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tusswrites · 11 hours ago

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Rockabye Baby (j.ww)

Wonwoo x fem!Reader

"First-time dad Wonwoo trying to navigate the ropes of parenting while missing you"

genre: fluff, humor; rating : 16+ word count: 2.1k warnings: none! credits: the littol menace @svtiddiess for helping me with the banner and beta reading author's note: this is set in the same universe as 'Bun In The Oven', but it can be read independently. written from wonwoo's pov! send an ask to be added to the tag list (better see an age in the bio)! tagging : @jenoslutie, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, @gyubakeries , @skzbangchanniee, @ariananotgrandeee, @wonufos masterlist here, domestic seventeen masterlist here

If at first he fainted upon hearing the news of the soon-to-be arrival of his offspring, he is now beyond frantic, doom scrolling in the wee hours of the morning on Reddit through multiple ‘First Time Dad’ posts. When he thinks Y/N can’t hear him, he lifts her shirt and begins to talk to his baby, he cannot be caught alive thinking he believes that shit and lose his ‘macho man’ facade. All lies, Y/N can never sleep at night, and is desperately holding her giggles at her husband’s constant whining to their baby about how mean their mom is to him.

His aunt has given him some herbal medicine that runs in the family, vital for new mothers and despite Y/N’s bemoaning, he holds her by the neck and forces that ‘disgusting shit’ down her throat. ‘It’s for the baby Y/N’ he reminds her for the umpteenth time although he gags a little at the odd smell, that stuff is not for him, no thank you.

At work, he is frantic, nervous, and excited all in one. When Jeonghan caught him tearing up at the back of the makeup room, rocking himself, arms tightly wound around, trying to stop his steady flow of tears, he finally confesses that he doesn’t think he will be a good father. “I never cared for children much hyung, I don’t think I have those paternal instincts to look after a newborn. I am scared I will run out on my child.” He sobs into his hyung’s arms who holds him tight and consoles him.

“When the little one comes, you will forget all your fears. You’re not the type of person to give up on something you care about, especially not your child.” Jeonghan rubs his back gently, trying to soothe his distress. “You may not feel ready now, but you’ll rise to the occasion. Every parent has doubts, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re not going to be an amazing dad. You’ll figure it out as you go, and your love for your child will guide you through it.”

Wonwoo freaks out when his wife thinks she is some sort of daredevil, trying to climb on the countertop to grab a jar. “Are you crazy?” he shrieks out.

“I can’t always keep asking you to attend to every beck and call of mine. Besides, it’s not that high,” you try to reason with him, but he has no chill, pushing you gently toward the bedroom and getting you back in bed, propping your feet up on the extra set of cushions he ordered from Amazon just for you.

“I don’t care,” he counters firmly. “Until you pop out that baby, you are on lockdown. No leaving the bed, and absolutely no scaling countertops for a mason jar of pickles. I’ll get it for you—just call me. That’s why I took time off, so you don’t have to risk anything, especially not now,” he says, his voice steady but laced with concern. He smooths the blanket over you, making sure you're comfortable before settling beside you with a deep sigh.

It seems the baby isn’t the only thing he’s freaking out about—he’s also on high alert to make sure you’re okay, every step of the way. Why must you do dangerous acts this far in your pregnancy?

“I am pregnant Wonwoo, I can still walk and do things, ‘m not a doll.”

“Never said you can’t do things, baby,” he says softly, smoothing the crease in your brow with a gentle peck. “It’s just to reassure me, for my peace of mind. I don’t want you pulling any stuntwoman moves just days before Little Bun gets here. So please, for me, at least?”

He looks at you with those pleading eyes, the ones that always seem to get to you. Till the baby comes, he’s hopefully the cutest person you’ve ever seen, the one you can never say no to.

“Fine.” You huff out. “But grab me a jar of mayonnaise to go with the pickles.”

“Mayo-? With pickles? H-ho?” he sputters, absolutely stumped at your taste buds.

“Is there a problem Mr Jeon?” your brow is quirked, amusedly staring at your befuddled husband's face.

“No, no, stay right there. Mayonnaise with pickles coming right up,” he says, still in shock, but resigned. He silently prays that Little Bun arrives quickly, before his wife loses herself in yet another round of bizarre food combinations.

“And sprinkles too!” you holler from the bedroom, your voice carrying.

“Lord, give me strength,” Wonwoo mutters to himself, shaking his head as he makes his way to the kitchen, shuddering at the disgusting combo.

The day of your labor arrived very anticlimactically, if Wonwoo could call it that. There was no sudden gush of water, no dramatic screams or threats hurled at him. Just a quiet morning, like any other day. If not for him glued to your side, he daresay he might have missed it altogether. The moment you felt discomfort, he was already rushing you to the ER, completely ignoring your reassurances that it was just a false alarm.

He probably needed to celebrate this victory with a cake that said, “I Told You So,” because, yes, he was right—the little one did arrive that very day, though not without a few bumps along the way. None of the dad books had prepared him for the fact that the scrubs handed to him in the labor room were supposed to go over his clothes. After a certain amount of confused stripping, a shrieking nurse, and a hollering wife, he learned a very important lesson. There can only be one naked person in the OR—and that person was definitely not him.

The jitters came when his daughter came into the world, unperturbed and squinting angrily at him, like she didn’t want to be there. He can pity her sentiments. But the baby was not crying. Sure she was breathing, but where is that high-pitched wail the books taught him?

No amount of parenting manuals could prepare him for this moment, to see his little one clutching tightly to his pinky finger, staring at him with your eyes and his nose, and the feeling of love encompasses him. Is this someone he created? He holds you extra close, trying to hold the tears at bay. Gratitude, pure and raw, fills him—thankful for you, for this little one, for the family he has.

Some sort of humor is brought in by his mate Soonyoung who arrives at the hospital, all ready to see the newborn in a new tuxedo to make ‘ a good impression’ “This is a baby Soonie”. “First impressions matter Won-Won.” He leaves it at that, knowing deep down his mate's plan was to bag the ‘best uncle’ title.

It’s never without its mishaps however- he cannot understand the hospital staff when they give him the green light that it's time to go home.

“Are you sure?” He persistently asks, there is no way he can ensure the safety of a being that came into the world just a few hours ago and now he is entrusted to make sure this thing is alive and flourish. What are they thinking?

Seeing that familiar tick of annoyance on your face, he supposes he has been asking that question way too many times and reluctantly picks up the baby carrier, although he is scared shitless, out of his mind with fear. He does not want to place the baby in a car seat, to your utter confusion.

“She was slimy and squiggly, what if she slid right out? He ponders.

Assuring him that the baby will be “fine and protected,” and to further calm his nerves, you sit in the backseat too, keeping a watchful eye on your little one as Wonwoo starts the engine for the long drive home. He is not the only first-time parent here.

It took a whole day and a half before the secret was out in the open. “Wonwoo, I need to grab a bite, here hold Nabi for a second.” You hold the child in mid-air expectantly waiting for her father to pick her up.

“Just place her in the crib, she's safer there.”

“Wons, that’s in the other room, what are you so afraid of holding your child?”

He waits for the realization to dawn on you. “Wait a minute, have you held her even once?”

“I brought her here in a baby carrier?”

I meant holding her Wonwoo, not in a carrier or rocking the crib.”

His guilty face speaks enough. “She’s just so tiny Y/N! And her head is wobbly. What if I drop her?” Why can’t you understand his sentiment? He will move heaven and earth for his daughter except maybe hold her and risk dropping her.

"Wonwoo, you're not going to drop her. Babies are fragile, but you're not going to break her just by holding her," you explain, taking a deep breath to stay patient with his nerves. You reach out, gently placing your hands on his shoulders, making him look at you. “Extend your arms”

He does, in slight trepidation.

“Wonwoo, Nabi is a full-grown newborn now, not a watermelon! Seriously, how small do you think she is? A little bigger gap won't hurt. Just trust yourself," you soothe, noticing his hesitation.

Very gently, you place the tiny baby into his arms, and he holds his breath, afraid that if he so much as breathes, Nabi will blow away. This time, he cannot stop the tears that fall freely, privileged at the fact that she made him a father.

Yes, he knew about the lack of sleep and the constant need to change his baby. But what he did not know was that he would miss you this much. Around the clock, you both took shifts to watch the baby and rock the baby to sleep.But nothing prepared him for how much he’d miss you. The number of times he’s woken up in a state of panic because you weren’t there when he felt around to bring you closer and into his arms, only to be comforted when he switches on the night lamp and watches you half asleep, feeding his little girl. On tiptoes, he’ll pick his daughter up, the little gremlin who’s staring wide-eyed at him, and walk around the room with her, to give you a moment to rest. When you wake up in pursuit of your husband and child you see a snoring Wonwoo, holding little Nabi to his chest, both blissfully unaware of the mini heart attack they’d given you.

Wonwoo has come to the conclusion that it's in those little moments—those quiet, fleeting moments—when he gets to have you all to himself. Three months after Nabi's arrival, he finally gets a taste of that luxury, when the little one is fast asleep, her soft breaths the only sound filling the room. Nabi is finally sticking to sleeping through the night, after listening to his fathers croons. When he returns to the living room, he finds you slumped against the couch, utterly exhausted. Your hair is stuck to your forehead, and the exhaustion is clear on your face, but there's something else there too—a quiet peace that tells him the chaos of midnight feedings and diaper changes has finally settled into a rhythm... for now. He’s not going to jinx it.

Silently moving you, hushing down your sleepy murmurs, gently lifting you, and placing you against his chest, he starts to rub your head in hopes you get back to sleep, a trick he learned early on to calm his daughter down. In this quiet, he can finally hear himself think, something he has never been able to do the past few months. His heart still thumps excitedly like it did the first time he laid eyes on you. To watch as the girl he once fell for, eons ago is now his wife and he gets to share a child with you, with the promise of having eternity by your side, he sleeps easy tonight, murmuring a quick ‘I love you’ and thank you’ as he places one more soft kiss on your cheek, forever elated that you’re his.

Alas, rest is not for the wicked. A sudden phone call on his cell has you both startled and wide awake as you rush to silence his phone.

“Why is it not on vibrate Wonwoo?” You start, angrily scrambling to sit on the phone in hopes of shutting it off, all rationality flying out the window in your sleep-deprived state.

“Shh, Nabi has still not woken up, which means she probably didn’t hear the phone ring,” he whispers as you both hold hands and painstakingly wait in agony for the jurisdiction of your child’s wailing. You are in luck, after all, she has still not woken up.

A glance at his phone has him jump up excitedly, “Yes, I won the bet to Mingyu, he owes me two tickets to see IU next month.” Unfortunately for him, his enthusiasm runs short tonight, for there comes the familiar cry from your baby’s room and a murderous look from you. “JEON WONWOO”

Uh.Oh.

Reblog, comment to share your thoughts! Goes a long way!

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judysxnd · 2 days ago

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Proofs that Pedro Pascal & Y/n Y/l/n are dating, (part five)

As requested, here's more!

Not going to lie, I don't really follow closely Pedro's life anymore, so I don't really know what he is up to or where he could be and stuff, so this is a bit approximate

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(a while back, can't remember the dates)

Pedro was on SNL a few times, not only to host but sometimes just to appear in a few sketches. Guess who appeared in at least one sketch when he was here too? Y/n. This is a huge coincidence, it's actually not a coincidence anymore. She did host one time, and Pedro appeared too. This is so weird..

10.11.2024 morning

Pedro and Y/n were seen having a coffee (date?) in some local coffee shop where they were. They were sitting in front of each other in some corner, trying to have some privacy. They were eventually seen leaving together. They were apparently very close to each other, and Y/n even held Pedro's arm as they left. That's cute.. but not enough, come oooooooooon

14.11.2024 at 9:17pm

Gladiator is premiering and, well obviously Pedro is here because he literally is in the movie. But, wait- who is that on the carpet just a few meters behind Pedro? Is that Y/n? Oh yes that's her! Wearing a very tight red dress with some gold lines, matching the topic of the movie. But what is she doing here? During one interview she said that the cast invited her. We do think it was one particular person who did.. Luckily enough we got a picture of them together. They do look good together.

21.11.2024 at 4:13pm

Pedro published a photo dump when he was on the set of Gladiator, and we couldn't help but notice a certain woman in the background of one of his picture. It might seem like a simple landscape picture, but further in the front, there is.. Y/N??? Yes that's her! To connect this, a while ago, might have been when they were actually on set, Y/n posted the same landscape on her story. We did not forget. She apparently visited him on set! What a coincidence

23.11.2024 at 7:20pm

Guess who posted another photo dump of his time on the set of Gladiator? Yes, mister Pedro. Guess who appears next to Joseph in one picture when they're in town? Y/n. Maybe she is in the movie to be there that much? I've seen, she is not. Come on guys, you keep dropping hints, just make it official now!!!

24.11.2024 at 10:29pm

Now it's Y/n's turn to post a photo dump of her "memorable moments" she had these past months. The pictures shows a wedding of one of her friends, a beautiful landscape in New-York at night, a picture of an arena with people dressed as gladiators, a picture of dogs- wait, did you say a pic with gladiators? Is there Pedro in this picture? Wa- Yes ! He is in the picture. There is also a picture of two hands holding, but of course it's her left hand and his right hand so we can't see Pedro's tattoo! Ugh this is getting so frustrating.

#fanfic #imagine #oneshot #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal one shot #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x female reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro x reader

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psychemochanight · 2 days ago

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So... Dick Grayson's Headcanons :D (this gonna be a long post-)

Some mine and some from the fandom!

Obviously not all of them (I don't have all of them in mind right now), but as you know, we will continue to post them here anyway🤙

And I already mentioned some of them before, but I'll mention some of them again anyway.

First I remind you that these are just HC and/or things that I like to project onto the character, you don't have to agree or share them with me, if you don't like one, just skip it please, you don't need to come here to discuss because of a HC of a fictional character.

I also advise that, although I always try to ensure that the HCs do not interfere with the canon, some may contradict it (mostly because I forget certain details of the canon- lmao).

Disclaimer made (?), let's go to it ✨

Dick has the body of a person who does calisthenics, an acrobat's body, indeed, more than that of an Olympic male gymnast.

(Ignoring canon on the first one, lmao). But yes, I like to think that Dick doesn't have as much muscle as Bruce, that way he can keep his flexibility intact, because, no matter how flexible you are, if you have too much muscle, you lose mobility, so, yeah. Still, he have more muscle than the average acrobat, but not as much as a gymnast... Kinda sleeper build.

Many heroes thought Dick was a meta.

Mainly due to his flexibility, others for more silly things like being able to understand Flash when he speaks.

Dick has a very messy eating schedule, He often forgets to eat and sometimes eats twice as much, not because he is hungry, but because he has forgotten whether he has eaten or not.

He doesn't eat much junk food, although he is constantly on a sugar rush. Anyway, thanks to Bitewing he has a better schedule now, since he doesn't forget to feed her, and he takes advantage of the opportunity to eat something too. He still doesn't sleep enough tho.

Although he seems to be the most relaxed in his family, he is the second most paranoid after Bruce.

Paranoia + anxiety, more specifically. He takes it as best he can.

Ironically, despite his paranoia, he is the one who trusts the others the most in his entire family; but he always has a plan in his head in case he is betrayed.

He doesn't have anger issues, not all the time at least... The poor guy is just overstimulated.

Except when he is underestimated for being a "pretty boy", then the anger is real.

He is quick to learn to play instruments given his high muscle memory and keen ear.

Canonically he knows how to play guitar and also some piano.

Although Bruce knows more languages, Dick is the most fluent in them.

Bruce knows the languages, but he makes the typical mistake of thinking in his native language and then translating. Dick does have the ability to think directly in other languages.

When he gets angry, Dick talks very fast and starts mixing up languages, so even though Bruce knows all the languages Dick is speaking, can't keep up because he needs to translate everything.

Continuing with languages, I like YJ's idea of Dick butchering the English language... So, yeah, he actually does that.

But he doesn't do it because English is not his first language (even if he has Romani ancestry, his first language will probably be English, since it was the common language in the circus), but because he has spoken too many languages since he was little, then they get mixed up in his mind and when a word doesn't come to mind in English, he just makes up another one. Sometimes he just says the word in another language.

Another one about languages: even if he canonically only speaks 10-12 languages, for me he actually speaks/understands many more, he's just not fluent in them so he doesn't count them.

He is an AUDHD person, without diagnosis, but on more than one occasion his friends said it to him.

Barbara especially, has been telling him this since they were younger.

As an added bonus: AUDHD is harder to diagnose than ADHD or autism alone, since it is known that the characteristics of each one can diminish or even cancel the characteristics of the other; at the same time, it can increase other traits, but these may be wrongly attributed to other conditions.

I say this as someone from the field of psychology, please don't think I'm making this up.

So, Most of the "weird" things they noticed about Dick they attributed to his growing up environment and subsequent PTSD... Which is partly true, but not entirely true.

He knows too many random facts that no one knows where he learned them from, not even him.

He's on the asexual spectrum, probably demisexual, and biromantic.

This doesn't mean that he can't "enjoy" it, but he definitely doesn't feel the same as he doesn't feel a real attraction due to the lack of connection.

He liked the rain.

It's not exactly a trigger, but he doesn't like it like he used to.

If you understand, you understand.

He doesn't like compliments about his physical appearance, but he responds egocentrically to compliments about his other qualities, although this is to hide his shame, he does not know how to take compliments.

He prefers to act to hide his embarrassment, otherwise he ends up as a bundle of nerves.

He definitely did the thing more than once where he went to Metropolis and jumped off a building to get Clark's attention instead of visiting him like a normal person.

He loves it when his friends are the ones who initiate the hugs, especially since most of them lift him off the ground when they hug him. He'll never say it, but he loves this.

Although he acts like an older brother to everyone, the moment someone older is with him, he becomes an annoying younger brother.

He only does it with people he trusts, tho, since it requires him to let his guard down a little.

This is a very normal trait in older siblings, actually, and most of the time it is unconscious, and it is even more common if they were only children for a long time.

He likes to act dumb so the bad guys will underestimate him.

The bad thing is that sometimes even his family forgets that he is also considered a genius.

Here we ignore what DC did with Dick by making him more focused on leadership, he was always a child prodigy and always will be.

Alfred taught him to clean in specific ways because Dick complained a lot about the texture that certain objects had if they were not cleaned properly.

He also taught him cooking tricks, because otherwise Dick would starve because he doesn't like to eat many things.

He only likes chips... And also football.

It's pretty good in all kinds of art, He may not be a cartoonist like Damian, or a dancer like Cass, but he holds his own in those disciplines as well.

He mainly uses drawing to draw structures or spoken portraits rather than for artistic and recreational purposes.

He only dances at events to which he is invited or any type of mission that requires it.

Tbf, canonically, he does know how to draw and dance, it is the reasons why he does them that is a HC.

He also knows how to do things like sewing and so on, his mother taught him to fix his own clothes.

He can't stay in an office for the sake of his sanity, prefers dynamic jobs.

He doesn't have a favorite color, but he tells people it's blue because it just makes sense to everyone.

He likes to wear superhero merch.

He also changes jobs very often even though he is good most of them, he gets bored.

He took too many online courses, he just never claims certification so it looks like he didn't study any degree.

Sometimes he just sits quietly with Damian watching animal documentaries without a narrator.

He often complains that Bruce never let him have a pet.

He knows perfectly well why he couldn't, he never had time to take care of one, he just likes to complain about it.

He is the one who scares his siblings the most, but none of them admit it.

He is the most stealthy (with Cass), a consequence of his bright yellow coat when he was a kid. Jason is the next stealthiest, but Dick is the one with the "light feet."

He definitely understands synesthesia.

He discussed many times with people about what color Monday is and what number is orange.

Summer is too hot and winter is too cold, he is team temperate, thank you very much.

He listens to music very often, he also sings to himself whenever he is not listening to music.

He knows lullabies in several languages, even those he doesn't actively speak.

He helps comfort frightened small children, and entertains older children with juggling and magic tricks.

His resistance to pain is terrifying, but when he is in serious pain, his childhood accent becomes thick.

He camouflages his childhood accent as an adult, adopting the Gotham accent, but can still use his real accent or imitate any other.

He often imitates the voices of the people he is talking to when they are being hypocritical, or simply to annoy them.

Although he mostly makes bad jokes, he is actually more than capable of making genuinely very funny jokes and pranks, he simply made bad jokes part of his personality since they were the ones that made Bruce laugh the most.

Although he grew up in the circus and knows more swear words than he should, he's not really a person who casually swears. He grew up being around people, especially children, so he knows how to control himself pretty well in that regard.

However, he knows how to destroy someone with words in a much more damaging way than with simple insults, even more than insulting them in every language there is and will be.

He looks pretty all the time, this annoys his friends and especially his brothers a lot.

Cass doesn't care about it, she finds it interesting and kind of funny.

He likes to braid Donna's hair. <3

And this is all that comes to my mind right now, but I will add more in reposts if I remember others, because I know I have more- especially since I didn't actually add HC of him as Robin or Nightwing-

And if you notice any mistakes, sorry, writing too much actually messes with my brain... and my English-

#dick grayson #nightwing #nightwing headcanons #dick grayson headcanon #just my thoughts about dick grayson

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aventurineswife · 2 days ago

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“I’ve been fighting for what’s right. For you”

Summary: In a moment of tension and distance, Caitlyn and you struggle to balance your love with Caitlyn's relentless duty as an enforcer in Piltover. After weeks apart, Caitlyn returns, seeking reconciliation and vulnerability, but the weight of your emotional distance remains. Both of you are forced to confront your feelings, realizing that love cannot thrive when one is consumed by duty alone. Can you rebuild your bond, or will your fractured relationship be lost to the pressures of Piltover?

Tags: Caitlyn x Reader, Fluff, Angst, Emotional Conflict, Slow Burn, Vulnerability, Relationship Struggles.

Warnings: Angst, Emotional Strain, Themes of Distance in a Relationship, Mentions of Personal Struggles, Mild Introspection and Heartache.

A/N: this has been lying around for weeks, maybe even a month by now, and I finally decided to post it. Yeah... 🧍‍♀️

It had been weeks since you last saw Caitlyn. Life in Piltover had become even more chaotic as tensions between the upper and lower cities grew more palpable. Caitlyn had become even busier, chasing after leads, putting herself in more danger. And you? You were still here, waiting, trying to understand the cold distance that had crept between you two.

The tension in the air was thick as you sat by the window in the dimly lit room, your thoughts swirling around Caitlyn, your heart aching. It wasn't supposed to be like this. You never thought it would end this way. You had always been there for each other, always shared quiet moments and tender smiles.

But now?

Now, the silence between you two was deafening.

It had all started so perfectly. Your first encounter with Caitlyn had been a random moment in the bustling streets of Piltover. She was tall, sharp, with a piercing gaze, and for some reason, you felt drawn to her. The way she moved through the world with such confidence, yet with a deep underlying sadness, had always fascinated you. In time, she had opened up to you, revealing the softer side that few ever saw.

But Caitlyn was always consumed by her work—her drive to make Piltover a better place. You admired that about her, you did, but it had come at a cost. A cost that, more and more, was pushing the two of you further apart. You understood her need for purpose, for justice, but it left you feeling like an afterthought.

A knock at the door broke you from your thoughts. You stood, heart thumping, and opened it cautiously. There, standing in the doorway, was Caitlyn, her usual air of authority mixed with something else—something softer, more vulnerable.

You couldn't help the small gasp that escaped your lips as you took in her appearance. She looked worn, tired, like someone who had been fighting a losing battle for far too long. And yet, when her eyes met yours, there was a flicker of something familiar—something that made your chest ache.

"Caitlyn..." you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

She shifted uncomfortably, stepping into the room. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice low and strained. "I know I've been distant."

You wanted to reach out, to hold her, but the words stuck in your throat. How could you ask her to stay when she seemed so far away?

"You've been gone for weeks," you murmured. "I—I don't know how much longer I can keep waiting, Caitlyn."

Her eyes softened, and she stepped closer, but the distance between you still felt vast. "I know. I’m not good at balancing everything. I’ve been… consumed by my duty."

You shook your head. "I understand, Caitlyn. I do. But I’m not some distraction you can just turn on and off whenever you need. I need to know I matter too, that you care about me the same way I care about you."

Caitlyn's jaw clenched, and for a moment, the walls she’d built between you seemed to crack. She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing yours. "I do care, more than you know. But sometimes, I get so lost in everything I’m trying to do, I forget that the most important thing is... this. You. Us."

There it was—her vulnerability. The thing she always kept hidden behind that confident, controlled exterior. And as she stood before you, hands trembling, you saw the weight she carried. You saw that she needed you just as much as you needed her.

"I’m sorry," Caitlyn whispered again, her voice thick with emotion. "I don’t want to lose you. I just don’t know how to fix everything."

You pulled her into an embrace, feeling her stiffen for a moment before she melted against you, letting out a long sigh. "You don’t have to fix everything, Caitlyn," you whispered into her hair. "Just… be here. That’s all I need. I need you, not your duties, not your badge. Just you."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of unspoken words hung between you two, but in that silence, there was something profound. It wasn’t perfect, and you knew it wouldn’t always be easy, but you could feel the strength of what you shared—what you were building together.

“I’m here,” Caitlyn murmured, her arms tightening around you. “I promise.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed her.

Days turned into weeks, and though Caitlyn’s duties would always be a part of her, things between you two began to settle. She learned to make time for the quiet moments, the ones where she could be with you without the weight of Piltover pressing down on her.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Caitlyn sat next to you on the balcony, her hand resting gently in yours. She was still the driven, determined woman you had always known, but now, there was a balance. She had found a way to be with you without losing herself.

And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something new.

A future.

Together.

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ma1dita · 16 hours ago

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don't blame the kids

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 7.6k summary: (established relationship (kinda lol)) The one where you both chaperone a trip to Mount Olympus. The Olympians are bigger gossips than you thought they'd be. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: the Chapter—set during the winter solstice; tldr: your dads are besties + hera is a good judge of character.... more d & trouble as requested, enjoy! eh ill edit this once i get back from class later tonight, taglist & ao3 update to be posted then as well

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Your head falls against the metal of the school bus with an audible thunk. The sound of discordant cackles wakes you up from a dreamless sleep, making you jam your mouth shut and feel your spit go stale on this chilly winter morning.

“Rough night?”

Keeping your cool despite the pounding headache, you mumble out an incoherent reply to your younger brother, whichever one he was. The old leather seat sighs as one of them sits down, the added weight jostling your legs as you groan and open your eyes to see two blond heads staring at your tired form. One of them peers from over the seat in front while the other leans over your lap, rifling through your backpack for snacks—there’s no such thing as personal space with these two for siblings.

You blink slowly as your vision clears, the cold grayscale interior of the bus still too bright on your eyes.

It’s too early for this shit.

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Pollux grins, noticing briefly that you’ve made an internal thought external. He hands his twin a granola bar from your backpack and leans back against your shoulder.

“Need this weekend to be over already,” you mumble, “just wanna sleep a bit longer and forget all of this. You two helping me later or are you gonna do that juggling bit again with the bottles of ambrosia?”

“Too bad it’s just begun,” Castor chuckles, before flopping back into his seat, then calling out, “and we’re playing the water glasses, thought it would make dad laugh—HEY!“ You tossed your water bottle at him and missed only because he conjured it into his hand and not your intended target of his skull.

“We’ll be around if you need an extra hand up there,” Pollux murmurs over a hot chip, the crunch reverberating into your ear, “Are we gonna talk about why your boyfriend is on the opposite end of the bus?” Or why he didn’t come to cabin 12 last night… The stealth of sons of Hermes aside, the twins always know when he drops by— Luke usually leaves bags of stolen candy and tiny trinkets tied to their doorknobs when they lose teeth. To be honest, they’ve known the tooth fairy hasn’t existed since they were ten, but Pollux has one last molar he was looking forward to cashing in for a Push-pop.

“Nope.”

“Good talk,” he nods, before belching so loudly you shove him into the aisle, “Ow!”

The rest of the bus is filled with quiet chatter and excitement as you decide to take the chance and get up to survey the handful of campers who join you for the winter solstice. Some of the younger ones are crammed like sardines with bobbing heads as the bumps and turns of the Long Island Expressway rock them in and out of sleep, which is a privilege you were just robbed of. The others that are still excited to see their godrents move animatedly as they clamber over each other and practice their performances for later, a dissonant symphony of prose and instruments out of tune, vines growing from the Demeters’ row, and multiple charcoal pencils rolling along the floor towards the driver sitting up front.

There’s only so much you can hide on a bus, and now that you’re awake…

“Beck!” you hiss as the smell of burning hair wafts through the enclosed space, “No fire on the bus!” The dark-skinned boy looks at you sheepishly, fanning his younger sibling’s singed eyebrows and cracking open a window. Ironically (no pun intended, but while we’re here, ha!) Hephaestus will love his kids even if all of Olympus goes up in smoke. You wish you could say the same for the rest of your campers. The ones left to consider—like those of Hermes, watch the blur of the road whizz past their peripherals, lacking their usual sense of merriment and mischief in knowing their father will be a no-show even on the one day a year they’re allowed to visit. Though a worthless trip off the island is way better than cleaning wine glasses with the nymphs—to them, kitchen duty ends when one’s fingers are about to fall off the bone.

Making a mental tally of your kids in case any of them have decided to fall out of the vehicle during your much needed break (demigods can get into twice the amount of trouble mortals can in half the time after all), you notice Annie’s waving you over towards her and her seatmate who is coincidentally the only person you wish would drop into the East River.

You make your way over feeling like you’re walking to your death, with your knees buckling with the movements of the bus, momentarily stumbling to a stop in front of their row and conjuring a juice box for Annie with a small smile. Your boyfriend(? — could you still call him that? You remember falling asleep in the storage room counting the sleeping bags, waking up in your bed alone and not much else) looks up at you expectantly as if you’re the one who should have something to say now. You avert your eyes quickly.

Even on the shortest day of the year, being under his gaze makes time pass slowly like being dipped in molasses. The feeling sits at your throat uncomfortably, and your resolve makes your stomach feel like an endless pit.

“Yeah, Annie?” you say simply. You don’t mean to, but the smile on your face fades ever so slightly. They both notice and don’t say anything—one in contemplation and the other in disappointment.

“You look awful.”

Okay, what the fuck. Between the thousand-yard stare you gave your wall this morning and the amount of time you spent slathering makeup on at the crack-ass of dawn, you would think that at least your eyebags were concealed enough.

But Annabeth Chase is nothing if not honest, and even if you were the best actress she’s ever met (which you are), there is no way of hiding heartbreak.

Can you call this that?

Heartbreak.

You’re still unsure of if it’s really over—can you say that Luke broke your heart if there’s no way of being certain? What is a break, anyway? Are there terms and conditions you should follow? Is this the part where you two just never talk again and it’ll always feel like this?

But if the boy sitting across from you broke your heart, you think you’d be able to tell—so let the evidence show (or lack thereof) that you’re pretty sure he took it with him, wordlessly and selfishly like a son of Hermes would. With no remorse.

Let’s not call this heartbreak then. Perhaps the more accurate word to describe your expression is despondence—he chips away at you further with how he looks at you now. Luke catches himself admiring the way you’ve done your hair and the glitter on your eyelids and then honey meets amethyst as your eyes lock. In between an obvious sigh and the way you bite your tongue, he realizes that despite your beauty always rivaling that of Aphrodite (at least in his honest opinion), there’s something hollow in the way you look back at him this morning. He doesn’t know how to feel about that either.

You both didn’t end off on a good note yesterday—and that much, plus the rare occasion of sleeping alone in the months you two have been together was disconcerting, to say the least.

“Thanks for that. If that’s all, I’m gonna go back to my seat,” you deadpan, turning back towards the front of the bus.

You can’t even look at him, you realize. In the almost five years you’ve known Luke Castellan, your favorite thing to do was just look at him, from the way his nose scrunches when he laughs, to the fluttering of his eyelashes when he gets tired, because one of the easiest parts of loving him was by just watching him to see if he was looking right back at you.

And you can’t even do that, because it comes with a whole bunch of feelings you have no time to unpack right now. You decide to focus on the scar that spreads across his cheek instead when Luke calls your attention back towards them. He says your name so softly you almost miss it, gentle, like how someone talks to a child. It’s infuriating.

“I thought you were driving the bus today?”

Somehow a simple interaction like this feels like the hardest performance of your life. Breakups never came easy, but dear gods, why right before the winter solstice of all days— you mumble a reply so quietly even Annabeth leans a bit closer to hear, “Didn’t sleep well. Big day today.” You brace against the seatback in front of them, tightening your core as the bus whips around a bend.

“Thought it’d be safer if I got one of the satyrs. Had to promise him unlimited access to the kitchens for a month though.”

Almost slamming into a full stop, your eyes widen as your body hits leather, properly leaning over the both of them as the daughter of Athena holds onto your leg and one of Luke’s hands grabs your arm.

“Gods. Look how that’s going,” the younger girl jokes, before looking up again to see her brother and you staring at each other motionlessly. Everything goes quiet—you don’t hear screaming campers or see Clarisse shaking one of her younger siblings upside down for a candy bar. Your knees shake slightly under the weight you figuratively carry on your shoulders. How will you show face to the gods when you can’t even keep a smile steady?

Time stops for a moment, and if it’s only been 12 hours, you’ve already lost count— but its felt like a lifetime since he held you like he might still care. It’s hard to tell, the both of you are too stubborn and it reminds you of a time when all of your conversations went like this—vitriol and annoyance leaking from each word, but at least when you were fourteen it felt like the build up to something great.

But what happens after great is exhausted? The comedown is a terse conversation that almost flies over Annabeth’s head—said in a way that adults do when everything is veiled and heavy, not meant to be seen by prying eyes and younger hearts.

“I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way,” Luke mutters from beside her. You retract your arm like you’ve been burned and shake your head, “Well, it did.”

The wise girl starts to put the dots together, face scrunching as she deciphers the hidden meaning behind your exchange. She should’ve known Luke didn’t actually want to sit with her and talk about her latest chess match—the son of Hermes loves a good game but has no interest if he’s not the one winning. They both watch you rush back to your seat, the swaying of the bus pushing you farther and faster until you fall away out of sight.

When she gathers her thoughts, the words lay heavy on her tongue like a hot iron until she spits it out at her older brother. Annabeth Chase sparingly cusses, you see, mostly under her breath and really only when she’s stumped by a situation, especially since she’s only just turned eleven a few months ago—but she looks at him like a foreign object she doesn’t know how to dissect.

“You’ve got nerve, Luke. How do you always fuck up this bad?” Her dark braids drag over her shoulder as she turns to look the other way, away from him.

Luke swallows dryly, biting down on the flesh of his cheek. Between his plan for today and his impeccable timing of monumentally screwing up his relationship with you?

It’s like Annabeth hit the nail on the head, and he couldn’t agree more.

—

“Alright, places everyone,” you drone, tapping your pen against your clipboard like a gavel before a session in court. The Hall of Gods is just as unruly as your campers when you don’t water down the juice boxes, you realize—Olympians are mulling about the throne room, chattering and making it known that they’d rather be doing who knows what on the only day of the year that it’s mandatory for them to be parents. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you silently agree—there are much better uses of your time that you can think of right now, like making sure to hand Michael his epi-pen before lunch and hoping Connor and Travis aren’t scamming every seller blind at the street-markets of Olympus.

Everyone else is enjoying their free time and you’re…here, watching Apollo, god of music and truth, annoy his twin by sending birds to fly circles around her head.

Cacophonous laughter startles you, turning to see Hades watching the chaos with his arms crossed over his chest. Draped in black, his chill expression looms over the papers in your hand as he peers at the schedule.

“Siblings, am I right? Sorry you have to deal with mine.”

“Divine Hades,” you bow your head slightly, “they’re erecting your pedestal for the solstice as we speak, I apologize in behalf of—”

He waves a hand dismissively, “No need, child. I know you’re just doing your job. I can wait.”

“Well, I can’t if they’re all acting like children,” you mutter, the both of you watching Zeus bicker with Hera with increasing volume before she storms out, not before addressing the god of the Underworld with a nod.

And he smirks, letting out another laugh that the sound of it quiets the Olympians and sends them towards their seats like obedient students in a classroom. The nymphs are finished pushing the newly-fashioned slab of a throne into position, twelve turning into thirteen and Hades makes his way over as well, gesturing back at you, “Remind me of your name again?”

You say it calmly, clicking your pen. Your dad is sprawled out on his throne, legs over the side as he stares at the ceiling, “Alright princess—let’s get this show on the road.”

“Will we be waiting for…” your voice trails off, briefly looking towards the door.

“Nonsense. I’m sure you can brief her afterwards,” Zeus booms, and you swallow. There goes your lunch break.

“Of course. And Hermes?” You ask, eyes flickering to the only empty seat.

“Working.”

Clearing your throat, you stand tall to address the deities in the room and though you can’t look any of them in the eye, (besides your father that’s already guzzling his fourth cup of ambrosia at eleven in the morning) it does not deter you from what you came here to accomplish. Might as well do the job well if there’s nothing else to look forward to for today.

You go over the schedule of events like an automated system, not stopping even when Ares starts sighing at the end of your sentences and Demeter sends daggers toward Hades with her eyes. It’s enough to wonder why those without children present today even stay. Formalities, you presume.

“Any questions? Good, I’ll see you all in here at four o’clock,” you quickly say, not giving them a chance to interject—spinning on your heel to walk out of there with even a shrivel left of your patience.

You find yourself running through your list again by the time you reach the end of the hall: you need to grab the tapestry that cabin 6 wove for their mother’s shrine from the bus, Lee needs help bringing in the harp after lunch, and your brothers need enough wine glasses to fill with water for their performance since they haven’t mastered the conjuring trick so well yet.

Her presence imposes itself upon you before you spot her perched next to the windowsill—the queen of the gods is not meant to be a decorative wallflower, after all.

“D-divine Hera,” you stutter and stop short, “Would you have a moment to go over the schedule?”

“I know the schedule, child. I’ve been here longer than you. What is it, your fourth year running this thing?” She’s expressionless, maybe even a bit bored with the topic as she looks down at you. You stare at the peacock feather shawl that hangs off her shoulders.

“Third, ma’am.”

Hera smiles (or at least it sounds like she is, talking to her has always felt like twirling on a minefield), “It doesn’t surprise me that all of this falls on a woman. Where’s your husband?”

“My what?”

You don’t mean to, but your knee-jerk reaction is to look her in the eye and the both of you are surprised by that. Hera’s perfectly arched brows are sky high now, but you haven’t been incinerated yet, so you can deduce that she might like you (or is still contemplating the matter), “The one with the pretty face, such a shame about that scar. You two were inseparable last year, I just assumed…”

With a face on fire, you clear your throat, “Oh. Luke and I aren’t…” Your eyes press closed, hot-red embarrassment brimming into tears you don’t expect to surface. Another reminder that he’s not your…anything right now.

“Mm,” she hums thoughtfully, “Sometimes I forget what year it is. Human societal norms and all that.”

A soft wind billows through the open air, and you hug the clipboard to your chest. You are not about to trauma dump on Hera. Though in a way, she might understand you more than you think.

“I sent him away, I guess. Sometimes it’s much easier to do things alone,” but even you don’t sound convinced. The side of Hera’s lip quirk upwards and she looks at you knowingly, “I agree. Though I guess there are worse things in life than sharing the hard parts with someone you love.”

Looking down at your shoes, you’re not sure of what else to say. It reminds Hera of her and her husband, before time complicated everything. In the early years, every obstacle feels world-ending until it passes and all you can do is laugh with the person who was by your side.

“I don’t have to be there later, don’t I?” the queen of the gods mutters. You shrug. Your opinion doesn’t matter, clearly, because she continues, “I don’t have any children in the show that are performing but…I want to be there.”

“I get that,” you say awkwardly, shaking your head to not fumble this conversation further, but she smiles, patting your shoulder as she walks past—it almost feels like a blessing.

Or maybe she wasn’t even listening to you at all.

She stops at the end of the hall.

“Trust is a fickle thing, child. It has more value once it’s been broken, and rebuilding it takes two sets of hands. Catch and fall, push and pull, go and follow.” Hera looks back at you again, her white dress swishing at her hips, “Do you agree?”

“I guess.”

The queen of the gods looks at you thoughtfully, a girl humbly offering her heart out to her divine presence and wanting her partner, a son of Hermes at that— over any glory Olympus can provide.

Oh, to be young and in love—it makes one invincible.

“Then I hope he makes it worth your while.”

She leaves you to your thoughts and they echo to meet her like a bittersweet greeting. Hera smiles, seeing them run through your head like a video on loop—replacing bloodied bandages in a dark train car, glitter and giggles in a locked room, burnt chocolate chip cookies, and face masks in the dim light of a bathroom.

The ritual of marriage has definitely changed over the millennia the goddess has lived through, but what you and Luke share is what she considers to be its truest form—that of two souls choosing one another over and over.

—

There’s not a lot of things that can make the herald of Olympus stop in his tracks. He holds as many titles as the letters that fly through his fingertips—though Hermes delivers mail with gratifying ease. The job has always been second nature; being a father…not so much.

But all the power in the world cannot compensate for the fact that you cannot save your children from themselves.

So when he sees you leaning against one of the ornate marble doors outside the Hall of Gods that afternoon, he wills himself to join you in real time. Infinite versions of himself scatter across the Earth with every second that passes. But you look familiar, and well, the trickster loves solving a good puzzle.

“I know you,” he says matter of factly, yet he can’t put his finger on it. His voice is deep, like a howling wind; it blows your hair back even when he stands still in front of you. Your gaze lifts from your clipboard to travel across his face briefly, but you don’t look him in the eye. You can’t even if you wanted to—incineration by divine form and all, so you weren’t about to test your luck with him. Tempting though��you’ve heard enough about Luke’s father to want to burn holes through the god’s head like he could yours.

“Shouldn’t you be inside with the other campers for the rest of the show?” Hermes prompts again, despite your silence. He is the god of communication after all. But there’s not a single thing you could think of telling him besides, “Shouldn’t you? Your kids have been waiting all year to see you.” Mortal lifetimes pass in the blink of an immortal’s eye—but he can’t spare a few minutes to see his kids? Hermes shrugs, like it’s nothing of the sort. Nothing he can do about it. Olympus takes priority.

“The work never stops. You would know that.”

There’s a startling shriek that escapes from the seam of the doorway as little Will Solace shuffles through the doorway shyly. He tugs at your sleeve, keeping his head bowed and mumbles your name, “Where’s the bathroom?” The god replies to the kid instead, looking at the tiny fractals of light that reflect off the boy’s hair, “Uhhh…down the stairs and to the left, fourth door.”

“Need me to go with you buddy?”

He squeezes your hand and shakes his head, undeterred by the fact he interrupted your conversation with an Olympian, instead going to hop down the stairs without looking at either of you, “Miranda tried to sing again. She should really just stick to plants.”

Perhaps the presence of gods isn't as impressive to a mortal when their godrent regularly visits them.

“So why exactly did you want to speak with me?”

You cross your arms and lean against the cool wall and wonder why Luke’s dad is still in front of you. After all, he has to have better things to do than make conversation with a moping girl with a workload stacked to the heavens.

Hermes repeats your name slowly as if he’s memorizing the way it sounds coming off his lips, “You look a little lost. So much so that it made me take a moment here with you.”

“I’m right where I need to be unfortunately, so…thanks but no thanks.” He’s the god of many domains—finding lost things being one of them, good luck being another, among the others. He can feel—actually, he knows that you’re searching for something even if you yourself don’t know what it is. The force that summons him to you feels thick, like quicksand that pulls him in planting his winged feet to the ground. Hermes observes your standoffish attitude and wonders if he’s offended you somehow.

Pushing down the yearning you feel for his son who sits inside the marble doors, you wonder if it would’ve hurt less had Hermes not made your want known to you, an ugly, embarrassing thing that feels like a lump in your throat. His caduceus vibrates loudly in his pocket and with a sleight of hand it appears in front of him, clacking buttons. It’s annoying to be treated like an inconvenience, especially in a time of need. Like father, like son, you suppose.

But unfortunately he’s right. You’re a lost little thing, mind scrambled from this hellish week and where you left off with Luke. You want him with you in all senses of the term, both right now as you glare at his father and in the way one breathes air through their lungs—autonomic, because you simply can't help it. Hermes looks at you again, scratching at his ear as if everything about standing in front of you is making his ears ring, “Who do you belong to again?” He’s trying to remember where he’s seen you before. The sound of trumpets pierce your ears when the door opens again, this time Castor catching his breath as he calls your name, “Hey. Where’s the little pipsqueak? 7’s going on soon.” Everyone seems to know you except him.

How intriguing.

Rolling your eyes, you grumble, “Bathroom. Go back inside Cas.”

“See that’s the problem, Luke asked me where you are, should I tell him you’re…” The blond looks at who you’re speaking to and swallows, “busy?”

“That’s it. You’re Luke’s girl—” the frown that deepens on your face makes him pause, “I thought your name was Trouble?” The god looks even more confused, scratching his goatee—his son, through his nightly devotions, has asked for a lot of things from him in his short lifetime. The realization comes to the forefront of Hermes’ mind like a thumbtack pierced through a map as you respond.

“Sometimes.”

In the past year, Luke’s narrowed it down to two things: to guide him onto the right path in life and to make sure you live well enough to be on it with him. That’s what was sacred to him—but Hermes could only see himself fulfilling one of them, if we’re being honest here: an unfortunate trick of the trade.

You grimace—maybe being in there and facing Luke would be better than having this conversation with his deadbeat dad.

“Only with him,” Castor smirks, and you shove your brother towards the stairs to go find Will.

“How did you know that, anyway?”

Hermes chuckles, looking you up and down as if seeing you clearly for the first time, “His thoughts are even louder than yours. Even though he probably has nothing nice to say about me, he thinks about you all the time, that son of mine.”

“And what do you do then? Let it fall on deaf ears?”

“Listen, I’m not allowed to meddle,” he murmurs, a twitching hand ghosting over your shoulder. He wonders if can offer comfort —you know Luke better than the idea he has of him in his head, the glimpses of his son’s life that he’s allowed himself to see. You’ve been there these past few years to live it with him. Hermes swallows, retracting his arm to put it back against his side. The door swings open again—and it’s your father this time, cradling a wine glass that fills with ambrosia when he swirls it in his grasp.

“Kid, what’s the holdup—where’s the little sunspot and Thing 2?” Mr. D raises his glass with a grin, clapping his best friend on the back— “Hermes, my friend. Making a pit stop?”

This just got even weirder—your head starts to spin a bit.

Talk about a nightmare blunt rotation.

Between their lighthearted banter, Will and Castor skipping up the stairs towards you, and Pollux popping his head out of the doorway to yank the glass out of your dad’s hand (“SISSY! He’s drinking my musical instrument!”), you shut your eyes to center yourself. This might be the worst day of your life. Chaos becomes you and your blood is boiling at being surrounded by too many men when the only one you care about won’t even lo—

“Kid, you okay?”

Breathing heavily, you don’t realize you’ve clenched your hands into tight fists, and your dad doesn't know what to do. There's a thought that passes his mind as swiftly as his friend can scale the world that Luke would know what to do. Mr. D doesn't mean to, but he scoffs under his breath, shaking hand extending to reach out to an equally trembling shoulder and you flinch before it makes contact.

"M'fine, I just need a second to think."

Pressing your palms into the pits of your eyes, your father watches you inhale a breath that seems to calm the storm brewing in your core, even for a moment, “Cas, take Will inside for his cabin’s performance. D, next time, don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” you say calmly as you conjure another glass of water and hand it to Pollux, not before taking a few sips to steady your resolve and perfect the tone of the vibrations.

Sip.

Too sharp.

Sip.

Perfect.

Putting the now fully functional instrument of water in your brother’s hand, he happily walks back through the door and now you’re just left with two gods that look at you somewhat impressed.

“Can I help you with anything else, or are you both just going to waste my time?” Tapping your foot, your face is expressionless again, any previous traces of emotion wiped clean.

“Princess, you know you could talk—”

“Nope,” you protest, “Nothing’s wrong at all. Just ready to get this day over with.” It’s rude and to the point, but you have no patience left, “ and all offense D, I’m not gonna talk about my boy problems with you, and especially not you,” you grit pointing at Hermes, “neither of you would get it and I don’t even fully get it, and partially you two are the reason why we’re like this!”

“What did Luke do?” your dad says incredulously, eyebrows furrowing. He’s sobering up from the buckets of ambrosia he’s consumed—itching to find out about what the golden boy could ever do to agitate you like this.

The gods will never know what it feels like to love someone like this—every fiber of your mortal being constantly anticipating an end without knowing when that is. You sigh helplessly, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I don’t know who I am without you, and he only knows who he is because of you,” spitting the words out like acid, you seethe, “we’re not exactly normal teenagers, you know, so thanks for that. I can handle it from here.”

And you push past the both of them and walk through the marble doors like nothing even happened.

"Makes sense he'd fall for her," Hermes mumbles, “your girl is a force to be reckoned with.” If not a bit insane like his best friend.

"Yeah. Just remember I can tear your boy limb from limb. Just because she can handle it doesn't mean she should. Pray your kid fixes it or fucks off. " It’s the truth—poor Penthus was just an example of Dionysus’ contradictory behavior. Ruthless punishments were like a walk in the park for your father. A jilted noise escapes Hermes's throat as if his own truth was trying to claw its way up his esophagus. The future of humanity rests on the shoulders of his favorite son, and for once, the messenger god is still---in fear? Guilt?

His thoughts are still trying to catch up with the rest of his body, but as he watches the door shut softly behind you, his winged shoes start to flap to signal his imminent departure.

“He's a good boy. He knows the worth of being loved by the right person at the right time. If he’s anything like me, he’ll cherish it while it lasts,” Hermes smiles as he fades from view, “and if he’s not like me at all—he’ll make sure it’s forever. But it looks like we’ll be in-laws, bestie!”

Mr. D groans, waving him off and conjuring another glass of ambrosia—when he walks in to rejoin everyone for the show, his boys are killing it on the musical glasses. He surveys the crowd, watching Luke Castellan only have eyes for you even in this dark crowded room.

“Shit.”

—

Nights on Olympus are prettier than what you’re used to. The stars are much closer than they would be if you were still on Earth, and they act as a natural nightlamp hanging over the enchanted ceiling of the ballroom you and your kids occupy for your one night stay. Yawning into your fist, you spot Charlie Beckendorf who’s already fallen asleep directly on top of his sleeping bag, sweatshirt on backwards and tennis shoes still on. Offering to take the last thirty minutes of his shift after watching him nod off earlier against a marble column while doing everything in your power to try to fall asleep was a no-brainer. But now that you were actually wanting to stay awake yourself, your eyelids didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

Figures. Nothing you ever wanted has ever happened the way you wished for.

Sleep pricks at the corner of your eyes like dust from a sandstorm—presumably Hypnos forcing a hand on you getting rest. Here on Olympus he’s only a few doors away, after all.You rub your knuckles into the sockets of your eyes quite unkindly, hoping it’ll do the job. Even blinking is taking an added effort.

Patting your own cheek lightly to stimulate your senses, you cross your arms and decide to take another lap around the room. The rubber of your boots clomp louder with every shaky step and—

Tap-tap. Tap. T-tap.

D is rapping his knuckles against one of the glass doors on the perimeter like he’s playing the drums.

“Shhhh!”

Arms outstretched, you slip past rows of sleeping children, narrowly missing stretched out arms and fallen backpacks as you glare at him, “Are you trying to wake up all of Olympus?”

He looks at you with amusement, rumpled clothing and looking like a tiny, angry raccoon. You must’ve forgotten to take off your eyeliner, but he doesn’t mention it.

He brandishes two cigarettes in his hand and nods toward a door he left ajar leading onto the sprawling, wrap-around patio. And you swear you start floating towards him like an enticed cartoon character—surely you’re dreaming.

Is there even a designated smoking area on Olympus?

“How long have you known?”

The words almost slur out of your mouth as you swipe at his fist like a man starved—Mr.D can’t tell what exactly you’re asking. He’s known you’ve smoked since he found ash in the windowsill of his office. He’d known you and Luke have been having problems since you both started to sit at the opposite sides of the room during counselor meetings. Some things about you are harder to catch onto than others, and Mr. D is known for always being a little late to the party.

Dionysus, the god, was a late arrival to the Pantheon. Him as a father, he’s often late to discerning the happenings in his daughter’s life. But he’s also known that boy has loved you long before he drunkenly stumbled onto his porch. Could smell it off of him— love makes people do crazy things after all. Out of all of your partners, he always thought the golden boy was just as bad—if not worse than you, gods willing. But you two were good kids, and the thought makes him chuckle, “I’ve always been able to read you, kiddo. I get there eventually.”

“Besides when I first showed up at your doorstep.”

“Shock of my life, actually. And that says a lot. You should be honored,” there’s a stupid smile on your father’s face now as he looks out onto the darkened horizon, glittering city lights on the floating mountain top. Olympus has changed in the years he’s been gone from it without him noticing. He looks over to you and realizes you have too—no longer fourteen with your hair sticky from Kool-aid, or multiple sun-tan tattoos. You always liked making a project out of your boredom.

Laughing gruffly—the base of your throat itches and you surface for air sounding like something being strangled. Blame it on the lack of sleep or teenage angst as he so aptly calls your temper tantrums, but he pulls you in to rub your back, leading you further down the walkway with a shushing, soothing coo as you whine, “What if this is the best I can be?”

“You’re nineteen, princess. A hell of a long way to go. To be honest, it gets worse as the years pass.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” you groan, smacking your head against the cool marble. “That's like a blink for you. For me it feels like I’m constantly getting off on the wrong foot. How do you do it?”

He sighs and looks at you—and all of a sudden you see your father’s age in the way he grimaces. Left to do the dirty work, the things the gods don’t want to talk about, meant to endure because every ion of his existence has reeked of resilience.

Because it’s what’s expected of him.

You see the resemblance now.

His wrinkles are prominent and eyebags are heavy when he doesn’t fortify the image of a silly asinine man as he lets it all melt away in front of you.

You light a cigarette and puff life into the lit end to burn the other one, breathing out and handing it over. Smoke billows around the two of you as you lean against the marble railing—-but nothing has ever been so clear. It rolls through your lungs, warming you inside and out. You lean your head against his shoulder.

“I think you could shake this whole place up if you wanted to. Never met a more stubborn kid in my life,” your dad mutters, jostling when you elbow him, “I mean it. For a lack of better words, you’re a once in a lifetime kind of girl.” He’s not looking at you, but the sentiment wavers in the air and settles slowly until you learn to appreciate it.

“You mean that?”

D has had a share of his own struggles, from being ejected from his mother and birthed from Zeus’ thigh, to being curb stomped by Hera herself, and of course the occasional trip to the Underworld. Suddenly your life pales in comparison.

“Get that look off your face and stop thinking so badly of yourself. Life is not a dress rehearsal—just give it your best. I'll be in the wings for as long as you need me,” he swallows, “If you want that. I’m the only one dealing with this prison sentence, anyway.”

“I would like that.”

The god scratches his neck before dragging his Birkenstocks toward the door, swiveling to point at you, “Get to bed. You've got an early morning tomorrow.”

“I know. Is that an order?”

“Yeah, twerp,” he mutters, lingering by the glass, “Quitting cold turkey is never fun. Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. I've always been more of the type to go and get it myself though.”

“Cold turkey,” you repeat, nodding distantly.

Letting go means to accept that you let it in. And if you’re not ready to let it go, fight for it.

For a bunch of wordweavers, you both suck at talking to each other. It must be an Olympus thing to talk in riddles, but you’ve never been deterred by a challenge. Your fragmented conversation means a lot more than he’ll ever know. With a newfound appreciation for your dad, you smile and take a few puffs of the cigarette, taking a seat against the wall to let everything sink in. The comfortable weight of nicotine in your lungs lulls you to sleep, a momentary reprieve from everything.

You swear you shut your eyes for just a second. Just a moment—to rest them a tiny bit.

And Luke slips out the glass doors in the other direction towards the throne room without you noticing.

When you wake up, it’ll all be over.

—

It’s snowing by the time Luke comes back. Biggest day of his life—something he’s been waiting for for months now, and it was just too goddamn easy.

And yeah, Luke understood that it is so irrevocably wrong to steal from the gods.

But then why was it so easy?

Of course, it was all thanks to you. You don’t know it, but you helped the pieces fall into their perfect places. Keeping you up last night with the fight and leaving you to your own devices all day kept you indifferent enough about him to not notice the smaller details—him switching the night shift schedule around to his liking and making you the only obstacle between him and the Master Bolt and the Helm of Darkness (well, Ares was too, but onto more important things).

Everything happens for a reason, right?

Getting on your last nerve has always been easy, and though he hates seeing you cry—it almost makes him feel guilty that there’s a certain thrill that soars through him when you two fight. You love him like how you argue, with an unbridled passion he loves to sink his teeth into.

And he loves you. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. So despite the tear in his side that makes him clench his teeth, his first objective after his completed mission is to sidle over to your slumped form with a smile. Luke slings his jacket over your body and wraps his arm to bring your head against his shoulder. The grounds are weather-protected like at camp, yet a few stray snowflakes still catch onto your hair. You stir, “Lu?”

“I’m here. Not leaving you.”

If salvation could manifest itself into something akin to human form, perhaps it would still look like a god. Being saved is a feeling unfamiliar to Luke—the only person he was always sure could save your ass was himself. But he wants this, you nestled against him for as long as you want, until his arms ache and pins and needles ravage his body. Luke knows he would crawl to the ends of this earth and the next if it means he’ll be with you.

Gambling with fate will be worth it if he can find a way to make this love last forever.

This has to work. You did what you had to do, he thinks.

Sniffing, he kisses your forehead and his jacket faintly smells of smoke. Snowflakes dot his eyelashes and he rubs your arms to make sure you’re warm, “Let you sleep longer. Looks like you needed it.”

“How long have I been asleep?” you say groggily. His thumbs wipe at your eyelids gently with the hem of a fresh shirt, “Don’t worry. I took care of everything.”

It makes him grimace, emotional manipulation and a quick escape—hello Hermes!

“I’m tired, Luke.”

He sighs, and you turn to him, the both of you knee to knee, slowly being illuminated by a blanket of cool toned hues from the rising sun, “I know. Let me make it better, baby.”

Wistfully, you tangle your fingers with his in the space between you as if sealing a vow.

”Every future I envision includes you with me. I need you to know that.”

Overwhelmed by the events of the night, hell, these past few months—Luke starts to cry. A single rivulet cascading on the cheek adjacent to his scar and you catch it by pressing your lips to his jaw.

“Could you still love me?”

Inching closer, he feels as if you’re not close enough even when you’re breathing against the nape of his neck like this and you mumble, “You’re saying that like I ever stopped, angel.” The line blurs with each breath he takes—to earn a spot to walk amongst the gods, to live a completely ordinary life, or to be stuck in the strawberry fields of Delphini Farms forever. Luke was never awarded the privilege to want for himself before he met you, the absolution to all his wrongdoings. He can feel the quaking of your jaw under his fingertips as he slowly turns you to face him and all you have left to give him is a shattered breath.

“No matter what?”

Pressing his lips to yours as an apology feels like being saved. Lightly, until he pours himself into it and you relent, until the only thing that matters to you is that he’s with you now. Luke would merge your souls right now if he could—a tangled mess of eight limbs and head to head and everything is as it should be.

“Even if you don’t sit with me on the bus,” you smirk. He scoffs, kissing you harder and locking his lips with yours feverishly before resting much gentler ones against your tired eyes, “Oh don’t worry. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Trouble.”

A new day breaks on the horizon the longer you stay out there. But he takes these last final moments and keeps them under lock and key for safekeeping. You leave Olympus in a few hours, and by then there’ll be no time for regrets—his perfect crime with his perfect partner.

—

"I weep because you cannot save people. You can only love them." -Hanya Yanagihara

#made by ma1dita ♥︎#luke castellan x reader #trouble!verse #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan x dionysus!reader #pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians

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rrezshifts · 3 days ago

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𝓻𝙚𝙖𝖑𝙞𝙩i𝙚𝙨 𝙞’d 𝙡o𝙫𝙚 t𝙤 𝙛𝙞n𝙙

this is a list of realities i compiled from three lovely people’s dr ideas posts: ellysdreamworldd, deminetly, & lalalian. this post is a way for me to clear out my likes without having to keep track of the realities i’m interested in shifting to in a notebook i’ll lose or forget about . . .

a retro high school/college reality. this could be a reality from any decade where retro still fits. the original poster wrote 70s-00s. i feel like i partly already have this with my twilight reality, it’s set in the early 2000s. but it’s definitely something i could be interested in shifting to outside of that reality

2000s victoria’s secret angel reality. see this is weird because i am a trans man. and like . . . the parts of my body that are inherently feminine and ideal for an angel, i don’t like. however, it can be what i like so put my ideal masculine but twinkish form in some lingerie and call it a day!!

professional tourist reality. a reality where i have all the money in the world and travel the world with no responsibilities seems SO fun! but like an ideal and bigotry free world. and also i get to bring someone with me!!

vampire reality. tbh i already have a few of those . . . but i’m not in love with them. that and they’re from pre-existing media, and i want one that i can really play with and make my own and just fall in love with my own mind and life through it, yk??

royalty reality. this could be so so incredibly fun. but i fear the way i view and picture a royalty reality in my mind at the moment . . . it’s off putting. i’d need a new perspective to look at these type of realities from before trying any world building or i may genuinely give up immediately

summer camp reality. as the counselors of course. like imagine being a counselor with other hot people your age and just bouncing from counselor to counselor all summer as we all sneak around camp after curfew and just go crazy!! though i technically have a reality like this already . . . my the quarry reality is basically this because i removed all the horror game elements. i should think about it more though for sure, that why i put it here

mermaid reality. like genuinely the way the original poster described it as a the little mermaid kind of romance plot almost makes me not scared of the deep ocean aspect of this reality. but i love marine biology and marine animals so like i would realistically love this too. this is another one though, that i would need a perspective shift because right now the idea of this reality is off putting to me as well

magic university reality. quite literally just hogwarts in my marauders reality. but i haven’t scripted shit and i need to get on it. so i’m adding it in hopes that’ll change. it won’t lol

small town shop owner reality. the original poster said it was a flower shop. but the idea of it being like a small business of my choice, for example a metaphysical shop, and falling in love with the small business next door’s owner?? bonus points if it’s a tattoo artist i fall for, because why can’t fanfic tropes come to life!!

planetary romance reality. described as exploration of different planets with romance specifically with aliens. and you know what . . . i’m not gonna lie. the romance with aliens is what sold me!! call me what you want! (it’ll probably be true) but this genuinely seems like such a fun reality to get to workshop!!

eco-metamorphosis reality. described as a world being colonized by aliens but instead of rejecting them you welcome them with open arms. and i was thinking this could be so fun to imagine a world that has coexisted with aliens for generations now, a good many years after, and how that looks and what daily life would be like

that’s all of them!! please look at their posts if you liked any of these and want to see what else they have shared!! i’ll tag them here so they know i used their posts for a sort of form of content @ellysdreamworldd , @deminetly & @lalalian !! thank you for the great ideas 🙏

#rrez’s thoughts #rrez’s text posts #shiftblr #reality shifting #desired reality #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #shiftblr community #reality shifter #rrezshifts

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siggiedraws · 2 days ago

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I really disliked Sonic in SM3. I mean, the whole movie disappointed me, but Sonic in particular was just. Why are we turning SA2 in a cycle of revenge story.

Yeah, I get the idea of creating Parallels between Sonic and Shadow (not that I think Shadow's rage was as impactful as intended, as the dude chose to follow Gerald and his insane plan over a playmate basically - but that deserves its own post), but it's just so jarring. Sonic's papa gets hurt, not even killed, and he goes so ballistic that he flies into space to murder Shadow? He's this close to throwing hands with Knuckles for the right to the Master Emerald, because he really really really wants to take someone's life out of petty revenge? This doesn't make this Sonic deep! It comes out of nowhere for the sake of the themes!

The closest thing to this I can think of is Sonic getting furious at Erazor Djinn for killing Shahra, or him becoming serious and aggressive once the Deadly Six kidnap Tails. But it wasn't framed as him going to murder for a lost loved one, and Darkspine Sonic is an unique negative transformation anyway.

Sorry for ranting in your inbox, but I don't really want to go into it on my blog. I feel bad for being disappointed by this movie, but I can't pretend either that it's peak cinema or respectful to the games, let alone better.

no need to apologize, you're free to rant anytime!

I absolutely agree with your thoughts here! The parallels between Sonic and Shadow feel extremely forced and out of line for Sonic as a character and I think they are far more interesting in SA2. Shadow, the artificial ultimate lifeform created with extraordinary abilities, and Sonic, the natural lifeform who challenges Shadow and can even surpass his abilities such as using a fake Emerald to Chaos Control. He has no reason, no backstory to explain how he is, like Shadow does. He just is.

I hate the notion that Sonic succumbing to vengeance somehow makes him a better character. Being more angsty does not make him better. Behaving in a way that is expected does not make him better. Being more relatable does not make him better. Even if you would turn to revenge in such a scenario, that doesn't mean Sonic would, and I think people forget this all the time.

SatSR is actually the perfect example of how game Sonic deals with a similar situation. Shahra is killed and Sonic's rightfully pissed off at Erazor. The way it's framed is vastly different, though. Sonic keeps his cool and in the last cutscene where he enacts his three wishes, Sonic is a level-headed badass. He obviously hates Erazor but it does not cloud his judgment.

(he's also clearly still himself as Darkspine Sonic, if this cheesy joke is anything to go by.)

#ask #thank you for sharing your thoughts!#you don't have to pretend that you like the movies #there are plenty of people who appreciate what you have to say

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girlactionfigure · 3 days ago

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He admitted he "was just a schmuck", a regular guy, who worked at his brother's liquor store in Southern California. He lived quietly and died on December 5, 2015 at the age of 86.

Not many knew that this same humble man, an immigrant, had "the remarkable courage and forbearance of a . . . American hero, a man who joined the United States Army to thank the nation and the troops that rescued him from the concentration camp where he had been imprisoned as a teenager, and for whom recognition was delayed for decades because he happened to be Jewish," according to the New York Times.

He said his mom taught him that "There is one God, and we are all brothers and sisters. You have to take care of your brothers, and save them."

"To her, to save somebody’s life is the greatest honor," he added. "And I did that.”

You probably never heard of him. His name was Tibor Rubin. He had to wait 55 years to receive the Medal of Honor he deserved. He was the only Holocaust survivor to receive the Medal of Honor.

He was born in 1929 in Hungary.

At the age of 14, "Tibor Rubin was . . . was deported in 1944 to Mauthausen, the Nazi concentration camp complex in Austria," according to the Washington Post. He never saw his parents nor his younger sister again.

A commandant told him that he would never get out alive.

After 14 months, according to writer Adam Bernstein, Rubin had become "a disease-ridden skeleton."

American troops liberated Mauthausen on May 5, 1945. He was so grateful that accoording to a 2013 documentary film, “Finnigan’s War,” about veterans of the Korean War, Corporal Rubin said in broken English, “I promised the good Lord that if I get out of here alive, I’d become a G.I. Joe, to give back something.”

It took him a while to get to America, but when he finally came to the United States in 1948, he kept his promise and tried to enlist. But, because his English wasn't good enough, he had to wait until 1950, when he literally "cheated his way into the Army, he said, by cribbing the entrance exam, according to the Washington Post.

Because he was not a citizen, he was told he didn't have to fight, but somehow made his way to the Korean front lines, when he said, remembering his mother's words - "Well, what about the others? I cannot leave my fellow brothers.”

His sergeant, according to Bernstein, was "a sadist and anti-Semite" who repeatedly "volunteered" Rubin "on seemingly certain-death assignments."

One of those missions had him "single-handedly [hold] off a wave of North Korean soldiers for 24 hours, securing for his own troops a safe route of retreat." That in itself should have earned him the Medal of Honor.

Corporal Rubin would also "spend 30 months as a prisoner of war in North Korea, where testimony from his fellow prisoners detailed his willingness to sacrifice for the good of others," according to the New York Times.

Because he was not a citizen, his captors offered to return him to Hungary, but he refused, deciding to stay in the isolated camp that the Americans called “Death Valley.” He would not forget his mother's words.

He would risk his life sneaking out of the camp, only to return after he foraged for food and and stole enemy supplies, to bring back "what he could to help nourish his comrades."

“Some of them gave up, and some of them prayed to be taken,” Mr. Rubin later told Soldiers magazine. He did his best to rally them, reminding them of relatives praying for their safe return home.

“He shared the food evenly among the G.I.’s,” Sgt. Leo A. Cormier Jr., a fellow prisoner, wrote in a statement, according to The Jewish Journal. “He also took care of us, nursed us, carried us to the latrine.” He added, “Helping his fellow men was the most important thing to him.”

The prison camp survivors remembered Rubin, crediting him with keeping them alive and saving at least 40 American soldiers.

Rubin received the Purple Heart with 1 bronze oak leaf cluster, but not the Medal of Honor.

He returned home, to the United States, where he would lead a quiet life, rarely talking of his war experience.

When he did talk of his war experience, he said he felt guilty, seeing the countless maimed and lifeless bodies and hearing the agonized screams in Korean from the wounded.

“I had the guilt feeling what I did here,” he later told an interviewer with the Holocaust Awareness Museum and Education Center in Philadelphia. “I killed even the enemy but I killed somebody’s father, brother, and all that. . . . But then again, the truth is that if I don’t kill him, he kill me and vice versa. It’s war. War is hell.”

In the 1980s, he attended a reunion of veterans, where he learned that he had been nominated four times for the Medal of Honor by his grateful comrades, but the sergeant, who hated him for his religion, deliberately ignored the orders from his own superiors to prepare the appropriate paperwork.

In 2002, after Congress passed the Leonard Kravitz Jewish War Veterans Act, Rubin's records were reviewed and the affidavits recommending Rubin for the Medal of Honor were found.

He finally received his Medal of Honor at a 2005 White House ceremony.

“I waited 55 years,” he said. “Yesterday I was just a schmuck. Today, they call me, ‘Sir.’ . . . How I made it, the Lord don’t even know. I don’t even know because I was so many times supposed to die over there, but I’m still here.”

Rubin kept his promise to give back something to the country who saved him, and, in doing so, he also remembered his mother's words to consider everyone a brother and take care of them.

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page ·

#WW2 #Tibor Rubin #Jewish War Veteran

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valentine-cafe · 2 days ago

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Any tips for those who want to create ocs/ start writing? I have been thinking about writing for a long time but Im stuck on where to start

﹙ 🍒. ﹚ ─── Hello darling! I hope this finds you well. I'll start with the oc question and then transcend into where to start with writing. Buckle up this ended up being so much longer than anticipated.

Tips for OC CREATION

Get inspiration. This seems like an obvious one, but you'll be surprised how much I forget to do this at times. Start with a small idea. For example, you want to make a baker oc? Pinterest is your best friend. Make a board, start saving everything to do with baking; whether you have any other concrete ideas or not. Just start saving images. You'll start stringing together a theme as you go. Maybe you'll discover that this baker really loves flowers. Which then comes the quesion - why do they love flowers? Or maybe you'll discover that this baker has a bakery along the seaside. Once more the question comes up - why? From here you'll be able to create a blurp for your character and a basis as a whole. Remember, don't force inspiration! This can be tricky, but let it come naturally.

Don't be afraid to play around with ideas. Sometimes we tend to focus too much on 'things ,making sense'. This robs a lot of the creative process. While yes certain things should make sense, but don't hold each and every one of your ideas to this standard. Throw a bunch of ideas to the wall and see which ones stick! You never know what unique idea you could end up creating. Even if they don't make sense at first. Just jot them all day and find a way to loop them. As stated, some ideas may stick and some may not.

Get an appearance. I find that figuring out how a character looks after your basis really helps with envisioning them more. Note: I only look for appearances after I have my basis and general ideas as listed above. Because this helps the appearance process. Remember our flower loving baker on the seaside from earlier? Well, maybe their eyes are blue like the ocean. Maybe their skin is sunkissed because of the warm weather. Maybe they keep their hair short too because of this. Of course, you still have free reign here too. Don't be afraid to give your character some bizzare quirks. Different colours eyes? Hair? Peculiar birthmarks? Go for it. Don't listen to the people who call 'mary sue' every left and right.

Personality. Chances are with all the steps above you have a general consensus of the personality. But don't just shallow it out to the generals! List down positive, neutral and negative traits. Even morally good characters have negative traits. Even morraly bad characters can have positive traits. Neutral traits are also very important. Also note that you can twist a positive or negative trait to create something different. The positive trait "compassion" can quickly turn sour if the character confuses compassion for letting people walk all over them. The negative trait "deceitful" can turn positive if the character is in a story where deceit protects their general wellbeing as well as their loved ones. I'd suggest checking out this post of 600 personality traits.

Character quirks. Character quirks are what make your character feel alive. This can be something as simple as: 'he's a midnight snacker and always needs some extra crackers at home because of this.' Play around, mix and match, you'll be able to create even more story with quirks! For example, maybe 'she adores nature and makes sure to thank it whenever she takes from it' why does she do that? Was she taught that? Is it to do with her family? Occupation? Beliefs? I'd suggest checking out this post of 170 character quirks.

Give. Your. Character. Conflict. I'm not saying throw them round the wringer ( although if that's your thing, by all means. Do it. I do it sooo much ). Even if your character is just the casual slice of life character, they need to have something that drives them! Any sort of conflict, big or small, can make a huge impact on making your character feel real. It can be something as simple as 'they are a writer, but have severe procrastination'. You don't have to give them life-changing struggles, but even just a few make the difference. If there is one rule I follow in my character writing journey: to see the beauty of gemstones, you must break them. Much like a gemstone that we break open, when we put a character on a low, aw spectrum - we see what they are all about. Admittedly, I take that saying to a very extreme level but I understand that most simply do not wish to do that. That is perfectly fine. Just weigh your character down in some way.

Give your character a way of speaking. This seems small but it is one of the most important ones to me. Note down how your character speaks. What language do they speak? How do they speak it? Is there slang? Do they have a certain word or phrase that they repeat? Long sentences or short sentences? Flowery speech or blunt? This will all depend on all of the points above. Accumulate them and give your character a unique voice. This will help you individualise them. It also makes it easier to write with them. Adds so much personality flare!

Have fun! Another one that sounds obvious but can very easily be overlooked. Make sure that you have fun through the process. If the character isn't working out for you or is frustrating, rip it apart and start afresh! There's no shame in that. Howl and I have been planning this book series for almost one and a half years now and do you know how many characters we had to tear down and rebuild? Seong-Jin 9948e was one of them. I hated how his character was, it wasn't working out. I wasn't having fun with him. I had to tear him down to the very bone and reset him. Now? I adore him. You're not obligated to see all of your ideas through. If something's not working out, it's time for a new canvas! At the end of the day, make sure you are creating characters for you that you will love and have fun while doing it. Even with the characters you 'hate' because of morality or whatever it may be. Have fun with them. Have fun in general.

Phewwww okay. . . now lets get to getting started with writing.

Tips for getting started with WRITING

Ask yourself the most important question. Why do I want to start writing? It can be simple, it can be grand, regardless of what it is, it's valid. Identify it. Write it down. Just know why you wanna write. That's gonna be your key motivator for when things get rough and cloudy.

More questions. What do I want to write about? How do I plan on writing this? Identify these key questions as well. Even if they seem obvious, identifying them is a very big step. You'll be able to make your game plan from here.

Pick a place to write. I'm talking about document/site. There are various options. Howl and I typically use notion to organise and format our writing. There are of course many other options. Microsoft word, Google docs, Grammarly docs, Reedsy.com, hell - even basic notes. Choose somewhere where you will feel comfortable. Play around a bit.

Write your ideas down. Even if your memory is tip-top, write that idea down the second you get it! Make a folder, make a notebook, do it digitally or not. Just write it down. Have a list of different ideas, even if they seem bareboned. Just write. Them. Down. You'll thank me later. This will be your pretty little writing bank where you can pull ideas out when needed.

Develop the ideas. Blurp them. Mindmap. Get those brain juices pumping! Write down random points and find a way to interconnect them. Even if they do not make sense. Once again, you'll be surprised just how much you can work out of your mind by simply scribbling everything that pops into your brain.

Inspiration is key. As I noted above, inspiration is very important. If anything, I suggest merging this with the previous tip. Go to pinterest, search up writing prompts on different platforms. Combinem link, do what you must. Throw everything into a large mixing pot and stir it up! Have pinterest boards even for you smaller oneshots if that will help you. Llisten to music, this is where majority of my inspiration comes from. Do the things that get your creativity flowing. It might seem cliche or dramatic but on the music standpoint? Classical music is your best friend. It stimulates a certain part of your brain that reallu gets things kicking.

Practice writing. From my own experience, I have noticed that many writers including myself at times, forget to practice writing. This stems from the idea that you consistently plan and think out your ideas, fully flesh them out and then assume this will see you through. Another big misconception is that simply reading will make you a better writer. While yes, reading is an amazing way to improve your vocabulary, grammar and develop your style from your favourite writers. . . it is not practically practising writing. Here's a writing practice: get yourself a document. Or a paper. Whatever you see fit. Look around you. List down the things around you. Objects, the world out your window. Write about their shapes, their colours. Write what you smell, what you hear, what you see and feel. Make a story from all of these things. This practice in particular will not only be a great starter, but will also help you practise writing with the five senses. There are numerous practises you can pick up. Such as writing a scenario from a song or writing about a certain routine of your character. Identify your weak points and write pieces around them. You must write in order to practice. Seems obvious, right? ( haha ). But we tend to take our work or scheduled writing and assume that as practice. While it can very much be, you're gonna need that extra input!

Research. To tie in with the previous note. Research will aid your weak points. As writers, we write about experiences, about the world, actions. We cannot allow ourselves to write what we do not know. Now, that by now means equates to you studying every topic you can find under the sun, rather, research when necessary. Are you writing a fanfic where the character is of a different ethnicity? Do a little brush up on their culture and some facts around the ethnic background. A piece about a flourist? Learn a little about some flowers. Do you struggle with dialogue? Listen to people speak ( DO NOT LOOK AT MOVIES OR TV SHOWS. ). Listen to people in reality speak. See how they talk. The beautiful thing about writers is that we write about all sorts of corners of life. And so we must understand life itself.

Routine. I know a lot of us dread schedules. So do I. But this isn't a schedule - it's a routine. Make a habit out of writing. Even if it's simply twenty minutes a day if you cannot sit down and work on what you want. Even if it's just practice. Please, find the time to write at least a little every day. Where you have time, block it out for writing. Make a tummer. Do writing sprints. Make a flow. Like any art form, it must be done consistently.

No. Forcing. I know this may sound counterimtuitive to the last post but darling. Do not overwork yourself. Do not force yourself. There is a difference between holding yourself accountable to your routine and being hard on yourself. Identify your limits. Know when enough is enough. Take a breather, get some water, close your eyes, walk outside. Don't make this a chore. Again, it is art. Even if it is your job. It is still art, and art is freedom.

Finish your WIPS. DON'T RUN FROM YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES. Yes, I know that I said do not force yourself, but this is another fine line that you must find balance in. I understand the issue of an idea losing its spark, I do. But hold yourself accountable at times. Complete your work in progresses. Your passion project, that fic you're holding off. At least try to. This will help in the long run of completing writing projcts in general. Because if you do this long enough, you'll develop it into a habit, trust me. I know this all too well. If you have an idea? Write it out! Don't post anything about it until you have all of it written out. This can also help. At times we get too excited with sharing the idea and get lost in all the highs that. . . the idea eventually falls short. And then we feel guilt for not seeing it through. Remember, consistency is key.

Write for youself. Everyone loves validation. I certainly do. Everyone wants to hear a - 'this is so amazing!' However, once more, we have another fine line. Make sure that you are writing for yourself. Make sure that what you are writing is something that aligns with you. Even if you are a fanfic writer taking requests. Find essence in that request and tune it so that you enjoy writing it. Even if you are the only person writing for this specific trope, a specific character, an au, whatever it may be. Write it. Get it out. Have fun with it. Post it. Not only are you doing yourself justice by expressing your creativity, but in the long run - you never know who might need that piece. You never know who might stumble upon it and have their day brighten up. Don't care about how people may receive it, don't care about the absurdity of it. Write it. And have fun while writing it.

I really hope that this helped! I plan on making a little post like this for reader insert writers in particular because it is something that has been on my mind. . . remember, in whatever you do - have fun!

#﹙ cookie jar. ﹚: anon 𖹭 ݁#writing tips #writers on tumblr #oc creation #ocs #writer resources

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supernotnatural2005 · 2 days ago

Text

Sexual Encounters with Dean Winchester - Wax Play

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: You and Dean explore a new kink together.

Word Count: 2.8k

Prompt: Wax Play

Warnings: Smut!!! (18+ ONLY!!!) - Like heavy smut! Fluff, swearing, kinks.

AN: So here is my first @jacklesversebingo submission of the year. It's a wild one y'all 😅. I've never written anything like this or have much knowledge on this kink/act at all, so I hope I've done it justice? Anywho, I'm thinking of making this part of an anthology type series, exploring other kinks with Dean? Let me know if that would be something you'd like to see? And as always, feedback is much appreciated. Hope you enjoy ❤️

Masterlist

Dean liked to think he knew his way around a bedroom. He’d tangled in enough sheets with enough women—different shapes, sizes, ethnicities—to know he wasn’t just good at it; he was damn good.

He was open to trying new things, within reason, of course. For Dean, sex was fun, plain and simple. It was meant to be enjoyed by both parties, and he took pride in being a generous lover. Give as much as you take—that was his motto.

A big part of the thrill for him was seeing the effect he had: the way a woman would arch her back, cry out his name, or completely unravel under his touch. That was the payoff, the proof he was doing something right.

Men who didn’t care about that. Who saw sex as one-sided or selfish? Dean didn’t think they deserved the title of “man.” End of story.

But every now and then, someone came along who surprised him. Someone who didn’t just match his energy but pushed it further. Someone who flipped the script.

That’s where you came in.

“You’ve met your match” had never felt truer. You weren’t just bold; you were a deviant. An instigator of all things sinful and unholy. And God help him, it was the sexiest thing he’d ever experienced.

Forget Rhonda Hurley and those pink satin panties—hell, that was child’s play compared to you. You were on a whole other level.

And tonight? Tonight was a perfect example.

Dean lay sprawled out before you, gloriously naked, his body taut and on full display, tied to all four corners of the bed. His ankles were secured with two of the ties he usually reserved for playing FBI agent, while his wrists were bound with leather handcuffs you’d bought specifically for tonight.

The restraints were snug—tight enough to keep him from moving much but loose enough for him to break free if he really wanted to. Not that he seemed interested in trying.

And then there was you.

You stood at the foot of the bed, a vision of temptation wrapped in matching red lace lingerie that clung to your curves like a second skin. Stockings hugged your legs, held up by a delicate garter belt, while a pair of black high heels elevated the look—literally and figuratively. The shoes made your legs seem like they stretched on forever, and judging by the way Dean’s gaze tracked every inch of you, he clearly noticed.

Your hair was styled to perfection, soft curls framing your face, and your makeup was sultry, smoky, and intentional. Everything about you tonight was deliberate, designed to captivate him completely.

And judging by the way he tugged lightly against the restraints, his green eyes darkened with need, you knew you’d succeeded.

His cock twitched to full mast against his stomach at just the mere sight of you.

You rounded the bed after securing his right foot to the post, your nails trailing a slow, deliberate path up his leg. His breath hitched at the sensation, his chest rising and falling in shallow movements as his lust-filled gaze followed you like a predator tracking prey.

Your crimson lips curled into a wicked smile, your eyes raking over him, spread out and utterly at your mercy. The way you looked at him—like he was your last, most indulgent meal—sent a shiver racing down his spine. It was intoxicating, knowing your hunger for him mirrored the desire burning hot and heavy in his own chest.

Without a word, you climbed onto the mattress, every movement deliberate. His gaze dropped to your chest, and a low, guttural moan escaped him as he caught the way your breasts strained against the lace cups, threatening to spill free with every shift. Crawling toward him on your hands and knees, you were a vision of sin, and he was utterly powerless to do anything but drink you in.

You stopped when you reached him, and swung your leg over so you were straddling his stomach, avoiding his aching cock completely. He couldn’t help but whine at the feel of your heat touching his skin, wishing you’d just slip a little lower so he could really feel you.

“You’re sure you’re still up for this?” You asked softly, leaning down so your breasts brushed against his chest, surrounding him in the intoxicating scent of your perfume.

Your smile was teasing, playful, but your eyes held a quiet seriousness. Dean knew, without a doubt, that if he told you to stop, you would. No questions asked. That trust was sacred—whether it was out in the field with monsters or here in the heat of passion. You had his back, always.

“One hundred percent.” He replied without hesitation, his voice steady, even as his body betrayed the nervous excitement coursing through him.

You grinned, your gaze shimmering with an unspoken promise of everything you had planned. “And your safe word?” You hummed, letting your lips ghost over his, teasingly close.

Dean instinctively leaned in, chasing your mouth, but you pressed him back with a firm hand on his chest.

“Impala.” He said, the word rolling off his tongue without a second thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d needed a safe word with you, though he’d only used it once—a night so wild, even his memory of it felt electric. His thoughts flickered briefly to that moment, only to be ripped back to the present by the sharp pinch of his nipple.

“Shit!” Dean gasped, jerking against the restraints. His nipples were maddeningly sensitive, something you’d discovered and exploited countless times to your advantage. You smirked as his chest heaved beneath your touch, his skin flushed and warm, before finally taking pity and letting go.

“Good.” You murmured, sliding off him with a wicked smile before disappearing into the bathroom to gather what you needed.

When you returned, his heart kicked into overdrive, a delicious blend of nervousness and anticipation flooding his veins. Your arms were laden with items: candles, a lighter, and a bowl of ice cubes. Each item sent a shiver of anticipation racing through him as you placed them deliberately on the bedside table.

Then came the silk scarf.

“Head up, baby.” You commanded gently, your voice calm but firm.

Dean obeyed, tilting his head without hesitation. You folded the scarf, thickening the layers to reduce visibility, and carefully tied it around his head.

The moment the blindfold slipped over his eyes; he felt the first flicker of discomfort. Being restrained was one thing, but losing his sight too? It stirred instincts deep within him, instincts that told him to fight.

You must’ve noticed the tension in his body because your lips were on his before the panic could bloom.

The kiss was deep and consuming, pulling a raw, needy moan from him that bordered on a whimper. With his sight gone, every other sense sharpened, heightening the warmth of your lips, the slick caress of your tongue as it slid past his lips, tangling and teasing his own.

Your hand moved as if guided by instinct, trailing down his chest and over the hard ridges of his stomach. His muscles twitched beneath your fingertips, jumping at the light, feathery strokes that left a trail of fire in their wake until that same hand was wrapping around his shaft.

“Fuck!” He broke the kiss, his head dropping back onto the pillows as he allowed himself to feel, rather than see your hand jerk his hard cock. You pumped him in slow languid strokes, twisting at the tip before sliding a slick hand back down from the cum seeping from his tip.

Dean was panting hard, every breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Nothing had ever felt like this—nothing had ever felt this sensitive, this good. The knowledge that he had no control over your movements, the fact that he couldn’t see what you were doing to him, made everything feel more intense, more exhilarating. It was driving him wild in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe.

Maybe it was the sheer intensity of the moment, or the complete surrender he’d given over to you, but Dean already felt like he was on the edge. The softness of your practiced touch, the heightened sensitivity, it was all too much. He was teetering dangerously close to the edge of release.

And then, suddenly, you stopped.

His body jerked, his lungs emptying with a sharp exhale as the wave of pleasure he’d been chasing slipped away, leaving him reeling.

“Shit, baby,” he groaned, his body sinking back into the mattress, the fire of his orgasm fading as quickly as it had come.

He heard your soft chuckle beside him, followed by the distinct sound of flint striking a lighter, and his stomach clenched nervously. But beneath the anxiety, his heart fluttered with curiosity, anticipation swirling in his veins.

“Are you ready, baby?” you asked, your voice soft, teasing, as if savouring the moment. The pause that followed was intentional, giving him a moment to catch his breath—or perhaps, to let his nerves settle.

“Yes.” He answered almost immediately, the word a breathless promise.

You chuckled again, that sound low and sinful, and Dean could feel the bed shift as you moved over him, settling yourself onto him in one smooth, deliberate motion. This time however, he feels the warmth and wetness of your now bare pussy make contact his dick. His hips automatically rise, pressing against you with a deep groan.

You place a hand at his lower abdomen, pushing him down with a breathless, “not yet.” He feels you shift above him; your movements deliberate yet teasing. A faint rustle catches his ear, followed by the softest puff of air that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The scent of extinguished candle smoke drifts between you, rich and unmistakable, and then it happens—the first drop.

Dean jerks, a sharp hiss slipping past his lips as the molten wax kisses his skin. It bites at first, a sting that pulls a harsh groan from his throat. His muscles tense, straining against the restraints holding his wrists captive. But the pain doesn't linger—it softens, melting into a low, throbbing heat that spreads across his chest.

It’s maddening. The sensation dances on the edge of too much and not enough, leaving him caught in the perfect storm of wanting to pull away but craving every second of it.

And just when he thinks he can’t take another drop, the contrast comes.

You press something cool and solid to his chest, the ice cube tracing the path of the still-warm wax. His reaction is instant—a sharp inhale as the icy touch shocks his overheated skin. The contrast is electric, sending a shiver down his spine that pools low in his abdomen; has his cock pulsing between your legs.

“Holy hell.” He rasps, his voice rough, filled with a mixture of surprise and need. The ice soothes the burn, but the sensation sparks something deeper, something raw. The back-and-forth of fire and ice leaves his body in overdrive, every nerve ending alight.

You hum softly, dragging the ice cube in slow, deliberate patterns, letting the chill chase away the lingering heat. “Still with me?” You murmur, your tone almost too sweet for the wicked grin he can hear in your voice.

Dean swallows hard, his head falling back against the pillow as a strained chuckle escapes. “Yes. Fuck yes.”

And with that, you start again.

The wax comes next, a deliberate, measured drip that lands on a fresh patch of skin. He grits his teeth against the sharp sting, his muscles twitching involuntarily. The heat builds, blooming outward in waves that make his breath catch, until you follow with the ice once more. The coolness bites, chasing away the heat but leaving a lingering tingle in its wake.

The cycle repeats, and each time, it feels more intense. The wax teases his limits, pushing him to the brink of what he can stand, only for the ice to pull him back. The extremes blur together until he’s not sure where the pain ends, and the pleasure begins. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and he’s powerless against it.

His chest rises and falls heavily, his body humming with tension and want. Each drop of wax pulls a hiss or a grunt from him, while the soothing ice elicits shuddering breaths and groans that spill from deep within his throat.

“Baby, please,” he finally chokes out, his voice wrecked, but there’s no mistaking the raw desire in his tone. He needs more.

You chuckle softly, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Tell me what you want, Dean?” You purr, dragging the melting ice over the curve of his collarbone and down his sternum, the contrast making him gasp.

And he does. He’s never felt so alive, so attuned to every sensation, every movement, every touch. The boundaries between pleasure and pain have dissolved completely, leaving him utterly at your mercy.

“I need you.” Is all he can coherent, his voice almost emotional. He was like granite against your sex, red and pulsing; a small pool of cum collecting in the dip of his pelvic bone, and you relented.

“Okay baby.” You agreed, impossibly turned on yourself.

Dean felt you rise on your knees, and guide him into your sex. As soon as he felt your warm, wet walls fully envelop him, he came. Hard. With a shout, his body seized, his hips sputtering with each rope of cum spilling into you, and the leather binds bound to his wrist snapped with the force of his climax.

The intensity left him trembling, tears stinging behind his closed eyelids as he fought to catch his breath. His lungs burned, his chest heaving with desperate gasps for air. His hands clung to your hips, holding you still against him, every nerve in his body alight and far too sensitive to handle even the slightest movement.

You reached for him gently, sliding the blindfold up and off his head. His world was still hazy, the pulse of his heartbeat roaring in his ears, muffling the soft, soothing words you whispered. Your hands cradled his jaw, thumbs brushing tenderly over the coarse stubble of his cheeks, grounding him as his body quaked beneath you.

It felt like an eternity before the aftershocks began to fade, his body finally surrendering to stillness after what seemed like an endless peak of pleasure. His breaths came slower now, steadier, and he dared to blink open his bleary eyes.

You were there, leaning over him, your face framed by the warm glow of the room. Concern flickered in your eyes, but it was softened by the unmistakable warmth of love and pride curling in your smile.

“You, okay?” You asked softly, your voice cutting through the fog still clinging to his senses.

Dean swallowed hard, his voice rasping as he replied, “Yeah... more than okay.” His lips quirked into a faint, exhausted smile, his hands loosening their grip on your hips to run soothingly over your sides. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days, sweetheart.”

Your laugh was light and reassuring, your fingers threading through his hair as you pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Not a chance. Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

The kiss you gave him was tender, a gentle contrast to the overwhelming intensity of what he’d just experienced. Your lips moved softly against his, anchoring him, steadying the storm still swirling inside. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was comfort, warmth, and love wrapped into one.

He pulled you closer, his arms curling around you as if holding on to the only thing tethering him to reality. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest calmed him, grounding him in the quiet aftermath. His admiration for you swelled a deep, unspoken gratitude filling the space between you.

Dean let out a soft, contented sigh, brushing his nose against yours before murmuring, “You’re everything, you know that?”

Your lips curved into a smile against his, your fingers tracing soothing patterns along his arm. “And don’t you forget it.”

Suddenly, you’re rolled beneath him, the swift movement pulling your attention to the fact that one of his ankles had been freed, the restraint no longer holding him back. You gasp at the shift, eyes wide as Dean hovers above you, his gaze dark with desire—hungry, feral.

“Never.” He growls, the word rough and filled with an almost primal urgency.

It’s a challenge, a promise. You can feel the heat of his body above you, the strength in his grip as he holds you down, and you know it’s your turn to surrender.

You give yourself over to him, body and soul, not with hesitation but with the thrilling certainty that this moment belongs to both of you, completely. The world outside disappears, and all that matters is the way he moves over you, the fire between you both that burns hotter with every second.

AN: Phew! 😮‍💨 That was a steamy one! 😅 It's probably the steamiest thing I've ever written 😂. Let me know what you thought? I appreciate all of your feedback ❤️

Dean Winchester Tag List: @bettystonewell , @lyarr24 , @nancymcl , @jollyhunter

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