind and gently slips the headphones off. You're not the jumpy type, so you casually turn your head, half-expecting it was your mom barging in. But when you see Jaemin smiling at you, your whole demeanor changes. You don't waste a second, practically wrapping yourself around your boyfriend. He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh that vibrates through you. 

“Missed me, princess?” you responded by kissing his lips, you only meant to give him a soft peck, but he couldn’t contain himself any longer so in no time he had you flush against the mattress and his warm body.

His hands immediately found their way inside your shirt, a delicious moan coming out of him when he felt you weren’t wearing a bra. He would go crazy if he didn’t have you right now, but he also wanted to make you feel good. He pulled away from you slowly, biting your lower lip in the process. Then he started crawling down your body, not missing the way you tensed up as he positioned his face right in front of your sensitive area.

You knew where this was going but you had to remind yourself that you two weren’t alone.

“Jaem… my parents are-…” your words were interrupted as his mouth attached to your core over your panties. The smell and taste of you was driving him feral and he couldn’t bother to even remove the thin piece of clothing. All you could do was gasp and pull his hair.

“Be good for your boyfriend that missed you so much…” he coaxed, his nose nuzzling against you. Your thighs instinctively closed around his head “Don’t hold back, let me hear how pretty you sound”  his warm breath sent shivers racing across your skin. He continued sucking and kitten-licking your pussy, the insistent way in which his tongue was pushing against your entrance in a teasing manner threatening to push you over the edge. He groaned when he felt you weakly push his head away.

In one fluid motion, he discarded your panties, a low whistle escaping him as he saw how they clung to your slickness. His dick twitched uncomfortably in his sweatpants. "Fucking mine," he growled softly before diving between your folds. His tongue and lips latched on your clit like a magnet, producing a chorus of wet sounds that were nothing short of vulgar. 

Despite your efforts to restrain yourself and keep quiet, as soon as he added a finger you were reduced to a whimpering mess. You brought a hand to your mouth, teeth sinking in to stifle the noises, but Jaemin didn’t like that. He pulled away and the sight of his glistening lips coated with your essence caused you to involuntarily tighten around nothing.

"I said..." His voice dipped several tones and his pupils dilated, darkening his eyes in an almost eerie manner "Let me hear you," he demanded. 

"Please… Jaem, my parents are downstairs," you gasped, breathless. He looked unamused by your pleas but still seemed to be contemplating something. 

Then suddenly, he withdrew from you entirely. You thought he would listen to you, so it took you by surprise when instead he discarded his sweatpants and boxers. His erection sprung free in a somewhat comical way. The tip was flushed with urgency, the veins and girth caused you to whimper. Your mouth watered with the desire to take him into your mouth, but Jaemin had different intentions.

"Then let's give 'em a show, princess," he grinned, planting a kiss on your inner thigh before pulling your legs up and positioning himself between them.

He entered you slowly and you couldn't help but whimper at the stretch. His lips curled up at the sounds you were making, knowing it took this little to make you lose all restraint was amusing him more than he cared to admit. He bottomed out right away, giving you no time to adjust. Though he was trying to keep it together, he couldn’t help but let out a string of guttural moans whenever you clenched around his dick. Desperation drove his hips to meet yours with sharp, urgent movements.

"So good for me," he murmured, gaze fixed on the way your pussy took him so well. Biting his lip, he looked up at your face contorted with pleasure. Your flushed appearance, eyes nearly shut, and lips subject to the mercy of your teeth. This is how you looked prettiest to him.

He hiked up your shirt, granting himself an unobstructed view of your boobs. He reached his hand to your right breast and caressed the soft skin there, his fingers toying with your hardened nipple. He relished your reactions to his every touch, loving the way you tried so hard not to be loud.

“Jaem-…fuck-… me," you moaned, his name coming out as a blur amidst a string of curses and cries.

"I am, baby," he quipped, though the strain in his voice betrayed the struggle to keep his composure. The way your walls clenched around him was driving him wild. The grip of his other hand tightened on your hips, urgency escalating as he thrust into you with an almost feral rhythm.

The sound of your skins slapping was obscene and it resonated throughout your room. If your parents walked by your door they would definitely hear and know what you two were up to. You wondered what would happen if they did, would they stop allowing Jaemin to come into your room. Would their trust for him vanish? Those questions made you anxious but the boy didn’t seem to care. And you were soon to follow him, because the way he was fucking you right now was too good.

He lifted your leg higher, adjusting his hips to hit that sweet spot he knew you liked. Your eyes involuntarily rolled back as he plunged deeper into you like this. He was so familiar with your body, knowing exactly where to touch to unravel you. A smirk played on his lips as he tenderly caressed your hips, a stark contrast to the rough way he was thrusting into you.

"You drive me so fucking crazy," he groaned, his rhythm faltering slightly as he leaned in for a messy kiss. Your mouths met in a fervent dance, his tongue swirling around yours, teeth grazing against each other's lips. He devoured every sound that escaped your lips.

Just as you were catching your breath, he abruptly increased his pace, catching you off guard and causing a loud moan to erupt from you, the sudden change overwhelming your senses.

“There we go, that’s my pretty girl” he murmured against your jaw, leaving a wet trail from there to your neck where he started sucking and marking you. Only in places that he knew you would be able to cover. After all, he knew you had to keep up the innocent facade with your parents.

Oh, if only they knew you let your boyfriend fuck you every day under their roof.

“Jaemin! Fuck!” He sneaked a hand down to where your bodies were connected and focused on your neglected clit. His fingers and the insistent thrusts of his hips obliterated any caution you had, leaving you too overstimulated to care about your parents overhearing.

But then a call from downstairs brought reality crashing back in “Dinner’s ready, kids! Come down!”

Jaemin's movements halted mid thrust, his eyes flashing with a mixture of surprise and panic, mirroring the same emotions that played across your face. You gave his arm a quick slap, the unspoken message in your eyes was clear: pull out, now. Yet, your body had other plans, clenching involuntarily around him as if begging for more, and he shut his eyes tight. You felt way too good to stop now.

“We’ll be right down!” He yelled, and instead of pulling out he picked you up, and switched positions. He knew riding him would make you come fast.

From his seated position, he looked up at you through his long lashes, a silent plea in his gaze. It didn't take much for your resolve to crumble. Your hands settled on his shoulders, grasping onto the firm sinews of his muscles as he wrapped his arms around you. As soon as you started moving, you saw him slowly lose his composure. This angle made each thrust reach deeper within you, “How the fuck do you… feel so good, hm-.... every time,” your eyes fluttered open and you caught a glimpse of the tension etching his brow and the way his teeth clamped onto his lower lip. He was getting closer to his limit, just as much as you were.

“You’re gonna be the end of me,” you breathe out, fingers tracing along his cheek. All he can manage is a throaty moan, too lost in the sensation of being this deep inside you to form coherent words.

“I’m-…I’m close”” he whimpered, half lidded eyes locking onto yours. Your rhythm starts to stumble a bit, your pace getting uneven as you get close to your orgasm too. He caught onto this quickly grabbing your hips to guide your moves, and every time your hips met, the sounds resonated through the whole room.

A couple more thrusts, and you're there– caught in the riptide of an orgasm that slams into you so hard that tears gather at the corners of your eyes. Jaemin's not far behind, a few more sloppy thrusts and he's right there with you. The feeling of his cum filling you and your walls clenching around as he emptied himself inside you, it was a sticky mess, but he fucking loved it.

“C’mon, let’s not make your mom wait.” He said after catching his breath, giving your hips a slight pat.

“Jaemin… I swear if they heard…” 

“Yeah, yeah… You know they love me too much to think I would ever soil their pretty daughter like that.” He winked and kissed you one more time.

ps: feel free to request more!

[ripplestitchskein]

What I loved most about Sinsmas is how well it’s setting up what will be the probable trajectory of Season 3 while resolving the conflicts of Season 2.

Octavia and Blitz are set on a similar path, realizing that Stolas needs more than they can give him, but not because they aren’t enough but because he has a mental illness. This conflict is setup explicitly to tie in with Barbie, Blitz will realize that whatever happened probably wasn’t as much his fault as he thinks, she just needed more than he could give alone. So I stand by the speculation that resolving Stolas and Blitz next season is going to be directly paralleled by Blitz and Barbie but will at the same time bring Octavia and Blitz into an accord.

Stolas will be getting several more reality checks and will spiral pretty hard, but I am holding on to faith that we will get a happy medium between getting proper treatment and reconciling his relationship with Blitz. I think Sinsmas did a great job setting up him as not realizing his continued unhappiness, even though he got everything he wanted with Blitz, is not a reflection on their relationship being ill suited but because he does have a mental illness that he is not treating properly or sharing with those around him. Blitz sidestepping the horse backstory while Stolas pulls back on asking him for help getting his meds was a perfect and succinct way to show this upcoming conflict.

Just excellent visuals with that all around. Blitz being the one to snuggle and try to be close to him while Stolas is the one closed off and refusing to relent was really solid. I would bet on this being the opening imagery of S3, some rehashing of Blitz trying but Stolas remaining closed off and that leading to a split that is slowly repaired over the course of the season, ending with them finally embracing each other.

The subtle cues from the imps of hell during the domesticity montage also great. Just this hatred Hell has for Stolas and how they will have to fight to be together. Like this was echoed in the fight with Andy as well, Stolas succumbing to being swallowed alive by a monster and Blitz going after him. Depression metaphor wow. The fight itself could be echoed in S3 too but this time with them working together.

And then everything with Millie, like her still not being on the same page when it comes to a family with kids while Moxxie and Blitz are opposed. Her reassuring Moxxie that her not wanting this doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him, and how that will play through S3.

Seeing Loona taking more responsibilities and stepping in for her father, seeing her with friends excited about board games. Too cute. I don’t know where she’ll go in S3 but I love her development so far and how they’ve taken a quieter approach to her parallels with Octavia and Stolitz.

Just a really great season finale.

[luveline]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

spencer comforts you with facts and affection alike when you worry you aren't as pretty as the girls on his team. requested here. fem!reader, 1.6k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Photographs can't accurately capture how beautiful Emily Prentiss is. JJ and Penelope are both gorgeous too, but it's Emily who startles you. Her hair a cool black colour and curled around her demure face, the line of her nose and her deep, dark eyes. Her lips, picture perfect and painted a soft pink.

The prettier you find her, the more your heart sinks. 

Spencer squeezes your shoulder. It's bold for him to do so in front of his friends (his family, really), he can barely show you affection in the grocery store without turning rosy. You preen at the touch, but the feeling of insecurity remains like an irksome gnat zipping around your head. 

"We didn't think we'd ever get to meet you!" Derek is saying, a casual arm thrown around Penelope's shoulders, a drink in hand. 

Rossi couldn't attend and JJ felt too pregnant, bringing your party to a solid six. It still feels like a lot of people to meet at once. 

You hold the flute of your glass in a nervous hand, fingers stickied by condensation. You have a feeling that you're in trouble, all these profilers assessing your behaviour, nowhere to hide. "No, I'm," —you raise your voice to hide the funny tremor that's taken hold— "so happy to meet you all, I promise I've been trying!" 

"Whenever she gets time off, we're on a case," Spencer says. 

Emily smiles widely at your statement. It's such an open, friendly look, it floors you. You look down at your drink and blink. 

You don't know it, but the team exchanges glances at your behaviour. 

"So, do you enjoy your work?" Emily asks. "Or hate it, like us?"

Hotch laughs and moves his pint glass onto a coaster. "I think it's safe to say that none of us hate our jobs." 

"I wouldn't blame you if you did. I can't imagine how hard it is, how hard you all work," you say. Spencer's hand drifts down your back. "But you have each other."

Emily does this thing with her eyes and if you weren't in a happy relationship, you'd probably be a puddle at her feet. "Too much of each other," she says jokingly.

She's gorgeous, and Spencer sees her every single day? You're nothing compared to her. Not smart, not strong, and nowhere near as pretty. You could never measure up. 

"Would you, um, excuse me?" you ask, moving your purse from your lap and onto the table. 

"You okay?" Spencer asks, looking up as you stand. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just gonna use the bathroom," you say quietly. You aren't, but if you were, you wouldn't really want to broadcast that anyhow. 

You try not to wobble on the way to the bathroom. The weight of five pairs of eyes follows you as you leave, four of which are trained in the art of spotting lies. Everything isn't okay, and they know that, and by extension —all the effort you made tonight? Getting your hair done, your nicest clothes, your makeup and your perfume? It might as well be a huge blinking neon sign that says you're trying really hard, and it doesn't make a lick of difference. 

You sidle into a stall, pulling the lid of the toilet down with a tissue and sitting on it heavily. Elbows on your knees, you hunch your back and hide your face in your hands, breathing in the smell of bleach through quick breaths. Water drips somewhere near the sinks, the cacophony of the restaurant hushed. 

You've never felt naturally pretty. With Spencer, it hasn't ever mattered. He's never given any indication that he cares. But… 

"Loser," you mutter to yourself. 

"Hey, Y/N?" Spencer asks, his voice bouncing off of the tile. 

You freeze. "Two seconds!" 

"You're not really using the bathroom," he says incredulously. 

"Says who?"

Spencer laughs, his tone wry, "I know you really well, you realise? Like, better than I know anyone else on the planet."

"Then you know I'm having an authentic pee and need my privacy." 

"Come on out." 

The ringing of the lock slotting free is like an announcement of your embarrassment. Spencer's standing a half a foot from the doorway, keeping his distance from the no man's land that is the ladies room. You're going to use it to your advantage, only he holds out his hand expectantly. When you take it, he pulls you out of the bathroom and firmly into the restaurant hallway. 

You can't escape his concern, nor his hands as they cup your face unexpectedly. 

They feel as nice as they look, deft fingers pressed to your skin like you're one of his puzzles to decipher. 

"What upset you?" he asks. 

"Nothing your friends did, I promise." 

"But something." He smooths a hand down to your shoulders. He's not quite frenetic but certainly close to it, searching for a problem he won't find on the surface. "You're insecure about something," he deduces. 

You cringe bodily. "I'm not." 

"What is it? Is it your necklace? It really is nice, the colour goes with your skin. It's understated." 

"It's not my necklace, Spence." 

"Then what is it?" 

"I just…" You pull his hands from your neck and collar to hold them, looking up into his melty brown eyes wishing he weren't so hard to say no to. "Feel like you could do better." 

He frowns. It's a pout, and endearing, but not what you want to see. 

"I love being with you, I just think, you know, you're so handsome, and you have all these pretty friends," you say.  

"You think you're not pretty?" he asks. He sounds gutted, if a little confused. 

"Not like her." Your voice quivers. 

The first time you got upset in front of Spencer, he wasn't sure what to do. He ended up putting an arm around your shoulder, your brand new boyfriend out of his depth. You've both had some practice at comforting one another now, and any hesitance Spencer held is gone. He wraps his arms around you like he's afraid you'll fall over, the crease of his stressed brow smushing against the side of your face. 

"Don't think that. Why would you think that?" he asks quietly. 

"I know I'm not pretty like some girls," you say, surprised by the ferocity of his reaction. 

"You don't know that, because it's not true. You're beautiful." He squeezes your side between his fingers, something contemplative about the way his thumb curls upward. "Do you know how many books I've read?" 

"Thousands." 

He hums. A hand grasps at the back of your neck. "Thousands of books. I know so much, especially about the human body. I know that falling in love can make some people feel the same effects as cocaine. Staring into their eyes can synchronise your heartbeats." He encourages your head back. "Butterflies are adrenaline and when I look at you I can't get them to stop, even if I know it's chemical." Spencer's eyes are lit with something you don't often see directed at you, a furious conviction. "What we think we know isn't always fact, so if you think you're not pretty…" He nods his head gently to the left. "There's only really one thing left to do." 

Your heart feels like it's being juiced. "What's that?" you ask. 

He grabs your hand and puts it on his chest. Fingertips to his breastbone, he holds it flat. Sure enough, even through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, you can feel the rapid capering of his pulse. 

"It's like that pretty much any time I look at you." 

"Spence…" 

"I know it's bad," he says.

"Are you messing with me?"

"Yeah, I did a lap before I came to find you– No!" He laughs, giving you an admonishing look. "Why would I mess with you? How could I?" 

"I don't know." 

He dips in to kiss your frown. "You're so pretty," he whispers. "So, so pretty. You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen, no matter what you think." 

You don't believe that you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen, but you believe that he believes it. He has no reason to lie to you, nothing to gain. He could've said, Hey, you're pretty, and left it at that. He could've been angry with you for leaving the table for something some people would say was superficial. But Spencer's your sweetheart. 

"Do you want to go home, angel?" he asks, looking at you worriedly. 

"No." You don't even have to think about it —you've done enough thinking. "I don't want to go home. Sorry, Spencer. I feel better." And you'll stay out all night if he's going to call you angel again. 

"Well, let me know if you need me to tell you again." 

The chances of you surviving such an ardent speech a second time are low. "I won't be doing that." 

Spencer shrugs. "You'll let me know, even if you don't think so. You have a tell when you're upset." 

You spend the rest of the night making up for your disruption (which Spencer's friends immediately dismiss without questioning), shepherding the crisper curly fries on to Spencer's plate because he likes them that way, and begging him to tell you what your tell is with subtle pleading glances and a hand on his knee. Nothing inappropriate, but affectionate nonetheless. 

He doesn't tell you no matter how much you ask, and maybe it's the drinks or the way the scone light kisses his cheeks in a warm buttery light, you can't find it in you to be mad. 

"Keep your secrets," you say, chin tilted upward. You're failing to glare at him, too much love in your eyes for it to be believable. 

"You're beautiful," he says back, mirroring your expression playfully, before leaning down for a chaste kiss. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! if you did, please consider reblogging, it makes a big difference to me<3 have a good day!

[acis-arts]

Hello everyoneee, I got super busy recently, but I was still able to do some art and writing in the meantime! Here's all my Cult Leader Designs as well as mentions of the AUs I have!!

Some of these will probably change over time, if I feel like it. I just wanna info dump on my AUs and I also think it's good to post how they currently look instead of waiting for too long.

Down below is the info dump on my AUs:

(Before you start reading: "Kali" is the name of my Lamb)

Lost Crowns AU (/Forgotten Lands of the Old Faith):

This AU was called "Forgotten Lands of the Old Faith" at first, but I refer to it as "Lost Crowns AU" mostly because that name fits too and is shorter.

This is my main AU! In it, the entire story of the game is pretty much unchanged, this AU focuses more on what happens after the events in the game. I haven't finished the game yet and I'm assuming after getting all Bishops, the game is pretty much done. (update because I wrote these notes some days ago: I got Shamura in my cult today so I finished the main story at last)

"A few days after freeing all the Bishops, Kali wakes up and something is missing. The Red Crown is gone, all Crowns are gone. They run to find Narinder and the Bishops, but none of them are behind it. Together, all 6 of them try to confront the Mystic Seller next, but upon arriving at the gate they were always situated in, they find nothing."

The Mystic Seller left the Lands of the Old Faith for good and took everything supernatural with them. I haven't thought about a solid reason for that yet, because my main idea behind this is that Kali and the others are now forced to live without all their supernatural powers. They can't perform Rituals, they can't resurrect, they can't summon weapons and none of the Follower necklaces work anymore. The only thing that was left is the immortality of Kali, Narinder and the Bishops. They won't age but the risk of dying permanently is there.

I have no idea if I want to keep this idea or if I want to scrap this, but I also thought about Kali finding a gateway into the lands of the Gods and together with Narinder, they try to find the Mystic Seller to get answers. The reason Narinder comes along is because he's more familiar with that place and Kali would need someone like that. The second reason obviously being that I want to pair them up and have them develop their relationship over this adventure (with a proposal at the end of it perhaps). Third reason: it's fun to have the Bishops take care of the Cult without Kali and Narinder around.

I have so much more stuff for this AU, but this is already so much text. Let's hope I get to post more in the future!

Swap AU:

This is pretty self explanatory and the majority of what I posted on here so far. As a short summary: Narinder is now the Last Cat remaining, becoming the Vessel of Kali as The One Who Waits

No Mercy AU:

This is based on the second save file I have in COTL, on which I'm trying to do an "evil route". In this AU, Kali isn't kind and optimistic, instead becoming a callous, cruel cult leader after receiving the Red Crown. Up until that moment, they were at the bottom of the food chain and upon receiving the power of a God, they were finally the one in control for the first time in their life. They decided to never let go of the Crown and their Powers.

Orange Crown AU:

This AU is pretty much just my close circle and me inserted into Cult of the Lamb. So far my partner and me are inserted as NariLamb and my brother is the Mystic Seller because he looks like them. This one is probably uninteresting to most of you, as you don't know any of us. I won't be posting that much about this and keep it private mostly, but maybe some of you are still interested in the art, so let's see.

As always, Thank you so much for reading up until this point!! I hope you all had a good week!

[flower-boi16]

What Are Helluva Boss' Themes?

This is something I've thought about for a while, especially recently when Viv said that Season 3 will focus on a theme of "family" (clearly relating to Stolas' relationship with Octavia).

After doing some research, apperently at a panel one of the writers said that the series is meant to be about "relationships", either romantic, platonic, professional, etc. You can see that since a lot of the episodes do focus on inter-personal drama between characters.

Now, here's the next question...how well does helluva execute that theme?

Let's take a look at a lot of the relationships in the series, shall we? (Green will be goood, yellow will be meh/okay, and red will be bad)

Blitzo and Moxxie: This one is handled fairly well. Truth Seekers gives both characters fairly solid growth where they learn to start being better friends to each other.

Moxxie and Millie: It's not that developed but it's cute as a romantic relationship.

Blitzo and Loona: This is where things take a turn for the worst sadly. Blitzo and Loona's dynamic was initially endearing in the first season, as it was a loving but overprotective father with a edgy daughter that does still show some care for her father. Unfortunetly, the dynamic suffered in Season 2 due to Loona's character assasination ruining her past development, as I've talked about before, and, so far, Loona hasn't gotten anything in later episodes that have brought back her past characterization so this remains a massive issue.

Millie and Blitzo: Gets good development in GhostFuckers showing how Millie met Blitz and helps give Millie actual character depth for once.

Blitz and Stolas: I don't think I need to explain why I hate this one anymore.

Fizz and Blitz: The relationship is significantly underdeveloped and the resolution to their truama is extremely underwhelming and rushed.

Verosika and Blitz: Verosika gets a good moment showing how she felt when Blitz betrayed her trust but that's it. Aside from that, it suffers from the same issues of underdevelopment that Fizz and Blitz' relationship does.

Octavia and Stolas: Relationship was previously very compelling in Loo Loo Land where the series actually knew that Stolas was a terrible father and didn't try to pretend otherwise. Sadly Seeing Stars came into the mix and the show tried to frame Stolas as a good father to Octavia (which, he is not). Sinsmas does thankfully reverse this framming but we'll have to see if they'll commit to it in Season 3.

Stolas and Stella: This one suffers from Stella being made into nothing but a one-dimensional abusive bitch just to make Stolas look more sympathetic. It's part of the show's trend of demonizing characters that call out Stolas' actions.

Blitzo and Barbie: We know literaly nothing about this one but so far it's fine.

So uh. Ya. Most of the relationships in the show are pretty badly written and they suffer from the major issues in regards to character and how piss poor it is.

[angelmichelangelo]

Any thoughts/opinions on TMNT 2007, either in comparison to other iterations or about the characters/relationships in general?

oh boy have i got some thoughts on TMNT 2007 !

straight off the bat i’d say it feels so set apart from all of the other ninja turtles movies we had/have at that point. they’re a little older (i can’t remember the canon ages but wasn’t it pretty much fanon for a long time that they were at least early 20s?) and starts their story off kinda at their end.

2007 was also supposedly a continuation of the 1990s movies. whether you want that to be solid canon or not (personally i don’t) but either way, they’re kind of in “retirement” stage of their lives with everything with shredder already happened and this is kind of just the aftermath of that.

the relationships in this movie !!!!! oh my GOD it’s just near to absolute perfection. i usually don’t always super love the classic raph/leo tension just because sometimes it feels a little overdone and can really take away the shine from other aspects of the movie, but i really do like how different it feels here.

raph is so obviously not coping with having so much of his family dynamics changed. and i think that’s why the whole aspect of the movie being set after all of their biggest most heroic adventures works well, because in a way, this movie just highlights how much their lifestyle has impacted them. imo raph struggles with having leo so far from home. he’s going through a little bit of separation anxiety, can’t regulate his emotions properly and lashes out bad.

leo obviously takes this all the wrong ways. he’s going through something too so he’s blind-sighted to the fact that raph isn’t intentionally trying to piss him off. they’re back butting heads maybe because it feels most familiar in a way that hasn’t been since leo left.

b-team in this movie is just. chefs kiss. so much to unpack here, too.

donnie who is finally being highlighted for how much he does for his family behind the scenes, normally quietly bumbling along, now here he is, trying to keep a sense of normality and feeling under appreciated!! which rightly so!! he kind of just gets this shit load of responsibility thrusted onto him when leo leaves and raph distances himself. he’s treading water in the deep end, barely afloat but rarely does he really lash out because he wants to do good, and keep peace (mostly for mikey’s sake, I would argue)

and mikey. oh mikey. easily one of my favourite interpretations of mikey in this movie. he’s kind of mellowing out and maturing in a way that i think hits leo with full force when he comes home from south america. all because he’s had to grow up and pick up the pieces left behind in the wake of their family kind of slowly crumbling apart.

they’re all hurting in this movie but mikey’s hurt is so painfully obvious and so masked when he’s putting up with a job he really hates, barely seeing much of either brother he has left because of their schedules and feels cooped up. he trips over himself with just pure glee when he sees that leo is finally home. he’s still that kid at heart, despite everything, that truly believes that his big brother can mend this. it’s a really bittersweet thing to think of him just hoping his life would fall back into place again after it being so out of sorts for so long.

TMNT 2007 isn’t a perfect movie by any means. whilst i adore the way the turtles have been written, is still falls into the trap of making don + mike background characters towards the last half, giving leo + raph the limelight once again, and sometimes leo does act a little out of sorts but i could just pin that down to him having some sort of PTSD, so it remains high in my ranks regardless.

it’s not perfect but it’s still really really good. the animation holds up pretty well. it paved the way for 2012 in regards to CGI turtles. the voice acting is something i don’t see hyped up enough. nolan north as raphael?!!! i feel like as a fandom we definitely sleep on that fact way too hard

the plot is original and fresh and it’s clear that this wasn’t just a cash grab, but a real love letter to the franchise and to the fans:) the people that made this cared for these characters and this world and it shows :)

the fight scenes are really fun and easy to follow. the leo raph rooftop scene is just incredibly done. whoever wrote that.. please always be involved in tmnt wherever you are.. honestly pure fire some of those lines

nobody feels like a caricature of themselves here, which often happens with tmnt when a new universe is introduced, just to establish their character roles. i really love the thought of them in the wake of the fight and after the dust settles and they’re trying to cope with their feelings and problems separately because they don’t know what else to do. they need a million hugs, please, i would love to see more of this that isn’t just the last ronin. show me the turtles in their 30s trying to adjust to their lives changing drastically as they’re getting older and recognising their trauma, finally. i would eat that up!

in anyone hasn’t seen TMNT 2007 (which, i’d assume most of my followers probably has) then i would absolutely recommend it !!

forever mourning the mikey centric sequel we were supposed to get before the studio shut down and forever sending wishes up that there’s someone out there with enough money and a dream to bring it to life in some way shape or form (i’ll take a comic. a mini series. anything lmao)

TMNT 2007 will always have a special place in my heart :)

[changbinsboobs]

Who is more into commoners vs idols/celebs?

Skz limiting beliefs

Can you do these in between husband series?

Ugh those guys just can't give a straight answer🙄💀

Who in Skz is more into celebs/commoners?

Chan: not a definitive answer, rather he says when the chemistry's there its there, doesn't really matter what the person is. Although i believe thats what he would say but how it actually is, is that he prefers having someone thats equal to him in the sense that they're both are on the same mental&emotional level. So thats a pretty big indicator for me that for serious stuff he probably leans towards celebs cuz they share a similar lifestyle and understanding of that life.

Lee know: bro just said none💀😂 although when i look past that there's a heavy commoner energy. It just feels simple. Theres no better word to describe the feeling. So i guess he's someone that appreciates simplicity in relationships especially and by logic commoners are simpler than idols or celebs.

Changbin: my guy tells me he likes people who reject him🥲🤡 he likes chasing after something he can't have. I had to pull 3 cards for him cuz bro kept repeating the same thing in each one. Idk guys, i guess he doesn't have a preference or if he does his need to chase and be rejected and wallow in his own tears and despair is way higher on his priority list when looking for a partner than if the person is famous or not🙃

Hyunjin: ehm so...he has had a pretty bad experience with someone so he's shaken in his preference. Idk which one it is tho. Once ahain clarification cards aren't of any help🥲 after long, long, long shuffling i finally got a card which gives me groups & peers vibe so maybe he tried something with a person from his circles and it wasn't good at all so now he's confused as to if he should remain open to idols or not. That being said, my guess is that for now he's keeping it low and kind of in the middle. Maybe not dating complete commoners, but also not celebs, maybe he's oriented himself towards influencers or something of that sort.

Han: Def commoners. He needs to be the star, to be admired, to get lots of attention and having many hypemans. Among other celebs he would be just one among many, but among commoners he's a star. And he lives that. So his choice in partners also def reflects that.

Felix: he likes a good variety. A bit of everything. So i think he may not habe a solid preference but rather be in the mood for this today, and net week in the mood for the other. Yk. For now his new "mood" is wise people. I think he's really into that - people who see through others shit, who cant be fooled easily, who can teach him a lot and have a "godly aura".

Seungmin: he likes celebs, well mannared and pretty. Also may not necessarily be entertainment celebs like idols. Could be actors, ceos, owners of something, just affluent people with status, means, manners and just overall are a "good, valueable contribution to society".

I.N: so either he's saying he likes heartbreakers or that he's a heartbreaker. Boy what?! Ok i think a commoner may have broken his heart so now he's gotten cold towards them or something. Maybe he wants to repay now in ignoring "them" and focusing and considering only options that are more affluent.

[asofspades]

I'm making a list of my favourite Four HC

- He has a necklace made from a shard of the dark mirror to remember Shadow and a strand of his hair is dyed purple in his honour.

- I like to count Four swords and Four swords adventures as separate adventures, so he's been on 3 adventures.

- Four Swords personally would be literally Link and 3 copies of him, I like to consider this as if the clones you can make in Minish Cap just had a solid body and thinking ability but Link does go back to being the same at the end of the adventure

- Obviously I like to incorporate the FS manga to his last adventure and this time Link splits into four different beings each a main part of his personality but over the course of the adventure they sort of become their own person

- That's why I headcanon that Four isn't really link as he was before his last adventure, for me all of the colours went back together into one body but remained separate, they usually work together and that would be Four as we know him.

- Obviously I love the HC that we have seemed to collectively agree on that Four's eyes change colour depending on who's more dominant at certain points.

- I do think that sometimes not all of them are driving the wheel together and that might be because they just went through a moment that required a lot of one of the specific colours or they're in disagreement

-That leads me to the HC that Four gets migraines when the colours are not in sync, which is another one most of the fandom seems to share.

- I'm also a fan of the "dark portals scramble the colours and thus Four" collective HC

- particularly I like to think that Four is both distrustful of dark magic because of the whole Vaati resurrecting and Ganon thing, and the soldiers and his father being controlled by that magic but also it makes him sad because it reminds him of Shadow's magic

- Also, while I HC that Vio was the closest to Shadow for obvious reasons I think when they merged into Four their memories and feelings were instantly registered by each other and now the other colours also appreciate Shadow for more than just sacrificing himself for them and Hyrule.

-I like to HC that he was almost the same age as Time was in OOT for his first adventure, as a bonus I like to think his bday is on the Picori Festival day which adds an extra layer of depth to both the beginning of his first adventure and his relationship with the Minish

- Following that logic I like to HC him as being freshly 8 y.o for his first adventure, around 11 for the second and almost 14 for the 3rd, and as such I love the idea that Vio and Shadow kind of developed crushes on each other.

- On that same note, since we can see Link as a soldier in the FS manga, but obviously there's only his Grandpa in MC, I like to HC that his father was deployed somewhere far away from Hyrule for diplomatic reasons (he's the captain of the royal guard after all) and he comes back after the first adventure. He gets told about what his child did and decides him joining the Royal Guard would be a good idea

- Following the previous HC, I like to think Link is not really enthusiastic about joining the Royal Guard because my boy got raised by his very cool blacksmith Grandpa who loves him very much and he's a little blacksmith at heart. Which kind of explains why he looks a bit done about being part of the royal guard, aside from the fact that he's literally saved Hyrule on his own before. That is also the reason he's so proud to be a blacksmith but never talks about having been in the Royal Guard.

- This is a more niche HC but since Four's era is way before OOT and way after SS I like to think the legal age changes a lot and so I HC that in Four's Hyrule you're considered an adult at around 14 so he's already working an paying taxes and is of marring age by the time he joins the chain.

- That brings me to another point and it's that I HC Four to be 16 in linked universe (I think that one's also pretty much shared by the fandom) but since legally he's been an adult for 2 years he gets thrown off by people calling him "kid" despite technically being the second youngest, he's a kid in basically everyone's time but his and I find that idea hilarious.

- Another commonly shared HC, four hasn't grown or has barely grown a cm since his first adventure because he overused minish magic, I like to add a twist and since you also turn into a minish in FS I like to think he grew a tiny bit between his first and second adventures but the overuse during the 2nd one was what did him in.

- Another HC is that four can in fact use the minish magic by himself, making him one of the Links with innate magic ability. Going a step further I think both Hyrule and Time can detect some Fae magic emanating out of him due to his entrenchment with the minish and his earring and sword (after all the four sword was forged form the remains of the Picori blade), Legend can sense some light magic coming off of him (he can canonically use innate magic and is attuned to magic artifacts) and Twilight can sense something similar to Midna's magic and the twilight mirror due to the dark mirror shard necklace Four carries.

Technically Wind can use light magic just because but I like to think he senses magic but really doesn't know what he's sensing at all because nobody bothered to explain magic to him even though he uses it a lot and often.

- okay, the shield think, we know the Shield in WW and MC are quite literally the same shield. And while I support people who have the whole "wind is Four's descendant" HC, for me personally I think people just knew it belonged to a hero and the people who found it after the great flood decided to keep it and it ended up becoming a family heirloom. Particularly they just mention that it belonged to a hero, and it's the first and only time that they don't mention that hero being the Hero of Time like they do in every other instance.

- the Palace of the Four Swords is a tricky one because me personally, I like to think that Four's soul is tied to his sword not only because he forged it but because of his second and particularly his 3rd adventure. Thus, when he dies he turns into a sword spirit and in the downfall timeline the sacred realm becomes the dark world and all inside it becomes corrupt and the sword that has been resting there for eras along with it's spirit gets corrupted as well prompting the events that happen at the FS palace in ALTTP.

- personally I like to think that since the Sacred Realm gate never opens in the child timeline the sword just rests in it's palace (built out of the elemental sanctuary that became the four sword sanctuary) along with it's spirit. And for the adult timeline it just rests underwater along with the rest of the old Hyrule forever undisturbed.

I find it really tricky that the splitting of the timeline ends up affecting previous heroes in the long run but it makes sense.

-Also, because SS takes place way way before MC I like to think the story of Sky is barely known outside of the Royal Family who might know a bit just because it's tied to their very existence. However I find that I like the idea that the people of the sky do know a version of said story and are descendants of the skyloftians who never took to the surface and that's why after living on the surface for a while by themselves they decided to go back to the skies and build a city on the cloud tops. Coincidentally since the Minish did come form the sky as well they might know about those stories. I think the molemits found in the wind ruins might be a version of the mogma mits from SS and the gust jar might have been inspired by the gust bellows from SS.

- Take I like, the blue ocarina in OOT that seems to be an heirloom of the Royal Family is in fact the Ocarina of Wind from MC, timeline wise it is the earliest apparition of that ocarina. My personal HC is Four gives it to Zelda either as a parting gift before parting on a trip where he ends up dying or he simply has it on his will to give Zelda that ocarina when he dies. With time the Royal Family unknowingly or knowingly infuse it with the power of the Goddess giving it the abilities we see in OOt and then in MM but, by the time it gets found by Legend in ALTTP is has basically lost all abilities except for the one to call a bird to bring you places. Personally I like to think that in the fallen timeline since the ocarina is in Link's hands when he fails it gets lost after being used to open the sacred realm and a regular someone ends up finding it prompting the side quest you do in ALTTP to get it.

- I also think that Four's relationship with his father is a bit rocky since he left the Royal Guard to become a full time blacksmith.

Some Colour headcanons

- Red enjoys using the fire rod but he doesn't like when people mess around too much with fire in forest because it reminds him of the third adventure

- Blue hates the cold because of the time he was encased in ice during the 3rd adventure

-Green has a need to save everyone because he still feels like he failed people during his 3rd adventure

- Vio likes to act all smug about his traitor act but he actually feels very bad about having tricked and betrayed shadow and he feels guilty that Shadow sacrificed himself after having been betrayed.

- Green also blames himself for Shadow and he finds it hard to be around their father because of the whole 3rd adventure.

[lunarfleur]

My I Love You ~ Earth 42! Miles Morales

Tagging: @juneberrie @sluggmuffin @gloomyluvr @hiyaitssans

Warnings: None except for slight cursing!

A/N:I got this wonderful idea from @/gloomyluvr. I just love this sm

This is x gender neutral reader!

Miles was so warm.

That’s the only thing you could think about. He generated heat like the sun, his skin a firey blanket you knew he would only let you enjoy. It was soothing you, but you didn’t even know you needed soothing.

Miles was a different kind of gentle with you, a sweet kind of soft you hadn’t even known possible. You’d seen him be kind to his mom-who he loved so dearly-but even with her you would find his typical teenage pride held off his affection. He didn’t seem as ashamed with you.

You sat in his room quietly, his arm keeping you tucked closely against his body. Even through his clothes, his warmth spread over your skin like a disease. His cheek sat gently on the top of your head, his free hand sitting behind his own. His door was cracked open, leaving a single sliver of light sitting against his otherwise dark room, at the request of his mother.

Footloose played in front of you, his laptop sitting on his thighs, covered in his comfiest black sweatpants. His fingers played with the hem of your t-shirt sleeve. The fabric pushed and pulled against your skin.

Looking at him, you hummed. He was pretty. Very pretty. The light that came from the hallway made his rich skin shine. The specks of green in his eyes glowed. His nose sat so nicely against his face. His jaw, even when slacked or relaxed, was tight and firm.

Noticing your eyes, Miles glanced at you. A small smirk grew on his lips.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked. You shook your head. His fingers danced across the skin of your arm softly.

But even when you forced your attention back to the movie in front of you, Miles’s eyes didn’t leave you. It was a solid 2 minutes before he realized he was even doing it.

He tapped you gently on the shoulder, sitting up straight. You expected him to pause the movie, to get up to use the restroom. But he instead slid his hands up from your neck to the sides of your face.

“Tell me to stop?” He whispered. But it wasn’t a demand, nor was it a threat. It was suggestion, an invitation.

You shook your head, and Miles leaned in slowly. His lips only ghosted yours until you moved into his touch. You felt him tense, his shoulders straightening, then his whole body relaxed altogether.

Once you pulled away, eyes opening, he sat in front of you. His eyes remained closed. His lips pressed tightly into a firm line. They opened slowly.

“Everything okay?” You asked. He nodded.

“Yeah, yeah I just,” Miles hesitated. “I just really…love you.”

Fuck. That was new.

You had said it a few times before, as a goodbye when hanging up the phone or parting for the night. He’d leave you with a kiss on the corner of your mouth, but always resorted to avoiding the phrase altogether. It was out of fear on his part.

A part of Miles told him that those three words were a jinx, that if you said them it automatically meant things weren’t going to last; that something would go wrong. Every relationship his uncle ever had ended quickly and his father had died. His mother was left heartbroken. That was proof enough, right?

‘Our family doesn’t run from things, mijo,’ his mother had always said.

So he sat before you, watching the way your eyebrows raised. He could have sworn your eyes were glowing.

You leaned forward, fingers intertwining with his. You leaned back against the pillows, pulling him back with you.

“I love you, too.”

He released the breath he didn’t even know he was holding and leaned back. His arm snaked back around your shoulder, this time your hand grabbed onto his. His weight pressed against you, heavier this time. His eyes stared at the side of your face.

Looking over at him, you were quick to give him a reassuring smile. You knew it was hard for him, but God did it make you feel good.

He smiled back at you, a sight you knew he’d only let you enjoy, before firmly pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

[cybsoo2]

heated red

╰┈➤ synopsis — Min Yoongi is a man of duality. Familiar with the sugary sweet side, you can’t help but be shocked at what hides behind closed doors.

╰┈➤ pairing — yandere!suga x reader

╰┈➤ word count — 3.5k

╰┈➤ content warning — murder, … DETAILED murder, gore, violence, strong language, yandere behavior, angst

Everything about Yoongi is sugary sweet. From head to toe, Min Yoongi is the sun of your universe. Every action and every gesture proves that he’s the world’s best boyfriend. 

You two have been dating for just over 2 years now, and it’s nothing short of perfection. At the beginning of your relationship, Yoongi could be mistaken as cold and uncaring; but his shy and thoughtful feelings are what brought you two together. It took some time for you both to become familiar with each other. Yet, Yoongi was determined in his attempts to get to know you. A rough relationship, still fresh and sensitive, bloomed into one of trust and time. Each touch that whispers against your skin says, “I know you, I understand you, I love you.” What Yoongi can't convey with the words that tongue-tie him, he settles to portray in his body language. 

His hands always feel so solid from the way they sink into your skin, assuring you of his presence and affection for you. Candy-coated words slide down your throat while he kisses you, mumbling confessions between breaths; “God, I’m so in love with you,” a breathless kiss in between, “I’d do anything for you.” No word he speaks is dishonest and each letter weighs with the seriousness of his admission. His eyes blind you in a heated red with how much fire burns beneath them. Burnt brown eyes, almost burdensome, frequently border on urgent. As if no matter how many times he says the words, it’ll never be enough for you to understand his devotion to you. 

Yoongi is loyal, kind, sweet, and everything else in between. You have no doubt that Yoongi will always continue to remain a constant comfort in your life. Although, no matter what way your brain has interpreted his presence, everyone else seems to think otherwise.

Regardless of who you cross paths with, friends, family, or foe, they plant seeds of doubt into your pretty little head. These troubling thoughts fester with wicked intentions and ideas. In Yoongi’s words, “The filth these people spit at you are just lies. Twisting themselves into your opinions and trying to cut me out. They’re just jealous. Don’t talk about them again.” When Yoongi speaks about the people that spill the blood that corrupts your mind, his face turns sour and his eyes shadow dark slits. This harsh look has played on your mind enough for you to stop bringing up the subject completely.

Yet these off comments and anxious looks continue to devour your mind. Whispers pick up in the wind about how Yoongi is a liar. They talk about the dead eyes that contradict the expressive cat-like ones that follow your motions. His heavy hands on your hips don’t match up to the tight grip he takes to the back of your friend’s necks. A warning, or a friendly gesture; you and those around you seem to have two very different ways of deciphering the deeper design of Yoongi’s actions. 

Today you felt like you were living life in a maze. Chasing demands from not only your boss, but Yoongi too. You spent the day running around the city until the sun set. 

You vividly remember how this morning had gone. Walking in through the elevator, shots of minimalistic grey meet your eye. Stale flowers and sweet perfume waft into the wind. You can’t help but feel small in the presence of such expensive luxury. Girls and guys decorated like dolls in diamonds. Even the blood on their hands shines like rubies. A strike upon the back of your head interrupts your staring.

“What are you doing standing there doing nothing? I’ve got things for you to do.” 

You’ve run yourself down running around like a headless chicken. Searching across town for the products and tasks you’ve been sent to complete. Vain efforts that are impractical and impossible. 

Once the hand hits 5 and your work is done for the day, Yoongi had texted you asking a few favours. No matter how drained you were, you could never refuse a request from him. You dragged your drowsy self into the driver’s seat and prayed the time would go by fast.

It did not. It seemed as if Yoongi was persistent that you stay running into endless walls and dead-ends. Too many things out of stock, nonexistent, or a million miles away. The stars start to shine in the sky, mirroring the way your eyes glisten with galaxies of exhaustion. 

The drive home is a blue blur. Your head mixes up time with tiredness, and your sore eyes paint watercolour tears over your surroundings. This bleary fog blinds you, and once it lifts the slightest bit, you find yourself standing at the front door. 

When you walk through the door, you wish you hadn’t. Yoongi’s kneeled over someone, it would look intimate if it wasn’t for the muffled screams and rageful roars that harmonize in the air. He’s shouting at her, choking and stumbling through laughter that never seizes. She’s trying to scream, but his hand holds a rag that’s shoved halfway down her throat. A dirted knife is held in his other.

You can barely recognize the women beneath her own blood and carnage, but you manage. You’re able to distinguish the bleached blonde hair that he rips from her scalp. The array of hair sprawled out around the two bodies guides your eyes to the bejeweled earrings you set your sights upon only hours earlier. This gore has glossed over the diamonds, leaving them dull and lifeless.

You remember the face that matched the gems, young and confident. That pearly white smile that once had you feeling envious has been knocked off her cocky grin. You’re able to pinpoint her place above you. Her, the idolized icon and you as her dirty dog. 

She’s your manager, or maybe she won’t be when Yoongi’s finished with her. She adopted you to be her pet. A plaything to possess in her position of power. Always replaceable and inevitably desperate, you played along with her game to keep your job. It paid well and the benefits were more than anyone could ever hope for. In a game of pain and promise, you chose the former in order to receive the latter. This tiresome torture laid an ache in your heart, yet Yoongi was there to stitch back the pieces. Giving yourself up to be teased and toyed with by a tyrant allowed you to have a peaceful life with Yoongi, separate from the harm.

Yet sometimes, in the blue afternoon when the world is set to silence, the stinging sadness slips through the cracks. You’ve never been good at keeping things hidden from Yoongi, and you’d like to assume the same for him too. You strained your sore throat through the crying and told Yoongi about everything that happens daily at work. Her taunts that leave you tense and the impossible tasks she’d give only to punish you after you failed to complete them. 

Your rampant rant had left you tired and you leaned up against his chest. The only sound that made sense in your mind was the rushing red flowing through his heart. A serene song that serenades you to sleep. You counted the beats as you drifted off into dreamland. 1, a heart that keeps Yoongi alive. 2, a heartbeat that means he’s here. 3, a heartache that tears him apart.

You couldn’t see it then, off in euphoria while Yoongi laid wide awake. But a bloodshot look with black pupils bled misery down his features. Hot and steady, sorrow fell off his face and the teardrops kissed your skin. Yoongi’s head and heart had been set ablaze into a state of chaos. Hot fury and cold desperation confused him. He’s angry and sad all at once. Although, much like any other time, his rage outweighed the anguish and fiery eyes ignited. 

This was 3 days ago. Yet now you stand amidst an annihilation. The bloodbath soaks every surface of your home. Lost pieces of hair, skin, and claret carnage find their way upon tabletops and splattered across the walls. The sight steals your breath, making you a mute statue in this red revelation. After minutes of struggling with a swollen tongue and stolen speech, you squeak out his name in surprise.

“Yo-Yoongi,” the words leave your lips tainted in tragedy. You can barely make out a single syllable from the flood of nausea that rushes through you. You sound so betrayed, it sends a hot hell-fire burning through Yoongi. The knife clatters to the floor when he whips his head up to face you.

“Y/n!” His gasp is laced with feverish panic that leaves his heart racing. Liquid white agony tangles itself through his veins. 

Once Yoongi directs all his attention to this distraction, the victim on the ground struggles against the dark burden of death. Her shrill scream pierces the silence as she whips her head back and forth in hysteria. Her own mindless panic causes her to smack her head against the wooden floorboards 10 times over. Blood sprays every which way as she mindlessly flails her lost limbs. It’s pathetic to watch her squirm under the inevitable circumstances. Severed stumps replace what was once her arms. Her legs fare no better; mutilated beyond repair, the joints cause their appendages to stick up in an unflattering way. 

The girl’s ear splitting shrieks muddled together with her own blood continue on without stopping. The inhumane noises are both maddening and horrifying to two different people. 

Yoongi feels his irritation rise to a breaking point. The fucked up bitch lying desperate on the floor is trying to ruin his chances of explanation. 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He roughly grabs her head and bashes it into the floor until she stops screaming. She’s left a mangled mess upon the ground. Skin slit in every direction, and cuts ripped apart from the force of his anger. Brain matter spills out the back of her dented cranium. Her whole body twitches before falling into a limp pile amongst the bloodshed. 

Yoongi stands back up from his place knelt over her corpse. He frantically attempts to wipe off the scarlet sins that stain his hands. With a wild fever, Yoongi rubs his hands raw onto his pants and shakes his head in stress. You can see the way the stress sinks into his eyes as well, red-rimmed and tearing up as they stare into you.

“Y/n, y/n please. Please listen.” Each word is slurred together from the tears and terror that take hold of him. He rushes toward you in desperation and you watch as his eyes widen when you step back. “Please, this doesn’t mean anything. I still love you, I LOVE YOU!” His hopelessness destroys his composure as he begins yelling in order to get his message across. Seeing you flinch and fail to hide the fear in your watery eyes leads Yoongi to take a different approach. “I love you, I love you. This is just proving how much you mean to me.” He’s reached you now. Standing six inches away and tugging your figure to fall into him. “I’d do anything for you.” He mumbles his declaration in a low tone. He matches your misty eyes and stares into you. 

He holds half your weight, keeping your knees from giving in and dropping you downwards. He keeps you pushed gently against the wall and pressed into his chest. His hands keep your head cradled gently as he moves to hug you close. 

He lays kisses along your jawline and makes his way up, hoping that if he tries hard enough, he’ll be able to subdue the sadness. He’s counting the crystals as they fall and making sure they don’t double. 

Yoongi hates seeing you cry. His hands shake along with yours as the remorse for his actions flows through him. Although don’t be mistaken, his repentance should not be confused with regret. No, Yoongi doesn’t regret killing that filthy bitch at all. Pride swells in his chest and he chokes back a smile from reminiscing on her screams. Yoongi instead is regretful of not being more careful. He should’ve hidden this better. Shouldn’t have gotten caught up in the rush and been careless with his decisions. He wishes you never would’ve seen that.

Your tears leave tracks in the bloodshed he’s spilled upon you. Your cries have been shushed into small sniffles, but you feel all the same. Shock has taken over your limbs, leaving them heavy for him to carry. All thoughts have been blown out of your head at the drop of this bombshell. 

What were once lipstick marks are now bloodstains. He continues to kiss the pain away. Dragging his lips slowly up your neck and back down lower. These ruby smudges leave raised marks when his caressing begins to hold back an anger. If you could get your mouth to mutter easy words, then you would tell him that his lips sting. His kisses feel like bleach to bare skin. The trails he traces down your body leave shadows of his sins. Each peck he places on your pink cheeks holds the memories of the shouts he yelled only moments prior. 

“Let me get you cleaned up.” His husky whisper is placed at the base of your jaw. He pulls himself away far enough to look in your eyes. Your foreheads almost touching and your warm breath being shared between you. When you don’t resist he places a final kiss to your lips before steadying you against him once more. 

He’s patient and careful in the way he puppeteers your movements. Taking control of each limb as if it’s his own. He towers over you with the way he holds you. Your feet placed atop his, he walks you two, slow and steady, to the bedroom. Placing you down on the bed, he keeps you safe with your head nestled into his neck. He kisses the top of your head and lingers. Grabbing the hem of your shirt, he asks a question that only stills in the quiet.

“Good?” There’s no response. He bends down a tad bit further to try and look into your drowsy eyes. Your head hung so heavy against his collarbone only lets him move so far. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.” He takes off your top, moving to your pants, and then follows with your underwear. Empathetic emotions sway his movements as every action is taken bit-by-bit. Taking your body’s behavior as a guiding force on what causes your anxiety to jump. Strong, sharp movements cause you to recoil and a voice that resembles even a hint of a shout or gravely tone sends shivers up your spine. Your goosebumps travel across Yoongi’s skin too. 

Now you’re left bare and sensitive under his skin. Yoongi works to avoid your empty eyes. Instead, he makes sure to support your vulnerable soul. You’ll remain in his arms where he’ll keep you warm and safe. He clings to your fading existence as he takes you into the bathroom. He holds a patient pace, wary of the wind that might steal away more pieces of you. 

He tears his clothes off in a blur, focused on attending to you. Sitting you on the edge of the bathtub, he reaches over to turn on the shower. Each minute is counted in Yoongi’s head as he waits for the water to warm up. One hand extended out to feel the heat, and the other rested on the crown of your head. You rest against his stomach, forehead sticking to his stress induced sweat. So limpid and lazy, you don’t even take the chance to outstretch yourself and grasp onto him. His waist is cold without your arms wrapped around it. Your brittle breath against his belly-button only startles the man instead of teasing a lustful heat that such a position would usually bring. You just lay like a dead doll against him. So silent and still you can almost hear the snakes that stir up a storm in his stomach. 

When the water is a tender temperature, Yoongi picks you up from the meat of your thighs and slides you two into the steam. You stay standing under the water for a while; waiting and watching as time continues its cascade. Yoongi tries to take away all the blood smeared across both of you. Slender hands slide across your skin, rubbing at the red until it washes away. 

His actions soon become more aimless as he grows selfishly desperate to feel your soul. His hands laid heavy upon your hips. His grip tightens and he places meaningless pecks anywhere he can find. His fingernails press a little too deep into your pink flesh, yet there’s no reaction to the pain. His hands work in a flurry to fist any piece of skin he can latch onto. Your wet bodies are so close you’re on the verge of blurring into one. So close, yet Yoongi still can’t feel you. There’s no life beneath his fingertips.

Your despondency startles him. Usually your energetic nature is what he relies on most. A permanent piece of his life that never changes and never falters. Just looking at you now, feeling the cold statue in his arms, he wants to cut himself to shreds attempting to bleed out this displeasure. Even if it is his own doing, he’ll make sure he’s also the one to fix you. 

Yoongi starts by shifting you both so you can sit in the base of the bathtub. He reaches to the shelf above your head and grabs the shampoo. His hands work their way through your hair. He detangles the knots from both your curls, and hopefully your mind. Yoongi has always been so meticulous in everything he does. He takes long, languid movements to assure no soap gets in your eyes. And when a droplet slips past his grasp, he’ll kiss away the escapee while grimacing at the suds his tongue tastes. 

His caring efforts are used to calm himself just as much as they are meant for you. He’s trying to distract himself from his uneven breathing that edges the line of a mental breakdown. His rasping continues as he now reaches for the second bottle above you. 

Once again, Yoongi works to lather the conditioner in his hands before smoothing it through your hair. He’s petting you how someone would comfort a dog, or console a crying child. Each easy touch he makes in order to not startle you any further. When he grabs the soap, he’s diligent with his motions. Efficient at scrubbing you clean, but tender in the way he maneuvers you. 

An hour washes itself down the drain. The water has run cold and the stream has cooled away. Yoongi takes your hands and wraps them around his neck before picking you up. He places you on the bathmat and reaches to grab a towel. You're patted dry before being wrapped in the dirty towel. Lifted up again, the man in front of you takes another dry towel off the rack. Yoongi is shaking from the frigid temperature that creeps around him. This feeling could be the least of his worries and he only pays attention to scaring away the icy droplets from your hair. He smooths your hair in one stroke with the towel then follows up by softening your strands with a brush. This two step process continues until Yoongi has been completely air-dried by the bitter cold. Random but repeated chills bite along his bare back and stir up shivers. 

Atrophy sets in when Yoongi begins to dress you. You're shock-still and there are no signs of it stopping. Unstirring and motionless, set to fall unless Yoongi was there to hold you. It’s significantly more difficult to dress you, so Yoongi only settles for underwear and one of his shirts. He decides to only wear boxers, opting to show you the most humane and vulnerable parts of himself. He leaves himself defenseless, ready to accept anything you give him. You’re pulled and pushed until you settle into the sheets. Both Yoongi and the bed wrap around you. Clinging to every empty space of you, they work to make you warm and soft for sleep. 

Yoongi pushes himself closer against you and tugs at the covers to bring them up higher. His bitten lips lay resting on the nape of your neck. He navigates his hands through the blankets to find your own. He noses the back of your neck and wishes pretty pleas for you to wake up like none of this ever happened

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” His melody of the sincerest apologies sings you to sleep. His hymn echoes off the shadowed walls of the bedroom and settles into background noise. The soft words vibrate against your back, almost resembling a purr. Saccharine sorrys and repeats of “Don’t be afraid, I’d never hurt you,” are mumbled until Yoongi loses his voice. His sore throat stings with a metallic taste. 

Feverish determination ends up sedating his sorrows. He’ll guide you into his good graces once again. He’s patient and gentle. As time tumbles onwards, he’ll be the best boyfriend once again, because everything about Yoongi is sugary sweet.

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