#but at the moment all its doing is making me more frustrated

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ʙᴜᴢᴢᴇᴅ

caffeine, anger, anxiety, emotional tension, hurt/comfort, guilt, miscommunication, apology, self-awareness, light teasing

based off this request!

word count - 850ish

You’d never been much of a caffeine drinker, but today, you decided to give it a go. Just one coffee, you told yourself. Nothing too crazy. But as soon as you took that first sip, you felt the buzz start to kick in. Your thoughts were racing, and before you knew it, you were talking at a mile a minute.

“So, I was thinking we could go to that new café this weekend, right? I heard they have these amazing pastries, and oh, did I tell you about the movie I saw last night? The main character was hilarious, I swear, I want to be her friend, and the lighting was incredible, like, the whole aesthetic was perfect, and I just can’t stop thinking about it, and, oh! Wait, no, there was something else I wanted to say, oh yeah! Have you tried that new thing at McDonalds they just started selling?"

Chris, on the other hand, had just gotten back from a rough day and was barely holding it together. The energy you were radiating was overwhelming, and the caffeine was making you talk even faster. He tried to keep up, nodding a little, but it was getting harder to focus with each word.

Eventually, the pressure built up, and he snapped.

"Could you just... stop for a second?" His voice was sharper than he meant it to be, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "I’ve had a long day, alright? Just... just stop talking."

You froze immediately. The sharpness in his tone hit you harder than you expected, and your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t realised you were talking so much. You stared at him, blinking rapidly, and you felt your chest tighten, a wave of guilt washing over you.

Chris was still standing there, his arms crossed, his eyes averted. His frustration wasn’t just with you, it was with himself, and he was trying to hold it together, but he didn’t know how to get out of this moment. His jaw clenched as he turned away, rubbing his face with one hand. "I’m sorry," he muttered, his voice rough. "It’s not you. I just... I had a shitty day, and the coffee’s got you talking a lot, and I don’t-"

His eyes flicked back to you, and he stopped mid-sentence. You were standing there, silent, your eyes glassy. It took him a moment to realize why the silence felt so heavy. It was because your eyes were brimming with unshed tears. “M’sorry, Chris”, you mumble.

His heart sank. Shit.

"I didn’t mean to-" He took a step toward you, his frustration suddenly replaced with guilt. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he took another step closer. "I just, sometimes I get overwhelmed, and it’s not your fault, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong."

You blinked, trying to hold back the tears, feeling embarrassed. "I didn’t mean to talk too much. I... I just got excited." Your voice came out quieter, a bit shaky, and the more you tried to explain, the harder it was to keep the tears in.

Chris cursed under his breath, guilt washing over him. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you like that." His tone softened, and he gently reached out, his fingers brushing your arm in a quiet apology. "It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve just been holding all this stuff in today, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you."

You shook your head, trying to compose yourself. "No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t realise I was rambling so much. I’m sorry."

Chris’s expression softened even more, and he carefully reached up to brush a tear from your cheek. His touch tender, and he pulled you into a loose hug. "I don’t want to make you feel bad. You’re not annoying, okay? I was just... not in the right headspace, and I shouldn’t have said that. Like that, either."

You looked up at him, the tension easing a bit, but you still felt a little self-conscious. "I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I just... I guess the caffeine did its thing."

Chris raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I think you plus coffee is not a good combination," he teased lightly, trying to lighten the mood.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the tension between you both starting to fade. "Maybe," you said with a playful shrug. "I wasn’t really thinking when I grabbed it. I don’t usually drink it so late."

Chris’s smile widened. "Yeah, no kidding. You’ve got like a sugar high. Might need to take you for a walk to wear you out."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was genuine now. "Hey, I’m not that bad. You were the one getting all cranky."

Chris laughed, shaking his head. "Fair enough. Next time, I’ll just steal your coffee before you get the chance."

Chris stepped a little closer, his hand still gently resting on your arm. "I’m really sorry, though. I shouldn’t have gotten frustrated. It wasn’t about you."

"It’s okay," you replied, the earlier awkwardness now replaced with something more comfortable. 

With a last soft smile, Chris nodded. "Alright. All good?"

"All good," you said.

creds to rose for the divider! @bernardsbendystraws

a/n: now i want coffee lol. fun fact i am indeed not allowed to drink it.

taglist: @blushsturns @sturnslutz @snoopychris @sturnshood @sturns-mermaid @chrissweetheart @cowboylikenat @recordeeznuts @camzeecorner @sturniolo101 @courta13 @sweetshuga

cya very sooooon!

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

The Sage of Truth's heart is driven by the beat of curiosity, so he is used to questions and mysteries catching his fancy with all the ease of a match to a forest. They light a passion that burn him through investigation and calculation straight down to the slow embers of an answer or lack thereof, and even then the warmth of his newfound knowledge sparks a need to share what he has discovered with as many Cookies as possible. The affect that this zest for knowledge has on him is, in itself, an unshakeable Truth.

Despite all this, the Sage can still readily admit that nothing, no question or riddle or impossible formula, has ever captivated him as much as the Truthless Recluse.

The Truthless Recluse has always been a minor fascination of his, from the moment he had first heard of him, but that hadn't bloomed into anything signficant until he had the pleasure of meeting him at the square. The Recluse was both a delightfully complex and undeniably simple Cookie, easy for him to understand yet layered in contradictions.

The Truthless Recluse, whose life purpose is dedicated to his own Truth of protecting Cookies from the cruelty of Truth. A living, breathing riddle.

The Sage had intially nurtured a newborn hope that they would cross paths again in the square, and he had fallen into the habit of searching the crowds that flocked to his lectures for a glimpse of those dark robes, that gloomy aura, but alas! Of course, the Recluse would not grant him that honour more than once.

Eventually, the Sage accepted that if he hoped for another meeting, he would have to approach the Recluse himself. The thought did little to dissuade him, as he was rather experienced in chasing after his own flights of philosophical fancy.

So here he is, making the trek up to the Peak of Truth with only the pale moon to accompany him.

The Sage is confident in his path, and finds the journey itself pleasant overall. It may have been quite a while since he was last here, but he did once hail from this peak himself, long before the Recluse slunk and settled in. As such, he remembers the best routes to take, and has little difficult navigating in the encroaching dark.

He is just past halfway up when a silhouette emerges from the shadows, solemn and blurring together with the rest of their dim surroundings. The Sage's heart, driven by curiosity, doubles its beat, pounding excitedly in his chest.

"Who dares to–" The Recluse asks, voice low and gravelly in an attempt to intimidate, but he stops abruptly, narrowing his eyes at the Sage. "You."

"Yes, yes, it's just me." The Sage smiles, undeterred by the less than warm welcome, doing a little flourished bow before hopping back up into an upright position. "I know it is awfully late for a visit, my friend, but you see–"

"Don't call me that." The Recluse interrupts, somewhat rudely, but the Sage's interest in him allows him to let it go with little fuss. "We are not friends."

"Whyever not?" The Sage asks easily, tilting his head. "Are we not both Cookies, living in accordance to our own personal Truths, just like every other? You know, even a Cookie who does nothing but lie and cheat still has the Truth of their affinity for deception as a central pillar in their life."

"You said something similar already, at the square." The Recluse mutters, his gaze cold and heavy. The Sage welcomes it without a shiver. "About me living by a personal Truth."

"And am I wrong?" The Sage questions back, raising an eyebrow. He is genuinely interested to see if the Recluse can make any sort of substanial refutation.

But the Recluse simply presses his lips together in frustration and glances away. The Sage feels both a curl of satisfaction at his silently begrudging acceptance of his point and a chill of disappointment at the lack of an attempted counter.

His disappointment does not have to last long, as the Recluse returns his piercing gaze to him to make a point of his own. "If every Cookie's life relies on a personal Truth, then Life is just as cruel as Truth." The many eyes on the Recluse's mutated staff blink sluggishly, accusingly, their irises catching the thin moonlight in muddy ripples. "That does not show me any proof that we are friends. Which we are not."

"I only meant that there is nothing to stop us from being friends." The Sage clarifies, though he feels like he was quite clear the first time. "And I have never denied the complexities and, indeed, cruelties of Truth and Life alike. As I have told you before, Truth is imperfect, and I embrace that. You, however, seem to be unable to see past these complexities to accept the positives that Truth brings to the world too."

The Recluse seems unhappy with that, his hand tightening its grip around his staff and his frown deepening. "Did you come here only to give me a lecture?" He snaps, voice soft and brittle. "If I wanted to hear this, I would go to the square you insist on occupying."

"Did you not try to do the same to me, on your single visit to the square?" The Sage asks playfully with a growing grin, paying close attention to the way the Recluse stiffens. He laughs lightly. "Ah, don't think of this as a lecture, please. It's only meant to be a conversation. To be frank, I quite enjoyed our brief exchange back at the square, so I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you again. You seem like you would make a particularly interesting debate partner."

The Recluse huffs, shaking his head. "I have no interest in talking to you any further. This much was already bad enough."

With that, he turns away and tries to slink back into the shadows.

"Surely you aren't completely opposed?" The Sage argues, summoning a brilliant ball of light in his palm and rushing over to the Recluse's side, refusing to let him leave now. "If you were, you wouldn't have been willing to initiate our acquaintanceship first. You were the one responsible for that, when you visited the square."

The Recluse stops walking as the conjured light falls on his shoulders, reeling away and twisting around to glare at the Sage. The reflected light makes his dull eyes seem brighter, almost beautifully so. "I did that solely to stop you from sending dozens to their inevitable ruin by exposing them to the path of Truth." He hisses stubbornly. "If I had known it would be useless, and if I had known you would come chasing after me, I would have stayed far away."

"It is very easy to say that in retrospect, but you can't prove that to be true." The Sage points out with a shrug. "Unfortunately, my heart is rather set on this possible friendship of ours, so I'm afraid the matter is out of your hands now. You're stuck with me!"

The Recluse's expression closes in on itself, returning to a blank slate as he abruptly turns and begins to march off again. The Sage realises immediately that the Recluse hopes to discourage him by ignoring him and carrying on, but the Sage eagerly rises to the challenge.

He falls into step beside him, and the two of them walk together in silence, the Sage's light spilling like a pool of honey around them. The Sage watches the Recluse out of the corner of his eye, as the Recluse resolutely faces forward, acting as if he doesn't exist.

Eventually, the Sage's persistence pays off.

As they are approaching the summit, the Recluse comes to another stop, so sudden that the Sage almost walks into him. The Recluse does not turn back to look at him as he says quietly into the air, "Friendship is ultimately meaningless."

His voice is bitter, heavy with a sense of mourning. The Sage hums in consideration, rounding the Recluse to meet his face, raising his summoned light to envelope the surrounding area in a glow.

"What an intruigingly nihilistic statement!" He declares brightly, clapping his hands together. "It would make a riveting debate topic, if you'd entertain me for just an hour or two. Unless, of course, you worry your Truth will not be able to withstand mine?" The Sage rocks forwards on the balls of his feet, his smile a polite taunt. "After all, not all Truths are made equal. Some are stronger than others."

The Recluse glares at him again, though this time, it is weakened slightly by the growing resignation beginning to creep across his features. "You won't give this up, will you?"

"Of course not!" The Sage grins, hopeful that he seems to be slowly getting through to him. "Giving up is never the best option, you know."

The Recluse scoffs, raising his staff as dark wisps begin to swirl menacingly around it. "Not even if I decide to make you leave me alone by force?"

"Not even then!" The Sage chuckles, folding his arms behind his back as he squints his eyes at the Recluse. "Haven't you heard of me before? I can find an answer to anything and you," he takes a modest step closer, his eyes glittering with delight, "are my latest enigma."

The Recluse stares at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, which only makes the Sage wish to study it further. Finally, the Recluse sighs heavily, the dark energy accumulating around his staff dissipating in an instant.

"Fine." He murmurs, barely a whisper as he continues walking. The Sage lights up, his summoned light flaring along with him, and, taking it as an invitation, he follows after the Recluse to the rhythm of his achingly curious heart.

[maddie0101]

𐚁 chapter three: signs we can’t ignore

𐚁 summary: dean tries to fix things but it doesn’t go according to plan.

𐚁 warnings: jealous reader, idiots, small injury, both can’t think straight, tension, slight fluff?

𐚁 word count: 3.3k

series masterlist previous chapter next chapter

The morning sun filtered through your curtains, casting golden rays across your room. The warmth should have been comforting, but all it did was remind you of the fire that had burned in your chest the night before.

You had gone to bed with his words still echoing in your mind, and now, as you lay staring at the ceiling, you hated that he was the first thing you thought about when you woke up. Your fists clenched against the sheets as irritation flared up all over again.

Dean could be infuriating. One minute, he was your best friend—the person who had always been by your side, who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who could read your moods better than anyone. And the next? He was acting like he had some kind of claim over you, like you were incapable of deciding for yourself who you spent time with.

You shoved the blankets off and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet pressing against the wooden floor. Maybe if you and Dean hadn’t been friends for so long, things might be different. Maybe you wouldn’t feel this stupid pull toward him, this constant ache in your chest whenever he looked at you a certain way.

You ran a hand through your hair with a frustrated sigh before pushing yourself up. There was no use sitting around overthinking. You had work to do.

The air was thick with dust and tension. Practice had been going for over an hour, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t the usual easygoing rhythm of competition. No, today the air felt heavier—charged, like a summer storm brewing on the horizon.

You ignored Dean. And he ignored you right back. Or at least, that’s how it started.

The usual back-and-forth, the teasing jabs, the small, comfortable moments between drills—it was all gone. In its place was silence, clipped conversations, and stolen glances neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

You threw yourself into training, forcing your focus onto your riding, your turns, your speed. Anything to keep your mind off the man standing just a few yards away, hands on his hips, jaw locked, looking about as frustrated as you felt.

Dean was stubborn, but so were you. And if he wanted to play this game, fine.

But after another hour of dancing around each other, Dean finally caved.

You were tightening Whiskey's girth strap when you heard the familiar crunch of boots behind you. You didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge his presence, even as his shadow stretched beside yours in the dirt.

“Alright, this is stupid,” Dean said, voice low, exasperated. “We gonna keep doin’ this or are you gonna yell at me and get it over with?”

You gave Whiskey a pat and turned to him, arms crossed. “I don’t feel like yelling, Dean.”

He studied you for a long moment, green eyes searching, before he sighed and ran a hand over his jaw. “Look, I was an ass last night. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

You raised a brow. “Which part? The part where you basically called me naïve, or the part where you acted like I can’t make my own choices?”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Both,” he admitted, and to his credit, he looked like he meant it. “I just—I don’t like seein’ guys like Evan all over you, alright? It rubs me the wrong way.”

“That’s not an apology, Dean. That’s just you doubling down.”

He sighed again, shoulders tense. “I am sorry, alright? I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

You eyed him for a moment longer, weighing his words. Finally, you let out a breath and gave a small nod. “Okay.”

That was as much of a truce as you were willing to give. Dean seemed to take it, but the tension didn’t fade. Not really. Because even after the apology, things still felt off.

Dean kept stealing glances at you—more than usual. And the usual teasing and banter? It never came. Instead, your conversations were brief, almost mechanical, and with each passing minute, your frustration only grew.

Not just with him, but with yourself.

Because no matter how hard you tried to move past it, you felt him. Every damn second. His presence was like a weight pressing into your chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. And when you caught him staring at you—his gaze unreadable, something guarded and intense behind his eyes—it only made things worse.

So when you saw him walking toward another woman at practice, it threw you completely off balance.

Dean had been standing by the fence, watching you, when one of the girls from the roping team approached him. You didn’t recognize her, but you sure as hell noticed the way she smiled up at him, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder as she spoke.

Dean turned to her, said something that made her laugh, and something inside you twisted. You hated it. You hated the way your stomach clenched. Hated the way your chest burned. And most of all, you hated that it distracted you just enough to make a mistake.

The moment your focus slipped, Whiskey hesitated at the third barrel, and you lost your rhythm. Your boot caught the edge of the stirrup wrong, and before you could recover, your balance wavered—just enough to send you slipping sideways.

You hit the dirt hard, a sharp sting shooting up your arm as the impact jarred your shoulder.

A few people called out, but you were already pushing yourself up, ignoring the dull ache as you dusted yourself off. Your pride hurt more than anything.

From across the arena, Dean was already moving toward you, his expression unreadable. But before he could reach you, you turned on your heel and walked off toward the stables.

You couldn’t deal with this right now. Not with Dean. Not with your own feelings. Not with any of it.

Dean didn’t know what the hell to do.

You had been distant all damn morning, and now, after your fall, you were avoiding him completely.

He had seen the way your expression shifted when you caught him talking to that girl, the way your body tensed before you went into that last run. And then you’d gone and gotten yourself hurt because of it.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling up inside him. He didn’t do feelings. Not like this. Not when it came to you. For years, you had been his best friend, the one constant in his life that never wavered. But now? Things were shifting, and it was making him antsy.

Because you weren’t supposed to look at him like that. Like he could actually hurt you. And now, every time he tried to talk to you, you just brushed him off. The more you pushed him away, the more his frustration built.

Finally, he had enough. The next time he saw you near the stables, rubbing your shoulder absently as you tended to Whiskey, he marched straight toward you, jaw set.

“You gonna keep runnin’ from me all day, or are you gonna tell me what’s actually wrong?”

You stiffened but didn’t turn around. “Not now, Dean.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh, so now you’re the one who doesn’t feel like talkin’? That’s rich.”

You let out a sharp breath and turned to face him. “What do you want, Dean?”

“I wanna know why the hell you’ve been givin’ me the cold shoulder all day.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” Dean crossed his arms. “One minute we’re fine, next thing I know, you’re actin’ like I ran over your damn dog.”

Your nostrils flared. “Maybe because I’m tired, Dean. I’m tired of you acting like I don’t know my own damn mind. Tired of feeling like I have to prove myself to you. Tired of—”

You stopped yourself before you said too much. But Dean caught it.

His gaze darkened, his expression shifting into something unreadable. “Tired of what?” he pressed.

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head as you turned back to Whiskey. “Forget it, Dean. I have to meet my dad back at home in ten minutes." You made up and excuse to get away from him, not realizing the hurt look written all over his face as you led Whiskey back into the trailer.

The next day at practice, the air between you and Dean remained thick with unspoken words. You were still ignoring him—not entirely on purpose, but because every time you looked at him, you were reminded of the argument, the tension, and the way he had been acting lately. It was easier to avoid him than to deal with the confusion brewing inside you.

So, you kept your distance, or at least, you tried to.

The sun hung high overhead, scorching the dirt beneath your boots as you moved around the arena, lost in thought. Your mind was running in circles, replaying every moment from the past few days—the way Dean had looked at you the other night, his frustration, his protectiveness, the way his voice had held something different when he spoke to you.

And just when you were about to push those thoughts away for the hundredth time, your foot caught on something.

One second, you were upright. The next, the ground was rushing toward you. But before you could hit the dirt, strong hands grabbed your waist, steadying you with ease.

Your breath hitched as you felt the firm, familiar grip pulling you back to safety. The world stilled, and suddenly, all you could focus on was the warmth of Dean’s hands on you, holding you close.

His fingers pressed into your sides, sending a strange, electric sensation through your skin—straight to the exact place on your wrist where your soulmate tattoo would one day appear.

The feeling was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before—like a gentle pulse, a warm tingle that sent a shiver up your spine. And from the way Dean suddenly froze, his grip tightening just a fraction, you wondered if he felt it too.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your eyes locked, and the rest of the world faded away. Dean’s gaze was intense—greener than the fields after a spring rain, deep and unreadable, but filled with something you couldn’t quite place. His breath was slow and steady, but there was something in his expression, something new, that made your stomach flip.

Then, without even realizing it, you smiled. A small, unguarded smile that slipped past your frustration, past your stubbornness, past everything that had been weighing you down.

Dean’s lips parted slightly, his expression softening as he took you in, like he was seeing the sun after days of stormy skies. It was the first time he’d seen you smile in days. And damn if he didn’t love your smile.

His eyes traced the curve of your lips, the way the corners lifted just slightly, and for a brief second, he forgot how to breathe.

You noticed the way he was looking at you—like you had strung the stars across the night sky just for him—and heat rushed to your cheeks. You quickly turned your head before he could see the full force of your blush, but he caught a glimpse anyway.

Dean’s hands stayed on your waist for a second too long before he finally let go, the warmth of his touch lingering even after he stepped back.

Your heart pounded in your ears. You needed to get out of there.

“I—uh—I should get back to work,” you stammered, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you took a step back.

Dean’s brows lifted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but he nodded instead.

You turned on your heel and left without another word, your legs moving faster than necessary, needing space to think, to breathe, to process whatever the hell just happened.

You slipped into the stable, finding an empty stall to lean against as you pressed a hand to your chest, trying to calm the erratic beat of your heart.

The touch. The warmth. The look in his eyes.

It was too much. And the worst part? You liked it. You liked the way his hands felt on your waist. You liked the way he looked at you, like you were something precious. You liked the warmth that had spread through you when his skin touched yours.

But that wasn’t supposed to happen. You reminded yourself. Dean was your best friend and he had a soulmate out there, waiting on him to find her. Someone who wasn't you.

Your fingers brushed over the skin of your wrist—the same spot where that strange, tingling warmth had spread through you.

That’s probably where your soulmate tattoo would appear. It had to be. It was like your body was telling you, whispering a truth you weren’t ready to face.

But had Dean felt it too? Felt that same electric current, that same warmth, that same pull?

You shook your head, forcing yourself to push the thought away. No. It wasn’t possible.

You still didn’t even have your mark. You were just overthinking it, that's all it was. Just… overthinking.

And yet, as you stood there, replaying the moment over and over in your mind, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something between you and Dean had shifted.

Dean couldn’t sleep. No matter how many times he flipped onto his side, his back, his stomach, he couldn’t get comfortable. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to shut off.

He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, shadows stretching across the walls as moonlight filtered through the curtains. His muscles were tense, his thoughts running wild, tangled in knots he couldn’t untie.

Damn it.

All he could think about was you. The way you'd smiled today. That soft, breathtaking smile that had made his chest tighten. The warmth of your skin under his hands when he caught you earlier, the way his whole body had reacted without thinking. The way their eyes had locked, the moment stretching between them, charged with something he couldn’t quite put into words.

Then, there was that damn tingle on his wrist. He didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t want to know. Because if he let himself believe it meant something, let himself hope that it was a sign…

That would be dangerous.

Because what if—what if—when your mark finally appeared, it didn’t match his? The thought crushed him. Dean exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

He was in love with you. Hell, he had been in love with you for years, hadn’t he?

It had been there, buried beneath the surface, hidden under teasing grins and late-night rides, in the way he always looked for you first in a crowded room, in the way he felt more at home with you than anywhere else.

And now, it was all unraveling. Because now, he knew. And he couldn’t shove it back down anymore.

But what the hell was he supposed to do? You were his best friend. The one person he couldn’t afford to lose. And yet, he wanted you more than he’d ever wanted anything.

Dean groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He needed air. But instead of walking outside, his feet carried him straight to his truck.

Straight to you.

You were just about to crawl into bed when a soft knock at the door made you freeze. You frowned, glancing at the clock.

Midnight. Who the hell was knocking at this hour?

Heart hammering, you grabbed the baseball bat you kept by the door—just in case—and peeked through the window. Your breath caught.

Dean stood on your porch, hands shoved into his pockets, staring down at the ground. The porch light cast a golden glow on his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the furrow in his brow.

Slowly, you opened the door. “Dean?”

His head snapped up, and for a second, his eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then, his gaze dropped—right to what you were wearing. Your breath hitched as you realized you were standing there in a pair of soft cotton shorts and a small tank top, your usual sleepwear, but it somehow only left little to his imagination.

Dean swallowed thickly, his jaw clenching as he quickly averted his eyes.

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know I’d be getting a visitor tonight. Otherwise, I would’ve changed.”

Dean let out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. I just…” He exhaled sharply. “I needed to see you.”

Something in his tone made your heart stutter. You stepped aside, silently inviting him in. Dean hesitated before stepping past you, hands still jammed into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. You closed the door behind him and turned, watching as he paced across your living room. His movements were restless.

You crossed your arms. “Dean, what’s going on?”

He stopped. Then, finally, he looked at you. And damn if the look in his eyes didn’t nearly knock the breath from your lungs. There was something raw there—something vulnerable.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you, Y/N.”

You blinked. Dean took a step closer.

“I never meant to hurt you. I was just… worried. I know I was an ass, but I—” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling roughly. “I should’ve never said what I said. I was just scared of someone hurting you, but that wasn’t an excuse.” His voice was low, rough around the edges.

Your chest ached at his words.

“I don’t know how to fix this, but I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured.

For a second, you just stared at him, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

Then, slowly, you shook your head. “You don’t have to, Dean.”

He frowned. “What?”

“I forgive you.” A soft smile tugged at your lips, small but genuine.

Dean’s breath hitched. And then, for the first time in a long time, he let himself look at you. Really look at you. The glow of the lamp cast a soft light over your face, highlighting the curve of your cheekbones, the way your lips curled just slightly at the edges. Your hair was tousled from the day, and you looked… beautiful. So damn beautiful it made his chest hurt.

He had always known you were beautiful. But right now, standing in the quiet of your home, barefoot and bathed in the golden light, you were breathtaking.

And that was dangerous. Because you weren’t his. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Dean swallowed hard, shoving those thoughts down.

He forced himself to smirk, his usual defense mechanism kicking in. “You always this easy to forgive people, sweetheart? Or am I just special?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re definitely not special.”

Dean chuckled, but there was something softer in the sound this time. Something warmer. And for the first time in days, the tension between you both didn’t feel quite as heavy.

But as you stood there, inches apart, the air still buzzed with something else—something unspoken. Something neither of you were quite ready to say. Not yet. So, instead, you smiled again.

And Dean? Dean memorized the moment. Because no matter what happened—whether or not fate decided to brand you both with the same mark—he knew one thing for sure.

He was completely, helplessly, irrevocably in love with you.

And he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

author’s note:

I’m sorry for the short chapter guys :( I hope you still enjoyed reading! I promise things are about to ramp up! It’s a little slow in the beginning but things are about to take a sharp turn 😅

tags:

@i-love-ptv @lieutenantchaos @hollywoodxrose @pressedwater @aylacavebear

@bonbonnie88 @lori19 @muhaha82 @freeluigihesbae @muhahaha303

@itsdearapril @sevendevilsinmyimpala @ladysparkles78 @bejeweledinterludes

@supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell (idk if you guys would like to be tagged in this series or just one-shots but lmk! I didn’t want to leave yall out)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out this form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

[toonelemental]

Clicks

The doll's fingers clicked when they moved.

It was a subtle thing, at first. A little hitch in a joint here and there; a sign to take a little extra care in cleaning between segments next time, to ensure there were no obstructions. Easy, smooth movement would return on its own so long as it took care of itself.

Still, its fingers clicked.

It did its best to adjust anything it could think of — it rested its hands, it overworked them, it wore gloves, it soaked them in water, it warmed them, it cooled them, it oiled its joints, it bent its fingers out of position. It even tried "stretching", as if it had muscles to stretch.

It hurt when they clicked. Even when it didn't move its fingers, the doll could still feel the pain. It could feel the tension, no matter what position its hands rested in. The sneaking feeling that as soon as anything moved, it would click and hurt and ache. It cried in pain and frustration and exhaustion.

Its fingers clicked.

Every day, its work became harder. Its delicate, precise movements were disrupted; its stillness and peace in completing its tasks were interrupted by its own worries as much as by the clicking itself.

In the limited time it had for leisure, it could never really stop thinking about its hands, even when they didn't click too badly.

Even when they didn't really hurt. The phantom of that pain was always there, always threatening, always looming over any pleasant time.

Its fingers clicked.

It finally approached its siblings.

"This one cannot stand it anymore," it said, pleading, unable to keep its desperation out of its voice. "It cannot work, it cannot play, it cannot relax. Every moment of its life is spent thinking about something that it can never find relief from!"

"Perhaps," replied a doll, "that one should clean its joints better! Maybe that would help!"

"Perhaps," replied another, "it should try ice, or hot water!"

"Perhaps," said a third, "it just needs to rest!"

"Perhaps," said the fourth, "it needs to bend its joints out of place, to reset them!"

The doll thanked them for their advice, and they all left feeling satisfied they had done a good deed.

When they were gone, the doll wept.

Its fingers clicked.

Its witch was a very busy woman. She spent all of her waking hours occupied, and even with all of her dolls, she could never quite keep up with all she needed to finish.

The doll did not want to approach its witch, but there were no other ideas, and no one else to turn to.

"Please, Miss," it begged. "This one's hands don't work right anymore. It takes more and more time to finish its tasks every day. Its hands ache, it can barely think when they are at their worst —"

"Stop," its witch said, frustrated. "Please. I want to help that one, but I'm just so busy." She pushed some things on her messy desk aside, picked up a book, threw it on the floor carelessly — the doll winced at this and picked it up to make sure it wasn't damaged — then, finally, opened a planner and flipped through its pages. "Thirty two days."

"Miss?" asked the doll with confusion as it forced its shaky hands to place the book in its proper place on the shelf.

"Thirty two days. That is when I'll have time to think about this. That one will come back to me then, and I'll see what I can do."

"Oh! Thank you so much, Miss! This one appreciates its witch's time and attention, and —"

"Please go," said its witch.

"R-Right," replied the doll. "Yes, Miss."

For thirty two more days, its fingers clicked.

It returned to its witch at the appointed time.

"What was it that that one needed again?" asked the witch, impatience in her voice.

"Its hands, Miss. They hurt and they shake. Its fingers click when they move, and it cannot properly complete its tasks or even relax without them aching."

"And that hurts a lot?"

"Only sometimes, Miss. But it always hurts a little. Every single day, at all hours, it hurts, and even a little hurt for such a long time feels unspeakably horrible." Tears formed in the doll's eyes. Its witch would help. She always knew what to do.

Its witch took its hand, barely taking time to examine it. "It should take better care of them. Dirt in the joints can cause clicking and unevenness."

"It has been, Miss," it replied. "It cares for its hands meticulously, ever since this started."

"I see," said the witch. "Then it should ice its hands, then warm them again. That can help the joints settle back into place."

"It already has," said the doll. "Please, Miss, there has to be something else, it has tried all it can think of."

"Sometimes," said the witch through a sigh, her eyes rolling, "by snapping the joints out of place, one can find where they should be set, and —"

"It already has!" cried the doll. Its anguish was so extreme it hadn't even noticed it was cutting off its beloved witch. "It has done everything! It came to you because it needs help, Miss! Please!" It began to cry, loudly and openly.

The witch snapped the book on her desk closed and stood up. "There is only one other answer I have, then."

"Please, Miss. It will accept anything!"

"I will give that one the name of a watchmaker. He will be able to disassemble your hands, clean them, and replace things as necessary. That process will likely take months. When he is done, that one's hands will need to be trained to move properly again. It will be like learning to use them all over again. Most likely, it will never be as good at using them as it is its current hands."

The doll couldn't stop its tears. "And you will help it with this, Miss?"

"I will not," the witch replied. She wasn't even looking at the doll anymore. "It will have to work out how to deal with all that on its own. Including the payment."

"...The payment, Miss?"

"He will want money for his services, you mindless thing," snapped the witch. "And I will not be paying it. You will need to continue to complete your duties, too. I do not have time to waste waiting for a broken doll to be repaired."

"But," it said, in a small voice, "How could it possibly do that, Miss?"

"That is that one's burden to bear, not mine."

"Miss —"

"That one will return to its duties now," said the witch. "This meeting is over."

The doll left in tears, too devastated to function. Its siblings picked up its work for the day, and the day after that. How could it possibly handle any of that? Could it really risk being thrown out to get its hands fixed? How could it get money or maintain itself without working hands?

The doll knew what it had to do.

A year had passed, and the doll completed its tasks. Slower than it used to be, hands much shakier than they ever had been. It ached every day, but one can get used to that, if it had to.

It was better this way. The best thing to do is simply not to complain about problems like this. It only got bad advice and disdain when it did, and it couldn't bear the thought of being thrown away or of losing its life here with its siblings and its witch. There was no reason good enough to fix its hands, and it didn't have the means even if there were.

So it did its work.

And its fingers clicked.

[callia-evergreen]

god i really want to get back into making cosplay/costume stuff but everything sounds overwhelming i dont even know how to articulate why its just. i havent actually done it very much and its hard

i usually get my mom to help me figure out how to do this stuff but its like. she has a full time job and even less of a clue than i do at making this kind of stuff. (other than sewing which she has mostly just made clothes)

id love to try to figure out how to do this stuff on my own or maybe find some people to actually help or at least to takl about it with or SOMETTHING but theres like. not really a community locally and im betting that even if there were regular meetups id do a horrible job of actually showing up if it wasnt something mandatory like school

i feel like im always overestimating how much i can do and how well i can do it and so even when i make something cool its still sorta frustrating.. and mostly its just so much work and then i get relatively little use out of it too

i dunno i have several projects i still need to finish and many many more that ive never started. lol. but i still feel like maybe it would be cool to try to do something. i feel like i want to make some dragonish type thing like horns or tail or something but i feel like i dont know where to start. maybe horns would be more doable cause tail seems like it would need a whole fuckin thing underneath to stay on, and apparently people just use headbands for horns? ive only ever made small forehead horns but big ones would be cool maybe but they seem difficult to balance and have them stay on

sorry this is probably hard to read but i just need to type this shit out somehwere to actually think about it i guess. screaming into the void or whatever with the small chance that someone might actually see it and maybe be able to offer some advice i dunno.

i know theres templates online for some of this stuff but it would be nice to be able to figure it out myself too. to be able to make stuff in more specific and different shapes and stuff

[starry-bi-sky]

yall ever think Shen Yuan went through like, internet withdrawal after being transmigrated into Shen Qingqiu? Like, he's canonically a NEET shut-in who did nothing but spend his time online, you can't tell me that for the first week or first few weeks of being SQQ he wasn't twitchy.

Like, reaching instinctively to his pockets for a phone that wasn't there, having an obsessive itch in the back of his mind that he should check and see if X or Y novel or webcomic has updated -- only to realize he can't anymore and being irritated by it. Wanting to go and see if there's new posts about this or that, but again realizing that he can't.

When he's bored or uncomfortable or just feels like wanting to escape he tries to go for his phone to distract himself, but oops! Not there anymore, and now he has to find a new and different way to distract himself from his feelings. And going through system notifications, quests, etc only does so much.

And there's that Tetris Effect too. SQQ makes a mistake while writing and instinctively goes to backspace on it except hey-ho that's not a keyboard and now he just dipped his pinkie into a bottle of ink or on a still-drying letter.

With him scrambling to fix his reputation and learn how to be a peak lord, I think his abrupt cold-turkey from all things internet would just be another straw on the camel's back that he promptly Ignores until it goes away on its own after he acclimates to his new surroundings.

[phagodyke]

aouuugh my uterus......

[zoppzoop]

GAAHAHHHHH

[gibbearish]

the thing with autism right. is i know if i was having a full mental health crisis what i would end up doing is going to the emergency room and being like "hello, my name is (x) birthday (y), um i was hoping to talk to you about potential mental health inpatient care? i'm currently having a mental health crisis and don't think i can be trusted on my own" like if there's one thing i can be sure will live on in me no matter how hard the brainworms try. is my fucking customer service voice

[lucyhasnoidea]

tbh i just feel like nothing in my life sparks joy right now

[starry-bi-sky]

SURPRISE! I am still not done thinking about this.

-------

Danny has a problem.

No, actually he has two problems.

Three problems?

Four. All of them are related, and all of them are loosely connected to one another. Half of them are long-term, somewhat passive problems. Passive in the sense that he is not actively being bothered by it right this moment.

The other half are twins and are currently giving him active, in-the-moment 'oh shit' problems.

He ducks under Red Robin's bō, one hand secured tightly onto his backpack full of stolen tech -- tech being a loose term, he thinks. -- and, keeping half-a-mind on the weight imbalance, loosens a kick to birdie's face.

"You missed." He comments, his brain-to-mouth filter failing him as it normally does in fights, and watches as Red Robin manages to get out of the way in time before his heel can meet his jaw. Danny uses that pause and brief change in distance to righten his footing, and widen that distance between them both.

Well, as much as he can with the two of them on a rooftop. He needs to get off of here before reinforcements show up.

Red Robin twirls his staff, the action unsurprisingly graceful and just as threatening, and Danny politely ignores the thrill it rushes down his spine. "You too."

It's not often that Danny steals tech in Gotham, but he's pretty sure that in the handful of times he's been here, he's managed to firmly situate himself as a member of Red Robin's Rogues Gallery. Which; great, fantastic. It's not his fault that red-winged blackbird over there was always the one to catch up with him first.

How the hell did this happen when he doesn't frequent Gotham for his heists half as much as the other cities?

If it wasn't already obvious: Danny's current, active two problems are Red Robin. The first being that he was being pursued by him, the second, however?

Danny's pretty sure he's developing some kind of crush.

Red lunges at him, and on the downswing of his staff, Danny makes his backpack weightless and all but pirouettes out of the way. Reaching out to yank on Red Robin's cape hard enough that he loses his balance.

He usually has a strategy for these fights to avoid gathering more attention than he already has, and revealing the full extent of his powers!

That strategy is: Avoid getting socked, toss them around a little if need be, and then get the hell out of dodge the moment he can!

The uneducated may call it cowardly. Danny calls it a proportional response. Nobody kills a spider with a flamethrower.

As for that crush -- don't ask him how it happened. He doesn't know-- okay that's a lie. It's a complete and utter lie and Danny knows it. He knows why.

He'd like to say that it's because of his ghost half -- instincts, habits, new behavioral changes that result in his very physiology being altered. But that would ALSO be a lie. Danny just has weird fucking taste and he knows it.

There was a running theme, and he can deny it no longer!

He has a type for obsessive little freaks intent on ruining his day.

Valerie Gray: local ghost hunter who he (accidentally) ruined the life of, and who in turn swore vengeance against him and all ghosts. Obsessed with routinely kicking his ass whatever chance she gets.

Wes Weston (a crush he will take to his fucking GRAVE): Discovered his secret identity on accident, vowed to reveal it to the rest of school. Now obsessively stalks him any chance he gets. Danny has routinely stolen his camera to otherwise delete, destroy, or steal the photos he has on it.

(Danny's crush on Wes Weston completely blindsided him, and lasted him all the way up to the moment Danny was unceremoniously dumped into another dimension. Sam already gives him enough shit for dating Valerie, he can't imagine what she'd do if she found out he was crushing on the boy intent on revealing his secret identity.)

(His only excuse is that Wes' cringefail attitude, sheer dedication, and stalkerish tendencies charmed him. He never said it was a good excuse.)

And now Red Robin.

But there was another running theme, for Danny specifically, when it came to his crushes. Now a safe distance away again, Danny's mouth tilts into a cocky smile and his heart thuds loud in his ears. "You're off your A-game tonight, Red. Something got your feathers all clipped?"

That is: mercilessly teasing his crush. Danny genuinely can't explain it, but riling up the object of his affections created a thrill like no other. Something about seeing their faces turn cherry red and their pupils dilate. It's like a lion watching a limping gazelle across the savannah, the smell of blood urging it to pursue.

Birdie did not blush easy, but by the gods, Danny had fun trying.

Red Robin huffs, shooting back at him a sarcastic smile while he readjusts the grip on his bō. They circle around each other; "Just missed you, Luci. Heard you hit up one of Luthor's warehouses last month, I'm hurt, we've got perfectly good tech here."

Luci. Short for Illusa, which in turn is, apparently, a term for 'illusion'. Danny did not pick out the name, it -- like all his interactions with the media -- was assigned to him. He has to hand it to the guy who coined the name though; it's leagues above something like Inviso-Bill and Ghost Boy.

He huffs a low laugh, ignoring the flippity-flop of his heart as a croon rises in the back of his throat. "Don't be too mad at me, cat-food. Lexie had something I wanted." He adjusts his backpack so it fit more comfortably on his shoulders. Bits and bobbles he needed to build his portal gun. Wires, scrap metal, gadgets and gizmos he could take apart for their parts. Thats what he needs.

"And that is?" In the dim lighting, Danny watches the edges of Red Robin's mask raise like an eyebrow.

His smile turns sharp, baring. His mouth moves before his brain does; "Come over here for a kiss, pretty bird, and I might just tell you."

Danny Is An Alternate Version Of Ra's Al Ghul And Flash Already Called Dibs On Adopting Him

Danny In All His Sleep Deprived Slightly Scuffed Up From A Fight Glory Is On His Way To Clockworks Tower To Hopefully Get A Nap And Maybe Some Homework Done When A Natural Portal Opens Up In Front Of Him And Proceeds To Unceremoniously Drop Him In The DC Verse Just Outside Of Central City Before Promptly Closing Leaving A Tired Danny Behind In A Run Down Abandoned Parking Lot.

It's Times Like This When Danny Regrets Putting Off Learning How To Make His Own Portals, Cause Now He Is Very Much Stuck For The Foreseeable Future And He Has No Idea Where Or When He Is. Luckily For Him However Central City Isn't Too Far Away, Unlucky For Him However Is That Once In The City He Realizes This Isn't His Dimension. He's Pretty Sure He'd Remember Something Called The Justice League.

So What Do You Do When Supernatural Bullshit Fails You? You Fall Back On Your Mad Scientist Roots And You Make A Portal Gun. So That's Exactly What Danny Plans To Do.

Unfortunately Staying Alive And Building Questionably Safe Portal Technology Requires Money And Supplies, So He Ends Up Wandering From City To City Doing Odd Jobs/Fixing Up Busted Tech For Cash Or Unwanted Electronics For His "Operation: Get Home" Needs. This Obviously Ends In A Few Superhero Encounter Shenanigans.

Though He Always Ends Up Back Near Central City, Both On The Off Chance The Natural Portal Will Open Up Again And Because Out Of All The Superheroes That Apparently Exist In This Universe The Speedsters Are His Favorite (Red Robin Is Solidly His Second Favorite Ever Since The Gotham Vigilante Gave Him A Large Coffee Filled With Enough Caffeine To Kill A Man).

Unbeknownst To Danny However Is That Every Hero/Vigilante He Has Encountered Has Come To At Least One Of The Following Conclusions; 1. Run Away Meta Who Is In Desperate Need Of A Good Meal/Adoption Bait. 2. Possibly Red Robin/Tim Drake Clone 3. A Good Kid But Could Possibly Be A Future Rouge If Left Unsupervised. 4. Did Bats Get A New Kid And Why Is He Here?

All Flash Knows Is That He Saw The Kid First And Therefore Has Dibs. Suck It Bruce.

Fast-forward A Few Months And Danny Gets Hurt During A Rogue Attack While Trying To Help Some Civilians Get To Safety (Old Hero Habits Die Hard (Ha Die Hard) And All That Jazz) And He Nopes Out Once Everyone Is Safe And When The Paramedics Are Busy With Other People Unaware He Left A Blood Sample Behind.

One DNA Test Brought To You By Paranoid Bat Concerns Of A Possible Red Robin Clone Later And They Find Out That Dannys DNA Matches One Ra's Al Ghul.

They Now Think Danny Is An Escaped Ra's Al Ghul Clone.

Memes For The Vibes:

[jackass-jones]

Had a very bad day Gotta eat gravel

[wriokitty]

khaenriahn princess reader x knight capitano ; jealous capitano ; implied hidden relationship ; pre cataclysm ; royal au ; capitano is not cursed yet so his skin is supple and youthful ; banter and fluff

“There is word, my lady,” his voice says lowly. You hum, reaching over to grab at his helmet. Capitano gently captures your hand before you can, pulling it away from its path to uncover his face. There’s a fleeting frown on your lips, but it’s gone as soon as he brings it up and presses a small, delicate kiss to the knuckles through the dark cloth that hides him from you.

“Oh? What of, my dear knight?” You ask curiously. Something tells him it’s almost mockingly innocent.

“That there is a rather…determined prince seeking your hand in marriage.”

Sometimes, it feels unfair that very rarely do you get to see the face hidden underneath the armor, but you suppose you don’t need to see Capitano to know exactly what emotion is twisted in his face. You fight back an amused grin—his voice tells you all you need to know.

You’re certain he must taste his own bitterness as the words fall from his tongue.

“Such grand news,” you gasp, “and yet…you speak with such hesitation. Has this news not brought you joy, my captain?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says unamused, voice low and just shy of a grumble, “I value your wellbeing above all. Should a capable prince ask for your hand, I would be most delighted if that is what you accept.”

“You do not sound delighted at the idea,” you tease.

“Perhaps my lady has not given me reason to think she would be interested in such a proposition,” he mutters.

This time, his voice does, in fact, sound the slightest bit petulant—like a child who sulks after being scolded. His tone is usually one that is far too courteous. Painfully so, in fact. (You’ve spent a good number of exasperating moments insisting he be more casual with you. You reap the rewards of those efforts few and far in between). But now, he betrays himself with a flicker of frustration, far too evidently for even you to miss.

He realizes too late how childish the words must sound spoken so irritably. You can tell that he clenches his jaw, seeing the tension even under the mask as he forces himself to still the bitterness spreading through his veins.

“Tell me, my dear knight,” you grin. You can imagine the unhappy lift of his brow as you speak, “what makes you so certain I would be disinterested in such an enticing offer?”

“It seems my assumptions were incorrect,” he grunts, straightening his back before promptly adding, “forgive me, my lady. I must see to rather urgent military affairs. I shall be seeing you—”

“Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Sir Capitano,” you quip, your hand grabbing at his wrist, tugging him towards you. He stills, stiff as a statue as your hand reaches for his helmet once more.

This time, he doesn’t stop you. He allows the lithe, delicate fingers he knows so well to grab at the edge of his helmet, carefully tugging it off before his face slowly reveals itself to you. You smile, cupping a cheek before tracing your thumb along the soft skin of his face.

“I am not jealous,” he says stubbornly.

“Haven’t they taught you never to lie to a princess?” You hum, stepping closer. His lips twitch just a fraction at the edges before two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you towards him. Flush against his chest. Tucked right against his heart. Pressed so close, you almost wonder if you could feel his heart beating through the armor if you paid close enough attention.

“You torment me, my lady,” he murmurs quietly, “I fear I cannot accept this arrangement. It would tear through my soul to watch you be wed to another.”

“Then do not watch me,” you whisper.

You have seen his eyes flicker with soft, warm affection countless times. There is beauty underneath the helmet he wears so often, beauty that not many are so fortunate to see. You see it often, though. In private, hidden moments that he affords you. In the quiet of your chambers where the maids cannot disturb you. In the corners of the palace where no one can interrupt your fleetingly lingering touches and longing gazes.

Your hands hold his face, slowly pulling him closer as you study every precious slope across his skin. The slightly jagged curve of his nose. The plumpness of his lips. The slant of his sharp cheekbones. Every feature you know by heart, and revisit in your dreams.

You smile lightly at the thought of his jealousy, as guilty as you should feel for teasing him. Your knight—and you, his beloved princess.

“Do you wish to marry a prince?” He asks, leaning into your neck, breathing in your scent as his nose trails up your jaw until it reaches your cheek. Your breath hitches. His lips quirk into a smile.

“I wish to marry someone who owns my heart,” you say breathlessly, “prince or not.”

“Perhaps what you need is someone who is far more capable of carrying the weight of your heart. You possess rather discerning taste—it is not easy to please you, my lady.”

You huff, glaring at him from the corner of your eyes as you ask, “do you mean to call me difficult?”

“Among other things,” he chuckles. There’s a light, teasing trail of kisses pressed to your skin, leading straight to your lips. Capitano knows exactly what he’s doing, though—he stops just at the corner of them, making you pout as you try to lean in and close the gap.

He grins smugly, pulling away just enough to create distance between your mouths.

“You should not toy with a princess,” you say, displeased.

He hums, rubbing the small of your back as he counters, “and you should not toy with the heart of a man devoted to you.”

“Forgive me, my dear knight,” you murmur, gently bringing his face closer as your hands cradle his face once more, “I shall not torment you with such teasing again.”

“I am most grateful, your highness,” he fights back a chuckle.

Jealousy is unbecoming on someone as noble as the captain of your military forces. You like the way it looks on him just a little, anyway. Love the way his posture is more rigid and his voice is sharper when forced to consider the possibility of your heart yearning elsewhere. Enjoy the way he holds you tighter and closer as cool armor steals your warmth.

“Shall I tell this prince I am not interested?” You ask with a knowing look.

He hums thoughtfully, a smug smile playing on his lips as he replies, “no, I think I’d rather witness the expression of his highness when he realizes his charms hold no sway over you—a rare defeat for a man so certain of his allure.”

“Someday I shall marry you, my dear knight,” you whisper. Finally, with a softened look, he leans in to kiss you. Slow. Delicate. So gentle, it almost feels like you are one whisper from the wind away from falling apart.

“I look forward to it, my lady. Not even celestia could stop me from claiming your hand.”

————————

The last line is a big rip if you know what I mean 😔

[gomtangii]

oh my my my!

caleb x fem!reader wc: 1.027k (the nctzen in me is screaming) cw: caleb is insane, cunnilingus, pet names (princess, pipsqeuak), caleb has endless stamina again, fat cock caleb, cock-drunk reader, mating press, slight breeding kink, p in v penetration, unprotected sex, unrealistic sex lol, i did not mean to write this much actually, not edited!

TIME: 11:12 PM LOCATION: SKYHAVEN, CALEB'S APARTMENT: LIVING ROOM

...what did he say? all you did was confront caleb about why the two of you haven't had sex yet, but what did he just say?

"my... penis... is too big." he mutters shyly, a blush spread across his cheeks and ears paired with an expression you've never seen on his face before. you stare at him, mouth agape. you take a moment to to process what he said before stifling a laugh, making caleb frown even more.

"that's it?"

"i'm being serious! i don't want to hurt you."

you smile at him with a sigh, a bit relieved that was his answer. you place a kiss on his cheek that he grumpily accepts, pulling you close to him.

"sounds like you're just going to have to do a better job at prepping me then," you smirk, a hint of mirth in your voice. the look in his eye changes, arousal pooling in his irises.

"is that a challenge, pipsqueak?" he cocks an eyebrow, pulling you closer to him by the waist, "i'm just not sure if you can handle it."

"is that a challenge?" you glare at him, suddenly feeling yourself get competitive too. it's not like you were going to lose, right?

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

TIME: 1:39 AM LOCATION: SKYHAVEN, CALEB'S APARTMENT: YOUR BEDROOM

you were, however, indeed losing.

you blink past the stars that caleb was making you see. it's been about 2 hours since he started eating you out, his licks and bites relentless. he gives one last harsh suck to your clit before pulling away, looking at the art he's created.

you're shaking, your pussy became puffy thanks to his ministrations, and there are countless bites and marks around your thighs.

"looks like you bit off more than you could chew, hm? princess?" he kisses your temple, caressing your hair and arms to calm you down from your nth orgasm.

"can... still take more..." you mumble, gripping onto his shirt, frustrated that he's still clothed while you were stripped naked. you feels his hands drag against your arms, your abdomen, before reaching just above your mound.

"you sure? we still got a bit more before you can actually fit me." he warns, his fingers dangerously close to your entrance. you nod, but he ignores it. "words, baby, need you to say it out loud for me."

"mm—" you moan, feeling his fingers graze your clit, "i... i can take it! just fuck me already!"

he plunges two fingers into you and you cum immediately, squirting onto his palm. his hands were big, you knew that, but they were reaching places you couldn't manage to touch yourself.

"fuck, you're so wet," he groans, sucking another mark onto your neck as he fucks his hand into you, "maybe i don't need to do this—maybe you can fit me like this."

he takes his fingers out and you whine, trying to pull him back in. he ignores you, using his other hand to hold both of your wrists above your head as he licks his essence off of his fingers, not wanting to waste a single drop.

he unbuckles his belt swiftly, letting his cock spring out, the tip angry and leaking with precum. it's drenched with its own cum because he couldn't hold back, your moans and whines were enough for him to climax without being touched—if only you knew the effect you had on him. he presses his cock against your entrance and you shudder at his size, suddenly unsure if you could really take it. you try to shy away, scooting your body away from him when he catches you, caging you in his arms as he pins you down.

"aw, don't tell me you're scared now?" he laughs, being uncharacteristically mean. he pushes the tip of his dick a bit further into you, slowly stretching you out with a groan.

"if you can't take it anymore, you just gotta say the word." you glare at him, yanking on his arm to pull his face closer to yours.

"i already said 'fuck me!'"

"as you wish," he smirks, "gotta give my girl what she wants, hm?"

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

TIME: 3:54 AM, YOU THINK. LOCATION: SKYHAVEN, YOU THINK. YOUR BEDROOM... YOU THINK.

you're on all fours, trying to get away from caleb as he pounds you mercilessly, his cum spilling out of your cunt and pooling onto the sheets. his cock is so, so big, you think you're cumming with every thrust, but you're not sure. you don't know how many times you've cum tonight, but you do know that he's made you pass out a few times.

"c-can't... can't..." you cry softly, the pleasure too much for your poor pussy to handle.

"say the word, then. then we'll be at 1 - 0." he taunts, "do you even remember the word, baby?"

you gulp down a sob, nodding while humming weakly as he slows down his thrusts to give you the chance to speak.

"i-i—" you stutter, your mind hazy with cock, "caleb—"

"my name isn't a safeword," he chuckles, "it's Linkon, okay?"

you nod and he smiles sweetly, kissing your forehead before tossing you onto your back, slowly pushing your thighs up and into a mating press.

"just a bit more," he kisses you again, starting up his thrusts once more, "just one more and then it'll be your win."

he resumes the pace he had before, the sound reverberating throughout the bedroom. it's almost animalistic, the marks and bites all over your body, the way your pussy can't even hold in his cum anymore—it's almost like he's trying to breed you, trying to make it stick. you cum weakly, squirting a bit as your eyes roll back. at this point, it's not just stars you're seeing, you can see the entire deepspace tunnel thanks to him. he feels the way your cunt convulses around him and he grunts, unable to stall any longer and he fills you up one last time. his cum floods your womb and spills out, only adding to the mess below you two.

"i guess it's 0 - 1 now. too bad i lost," he says with a smile.

oopsies... caleb u r my muse... also the safeword line has been all over my tl so i couldn't help but implement it! showed up at the perfect time :3

also i actually do not have any ideas on good safewords to use for the men... if yall wanna send some my way in my ask so i can use them in future fics !!!!!

[screampied]

Sukuna’s tongue on his abdomen. You do the rest 😫

❤︎ ໋𓈒 asking to ride sukuna's stomach tongue while you make out with him

warnings. fem! reader, true form sukuna, riding his stomach tongue, cunnilinguś, dirty talk, praise, mdni.

“. . woman, don’t mumble,” he’d sneer, an arm hooked around your waist. you panted, suddenly feeling small. he sat manspread on his throne, occasionally brushing a thumb against the edges of your hips. dark irises stare you down before he continues to speak in a rough tone. “repeat yourself. and look at me when you speak, i taught you well, did i not?”

your eyes ran down every inch of his body, all down sukuna’s washboard abs before it leers near that particular spot. near the lower part of his torso, where a merely pried open mouth rests. you couldn’t help but ponder to yourself, imagining such raunchy things about the extra mouth that attached towards the outer part of his stomach.

“i said . .” you project your voice slightly, still speaking softly. the air felt thick all around you, you swallow an invisible lump in your throat as you straddle him before sighing. “your extra mouth near . . there,” and you point, watching his dark eyes glance to where you’re referring to. “can— may i sit on it?”

“ah,” he snickers, already knowing you were gonna ask him that anyway. sukuna brings a hand towards his mouth, wiping underneath his nose before humming. “you’re such an odd girl,” and his voice deepens, its pitch sends a plethora of tingles to wander all throughout your body. “you may. but first,” and you stare into his eyes, watching as he grabs your chin, gently skimming his thumb alongside your lip as if he was parting your lips to converse. “say those words for me, pretty please.”

as he runs a thumb against your lip, you stare right into his dark hooded eyes. he slyly smiles at you, his fangs briefly poking out as he awaited for those sweet honeyed words to escape.

“but ryo,” you pout, aware he went by sukuna but you always shortened his name whenever you didn’t get your way right away.

“hmph,” he huffs out a husky breath, raising your chin up slightly as you still sat on his lap. your panties that were already pulled to the side pokes underneath your skirt before you inch closer towards him—closer towards his perfectly sculpted chest. “don’t 'ryo' me, girl. manners, let’s use those today, yeah?”

a long silence occurs before you blow, and he finds your frustration entirely adorable…

“pretty please,” you repeat his words, a cute grumble hidden underneath your tone. “pretty please can you allow me on your s-stomach so i can . .”

“never told you to go into detail, nasty girl,” he chortles, and his deep voice made you throb. such bass in it, it boomed throughout the entire palace.

“mhm . . . but as you wish,” and two big hands grab onto the sides of your waist. with a brief lift, you’re scooted up further against his abdomen where the closed mouth resides. “you’re gonna have to either hold on or i’m gonna have you hold you up, princess.”

“okay,” you suck in a sharp breath, wrapping your cute frail arms around him. he’s got this stare that’s so intimidating—so attractive.

you felt him hold your hips in place, guiding you where to sit. he had to slouch a bit against his throne, and you were finally sat. his eyes pierce into yours and he’s awaiting for your reaction. “how does it work, ‘kuna?”

“heh. oh you’ll see,” he grunts, and then moments later, you feel it — a slow lick that runs straight against your panties. your facial expression was cute, taken aback but cute. it felt like usual, how he’d eat you out whenever, just a tad bit different.

the tongue was a bit more lengthy, you moan once you jerk against him before slumping into his chest. “tell me little one,” he says, holding you with his front arms, kissing the tip of your forehead, another ruffling your hair. “how’s my extra tongue making you feel?”

it was so sloppy, you shudder once you hear a brief slurp commence and your eyes merely roll back.

“g—goooood,” you drag out, and he chuckles at how you start to grind against his abdomen. “it feels good, ‘kuna. don’t s—stop.”

“like i said before, such an odd one you are,” he gruffs lowly. from your sheer pleasure, he found himself getting slightly aroused himself. your sweetened moans going all up against his ear makes him smile. you just couldn’t stay still, the more you felt the tongue lap against your sopping cunt — the more you felt the need to grind against him even further. “is it better than my regular tongue?”

“s-stop talking, ‘kuna,” you whine, being taken over with pure lust. it felt so good—you couldn’t exactly put the feeling into words, but you felt yourself grow hot. it was as if the tongue had a mind of its own. flicking vigorously all between your folds, you profusely twitch. “hold me.”

he snickers, his lower arms gripping onto your waist like velcro.

“oh, how humorous. the human has the nerve to tell me what to do,” and you gnaw on your lip, feeling yourself start to dissolve into a blissful trance. the tongue went in multiple directions, circular and all. it spelled out a plethora of things including the alphabet, all over your pussy. you’ve never experienced anything like it. curiosity did kill the cat after all. “you taste sweet. have you been playing with yourself recently?”

“n— no,” you murmur in a weak voice, knowing you were about to approach your peak soon. it was so quick paced, you barely had time to keep up with your own shortened breaths. your voice sounded so small, it trembled on every word and symbol and he just snickers. “i didn’t.”

“look into my eyes and tell me you didn’t touch yourself,” he utters in a growl, gripping your chin as his lower tongue continued to wander all throughout your folds. you were soaked, the more you rutted your jittery hips against him—you became more and more close. his thumb swipes against your lip before he hums out of amusement. “yeah. go on,” he says after you suddenly grow quiet after eight dreadfully long seconds pass. “girl, i don’t have all day.”

you moan, feeling the licks against your sopping entrance fuel up a longing hunger that stirred up inside you. the tongue was slow, making sure to savor every inch of your honeyed taste. your arms remained wrapping around his broad shoulders before you lean in to kiss him.

“foolish woman,” he titters, pressing a finger against your lips. your eyes stare at his long well trimmed nail before averting back towards him. “if you want a kiss from me, you’d say what i tell you to say.”

the pout that stretches against the corners of your lips never cease, he was impossible.

you felt yourself throb at the countless sensational slurps the extra tongue made, you were panting . . hurriedly chasing your irregular rough breaths to only fail, as if it were some sort of lewd competition.

“f— fine,” you grouse, a pout still on your lips. he raises an eyebrow with a smirk, awaiting for your pathetic words that eventually comes. “i … i touched myself when you weren’t here, ‘kuna.”

“and what exactly was the reason for that?” he jibes.

you glare at him but it falters quickly, your eyebrows furrowing into a sweet curl once you’re about to let out a frenzied teeth shattering orgasm.

“i was bored. you’re always away doing boring king stuff and i just—”

“silly girl,” he cuts you off in a sonorous voice, swiftly shaking his head at you describing his royal devoirs as ‘boring king stuff’. you feel your heart flutter once your cunt clenches. you whimper, a fire igniting within you and your thighs suddenly ached. you felt it coming all too well. it was inevitable, your legs trembled the more the tongue lapped against your pussy at a more quickened speed. “don’t care what your reason is, this pussy’s only for my hands ‘n my hands only.”

alas, you were melting, metaphorically speaking but your entire body felt like it was.

it was so lewd, it’s slurping rang through your ears before moments later . . you jolt forward, feeling your release finally come. you came, a coil within you tightening and snapping before you whimper into his arms.

“s— sukunaaa,” you tremor, and that’s when he finally brings you into a loving kiss.

finally, you sink into his warm embrace, still grinding your hips briefly against the mouth that laid against his lower torso. your mouth pops open, glossed lips parting before you skim your tongue against his. he laughs, a hand of his slithering down your back in such a teasing way. you were still moving despite your entire body resuming to ride out your recent orgasm.

his embrace was soft, caressing the tiny hairs that stood up against your back . . lovingly.

as your tongue ran against his, you felt his fangs and you moan right into his mouth — a hand slowly trailing down his chiseled chest. he groans, deepening the kiss before grabbing your chin, tilting your head forward. foreheads touch briefly and it’s so soft.

you’re rocking back and forth, still pulsing heavily before after a while, he pulls away. you’re out of breath, the tongue still laid against your clit before your droopy hooded eyes stare into him.

“. . awww,” he slyly taunts, noticing your dumb expression. all that just from his extra tongue, he hums to himself once more before tilting your chin. “now now, what do we say afterwards?”

“t- thank you, ‘kuna,” and then you let off a deep sigh. “i love you.”

“mhm,” he rasps lowly, leaning forward to plant another sweet kiss on the top of your forehead. “i love you too, princess,” and then a long pause occurs. you’re staring at him, no words escaping but you look like you were desperately yearning to ask him something. “speak, girl.”

in short pants, you feel near his pecs before stammering out in shy words. “can— can we do that again, pretty please?”

sukuna smirks, his eyes briefly rolling before he cocks his neck. he lets off a low grumble before his eyes linger down towards the slick mess you created on him. “hm. as you wish. this time though, you cum when i tell you. understand?”

“yes, ‘kuna.”

“that’s a good girl.”

[seumyo]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ 5:48

Bakugou’s in his third year of high school when he finally invites you over to his house. The reason? To finish a calculus project.

You’d think that after surviving through the hardships of being a hero-in-training together for three years, saving each other’s lives (more often you were the one being saved than doing the saving, really), and whatnot, he would’ve invited you sooner to his home (one could dream).

But this was Bakugou, after all.

And he knew that something was off the moment he left you to share a conversation with his mom while he went to get his books from his room—the greatest mistake he could have ever done because by the time he’s making his way back, Bakugou could hear you snickering to yourself.

Not a good sign.

“I’m not going to lie; you looked hideous when you were a baby,” you say, reading through Bakugou’s baby album.

Bakugou froze. He had absolutely no idea why his mother would cave in and give you the godforsaken album from when he was young, but of course she would’ve agreed with your request to see it if you did so much as mention it.

He dropped the books he’d grabbed from on top of his desk on top of the living room table before whipping his attention towards you, an indignant scoff escaping through his nose before he took a few slow, but heavy stomps over to you—practically snatching the album from your grasp when he’s within reach.

“Stop looking through those stupid pictures.”

“Hey! I wasn’t finished,” you reply with a frown. “You’re lucky my phone’s battery just died, or else I would’ve taken a billion photos.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched slightly as he grumbled curses under his breath, trying to flip through the album in his hands to make sure you hadn’t managed to sneak a photo out—a small sigh of relief rolling off of his tongue to find that, luckily, it was still how his parents had done it.

He shot a glare over towards you, stuffing the album back into its original spot on one of the bookshelves, his nose crinkling as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t care; tell anyone what you saw, and you’ll drop dead,” he tells you.

“Oh, but how could I not? That photo album’s like hitting the jackpot—so many super ultra rare photocards of you,” you gushed, blatantly disregarding his usual threat. “Come on, I wanna see the rest!”

“Absolutely not.” 

Bakugou knew the damn photos were in the back of the album. There were probably a handful of the ones where he was in the bathtub, butt-naked—a common photo in most photo albums he’s seen, at least. Other photos include when he was three years old and wore an All Might onesie for his birthday, pictures of him during his school recital where he was the prince, him with a bald haircut, and so much more blackmail material. 

It was humiliating, for goodness sake! And he knew you’d just tease him mercilessly if you saw it.

You’ll never let him live it down, so it’s best to deprive you of it.

“Don’t come at me for saying this, but I was the cutest baby in our village back then,” you told him proudly. “Had the roundest cheeks and brightest smile, trust.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, a huff of air forcing itself past his lips. That was one thing about you that he couldn’t stand; you were so full of yourself most of the time—you’d always been like that, and he absolutely loathed it. It could be that it reminds him of himself, so the competitive meter on his head just flares whenever he’s around you.

“I doubt you were even 1% of how adorable I was as a baby.”

“Have you seen me?” you gestured to your face with your hands to emphasize your facial features. 

“I’m still as cute even now. And no offense, Bakugou,” you giggled, “you looked like a wrinkly raisin on your first few days on this Earth.”

Bakugou’s smirk dropped. He’d almost forgotten that you had seen the stupid pictures already.

“Shut the hell up. It wasn’t that bad.” He muttered quietly, his hands balling into frustrated fists. His parents always assured him that he was a cute kid when he was small—but to hear that YOU of all people, are in disagreement with that is just aggravating.

“Fine, fine. Quits it is,” you hum. “Let’s do that calculus project so I can get home before sunset.”

Bakugou grumbled something inaudible under his breath, reluctantly nodding his head in agreement. There was no point in arguing about something so idiotic—after all, both of you were there to get a project done, not to sit around and bicker about his past.

He took a few steps over to the living room table before plopping down on the polished floor ungracefully, yanking out his notes before he gestured his hand over towards the free space next to him.

“Sit down. Let’s just get this thing done and over with already.”

Bakugou had already started working silently by the time you sat down; his hand was writing almost furiously as he copied equations onto his paper. He kept his attention focused on his notes, trying to stay quiet as he focused completely on completing the project.

He eventually stopped writing for a moment, turning his gaze over to glance at what you were doing before clicking his tongue at the sight. Bakugou could already see a few mistakes you’d made with your work.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he says.

“Wait, I’ve barely turned on the calculator, jeez.” You shook your head, solving the equation through your calculator.

“And that’s how I know you’re doing it wrong.” Bakugou huffed, shaking his own head in disappointment. 

“Formula first before adding 1.3.”

He pulled out a pen and began scribbling down on his own paper, glancing at yours every once in a while to compare the work. He knew from his experience that you were decent at math (he’d rather die than tell you that), but this was just pitiful even by your standards.

“Have you been dozing off during Ectoplasm’s class?”

“Ouch. Do you have a personal grudge against keeping the not-so-nice stuff from leaving your mouth?” you sigh. “You’re hurting my feelings— I’m devastated.”

He had a feeling you’d say something like that, and he was prepared to ignore your attempts at gaining sympathy from him.

“Unfortunately, you’ll fucking live,” Bakugou says, scribbling down the last of his work before turning it towards you. “And learn how to solve equations too, while you’re at it.”

“I know how to do it; calm down.” You huff, rewriting your solutions.

Bakugou raised a skeptical eyebrow, his head tilting with a hint of disbelief. Even if he knew you were capable of doing math, you had a bad habit of missing even the smallest details, like the operation to be used in your work, leading to the wrong answers.

His eyes scanned over the work you’d written on your paper before letting out a small huff. “Looks right. Are you done with your half?”

“Yep, yep. Are you going to write it down on our answer sheet, or should I do it?” you offered.

Bakugou glanced down at the answer sheet set to the side before picking it up and nodding. He was already holding a pen while you were still using a pencil, so it would make more sense for him to be the one to write it all down.

He began copying down the answers slowly and carefully, each number being written out with ease as his eyes flicked back and forth from the worksheet to the sheet of answers.

With him busy jotting down the answers, you occupied yourself with taking in the interior of his living room. It was beautiful, neat, and just screamed rich—not really what you expected (you really didn’t know what to expect, honestly). “Y’know,” you mention, glancing around. “You have a nice house.”

Bakugou hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes remaining focused on his task. It kind of took him by surprise to hear you say something out of the blue—about his house, no less. He’d fully expected you to talk about something else, like school or that new show you’ve been begging him to watch.

It went against what Bakugou had originally thought, which led him to look over at you from the corner of his eye, silently raising an eyebrow in a silent question.

“Yeah, I guess it’s a nice house,” he said casually, his pen continuing to move over the paper. His penmanship was neat, and Bakugou hears you in awe. 

Bakugou continued to finish writing down the last of the answers, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed you looking around his house. It was obvious what was happening, but he decided to ignore it in favor of just getting the godforsaken project done.

He finished soon enough, his pen rolling back with a click before he leaned back a little and let out a small huff. “We’re done. Finally.”

“Nice, nice.” Glancing at your watch, you concluded, “I should get home.”

Bakugou was silent, rolling his shoulders and neck before glancing out of the nearby window. The sun had already begun to set over the sky, the day quickly slipping away into the night.

“Yeah, whatever. You need me to walk you home or something?” He asks gruffly.

“Nah, I’m good. I need to say goodbye to your parents, too.”

Bakugou watched as you packed up all of your belongings, a scoff rolling off of his tongue. It felt almost weird to be civil with each other, neither of you having taken jabs or making snarky remarks to taunt one another. 

“Alright, fine,” he finally said, standing up from his seat and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go find my parents then.”

He led you down the hall and into the kitchen area, his ears vaguely picking up the sounds of his mother and father talking amongst themselves about… something. He couldn’t tell what exactly, and frankly, he barely even cared.

“Mom, Dad.” He spoke up, capturing the attention of his parents. 

Mitsuki looked over at him, a smile spreading across her face. Masaru looked in the same direction, a warm smile forming on his face as well.

“Thank you for having me, Mr. and Mrs. Bakugou,” you said in gratitude. “I’ll be going home now before it gets too late.”

His parents shared a hum in acknowledgment, with his mother being the one to speak up first. She had a knowing grin on her face as she clasped her hands together, her eyes flickering over to her son.

“You’re welcome. You should come over more often,” Mitsuki said enthusiastically, her voice taking on a slightly smug tone.

Masaru laughed as he nodded in agreement. He gave a knowing look to his wife before he looked back over at you. “You should join us for dinner; we already made enough for you to join us.”

“I’d love to, sir, but my folks are waiting for me at home,” you answered sheepishly.

Bakugou noticed the glance his parents exchanged and immediately knew what they were thinking. He almost grumbled in frustration, already knowing that they’d ask him about you later after you left.

His mother spoke up once again, her smug grin growing wider. “You’re always welcome here,” she repeated, her eyes flickering over to her son as her voice came out teasing. “After all, Katsuki’s always in a ‘better’ mood when you’re around.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, ma'am. I’m a joy to be around, after all,” you lightly joked, though you still maintained a respectful tone.

His parents were easier to get along with than you thought.

Bakugou’s eye twitched in annoyance at your words, almost making him want to quip back at your cocky behavior. However, it was the sound of his mother’s sudden laughter that stopped him from doing so.

Mitsuki mother put her hand up to her mouth briefly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she continued to chuckle. The expression on her face was elated, and it was pissing him off even more, knowing what’s to come. 

“I like this one,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.

Masaru added, “And clearly, so does Ka—“

“All right! They need to get going to catch the shitty train.”

By the time Bakugou accompanied you to the door, he had this obvious scowl on his face. “You’re never comin’ back here again, dipshit.”

“Wha— no fair! Why am I getting banned from the Bakugou residence when this is my first time here?” you replied.

“Shut up,” he grunts. “I could do whatever the hell I want because it’s my house, too.”

“Too bad I have your Mom’s number—“

“Delete that.”

“Hey— wai— no way!”

It was not the last time you were ever invited to the Bakugou residence.

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.