#i want to be a fly on the wall for all of it

[kashverse]

𝒴our first encounter with the 呪術廻戦 men 

⪩⪨ ✶ implied f!reader but can be read otherwise (use of "pretty" in choso's version), strangers to lovers, fluff, featuring ♡ canon! gojo, canon! geto, single dad! toji, modern au! choso, canon! sukuna in a modern au, corporate! nanami ✿ ⪩⪨ tried a new formatting style..! ib my dear @norikuna (∩˃o˂∩)♡

gojo doesn’t see you coming. not because he’s oblivious—though, sure, that’s part of it—but because he’s too busy making himself miserable, listening to some poor bastard on the phone cry about their ex. it’s barely noon, the sun’s out, people are living their lives, and this guy’s talking about how he let “the one” slip through his fingers. “bro, just get another one,” gojo had said, dead-eyed, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. the response was more crying. he sighed, hanging up.

and then he smacked straight into you.

not a polite bump, not even a nudge—full-on body collision, your forehead meeting his chin with a sharp crack. the impact was enough to send you both stumbling, but while gojo’s built like a brick wall, you had all the misfortune of being knocked back a few steps. “ow—what the fuck?!” your voice came first, and then, through the dizzying pain, you saw him. tall, white-haired, stupidly good-looking in an insufferable way, dressed like he was on some model’s off-day. sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, and even through the slight daze, you could see the sharp glint of his blue eyes peering down at you.

“ah, my bad—”

“your bad?” your voice rose, disbelieving. the pain hadn’t even settled yet, but your temper had. “you nearly took my head off!”

gojo blinked. “well, technically, if i took your head off, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he pointed out. “unless you’re a talking head, which would be—"

“are you serious?” you cut him off, hands flying up in exasperation. “you’re just standing in the middle of the damn sidewalk—”

“crosswalk,” he corrected.

“—like a fucking lamppost,” you barreled on, ignoring him. “and then you hit me. no, actually, you collided with me like a fucking train, and now you’re just standing there?”

you looked ready to kill him. gojo thought you looked radiant. people don’t really yell at him. they get nervous, flustered, awkward. maybe they complain a little, but they don’t yell. not like this—not with this kind of raw, unfiltered rage that was directed solely at him.

and he was loving it.

“ohhh, you’re mad mad,” he said, grinning.

“no shit?” you spat, rubbing your forehead. “you’re huge! why do you walk like you don’t know how to control your own size?”

“i’m huge? that’s a compliment,” he mused. “also, you ran into me.”

“i did not—"

“you did, but it’s okay,” he waved off. “i forgive you.”

your mouth dropped open. your jaw clenched so hard you swore you heard it click. “i don’t need your forgiveness,” you snapped. “i need you to watch where the hell you’re going!” gojo just smiled. “i can do that,” he said. “but only if you tell me your name first.”

you squinted at him. “why?”

“so i know what to say in my apology,” he said smoothly. “y’know, something heartfelt, real personal. ‘i’m so sorry, dear stranger, for running into you with my big, strong, muscular body—’”

your scowl deepened. “forget it,” you turned to leave, shaking your head.

gojo grabbed your wrist. lightly, like he was afraid you’d shake him off (which you probably would). “wait,” he said, less teasing this time, more curious.

you stopped, staring at him warily. “what?”

he grinned. “you’re fun.”

you yanked your arm out of his grip. “you’re annoying.”

but you weren’t yelling anymore. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

toji doesn't believe in love—at least, not in the way people like to romanticize it. to him, love has always been transactional. people want things: security, pleasure, a warm body to cling to at night. he provides, they take. simple.

commitment? fuck no. he’s been there, done that, and all it got him was a headache and a kid who looks at him like he’s a walking disappointment. not that he blames megumi—he knows exactly the kind of man he is. relationships, from what he's seen, are just another job. another obligation. more shit to deal with when he's already stretched thin making sure megumi doesn't starve or turn into a little menace. and he's already got enough on his plate. 

raising megumi is work. the kid is sharp, stubborn, and way too perceptive for his own good. keeping up with him is exhausting. fulfilling someone else’s expectations on top of that? hell no.

people ask if he’s lonely. he laughs. lonely? he’s got freedom. no nagging, no obligations, no answering to anyone but himself and, on the worst days, a grumpy eight-year-old who somehow thinks he’s smarter than him. love, in his experience, is just a distraction. and toji fushiguro doesn’t do distractions.

and toji swears he only looked away for a second.

he was just checking the damn price tag on some overpriced brand of instant noodles, and when he looked back, megumi was gone. poof. like a magic trick, except it wasn’t a trick, and the rising panic in his chest was very, very real. “shit,” he muttered, scanning the aisles. nothing. just a bunch of old ladies and college kids looking for cheap meals. no messy black hair, no tiny scowl. he ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep calm. he didn’t want to make a scene. people lost their kids all the time, right? it wasn’t a big deal. he just had to—

and then he saw him.

megumi was at the end of the next aisle, small hands clenched at his sides, his mouth pressed in a thin, stubborn line, like he wasn’t scared, even though he definitely was. and right next to him, crouched down to his level, was you. “you’re really good at this,” you said. megumi blinked up at you. “huh?”

“the whole ‘not panicking’ thing,” you smiled at him. “most kids freak out when they lose their parents. you’re staying calm. that’s cool.” megumi looked away, like he wasn’t sure if that was actually a compliment or not. “i don’t wanna cause trouble,” he muttered.

“aw, but that’s what parents are for,” you teased. “causing them trouble.” megumi almost smiled. almost. toji, still frozen in place, narrowed his eyes. who the hell were you?

“c’mon, let’s go find your dad,” you said, standing up and holding out a hand. megumi didn’t take it, but he followed you anyway, his short legs working hard to keep up with your pace. and toji? well. he wasn’t sure why, but instead of stepping forward, he let you find him.

he let you do the whole thing, watching as you walked with megumi, asking him questions—where he last saw his dad, what his name was, what he looked like.

“he’s really tall,” megumi said. you hummed. “tall, huh? that helps.”

“and he’s got a scar on his mouth,” he added.

“even better. anyone who looks scary is easier to spot.”

megumi frowned a little. “he’s not scary.” you smiled, ruffling his hair. “i bet he isn’t.”

toji snorted under his breath.

by the time you turned the corner and finally spotted him, megumi exhaled in relief. toji pretended not to notice how fast he ran up to him, grabbing the fabric of his shirt like he wasn’t just saying how calm he was. you, on the other hand, stopped a few steps away, hands on your hips. “you must be the scary, not-scary dad,” you said.

toji raised an eyebrow. “and you’re just a random saint, huh?” you shrugged. “not a saint. just someone who doesn’t like seeing kids upset.”

he looked at you, really looked at you. you didn’t seem put out by any of this, like helping some stranger’s kid wasn’t an inconvenience, but just another part of your day. like it was normal. toji let out a breath, then tilted his head down at megumi. “you good, kid?”

megumi nodded, though he still wasn’t letting go of toji’s shirt. toji sighed, glancing back at you. “guess i owe you, huh?”

you waved him off. “don’t worry about it. just keep an eye on him next time.”

toji huffed a laugh. “easier said than done.”

you grinned, giving megumi one last look before turning to leave. and toji? well. maybe being responsible for two people wouldn’t be so bad after all.

nanami never thought much about being single. it wasn’t a matter of pride or principle—just reality. his job was time-consuming, his patience was thin, and the thought of entertaining someone else’s needs after a long workday felt exhausting. he wasn’t lonely, just… fine. indifferent.

until he got sick of his office food.

“this is inedible,” he said flatly, staring at the sad excuse of a meal on his plate. his colleague, barely looking up from his own tray, mumbled, “it’s fine.”

nanami’s eye twitched. it was not fine. rubbery chicken, dry rice, and a soup that tasted more like dishwater than anything edible. this was not a meal—it was a punishment.

so, he made a change.

he found a small business that delivered homemade meals, something personal but convenient. it promised variety, quality ingredients, and, most importantly, flavor.

what he didn’t expect were the notes.

the first one came tucked under the neatly packed meal.

“hope today isn’t too exhausting! eat well!”

nanami stared at it for longer than he should have. then, at the food—real food. properly cooked, properly seasoned, steaming with warmth that no canteen meal could ever replicate. he didn’t think about it much. a kind gesture, that was all. but the notes kept coming.

“long meetings? i packed extra today.”

“rainy day! hope this brings some warmth.”

“rough week? your food will always be good at least.”

and then—

“your order is always so precise. you must be someone who likes routine.”

nanami paused mid-bite. he did like routine. he thrived on it. and yet, this—this unexpected kindness, these little messages—was beginning to throw him off in a way he couldn’t explain. weeks passed, meals came, and nanami found himself looking forward to them—not just for the food, but for the words that came with it. one afternoon, after another insufferable meeting, he opened his meal to find:

“do you ever take breaks? hope you’re not working too hard.”

he let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. he was working too hard. but how did you—someone he’d never met—seem to know that better than the people around him? finally, curiosity got the better of him. he grabbed a pen and, for the first time, wrote back.

“who are you?”

the next day, his meal came with a note, just like always.

“just someone who wants you to eat well. but i wouldn’t mind knowing who you are too.”

and for the first time in a long time, nanami thought—maybe being single wasn’t so fine after all.

geto doesn’t believe in love. not in the way people romanticize it, anyway. he’s known desire—used it, wielded it like a tool, a means to an end. a well-timed smile, a hand grazing a wrist, a whispered promise—all of it was just another step in expanding his cause. people were easy to sway when you made them feel special. and being single? it wasn’t something he mourned. it was efficient. no attachments, no complications, no wasted energy. everything he did, every conversation, every encounter—it all served a purpose.

until you.

“you’ve been talking for a while,” you said, tilting your head at him. geto smiled. “am i boring you?”

“not at all. just wondering if you’re going to get to the point.”

he chuckled, swirling his drink. clever. impatient. interesting.

“what do you think my point is?”

you leaned back, thoughtful. “well, you’re charming, you have that practiced ease of someone who’s very used to getting what they want, and yet…” you narrowed your eyes. “you haven’t tried to get anything from me yet.”

his smile twitched. perceptive too. “maybe i’m just enjoying the conversation.”

“hmm.” you didn’t look convinced. “i doubt you talk to people without a reason.”

he laughed, shaking his head. “you wound me. am i not allowed to simply appreciate good company?”

you smirked. “do you?”

and that was the problem, wasn’t it? he did.

he was supposed to be recruiting you. that was why he approached you in the first place—he had assessed, observed, picked you out for your potential. another piece in his grander vision. but now? now, he was talking to you about books, about philosophy, about things that had nothing to do with his cause.

he liked your sharp tongue, your quick comebacks, the way you saw through people but humored them anyway. and he was enjoying this. more than he should.

“you’re thinking too hard,” you noted.

“am i?”

“yeah. for someone who flirts so easily, you seem oddly distracted.”

he chuckled, shaking his head. you had no idea. for the first time in a long time, geto suguru had forgotten his purpose. and strangely enough, he didn’t mind.

choso doesn’t really get love. it’s not that he doesn’t feel it—he does, deeply, messily, all-consuming in the way only someone who has lived too long without it can. it’s just that he doesn’t understand how it’s supposed to work. his friends talk about relationships like they’re puzzles, like you’re supposed to fit into someone else’s life piece by piece, no gaps, no edges sticking out. but choso? he keeps forcing the wrong pieces together. he’s had his heart broken by so many situationships, and he doesn’t even know what that word means. all he knows is that people like him enough to stay for a while, but not enough to stay forever. and when someone ghosts him? it’s over.

“why would they do that?” he asks yuuji, completely distraught. “i thought we were getting along.” yuuji winces. “yeah, but… sometimes people just disappear, man. it’s not your fault.”

“but why not just say they don’t like me?”

“because people suck.”

choso frowns. love is confusing. people are confusing. nothing makes sense.

until he meets you.

more specifically, until you send a pug flying in his direction. one second, he’s minding his own business, sipping a coffee, staring blankly at nothing. the next—

“watch out!”

and then—THUD.

a very round, very squishy pug collides with his chest, knocking the air out of him. he blinks. looks down. the pug is fine. choso, however, is shaken.

“oh my god, i’m so sorry,” you pant, running up to him, looking horrified. “he’s got the speed of a missile and the weight distribution of a sack of potatoes. are you okay?”

choso is still holding the pug. he has not processed a single thing except that you’re talking to him, and you’re really pretty. you snap your fingers in front of his face.

“hello? earth to guy who just got body slammed by my dog?”

he swallows. “i—i’m okay.”

you sigh in relief. “good. i don’t think my insurance covers ‘pug-related assaults.’”

he stares. then—

he laughs.

it’s an awkward, slightly delayed laugh, but it’s real. it bubbles out of him, because suddenly, everything is just… simple. you’re still talking, apologizing, trying to pry your dog from his grip, and he realizes—love doesn’t have to be this big, complicated thing. it can be a stranger, a runaway pug, and a stupidly perfect moment where he thinks, 'oh. this is it.'

sukuna has never cared for love. love is mortal, fleeting, an indulgence for the weak. he has lived for centuries without it, conquered, destroyed, thrived—all on his own. why bother with attachment? why waste time on something that promises nothing but vulnerability? he’s always been perfectly fine like this.

until the night he meets you at the bar.

he doesn’t even mean to notice you at first—just another human in a crowded room, laughing, talking, lighting up the space with an ease he’s never possessed. 

and then he hears you speak. your voice is smooth, effortless, like you’re meant to be heard. every sentence flows into the next, words never fumbling, never uncertain. you make people laugh, pull them in, keep them hanging on to every syllable. sukuna watches, listens, enthralled, before someone leans in and calls you by name—your full name. followed by—

“aren’t you that talk show host?”

and it clicks. you are. he’s seen your face before, flickering on a television screen, a passing glimpse at a life so far removed from his own.

and now he’s irritated. because you talk so easily with everyone but him. and that won’t do.

so he tries. for the first time in centuries, he tries to talk to someone—like a normal person, like it’s something he’s done before, like it’s as easy as you make it look.

but it’s not. it’s a disaster.

he waits until the crowd around you has thinned, takes the seat next to you, and—

“so.” he clears his throat. “you talk to people for a living.”

you turn, blinking, mildly amused. “i do.”

he nods, confident. good start. then nothing. his mind goes blank. shit.

you raise a brow, waiting. sukuna glares at his drink like it’s betrayed him. “how do you do it?”

you tilt your head. “do what?” he gestures vaguely. “talk. keep people engaged.”

you blink. “are you asking me how to hold a conversation?”

his jaw tenses. “no.”

you laugh. he scowls.

he tries again. “what makes a good interview?”

“oh, that’s easy,” you hum. “you have to be genuinely interested in the other person.”

he deadpans.

you smirk. “which means you have to actually listen to what they’re saying.”

“i listen,” he grumbles.

“really?” you lean in. “then what were we just talking about?”

silence. your smirk widens. “you weren’t listening.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. this is hell.

but he keeps trying. keeps failing, keeps making an idiot of himself, keeps suffering through every one of your knowing smiles—because for the first time in his miserable, ancient existence, he actually wants to learn.

he wants to talk to you.

and maybe, just maybe, he wants you to talk to him, too.

[maskedbyghost]

You hated Simon Riley.

And he hated you.

It wasn’t the petty kind of animosity that came from competition or a clash of personalities. No, this was deep-seated loathing, built from years of working together, of butting heads, of him undermining you in front of the team, and you snapping back with your own venom. Every mission was a battle within a battle—bullets flying outside, but the real war waged between you and him.

It had come to a head tonight.

The mission had gone sideways. The intel had been off, and you were both stuck in some abandoned safehouse in enemy territory, waiting for exfil. The tension had been unbearable—his glares, your biting words, the sheer frustration of being stuck together in the dark, humid room.

And then it exploded.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe it was you; maybe it was him. One second, you were hurling insults, and the next, your back was hitting the wall, his body pressing into yours, all that rage spilling into something else—desperate and hungry.

“Shut up,” he growled, his breath hot against your lips.

“You first,” you snapped, shoving at his chest, but he only leaned in harder, his body heat overwhelming. “I swear to God, Riley—”

He cut you off with his mouth, all teeth and force, the taste of anger and something darker mixing between you. You bit his lip in retaliation, drawing a low sound from his throat, and then his hands were on your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise.

“Always got somethin’ to say, don’t you?” His voice was a rasp against your skin as he shoved your jacket off your shoulders. “Always got to push back.”

You let out a breathless laugh, reaching for his belt and yanking it open with a sharp pull. “Because you never know when to shut up.”

His hand caught your wrist, pinning it to the wall beside your head, his other hand fisting into your hair to tilt your head back. He studied you, his eyes dark and unreadable, his breath uneven. You could feel his pulse hammering against your own, both of you on the edge of something that neither wanted to name.

“Say the word,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. Instead, you surged forward, biting his jaw before whispering against his ear, “Show me what you’ve got, Riley.”

Then it was chaos. Clothes are torn away, bodies colliding, every motion a challenge. You shoved him back onto the creaky bed, straddling his hips as he glared up at you, hands already gripping your thighs. His smirk was infuriating, his fingers digging in like he was daring you to keep control.

“Think you’ve got the upper hand?” he taunted, his voice rough as he dragged his nails up your spine, making you shudder. “Cute.”

You dragged your nails down his chest in retaliation, leaving red lines in your wake. “I always win, Riley.”

His laugh was low and full of something wicked. “Not tonight.”

And then he flipped you, pressing you into the sheets with a force that stole your breath, his weight holding you down. His mouth found the column of your throat, his teeth scraping before he bit, marking you like he had something to prove. You gasped, arching against him, hands gripping at his shoulders as he pressed even closer, his body heat scorching.

It wasn’t tender, it wasn’t slow. It was rough and messy and filled with every ounce of rage and desire. Every motion was a fight—him trying to take, you refusing to surrender. But you both knew the truth.

Neither of you wanted to stop.

And when it was over, when the only sound in the room was your breaths and the rustle of sheets, you still didn’t move away. Simon was watching you, his thumb tracing the fresh marks on your skin as if memorizing them.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. “We’re never speaking of this.”

His lips curled, amused. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

But the way he pulled you back to him, the way he kissed you again—slower this time, more lingering—told you that this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

------------------------------------------

this is my apology for all the angst I put you through.

@daydreamerwoah

[kortac-sweetheart]

ah fuck it, thinkin abt: taking public transport with kruger and nikto (especially self indulgent bc i absolutely despise my commute)

going onto a train car hand in hand with nikto and it’s not so bad at first. it’s a little crowded but you’re not shoulder to shoulder with anybody (except nikto).. until the next station over where a whole flood of people get on and it turns into nikto essentially caging you into the train wall with his body.

the thing about nikto is that he and everything about him; from his height, to his built body, and even down to the aura he exudes. it all silently commands respect. so there’s a very, very clear distinction between nikto’s space and everyone else’s. and all other passengers aboard tries their damndest not to step into it, at all costs, even if the train is packed to capacity.

he glances down at you, mirth twinkling in his icey blue eyes. “are you ok, rodnaya?” his eyes never leaving yours, even with the intensity of the moving train and the slight sway of the floor.

a little nod from you has them crinkling in a way you’re intimately familiar with, which is when he’s happy. his heart flutters just a tiny bit, overjoyed at being able to protect you and keep you safe, even in mundane happenings like this.

his eyes then survey the train car again, making sure that no one’s too close to you. he leans his head down, murmuring into your ear, “look at them, khoroshenkaya, packed together like sardines in a tin.” he chuckles (unreasonably hot and dangerous considering the situation you’re in) and gently takes your chin in his hand.

“hm, and you.. my little prince/ss. my sweetheart. i’ll do whatever you ask, yes? anything and everything you want.” pressing a chaste kiss to your lips through his black surgeon’s mask.

by the time you and nikto snap out of your shared reverie you’ve missed your initial stop by three stations.

oops.

ah well, riding the train in the opposite direction now just gives him additional time to sweep you off your feet..even if you’re already dating.

˖◛⁺⑅♡

when the doors of the bus swing open, kruger always ushers you inside first. tapping his card twice on the reader (as if he’d ever allow you to pay for anything) and letting you to grasp his hand to lead him to your desired seat.

if space allows, he’d like for you to sit on one of those single seats, facing the aisle with him standing at your side as if he were your knight.

but if there were only those double seats available he’d assist you to sit in the window seat and him, the aisle seat. his arm wrapped around your shoulder and pulling you closer to his chest whenever the bus swerved a bit too hard.

and if there were no seats available?

kruger held onto the overhead grip, his leisurely stance very out of place with the wild way the bus turned this and that direction. his other arm was wrapped firmly against your waist, squeezing you tightly to his side.

“faring well haschen?” his hand rubs up and down your waist soothingly, eyes flitting to yours to see if you’re doing alright.

“yea—ah!” the bus swerves abruptly again, as if out to specifically ruin your day. kruger adapts easily, catching you before you could go flying (as if you weighed nothing), arm casually readjusting around your waist.

he sighs, exasperated from this god awful driving, coaxing you to cling onto him even more.

“hold tight, mausi.” he nuzzles his mouth into the crown of your head, a kiss through his mask. your arms wrap tightly around him, more akin to a python’s grip than an actual hug (he doesn’t mind, he never does). while bored, your eyes hone in on the way his arm tenses and flexes when he has to adjust his grip on the handle, downright ogling at him and his casual strength.

“enjoying the view, schatzi?” you can hear the smirk in his voice when his comment snaps you out of your daze.

“no.” your curt reply a little too fast, a bit petulantly as you bury your face into his chest, slightly flushed. he can only chuckle as he pats your waist comfortingly.

“ ‘s ok mein liebe. you can have more of this view at home.” he spends the remainder of the bus ride just admiring you and your cute little expressions when you catch him staring.

the rest of the ride goes well without a hitch (ie. you didn’t go flying through the bus’ front windows) even if you did get tossed around a bit.

and when the bus finally stops he wraps an arm around your shoulder, ushering you quickly out of the bus and nearly shoulder checking some poor sap on the way out.

kruger is one mean bastard and impatient to boot, and he’s not afraid to show it. ‘tsk-ing’ when someone’s walking too slowly for his liking or taking up too much room on walk ways

he WILL shoulder check someone for the above mentioned, he absolutely would. he’s more than willing to be rude to someone who’s annoying you (or heaven forbid, being MEAN to you, god help them) and in turn, him as well.

if someone’s standing too close or cuts you off when walking he’ll bark out an authoritative “watch it.” or “move.” it always sends people packing. and if it doesn’t? that nasty glare of his and murderous aura always does the trick.

has and will continue to run with you in his arms up and down the stairs. he got so fed up with the crowded stairs one time that he just scooped you up bridal style and ran up those stairs in 5 seconds flat, without even having to take a breath after.

“what mausi?” he questions, playing dumb and shrugging his shoulders. “you can’t just pick me up and run up the stairs seb!” you smack his chest, embarrassed. he laughs it off “well it worked didn’t it? and besides schatzi, what do i have these muscles for if not to help you, hm? i’m retired now, these are all for you.” and well. you can’t be mad at him after that can you?

god help any other passengers that happen to be nearby if both nikto AND kruger are accompanying you on public transport. everybody else would be maintaining a 6ft (minimum) distance from you three at all times, at all costs. (and, hey, no complaints from you, so. /shrug/)

[celtrist]

RADIOAPPLE BAD END ROUTE

In these endings, it's more or less assumed Alastor has gotten out of his deal (if the route doesn't involve his owner)

Lucifer finally snaps. Growing quite tired (and honestly pretty bored) with his and Alastor's game of "cat and mouse", Lucifer moves in to make Alastor his. So using his raw power, Lucifer overpowers Alastor and tells him they'll be finally getting married. It was a quick, and quite frankly embarrassing fight on Alastor's end. Alastor, while disliking the short king, supposed giving into the king of hell wasn't the most embarrassing loss he could truly have. Of course, with the escalation of their relationship came more problems than he thought there'd be.

Lucifer expects a devoted partner out of Alastor, and Alastor gives more of a "bare minimum" sort of effort. An ever-doting, jealous, and possessive husband Lucifer makes it difficult for Alastor to be out of his sight. Let alone attempting a conversation with anyone aside from Lucifer. Alastor is more or less stuck wherever Lucifer is, that is wherever he's staying sleeping-wise. And when he's not, Lucifer makes sure he's with Alastor whether as his normal self or a snake on his shoulder or a fly on the wall that Alastor isn't aware is there.

Lucifer's stalking is far less subtle than what it was before, and he still "guilt trips" Alastor for things like kisses and cuddles (the guilt trips and lying never work, but Alastor just gives up and "goes with it"). However, Lucifer will sometimes just do these things without Alastor's permission. A sudden kiss on the cheek, Alastor sleeping in bed and Lucifer just getting in to cuddle without letting him know, that sort of thing.

Post-engagement, Lucifer is less than tolerant of Alastor being an "aloof" partner. So with a flick of his wrist, Lucifer will sometimes conjure up an apple or even medicine infused with magic to make Alastor lose his autonomy and become the "perfect partner". Only responding and doing as he's told. This only lasts as long as Alastor gives him, the first time being a bit of a simple punishment and warning for Alastor to become "more committed" to their relationship, lest he wants to just be out of control of his own body. This does coerce Alastor to being more active reluctantly, but there are still a few times that this punishment ends up enacted.

Now this next part is a bit more give or take with this route, but Lucifer "baby trapping" Alastor seems like something he'd do. Whether that's Lucifer getting pregnant, Alastor getting pregnant (without permission), or both of them being pregnant. While I personally am not much of a fan of the whole "mpreg" thing, Lucifer desiring another child with Alastor makes sense in "completing the family" or really nailing in the coffin that Alastor is his.

This part of the route is certainly more optional than concrete as it IS a bit strange haha Using pregnancy to coerce Alastor into staying and being a more active partner seems like a thing Obsessed!Lucifer would be interested in doing. At the very least, he could lowkey threaten doing that sort of thing.

This pregnant situation (whichever way) could've been the way Lucifer more or less forced Alastor into marriage.

The pregnancy would be the final straw (if you choose to go that route) for Alastor. Either way, at some point he just grows tired and no longer wants to be the one in control. So Alastor requests Lucifer to give him some more "medicine", which Lucifer obliges with an upgrade so that Alastor doesn't require any sort of orders to move, but all autonomy will still be thrown out in favor of a different persona that blindly loves Lucifer. With the temptation to no longer think for himself, Alastor becomes Lucifer's perfect husband. So long as he remembers to take his medicine!

[ultraviolenced888]

(thigh riding, use of word daddy, slight degradation ig?, piv, happy valentines xx)

"tha' right, baby?" ben grunted as one of his hands reached down to help you grind his jean clad thigh. he could tell you were getting tired by the way those sweet short puff left your lips faster.

"ben-" you whimpered softly, both of your hands gripping his broad shoulders.

it was unfair, really, him being fully clothed down to his combat boots while he'd made you fully strip down, fucking unfair. but that was what ben was: unfair.

"i know, baby," he cooed in your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin. you could still smell the whiskey and weed on it, and it only made you more desperate. "i know you're close. just be a good girl and finish on my thigh like you promised you would, mh? then daddy's gonna take real good care of ya, 'kay?"

you let out a soft moan as you nodded, pressing your bare front to the jersey he was wearing. ben slid his big palm on your skin, from your thigh to grab a handful of your ass, squeezing it before settling his hand on the small of your back, helping you keep your rhythm.

"m'so... ben- so close...!" you sobbed, desperately fisting at his jersey. his eyes glanced down at his jeans, the slick patch your wetness left.

"shh, baby... let go." his sweet, soft words made you melt. his lips found yours, chasing them as you tried pulling away while finding your high. "did so good for me."

as you panted on his lips, he pushed you off his lap and made you lay down on the bed, your chest heaving.

with your eyes closed as you came down from your high, you heard his jeans unbuttoning and belt unbuckling. you opened your heavy eyes just in time to see ben's fly opening, a smug smirk on his handsome face. he tugged his jeans down to his thighs, his boxers following soon enough but not taking them off completely.

he liked this, probably got him off, to see you fully naked, at your most vulnerable state as he wouldn't even take his shirt off.

"promised i'd treat ya real good if ya'd show me how bad you needed me, mh? didnt even give me the time to walk through the door that you were already all over me." he mused, leaning on top of you.

"just- just missed you, and today's valentine's day-" you breathed.

ben bitterly chuckled. "oh, sweets, that's it? valentine's day got you all hot and bothered for me? that why you couldn't wait for me to take my jacket off?"

your cheeks flushed red and you arched up against him a little, trying to catch his lips in a kiss, but he leaned back. "no, i-"

"didn't even say hello or kiss daddy before you were already asking for his cock..." he tsked. "that all you see me as, all you think about?"

"n-no!" your fingers tangled in his hair. it was getting long again and you were loving it. "i love you, it's not just that! i wanted to spend today with you, do something special..."

"mh?" he rubbed his stubbled cheek against your softer one, making it itch. "i didn't know my sweet girl could be so dirty.... that why you weren't wearing underwear when i got back? were you hoping to get fucked?"

"i-" you stuttered, blushing redder than before.

"good girls get fucked, you know that baby..." his tip started to part your sticky folds and you let out a soft moan, tugging a little at his hair.

"i was good-!" you choked as he pulled away, tapping it on your clit. "i did what you aske-"

"i know... good girls get fucked, and you were the best girl." he whispered in your ear before sliding his whole length between your folds, lubing himself up. "always the best girl for me, aren't you?"

"y- fuck, yeah." you moaned, his tip finally sinking into your welcoming walls.

"this special enough, baby?" he asked as he buried himself deep in you.

you desperately nodded, your eyes watering from the stretch of ben's cock splitting you open and knocking on your cervix as he started moving. "yeah, ben-"

"happy fuckin' valentine's baby." he grunted in your ear.

[totaly-obsessed]

Good Luck, Babe!

➳ Nika Mühl x reader

➳ pt. 2 of Casual

➳ Summary: A complicated, on-again, off-again relationship where they try to move on but keep getting pulled back together. There’s jealousy, mixed signals, and heartbreak, but no matter what, they can’t seem to fully let go - until maybe they have to.

➳ Word count: 4.178 (idk how I got here)

➳ Warnings: A lot of cursing? Pls be nice to me, it's my first fic in like 6 months...

It's fine, it's cool You can say that we are nothing, but you know the truth. And I guess I’m the fool

Ignoring someone who was such a constant in your life turned out to be much harder than you expected. Sure you were convinced you were done with her and didn’t need her anymore, but pulling through with it? It was a whole different world.

The Huskies had just played a fantastic game against Creighton when the brunette finally managed to catch up to your friend group outside in the hallway. Nika had put in a shift in the game, giving her all on the court, so she was already out of breath, when she called out a sharp “Hey, stop!”.

A deep sigh left your body, there was no way out of this now, once she set her eyes on something, there was no other option in the basketballer's mind. “It’s alright, I’ll catch up to you guys later.” They didn’t seem too sure to leave you alone with someone who just a couple of weeks ago had brought out a side of you they had never seen before.

“You’ve been acting like we’re nothing. Like I don’t exist.” Nika’s arms were crossed over her chest, clearly frustrated and ready to defend herself. And the scowl on her face told you that she did not like the scoff you let out, or your rolled eyes.

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Casual, no attachment?” You hadn’t even noticed the hallway emptying, leaving just you and Nika. Carefully you tried to shift away from her, putting a bit of space between the two of you, trying to save yourself some embarrassment. But the brunette was quick to follow your movements, forcing you closer to the wall behind you.

“It’s fine. It’s cool,” and just like that her eyebrows that tend to make her look angry relaxed, and that damn cocky smirk won over her face. By now you were completely pressed against the rough wall behind you. Nika came closer and closer, eventually leaning down, her face only a couple of inches away from yours.“You can say that we are nothing, but you know the truth.”

She was right. You did know.

That didn’t mean you could continue being toyed with.

You took a deep breath and steadied yourself before finally locking eyes with her. Christ. You had nearly forgotten just how deep they were, and you could feel yourself slipping. But your voice was firm, unwavering “Yeah, I know the truth, Nika. And I guess I’m the fool but I’m done being something to you only when it’s convenient or you’re bored for 5 seconds.”

The Croatian’s smile nearly fell off her face, and you swear if you squinted you could see a quick flash of hurt on her face. But you decided not to wait around to question it, instead moving past her - ignoring the pain in your chest and the way her hand twitched in your direction.

But walking away didn’t feel like you were winning like you finally stood your ground. It really fucking hurt.

With her arms out like an angel through the car sunroof

After you got back to your friends they decided to do something against the tears streaming down your face. And what better thing is there to do in Storrs Connecticut than 5 young adults in a car chasing sunsets?

By now the sun had been long gone, and the cold night air bit at your stretched-out arms, but you barely noticed. The trees flew by in a blur as Daisy held on to your legs, terrified that you would fall out of the sunroof of the car.

Just for a second, it was as if you were flying. Like you were free like an angel.

But was freedom supposed to feel this empty? Were angels truly free or just servants of god?

The howling wind tangled your hair, as you squeezed your eyes shut - trying to get rid of the ache still left in your chest as if someone was squeezing you too hard. Maybe you could leave it all behind. But who were you kidding? As dramatic as it sounds, right now there was not a possibility in your mind to get over Nika.

Daisy’s grip on your thighs tightened, pulling your attention away from the star-painted sky. “Alright, I think that’s enough main-character moment for one night,” she yelled over the blaring music and the roaring winds. You could hear the slight concern hidden behind a laugh.

With a sigh you let her pull you back down to earth, but also back in the car as you collapsed against the worn leather seats, your heart still racing. The others were singing along to some old song, not hitting any note of it and laughing about themselves. It was warm and safe in the chaos of it all.

But the emptiness was still there.

Maybe angels weren’t free. Maybe just like you, they were stuck between wanting to fly and staying.

I don't wanna call it off But you don't wanna call it love

It turned out, that Nika isn’t all that calm, cool, collected either. Her performances in recent games had been sloppy and everyone was able to see that something was off with their secretary of defense.

The worst part of it all was seeing her get frustrated with herself. Whenever Geno took her out, she had tears in her eyes as her jaw clenched on the bench.

Giving up, however, didn’t seem to come to her mind. At any party, game, or lesson she had a glimpse of you, Nika tried to find excuses to be near you.

Oh, look! You’re here too, directly next to the fan whose shirt I’m signing. What a coincidence!

And it was safe to say that you weren’t oblivious to it. The way she lingered just a second too long when you were close, how her eyes automatically looked for you in crowds (just to find that you were already looking at her once she actually found you), the way she laughed extra loud, hard and fake at people, trying to act unbothered, just to stop once you turned away. 

At first, you thought this was just Nika being Nika - dramatic, relentless, and not accepting of a loss even if it wasn’t on the court. But the coincidences started to pile up.

Oh wow, the only open seat in the dining hall just happens to be at your table? No way.

Oh, she’s just suddenly best friends with the person sitting next to you in class? What a small world!

Oh look, you’re leaving a party at the exact same time, at the exact same exit, and she just has to walk in the same direction as you? Who would’ve thought?

Despite her games, her need to be close and her pure annoying-ness, she never actually said what you needed to hear. She never called it what it was.

“I don’t wanna call it off,” she had once told you in passing, the first thing she actively said to you after the hallway conversation, her voice low and her gaze unreadable.

But she never called it love either.

You can kiss a hundred boys in bars Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling

If the dumb universe wouldn’t help you get over Nika, you would just have to do it yourself, or at least that was the plan. Which is why you ended up at some Alpha Delta Phi Frat party - halfway through your third drink that you barely liked, in a mass of sweaty people with hands on your body. 

You were trying to pretend that the warmth of someone else’s hands on your waist would be enough to make you forget.

Of course, it wasn’t.

But it was better than nothing, which is why you still threw your head back, downing whatever vile concoction was in that cup, and dragged the guy, whose hands were currently trying to find a home on your hips, off the dance floor. He was cute enough, said the right things, well as far as your drunken mind cared, he leaned in a little too close - but none of that mattered.

Because even with the bass running through your body, and unfamiliar lips brushing against yours, all you could think about was her. 

Daisy caught you when you stumbled your way back over to the bar, promising the guy to get some drinks. “You done?” she asked unimpressed, arms crossed over her chest. She seemed strangely sober. Or maybe you were really drunk. 

“Not even close”, you leaned over the counter so that the barkeeper, who really was just another frat boy, could actually hear you as you ordered more drinks.

These were supposed to help, right? This is what people did when they wanted to move on. But it didn’t work, not for you at least. You could kiss a hundred different people in a hundred different bars, take a hundred shots, but the feeling never left. 

No matter how you tried to drown her out, or maybe drown yourself with other sensations, she always resurfaced.

And the worst part? You knew exactly where she was.

Just across the room. Watching you. 

You can say it's just the way you are Make a new excuse, 'nother stupid reason Good luck, babe

She was staring.

And it wasn’t an ‘oh I was just looking over, and there you are! What a surprise!’. No. Nika was standing on the other side of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight and eyes locked with yours. She was daring you to keep going.

Like she was waiting for you to break first.

Fuck this. Instead of breaking, you took the shot instead. The burn in your throat was nothing compared to the ache you felt in your chest, as you made your way back to the guy from before.

Finally meeting her gaze again felt like a crime, but you could see it. The frustration, the jealousy. But she didn’t move. She didn’t storm over like you had thought she would. 

She just stood there, watching.

The smirk made its way onto your face before you could control it - just to piss her off even more. You let the guy, whose name you still didn’t know pull you closer, feeling him breath down your neck, and you prayed that the Croatian didn’t see the way you grimaced. If she wants to pretend that everything is fine, then two can play that game.

You could nearly hear the scoff all the way across the room - Well you couldn’t hear it, but you saw it, and you knew exactly how that expression sounded - before she turned her head and walked away.

What you didn’t see was Daisy pulling the tall basketball player back inside by her arm before she could fully escape.

“You just gonna stand there all night?” Daisy snapped, her voice low but sharp.

Nika clenched her jaw, ripping her arm away. “What do you want me to do?” she muttered, eyes flickering back toward you, wrapped up in someone else’s arms.

Daisy scoffed. “I don’t know, maybe stop acting like a fucking coward.”

Nika’s glare snapped to her. “I’m not—”

“Oh, spare me,” Daisy cut in, shaking her head. “You can say it’s just the way you are. Make a new excuse, ‘nother stupid reason.” Her voice dripped with frustration. “But you and I both know that’s a load of shit. So… Good Luck, Babe.”

Nika didn’t respond, just tightened her fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

Because Daisy was right.

And she fucking hated that.

I'm cliché, who cares? It's a sexually explicit kind of love affair And I cry, it's not fair I just need a little lovin', I just need a little air

To no one's surprise, you didn’t last much longer at the party. Maybe it was the thick air or the alcohol in your system. Or maybe it was the fact that you couldn’t think straight. A certain brunette is always present in there. 

So you left. Slipped out the front door silent as a grave. But before you had reluctantly taken the guy's phone number that he had scribbled on a piece of paper ‘just in case’. The cold air had hit you in the face. This felt nice, to finally be able to breathe. Clearly, you needed this.

You didn’t expect her to still be here, after seeing her leave earlier. But of course, she waited. 

“You think that’s funny?” Nika's voice had cut through the night like a blade. And you didn’t even need to turn around to know that she was right there, just a step behind you.

“What?” You decided to play unknowingly, pretending not to know what she was talking about.

“You know what,” As the last few times you’ve spoken to her, her voice was sharp but you could hear a slight wavering. “Dragging some random dude with you, making a show off it.”

With a scoff, you now fully turned around to her. “What I do, is none of your business.” She let out a dry laugh, not the kind of laugh that you liked, but a mocking one. “Bullshit. You were looking at me the whole time. Don’t lie to yourself.”

And that was the problem. You were looking at her. All the time.

“God, you’re so fucking - “ you stopped yourself, hands gripping the hairs at the side of your head in desperation, trying to push down all the feelings. Make them go away. “I don’t get you, Nika. One minute you don’t want anything to do with me. The next-”

“I never said I didn’t want anything to do with you.” Her interruption was sudden, but not unexpected. Her voice was quieter than before, but it sounded dangerous somehow. “I never said that.”

“No?” It was your turn to chuckle now. “Then what the hell is this,” you pointed wildly between the two of you, becoming aware of the lessening distance, “Because I can’t keep doing whatever this is.” Your chest was heaving up and down, so fast as if you had just run a marathon.

The brunette didn’t say anything for a moment, she was just looking at you, trying to find the right words, and just when you thought you had broken her again - “I’m cliché, who cares?”

“What?” You were the broken one now.

“I’m cliché,” she said again, repeating herself, her lips curling into that goddamn smirk you loved so much. “Dramatic, stupid, jealous as fuck - I’m all of it, you’re right. But you -” She took a step even closer, and suddenly, there was barely any space left between you, to the extent that you could feel the warmth radiating off of the tall girl in the cold night. “You make me lose my goddamn mind.”

And instead of heaving like before, your chest stopped moving as you held your breath. Fuck. If she had said this a few months ago, you would have folded instantly. Maybe none of this would have happened and instead, you’d be - No. You couldn’t even think about it. 

But it was too late, wasn’t it?

“Yeah, well,” you took a step back, ignoring the pain. “Maybe you should have figured that out before you decided I was only good for convenience and in private.”

The smirk fell off her face.

“That’s not-”

“Save it, Nika.” The words hurt in your throat. And seeing the hurt on your face nearly killed you. But you were doing this for yourself. Too long you had yourself as a last thought. “You don’t get to be mad. You don’t get to act like I did something wrong when all I ever did was want you.”

Something behind her eyes snapped, and her right hand went up to grasp at her shirt. “You - You think I don’t want you?” Nika’s voice broke slightly as she demanded an answer “You think I don’t feel this?”

You stared at her. “Then say it. Tell me what you feel.”

She hesitated. Of Course, she did.

Because that’s what she always did. That’s what she’s good at. Dancing around the truth, playing games, got close but never too close or close enough. She was a coward. And you were so fucking tired of it.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You turned on your heel, ready to walk away. For real this time. But then -

“I just need a little lovin’,” she said, with a voice so quiet that you nearly missed it. 

You froze.

“I just need a little air,” Nika’s beautiful eyes were glued to the ground, hands fidgeting with each other when you turned back around. She looked wrecked. 

Something in you twisted painfully. Because god you understood.

You understood what it was like to want something that scared you. To be so afraid of losing it, that you ruined it yourself before anyone else even had the chance to do it.

But that didn’t change the fact that she had hurt you. And she knew that it hurt you. She made you believe that she didn’t care all this time when in reality she did.

“I cry,” the admittance made her scoff at herself, but seeing you smile, made it feel a little better. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” you agreed, the cold night wind carrying it over to the brunette, “It’s not.”

The silence felt suffocating between both of you, the tears in your eyes were begging to be set free. But then - 

“It’s a sexually explicit kind of love affair,” she said like she was confessing something like she was finally laying herself bare.

This was her way of saying It was never just about sex. It was never just a fling. It was always more than that.

The noise you made was somewhat between a laugh and a sob “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

When you wake up next to him in the middle of the night With your head in your hands, you're nothing more than his wife

The sheets felt wrong. Too crisp, and not familiar. The room was bathed in soft moonlight, casting shadows on the wall. But it was all strange, hazy, like a blur. Like she was watching it, instead of actually experiencing it. 

Nika turned over in her bed, expecting to find it empty, but the weight beside her made her stomach sink. His breathing was steady and peaceful. It was like he belonged here, the room was colorless, without character, which fit to him. But she didn’t belong here. This wasn’t right.

The Croatian squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her hands against her temples. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. 

When she was lowering her hands, the wedding band on her finger caught her eye, the moonlight reflecting off of it.

No. No, no, no. 

Suddenly she felt as if she was suffocating, the breath getting stuck in her lungs. The air in the room was thick, pressing down on her chest. She didn’t know who was beside her, didn’t know his name, and she couldn’t remember how she got there. She couldn’t feel anything besides the aching hole inside her. The one that has been there before.

The one that has always belonged to you.

She stumbled out of the bed, feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. Nika could feel her heartbeat in her ears. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger - with tired, empty, and lifeless eyes. 

And when you think about me all of those years ago You're standing face to face with "I told you so"

And then she saw you. Standing in the doorway like you had always been there, always waiting. 

She couldn’t read your face, but your eyes - god your eyes - held everything. The frustration, the hurt, the longing, the knowing.

She had fucked this up.

You tilted your head, arms crossed over your chest, lips parting just a tiny bit like you were about to say something. But Nika already knew what you were going to say.

“I told you so.”

It wasn’t smug, you weren’t trying to hurt her more. It was just the truth. A truth that crushed her.

Her throat tightened again like she was drowning. It came so suddenly it felt as if she let go of something that wasn’t just important, but vital - necessary.

The brunette wanted to reach for you, take you in her arms, and tell you that she was sorry. That she never stopped thinking about you. But before she could move, say something, you were gone. And you took all the warmth and light with you.

You were gone.

And she woke up.

You know I hate to say, I told you so

Nika jolted upright. Her chest heaving as if her air was cut off in real life and not just her dream. Sweat clung to her skin and her heart was racing, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the dream or the realization that came with it.

Shaky hands ran through her hair, blinking at the darkness, but familiarity of her room as she was trying to calm herself down. But it wasn’t working. Because she knew.

This wasn’t just a dream, this was a fucking warning.

If she didn’t do something, that’s how she would end up. Incredibly unhappy, a wife to some dude. Without you. If she didn’t stop running or hiding and she stopped being a coward, this would be her future. 

And she would lose you for good.

She wasn’t going to let that happen.

Not now. Not ever.

Nika threw the covers off and grabbed her phone.

It was time to fight for you.

You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.

“Can you meet me?”

It was nearly 3 am when you got the text. Of Course, you were still awake. After coming home and explaining what had happened to Daisy, the two of you decided to watch some movies. 

The answer was easy, “Yes.”

“I’m outside.”

The next minutes were a blur as you grabbed your keys, got some shoes, and put on a jacket. Why were you so nervous? This was only Nika.

Walking down the flights of stairs to get to the front door of your student housing felt endless. Outside you could see her. Standing on the sidewalk, hands gripping the strap of her bag, shifting on her feet - you feel it before you even reach her. That pull. That undeniable force.

After seeing you, her face lights up. But you could still see the dark circles under her puffy eyes. 

At first, neither of you speak. Just standing across from each other, reveling in the comfort the others' presence brought. Then with a deep breath, Nika took an uncertain step forward before finally pulling you into a hug, resting her head on yours, while you buried your face in her neck.

“You’d have to stop the world just to stop this feeling,” she whispers against your hair.

And right then, you know - you never want it to stop.

You held her tighter as the world outside kept moving. Every now and then cars zoomed by or people walked past you. But for you and Nika time slowed down. 

She pulled back just enough to be able to look at you, one of her hands cupping your cheek so gently, that she must have thought you would break. There’s something unreadable in her expression. Something raw.

“I was scared,” she admitted. “That if I said this out loud, it would disappear. You would disappear.”

Your fingers brush a strand of her behind her ear “It’s real,” you say softly. “It’s been real the whole time.”

She exhaled shakily, but the hand that was holding onto your jacket didn’t let go. Instead - she smiles. A small one, but it was there, and it was as if a boulder was lifted off of your chest. 

“I don’t want to run from this anymore,” she murmured before pressing a kiss on your forehead. You could feel the heat shoot up to your face, knowing she could feel it too, one hand still cupping your face.

“Then don’t.”

A beat. Then she laughed, and it’s the kind of laugh that melts through every doubt you have ever had. “Okay.”

You had to laugh too, and before you could think, before fear or hesitation could creep in, you cupped her face right back and pressed your forehead to hers. The warmth of her skin, the way she sighed like she was finally home - was enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

“This is crazy,” she whispered, but she was smiling.

You grinned. “Maybe. But I don’t care.”

And then, finally, she kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was slow, filled with every unspoken word, every moment that led you here. 

It was a promise, a beginning.

[steddiehyperfixation]

holding out for a hero

@steddiebingo prompts: superhero au + fly | 1.8k words | rated T

Eddie doesn't believe in superheroes. He may live most of his life in fantasy, playing fantasy games and reading fantasy books, but contrary to popular belief, he does still know the difference between reality and fiction. And some superhuman wonderboy flying through the streets of small town Indiana sniffing out crimes to stop is definitely fiction, no matter what the local news stations have been saying lately. 

It's all just some angle, some sort of propaganda. “Something to make the ne’er-do-wells scared and the do-gooders feel safer,” as he'd put it in his lunchtime rant earlier this afternoon, stomping atop the high school cafeteria tables and laughing at everyone who jeered at him. He was being dramatic and theatrical, but the point still stands that these stories of a superhero in Hawkins are utter bullshit. Especially since the only evidence the news has been able to cough up on the contrary is a couple of fantastical eyewitness accounts and one singular blurry, grainy, heavily shadowed photo of a random guy jumping over a fence. 

Eddie believes in what he can see, and if there really is a superhero running around Hawkins, he’s fairly fucking certain he would’ve seen it by now. He commits crimes on the daily and no one’s ever stopped him. No masked vigilante has ever interrupted a drug deal. No wonderboy has ever busted him for petty theft. They're small crimes, sure, but it's not like there's too many others doing too much worse around here. To that end, no one’s ever saved him either, when a deal goes south or a bully gets physical, but that’s a weaker argument. Eddie knows he’s not the kind of person most people would care to save.

He certainly doesn't expect to be saved now as he finds himself at a meeting that’s quickly shaping up to be more of an ambush. It was already shady to start with, the details of the deal set up through anonymous notes left in his locker that led him here to wait outside of an abandoned building in the middle of the night, but then the guy marches up with three extra goons behind him, guns on their belts, and it’s only getting shadier. Eddie straightens up from the wall he’d been leaning on, every muscle in his body tensing warily. 

The guy in front gives him a derisive once over. “So you’re Al Munson’s kid, huh?” he sneers, and that’s when Eddie knows he’s really in trouble. 

“Shit.” Eddie raises his hands and starts backing away. “Man, whatever beef you got with Al, it’s got nothing to do with me, alright? I don’t want any trouble.” 

“Right…” The main thug’s lip curls up sarcastically as he advances. His goons advance with him, and as they step out of the shadows Eddie realizes that while two of the goons are respectably big and scary, the other one is just some fucking kid, no more than a few years younger than him. In fact, he’s pretty damn sure he’s passed him in the hallways at school before. That must’ve been who was leaving the notes. 

“Oh, eugh.” Eddie wrinkles his nose in distaste, his stupid mouth running off in reaction to his moral disgust before his brain has the sense to stop it, “Did you seriously rope your fucking kid into this shit? You know the more you get him involved the more it could just as easily end up being him in a situation like this instead of me.” 

He's answered, predictably, by Main Thug slamming a fist into his face. “Are you threatening my son?!”

“No!” Eddie yelps, cowering away as the pain blooms across his face from what is most likely going to become a black eye. “I’m just saying-”  

“Well, stop sayin’.” Main Thug swings again and Eddie tries to dodge out of the way, even throwing up his hands in an attempt to block, but the blow still lands and it stings like hell. His momentary disorientation from being punched again gives Main Thug even more of an advantage, which he uses to grab Eddie by the collar to keep him from moving. “Stop sayin’ and start listenin’. I’d hate to have to kill you before you can make up for what your daddy owes us.” 

“Okay!” Eddie raises his hands once more in surrender. “Okay. Take it easy.” 

Clearly, fighting his way out of this is not an option. These aren’t some high school bullies he can scare away with a single show of self defense and a well-timed weird face; these, with the exception of the random kid, are full grown men at least twice his size who are hellbent on achieving either Eddie’s death or his compliance, and they aren’t picky which. Surrounded and outnumbered, shutting up and staying still seems like his best bet for the moment. Although, he’s not too sure he wants to find out what exactly they want to make him do to pay off his douchebag dad’s debt either. 

He waits until Main Thug is satisfied enough with his surrender to let go of his shirt, and then, in a split-second impulse, Eddie turns and bolts. The half-second advantage of surprise allows him to slip through the circle of goons around him, but after that his luck dries up. His assailants recover too quickly, immediately swearing and chasing after him, and Eddie’s not fast enough to outrun them. He’s caught within moments, one of the big goons grabbing onto him and redirecting his momentum to throw him into a wall. 

“Ow, fuck!” Eddie’s shoulder slams into the wall first, then his back; and even his head gets a good thump against the brick too. The wind knocked out of him, all he can do is brace himself for another hit. But it never comes. 

Instead, the fucking Hero of Hawkins himself comes flying in out of nowhere to barrel down his attackers, very efficiently taking the heat off of Eddie as the thugs are now far more preoccupied with fighting off a goddamn superhero.

“What the fuck?” Eddie blinks the lingering blur of pain from his eyes, squinting to make sure he’s seeing things right. It’s dark and wonderboy’s wearing a mask, but Eddie would recognize that perfectly coiffed hair anywhere. “Steve Harrington?” 

Obviously caught off guard by being recognized, Wonderboy/Steve falters for one fatal second. His startled pause is tiny and brief, all things considered, but it gives the thugs just enough time to regain their footing and draw their weapons. 

“Shit.” Steve reacts in an instant. Within the blink of an eye, he dives towards Eddie, scoops him up bridal style, and launches into flight just before the first gunshot rings out. 

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie yelps, clinging onto Steve’s neck as they rocket into the sky. “Take me out to dinner first!” 

Steve, clearly, does not find this amusing. “We are literally being shot at,” he hisses. 

“Yeah, and that’s very scary, so I’m cracking jokes to cope,” Eddie retorts over the sound of his racing heartbeat and the wind in his ears. “Sue me, Harrington.” 

“I don’t know why you keep calling me that,” Steve lies, evasive gaze trained straight ahead as they stop flying up and start flying forward. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not-” 

“What, not Steve Harrington?” Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Suuuuure. You know, the mask is good and all, but if you really don’t want people to know who you are, you might want to consider wearing a hat or something too. You have very recognizable hair,” he informs him. “And moles,” he adds in an afterthought, continuing to study Steve’s face with the utmost attention. It’s a nice distraction, better than looking down or looking back. “And jawline…and eyes… So really you should probably just wear a whole paper bag over your head, actually,” Eddie decides. “But then I guess that would kill the whole dashing hero vibe you’ve got going, huh?” 

To his surprise, that's what succeeds in making Steve laugh. “Oh wow.” Steve finally looks at him, eyebrows raised in amusement. “You seem intimately familiar with this Harrington guy’s facial structure. Does he know how much you've been looking at him?” 

“What, no, I look a normal amount,” Eddie protests indignantly. “Those are all totally normal things to notice. Especially since they are, like I said, very recognizable features.” 

“Sure. Which is why no one else has ever accused me of having the same jawline as Steve Harrington.” 

“Are you seriously going to keep denying it?”

“I think you got hit just a little too hard tonight,” Steve says, simultaneously dismissing the validity of Eddie’s accusation and redirecting the conversation with such smooth and genuine concern Eddie almost misses the implied insult to his current mental capabilities. “Is your head okay?” 

Eddie chooses not to be offended in favor of responding with a smirk and quip, “I’ve yet to receive a bad review.” 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers more soberly. “Just a little bruised, nothing serious. I’ll live.” 

“Good.” 

After a minute, Steve’s flying slows and he starts making a gradual descent. Eddie finally risks a glance down, watching the entrance to Forest Hills Trailer Park rise up to meet them. Steve's taken him home. 

“Aw man, is the ride over?” 

“Yeah. Go home, take it easy, get some ice on those bruises,” Steve says as he lands gently and sets Eddie back on his feet. “I’m gonna go make sure those guys won’t mess with you again.” 

In the moment where his feet have just settled steadily on the ground but his arms are still around Steve’s neck, Eddie can’t help but press a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek before letting go and swaying out of his space. “Thanks.” 

“Uh- yeah.” Steve stutters for a barely noticeable second before he recovers, nodding in a sort of farewell salute as he starts backing up to leave. “Stay out of trouble.” 

“And pass up the chance to be your damsel in distress again?” Eddie grins. “I don’t think so.” 

Steve huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Then I guess I’ll be seeing you around, Munson.” 

With that, he turns and launches into the air. Eddie watches as he arcs gracefully through the sky and fades into the distance. He stands there staring after Steve even after he’s lost sight of him, the far away silhouette of him disappearing into the night. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters, blinking and shaking himself out of this trance. It still hasn’t quite settled in yet that any of what happened tonight was actually real, but what has settled in is that he’s exhausted and his face hurts. Everything else he can process in the morning. 

He drags himself around and makes his way back to his trailer where he collapses onto his bed and passes out within minutes, sinking into dreams of flying.

[bartoszsims3]

Day 5 – Climbing to Bruce’s Heart!

The sun rose over the Bachelor House, and for once, everyone seemed pleasantly surprised — probably because the production team decided to bless them with a new addition: mystery juice™.

Ivan, the brave pioneer of the house, was the first to chug it down. What was in it? Who knows? But he seemed very focused afterward, so I guess we’ll allow it.

Meanwhile, Andy and Bruce decided to break in the other new addition: a ping-pong table.

But let’s get to the real action—the challenge of the day!

🏆 THE GREAT WALL-CLIMBING SHOWDOWN 🏆

The rules? Simple. Climb the wall, press the button at the top, and prove your dominance. The winner gets a private, uninterrupted date with Bruce. The production randomly sorted the matchups, and oh boy, did we get some drama.

ROUND 1

🔥 Joshua vs. Belphogor – Joshua gave it a good effort, but Belphogor climbed that wall like he had a personal vendetta against gravity. Victory: Belphogor!

🔥 Andy vs. Andrés – Andy put up a decent fight, but Andrés moved like a man who really wanted some one-on-one time with Bruce. Victory: Andrés!

🔥 Vincent vs. Ivan – Vincent, who was probably still thinking about the mystery juice, slipped halfway up, giving Ivan an easy win. Victory: Ivan!

🔥 Jhon vs. Ciarán – A tight race! Jhon powered through, proving that telling ghost stories might actually build muscle. Victory: Jhon!

ROUND 2

🔥 Belphogor vs. Andrés – Belphogor once again climbed like a demon on a mission, leaving Andrés in the dust. Victory: Belphogor!

🔥 Ivan vs. Jhon – Jhon, my dude, what happened? Ivan crushed this round. Victory: Ivan!

FINAL ROUND Belphogor vs. Ivan 🔥 It was an intense, sweaty, muscle-flexing showdown. Ivan bought hard, but Belphogor had something to prove today. He rang that buzzer like his life depended on it. VICTORY: BELPHOGOR!

So, what does this mean? 🔥 Belphogor won himself a private, steamy, one-on-one date with Bruce!

What happens next? Will sparks fly? Will tensions rise? Will Bruce regret giving Belphogor all his attention? Stay tuned. 👀

[magic-shop-stories]

Hey there! I just read Yoongi as a father, and I absolutely loved the way you wrote the emotions—it hit me right in the heart! Your writing is so immersive, and I was wondering if I could request something? Could you write a scenario where one of the BTS members (maybe Yoongi or Namjoon?) finds the reader/OC completely at rock bottom like emotionally and physically drained, feeling utterly hopeless but instead of letting them push him away, he slowly helps them heal? I’d love to see that transition from heavy angst to the softest, most comforting fluff, with lots of patience, late-night talks, and maybe some found family vibes. Just something that makes the reader feel safe again.

No pressure at all, but I’d love to see your take on this! Thank you so much, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

💌 Reply:

Ahh, thank you so much for your kind words! I'm really happy that Yoongi as a father resonated with you, it means a lot! This request immediately tugged at my heart, and I knew I had to write it. There's something powerful about someone refusing to leave when you feel like not being saved. I poured a lot of emotion into this, and I hope it gives you that deep angst and quiet, healing comfort you were looking for. Sending you lots of love! 💜

REQUEST NAME:

when the silence breaks

↳ Yoongi x Reader (Platonic/Close Friends/More?); Angst with Fluff,

Rating: M

Word Count: ~3.7k

Genre: Angst with Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Slow Healing, Slow Burn

Warnings: Depression, self-neglect, suicidal ideation (implied past attempt), emotional breakdown, dissociation, guilt, recovery themes, strong language

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (Platonic)

Featuring: Stubborn but deeply caring Yoongi, raw emotions, slow recovery, acts of service as love, quiet but unwavering support, and a hoodie that carries too much history

The last time you saw Yoongi, he’d snapped.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. But guilt doesn’t care about fairness.

You’d dragged yourself to his studio that night, a ghost in his stolen hoodie, the one he’d shrugged off weeks ago and never asked for back. The fabric still carried traces of his cologne, but now it clung to you like a second skin, sour with sweat and three days of unmoving air. Your hair hung in greasy strands, and your socks didn’t match, though you couldn’t remember when you’d last bothered to look. The walk there had been a blur of flickering streetlights and sidewalk cracks, each step heavier than the last.

Yoongi’s studio was a tomb of soundproofing foam and tangled cables, the air thick with the musk of coffee grounds and sleeplessness. He was hunched over his desk, fingers flying across the mixing board, eyes bloodshot. The monitors glowed like twin moons, casting his face in pallid blue. You hovered in the doorway, the hoodie’s sleeves swallowing your trembling hands, and waited for him to notice you.

He didn’t. Not until you choked out his name.

“Yoongi...”

Your voice was a rusted hinge. He jerked, pulling his earbuds out, and for a heartbeat, his face softened, the way it always did when he saw you, like you were a song he’d forgotten he loved. Then the deadlines came crashing back.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing his temple. A half-empty energy drink trembled near his elbow. “Didn’t know you were stopping by. Everything okay?”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you mumbled about the therapy, the sessions that left your thoughts gauzy and your hands steadier, until they didn’t. “They’re… not working. I can’t... I keep...”

“Can this wait?” he interrupted, already turning back to the screen. “I’m up against a wall here, and Joon needs this track by...”

You didn’t hear the rest.

The world narrowed to the hum of his computer, the flicker of the waveform on the monitor, the way his shoulders tensed as he dove back into the mix. You stood there, shrinking under the weight of your own need, until the silence grew teeth.

Then you left.

The walk home was a fever dream. Rain slithered down your neck, but you barely felt it. Your phone buzzed once in your bag, a voicemail, you’d learn later, where his voice cracked over “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” but you let it die, buried under a crumpled tteokbokki container and a mountain of unopened letters.

Your apartment was a museum of ruin. The ceiling fan hadn’t spun in weeks. A coffee mug lay shattered by the door, its shards glittering like misplaced stars. You’d thrown it last Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday, when the silence got too loud. Now you curled on the couch, his hoodie pulled over your knees, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. They twisted into shapes: a frowning mouth, a fractured heart, a question mark you couldn’t answer.

Yoongi had a key.

You’d given it to him after the incident, that night he’d found you on the bathroom floor, your fingers curled around nothing, the tiles cold against your cheek. He’d called 119, then held your hand in the ambulance, his grip tighter than the IV needle in your arm. “You don’t get to leave,” he’d hissed, voice raw, as if anger could stitch you back together. “Not like this.”

He’d never used the key without asking. Not even when you vanished for days, when your texts went gray and your curtains stayed shut.

Until now.

The door creaked open on a Thursday afternoon, slicing through the gloom with a blade of hallway light.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The hoodie’s collar muffled your breathing, but your heart—traitor, loudmouth—pounded like a fist against glass.

You were curled into the couch’s sunken cushions, drowning in the hoodie’s oversized sleeves. Light flooded the room, harsh and clinical, and you recoiled like a creature unearthed from soil, yanking the hood over your face. The fabric almost scratched your cheeks, rough with salt from dried tears.

“Jesus,” Yoongi muttered, his voice frayed at the edges.

You listened to him navigate the wreckage, the crunch of chip bags under his boots, the soft clink of glass shards being swept into a dustpan. His shadow stretched across the floorboards, warped and elongated by the naked bulb, and you braced for the inevitable. For the “Look at this mess” or “What the hell happened to you?”

But he said nothing.

Instead, he knelt. The floor groaned under his weight, and you felt the couch dip as he leaned closer. Calloused fingers brushed the hood’s edge, tentative, as if you might dissolve at his touch. You stiffened, but he didn’t stop, tugging the fabric down until the cold air bit your face.

His breath hitched, a sharp, wounded sound.

You knew what he saw. The hollows under your eyes, bruised like overripe fruit. The split lip you’d gnawed raw. The scar on your wrist, pale and jagged, peeking from the hoodie’s cuff like a whispered confession.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the word cracking like ice underfoot.

You waited for the storm. For the guilt-tripping “Do you know how worried I’ve been?” or the frustrated “Why won’t you let me help?” that had driven others away.

But Yoongi wasn’t others.

He stood abruptly, the motion sending a half-empty ramen cup tumbling to the floor. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

You watched through slitted eyes as he moved, methodical, relentless. He didn’t just clean; he excavated.

The shattered mug you’d hurled at the wall last week aimed at a memory, a voice, your own reflection, was swept into a bin. The mountain of takeout containers, some sprouting fuzzy green colonies, vanished into black trash bags.

When he reached for the pill bottle on your nightstand, you finally spoke.

“Don’t.” Your voice was a rusted blade.

He paused, the orange plastic clutched in his fist. “These expired two months ago.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” The pills rattled as he dumped them into the trash.

He returned the next day. And the next.

You stopped counting the times he barged in, armed with grocery bags and a stubbornness that outmatched your own. He scrubbed the grime from your windows until sunlight dared to creep back in. He replaced your threadbare towels with ones that smelled like fabric softener and home.

Once, he unearthed a sketchbook from under your bed, pages filled with frenzied scribbles of storm clouds and fractured song lyrics. You watched, throat tight, as he tucked it gently onto the bookshelf, beside his old production manuals.

“For later,” he said, as if later was a promise he could keep.

The fifth night, he found you shivering in a sweat-soaked hoodie, the broken AC leaking icy air like a betrayal.

“Shower,” he said, not a request.

You shook your head, curling tighter into yourself.

He disappeared into the bathroom. The pipes groaned, and soon steam curled under the door, carrying the faintest hint of your lavender body wash. When he returned, his sleeves were damp, hair mussed from scrubbing off your tiles.

“Now,” he said, voice softer now. “Or I’ll drag you there myself.”

You went.

He waited outside the door, humming a half-formed melody under his breath, the same one he’d played on your cracked keyboard last week. You stood under the scalding water until your skin turned raw, until the heat seeped into the cracks of your bones, and wondered when he’d learned the exact temperature you liked.

When you emerged, towel clutched to your chest, he was gone.

But on the couch lay a fresh hoodie, his hoodie, folded neatly beside a steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae. A sticky note clung to the rim:

“Eat. Or I’ll tell Jin you’re alive. He’s been texting me conspiracy theories about you joining a cult.”

For the first time in weeks, your lips twitched.

The feeling terrified you.

Yoongi’s visits became as predictable as the sunset.

He arrived daily at 6:07 PM, his knuckles rapping once against your door, a courtesy, not a request, before letting himself in. The first time, you’d flinched at the sound, burrowing deeper into the couch’s crevices. By the seventh day, you found yourself staring at the clock, counting the minutes until the lock clicked.

He never announced himself. Just slipped in, grocery bags, somtimes rustling with Jin’s aggressively labeled Tupperware -“EAT ME BEFORE I CRY”- scrawled in red Sharpie, and set to work. You cataloged his routines: the way he’d kick off his shoes by the door, always left aligned, laces tucked in, the sigh he’d exhale before tackling the dishes, the precise angle he’d tilt his head when scrubbing stains from your coffee table, as if decoding a particularly stubborn chord progression.

The hazards disappeared first.

You noticed the razor blades gone from your desk drawer, replaced by a box of colored pencils. The vodka and soju bottles under the sink vanished, its spot taken by a six-pack of water. The loose pills in your nightstand? Swapped for melatonin gummies shaped like tiny bears. He moved like a ghost, erasing traces of your decay, and you let him.

His notes appeared in unexpected places:

Taped to the fridge:

“Ate the expired yogurt. You’re welcome. P.S. Jin says hi. He’s 83% sure you’re not dead.”

Slipped under your pillow:

“Hobi made a ‘Sunshine Recovery’ playlist. It’s 90% Disney songs. USB on the desk if you’re brave.”

You found it plugged into your laptop, track one titled “Hakuna Matata (Sad Remix)”

Scrawled on the bathroom mirror in dry-erase marker:

“Shower. Please. You smell like Namjoon’s gym bag.”

You ignored them. Mostly.

But on day twelve, you caught yourself staring at the USB drive, its neon green casing mocking you from across the room. When Yoongi returned the next morning, he found it plugged in, the playlist paused midway through “Let It Go”. Hobi’s voice cracking spectacularly on the high note. He didn’t smile. Just nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less, and left a new note:

“Track 7 is worse. You’ve been warned.”

The breaking point came on a rain-lashed Thursday.

Yoongi found you huddled on the balcony, his hoodie soaked through, hair plastered to your skull. The broken AC had turned your apartment into a sauna, and you’d fled to the icy downpour, chasing numbness.

For once, he broke protocol.

“Up,” he barked, hauling you inside with hands that trembled, from anger or fear, you couldn’t tell. You stumbled, knees buckling, but he caught you, his grip firm around your waist. “Enough.”

He marched you to the bathroom, cranked the shower to near-scalding, and shoved a towel into your chest. “Now.”

You stared at the steam curling under the door. “Go away.”

“Try again.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and you realized with dawning horror that he’d brought a book, a weathered copy of Murakami’s 'Kafka on the Shore'. “I’ll be here.”

“I don’t need...”

“You don’t get to decide what you need right now.” He flipped a page, jaw set. “Shower. Or I read aloud. Your choice.”

You showered.

The water burned, but you leaned into it, scrubbing until your skin turned pink. When you emerged, towel clutched like armor, he was gone –again– but a fresh hoodie hung on the door, like last time, still warm from the dryer. His cologne clung to the fabric, a woodsy anchor in the storm.

That night, you found his Murakami book left behind, a receipt marking page 127:

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions.”

Beneath it, in Yoongi’s jagged script:

“Sandstorms pass. I’ll wait. -Y-

You slept with the book under your pillow, the hoodie’s sleeves wrapped around your fists.

The next morning, the AC was fixed.

You didn’t ask how.

It was Saturday 3 AM when the words claw their way out.

Yoongi’s on the floor, back against the couch, grading demos with his laptop balanced on his knees. The screen’s blue glow sharpens the shadows under his eyes, and you wonder if he’s slept at all this week, if either of you have. You’re drowning in his hoodie again, the third one he’s brought this month, its sleeves frayed from your restless picking. The scars on your arms itch beneath the fabric, a map of failures he’s already memorized.

He knows. Of course he knows.

He was the one who found you that second night, after all, your body limp against the bathroom tiles, fingers curled around an empty pill bottle he still won’t name aloud. He was the one who screamed into the phone for an ambulance, who held your hand in the ER with a grip that left bruises, who slept in a plastic chair for three days until your eyes fluttered open. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he’d hissed then, voice trembling with rage and relief. “Don’t you dare leave me like this.”

But tonight, the silence between you is a live wire.

You trace the oldest scar, a jagged line he’s never asked about. “You saved me,” you say, voice frayed. “That night, the other night....”

His fingers freeze mid-keystroke. The laptop fan whirs louder.

“You never thanked me,” he says finally, not looking up.

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“No.” He closes the laptop with a snap. “I’d have wanted you to fight harder.”

The words sting, but his eyes soften them. He shifts closer, knees brushing yours, and you catch the faint tremor in his hands, the same tremor he’d hidden when he carried you to the ambulance.

“I’m still here,” you whisper, as if it’s a confession.

“Barely.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares at the carpet like it holds the answers. “You think I clean your apartment for fun? That I listen to Hobi’s playlists out of charity?” His laugh is bitter, worn thin. “You’re alive. That’s the baseline. I’m waiting for you to live.”

The honesty hangs between you, raw and unflinching. You want to scream, to tear at the walls, to ask why he bothers, why anyone would. Instead, you blurt, “It’s hard. Wanting to stay.”

“I know.”

“How?”

He hesitates, then rolls up his sleeve. A faded scar runs along his forearm, paler than yours, older. “I was twenty one. Scared. Angry. Thought the world wouldn’t miss another nameless kid from Daegu.” His thumb brushes the mark, a habit you recognize now. “But the world’s full of shitty second chances. This...” he nods at you, at the space between you, “...is mine.”

You reach out, fingertips grazing his wrist. His pulse jumps, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not nameless,” you say.

“Neither are you.”

The clock ticks. Rain taps the window. Somewhere downstairs, a car alarm wails.

Yoongi leans back, eyes heavy but clear. “Complaining yet?”

“About what?”

“That I make it hard to want to die.”

You huff, surprised. “Asshole.”

“Good.” He reopens his laptop, the glow cutting through the dark. “Means you’re still here to insult me.”

Timeskip

Winter arrived with teeth, biting through Seoul’s streets and frosting the windows of Yoongi’s studio. Inside, warmth pooled under the glow of desk lamps, the air thick with the burnt-caramel scent of overbrewed coffee and the faint hum of a space heater fighting valiantly against the chill. You sat cross-legged on the floor, his hoodie swallowing your frame, its sleeves rolled haphazardly to your elbows. A notebook lay sprawled in your lap, pages crammed with lyrics scratched out and rewritten, margins filled with doodles of storm clouds and half-melted snowmen.

Yoongi was at his desk, scowling at a tracklist as if it had personally offended him. The studio was cluttered in its usual organized chaos, a framed photo of Bangtan’s debut days tilted precariously near his monitors, a wilting succulent Jungkook had gifted him –“Hyung, it’s indestructible—like you!”– clinging to life by the window. His fingers tapped absently against a coffee mug, the one you’d painted for him last month, a lopsided heart that read “World’s Okayest Producer.”

You’d come here often lately. Not because he asked, but because the silence between you had shifted, no longer heavy, but companionable. A refuge.

“Your hoodie,” he said suddenly, not looking up.

You paused, pen hovering over a line about fractured constellations. “Yours,” you corrected, tugging the fabric tighter. It smelled like him now, cedarwood and the faint smell of coffee.

“Keep it.” His voice was casual, but his shoulders tensed, the way they did when he was avoiding eye contact. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You snorted. “Liar. I’ve seen your closet.”

“Exactly. I need an intervention.” He spun in his chair, finally facing you, and froze.

A strand of hair had escaped your ponytail, clinging to your temple. You went to tuck it back, but he was already moving, slow, deliberate, like approaching a skittish animal. His calloused fingers brushed your skin, tucking the stray lock behind your ear. His thumb lingered, tracing the curve of your forehead, and you didn’t flinch. Didn’t dare breathe.

The studio’s hum faded, the whirring computer, the heater’s rattle, the distant traffic, until all that remained was the click of his chair rolling closer, the hitch in his throat as he leaned in.

His lips pressed against your forehead, a whisper of warmth, fleeting but searing. You closed your eyes, memorizing the weight of his hand cradling your jaw, the way his breath shuddered like he’d been holding it for years.

“Don’t make me write a ballad about this,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His ears were pink, but his voice held its usual gruffness. “Taehyung would never let me live it down.”

You laughed, shaky and breathless. “Would it be a good ballad?”

“The best.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone, a silent confession. “But you’re not ready for my masterpiece.”

Outside, snow began to fall, dusting the city in quiet. Inside, the space heater sputtered, and the succulent’s last leaf trembled in the draft. But here, in this cluttered corner of the world, you felt it, the tectonic shift, the faultline of before and after.

Yoongi returned to his desk, but his knee stayed pressed against yours, a steady anchor. You picked up your pen, the lyrics suddenly flowing easier, and wondered if this was what hope tasted like, bitter coffee, cedarwood, and the ghost of a kiss still burning on your skin.

Epilogue

Recovery isn’t linear.

Some days, the darkness still slips through the cracks. It pools in the corners of your apartment, whispers through the vents, and stains the edges of your thoughts. But now, when the weight threatens to suffocate you, you reach for your phone.

“Yoongs...”

“Be there in 10.”

He always is.

One morning, long after the snow has thawed, you find him at your kitchen table. Dawn bleeds through the curtains, painting the room in watercolor grays. Yoongi’s slumped over his laptop, cheek pressed to the keyboard, glasses askew. The screen casts a faint glow on his face, illuminating the track title: DAWN_CHORUS_FINAL.mp3.

You linger in the doorway, memorizing the scene. The empty coffee mugs, yours with chipmunk doodles, his plain black, clustered like survivors of a long night. The crumpled sticky notes littering the table-

“Bridge needs more bass,”

“Lyrics too vague?”

-in his jagged handwriting. The USB drive Hobi gifted you months ago, now plugged into his laptop, its neon green casing glowing like a tiny beacon.

His hoodie hangs on the back of your chair, threadbare and familiar. You slip it on, the fabric warm from the radiator he’d insisted on installing last month, and pad closer.

He looks younger in sleep, the crease between his brows softened, lips slightly parted. A strand of hair falls over his forehead, and you resist the urge to brush it back. Instead, you drape his spare hoodie, yours now, really, over his shoulders. He stirs, murmurs something unintelligible “…key change…”, and sinks deeper into sleep.

The laptop screen flickers. You glance at the track, curiosity overriding guilt. The waveform pulses gently, and you hit play.

His voice spills out first, low and rasping, layered over a piano melody you recognize, the one he’d hummed outside your bathroom door. Then your voice joins, lifted from old voicemails and late-night rants, stitched into harmonies you didn’t know you could make. Lyrics you’d scribbled in his margins weave through the arrangement:

“The dawn is just a chorus of all the nights we survived.”

Your eyes burn.

In the corner, the succulent Jungkook once called 'indestructible' thrives in its new pot, now at your place, its leaves plump and green. Beside it, the Murakami book lies open to page 127, a fresh note tucked into the crease:

“Sandstorm’s passing.Coffee’s on me today. -Y-”

You start the coffee, just the way he likes it, black, with a pinch of salt he’d begrudgingly admitted cuts the bitterness. As the machine gurgles to life, you open the fridge. Jin’s latest meal-prep containers stare back, labeled “RECOVERY RAMEN - NOW WITH 200% MORE HOPE!” in aggressively cheerful font.

Outside, the city stirs. A delivery truck rumbles past, and the first birdsong trills through the cracked window. Yoongi shifts, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. You catch it before it falls, your fingers brushing the scar on his forearm, the one he’d shown you that night, the one that mirrors yours.

He doesn’t wake.

You pour two coffees, set one beside his laptop, and sip yours slowly. The bitterness lingers, but so does the sweetness.

When he finally stirs, blinking blearily at the dawn, you nod to the track. “You finished it.”

He grunts, reaching for his mug. “We did.”

“Cheesy.”

“Blame Hobi. He insisted on the harmonies.” He takes a sip, hides a smile in the rim. “You hate it?”

You press replay. The chorus swells, your voices tangled now, inseparable. “It’s tolerable.”

“High praise.”

Chuckles. Sunlight fractures through the window, painting his face in gold. The coffee steam curls between you, and for a moment, the world holds its breath.

Yoongi breaks it first. “Next track’s on you.”

“What’s it called?”

“Dusk Theory.” He smirks at your raised brow. “... gotta have a sequel.”

You throw a pen at him. He ducks, laughing, and the dawn blooms brighter.

END.

[crazylittlejester]

Hi!!! Do you have any silly Valentine’s Day hc for the LU boys? Modern or cannon❤️💐

i dunno how silly all of these are, but:

every year my modern au War and Twi do something together. its a tradition that started when they were like 15 after War had like just broken up with his at the time bf and they’d just play video games together, but now that they’re adults with adult money and can do whatever they want, they dress up and go to a fancy ass dinner. its the biggest event of the year for Twi, and the only real reason he bothers keeping a pair of dress shoes. Whenever Twi and Midna get their shit together and if War ever finds a long term partner, those two are going to have to understand the Bro Tradition /j Sky has always been invited to come, but he’s usually had a partner (high school boyfriends, and now he’s been dating Sun since the start of college)

Speaking of my modern au Sky: he and Sun cook dinner together at his apartment (since War and Twi aren’t there) and then watch movies together. They’ve gone out to dinner one year in the past, but they have a lot more fun when they stay in and make food together

Both my Modern au and regular Time goes out very early in the morning and picks flowers and makes Malon a bouquet (it took me three entire minutes to figure out how to spell that), and then he’ll make breakfast for them both and THEN go wake her up. she keeps trying to get up before him and surprise HIM with breakfast but he always finds a way to be up first. in their 20s, they one time ended up having breakfast at like 3 in the morning because they were both so determined to wake up before the other

my regular War i write spends the whole entire day with his cats, and it’d take an incredibly special someone to come along and change that because those are his BABIES

my regular Sky and Sun will fly around on their loftwings and have a little picnic somewhere on one of the floating islands :)

and then the others don’t really do anything super special or specific, i think they’d just enjoy spending time with their loved ones

actually i lied: modern au wind drinks fun dip packets and bounces off walls and four sits there with his head in his hands

[dollyzdaydreamz]

Whiskey and Worn out Souls

John Marston x Fem! Reader (Dutch's daughter) Description: The events at blackwater and your fathers erratic behavior has you caught up in your thoughts at the saloon with the gang as they celebrate a petty win over the O'Driscolls. Two men decide to heckle you over your gunslinging outfit and you can't help but let your frustrations out on them. ⚠️Warnings: Violence (reader is a gunslinger, reference to Blackwater massacre) sexism, some people drink, reader has Dutch’s smart mouth, reader doesn’t drink but smokes a cig (don't smoke yall:)

angst/overthinking, daddy issues lowkey (^-^)

⚠️forgive grammatical errors, it's literally 2 AM rn (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ⚠️i dont own any of the rdr2 characters, they belong to Rockstar (≧▽≦)

The saloon was a lively mess, full of drunken laughter, piano playing, and the ever-present stench of stale beer and poor decisions. The gang had taken a petty victory against the O’Driscoll's as a reason to celebrate, and the drinks kept on coming. But while the others laughed and drank, you sat against the bar in your usual gunslinging attire: the pistol gifted by your father long ago strapped to your hip, a bullet belt around your waist, worn down jeans that reached just past your ankle, a shirt under your fur lined vest, and muddy boots. Your mood was darker than the cheap liquor in the bottles laid out on the counter. 

You were trapped in deep thought as you fiddled with a chip of wood on the oddly sticky bar counter. Maybe, it was the Pinkertons steering closer to the gang, seemingly breathing down your necks at every train heist or bank robbery. Maybe it was seeing your fathers slow, yet subtle dissent to an even more distasteful degeneracy, ever since Micah’s unfortunate introduction to the gang. Maybe, it was the image of that poor woman’s brain plastered on the wall in Blackwater after your father had let a bullet fly at her skull upon Micah’s encouragement.

A few of the boys, noticing your off-mood, had asked if you wanted to join them across the bar, but you quietly declined, unable to shake the confusing thoughts whirling in your brain.

Which meant, of course, that some fool had to try your patience.

“That ain’t no way for a pretty lady to dress, miss” a baritone voice drawled beside you.

“I don't know, somethin’ about a woman in men’s clothing does something for me.” a more nasally voice chuckled. 

You barely spared a glance at the men, hoping they'd get bored and run off with one of the working girls eventually.

Across the room, John shifted slightly, already pushing off his chair to intervene, but Dutch lifted a lazy hand, stopping him.

“Hold on there,” your father warned him, leaning back in his seat with a small grin. “Let’s just…enjoy the show” 

You shifted in your seat to face them when you realized they weren’t going to leave just yet, eyeing them down as you fished a cigarette out of your pocket. One, a wiry rat-faced fella with the confidence of someone who'd never been clocked in the mouth. His friend, bigger and dumber-looking, smirked. His yellowed teeth at display as his eyes lazily raked over your figure.

You scoffed as you brought the cigarette to your lips and crossed a foot over your knee to light a match with the sole of your boot, “And who’re you two? The local drunk and his pet pig?”

The bigger man blinked “Huh?”

He huffed, trying to regain his footing. “Well, you uh-you look like you belong in…one of them mens whorehouses up north that folk talk ‘bout.”

You snort, admittedly finding the insult a bit creative, “Like the one your pa’ works at?” 

Arthur choked on his whiskey from across the room,

“He still doin’ those two-for-one deals, or did business slow down?” you asked, feigning curiosity.

Micah, of all people, stifled a chuckle behind his beer glass, leaning forward with interest, always up for listening in on some stirring drama.

The broader man frowned. “The hell did you just say ‘bout my pa?”

“Ah your right, I was outta line mentioning your father…” you apologized.

“Damn right” the smaller one said, puffing out his sternum.

“Maybe I should’ve asked if your mama was givin’ out referral discounts” you added, crushing your cigarette with your heel before standing up and meeting the oaf face to face. 

That was the final straw. The bigger man snarled and raised his beer bottle at you,

“Who the hell do you think you are little girl?!”

Feeling a fit of anger wash over your previous indifference, your patience snapped,

“Give me that,” you grunted, snatching the bottle from him, “I’m your old friend amnesia.” (stealing lines from my pookie John(✿◡‿◡)

Without a flicker of hesitation, you smashed it over his thick head.

The man staggered, eyes rolling, before dropping to the ground in a dazed heap.

You dusted off your hands and turned to the remaining man, who was frozen in shock.

Rat-Face took one look at his unconscious friend and quickly decided he had somewhere else to be.

“Now,” Dutch groaned as he stood up, slamming his bottle onto the counter with a piercing clink “does any other brave soul care to share their unsolicited fashion advice with my daughter?” He asked, putting his arm around you as he grandly gestured to the audience.

Silence.

“Alright, boys, let’s clear out. Leave the lady be,” Arthur sighed, shaking his head as he approached the lingering onlookers, “unless you wanna end up like this poor feller” he mumbled giving the unconscious giant a sympathetic look. 

The small crowd eventually wandered off, some returning to their drinks whilst some distracted themselves with poker. 

Dutch tapped a heavy hand on your shoulder, “I trained you fairly well.” He chuckled drunkenly with Micah, who turned to you with a loopy smile,

“Youu, had them twisted like a pair of knickers!” him and Dutch cackled once more, before taking another swig of beer. 

Your gaze drifted to the man on the floor, then at your crimsoned hand, before it caught the dried O’Driscoll blood on your father’s knuckles as he tightly gripped his beer glass. A shiver ran down your spine, What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe I am a damn man, starting dumb bar fights. Suddenly you were hit with the overwhelming need to just get out of there. You sighed, grabbing your hat from the counter and pushing your way past the saloon doors.

John’s grin faltered as he watched you grab your hat and storm out of the saloon, clearly still stewing in your thoughts.

He exhaled and followed.

He found you by the lake, leaning against a lamppost, flicking stones into the water absentmindedly. The moonlight reflected off the surface, casting a silver glow over the waves and onto your face.

John approached quietly, hands in his pockets. He picked up a rock and tossed it in, but instead of skipping, it plopped straight down.

You huffed. “You never were good at that.”

John smirked. “Well, at least I didn't drown tryin’ this time.”

You turned, arching a brow, oblivious to his obscure reference.

He crossed his arms, leaning on the post beside you. “You really don’t remember? When we were kids? That time I tried skippin’ a rock real far to compete with you, but I-” he faltered a little, face flushing slightly, “I tripped and fell face-first into the lake.”

You paused, raking your mind for the memory until it came back with a chuckle, “Right, now I remember. Arthur had to haul you out, didn’t he?”

“Damn right he did,” John muttered. “I thought I was done for!”

You let out a small chuckle, but your face still held that quiet tension.

John sighed, skipping another rock. “You wanna tell me what’s…goin’ on? or are you just gonna keep throwin’ stones ‘til the lake dries up?”

You hesitate, rolling a smooth rock between your fingers, unsure of how to express everything on your mind. 

“I guess…” you exhaled, feeling your chest tighten, “I just keep thinkin’ about what happened on that boat in Blackwater. About my fathers recent…behavior. That woman? She didn’t-she didn’t deserve that.” 

You slouched, kicking the ground with your feet, “but if I say somethin’ then suddenly I’m just a doubter, hell maybe even a softie. Now I got random bastards at every corner telling me I ain't ladylike enough for not wearin’ a damn corset with my jeans” you huff, throwing another stone.

John’s faltered, initially unsure of how to comfort you, “Well…they don’t know a damn thing about you.”

“Maybe,” you murmured. 

“But sometimes-” you turn to him, letting out an exasperated sigh, “I wonder if I even know me.” 

“Well, what do you mean?” 

“I spent my whole life hating my father’s ways, the blood he’s spilled,” you scoff, looking at your cut up hand, “but, really, I’m just like him.” 

John was silent for a moment before shaking his head. “That don’t make you him. You ain’t Dutch. You’re you. There ain’t a soul in this world that can tell you who that is but yourself.”

You looked at him, feeling something warm settle your chest, before thinking of a quick way to divert the sensation “Well, that might be the most well put together sentence you ever uttered Marston.” 

John rolled his eyes, “Shut up.” 

He nudged you with his shoulder, before turning around to head back to the saloon.

“And Marston?” you call out, to which he turns back around

“if I ever see you near a lake again, just—y’know. Make sure Arthur’s around.”

He let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head before walking back, and for the first time that night, the weight on your shoulders felt just a little lighter.

divider is made by dollywons on tumblr :) images from pinterest, but collaged by me

[zilonking]

Here is the next page and the conclusion to Chapter 1. Without knowing I wanted it to be a reference to the cover art for the story. TNBD is next to be finished then those two will be put on break.

Start: https://www.tumblr.com/zilonking/763175802771750912/heres-the-cover-for-chapter-1-been-waiting-to?source=share

Next: "To Be Continued"

Previous: https://www.tumblr.com/zilonking/773961334359556096/had-this-worked-on-last-week-which-i-then-wanted?source=share

“They approach the stairway and stand upon the gate before them. The large walls and gate overlook them, as the sun rests within the middle of the sky. As they are one step close to entering the ruins”...

Cae/Collector: “Wow…, big gate”.

Lilith: “To think when I first saw this, I couldn’t believe my eyes”.

Vee: “So…, how do we get through it now”?

Gus: “I would say flying but since we're new around here probably now a good idea right now”.

Hooty: “Why not blast it open, then we can the inside”.

King: “NO!”

“Everyone looks towards the King as he yells”.

King: “These are ruins of my kind, I don’t want to try and break through it”!

King: “I haven’t seen anything related to my kind in a while that I haven’t seen”.

King: “I don’t wanna lose any part of it”.

Vee: “We won’t King, we know it matters much to you, since Lilith brought us, but mostly you for that reason”.

Lilith: “It would be harsh too, ancient history is something that should not be burned or destroyed. So, no idea of that again Hootsifer”.

Hooty: “Alright sorry, though it would be fun”.

Gus: “So what now then”?

“Jean-Luc approaches the gate closer, then as he points towards the gate he looks at King”.

King: “Wait… that symbol, on the gate”.

King: “My old collar had that on it”.

Cae/Collector: “Hey King, look at the hold in the middle”.

“King sees a hole that has cracks that flow from it”.

Gus: “A hole for what”?

“King looks at it for a brief moment, then he eyes widens. He then rushes down the steps and begins to carve on the ground. As everyone looks at him with curiosity”.

“He then pressed on the ground as the glyph symbol he carved formed a light. He carries it in his hand towards the gate, as he nods Jean-Luc to pick him up. He inserts the light into the hole”.

“The gate then glows, as the lights beam through the cracks, and it begins to slowly open. The light he used returns to his hands”.

Lilith: “Well, that figures”.

Lilith: “But we have our entrance”.

Vee: “King why don’t you lead the way”.

King: “Me? 

Vee: “These are ruins related to you, you should see all of it ahead first”.

Gus: “We’re right behind you”.

“King looks at them happily, he grabs Cae’s hand and he steps upon the Gate. Jean-Luc is on his guard as they begin to enter. Everyone follows behind closely, as they enter the ancient history of King’s species”...

Chapter 1, Concludes

[buckysouvenir]

if i could fly

pairing: bucky barnes x y/n authors note: day nine!

the valentine’s day collection 2025: for the first 14 days of february, i’ll be posting a series of short stories inspired by songs, all centered around bucky barnes.

reblogs, likes and comments are always encouraged and highly appreciated! thank you ♡

Bucky Barnes, 1943

The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and damp earth, the kind of smell that clung to his skin no matter how hard he tried to scrub it away. His uniform was heavy with sweat and dirt, the weight of war pressing down on his shoulders like an invisible chain. The world around him was chaos—bullets cutting through the air, men shouting orders, the distant sound of explosions rumbling through the ground beneath his boots.

But in his mind, he was somewhere else.

Somewhere quieter. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere where the only thing that mattered was the way you looked at him, like he was something more than just another soldier destined to be forgotten in the trenches.

If he could fly, he'd be coming right back home to you.

Bucky leaned against the cold wall of the makeshift barracks, letting his head rest back for just a moment, eyes fluttering shut as he pictured your face. He could almost feel the softness of your fingertips brushing against his skin, the warmth of your breath against his neck when you whispered his name in the dark.

God, he missed you.

He had never been good at words—never been the kind of man who could say all the things he wanted to say without them getting tangled up in his throat. But if you were here, if you could see the way his hands trembled when he held the letters you sent him, you’d know.

You’d know that you were the only thing keeping him sane.

You’d know that he carried you with him in every step he took, every battle he fought, every goddamn breath he took in a world that was doing its best to break him.

For your eyes only, he would show his heart.

The others saw Sergeant Barnes—the soldier, the sharpshooter, the man who never hesitated when it came to pulling the trigger. But with you, he was just Bucky.

With you, he could be something softer.

With you, he didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t afraid.

The war had taken so much from him already. He had seen men fall, had held brothers in his arms as they whispered their last words. He had felt the weight of loss so many times that he had started to wonder if he’d ever feel whole again.

But then, there was you.

The memory of you, the promise of you—waiting for him, believing in him, loving him despite all the parts of himself that he thought had been lost to the battlefield.

He exhaled, pressing his fingers to the dog tags around his neck. They were cold against his skin, grounding him in the present, in the reality of the war that raged around him.

But for now, just for a moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to hold you again.

To hear your voice, to feel your arms around him, to let himself be selfish for once and ask you to never let go.

He had scars—ones that couldn’t be seen, wounds that no amount of bandages could ever heal. But when he thought of you, when he let himself believe that one day, this war would end and he’d find his way back to you, the pain faded.

Because you were home.

And if he could fly, he’d be in your arms by now.

[deans-baby-momma]

Chapter 10

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day to all my lovely readers

Summary: When Jensen admits to going home with someone else, will his and Y/N's marriage survive?

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, smut, language

After much discussion, the Ackles’ use the settlement check they received from the case to make a sizable donation to an outreach program for underprivileged pregnant girls and women.

That night, Jensen and Y/N rekindle their relationship, confirming their commitment and loyalty to one another. 

Jensen slowly and carefully lays Y/N on the bed, breaking the kiss only when he knew she was comfortable. 

He stretches his long body beside her and revertantly continues exploring her body as if it's all brand new to him.

His touch is gentle and affectionate and he runs his finger across her collarbone all the way to her shoulder, devoting every inch to his memory, again.

Y/N shivers, the tenderness of his touch both thrills and is  titillating.

He leans in and captures her lips, running his tongue across the seam of her lips. She willingly parts and invites him in to deepen the kiss.

Jensen's hand finds her bra-covered breast and caresses it before pulling the cup down to tease the nipple into a stiff peak. He repeats his action on the other side before he draws his lips from her to kiss down her chest until he can pull her left nipple into his mouth.

“Jensen,” Y/N whispers as her head rolls back. 

“I love you Y/N,” he mumbles against her skin. “You are the only one for me.”

As he continues to nurse on her breast, his hand travels down her torso and across her abdomen, stopping at the hem of her panties.

He looks up at her through his lashes, a silent request to proceed. She grants it with a silent nod and a smile and he offers her a smile of his own.

When his fingers come in contact with her folds, she whimpers and whines. Jensen doesn't breach but just runs his fingers up and down her slit.

Once Y/N is writhing under his ministrations he quickly finds her entrance and finally pushes in. A finger slowly enters her and she gasps.

“F-fuuu-” she sighs. 

Jensen adds another and another until he is sure she is prepared for him. He removes his hand from her panties and rolls off the bed.

As he pulls his boxers off, Y/N removes her bra and then pushes her panties to her feet, then flings them to the floor. 

Jensen steps to the foot of the bed, crawling onto the mattress and between her open thighs.

“You are the only woman I ever want to be buried in,” he says as he holds her stare while lining himself up and pushes home.

They both groan as he bottoms out and stills for her to adapt. Once there is no more pain, she clenches around him- an unspoken assent for him to move.

Pulling out and pushing back in, Jensen sets a languid and leisurely pace. It builds them both slowly, higher and higher until there is nowhere left to go but over.

As Y/N clutches and trembles around him, he continues his smooth, tranquil thrusts, resting his forehead to hers, green eyes meeting Y/E/C ones.

Jensen feels his end nearing and claims her lips in a sensual, loving kiss as he explodes inside her, his seed painting her walls.

Once their breathing has normalized, he pulls out and crawls backward off the bed, then heads to the ensuite to clean up and bring a warm rag to clean Y/N.

After making sure she is wiped off, he climbs into the bed beside her, gathering her into his arms.

“I'm so sorry we had to go through this shit. I can't lose you; I couldn't imagine my life without you in it.”

Y/N lifts her head from his shoulder and gazes at his profile. “Shhh. It's all over now and I'm not going anywhere.”

They both doze off to sleep, knowing that their love is stronger than it ever has been. 

One year later

Y/N rushes home, although her stomach is in knots and she has the urge to cry.

Today, Jensen  is flying home for his summer hiatus from filming. For three whole months, Y/N will have her husband in the flesh, to touch and kiss and make love to; no screen between them. 

All they have been through, the two babies they lost and still mourn for and the false claims of an affair and an illegitimate child has not afflicted their marriage, only made it stronger and valued.

The morning has turned out better than she could have ever imagined and she is excited to share it with her husband.

Pulling into the garage, Y/N parks and shuts off the engine and stares at the door to their storage room. She has a plan and she is determined to bring it to fruition.

Opening the door, she reaches in the backseat for the bag back there. Y/N hums as she gets about getting everything in place. 

Once everything is situated to how she envisioned it, she goes to the front of the house to await her husband's return. 

Jensen had texted her a while ago to let her know they had landed and would be home soon.

Her heart is beating wildly and when she sees the black SUV carrying Jensen and his costar, Jared, she’s sure it was going to beat out of her chest.

Y/N watches as the passenger door opens and him to step out of the vehicle. He looks toward the house and then back inside the cab and says something then laughs.

Closing the door, he waves and then hoists his duffel bag onto his shoulder. 

Y/N can't take it anymore and opens the front door, running to jump into his arms. She kisses his lips repeatedly, running her fingers through his hair.

“I've missed you.”

“Really? I couldn't tell,” Jensen sasses with a smirk.

“Shut up,” Y/N laughs and then takes his hand and turns, pulling him into their home. 

“I have a surprise for you,” she announces. “Follow me.”

Jensen smiles as he does what he’s told and when Y/N opens the door to the one room they haven't talked about for a while, his eyes widen and his mouth drops open.

He looks at his wife and asks, “Really?”

She only nods with tears in her eyes.

Inside the nursery is the crib that they’d taken down after the last loss and handing on a hanger above it is a onesie that reads “Welcome Home Daddy!”

The doctor put Y/N on bedrest after week 26 of her pregnancy and the Ackles’ had weekly appointments to monitor the progression of the pregnancy. Neither of them complained or grumbled about it.

They were happy and excited to announce to the world.

On August 26,  Angel Mischelle Ackles is born.  They chose the name Angel for their two angel babies and Mischelle for Misha because he helped them when they needed it most.

THE END

@spnbaby-67 @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach @larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam   @ironreviewangel @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @supraveng @lyarr24 @kazsrm67 @chriszgirl92 @deanwithscissors @raisinggray @fanfic-n-tabulous @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @purpleeclipseeggsland @kmc1989 @leigh70 @nancymcl @muhahaha303 @justwhisperingfantasies @jackles010378 @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @deanna45 @ozwriterchick @mandee7 @spnaquakindgdom @impala67rollingthroughtown @generalmoonpolice @1313diana @roseblue373 @palerogue1 @deansimpalababy @queen-cs

[imagineweasley]

Steal My Girl

Draco x fem reader

summary: combining my two loves, one direction and harry potter!! a fun cute flirty angsty imagine with draco and y/n using the lyrics of "steal my girl."

y/n: your name

y/h: your house

y/c: your color

submit a request!

She been my queen since we were sixteen We want the same things, we dream the same dreams Alright, alright

As cocky as Draco was, he had never expected he'd be able to get someone like you. From the moment he laid eyes on you during the first train ride to Hogwarts, he knew that he was done for. Whenever Draco would tell this story to anyone, he said that it might sound crazy that an eleven year old would know, but he doesn't care because he knew it was you, from the moment he saw you.

Over the next five years, you and Draco get close, basically joined at the hip, but he can't work up the courage to tell you. Mostly because he knew that what would come out of his mouth would be terrifying, because if he told you how he truly felt about you, he wouldn't be able to hold back. The words would spill out, how he fell in love with you when you first met on the train, how every time anything funny happened, he would wish you were there and then would tuck it into his mind to make you laugh later, how he would tell you and revel in your laughter, your gorgeous laugh. How every morning he woke up thinking of you, every daydream contained you, and every night, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, thinking about you. How he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, and you two were only 16 years old. Because how crazy would that sound?

So instead of telling you, he soaks you in as your best friend. The rest of Hogwarts thanks for you this as well, because when Draco's being an asshole, there's no one who's going to shut it down faster than you, and he only listens to you. You study together, you go flying together, him giving you his Nimbus 2001 and using a borrowed Hogwarts broom so you can have the best of the best. You go on walks together when it's nice out, hole up in the common room with blankets and snacks when it's not, and nurse each other back to health when the British rain inevitably brings on the sniffles. You talk to each other about your fondest memories, your greatest fears, and life's greatest joys

It's not long until for both you, your fondest memories have become ones made together, your greatest fears have become losing each other, and your lives' greatest joys have become sharing it with each other.

Only, here's the thing. Feelings that big can never stay contained for long. One mundane day, you two are sitting in the courtyard in the spring sun, doing homework. Only he wasn't doing homework. He was watching you: the way you bite your lip when you're focusing, the way your eyebrows scrunch because you have pretty bad eyesight and sometimes after long bouts of writing, the words blur on the page. It was nice out today, but to him, today's weather felt no different than yesterday's downpour because to him, you were the sun, and as long as you were with him, everything was bright and warm.

On that day in the courtyard, the words slip out of his mouth.

"When we start our family together-"

Draco realizes a second too late what he said. It was almost like his imagination and reality had blurred together, and he's exposed himself. You look at him with some shock on your face, and he could be imagining it, but there is a knowing look in your eyes. You tell him later that this was because you had known too, that you and him were bound together, your souls were tied, and there would be a day when there would be little yous and hims running around.

So on this fateful day, you share a moment of shock, a moment of silence, and a moment when both of your walls crumble and you tackle him with a kiss, one that is six years overdue.

I got it all 'cause she is the one Her mum calls me "Love," her dad calls me "Son" Alright, alright

When you finally meet Narcissa and Lucius, you are terrified because you know how strict they are, how haughty they can be, and how strong their hatred is of anyone who is not a part of their circle.

The first meeting goes surprisingly well. You and Draco stand outside the huge doors of Malfoy Mansion, him holding your hand and running his thumb over your knuckles. He can sense your nerves, but he is calm because he knows that at the end of the day, it does not matter whether he receives approval from his parents.

He says this to you in hopes that you'll feel less like puking all over the steps. "My love, you know that no matter how this goes, it will change nothing. I love nothing more than I love you. There's no way they-" he jerks his head towards the door, "-are changing anything between us." He gives you a soft smile, and you are able to relax your shoulders and steady your breath. You smile back at him and walk in, hand-in-hand. Throughout the night, he never lets go of your hand, he doesn't even go to the bathroom even though he is bursting to go after his third glass of red wine.

At the end of the dinner, it seems you have managed to win over his parents as much as anyone can win them over. You've earned laughs from Narcissa, engaged Lucius in conversation about Quidditch, and when you and Draco rise from the table, an invitation to dinner next weekend.

Draco can't even wait one second after the door closes to grab your face and kiss you.

Everybody wanna steal my girl Everybody wanna take her heart away Couple billion in the whole wide world Find another one 'cause she belongs to me

Of course, when news had broken about you two finally getting together, the overwhelming majority had not been surprised. Whispers circulate about the Prince of Slytherin and the Princess of y/h, the new power couple of Hogwarts. There's one night before your relationship is public knowledge where you and Draco are sitting in the common room with Draco's Slytherin crew and Draco mindlessly places his hand on your thigh. Crabbe and Goyle, as thick as they are, immediately notice. Goyle immediately groans and throws his head back as Crabbe cheers, and you and Draco gape in confusion. You stare as Goyle stomps up to his room and returns with a fistful of galleons, which he shoves into Crabbe, who is still prancing around the common room.

"I told you, I told you, I told you!" Crabbe chants while he sticks his tongue out at Goyle. Turns out, they had made a bet on when you two would finally get together, and it's clear who the winner is.

Whenever Draco drops you off at your classes and plants kisses on your nose before saying goodbye, everyone in the class notices. Half the guys and the girls in the room are groaning inside at having missed their chance to ask you on a study date so they can show off how smart they are and win you over, spend a day with them at Hogsmeade, or take you on a romantic walk by the lake. They're annoyed that they didn't ask you out before Draco captured your heart, but what they don't know is that there had never been a chance for them anyway, because your heart had belonged to Draco from the first moment he had made a cocky remark to you and you'd rolled your eyes, amused. Your fate had been sealed from that first smile he gave you afterwards.

Kisses like cream, her walk is so mean And every jaw drops when she's in those jeans Alright, alright

Draco's favorite part of the day was whenever he'd pick you up for breakfast. You'd prance over to him to give him a little peck, and most days, he wasn't satiated by just one. He'd pull you to him for another, and of course, you'd wrap your arms around his neck and give him a sweet, long, good-morning kiss before walking hand-in-hand to the Great Hall.

He also never missed anything, especially when it came to the looks you would get in the halls. Somehow, you made walking down the hall a fashion show; the uniform sat on your curves perfectly, and even though everyone wore the same thing, you just looked different. Even on days where you got zero sleep and couldn't be bothered to do anything more than throw your hair up in something that resembled a bun, you still attracted stares. Maybe it was just your captivating aura.

Whatever it was, he felt a surge of pride whenever he caught the stares. He couldn't even feel jealous, because who wouldn't be staring at his girl? Of course your beauty, your personality, your laugh, your brains, and your witty humor would have people falling over their feet left and right. He knew from the start the price he had to pay for being with someone like you, and he'd pay that price a million times over just to be able to keep calling you his.

I don't exist if I don't have her The sun doesn't shine, the world doesn't turn Alright, alright

As much as his parents have come to adore you and care for you like their daughter, you know what they are, and you know what they made him do. You haven't seen them in a while, since the news broke about the Death Eaters. The night they burned the mark onto his skin, he showed up at your door at 4 a.m., sobbing as quietly as he could. You sit with him all night while he lays crumpled in your arms. There's nothing to say to fix the devastation. Everyone else at Hogwarts sees him as evil, but you know better. He's whispered to you in the dead of night how terrified he is of his parents and of the Death Eaters and what You-Know-Who could do to him if he showed any semblance of betraying him, and most of all, how terrified he is of losing you.

One day, he decides to do the unthinkable and breaks up with you. He's been thinking it over for a long time. At first, he thought about what if you two pretend to break up and continue to date in secret, but Draco is so scared. You-Know-Who has his ways of finding out absolutely everything and he cannot risk you even for a second. You are just a weapon to use against Draco. A pawn in You-Know-Who's game.

In between sobs, Draco clutches your hand and explains this to you, promises that when this is all over and it's safe again, you two will be together again. At first, you argue. You say that you're not scared of that white-faced snake-man, you don't want to hide! You only back down when you see what this is doing to Draco. You see that he is right, this is the only way you two could have a sliver of a chance at a future.

This is the most devastating blow your poor heart has endured, and you've endured a lot. Everyone is stunned when they stop seeing you two together, when they see your red puffy eyes and the dark circles under his.

Fast-forward. Preparations are being made for the battle, and you're taking a moment to sit on the ground against the wall of the hidden classroom you and Draco would go to whenever you needed.... privacy. The younger students had been evacuated, but you were one of the ones who refused to leave, and you were composing yourself before they came.

You hear quiet footsteps entering the classroom and jump up, wand pointed. As soon as you register who it is, you go weak in the knees.

The blonde-headed boy is standing in the doorway clutching his wand. His wide eyes soften. There is so much love, fear, panic, and grief in those eyes. You're frozen. You're just staring at each other.

There's a bang! somewhere that startles you both into action. You fly as fast as you can to him, and it's no wonder you two don't break your noses with the speed he flies to you too. His lips find yours and you hungrily devour each other to make up for the months lost. You two are holding each other so tight, clinging to each other, tangled in a mess. Your fingers run through his hair and clutch it to bring him closer, not that there is any more space to fill, and his arms are wrapped around your waist in a grip so tight it could rival the grasp of a Devil's Snare. It's only when you hear a second bang! and the first scream, that you're brought back to reality. Not even one second later, noise erupts outside, indicating the battle has begun.

"Y/n... Merlin I am so sorry-"

"Draco, I love you, you have nothing to be sorry for-"

"I love you so-"

"I love you-"

You two are cutting each other off left and right in your rushed conversation, because you don't know if this will be your last. I love yous are said, vows are exchanged in case someone doesn't come out the other end. He even has fashioned a ring out of some twine he found on the ground and slides it onto your ring finger, promising to find you as soon as this is all over, because now he has to pretend to be with them. He has to join his mother and father so he doesn't get killed for being a traitor. You link your fingers with his and make him promise to stay alive. He tells you he refuses to fight the students. He's going to try to deflect anything the Death Eaters throw at the students as discreetly as he can. You kiss him one more time. He kisses you one more time. You feel more steady now that you've been able to be with him one last time. Funnily, it's the most steady you've felt in months. With one more teary kiss, you two run out of the classroom into the chaos.

Everybody wanna steal my girl Everybody wanna take her heart away Couple billion in the whole wide world Find another one 'cause she belongs to me

After the battle is over, Draco doesn't even think before he breaks into a sprint.

"Y/N!" He's screaming your name over and over again, and students who saw him run to their side at the confrontation on the bridge take pity on him and point him where they saw you last. Blood is running into his eyes from a cut on his forehead and he thinks he might have twisted an ankle, but it doesn't matter. He wipes away the blood and keeps looking. He follows a crowd of people heading to the Great Hall and shoves his way inside, but has to stop to take the scene in. It's the most crowded he's ever seen it. People lay on the floor, lean against stairs, or are doing the same as him, marching through to find their friends and family. Wails fill the air when people discover their loved ones have perished, contrasted with the happy sobs as some lucky ones are able to find each other. He watches as one particular couple finds each other, the girl leaps into the boy's arms, tears streaming down both their faces. His heart leaps into his throat and he doesn't even know it, but he's crying too - he needs to find you more than a body needs water.

Then, he sees you. He sees your y/c hair first. You're bent over a student laying on the ground, wrapping a rag around a wound on their arm. For a second, time stops and everything stops moving. He can now feel his heartbeat now pounding in his head.

Y/n? Y/n. Y/N!

"Y/N!" The words finally fly out of his mouth and he runs towards you. Your head shoots up and your wide eyes meet his. You quickly get someone to finish wrapping the student's arm before you push yourself to your exhausted feet. Before you can even move, he's taken you into his arms. He plants kisses all over your hair, kisses your forehead, your nose, both your cheeks, and finally, kisses your lips.

It's a wet kiss, you're both crying. There's relief in this kiss as well as desperation, and this one feels just like your first kiss. Finally, finally, you are in each others' arms again, and although you both know the next few years are going to be hell, it seems more bearable because now you'll be able to do it together, once again.

The war tried to steal you away from him. Voldemort tried to steal you away from him, steal you from this world. But no more. Now, your lives were just starting.

[strangelittlestories]

Meeting you reminds me of the time I found two magic mirrors.

They were in 'the vault' ... which is a glorified old storage closet, but souped up with every sick-nasty warding that my mother could think of.

I could see immediately that they were cursed; they had those blurry-but-ripped edges that mark a thing as being out of step with reality.

(How to explain? Cursed things (or people) look like they're just one jagged step to the side of our world. It's as if they try to pull you into their world - their *somewhat worse* world - if they get half the chance.)

They had your standard 'hearts desire/downward spiral' pattern. Y'know, they'll offer you everything you think you want, but getting it will inevitably just heighten all your worst instincts.

As an inveterate people-please with a history of codependency, I can relate.

But I was young and I had a sense of humour, so I just set them down facing each other. And they did what they do: they started talking in sing-song rhyme, offering to answer all each others' most toxic questions and fulfil each others' most self-destructive wants.

It was sweet, in a sad way. They just both wanted to be only what the other desired.

I think that's part of why being around you feels so magical. You know what it's like to grow up in the shadow of the indomitable. You understand what it means to be raised in wickedness. You get what it *does to you* to be caught in the phony war of evil and good.

Your parent had a cause too. A crusade. Gods, it demands so much from you, doesn't it?

And even when you step out of that shadow, everyone still sees it in you. They still want to define you - and you to define yourself - in opposition to it. Oh, look at me, aren't I struggling valiantly against my innate darkness? Please don't smite me, I'm trying *so hard*. BLEURGH.

That's the issue, isn't it? We've had a lot of practice surviving by being whatever people want from us. Not a lot of practice being ... solid. Matte. Bound.

Are we really just alike? When sparks fly, is it because our souls collide? Or is it just light off a mirror catching loose tinder?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall: whose personality is this after all?

Who knows? Perhaps it is enough - for now - to feel the sparks fly.

Perhaps, until we know better, it is still helpful just to see ourselves reflected.

[Two ADHD people are flirting with each other]

"Wait, if I'm mirroring you, and you're mirroring me..."

"...then who's flying the personality??"

---

It's a bit like you've taken two magic mirrors and put them down facing each other.

"Mirror mirror, on the wall, whose mannerisms are these after all?"