#he just knows he's getting weaker by the day

[solxamber]

Leona, romantic, and “September” by James Arthur. Idk, I just always strongly associated this song with him.

"I'm gonna love you for the rest of my life" || Leona Kingscholar

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: September by James Arthur

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 580

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Fluff, Established Relationship

Leona remembers seeing you around back when you were both young. At first, he didn't think much of you—just another face in the sea of students, another voice in the endless chatter that he had no interest in.

But the more he saw you, the more you lingered in his mind, the more he felt like he had to talk to you.

Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

So he does what any self-respecting, prideful man would do—he bribes Ruggie to drag you to the botanical gardens under some flimsy excuse, and just so happens to be there himself.

"What a coincidence," he drawls, feigning disinterest, stretching out on the grass like he owns the place. But when you plop down next to him, start talking about something mundane yet completely captivating, he knows.

It’s instant. The way he falls. The way you slip into his life so effortlessly, laughing at his sarcasm, stealing his fries, treating him like he’s just Leona and not the second prince of some far-off kingdom.

Even when he scoffs, even when he refuses to admit it at first, you are his friend. You are his.

And then, one day, you’re both sprawled across his bed in a way that feels so natural, as if you belong there. He’s half on top of you, lazy and heavy with the weight of an afternoon nap, and you’re giggling at something on your phone. The sound is warm, golden, wrapping around his heart like the sun after a storm. It’s infuriating.

He can’t let this go on. He can’t let another day pass without making you his.

So he grumbles out a question, as if he’s annoyed by his own need for you. “Go out with me.” His cheeks are flushed, his tail stiff and betraying him, and for a second, he almost takes it back—almost—but then you look at him like he hung the damn stars, and you say yes.

And when he kisses you for the first time, slow and deep and possessive, he thinks—maybe—he can finally look in the mirror and like who he is.

Every weekend, he waits for you. Waits for you to finish your errands, your work, your whatever so you can spend the whole day with him. Because he’s stronger with you, and weaker without you. You’re his soulmate, his lover, his home.

And when the weight of his title presses down on him, when the whispers of "never good enough" creep in, you’re there. Always. Holding him in the dark, chasing away his demons with nothing but a smile and the unshakable belief that he is yours.

Sometimes, he gets mad. He can’t help it. Sometimes, he snaps even at you. Sometimes, he’s too jaded, too bitter, too tired of the expectations forced onto him since birth.

But then you have the audacity to smile at him, that infuriatingly sweet smile, and he wants to drag you back to bed and keep you there until the world forgets both of you exist.

Until he can hear nothing but your laughter and the soft, whispered confessions you think he doesn’t catch when you think he’s asleep.

He’s going to love you for the rest of his life.

And as he lays beside you now, watching your peaceful expression as you sleep, his fingers ghost over the ring he keeps hidden in his bedside drawer.

He can’t wait to make you his family. And for you to make him yours.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Listen I’m going insane from how you write Stan and been rereading your spicy chatting headcanons and…. Am I too greedy if I’ll ask for sex call with him?? 🥲

when the pervy old man meets his match

tags: smut, nsfw, fem reader, phone sex, competitive dirty talk, established relationship, reader is just as much of a menace as Stan

hey honey thank you so much! here it is! it's honestly just full of dialogues lmao. sorry i wrote this in a depraved frenzy and did not look back. if there are mistakes, pretend you don’t see them. if it’s too filthy, no it’s not<3 mb I'll correct it later

your phone rings and it's midnight. a little devilish smile appears on your lips. you know exactly who it is.

“finally,” you purr, picking up. “was wondering how long it’d take for you to crack, old man.”

“tch. crack?” Stan scoffs. “sweetheart, i was givin' you a chance to call first. figured you’d get too desperate to wait.”

you smirk, rolling onto your back. ”oh, is that what you think?”

“i know it.” he laughs. “ain’t had my hands on ya in three whole days. bet you’re losin’ your goddamn mind over it.”

cocky bastard.

“hmm,” you hum in amusement. “who said i haven’t had my hands on myself instead?”

“heh, sure, doll, then you just laid there all frustrated, wishin’ it was me instead of your hand.”

“oh, no, Stan,” you interrupt innocently. “i came.” he stops breathing. “mm, and it felt so good, too, made such a mess. you would’ve loved it.”

Stanley goes silent. oh, you’ve got him now. “. . . the fuck’d you just say?”

you stretch out on the bed, imagining the look on his face. jaw tight. eyes dark. grip white-knuckling his phone.

“you heard me,” you coo. “been keeping myself nice and satisfied while you’re gone.”

a lie. a blatant, filthy lie. of course you want him. but you won’t say that. not yet.

“what’s the matter?” you murmur, teasing. “dont tell me. . . you jealous of my fingers?”

Stan lets out a harsh breath. “yeah, actually,” he growls. “bet they don’t even get the job done right and you still finish all needy and desperate, just wishin’ it was my cock instead.”

fuck. your breath hitches slightly, so tiny, but Stan hears it.

“. . . ohhh, that gotcha, huh?” his voice dips, turning low. “ya can play all confident, sweetheart, act like ya ain’t fuckin’ sufferin’ without me, like ya ain’t practically drippin’ just hearin’ my voice—“

you swallow. hard. your smile fades from your confident face

“but we both know the truth, don’t we?”

no, you don't give up. “you sound real worked up, Stanley. do you need me to take care of it for you?”

a sharp inhale from the other end. “heh,” he grits out. “you wish.”

“yeah, sounds like you’re getting all hot and bothered over there. you’re already touching yourself, huh? couldn’t help it?”

“hah,” Stan scoffs, but his voice sounds weaker now. oh, you’re winning.

“c’mon, baby,” you whisper in a honey-sweet voice. “tell me. are you hard?”

he exhales through his teeth. “maybe.”

“aw, poor Stanley, been away from me too long, huh? you must be so worked up, all desperate and aching. . .”

Stan grins. “sweetheart, i’m a grown-ass man. i ain’t desperate for anything.”

you pause long enough to make his skin prickle. then softly and slowly you say quietly “so you’re not hard right now?”

fuck. his body betrays him instantly. because, obviously he is. painfully so. has been since the second he heard your voice, if he’s being honest. but like hell is he gonna admit that to you.

“nah,” he lies too quickly.

you giggle. “liar.”

“shut up,” he mutters.

“sorry, Stanley, i cant shut up, thinking about how i’d drop to my knees for you, pull your pants down real slow, press my tongue right up against that thick cock and—”

“oh, for fuck’s sake—“

“you’d be so sensitive, all needy and throbbing for me. i could get you begging in five minutes.”

“like hell you could!”

your laugh is pure evil. “oh, really?” Stan knows that tone, he’s in trouble. “wanna prove it, old man?”

Stan grits his teeth. “you little minx,” he growls. “fine. you wanna play? we play. wanna know what i think?” your stomach tightens, you're so not ready to hear that. but it's so damn sexy when he gets like that. “i know you’re sittin’ there all wet and needy, waitin’ for me to take over.”

your breath catches as your fingers start moving faster.

“aww, see? can hear it in your breath, baby. you love lettin’ me take control, huh? love bein’ my little plaything?”

you grip the sheets.

“y’think about my cock, huh?” that bastard teases. ”you ache for it and dream about me splittin’ you open, fuckin’ you deep ‘til you cry.”

your thighs press together as you try to bring yourself to orgasm while he talks.

“tell me, baby, what’s your favorite way for me to fuck ya?”

you stop for a second, breathing. “. . .i dunno, you tell me.”

Stan groans and laughs. “that’s what i thought. you like it every way i give it to ya. you like gettin’ thrown around, pinned down, bent over. like when i take my time, when i tease, when i make you beg for it. like when i spread your legs and fuck ya slow, so deep your little cunt flutters around me, just tryin’ to suck me in.”

you let out a quiet sob, rubbing your clit harder. shit. okay. he came prepared.

“remember the last time i had ya?” fuck. he's dirty for this. “spread ya out on the kitchen table, pushed those pretty little legs open, had ya beggin' for my cock while i just tapped it against that messy little cunt.”

heat spikes through your belly. your brain melting

“and you were so fuckin’ wet, so messy for me. couldn't even hold still. had to pin ya down, keep ya in place, make ya take it nice and deep. and god, the way ya screamed when i finally gave it to ya,” he groans, pumping his twitching cock. “cried so pretty for me, took every single inch like a good fuckin’ girl.”

you exhale.

“aw, babyy,” Stan mocks. “gettin’ all squirmy over there? miss me poundin’ that tight little cunt open? miss feelin’ my cock knockin’ up against your cervix?”

oh, this bastard. he knows exactly what he’s doing. knows how to talk you into a goddamn frenzy, how to drag you through every memory, making you feel it all over again. but you won’t let him win.

“eh, big talk for a man who passed out immediately after a blowjob.”

Stan huffs.

“it's just,” you muse. “i think i might need to find someone who can actually keep up with me.”

“sweetheart,” he growls. “don't fuckin' start with me.”

you grin. “what, old man? afraid someone else could fuck me better?”

“honestly, you're such a fucking brat.” he mutters resentfully.

“and you're all alone, jerking off to the thought of me like some pathetic old pervert.”

Stan groans and that sound makes you clench around nothing.

“hehe, you stroking it, old man? pumping that fat cock real slow, thinkin’ about how tight my pussy is?”

his eyes widen. wow. . . you're too brave today. he likes that. “sweet moses,” you hear him groaning.

“tell me, baby, am i right? it's throbbing? just begging to be buried inside me?”

“fuckin’ hell,” Stan hisses. “fuck, f-fuck, shit. . .”

wide cocky smile appears on your face. oh you love this. love how you can hear the tension in his breath, imagining how he’s gripping himself too tight, trying to hold on, trying not to lose.

but he’s gonna. he’s so gonna.

“y’know what i was thinking about earlier?” you murmur.

Stan swallows. “wh-what?”

you grin. “how deep you get when you fuck me.” Stan's response is low whimper when he circles his leaking tip with his fingers. “no, seriously, you stretch me so wide, Stanley. get all the way up against my cervix, push me down into the mattress, just ruining me. i love hearing your groans when i bite your shoulder.”

his breathing is much heavier now, he's already so close.

“Stanley? you close?“

“y-you’re gonna fuckin’ regret this,” he grits out.

“what’s wrong, old man? you were all big and bad a second ago. now ya can’t even keep up? i know how bad you want it, how much you miss the way i take you so deep, so tight”

Stanley is so fucking close.

“you’re leaking, huh? and you’re still trying to hold back,” another mocking sympathy from you. “so stubborn, determined not to let me win. guess i’ll just have to break you, then. oh yeah,” you laugh when you hear another moan from him. “that gotcha, huh? i know you’d love that, you’d love me getting on top, riding you all slow and deep, keeping you right on the edge ‘till you’re begging me for it, begging me to let you cum inside of me.”

“f-fuck, baby, just. . . just like that,” his voice is shaking.

“you gonna cum, Stan? gonna make a mess all over yourself just from hearing my voice?”

“you—fuck—you little—”

suddenly his phone vibrates with a notification. you just sent him a photo.

he barely has time to open it before he sees you, spread out as you fuck yourself open on your fingers.

Stan sucks in a sharp breath. “what. . . the fuck”

“somethin’ wrong?” you coo.

silence, hes silent until you hear choked loud “oh oh oh, fuckkk” and you know he lost, so fucking hard. his orgasm hits hard, violent, brain-melting, his body tensing, groaning your name through gritted teeth. you hear the sharp inhale, the shaky breath, the low, drawn-out moan as he spills messy over his fist.

“awww, couldn’t hold out, huh?”

Stan pants, breathless. “fuck you.”

“you wish,” you smirk, giggling.

“okay okay. you won.” Stanley admits, rubbing his sweaty forehead. “you won, baby.”

“but you put up a good fight, old man!”

he groans. “hot belgian waffles, what the hell am i gonna do with you?”

“maybe bend me over the second you get home and teach me a lesson?”

Stan chuckles. “oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what you just signed up for.”

[joemama-2]

"are you the fairy?"

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: You meet Gojo Satoru in a place untouched by time, where his laughter rings through empty streets and his hands chase yours like a promise he fully intends to keep. He is younger, reckless with his love, blind to the weight of the years that separate you—years that have taught you that love is not always meant to be kept. You let yourself have him anyway, knowing all the while that his future is stretching toward a horizon you cannot follow. When the time comes, you do what must be done—let him free.

wc: 7.3k

tags/warnings: angst, eventual comfort, suggestive content, older! reader, dividers by @/cafekitsune, HOPEFULLY PROOFREAD ENOUGH :(

Aging. A fear most people have. The fear of growing old, growing weaker, needing others to rely on for simple tasks, no longer being in your ‘prime’, and of course—the grey hairs. While it can be argued that aging is a natural, human process; it can also be argued that no one ever really wants to grow old. No one wants to see everything they knew and loved vanish before their own two deteriorating eyes, no one wants to become just a distant memory. But no one wants to be immortal either. It’s a weird push and pull, leaving humans with only one choice: enjoy it while it lasts, and make the most of your life.

And so, that’s what you have been doing.

Graduating, getting a nice paying job, having a good place, traveling the world, making a name for yourself, being…happy. Sure, you’ve made friends and connections, but none of those amount to being in the peaceful solitude of your lonesome. You’ve faced adversaries in your life, and you’ve overcome them—that’s what making the most out of your life means. But you know what doesn’t fall under that category?

Allowing yourself to fall in love with a man almost two decades younger than you. 

But with life comes spontaneous events, debating the pros and cons and wondering the ‘what ifs’. 

And what if—against all logic, against every carefully laid plan—you let yourself have him? What if you ignore the whispers in your mind that warn of fleeting youth, of inevitable goodbyes, of the cruel march of time that will leave you grasping at something you were never meant to keep? Gojo Satoru is reckless in his affection, undeterred by the years between you, pressing himself into your life with an audacity that makes it impossible to push him away. He tells you that love doesn’t care for numbers, that age is nothing more than an arbitrary construct, and when he looks at you with that unwavering gaze, you almost believe him.

Almost.

You’re forty-five when you meet him, he’s nothing but a young and adventurous thirty-year-old. You remember being thirty. 

“Are you from here?” you asked, resting your palm against your cheek. The coldness of the bar’s countertop sits underneath your elbow—you regard him with a curious gaze. The first thing you noticed was the pretty eyes he had. The next was his smile—that handsome smile that was doing weird things to your heart. You remember your late husband smiling at you like that every day, every chance he got. Your lip quirks up. 

“No, I’m from Japan,” he replies smoothly, jutting his chin in your direction. “And you?”

You tell him. 

“Oh, that’s nice. So, what are you doing all the way here?”

“Vacation.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Pretty well. Italy is beautiful.”

“Almost as beautiful as you.”

A cheesy pick-up line you’re more than accustomed to. You save his awkwardness with a small laugh, eyebrow raising. “Thank you,” you glance down at the dark liquid in your cup, swirling its contents. “Though you aren’t the first to tell me that.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick with the weight of history you’ve long since buried. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To be flattered but not fooled, to hear compliments that once would have made your heart race but now only bring a faint ache, like a ghost brushing past your skin. You didn’t expect to be here, sitting in this foreign bar, in this foreign city, drinking away the remnants of a life you thought you’d left behind—no more waiting for a man to come home, no more running on borrowed time. And yet, here he is, his smile still holding the weight of something undeniably fresh, something he hasn’t yet had time to tarnish with the passing years.

He chuckles, and it’s sincere. Like he knows how to handle this situation and like he’s done it a hundred times before—charming the older woman, never realizing the danger he’s flirting with. You can’t help but notice how easily he fits into this moment, how the energy between you feels almost too comfortable for something so unexpected. His youth, his vitality—it’s intoxicating, and yet, you know it’s only a matter of time before you have to draw the line, to remind yourself that he’s playing with something far more fragile than he understands.

You meet his eyes again, and for a second, you let yourself indulge. He’s not just handsome; he’s magnetic. And though you’ve seen his type before—young, reckless, full of life—there’s something different about him. It’s that smile, that easy confidence as if the world is nothing but a playground for him to conquer. Your heart stirs involuntarily, the edges of something you thought was long gone starting to flutter back to life.

"So, do you always travel alone?" you ask, your voice a little softer now, more curious than before.

His grin widens, pleased by the shift in your tone. “Not usually, but this time I decided to take some time for myself. I needed a change of scenery.” He leans in a little, dropping his voice to something almost conspiratorial. "It's nice to get away from it all, you know? To meet people who don't know your story."

The irony of his words doesn’t escape you. Here you are, a stranger in a new city, with a lifetime of stories you no longer tell, and yet, his openness makes you feel like you’re both speaking the same unspoken language. You could tell him everything, share the years of love and loss, of heartache and healing, but you don’t. You keep it hidden, tucked away where only time and memory can touch it.

“That sounds familiar,” you say quietly, glancing down at your glass again. Your fingers trace the rim absently. “Sometimes it's the only way to find peace." You don’t know why you’re telling him this. It’s not as though you’ve shared your soul with a stranger in a bar before. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something open and unafraid, that makes you think—just for a moment—that maybe this conversation, this meeting, isn’t entirely by chance. Something you haven’t felt in…a long time.

“Do you usually travel alone?”

You hum. “I do now.”

“Why now?”

“Because my husband doesn’t come along with me anymore.”

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” He sips from his own cup, but when he puts it back down, its fizziness tells you it’s just coke. 

You take a moment to reply, unsure if you should trauma dump on a stranger. But he did ask. “Because he’s dead,” you simply comment, leaning back in your stool and gauging his reaction. 

But he doesn’t show a face of surprise or a face of regret. He doesn’t offer his unwanted apology. He nods, humming softly in thought. But his eyes change—and you think for a second that it looks like a silent sense of understanding—like he’s lost someone too before. “And what was his name?”

Your cheeks pinch up, smile widening in fondness. Looking down at your left hand that once housed a beautiful, golden ring. “Masamichi.” 

There’s a stillness in the air for a second, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy but rather reverent, as if time itself paused to acknowledge the weight of your words. You look at him through the corner of your eye, seeing how his gaze softens—not with pity, but with something deeper, something far more intimate. It’s the kind of understanding that doesn’t come from words, but from shared experiences, and you’re struck by the thought that perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knows what it’s like to lose the love of your life.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but there’s something in the way he leans forward that tells you he’s listening in a way that feels different than the usual casual conversations you’ve had with strangers. His eyes are fixed on you, almost as though he’s waiting for you to continue, to say something more, but he doesn’t push. He waits—patiently, and respectfully. "Masamichi," he repeats the name softly, as if he’s testing it on his tongue as if it’s a secret he’s now been entrusted with. “That’s a really cool name, sounds like he was a hardass.”

You chuckle lightly and nod, not trusting yourself to speak again for a moment, swallowing the lump in your throat. “He was, but he had his moments.”

“When were those?”

“When he’d call me pretty names.”

“Like?”

You bite your lip, smile wavering a bit as you recount ever beautiful name he used to call you. One always stuck out. “Well, he used to call me a fairy.”

He chuffs. “Why a fairy?” 

"He told me I was delicate, elusive, like something too beautiful to be real. He used to say I’d flown in from some distant place, where the sky was always clear and the air was always fresh." The words feel like they’ve drifted in from a different lifetime, a time when love was a constant companion, not a faint, distant echo. You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth turning up. "I think he liked that idea, that I wasn’t tied down to anything—just... floating through life, free. He said I made him believe in things he never thought possible."

His gaze softens as he watches you, leaning a little closer now as if drawn into the quiet weight of your story. "That’s beautiful," he says, his voice low, almost reverent. "It sounds like he saw you in a way no one else could."

You nod, the memory of his warm words filling the space between you. "He did. And sometimes... sometimes I felt like I was a fairy, too. Like I didn’t really belong to this world. But when he called me that, it made me feel like I was meant to be somewhere, meant to be his." A quiet moment hangs between you, the air heavy with the soft intimacy of shared vulnerability. You meet his eyes, feeling an unexpected connection—the kind of unspoken understanding that can only exist between people who have known the depths of love and loss.

Then, just as you’re about to pull back, he asks, with a gentle curiosity, “Do you still believe in fairies?”

You blink at him, a little taken aback. The question seems simple enough. You shrug, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "I don't know if I believe in them, but... I like to think that maybe they’re real, in some way. In the things we can’t see, in the moments that take our breath away."

His eyes seem to light up, almost as if he’s surprised by your answer. There’s a long beat of silence before his lips curl into a smile that reaches his eyes. "Maybe you’re still a fairy, then," he says, voice warm with something like wonder.

You shake your head. "Yeah, maybe."

The words hang between you, filled with something gentle, something fleeting but real. You feel the stirrings of a connection, fragile and unexpected, like the wingbeats of a fairy. There’s a hollow space in your chest where his memory used to sit, and it takes everything in you not to let it show, not to let the quiet ache spill over. The ring on your finger is long gone, but the phantom of it lingers—an unspoken promise that can never be fulfilled, a history you no longer share with anyone. “What about you?” You shift the conversation, trying to keep the tears at bay, trying to pull yourself back from the edge of vulnerability you’re teetering on. “Do you have someone, someone you’ve loved the way you were loved?”

His smile falters a tad, a flash of something—pain, perhaps, or nostalgia—passing through his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the easy grin you’ve already grown accustomed to—the one that doesn’t let anyone get too close. But the silence that follows speaks volumes, and you almost feel like you’ve crossed some invisible line. Fearing that you’ve peeked into a part of him he didn’t mean nor want to reveal. "I did," he says quietly, almost to himself, the words hanging between you both like a secret. “But sometimes, we love people in ways they can’t love us back.”

The weight of his words sits heavily in the space between you. It’s raw, vulnerable in a way that contradicts his earlier bravado, and you find yourself wondering how much more of him there is behind that smile, behind the charming facade. In that moment, you see something that mirrors your own grief, your own loneliness, and it’s unsettling. “Is she still around?”

“He’s not,” he shakes his head.

You take a sip from your glass, the sharp bitterness of the alcohol grounding you, and give him a small, knowing smile. “Well, I suppose we all have our stories.”

His eyes lock onto yours for a long, unspoken moment. You wonder if this is one of those rare moments in life where people truly see each other—not just for the faces they wear, but for what’s buried beneath. What they carry in the silence. “I think you’re right,” he finally says, his voice soft, but there’s an edge to it now, a quiet tenderness that wasn’t there before. "But not everyone’s story is meant to be told in one night."

Your heart flutters for a reason you can’t quite place, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, fate isn’t as cruel as it’s always seemed. Maybe, in this strange twist of events, you weren’t meant to run away from the past after all—but to face it, alongside someone who understands what it’s like to love and lose.

“I’m too old for you,” you laugh off his subtle suggestion, looking over to the opposite corner of the small, dim-lit bar. There are two girls sitting at the booth with obviously wandering eyes toward your new, unexpected companion. “Maybe them.”

He follows your gaze, his eyes flickering briefly to the two girls in the corner, before turning back to you with that signature, easy grin—unchanged, unaffected. The playfulness in his smile doesn’t reach the depths of his eyes, though. You wonder if he’s seeing something entirely different than the charming stranger you’ve made him out to be. You can feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, as if he’s testing the waters of your words, gauging how much of this is just casual banter and how much of it has an undercurrent you aren’t ready to acknowledge.

"Maybe," he replies, leaning back slightly, but there’s a glint of something else in his expression now, something that makes the air between you feel heavier. "But you know, I’m kind of having some fun with you right now." His voice drops, a playful edge softening into something more serious, and it makes you wonder if he’s teasing or if there’s something deeper in his intentions that hasn’t fully revealed itself yet.

“I don’t think we’re having fun.”

“Then what are we having.”

“A simple conversation, nothing more, nothing less.”

He chuckles, leaning closer and tilting his head towards you. “Just how old do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, noticing a small twinkle. Your eyes move down, analyzing his features. He lets you do so in an untimely manner and when he sees that you’re looking lower at his arms, he playfully flexes. An amused snort that almost sounds like a scoff leaves your lips. “Young enough to be my son.”

“Do you have children?”

“And if I do?”

“Then that’s even better because I love MILFS.”

You scoff for real this time, eyes narrowing at him. “I don’t, but what you just said further proves my point.”

The air between you both shifts, like a quiet storm brewing, though neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it. His words hang there, an almost careless suggestion laced with mischief, but they are impossible to ignore. You try to brush it off, laugh it off, but something about the way he leans in—his proximity, the way his gaze never wavers from yours—makes it harder than it should be. There’s something in his demeanor that says he’s not just playing, not just following the familiar rhythm of flirty banter. It feels like he’s pushing against the boundaries you’ve set, testing them in a way that catches you off guard.

He watches your every reaction carefully, his smile just a little too knowing, a little too calculated for someone so young. You can feel the heat of his gaze as it lingers, catching you off guard in a way that leaves your words hanging in your throat. His comment about MILFs—joking or not—makes your skin prickle uncomfortably, and for a second, you wonder if he’s being more sincere than you care to admit. But you can’t show it, not when you’ve already drawn the line, already told yourself this was just a fleeting moment in an unfamiliar place.

You clear your throat, trying to bring the conversation back to familiar ground, but the awkwardness lingers. “I’m sure you have better things to do than sit here with a woman who could be your mother.”

“Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he says, the playful edge in his voice softened by something deeper. There’s a sudden, subtle weight to his words, as though he’s no longer speaking just to entertain or to flirt, but to convey something more. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it catches you off guard. His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. The playful front cracks, revealing a hint of something you can’t quite name.

You shift uncomfortably, your thoughts creeping in again. "Well, you’ll find plenty of people who can keep you entertained around here." You gesture vaguely to the bar, the people milling about, the noise, the chatter. "I’m not the one you’re looking for."

His expression dampens. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe I’m just looking for someone who sees me, you know?”

The words hit you harder than they should, a soft pressure in your chest that you quickly try to dismiss. What is he saying? He doesn’t know you, yet he’s almost acting like he does. "I see you," you respond, your voice quieter than before, the weight of the statement hanging between you both like a truth neither of you is willing to face.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but his eyes darken, the smile fading into something more thoughtful, more introspective. You begin to think he might say something that cuts through all the barriers you’ve put up, something that challenges the notion that this is just a casual encounter between strangers. But instead, he shifts in his seat, taking another long sip of his drink. “I don’t know if you do,” he finally says, his voice lower now, the playful lilt gone. 

When he puts his drink down, you blame it on the alcohol from the way your skin flushes in a girlish way as he leans in—his breath fanning your ear. You also blame it on the alcohol when you’re reciprocating his advances, meeting his stare with an equally heated one of your own. And finally, you blame it on the alcohol when you tilt your head to whisper something in his ear. 

“Do you want me to look harder?”

That was the first night you went home with him—the first night you indulged in the warmth and pleasure a man—Satoru—can bring you. And even after sharing your ages, that never stopped. It somehow…never stopped you either. You found yourself giving in—almost craving the way his hands grip your hips, the way his slim and long fingers dance along your ribs in a soft manner. 

You didn’t expect yourself to be falling over the edge, finishing on just the tongue of a man younger than you. You always prided yourself on wanting—needing—an older man. And god, you were really missing out, weren’t you?

But it wasn’t just the way he touched you, the way his mouth knew exactly how to undo you piece by piece—it was the way he looked at you. Like you were something untouchable, yet here he was, holding you, ruining you, worshipping you in ways you hadn’t let anyone do in years.

It was intoxicating.

You told yourself it was just a fling, something fleeting, something fun. A vacation romance, a secret indulgence that you’d tuck away once you boarded your plane back home. But Satoru wasn’t the kind of man you could forget easily. His touch lingered, his voice echoed, and before you even realized it, you were answering his calls. Responding to his texts. Finding yourself in his arms again, even when you swore it would be the last time. You found yourself smiling at him when you believed he wasn’t looking, stifling a peal of laughter at his stupid jokes that he only said so he could see the way your eyes crinkle at the edges—you were finding comfort in him. 

A warm, tentative comfort that only one other man had brought you before. 

There were times you felt guilty, believing you were still bound to your late husband even in death, and at times—you almost compared the two. However, you know Masamichi would’ve wanted you to move on and care for yourself in ways he couldn’t do anymore. He would’ve smiled and encouraged you to find pleasure in your life. 

And you did. 

Because somewhere between those nights tangled in silk sheets and the hushed laughter over shared meals, you forgot to remind yourself of the one thing that mattered most: this was never meant to last.

But at the same time, you almost didn’t want it to end. You enjoyed the way he kissed your knuckles, moved strands of hair out your face, and complimented you when you felt at your lowest. He was seeing every part of you—the good and the bad, the pretty and the ugly. You were letting him. 

One night, after a particularly passionate session, he’s running his fingers along the curve of your spine. Naked bodies huddled next to one another, and the sheets offer a nice little coverup. The moonlight peeks through his blinds, the plush mattress sinking further underneath your weights. He kisses the top of your head softly before moving to your temple. Once again, you’re smiling. Tracing mindless circles on his bare chest, your foot rubbing up and down his calf. No words are spoken, there usually aren’t. But the silence doesn’t feel deafening; it feels comfortable. You found yourself snuggling closer to him.  “Satoru?”

“Mhm?” he hummed back, sighing lightly, his smile never wavering. 

“Where do you…see yourself in ten years?”

He hums again, this time in thought, his fingers never ceasing their lazy tracing along your spine. You feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath your palm, steady and unhurried. You wonder if he’s really thinking about your question, or if he’s simply enjoying the feel of you against him. “In ten years?” he finally repeats, voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile moment. “I don’t know…Happy, I guess. Settled down; I’d like to have kids by then.”

Your fingers pause against his chest. You don’t know why, but his answer catches you off guard. Not because it’s shocking—he’s young, full of life, full of potential—but because it’s something you’ve stopped thinking about for yourself. “Kids?” you echo, tilting your head up to look at him. His pale lashes flutter slightly as he meets your gaze, and there’s something soft in his expression, something almost wistful.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a small chuckle escaping him. “A couple of ‘em, maybe. A little girl who’s just as stubborn as me, a boy who’s just as curious. Someone to pass everything down to, y’know?” His hand moves from your back, up to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he exhales. “I think I’d be a good dad.”

You don’t doubt that. Satoru is many things—annoying, arrogant, childish at times—but he’s also deeply caring. He loves with his whole heart, even when he pretends he doesn’t. You can see him being the kind of father who carries his child on his shoulders, who spoils them with sweets, who makes bad dad jokes just to hear their laughter.

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to say that out loud. Instead, you settle for a noncommittal hum, lowering your head back onto his chest, letting the weight of his words settle between you. Ten years from now, he’ll have a family. He’ll have everything he wants. And you won’t be part of it.

That’s when reality hit for you. You’re holding him back. You can’t give him what he wants, what he longs for. It’s a bittersweet, brutal reminder that this little world you’ve built was only meant to be temporary. That the laughs, touches, kisses, the sex, it’s fickle. You’ve blinded yourself and let yourself sink too far deep to understand that what Satoru wants…he can’t experience with you. 

And so, it started small. Days spent out with him, your eyes would flicker around, moving from one woman to the next. Pointing them out to him in an encouraging way. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” “Maybe you should go ask for her number.”

“You’re both tall, you would go well together.”

It honestly hurt to push him away—to open his eyes to the other fish in the sea while a small part of you wished he could only be yours. But you’d never ask him to stop following his dreams of becoming a family man for your own selfish desires. 

At the start, he humors you. Rolls his eyes, scoffs, plays along like it’s just another one of your little jokes. “She’s alright, I guess,” he shrugs when you point out a woman at the café, her long legs crossed elegantly as she sips on a cappuccino. “But I prefer my women a little more…experienced.” He flashes you that cocky grin, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.

You laugh, but it’s forced. You ignore the way your chest tightens, the way your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him. But then you do it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t take him long to catch on.

One evening, when you offhandedly comment on the cute waitress who just served your drinks, something shifts in his expression. His smile dims, his fingers drum idly against the table. “Y’know,” he says, tone too casual, too light. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately.” 

You feign ignorance, sipping your wine. “Doing what?”

“Trying to set me up like some kind of matchmaking service.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze sharp. “You got tired of me already?”

You force back a sigh. The way he says it—half-joking, half-serious—makes your stomach twist. “Satoru—”

“No, really,” he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head. “Is that what this is? You pushing me away? Guilt-tripping me into realizing you’re too old for me or whatever bullshit you’ve been telling yourself?”

Your fingers clench around the stem of your glass. He sees right through you. You swallow, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Looking out for me?” He leans back, stretching his arms along the booth. “Or making decisions for me?”

You hate how much that stings. You hate how right he is.

“I just…” You exhale, setting your glass down. “I just don’t want to hold you back, Satoru.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. You think he’s going to tell you you’re being ridiculous, that he wants you, that he doesn’t care about the future you keep running from.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re really that convinced this can’t work, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

His lips press into a thin line. He nods once, slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he mutters, reaching for his drink. “Message received.”

And just like that, the air between you shifts.

Colder.

More distant.

Like the beginning of the end.

Your heart drops, looking back down at your wine. For a second, you felt like you ruined things. But it’s better to nip things in the bud than let them bloom, is it not?

Even after that, he was still adamant about seeing you. You let him, deciding to relish in these last few tender moments you may have with him. The sun was shining and beaming down on you two as you ate your brunch. It was a pleasant day. She was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made you wonder how someone like her could even exist in this world. The type of beautiful that turned heads and left impressions. The type that had Satoru slowly following her with his eyes. You tell yourself this is a good thing. That this is what you wanted. That you should feel relieved that, finally, he’s looking at someone else the way he shouldn’t be looking at you.

But it doesn’t feel like a relief. It feels like a knife twisting in your gut.

You lift your mimosa to your lips, taking a slow sip, pretending you don’t notice the way his gaze lingers on her. She’s stunning—long legs, flawless skin, a radiant smile that could stop anyone in their tracks, and long black hair. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, not in a small café, laughing at something her friend just said.

You force yourself to smile. “She’s exactly your type.”

Satoru’s attention snaps back to you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. He blinks, then exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. “I’m just saying, you should talk to her.”

He scoffs, pushing his fork around his plate. “Yeah? And then what?”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Satoru sets his silverware down with a quiet clink, resting his arms on the table. “Let’s say I go up to her. Get her number. Take her on a date.” He shrugs, giving you a half-smile. “Then what? I sleep with her? Take her on more dates? Marry her?”

You stare at him, not sure where this is going.

“And then we have kids,” he continues, his tone light, but his eyes—his eyes are sharp, cutting right through you. “That’s what you want, right? For me to find someone younger, someone who can give me the future I want.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “So, tell me something.” His voice drops, softer now, almost vulnerable. “If I wanted all of that with someone else, don’t you think I’d already be doing it?”

Your breath catches.

He waits.

But you don’t have an answer.

All you can do is encourage him to go up to her.

And he did.

He was reluctant, of course. Only doing it to shut you up. 

But you saw the way his expression softened, the way his dimples poked out when he’d talk about her. You were there on the side, watching what he once thought would be a simple meeting, to finding a woman he’d started to fall for. 

It was like watching a slow-moving car crash—one you orchestrated with your own hands. You had done this. You had led him to her, pushed him in her direction, knowing full well what it would mean. And yet, knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The texts started. Little mentions of her here and there. You caught the way his face lit up in a way you hadn’t seen before, the way he spoke about her with that quiet sort of wonder like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he never expected to solve. You were still a part of his life, still, someone he made time for, but something between you had shifted irreversibly. The stolen moments, the lingering touches, the whispered confessions under moonlit sheets—they grew fewer and further between, replaced by something… distant.

She was such a kind and lovely woman, her voice made of butter when she spoke to you about him. And when you caught him smiling at his phone one evening, thumb idly tapping out a message to her, you knew.

He had found what you wanted for him. What he deserved. What you couldn’t give him.

So why did it feel like you were the one being left behind?

“Are you happy?” you had whispered, holding him tight in a hug, eyes beginning to water.

He held you back, arms secure around your waist. His icy hair tickled your skin, and he planted a soft, reverent kiss on your cheek. Pulling back to look at you, he didn’t have that fiery, teasing sparkle in his eyes like usual. No, this time, all that was there was just…him. Just Satoru. 

“I am,” he had said with a genuine finality. 

The trickle of warm tears slid down your cheeks, his thumbs swiping softly at the skin. “Good, I’m…I’m happy too.”

Truthfully, you were. Because if you had to let Satoru go, if you had to let him be the man he should be, you knew he was doing it beside a woman that was worth it. She was worth it. And you were beginning to be okay with the fact of being a memory to him, as long as it meant his wishes came true.

You left him, never once looking back, answering his texts or his calls. 

You don’t know how you had the strength to do it, how you managed to pull yourself away from the man you’d poured so much of yourself into. There was a time when you thought you’d never be able to let go—when you believed you’d somehow convince him that the life he envisioned with someone else wasn’t worth pursuing. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep holding onto him, not when the weight of your love was slowly suffocating him, not when you knew that he needed to step into a future that wasn’t tied to a past that could never fully be his. You didn’t want to be the one who held him back, no matter how much it hurt.

The hardest part was the silence that came after. You told yourself it was for the best, that you were doing him a favor, letting him breathe, letting him live without your shadow hanging over him. But the quiet was unbearable. Slowly, the hole he left inside you grew wider, the void left by his absence swallowing you whole. It felt like a slow, silent death—a death that had to happen for him to thrive, even if you weren’t ready for it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

But somehow, that was for the best. He was with her now—his beautiful, young, hopeful future. And you? You were learning to accept the peace that came with being the past. The bittersweet relief of knowing that you had let him go, even when it felt like a piece of you was missing forever. You were learning to find happiness and acceptance with that. But you knew deep down, a part of you would always love him. And that part would remain tucked away, hidden, safe in the quiet recesses of your heart where no one could touch it. Because, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much life moved on, Satoru would always be the one who made you believe in the fleeting beauty of something that could never truly last.

Seven years had passed, and time had etched its marks on both of you. You were different now—wiser, perhaps. Life had moved on, as it always did, carrying you forward in unexpected ways. You found a home in Japan, a little place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, a perfect reflection of the peace you had slowly cultivated within yourself. It was the kind of home you never thought you'd need after him, but somehow, it filled the emptiness that had lingered for so long.

When you saw him again, it felt like a thousand memories rushed back to you in a single moment. His shock was palpable—eyes wide with disbelief, brows furrowed as if trying to make sense of the woman standing before him. The same Satoru, yet different in small, subtle ways. His features had softened, a few lines around his eyes that spoke of time passing, of laughter shared, of a life fully lived. He was healthy, vibrant, the man you’d once known and the one who had continued his journey without you. "Y/N?" His voice was quiet at first, unsure if this was real or just a figment of his mind. His gaze swept over you as if trying to understand how you could still exist in his life after everything.

And then, he smiled. It wasn’t the same playful grin that had always been there, the one that had once made your heart race. This one was softer, warmer—gentler. It carried the weight of the years apart, but also the familiarity of someone who had once been an integral part of your soul.

And you smiled back again.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, the embrace as natural as it was unexpected. It wasn’t just a hug; it was a reunion, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you both. For a moment, you let yourself lean into him, feeling the comforting strength of his hold, the warmth of his body that you once thought you'd never feel again. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just the undeniable connection that had never truly disappeared. It was as though time had been kind to you both, erasing the pain and replacing it with something softer, something more peaceful.

“Satoru,” you muttered softly, almost in relief. 

"You look good," he said softly, pulling away just enough to look at you, his hands lingering on your arms as if testing the reality of this moment. 

You feel something cold pressed against your arm, looking down…there’s a golden ring on his left ring finger. Your lips parted with mild surprise before looking up at him with a sense of blitheness. You couldn’t help but chuckle, eyes crinkling in the way he loved—loves. “...is it her?”

He nods, glancing down at your own hand. And look at that; he’s not the only one with a gold ring. “And what about you?’ he asked, a softness in his voice.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, bringing your hand up and admiring the band around your finger, the diamond saying hello once more. Memories of your husband’s gruff voice, his frown that he tried so hard to keep etched on his face, the spiky black hair you loved to comb your fingers through, the scar on the corner of his mouth that you loved to kiss. “His name is Toji.”

He nodded with a wave of approval. “How long?”

“Three years. And you?”

“Four.”

You guys laughed simultaneously.  The sound of your shared laughter fills the quiet space between you two, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. There’s an ease to it, an old familiarity that you never quite lost, even with the years between you. The weight of everything that had happened—your separation, his journey, your own—seems to melt away, leaving only the lightness of the present moment. It feels almost surreal, standing there with him, both of you changed yet still the same in many ways.

You glance down at your left hand again, the ring catching the sunlight that spills through the window. The cool metal seems to hum with its own kind of quiet significance. Toji. 

But now, standing here with Satoru, there’s a strange sense of nostalgia mixed with contentment. You never imagined this—standing side by side with him, sharing your worlds as they are now. When you look up at Satoru, you see the same softness in his eyes that’s always been there, but now it carries with it the weight of time. He has a family, a future that doesn’t include you, and that’s okay. There’s peace in that. He’s found what he was always meant to have, the thing that once felt like an impossibility between you two.

“Four years,” you repeat, your voice soft, taking in the new ring on his finger. “That’s beautiful, Satoru. I’m…I’m so happy for you.”

He grins, that same playful glint in his eyes, but this time it feels like it’s tempered by something deeper, something more sincere. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “She’s incredible. I’m really lucky.”

The warmth that spreads through you isn’t jealousy, or bitterness, or anything like that. It’s something else entirely—pride, maybe. Or relief. You always knew that Satoru was meant for something bigger than what you two could have together, but seeing him happy now, seeing him settled with someone who makes his eyes light up the way they used to with you, it’s the closure you never thought you needed. 

“You?” he asks again, as though sensing the unspoken question between you two. His gaze shifts to your hand again, then back up to your face. 

The words come out easily now. “He’s my rock,” you say simply, the affection in your voice unguarded. “He makes me better, makes me whole.”

Satoru’s expression softens, and you see the flicker of that old tenderness—the way he used to look at you before everything got complicated. But it’s not painful, this time. It’s not heavy. It’s just… understanding. Like he’s happy that you’ve found that kind of peace. The kind of peace he’s found with her. “You both deserve it,” he says with a nod, as though sealing the quiet approval between you two. “You deserve everything good that comes your way.”

It’s a simple statement, but it carries so much weight. The unspoken acknowledgment that the two of you, after all this time, have moved on, and have created lives for yourselves that reflect who you’ve become. And for all that has happened, all the loss and the love that came and went, there’s something beautiful in knowing that this chapter—this shared history—is now something you both cherish without needing to hold on to.

He invited you over that day and you accepted. 

His wife runs up to you, hugging you like you’re an old friend. “Oh my god!” she exclaims in a gasp, her red-tinted lips curved up into a wide smile. You hugged her back, mirroring his reactions. “It’s so great to see you again, Miss. Satoru and I have never forgotten you.”

“Utahime…” he mutters with slight embarrassment. 

You chortled and patted her back. “I haven’t forgotten about you too either.”

She pulls back, removing her arms from you. Satoru places a warm arm around her waist and brings her to his side. The display of affection has you melting on the inside, head tilting in fondness. Satoru looks at you. “So, there’s someone we want you to—”

The sound of little pitter-patter against the hardwood cuts him off, all of your attention being dragged to the little girl with white hair and auburn eyes like her moth bounding up to you in excited familiarity. Her tiny gasp as she looks up at you with wide, innocent, twinkling eyes. She looked up at you as if she had known you her whole life, bubbling with a sense of jitteriness, cheeks glowing with a youthful flush. You couldn’t help but crouch down to her height, head tilting. Your eyes glazed over with tears, holding a hand to your mouth to hold back the broken laugh you almost let out at the question she asked you. 

“Are you the fairy?”

a/n: this story is inspired by "a love not made for me" by aryana rose. please go hear her speak it, she tells it so beautifully :(((. anywho, thank u guys for 2k really. i love u all and I'm incredibly grateful for all the support and love and patience :))

i couldn't do it without yall. <3

[gothamite-rambler]

The time Bruce and Jason swapped bodies (this will be posted on ao3, I'm just brainstorming here)

The next day

Jason in Bruce's body woke up in bed, Bruce's bed. He stretched having a good night's rest.

Jason: Don't really have much to do today. I'm going to make breakfast.

As for Bruce... He wasn't used to that body type and woke up accordingly as he tumbled out of bed in the guest bedroom.

Bruce: I feel decades worth of exhaustion! How does he live like this?!

In the kitchen Jason had helped Alfred make breakfast in Bruce's body. Bruce trudged out of bed, walking into the kitchen exhausted.

Bruce: Nobody... Speak.

Jason: MORNING SON!

Bruce (pounding headache): I can't stand you right now.

Bruce sat down at the table and slammed his head on the table. Stephanie poked his head with her fork while chuckling.

Cass: It's fascinating that when you switched bodies you feel weaker than Jason. Are you going to be okay?

Bruce: I'm not sure... Is Dick here?

Dick (sitting at the head of the table): I'm here. I was not able to find the puppet. I really don't want to risk getting my soul taken out of my body again so I'm just waiting for Kori and Raven to come help.

Bruce: How long will that be?

Dick: Oh you know, not long... Four days.

Bruce (exclaiming angry): FOUR DAYS!

Jason: Oh cool! I mean- That's awful. I'm not excited for business meetings.

Jason chuckled as Bruce groaned.

Dick: Hey, we already knocked off today. After that is three days. Those will fly by. It's like a vacation. You needed one of those.

Bruce (head on the table): I blame you for this.

Dick: Jason or me?

Bruce: Yep!

[strawberryflavoredvenum]

Creepypasta insecurities

Toby

🩷his tics(duh)

He isn't as bothered by it as he used to be but every once in a while, he'll get a particularly noticeable one and others will look at him. He hates when people he isn't close with brings them up.

🩷 Sometimes he worries that he is being annoying. Sometimes he actually is being annoying. He is a lot more talkative now that he's been a proxy for a while. He isn't used to socializing so he doesn't always understands social cues. He has the tendency to overshare or interrupt people.

🩷His muzzle leaves a red mark on the bridge of his nose and he hates it. Luckily other proxies don't see him without it for very long. Just to eat or around bed time.

Jeff

🩷He is not the most hygienic person and he hopes it's not noticeable. He wears axe but that makes it so much worse. One time someone left old spice at his door anonymously. It made him feel really bad but he did use it.

🩷Jeff doesn't feel much shame. Mostly because he chooses to block out any memory of his past. Liu is a constant reminder of what happened and though he does love his brother, it's hard to be around him sometimes.

🩷When Sally first met him she cried. He laughed at the time but he still thinks about it and feels bad. It made him feel bad, especially when Sally wasn't scared of most of the other killers.

🩷He has big hands and long fingers. Sometimes they feel out of place and he doesn't know where to put them. He did trex arms as a kid but it was corrected by his parents. Now he just puts them in his hoodie pockets.

Lj

🩷His arms are much too long for his body. It's useful when killing people but they get in the way sometimes.

🩷He is also much much bigger than the other proxies. That combined with his clown aesthetic makes him stand out a lot. He feels out of place.

Ej

🩷 Sometimes his eyes drip onto things or people. Other proxies do not take kindly to it and reactions have ranged from annoyance to aggression. He keeps his personal space.

🩷Jack isn't shy but he is a reserved guy. He doesn't get too personal with most of the proxies. It's not that he doesn't want to talk more, but he doesn't know what to say. By the time he comes up with a response to one topic, the conversation has moved on already.

Nina

🩷 The whole 'jeff obsession' is so embarrassing to her now. She moves on from one obsession to the next pretty quickly. Now that she thinks about it, Jeff isn't even that cool. She likes to pretend that it never happened.

🩷She has an unstable sense of identity. Switching from one aesthetic to the next, much like her obsessions. It seemed to come so easily to everyone else.

Ben

🩷Others do not take him seriously. It's not something that Ben just feels, it's the truth. Despite how much he contributes to the team, he isn't given the same respect. He doesn't want to just be comic relief. (he makes sure none of them end up on the internet/news. He helps wipe their images and records so they aren't found. He can also spy through screens and get valuable info.)

🩷He is much older than Sally, yet they are constantly made to hang out. He gets that Sally needs supervision but he doesn't get why he has to be the all-day babysitter. It's not that he doesn't like Sally, but he rather have peers his own age. (I hc him as an older kid. Like 12-13 or something. I'm not that into Ben drowned so maybe this isn't accurate.)

Helen

🩷 He has a small and lanky build. Not particularly tall either. He is one of the weaker creepypastas and it bothers him sometimes. It also makes him feel less safe being around everyone else.

[jackwolfes]

@febuwhump day 1: vocal chords Wesper | Six of Crows | TW: SickFic; Past Abuse febuwhump masterlist

The Van Eck heir was a sickly child. 

It was just another one of his many failings and, ultimately, not that much of a surprise. Of course his father doted on him when he was small — Ghezen forfend anything bad happen to the heir of such a great house — but with time, age, and all his other shortcomings… 

The mediks never had any solutions for it. Some children, they said, are just naturally weaker than others. 

Wylan’s father never liked that answer. 

In his early teenage years, Wylan spent his sick days alone. The staff would bring tea to his bed when he rang for it, although he was forbidden from taking lunch anywhere other than the dining room or his study. Bored days in between sweat-soaked bed sheets were a common and lonely affair. Weak and trembling, he rarely had the energy to drink it, but honey and lemon helped soothe the ache in his throat. 

But an awful lot of those sick days were spent in the mansion’s imposing study, told with unflinching certainty that he wouldn’t be eating supper if he missed that day’s lessons. What sympathy his father had for him as a boy waned with time, and although it must have been obvious he was sick — the splotchy flush on his cheeks and trembling hands were a dead giveaway — his father never listened. 

Every raspy request to stay in bed and rest a day fell on deaf ears, when Wylan managed to be heard at all. 

With no explanation from doctors, Wylan still doesn’t know exactly where the illness was; just that more often than not, the soreness in his throat and hacking coughs left him mute. The fire in his throat when he tried to form a question wasn’t worth it, least of all when he knew what each answer would be. 

No one ever noticed his silence. No one ever cared to listen to what he had to say. 

---

Wylan wakes half a dozen times that night. Each time his eyes open it is with a dull and foggy awareness that the bed is unseasonably warm, but the tightness in his chest and vague sense of dryness distracts him before he can make that thought make sense. 

When he wakes at dawn with bleary eyes, Wylan knows there will be no getting back to sleep. Even lying down he is lightheaded, but the burning tickle at the back of his throat tells him all he needs to know. 

Weakly, he groans. It takes all his effort to lift a hand to his face, but the added darkness of his hand over his eyes does help some. When he was younger there was nothing to do but pull his heavy limbs out from bed and try not to collapse during his lessons, but right now he doesn’t think he has the energy to try. 

“Mmh?” 

A sleepy grunt draws Wylan’s attention, as much as he has any attention left to draw. The bed dips beside him as he remembers, unnervingly slowly, that he no longer sleeps alone. 

“Wy? You ok?” 

Wylan lets his hand slide off his face, turning — rather pitifully — to look at Jesper. Sunlight peeks through the curtains and illuminates the worried furrow in his brows. 

Jesper reaches out to touch his forehead, blissfully cool. Wylan’s eyelids flutter shut as he sighs into the touch, dimly aware of the way Jesper swears. 

“Saints, Wylan, you’re burning.”

Wylan presses his forehead a little bit harder into Jesper's palm. The world tips and sways. The calloused scratch of Jesper’s fingers is comfortingly familiar. 

Jesper chuckles. “So I take it I should call for tea?” 

And Wylan means to say yes, please. Two words, so easy a three year old could manage it. 

What comes out is a raspy, breathless squeak that hisses at the end and turns into an agonising coughing fit. 

Jesper's eyebrows shoot up, but the world has gone dizzy for Wylan. His face flushes with embarrassment, even shame, that manages to cut through the sore ache in his throat with startling ease. 

Even at his most incompetent, he's been able to do something as simple as ask for a cup of tea. The powerlessness of having that taken from him is scary. It isn't like he'll be able to hand Jesper a note asking for what he'd like. 

He tries to say sorry, ends up sounding like he's been shot in the neck. 

“Alright,” Jesper says, rising up as if to get out of bed, “you need a medik—” 

Wylan grabs Jesper's sleeve, fingers clutching weakly in a last ditch effort to keep Jesper close. The last he wants right now is to be alone. 

Pity softens Jesper's eyes. “Want me to stay?” 

All Wylan can do is nod, but Jesper settles back anyway and reassurance surges. Wylan sinks heavily down into the pillows, allowing himself to be swept into the comfort of knowing he isn't alone. His eyelids flutter shut, breathing through parted lips as he tries as hard as he can not to spiral into panic. The nerve-wracking familiarity of a deep quiet when he feels this miserable looms on the horizon. 

But the silence doesn't last long enough for dread to actually set in. 

“Inej wrote, by the way. Did I mention that last night?” 

Wylan perks up — as much as he can — but Jesper presses a hand to the side of his head and encourages him back down once more. 

“That was a rhetorical question, merchling. She’s coming back to Ketterdam for a few weeks soon and said something about those melon candies you liked from the Shu Han. I was going to write back today and ask her to get some of those peanut sweets, too, except now that I think about it I don’t actually remember where I put any of the postage stamps—”

A gentle smile floats across Wylan's lips, the only thing he has energy for. He nuzzles down into Jesper's chest as he continues to ramble on, lulling Wylan softly back into sleep.

[french-unknown]

𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐎𝟑 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐒

✔️ : complet 🔥 : smut

✧ 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 @𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫𝟒𝐂𝐚𝐬 🔥✔️

words : 34,634 ‘Alpha Needed: Looking for an alpha with a calming scent, preferably mated, for scenting purposes. Twice a week, one hour. Pay: $20 per hour plus expenses.’ In order to get his anxiety attacks under control, Cas is supposed to regularly scent an alpha whose scent makes him feel safe. Dean could really use the extra cash and the ad sounds like the easiest 20 bucks an hour Dean has ever made. But then things get complicated…

✧ 𝐌𝐲 ��𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐛𝐲 @𝐣𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐦 🔥✔️

words : 70,525 From a young age, Castiel has been groomed to serve as Dean’s personal bodyguard. They’re inseparable as children and good friends as adolescents. When Dean ascends to the throne, though, there’s a subtle shift in their relationship. If only Castiel knew what to make of it…

✧ 𝐈 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐲 @𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐩𝐚𝐢 🔥✔️

words : 45,109 From high school, to college, to his career as a teacher, there has always been one constant in Castiel Collins' life: his crippling crush on Dean Winchester. Just when Castiel thinks he's finally over it, Dean shoves his beauty right back in Castiel's face[as a model for God's sake], seemingly just because the universe wants to torture him. Little does Castiel know, however, that Dean's got quite the crush himself.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐞 𝐛𝐲 @𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚_𝟏𝟔 🔥✔️

words : 8,130 Castiel's best friend, Dean, convinces Castiel to join him at a strip club to celebrate Dean's birthday. Oh, and did Castiel mention he's been head-over-heels in love with Dean pretty much from the moment he met him?

✧ 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝐛𝐲 @𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐤𝐨𝟏 ✔️

words : 14,658 In Castiel's defense, the Men of Letters archive rooms held not only artifacts and files but acted as general storage. The shelves and floor space were cluttered with boxes of perfectly normal, though excess, items. It was as if someone had cleaned out their basement, intended to separate things into piles of things to keep and those to throw out... yet never getting around to finishing it. In their search, Sam found a rough inventory list. Dean found a different one. And then a second list. Reading over the paperwork, it was unclear which items were already stored or in preparation for storage. It also wasn't clear which boxes were occultly related or someone's junk. Clearly, in hindsight, that particular knicknack had not been someone’s junk.

✧ 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐲 @𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚_𝟏𝟔 🔥✔️

words : 97,950 After nine days of radio silence from both Jack and Cas, Cas returns to the bunker without Jack but with black fur, four paws, a tail, and an obvious preference for Dean's company. With no idea how to turn Cas back or how he got turned into a cat in the first place, Dean has to learn to live with Cas quite literally underfoot all the damn time. Nobody could have guessed that having his best friend in cat form would end up being the catalyst for a huge shift in their relationship, but looking back, he's pretty sure it all started with an annoyingly stubborn ball of fur...

✧ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐲 @𝐀𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐀𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 🔥✔️

words : 14,585 King Zachariah is tired of humans and wants to go to war, but there's really no reason to, and he can't declare war without a reason or every nation will turn on him. So, he decides he'll kill two birds with one stone: he'll offer his most unattractive son to marry Dean, the prince of the human kingdom. Dean will refuse, he can call it an insult to his family, and the angel soldiers will quickly overrun the weaker humans. The problem? Castiel may not have very good angel features, but by human standards he's gorgeous.

✧ 𝐀𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 (𝐈 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐁𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭) 𝐛𝐲 @𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 ✔️

words : 10,444 Castiel had always hoped he would be one of those lucky few who found their True Mate, so he was more than happy when he finally stumbled over that most wonderful scent. The problem was --- it did not come from his Mate but his Mate’s husband. Or was it? Or: The one where Castiel thinks Dean and Sam are married and he would not possibly want to come between the happy couple. No matter how much it might break his heart. It’s cheesy, it’s predictable, and also quite a bit silly. xD

✧ 𝐀 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐎𝐟 𝐎𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐛𝐲 @𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 🔥✔️

words : 94,118 All Dean wants is a little privacy. Cas doesn't understand.

✧ 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 @𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞 (𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚) 🔥✔️

words : 10,822 When a ritual backfires and Dean ends up with wings, they reveal things that he'd much rather keep hidden. Prompt fill.

✧ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐛𝐲 @𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝟖𝟏𝟒 ✔️

words : 13,150 When a book about caring for angels shows up on their doorstep, Dean assumes it's just Sammy playing a joke. When Sam claims to know nothing about it, Dean gets curious and takes to secretly reading the book in his bedroom... and maybe trying out a few things on Cas.

✧ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐛𝐲 @𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐔𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 & @𝐭𝐞𝐚_𝐨𝐫_𝐝𝐢𝐞 🔥✔️

words : 7,537 "Y'know, you play that game far more often than we have sex." "I do not." "Wanna make a bet?" Castiel seems to be addicted to a certain video game. Does he even need Dean anymore?

✧ 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐲 @𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐛𝐲𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦 ✔️

words : 10,194 Slowly falling from grace now that he's cut off from Heaven after making the decision to support Dean's cause, Castiel has to battle his angelic instincts alongside new and unfamiliar human ones—or just ignore them all to avoid altering the Winchesters.

✧ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐲 @𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 & @𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐫𝐬𝐩𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 🔥✔️

words : 25,142 Alpha Dean Winchester is surprised to see a newspaper ad written by his neighbor, Omega Castiel Novak, requesting potential Alpha mates. The challenge is simple on the surface: the Alpha who can obtain the single key from Novak cat’s neck, will be Castiel’s new mate. The cat spends a good amount of time lounging on Dean’s porch, though Dean’s half convinced its only for the snacks he feeds him. Dean isn’t the kind of Alpha Castiel wants, but at least Dean can enjoy watching Alpha after Alpha chase after the feline in the hopes of winning Castiel’s heart.

✧ 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐲 @/𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧_𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 🔥✔️

words : 40,214 Castiel Novak leads a quiet life in the little town of Fairhope. He tends his gardens and takes pride in filling his great-grandmother's footsteps as the town's honorary green witch. His quiet life comes to a halt when he gets a new neighbor and it's none other than the alpha of his dreams and high school crush, Dean Winchester. But Dean's not alone, he has a daughter now. Overnight, Fairhope is flipped on its head as every available omega and beta in town fights for the alpha's attention. Cas tries to help as best he can but Dean eventually comes up with his own solution and that's when the posters show up. Posters that claim that Dean Winchester is looking for a mate. But to win, you have to get a key from a certain orange cat. Let the games begin!

✧ 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 / 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐲 @𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 🔥✔️

words : 67,547 He misplaced his angel. He didn’t hold on hard enough. He got Cas back only to lose him immediately. - Cas comes back on a Thursday. And then keeps coming back on Thursdays. He doesn’t seem to have much choice in the matter, actually. For the rest of the week, he’s stuck in the Empty, and Dean is left trying to figure out how to save him, how to talk to him—and how to get him out for good.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Venomous cravings||Vampire Oscar x Human!lando

Summary— Lando develops an addiction to vampire venom and Oscar can’t have that so he gives Lando what he craves in a safe and controlled way what he didn’t mean to do was ruin Lando…or did he?

A/n this is just a one shot of the larger fic Im writing for @adventuringblind and it’s dark and smutty.

Lando didn’t mean for it to get this bad. It had started as one stupid, adrenaline-fueled night with his friends. They’d snuck into an underground club—dark, loud, and tingling with danger. It was the kind of place his mother warned him about, but Lando had never been good at listening.

He didn’t remember the vampire’s name. Just the cold press of their hand against his neck, the sharp sting of their bite, and the warmth that flooded him afterward. It was euphoric—electric, addictive in a way that scared him. He woke up the next day with a faint scar and an ache, but he also felt empty, like something vital was missing.

And then he wanted more. He started seeking it out, throwing himself into riskier situations, letting strangers sink their fangs into his skin. Each bite made him feel alive, buzzing with that venomous high. But it was never enough. The hunger grew sharper, the bites left him paler, weaker, until even his closest friends noticed.

That’s when Oscar stepped in. Oscar wasn’t supposed to care. Lando was reckless, a mess of bad decisions and worse ideas, but Oscar had a soft spot for him—a crush that bordered on pathetic, though he’d never admit it. When he caught Lando in the aftermath of yet another dangerous encounter, faint bite marks decorating his neck and arms, Oscar couldn’t keep quiet.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Oscar said flatly, arms crossed as he stared Lando down.

Lando just shrugged, his grin sharp and careless. “It’s fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t,” Oscar snapped. “You look like death. What are you even chasing?”

Lando hesitated, his bravado faltering for a moment. “It’s… it feels good, okay? It’s not just the bite. It’s—something about it. The venom. You wouldn’t get it.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. He did get it—better than Lando realized. He’d been a vampire for decades, careful and restrained, avoiding the chaotic mess humans like Lando brought with them. But hearing the desperation in Lando’s voice, seeing the way his hands trembled like an addict in withdrawal, something in Oscar snapped.

“I could help you,” Oscar said, quieter this time

Lando blinked. “Help me?”

“Just enough to stop you from doing… this,” Oscar gestured at Lando’s pale complexion and fading bruises. “If that’s what you need.”

It was supposed to be temporary. A bite to keep Lando from spiraling, to ease the craving and keep him safe. But Lando came back. Again. And again.

At first, Oscar indulged him carefully, with soft touches and gentle reassurances, tending to the marks he left behind. Lando melted under the care, the warmth of Oscar’s presence more addictive than the venom itself. But Oscar wasn’t blind. He saw how Lando clung to him, how he craved the way Oscar’s bites left him trembling, gasping, and undone.

Oscar thought he could handle it, but the more he gave, the more Lando needed. And as much as Oscar tried to stay in control, the dynamic between them began to shift.

“Don’t give me that look,” Oscar said one night, his voice low and sharp as Lando squirmed under his weight. “You’re the one who wanted this.”

Lando whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t think—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Oscar’s smirk was wicked, his hands firm as he pinned Lando in place. “But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To make sure you don’t ruin yourself completely.”

Lando couldn’t argue. Not when Oscar’s voice was dripping with control, his teeth grazing Lando’s neck in a way that sent shivers down his spine.

Oscar hadn’t meant for it to go this far. He’d started as the soft, careful one, but somewhere along the way, he realized Lando was ruined—for anyone else, for anything else. And Oscar liked it that way.

“You’re mine now,” Oscar murmured, sinking his teeth into Lando’s skin once more. Lando arched against him, lost in the bliss of it all, and Oscar couldn’t help but smile. Accident or not, he had Lando exactly where he wanted him.

[hbyrde36]

Technically tagged by @tinytalkingtina and spiritually tagged by @vthx 😆 (and @kikidoesfanfic 💜)

Rules: Send me an emoji in an ask, and I'll write 3-5 sentences and/or paragraphs from that WIP! (No limit on number of emojis you can send)

🏕 Midsummer Nights (Ch 4)

👻 Fuggi Regal Fantasima (Ch 3)

🌊 Caught in the Undertow (Ch 8)

💫Forever After (sequel one-shot to It's Only Forever)

(If you choose any of these I'll write 3 for it, and 3 for something to share!)

🍐

🍸

😈

From Caught in the Undertow (Ch 8):

Much of Steve’s memories from the night they fought Vecna were clear and sharp… too sharp in some ways, but his recollections turned a little hazy after they were forced to leave the hospital without knowing if Eddie would live or die. 

Robin had wanted to stay with him, but her parents were already there at Steve’s house, camped out on his doorstep after searching for her all over town. They’d practically dragged her out of his car when they drove up. In a way, Steve had been glad for it. He couldn’t have the breakdown he needed to have in front of her. She screamed and fought until Steve told her to go, that he’d be fine, and he’d call her the next day. 

He’d trudged into the house, clutching Eddie’s vest in his fist, his legs growing heavier and weaker with each step. As the last of the adrenaline in his system faded away, he stumbled landing hard on the foyer floor, all alone in his big empty house, and couldn’t find the will to get up.

On hands and knees he’d crawled down the hall to the small bathroom on the ground floor, the angry wounds at his sides and back pulling with every movement, a searing pain that made him want to curl up and cry—or maybe it was just the critical mass. 

With tears beginning to blur his vision he finally reached the sink, pulling himself up with hands that were still tacky with the remnants of dried blood. He washed and scrubbed but the reddish-brown color of it had settled deep into the lines of his palms and under his nails and it’s not like it mattered. His hands would never be clean.

Even if Eddie did make it.

(if anyone is tired of being tagged just tell me lol) No pressure tags 💜: @penny00dreadful @pearynice @sidekick-hero @medusapelagia @griefabyss69

@steddiecameraroll @dreamwatch @shares-a-vest @little-annie @eriquin

[headless-bram]

Bram stilled. Just for a second. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face; before that wide, unhinged grin cracked even wider. A slow, rattling laugh poured out of him, all sharp edges and amusement that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh-ho, there it is.” He dragged the words out, teeth flashing as he tilted his head, eyes locked on Gem like a predator sizing up weaker prey. “There it is. The classic ‘big words make me better than you’ move. Love that. Real original.”

His fingers flexed at his sides, energy crackling through him like static in the cold air. He should’ve known. Should’ve known the second Gem started talking like he had it all figured out. That kind of arrogance didn’t come from wisdom; it came from insecurity, from a desperate need to feel bigger than he was. Bram knew that look. Knew it intimately.

And he fucking hated it.

But Gem? He thought he was winning. Thought he was poking the bear.

Bram let out another laugh, this one softer, almost pitying. “Oh, buddy. You really don’t get it, do you?” He shifted his feet, waning to invade Gem’s space like it was his right but Bram knew I was moments before he wanted to start swinging himself. “You think throwing out some five-dollar words and acting above it all makes you smarter? Nah, man. That’s just a shield. A weak one, too.”

His grin turned razor-sharp. This guy. This fucking guy. Bram had wanted to respect him. Wanted to see that edge, that chaos, that shared understanding. Instead, all he saw was a scared little boy playing pretend.

“And, for the record? You and I both know it wasn’t a church. It was a damn school.” His voice dropped, amusement laced with something darker. “But you let me believe it anyway. Why? You like the image? You wanna be that guy? The big, bad, untouchable outlaw?” A chuckle left him, slow and deliberate. “Pathetic. Or wait you have some excuse you think is clever about letting me believe. Yeah fucking right.”

“Face it, man. You talk big, but you’re just as starved as the rest of us. Love, touch, purpose.” He waved a lazy hand. “Maybe all three. Maybe just one. But it’s written all over you.” His eyes gleamed. “And that’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve seen all day.”

@gem-morey

snow pitch :: Bram

[little-pondhead]

I’m Not The Sun

—

Y'know, when Kon ‘died’, do you think a grieving Tim could have mistaken Danny for his best friend? Do you think that, in a moment of desperation and exhaustion, he might've kidnapped a floating Danny in an attempt to bring Kon home? And when he realized he kidnapped a random civilian, do you think he still kept Danny for a while as a replacement for Kon?

Do you think Danny got tired of being called 'Conner' after the first week but was too distressed himself to correct Tim? Trying to leave or tell the fellow teen his name was Danny was obviously sending the kid into a spiral. He seemed to think Danny was the dead spirit of his best friend. Maybe if he played along, this Conner guy would show back up?

Hopefully, before Tim completes his cloning research. Danny's been doing everything he can to sabotage the equipment, but even with ghost powers on his side, Tim is a smart person. Every time Danny sets him back one step, Tim takes two steps forward. And since he's well outside of his haunt, Danny is starting to feel weak and ill from lack of ectoplasm. He's running out of time.

Do you think Kon would feel upset that his best friend replaced him?

[geddy-leesbian]

I need to yell into the void

I miss my sister. I miss my nephews. My sister always sucked on some level, but I miss the time before she went from sometimes being kinda shitty to an outright betrayal that I will never, ever be able to forgive. I miss when we were able to have a distant but okay relationship because she was fun in small doses. I miss my nephews. I miss when for christmas we would all go over to my sister's house and play Mario Party while the nephews were awake, and then switch to board games after they went to bed. I hate that my nephews probably won't even remember they have an aunt Heather, and that if they do remember me enough to ask my sister will lie to them and make me (and my mom and brother) out as terrible people. I hate that my niece will definitely not know she has an aunt Heather because I only met her once when she was a newborn.

I don't miss my dad. But I miss having a dad. I'm glad he's finally respected my repeated statements I want nothing to do with him and hasn't made any contact that I've been making since I was 14. For years of my life I would literally fantasize about turning 18 and not going to his house anymore, changing my name, and blocking his number. Yet I miss when he'd still send me a text on my birthday or holidays because even though every time I got one it would fill me with dread and I'd mentally call bullshit on him saying he loved me and would always be there for me, but on some level I think really deep down I enjoyed the validation from the texts. I really did think that he loved me. Even when he was doing unforgivable things and ruining my life, I never doubted he loved me on some level. He didn't really like who I really was as a person, but he at least loved the version of Heather he had in his head. He was emotionally abusive and a bad parent, but that didn't mean he didn't love me. The texts he would send even though I told him to his face I hated him and never wanted to see him again and after that completely ignored him kinda showed that he did still love me unconditionally. That's how it felt to me at least. But no. He gave up on me. He has never respected boundaries, not mine or anyone's. So many fucking times I would try and set boundaries with him, sometimes by myself, on multiple occasions with different therapists, and that man never hesitated to cross any of them. He didn't stop texting me because the fact I want zero contact with him finally got through his thick skull, he stopped for the same reason he's done everything else he's ever done, he wanted to.

If he texted me a "Merry Christmas, sweetie" in 3 days, my blood would boil and I'd be bitching to someone about him having the nerve to still keep trying to talk to me, but deep down I'd be happy to just have a tiny shred of evidence that my dad loves me because he's my fucking dad and it's the bare minimum he's supposed to do and if he loved me he wouldn't have given up so easily.

I miss when my dad would at least pretend to care so I could think that the two people in this world who are supposed to love me do. I miss when, even though I fucking hated him, if I texted him that I had a migraine and ran out of my prescription he would bring me one of his pills. I just miss... i don't know I just miss.

I don't miss any of my paternal relatives. They're vile people, worse than my dad himself. But on some level I miss when I'd have a dozen people who would pretend they loved me a few times a year. Going to those family gatherings was hell for me. I would cry in the car on the way and have panic attacks, dig my fingernails into my arm as hard as I could. But somehow I fucking miss them.

I love my mom and my older brother and my younger sibling and I know they actually love me. Unlike everyone else in this post, they also know me. They know me on more than a surface level. They don't love their ideas of who they think I am, they love who I am. They don't force me to hug them and take family pictures because their love isn't performative, they don't need to show off and virtue signal to the world that they love me.

But I still just want more. I miss things I never had in the first place.

I felt so much happier when I first turned 18, that was 2020 so the world sucked but I still felt so much happier because I was finally able to do what I'd dreamed of for years and cut off the people who were destroying me. I didn't miss my dad, or any other relatives, the first year. Not at all. It was just a good riddance. But it's like as time goes by my brain forgets how bad everything was and misses it. And even when I try to remind myself, think about the horrible things my grandma would say about me, remind myself of all the times my biology teacher would let me sit in a little office connected to his classroom because the stress of my dad would make me cry in class, remind myself that it was bad enough I was suicidal and put into an every single day intensive outpatient program for mental health two different times, look at the picture of the GPS tracker my dad illegally put on my mom's car... none of it clicks. Part of my brain just won't accept that there's nothing worth missing.

[jackass-jones]

Honestly though I think it’s really a bad sign when I look at Shin Tsukimi and literally feel like he’s a self insert 😩

[scientia-rex]

A lot of younger people have no idea what aging actually looks and feels like, and the reasons behind it. That ignorance is so dangerous. If you don’t want to “be old,” you aren’t talking about a number of years. I have patients in their late 80s who could still handily beat me in a race—one couple still runs marathons together, in their late 80s—and I lost someone who was in her early 60s to COPD last year. What you want is not youth, it is health.

If you want to still be able to enjoy doing things in your 60s and 70s and 80s and even 90s, what you want to do, right now, is quit smoking, get some activity on a regular basis (a couple of walks a week is WAY better for you than nothing; increasing from 1 hour a day of cardio to 1.5 will buy you very little), and eat some plants. That’s it. No magic to it. No secret weird tricks. Don’t poison yourself, move around so your body doesn’t forget how, and eat plants.

If you have trouble moving around now because of mobility limitations, bad news: you still need to move around, not because it’s immoral not to, but because that’s still the best advice we have. I highly recommend looking up the Sit and Be Fit series; it is freely available and has exercises that can be done in a chair, which are suitable for people with limited mobility or poor balance. POTS sufferers, I’m looking at you.

If you have trouble eating plants because of dietary issues (they cause gas, etc.) or just because they’re bitter (super taster with texture issues here!), bad news. You still want to find a way to get some plants into your body on a regular basis. I know. It sucks. The only way I can do it is restaurants—they can make salads taste like food. I can also tolerate some bagged salads. On bad weeks, the OCD with contamination focus gets so bad I just can’t. However, canned beans always seem “safe,” and they taste a bit like candy, so they’re a good fallback.

If you smoke and you have tried quitting a million times and you’re just not ready to, bad news. You still need to quit. Your body needs you to try and keep trying. Your brain needs it, too. Damaging small blood vessels racks up cumulative damage over time that your body can start trying to reverse as soon as you quit. I know it’s insanely, absurdly addictive. You still need to.

You cannot rules lawyer your way past your body’s basic needs. It needs food, sleep, activity, and the absence of poison. Those are both small things and big asks. You cannot sustain a routine based on punishment, so don’t punish your body. Find ways to include these things that are enjoyable and rewarding instead. Experiment. There is no reason not to experiment—you don’t have to know instantly what’s going to work for you and what won’t, you just need to be willing to try things and make changes when things aren’t working for you.

You will still age. Your body will stop making collagen and elastin. Tissues you can see and tissues you can’t see will both sag. Cushioning tissues under your skin will get thinner. You’ll bruise more easily. Skin will tear more easily. Accumulated sun damage will start to show more and more. Joints will begin to show arthritis. Tendons and ligaments will get weaker and get injured more easily, as will muscles. Bones will lose mass and get easier to break. You’ll get tired more easily.

But you know what makes the difference between being dead, or as good as, in your 60s vs your 90s? Activity, plants, and quitting smoking. And don’t do meth. Saw a 58-year-old guy this week who is going to have a heart attack if he doesn’t quit whatever stimulant he’s on. I pretended to believe it was just the cigarettes, and maybe it is, but meth and cocaine will kill you quicker. Stop poisoning yourself.

Baby steps; take it one step at a time; you don’t need to have everything figured out right now. But you do need to be working on figuring things out.

[leyiorr]

i can't stop looking at her t-t-t-t, FACE!

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

why is he doomed, you ask? well, put bluntly, you, his girlfriend of five months, are driving him absolutely crazy.

crazy is an understatement, actually. insane, mad, mental, unhinged, deranged, bonkers - whatever you want to call it. he's holding on by a thread; the thinly woven string known as sanity growing ever weaker as the days roll by and turn into weeks.

of course, he's only blaming you. you hadn't actually done anything wrong.

you're the first relationship satoru's had in his life, and he'd be damned if some inappropriate thoughts ruin his chances with the love of his life. he'd never been happier - dating you gave him the kind of happiness he thought only existed in movies; the kind of giddiness of a child in a candy store.

he was devoted to you in every way, shape and form - you are everything he's dreamed of and more.

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

surprisingly, even after twenty-odd years of being one of the most attractive guys around, and having women throw themselves at him like he's some kind of greek deity, satoru is a virgin. i'll repeat that, he is a virgin. a fact that only suguru knows. a fact that he's neglected to tell his girlfriend.

he may have a flirtatious personality and the ability to charm ninety percent of the human race with one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles, but in truth, he had never dated anyone. ever. let alone got his dick in a pussy.

so when he starts wanting to go further, he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a horndog.

it all started when you wore a sleek black dress to one of your dates. it clung to your figure, fabric wrapping shamelessly around your every curve and tickling your midthigh at its end. and if that wasn't bad enough, it had a plunging neckline, giving the world - satoru specifically - an eyeful of the assets god gifted you with. your boobs were practically spilling out of your dress, the light catching your cleavage as you held his arm. he could feel himself salivating like some sort of perv. how was he supposed to focus with aphrodite's personal creation hanging off his arm?

his eyes began to drift to the flesh of your chest more than he'd like to admit. all sorts of r-rated scenarios ran through his head and he dared to entertain every. single. one. he could do so much with them, tease them, spit on them, pinch them, suck on them, put his dick between them-

“satoru?”

his gaze snaps back to your face at record speed. you notice how he's chewing his bottom lip, flush creeping onto his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. his hands are clammy; there's suddenly too little oxygen in his room.

“did you listen to anything i said?” your arms fold beneath your bosom and satoru almost implodes.

what do you expect him to do? the necklace around your neck has his initial on it, and it hovers over your tits almost mockingly. if it snapped, the letter would fall right between the valley of your breasts-

“satoru!”

he's choking on his saliva, apologizing profusely as he encourages you to continue your story - though he hasn't heard shit over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

it's a battle no, a war between his rationality and his desires and he doesn't know which is winning. his rationality wins when he's around you - he just sucks in a breath and thugs it out, no matter how much his dick shouts at him. but in private, he's letting the desires win as his fists himself to the thought of you, your lips, your ass; your boobs.

the first time he sees you in a bikini he has to take a breather before he can get into a game of beach volleyball with you and the group.

(and even then he was struggling. every time you jumped for the ball the only thing he was looking at was your tits.)

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

it drags out for so long that you finally notice, and force him to talk to you about why he's avoiding you, and if you'd done anything wrong. but all you get is:

“baby, i'm so sorry- you're so pretty and i can't help myself. i didn't know how to bring up that i wanted to take our relationship to the next step, you mean the world to me and i'd hate to make you uncomfortable-” he trips and stumbles over his words-

“...is that it?”

and his eyes bug out of his head as he stares at you. weeks, months of agony over this and all you have to say is 'is that it'?

he doesn't even have chance to respond; to process your words before you're popping the top button of your blouse.

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[boygirlctommy]

gazes off into the distance. maybe i should work on monster band again...