#if I know you in real life this should not be surprising

[xjulixred45x]

Imagine an adult Yuu who arrived at Twisted Wonderland PREGNANT.

This could be considered part of the Yuu! Parent variables (?). Perhaps the poor woman was returning from an early ultrasound (at 2 or 3 months old) when the black carriage hit her, scaring her to death upon her appearance in TWST. She must have thought she was about to be sacrificed to a cult.

I can definitely imagine the Squad characters being much more understanding/soft of this Yuu, especially Ace and Deuce. Ace wouldn't be so malicious at the beginning of the game (I'd like to believe that not even he would be capable of laughing in the face of a pregnant woman), and instead feels obvious guilt because Crowley has entrusted her with a mediocre job.

Deuce, my sweet boy, will set off all his alarm bells. He's the most outraged that the headmaster is forcing a pregnant woman to work ALONE, and if his dorm leader hadn't been so strict in the beginning, he definitely wouldn't let Yuu sleep in a dorm that's falling apart. Has Crowley gone crazy? Does he have no shred of decency?!

Grim probably thought at first that Yuu had eaten her baby, haha, and had to receive the wonderful "birds and the bees" lecture (much to Ace's amusement at Grim's horrified reactions). Let's just say Grim now insists on standing sentry in case Yuu decides to do anything too "dangerous for the baby" (humans are fragile even with magic; he has to take care of his minion!).

Jack, bless him, also tries to help make the ramshackle dorm safer alongside Epel, whether by removing the most rotten parts of the structure, helping clean, assisting with Yuu's errands, etc. Especially when she starts showing more of her bump.

GOD, IMAGINE THE DORM LEADERS!

Riddle was probably the only one who didn't realize Yuu was pregnant until the events of the Savanaclaw episode. And when he found out he almost seriously hurt a PREGNANT WOMAN? Trey and Cater practically had to keep him from banging his head against a wall for half an hour out of embarrassment and shame. He also drafted a LONG apology for Yuu, which was delivered with a giant strawberry cake (and one of those exaggerated bows I KNOW Riddle would do).

Thanks to his mom (for once in his life), Riddle is the most knowledgeable about useful pregnancy stuff! Whenever Yuu goes to Heartslabyul, she has access to calcium- and iron-rich meals (prepared by Trey), and teas that boost her immune system and combat morning sickness. Riddle is careful not to give her things like black tea or rosemary tea, knowing they could have negative effects (if it were up to Riddle, Yuu probably wouldn't walk unaided).

Leona is much more respectful to a female Yuu, we know that, but I don't think he has the energy to be rude, or be especially , well, Leona, to a PREGNANT woman. This ends up bringing out a side of Leona no one thought existed: an almost delicate side. Sure, he's still lazy and sarcastic, but he doesn't say no to Yuu when she asks for help with something, whether it's bringing something to her dorm or dealing with a difficult situation. he dosent even COMPLAIN. what did he do to the real Leona??

We all know Crowley doesn't give Yuu and Grim enough money to live comfortably, let alone considering they could soon have a new member on ramshakle. Yuu is now surprised to find extra money in the dorm after certain visits. Not that he'll admit it, but it makes everyone feel more at ease.

Again, I want to believe Azul wouldn't be capable of leaving a pregnant woman homeless, at the very least he offered her a place to stay in Octavinelle. It turns out the twins (especially Floyd) quickly took a liking to Yuu.

A cute scenario I came up with, when Yuu already has a prominent baby bump, is that she tries to joke with the Leechs that the nickname "shrimpy" doesn't suit her anymore, and that maybe they should change it to "whaley."

AND FLOYD IS LIKE, "Why are you saying that, Koebi-chan? :( Is someone calling you that? Come on, tell me :)"

I think the Octavinelle folks genuinely don't know how human pregnancy works, so they're surprisingly gentle and caring with Yuu (even when the baby is born, I can see Monster Lounge having a kids' menu for them).

Kalim, my god, Jamil is going to have to stop him from giving Yuu a completely equipped nursery for both her and the baby. Ironically, the one who's the most normal about pregnancy (the guy has 30 younger siblings, so he KNOWS about these things) and genuinely knows some home tricks that helped his mother when she was pregnant.

offers to organize a baby shower/gender reveal party! The bad thing is that it ends up being a whole festival with all of Scarabia participating. But hey, it's the thought that counts.

There's no way Yuu, who's already 6-7 months along, will wear the school uniform simply for comfort, so if you need help finding comfortable AND cute clothes, Vil will gladly help! Obviously, he's not as strict or harsh with Yuu due to the circumstances, but he still wants the best for her. Who knows, maybe they can pick out some clothes for the baby in advance.

Idia is afraid to get close to Yuu, not only because of social anxiety, but because of the thought that he might "ruin" the baby in some way. He needs a lot of support from Ortho and Yuu to even allow himself to have normal physical contact with Yuu, and just as he does, the baby kicks. Idia's heart is gone (everyone wants to feel the kicks now, especially Ace, Floyd, and Malleus).

They probably use some STYX or Ortho equipment for some of the baby checks, and he even gives an approximate due date, which feels bittersweet. Even if everyone does their best, Yuu still hoped to have his baby at home, but he doesn't complain when the boys do all this for them. It feels like Home.

Malleus is another who doesn't fully understand human pregnancy and is incredibly intrigued. It doesn't help that Lilia's answers to his questions are even more confusing, so he ends up going straight to the source of his intrigue, Yuu. Malleus is completely mesmerized the first time he hears the baby's heartbeat, completely fascinated by what human life is like compared to fairies/dragons.

That said, he proceeds to "scold" the baby when it kicks Yuu for "hurting its mother," not quite understanding the concept, but he has the spirit. Malleus is very scared of the idea of childbirth once he's educated on it (WHERE will the baby come out? HOW!?) and will probably try to improve his healing magic SOLELY because of that.

All I can say is that if the baby is born in Twisted Wonderland, they'll have a wide array of adoptive siblings, father figures, babysitters, and weird and eccentric uncles who will take very good care of them and its mother. So you can rest easy.

__________

(ESPAÑOL)

Imagínate una Yuu adulta que llego a Twisted Wonderland estando EMBARAZADA

Esto podría considerarse parte de las variables de Yuu! Parent(?)Talvez la pobre mujer estaba regresando de un ultrasonido de los primeros meses (2 o 3 meses) cuando el carruaje negro le paso por encima, dándole un susto de muerte cuando apareció en TWST. La pobre mujer debio pensar que estaba a punto de ser sacrificada a un culto.

Definitivamente puedo ver a los personajes del Squad mucho mas suaves con esta Yuu, especialmente Ace y Deuce. Ace no sería tan malicioso al principio del juego (digo, quiero creer que incluso el no seria capaz de reírse en la cara de una mujer embarazada) y más bien siente una obvia lastima de que Crowley le haya metido en un trabajo mediocre.

Deuce, mi dulce niño, le disparan todas las alarmas. Es el más obviamente indignado de que el director haga trabajar a una mujer embarazada SOLA, y definitivamente si su líder de dormitorio no fuera tan estricto al principio, no dejaría que Yuu durmiera en un dormitorio que se cae a pedazos ¿¡que acaso Crowley perdió la cabeza, no tiene el mínimo de decencia?!

Grim probablemente al principio pensó que Yuu se había comido a su bebe lol, y le tuvieron que dar la maravillosa charla de las “aves y las abejas” (para diversión de Ace por las reacciones horrorizadas de Grim). Solo digamos que ahora Grim insiste en actuar como centinela en caso de que Yuu se le ocurra hacer algo demasiado “peligroso para él bebe” (los humanos son frágiles aun si magia ¡tiene que cuidar a su secuaz!).

Jack, bendito sea, también trata de ayudar en hacer el dormitorio destartalado mas seguro junto a Epel, ya sea quitando las partes mas podridas de la estructura, ayudando a limpiar, ayudar con los mandados de Yuu, etc. Especialmente cuando empieza a mostrar mas la panza de embarazada.

DIOS, IMAGINENSE LOS LIDERES DE DORMITORIO.

Riddle probablemente fue el único que no llego a darse cuenta que Yuu estaba embarazada hasta los eventos del capítulo de Savanaclaw ¿y cuando se enteró que casi lastimo gravemente a una MUJER EMBARAZADA? Trey y Cater tuvieron que físicamente detenerlo de que se golpeara la cabeza contra la pared por media hora por la vergüenza, también redacto un documento LARGUISIMO de disculpa a Yuu, que fue entregado con una gran tarta de fresa (y una de esas reverencias exageradas que SE que Riddle haría).

¡Gracias a su madre (por una vez en la vida), Riddle es el que sabe más de cosas útiles para el embarazo! Cada vez que Yuu va Heartslabyul, tienen acceso a comidas nutritivas en calcio y hierro (hechas por Trey), Tés beneficiosos para el sistema inmune y para combatir las náuseas matutinas, aparte de que Riddle es cuidadoso de no dar cosas como Te negro o romero, sabiendo que podrían tener malos efectos (si fuera por Riddle, Yuu probablemente no caminaría sin ayuda).

Leona es bastante más respetuoso con una Yuu mujer, eso lo sabemos, pero no creo que tenga la energía para ser grosero o especialmente, bueno, Leona, con una mujer EMBARAZADA. Esto termina sacando un lado que nadie creía que existía de Leona, un lado casi delicado. Claro, sigue siendo perezoso y sarcástico, pero no le dice que no a Yuu cuando le pide ayuda en algo, ya sea llevar algo a su dormitorio o con una situación difícil.

Todos sabemos que Crowley no da ni de lejos el dinero suficiente para que Yuu y Grim vivan bien, mucho menos pensando que PODRIAN TENER UN NUEVO INTEGRANTE PRONTO, por lo que Yuu ahora se sorprende después de ciertas visitas, aparece algo de dinero extra en el dormitorio. No es como que lo vaya a admitir, pero todos están más tranquilos de esa forma.

De nuevo, quiero creer que Azul no sería capaz de dejar sin hogar a una mujer embarazada, aunque sea le ofrecería una estancia en Octaville, ya que, además, resulta que los gemelos (especialmente Floyd) se encariñaron con Yuu muy rápido.

Un escenario lindo que se me ocurrió, ya cuando Yuu tiene una panza de embarazada prominente, es que ella trata de bromear con los Leech de que el apodo “camarón” ya no le queda bien, y que a lo mejor tendrían que cambiarlo a “ballena”

Y FLOYD ESTA COMO “¿Por qué dices eso Koebi-chan?  ¿alguien te está diciendo asi? Vaaaamos, dímelo ”

Creo que genuinamente los de Octaville no saben muy bien cómo funciona el embarazo terrestre, por lo que son sorprendentemente gentiles y cuidadosos con Yuu (incluso cuando nace el bebe, puedo ver el Monstre Louge teniendo un menú infantil para ellos).

Kalim, dios mio, Jamil tendrá que detenerlo de regalarle a Yuu absolutamente toda una guardería completamente equipada tanto para ella como para el bebe. Irónicamente el que es el mas normal al respecto del embarazo (el man tiene 30 hermanos menores, el SABE de estas cosas) y genuinamente sabe algunos trucos caseros que le sirvieron a su madre cuando ella estaba embarazada.

¡ofrece organizar un baby shower/ fiesta de revelación de genero! Lo malo es que termina siendo todo un festival en el que participa todo Scarabia. Pero hey, la intención es lo que cuenta.

No hay forma en la que estando ya en los 6-7 meses Yuu use el uniforme de la escuela por simple cuestión de comodidad, por lo que si necesitan ayuda en encontrar ropa cómoda Y bonita ¡Vil le ayudara con gusto! Obviamente no es tan estricto ni duro con Yuu debido a las circunstancias, pero sigue queriendo lo mejor para ella. Quien sabe, talvez puedan elegir algo de ropa para él bebe de adelantado.

Idia tiene miedo de acercarse a Yuu, no solo por la ansiedad social, sino por la idea de que podría “arruinar” al bebe de alguna forma. Necesita mucho apoyo de Ortho y Yuu para siquiera permitirse tener contacto físico con Yuu de forma normal, y justo cuando lo hace, el bebe patea. A Iidia se le salió el alma del cuerpo (ahora todos quieren sentir las pataditas, sobretodo Ace, Floyd y Malleus).

Probablemente usan algo de equipo de STYX o Ortho para algunos controles del bebe, incluso el da una fecha aproximada de nacimiento, lo cual da una sensación agridulce. Aun si todos hacen su mejor esfuerzo, Yuu esperaba poder tener a su bebe en casa, pero no se queja cuando los chicos hacen todo esto por ellos.

Malleus es otro que no entiende el embarazo humano completamente y esta increíblemente intrigado, no ayuda que as respuestas de Lilia a sus preguntas son aún más confusas, por lo que termina lleno a la fuente de su intriga, Yuu. Malleus se queda completamente hipnotizado la primera vez que escucha los latidos del bebe, totalmente fascinado por cómo es la vida humana en comparación a las hadas/dragones.

Eso sí, procede a “reprender” al bebe cuando patea a Yuu por “lastimar a su madre”, no entendiendo bien el concepto, pero tiene el espíritu. A Malleus le asusta mucho la idea del parto una vez que se educa al respecto (¿Qué el bebe saldrá DE DONDE? ¡¿COMO!?) y probablemente trate de mejorar en magia curativa UNICAMENTE por eso.

Solo puedo decir que si el bebe nace en Twisted Wonderland, tendrá un vasto abanico de hermanos adoptivos, figuras paternas, niñeros, tíos raros y extravagantes que lo cuidaran muy bien a él y su madre. Así que pueden estar tranquilos.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

[flwrkid14]

hey, so for your “Love, in All its Impossible Forms” can you put Tim and Danny in a scenario where Danny has to either choose the world or Tim, and everyone and I mean everyone is telling Danny that he has to choose the world while Tim is staying quiet because he believes no he knows what Danny would choose. Danny, ever the hero would choose the world he so desperately fights to keep safe. Tim is okay with being the other option, he has only ever been the other option.

But what Tim doesn’t know is that Danny has never fought to keep the world safe. No, he fights to keep his loved ones safe, he fights so his family is safe, so Tim is safe.

Now that Tim is being threatened? Well Danny has never felt sentimental about this world, he’s sure Tim could adjust to a new world. After all, what’s the point in Danny being the ghost king if he can’t even do as he pleases?

And Tim? Tim would follow Danny no matter what he chooses, because that is love. Love isn’t conditional, not like how the batfam’s feel, not like how his parent’s felt.

(Take your time!)

anon, you saw into the softest and cruelest part of this story. the part where the world calls Danny a hero, demands he live up to the myth they made of him—and the part where Tim quietly prepares to be left behind.

because that’s what love is supposed to do, right? love chooses the world. love lets go.

but Danny’s never played by those rules. and this time… he doesn’t want to.

When the world begins to end, it’s quieter than anyone expects. No fire, no screaming sky—just cold calculations. A choice. A question with only one right answer.

Danny is called to the center of it. Not as a boy. Not even as a ghost. But as a king. As the King. The one being with enough power to fix it. To rewrite entropy itself if he just agrees to the terms.

All he has to do is choose the world. The millions of people who’ve never known his name, who would never thank him. The strangers who will live because of his sacrifice.

Or—

“Or,” they never say. Because there isn’t supposed to be an “or.”

But Danny feels it.

He feels it in the silence where Tim should be begging. He feels it in the way Tim stands just behind the gathered voices, distant, steady, waiting. Not asking for anything. Not even hoping.

Because Tim’s not the kind of person who gets chosen.

He’s always been the fallback, the extra, the strategic loss. Even in his own family. Even in love. And Danny—Danny is the kind of person who saves the world.

So Tim prepares himself to be left behind. Quietly. Without resentment. Because he understands. And he’s not surprised.

But Danny is.

Because Tim doesn’t know. Doesn’t know that the only reason Danny’s ever fought at all was to protect the people he loves. He’s never been sentimental about the world. He’s never even liked it all that much.

He fought to keep his family safe. His home. His people.

And now—

Danny looks at Tim. At the boy who never asks. Who loves so deeply and quietly he assumes that love means sacrifice. Who isn’t trying to make Danny choose. Because he already thinks he’s the thing that gets left behind.

And Danny can’t. He just can’t do it.

Because what’s the point of saving the world if it means losing the reason you were saving it in the first place?

What kind of king protects an empire and lets his heart die on the battlefield?

So Danny says no.

He turns to the council of ancients, to the army of heroes, to the crying civilians and the trembling ambassadors. And he chooses Tim.

And it’s not fair.

It’s not heroic.

It’s cruel in the way all real love is cruel—because it draws a line between “everyone” and “someone,” and then crosses it without apology.

The backlash is immediate. Gasps. Rage. Horror. They call him selfish. A monster. A failure.

And maybe he is.

But he looks at Tim, and for the first time in his life, he isn’t afraid of being selfish.

Tim stares back, disbelieving. He hadn’t prepared for this part. He hadn’t prepared to be wanted more than the world.

“I don’t understand,” he breathes.

And Danny says, “You don’t have to.”

Because Tim would follow Danny anywhere. To a world that will hate them both. To a universe where no one knows their names. To an entirely new timeline where there’s no pressure, no expectation, no family holding him back. And that's exactly what Danny asks him, to follow him to a future they make themselves. One the world may never forgive them for.

Tim nods.

And that’s love, too.

Not the conditional kind. Not the kind that’s earned or tested or weighed. But the impossible kind. The cruel, human kind.

The kind that lets the world burn because one person mattered more.

[hedwig221b]

Have you ever read “You would kill for this, just a little bit, you would” by alice9?

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/51306448) it’s an absolute favourite of mine and I wonder whether you know any fics similar to it?

Also recommended by @avabean24 ❤

It's been 84 years, and I didn't really get what recs you wanted, bc this wonderful fic has so many tropes. I focused on secret relationship, so here we go, I guess?

You would kill for this, just a little bit, you would by alice9

The Hales didn’t like him. He didn’t like them either. And for fifteen years he made it a point to have as little interaction with them as possible. It comes as a shock then, when Derek Hale turns up at his door one night, screaming baby in his arms, asking for help.

Operation Girl Scout Cookies by katsu_kiri

After a minute Derek looks back up, his lips puckering in thought, “so…we just…see each other in secret. Then in November after local elections we can see each other for real?” “We are seeing each other for real! It’s just us who know about it for the first few months,” Stiles corrects. “Okay.” Stiles holds his breath, eyes widening, “okay as in okay let’s secretly date?” “Yes,” Derek adds his tone a little less bitter as if he is just now warming up to the idea. “Awsome! Holy shit, dude we’re mates,” Stiles beams. Or the one where both Talia and John are running for mayor of Beacon Hills and their sons end up being mates. Enter a secret relationship, a dash of smut, and a way too involved Laura Hale.

Made Your Mark on Me (A Golden Tattoo) by writteninthewolfstar

Beacon Hills High and Lycan Heights High are well-known enemies. Derek Hale, Lycan Heights' star quarter-back, is well-known for being aggressive and arrogant. Imagine Stiles surprise when he discovers that Derek Hale is actually his soul-mate.

Pry Him From My Cold Dead Fingers by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

"So they’re coming for our Emissary because they lost theirs?” Derek asked, somewhat angrily. “It would appear. The McCall-Hale Pack’s reputation precedes itself.” “Don’t worry,” Scott said, “we won’t let them touch you.” Deaton turned to him, offering a private smile before inclining his head slightly. “Very comforting, Scott, thank you. But,” he looked between them, “I’m not the Emissary they’re coming after.” Derek frowned and shared a look with Scott, who looked as confused as he did. “What do you mean?” Scott asked. “What other Emissary is there?”

Operation Get Derek Laid by Kikileduc

There's pining, misunderstandings, confusion, a little jealousy… Stiles and Derek have a nice thing, no one knows, yet. The issue is, the pack wants their alpha to get lucky at the werewolf seminar, and well Stiles thinks Derek wants that too…

Mismatched Match by LadyDrace

Getting to date hot senior jock Derek Hale should be cause for shouting from the rooftops, frankly, but life is a little more complicated than that. Until it isn't.

You Look Like Bad News (i gotta have you) by standinginanicedress

Option A : violently tell Derek that they are under no circumstances ever to hook up again because it was stupid and dumb. Option B : tell Scott the truth, stand back and watch as Scott kills Derek with his bare hands so Stiles doesn't even have to face the music. Not an option at all, actually. Expunge this from the record. The real Option B : calmly explain to Derek that the situation is too fucked up and hey, maybe if Derek and Scott ever shake hands and make up, he and Stiles can hook up again because, man…it was great. Option C : forget everything, charge headfirst into danger like fuckin' Bravehart and have sex with Derek all over again. Option D : bury himself alive and wait for the worms to eat him.

Until Sunrise

"You told me I would have time,” Derek said, simmering with anger. “You promised to leave the choice to me.” “The court is starting to talk,” said Peter. “We do not have a stellar reputation as it is, and your ventures into the world of simple pleasures do not go unnoticed. You do not care, of course. But you are, pardon me, too loud for it to remain discreet.” “You think if I were to have a wife, I would stop fucking?” Peter cringed his nose. “No. It would make you a proper, civilized man. You are getting too old, nephew.” “Fine. But I’ll choose.” “No,” Peter smiled. “I shall choose.” Derek opened his mouth to argue, but Peter did not let him. “We both know you will continue to fuck whomever you want. None of us will be able to stop you. Let me have a pick of a proper spouse to placate the court. That’s all I ask.”

Other fic recs: angsty fics + pt2 + pt3 | possessive Derek | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort | magical!Stiles | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | BAMF!Stiles + pt2 | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles + pt2 | oblivious Stiles | oblivious sterek | bad friend Scott | pack mom!Stiles | unrequited love | werewolf!Stiles | dark sterek | single parent!Stiles | feral Derek | feral Stiles | arranged marriage | Stiles is underestimated | mpreg w/o abo | accidental knotting | jock!Derek | jock!Stiles | alive Hales | spanking | royal abo au | longfic | void!Stiles | sheriff dissaproves | Stiles doesn't know about werewolves | soft fics | hales love stiles | somnophiIia |

[smellysluna]

Chapter Two | Again, And Again, And You

Chapter Two: A Fresh Start

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Reader

Word Count: 5,5k

Summary:

You've lived through countless timelines—each one shaped by monsters, magic, and the unbearable weight of knowing too much. Until you wake up in a version of reality where none of that ever happened. No dungeons. No deaths. Just high school… and him. Sung Jinwoo—quiet, intense, and impossibly familiar—is here too, and maybe this time, it'll be you who changes his world.

Notes:

I— I think I went overboard with the length of this chapter I mean like— ... just enjoy

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The world felt different when you woke up.

Not in a way you could explain—everything was where it should be, everything looked the same. The sun rose like it always had, painting gold across the ceiling of your room. 

And yet, your chest felt hollow. As if you'd just surfaced from drowning.

You sat up in bed, a sharp inhale cutting through your lungs. Your hands trembled slightly as you touched your face, half-expecting to see blood, ash, or time etched into your skin. But you were young.

You were… young.

You stumbled to the mirror and stared.

The person staring back at you was barely seventeen. No shadows under her eyes. No scars on her neck. No weight of a thousand lives hanging from her shoulders.

You blinked rapidly, as if to wake up again. But this was the dream. Or rather, the end of it.

The world had been reset.

He’d done it.

Sung Jinwoo had done it.

You didn’t cry—not right away. But your knees gave out slowly, and you sat there on the floor, heart pounding like a drum, repeating one truth over and over:

You’re free.

At first, you didn’t try to find him.

You told yourself he wouldn’t remember. That this life was his reward. That he deserved peace without the weight of old memories.

But still… a part of you wanted to see him. Just once. To confirm that he was okay. That he still existed. That it hadn’t all been a dream you made up in the space between lifetimes.

So, you enrolled in the same middle school.

Sliding into the role of a transfer student wasn’t new to you. A few forged documents, a timely uniform delivery, and voilà—new student, perfectly ordinary. You’d even knocked your age down to fifteen on paper. Technically, you were almost seventeen, but what were a couple of years between friends? It wasn’t like anyone was going to card you in homeroom.

Besides, you were already ancient compared to everyone else. Maybe not in body, but mentally? Please. After a few dozen lifetimes, you were basically the wise old sage in a room full of toddlers. If anyone asked, you just had an “old soul.” They didn’t need to know it came with the emotional baggage of a thousand respawns and a suspiciously encyclopedic knowledge of stock market crashes.

Enrolling in middle school felt like sitting through an onboarding presentation for a company you'd already secretly run twice. You knew the rhythm, the roles, the script—even if everyone else thought this was your first day on the job.

A crisp uniform, a clean transcript, and your real name on the roster—check, check, and check.

Sung Jinwoo had already sparked a school-wide glow-up rumor before you stepped foot in class.

He used to be awkward, they said. Kind of forgettable, quiet in a way that made people skim past him in the hallway. But something had shifted.

He came back after summer with cleaner hair, straighter posture.

Suddenly, people realized he was hot.

Like, surprise lead-role-in-a-drama hot.

His smile was easy now. His voice low and warm. Rolled-up sleeves. That thing guys do where they lean back in chairs just enough to look effortlessly cool without actually falling.

He helped teachers carry supplies. He saved a bee from a classroom once, apparently. People said he smelled like clean laundry and citrus and the sun.

Even the guys loved him.

“Bro, I’m not gonna lie,” one classmate had said loudly once, voice carrying across the lunch tables, “we thought you were just, like… a weird shut-in last year. We were so wrong. I’m sorry.”

Jinwoo had just laughed, easy and warm, and clapped him on the back like it really wasn’t a big deal.

It made him even more likable.

Because that was the thing—he didn’t act like someone who’d suddenly realized he was hot. He just was. And somehow, that made people fall even harder.

Girls confessed to him. Often.

Sometimes it was a letter slipped into his locker, folded with trembling care. Sometimes it was a bento left on his desk, wrapped in pastel cloth with a note tucked beneath. A few were bold enough to ask him face-to-face—he always looked surprised when they did. Not because he didn’t expect it, maybe, but because he genuinely didn’t know how to react.

He wasn’t cold. Just… unreadable. He’d thank them, bow slightly, offer a soft smile that somehow didn’t give anything away. And then he’d return to whatever he was doing—scribbling in the margins of his notebook, sipping his strawberry milk, or talking to the guys. Sometimes they’d walk away giggling. Sometimes in tears. It wasn’t clear if he was just oblivious or expertly polite, but either way, nothing stuck.

Until the day you walked in.

It was morning—barely past 9:00.

A math class in full swing, the room draped in fluorescent chill and the quiet scratch of pencils. The teacher’s voice filled the space in low, practiced rhythm, chalk tapping steadily against the board. Outside, the sunlight was pale and clear, leaking through the windows in sharp, angled beams.

And then the door clicked open.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t nervous.

Just… smooth. Deliberate. The kind of entrance that didn’t need permission. You stepped in with a quiet sort of confidence, your bag slung over one shoulder, uniform crisp, expression unreadable. Composed in a way teenagers rarely were. 

You didn’t look around for approval.

You just scanned the room once, calm and quiet, the kind of quiet that made people straighten up without knowing why. You nodded when the teacher finally noticed you standing there—a slight tilt of the head, perfectly polite—and stepped aside like you hadn’t just walked into the middle of a math lesson, like this wasn’t two months too late for transfers.

The chalk stuttered on the board. The teacher cleared his throat. “Ah—yes.” A pause. “Everyone, please welcome our new student, (y/n).”

Chairs creaked. Neck cranes followed you. A ripple of whispers. Half-curious, half-nervous energy filled the air.

“Please find a seat.”

And across the room, Jinwoo—half-slouched in his seat, pen resting against his lower lip—looked up.

He blinked.

Like something inside him had missed a step.

For a second, just a second, something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Not interest. Just… confusion. That sharp, uncanny déjà vu with no image attached—only a feeling. A breath held in the dark.

He’d never seen you before.

And yet—something about you tugged at him.

A flicker. A scent of familiarity buried deep under layers of time and dust and forgotten things. He shoved the thought down immediately. It was impossible.

You walked past him—two rows back, your steps soft, unhurried.

He followed the sound without meaning to.

Jinwoo blinked again.

Then, very carefully, leaned back in his chair, tapped his pen twice against his notebook, and muttered under his breath:

“…No way.”

He caught himself a second later, eyes darting to check if anyone had heard.

Then—quick recovery.

He straightened slightly. Pushed his bangs back. Sat there like the embodiment of casual disinterest, the boy too cool to be caught off guard.

Too cool.

Like someone who’d practiced smoldering in the mirror but was now deeply unsure what to do with his hands.

You caught his eye, just briefly, as you scanned the room for a seat.

He looked away immediately. Not too fast. Just… mildly interested in the far wall, apparently.

But after that—

You felt it.

His gaze, brushing over you more than once. Lingering when you weren’t looking.

Not with curiosity.

With confusion.

Recognition.

Like a name that danced just out of reach.

Like a face he should know, but couldn't place—a phantom glimpse from the past. Every time his eyes lingered on you, that sensation crept back. Stronger. More insistent. Unsettling.

You didn’t expect to cause a stir.

At least, that was the plan.

But apparently, mastering the art of not trying was the secret to suddenly becoming the main character.

First, the grades.

Then, the moment you effortlessly corrected a teacher. Graceful. Polite. A tilt of the head, a glint in your eye that said, I’m right—and I’m not even trying to be smug about it.

It started off harmless enough.

Third-period history. The room hummed with the familiar buzz of the late morning sun spilling across desks. The air was warm, thick with the chatter of half-listening students and the teacher’s monotone lecture on post-war reforms.

You were taking notes quietly—head down, pen gliding smoothly—until he said it:

“And of course, women didn’t really play a role in those reforms. Most of them stayed at home. The important decisions were all made by men.”

The words hung in the air for a second. Just long enough.

You blinked. Looked up.

A soft click of your pen stopping. No drama. No raised voice. Just a slight shift in your posture as you lowered your hand and spoke up.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said, calm and even. Not rude. Just… precise. “I think that’s not entirely accurate.”

The room stilled.

Mr. Han blinked over his glasses, clearly surprised that anyone had spoken—especially the new girl.

You tilted your head, like you were still weighing how best to phrase it, before speaking with calm certainty:

“Several female activists were instrumental in shaping the educational reforms and labor policies during that time. Especially in Seoul and Busan. Kim Bok-dong, for example, continued her advocacy even post-war. Also, the Women’s Union had seats at the negotiating table in 1946.”

You didn’t smile exactly—but there was something in your expression. A light behind your eyes. Confident, without needing to flex it. Like this was just a fact, not a fight.

There was a pause.

A long one.

A pencil rolled off someone’s desk. A chair creaked. Somewhere in the back, a girl made a sound like she’d just witnessed a plot twist in a drama.

Mr. Han cleared his throat.

“Yes. That’s… a good point,” he said slowly, adjusting his collar. “I stand corrected.”

You nodded, jotting something else down in your notes like nothing had happened.

But something had.

Two rows ahead, Sung Jinwoo blinked slowly, the faint scratch of his pencil stopping mid-word.

He hadn’t been paying full attention—his gaze had been half out the window, half on the margin doodles in his notebook—but your voice had cut clean through the hum of classroom monotony. Calm. Precise. Just a little sharp at the edges, like the glint of a blade in sunlight.

New girl. Hair tucked behind one ear, eyes still focused on your notebook. As if none of it had mattered. As if a whole classroom hadn’t just silently re-evaluated you in real time. The girl next to you was staring. Someone two seats down had actually scooted closer.

But you? Unbothered.

Jinwoo’s gaze lingered.

There was… something.

Not familiarity exactly. But weight. Like gravity in reverse. The kind that pulls at memory, tugging on something buried under centuries of silence and blood and shadows.

The way you’d held the room just now—it reminded him of her.

The Founder.

The one who'd stood tall even when monarchs threatened war. The one who'd never bowed.

The one he’d never figured out.

But that was impossible.

She was gone. Had to be.

He was the only one cursed to remember.

He shook the thought from his head like mist from his shoulders, turning back to his notes.

It didn’t make sense.

Just another strange feeling in a life full of them.

Still…

His pen tapped against the margin once. Twice.

Then he scribbled something down that wasn’t related to history at all.

Your name.

He wasn’t even sure he’d meant to write it.

But there it was.

And the smallest crease formed between his brows.

What had started as a quiet correction soon spread like wildfire.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t even looked smug.

But you’d dismantled a teacher’s outdated view with the elegance of someone flipping a chess piece onto a checkmate square. And you did it with a grace that made the girls around you swoon.

“I think I stopped breathing,” someone whispered to her friend outside the classroom. “She didn’t even flinch.”

From there, it snowballed.

People admired your calm. The way you carried yourself like you knew exactly who you were. Your quiet confidence, the way you listened—actually listened—and spoke like your words mattered. Like theirs did too.

Before long, you started noticing a shift. Girls who usually stuck to their own groups were suddenly finding excuses to hang around, like they were magnetically drawn to whatever vibe you were giving off. No one was trying too hard—they just wanted a bit of your coolness to rub off.

The whole thing still felt a little surreal. A few weeks ago, you’d just been the new girl—the one slipping into class unnoticed, blending into the background. Now, you had a group of girls who were, for lack of a better word, attached to you. They weren’t bad, though. In fact, they were kind of fun. They’d drag you along to lunch, chat about the latest drama, and occasionally ask for your opinion on the most important issues, like which lip gloss had the best scent or whether the cafeteria’s pizza was worth the risk of food poisoning.

Today, they were gathered around your desk, laughing about something one of them had said—some story about a teacher who accidentally wore mismatched socks to class. You found yourself grinning without even thinking about it. There was something so effortlessly easy about the way they included you, like you’d always belonged here.

“You know,” one of them said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I don’t know how you do it. You’re so chill. I mean, way chill. It’s like you’re just, I dunno, above all the drama, you know?”

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-flattered. “I wouldn’t say above it. Just… trying to survive it.”

“Survive? Girl, you’ve mastered it,” another chimed in, nudging you playfully. “I swear, you’ve got this whole ‘cool, collected vibe’ going on. It’s like you’re a movie star or something.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. It had been a while since anyone said something like that to you, especially not with such earnestness. Was it really that obvious? You’d always figured you were just… trying not to screw things up. In some strange way, you were almost relieved. You were just so tired of being the outsider.

"I don't know," you said, glancing out the window for a second, a little too aware of how your words sounded. "I guess... I’m just happy I can finally be, I don’t know, normal for once."

They all stared at you for a second, as if the idea was so foreign that they didn’t know how to respond. And then they laughed. Not in a mean way, just a soft, understanding laugh.

"Girl, you’re like way past normal," one of them teased, and you swatted her arm lightly, laughing along.

But there was something warm about hearing it. Maybe you didn’t need to be anything extraordinary. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, you could just be yourself.

It wasn’t a bad way to be.

The bell rang for the end of lunch, a mix of relief and slight reluctance hanging in the air as everyone packed up their things. You, however, were still caught in a bubble of conversation, a few girls chatting animatedly around you as you all made your way to your next class.

For a moment, it felt almost like before—like you were part of the group but still slightly outside it. You could feel their eyes on you sometimes, the way they’d smile at you like you were a little secret they were all proud to keep. But there was something different about it now. You weren’t just the new girl anymore. You were... someone they all wanted to be near.

It wasn’t a bad thing.

And yet, as the laughter died down and the group started to disperse, you caught a glimpse of someone at the edge of the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Jinwoo. His presence, always so quiet, still seemed to draw attention.

He wasn’t quite looking at you, but you could feel it—a pull, like his gaze was hovering just on the edge of your peripheral. His eyes flicked to you briefly, but then he quickly turned away, scribbling something in his notebook as if it was the most important thing in the world.

You weren’t sure why it made your stomach tighten, or why your pulse seemed to quicken as you walked past him.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t seen him around before. He was the school’s “heartthrob,” after all. Everyone knew who he was. But this? The strange tension that seemed to hang between you and him whenever your paths crossed—this was new.

You stepped around him, almost brushing past him, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the hallway’s stale air.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The world continued on around you—students chatting, shoes scuffing against the linoleum—but it felt like everything slowed down.

He shifted, turning slightly, as if deciding whether or not to speak. And then, just as you were about to move on, you heard his voice.

“Hey,” he said, the single syllable low and almost hesitant.

You stopped, caught off guard by the sound of his voice. It was strange—almost like he'd been practicing saying it to you in his head, over and over, before actually letting the word slip out.

You turned, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Yeah?"

There was a beat of silence. Jinwoo seemed like he wanted to say more—something else was on the tip of his tongue—but instead, he just gave a small shrug. "Never mind," he muttered, and with that, he turned back toward the hallway, his shoulders tense as if he’d said something he wasn’t ready to say.

You stood there for a second, blinking in the sudden awkwardness of it all. His footsteps echoed as he walked away, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had almost spilled out.

But before you could dwell too long on the thought, you were pulled into another conversation by one of the girls from your group, and Jinwoo’s strange, brief interaction was lost in the noise of the crowd.

Because while Jinwoo had become the school’s heartthrob, you had become something else entirely—mysterious, magnetic, untouchable.

The girls didn’t leave you alone.

You were always surrounded. Walking anywhere alone required a strategy.

And Jinwoo?

He looked like he wanted to say something.

He’d lean forward, hesitate. Start to stand. Then pause as someone asked you a question or grabbed your sleeve to drag you to lunch.

He’d sit back like nothing happened. Scribble something in his notebook that wasn’t schoolwork. Bite the inside of his cheek like he was annoyed with himself.

Like he knew you.

Like he’d met you in a dream, once, and the memory had just now caught up.

And still… nothing happened.

Until one afternoon during break—

It wasn’t a dramatic escape. Just you, slipping away while the girls weren’t paying attention.

The school rooftop had always been… yours. Not officially, of course. Just in that quiet, unspoken way places become sacred. It was where the noise below couldn't reach. Where people weren’t buzzing around you with expectations or praise.

Where you could breathe.

You leaned against the railing, arms resting atop it, eyes cast over the schoolyard far below. The spring breeze was light, brushing against your skin with a gentle sway.

You let yourself just be.

No running. No fighting. No pretending.

You were starting to get used to the feeling.

Just the faint sound of distant laughter from the classrooms below, the wind rustling through the trees, the gentle hum of life continuing like the world hadn't ended again and again.

You closed your eyes for a second. Felt the sun warm your face.

This was something you never got to enjoy before. Not really. Not with everything you had to become.

Unknowing to you somewhere from the courtyard, he saw you.

He’d been laughing at some dumb joke Sungil cracked—something about the cafeteria milk again—and his eyes drifted lazily toward the sky.

And there you were.

On the rooftop.

At first, he didn’t think much of it.

You were always slipping away lately, weren’t you?

But there was something about the way you stood. The stillness in your shoulders. The calm. Like someone who’d earned it.

His mind flickered to that moment in class.  

The way you spoke to the teacher—controlled, sharp, like you’d negotiated boardroom wars before.  

The confidence. The dry wit.  

Your name.

It had nagged him when he first heard it. Felt oddly familiar. But he’d brushed it off.

Coincidence, he’d told himself.

But now, watching you from below, everything clicked.

You weren’t a classmate he remembered having in high school.  

He knew this place. Knew the names. Knew who lived and who died.  

But you? You didn’t belong here.

And yet… you were here.

His chest tightened.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

He was supposed to be the only one. That was the price to pay.

But those eyes...  

Those familiar knowing eyes. The ones that used to make him hesitate even when he was the strongest hunter alive. Like you were seeing something he hadn’t caught up to yet.

He stood so abruptly that the contents of his lunchbox went everywhere.

“I—uh, bathroom,” he said quickly, already turning.

“Again?” Sungil snorted. “You good, man?”

Jinwoo didn’t answer. He was halfway to the stairwell already.

He didn’t know how fast he was going—only that his legs carried him up two flights of stairs like muscle memory had kicked in from another life. The closer he got, the more erratic his heart pounded, not from the run, but from the what if.

What if it’s really her? What if I’m not the only one anymore?

His hand hit the door before he could slow down.

Your eyes flicked to the door before he could even burst through it.

He looked out of breath. Wild-eyed. Like he’d run from something—or toward something—he couldn’t quite believe.

And you just smiled.

The same calm smile you’d given him a lifetime ago, back when everything had been louder, heavier, soaked in shadows.

“I was starting to think you’d never notice,” you said softly.

Jinwoo froze.  

His mouth opened like he was going to say something—but nothing came out. Just stunned silence. The kind where the world shifts under your feet.

There you were.  

The queen of that former world.  

The founder of the most powerful guild in Korea.  

The girl who protected him in ways he didn’t understand during the war.  

The woman who stayed when everyone else turned their backs.

Now here, in a school uniform and wind in your hair, looking at him like no time had passed at all.

He laughed—but it came out hollow, overwhelmed.

“How...?” he finally managed, voice rough.

“How are you—why do you—?”

But he couldn’t even finish the questions. Because how does anyone ask something like that?

How does he ask the past why it followed you here?

And how were you supposed to answer?

You exhaled, softly. Not as if you’d been holding your breath, but like your lungs didn’t quite know how to fill themselves properly. Like you were learning again. Like the weight in your chest was finally being seen by someone else.

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked past him, eyes settling somewhere in the distance—on the soft sprawl of the city below, or maybe a memory that lived just above the skyline.

“It’s hard to explain,” you said after a long moment. “And I’ve never... I’ve never said it out loud before.”

Jinwoo didn’t interrupt. Didn’t press.

He just waited, steady as stone, and softer than anyone else had ever been.

Your hands tightened on the railing, knuckles pale. “I don’t know about you. But to me… Time just… reset. Over and over again. I always woke up in my bedroom. Same ceiling. Same air. Same parents calling me down for breakfast like nothing had changed.”

You smiled, but it was hollow. It ghosted across your lips like something you didn’t believe in anymore.

“The first few times, I thought I was crazy. I mean, who wouldn't? One moment I’m dead, and then it’s morning again. The same morning. The same goddamn birds chirping outside my window.”

Jinwoo’s fingers curled into his palms.

You looked at him, something quiet flickering behind your eyes. “And it didn’t stop. No matter what I did. No matter how far I ran or who I saved or who I lost. Time just... snapped back. Like it was mocking me. Like I wasn’t enough.”

Your voice began to tremble at the edges, like a surface cracking.

“At first, I thought maybe I could fix it. That there was a point. That if I just made the right choices…” 

You laughed—but it broke halfway out of you. Became something else. Something brittle and wet.

“But then… it just kept getting worse. The gates opened sooner. The monsters got stronger. And then—” You shook your head.

“And then Jeju happened,” you said softly, your words barely above a whisper.

Jinwoo felt his breath catch. 

He remembered the insistence you had on him joining the force. “Just a hunch”, you had said.

“I don’t… I don’t really talk about it,” you murmured. “I haven’t. Not in any of my lives. Not once. I just—” You laughed a little, but it broke into a sharp inhale. “I thought maybe if I ignored it hard enough, it would stop existing.”

You leaned your weight forward against the railing, your shoulders trembling.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d moved past it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Jinwoo stepped forward, slowly—carefully. The rooftop wind moved around him like it knew not to interrupt.

You didn’t look at him.

“I remember the smell first. That’s always how it starts. Rot. Blood. Salt in the air. Like the sea was crying too.”

A pause.

“And then the screaming. I can’t forget the screaming. I still hear it when I sleep.”

His hands hovered near your back, unsure. Like he wanted to touch but didn’t want to break the moment.

“I wasn’t even on Jeju,” you whispered, turning slightly toward him now, eyes wide and far away. “I wasn’t one of the hunters. I was just… in a boardroom. Watching.”

Jinwoo’s throat tightened. He just stood there, arms stiff at his sides as the wind swept the rooftop.

“I saw it all. Every feed. Every scream. I watched the lines go dead. I watched people I knew blink out like they were nothing.”

Your eyes met his. Wet. Unflinching.

“And then they came for us.”

You tried to keep the tears back, but your shoulders betrayed you, trembling like a glass that had held too much for too long.

“They weren’t supposed to make it off the island. That’s what we thought. But they did. They crossed the sea like it was nothing. The cities weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready.”

Your knees gave out—but he caught you. Instinctively. Easily. 

Your body stiffened for a second—but then you sagged into him. Gave in. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he could hold you together with sheer will. Your face pressed to his chest, and your hands clutched at his sleeves like lifelines.

You clutched at the fabric of his uniform. “I didn’t even try to run. I froze. I just—stood there, staring out the window, watching people screaming in the streets. And when I saw it… when I saw it coming for me…”

Your body jolted as you broke. Sharp, silent sobs racking through your chest.

Jinwoo tightened his hold. One hand on your back. One cradling the back of your head. Steady. Anchoring.

He felt the tremble of your breath. The way you tried to be quiet, like your pain was an inconvenience. Like you were used to being alone with it.

“It was so fast,” you gasped. “But I still remember every second. I remember the glass shattering. I remember its claws. I remember thinking—this can’t be how it ends. Not again. Not like this.”

Jinwoo’s heart shattered.

And then you collapsed fully into him, and the weight of it spilled out.

Tears soaked his shirt. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

He just held you. Like the world had ended in your arms, and he was the only piece left holding you to it.

He held you tighter.

“And Kamish,” you choked. “Kamish destroyed the world once. Not just a city, not just a squad—the world. I watched from behind screens, from underground shelters, from bunkers that were supposed to be safe. And every time, we thought we were prepared. We never were.”

You looked up, eyes red, voice barely audible. “I tried, Jinwoo. In some lives, I became a hunter. I thought maybe if I just… knew enough, trained enough, I could do something. Anything. But I wasn’t strong. I didn’t make a difference. I just kept watching the world end.”

Your legs folded beneath you, but this time Jinwoo followed you down, holding you even as the rooftop's cold bit through your skin. You cried harder now, like something ancient inside you was finally breaking open.

He didn’t speak. His jaw was tight. His eyes burned.

Because this—

This wasn’t a pain he could fight.

Not with blades. Not with power.

You had been alone. You had carried it all with you.

And now, shaking in his arms, you were finally letting someone see it.

He held you tighter, tucked your shaking frame into his arms like a vow.

“I’m here,” he murmured, so quietly it almost got lost in the wind. “I’m here.”

He pulled back only slightly, enough to look at you, to study the tear-streaked lines of your face. Even now—eyes red, shoulders trembling—you looked so… innocent. So light. How could someone so weighed down still look like freedom?

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You shattered again.

Sobs that cracked something in the air.

Sobs that sounded like a locked door finally being opened from the inside.

Jinwoo kept his jaw tight, eyes burning. He’d thought he was alone. That he was the only one cursed to remember the horrors of what came before. But you—god, you had remembered everything. And you hadn’t even asked for it.

He’d never understood it before, not fully. Not even when he met you the first time. Why you looked at him the way you did. Why you spoke like someone who had nothing left to fear.

But now he knew.

And something inside him shifted.

No more.

Not ever again.

Not if he could help it.

Then—

Ding.

The shrill chime of the school bell rang through the rooftop silence, jarring against the stillness that had wrapped itself around you both like a fragile cocoon. You pulled back slowly, your hands unclenching from his sleeves, your breath still trembling against the place where your face had been buried in his chest.

“I… I need to go to the bathroom,” you said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

Jinwoo nodded, though his throat was too tight to speak. He watched as you walked away, your steps still a little unsteady, the wind tugging gently at your sleeves like it didn’t want to let you go.

And then you were gone.

He made it to class a few minutes later, the teacher already speaking, his voice a dull drone against Jinwoo’s pulse still thrumming in his ears.

You came in shortly after.

Eyes dry. No trace of red.

No puffiness, no shine. Nothing.

Your face was calm.

Your smile soft, easy—like you hadn’t just shattered in his arms minutes ago. Like you hadn’t cracked open and bled every secret from behind your ribs.

For a second, he wondered if he had imagined it. If somehow, he had projected the weight he felt onto you.

But then—he looked down.

There, on his uniform. The faint but unmistakable mark.

Tear stains, darkened into the fabric over his heart.

You had cried.

And the evidence of it was his to carry now.

He stared at the mark, and looked over his shoulder. You shot him an easy smile across the room, and something inside him twisted.

How many times had you done this before?

How many lifetimes had you broken like that, in silence?

How many tears had fallen that no one ever saw, because you wiped them away before they reached the surface?

His chest felt heavy. Drenched in a grief that wasn’t just his own.

You had been alone for so long.

Too long.

And if he wanted to restore what the world had taken from you—

That light, that freedom in your smile—

He knew he’d have to leave you alone again.

Just for a little while.

But he promised himself—

He wouldn’t take long.

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Taglist: #open

@snowy-violet @minh907 @o-qi-shisme @shineinouzen15 @awwwia @hannya-writes @tanspostsblog @lovelyevil @misakicchi @gina239 @livelaughlovekuni

[ki-kink]

I got a strange package today. It was a box with a single thing inside, a big button labeled "Surprise!". Should I press it? I am kinda curious what this is all about

Hey. You. Yeah, Mr. Fancy-Pants. What the hell were you thinkin’, pressin’ that weird-ass button, huh? I mean, seriously—thing looked like it came outta a spaceship or somethin’. But nah, you just had to poke it. And boom—next thing we know, world goes full blender mode. Everything starts spinnin’, flashin’—like the damn universe just coughed you outta your little glass tower.

Your shiny-ass office? Gone. That chair that looked like a robot made it? Toast. Now you're sittin' on a pile of bricks, sweatin’ bullets, sun burnin’ the back of your neck, and someone’s jackhammerin’ your soul into the pavement. Welcome to the real world, buddy.

And look at you. That tailored suit? History. Now you’re rockin’ some beat-up jeans, boots that smell like wet dog, and a hi-vis vest covered in god-knows-what. And your arms? Dude, those ain’t office arms. That’s rebar-tossin’, beer-can-crushin’ muscle you got now. Lookin’ like you been deadliftin’ bulldozers since birth.

And that box? Oh man, that shiny little box you brought in like it held the meaning of life? That thing’s a freakin’ lunchbox now. Rusty hinges, dented lid, smellin’ like salami. And you—you—you’re sittin’ there rippin' into sandwiches like a damn caveman on cheat day. No napkins, no talkin’—just straight grrr munch slop. Got mustard on your chin and bread in your hair, and you don’t even care.

But here’s the wild part, man… you look happy. Like deep-down, stupid-grin, don’t-give-a-damn kinda happy. Like that button didn’t ruin your life—it fixed it. Maybe you ain’t some big-shot boss anymore. But you? You look free, man.

[masorciereviolette]

Could I request one of Agatha Harkness x reader? Friends with benefits to lovers!

Agatha and Reader are friends with benefits but their connection is deeper despite that they don't say it out loud. Reader is the one who takes the initiative, Reader asks Agatha to spent the night together, because they are already sleeping together, so why not actually sleep together in the same bed. Agatha doesn't accept

After that, Reader surprises Agatha with the end of her agreement. Reader wants them to be just friends again without sex.

Agatha accepts but, in truth, she doesn't want to finish what they have even though she pretends it doesn't affect her. Agatha tries to get on with her life and even tries to sleep with other people (maybe Rio) but those encounters don't feel the same as with Reader, they don't feel good

Agatha is still in denial and increasingly in a worse mood. Then Agatha hears from mutual friends that Reader is looking for a real relationship. Agatha tries not to take it seriously until she can't take it anymore, she realizes that she fell in love with Reader and doesn't want Reader to go out or sleep with anyone else

Agatha asks her friends about Reader but they tell her that Reader is on a date. Although Agatha looks for her in all the places she can think of, she doesn’t find Reader so Agatha stays waiting at the door of Reader's house for her to return - begging her to return - because that Reader doesn’t return means that Reader will spend the night with her date

Reader returns late. Her date brings her home and tries to kiss her and Agatha loses control

Angst with happy ending (+ smut)

Sorry if it's too long. Maybe it's worth two requests 😂 so multi chapter(?). I just love your writing. Have a great day/evening 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 

Never, Just Friends.

Pairing: Au Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Small Time Jumps, Unresolved Emotions, Hurt, Angst, Pining, Comfort, Minors DNI 18+, Jealousy, Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Happy Ending.

Word count: 10.8k

A/N: Thank you!!! Dude this request was phenomenal to read and more fun to write, stg y’all are literally amazing, please keep these coming✋🏽😭. If yall can’t already tell, climactic romantic tropes are quite literally my kryptonite. Slight POV switching but not too bad.

Taglist: @harknessshi

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The sheets are still warm from the way Agatha moved against them. From the way her hands held your hips like they were the last thing tethering her to the earth—fingertips digging in just a little too long, a little too desperately, like she didn’t want to let go even as she pulled away.

Her breath had still been shallow against your skin when she collapsed beside you for a moment, her arm slung over your waist, legs tangled lazily in yours. For a heartbeat, it felt like something real. Like something that meant more than it should.

Now she’s already halfway out of bed. The absence of her weight beside you is instant. The cool air rushes in where her body used to be, and it stings. You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket over your chest like armor, trying not to show how exposed you suddenly feel.

Her silhouette is dimly lit by the lamp she didn’t bother to turn off, bent at the waist as she grabs her shirt from the floor. Her bare back is tense, every line of her spine sharp with hesitation. You’re breathless. Undone. And somehow—still not satisfied. Not in the way you need to be “Agatha,” you say softly. She doesn’t turn “I know it’s late,” you continue, voice careful, unsure. “You don’t have to leave tonight.”

She stills, her hand frozen around the bra she just picked up. The muscles in her shoulders go rigid “You could stay,” you murmur. “Actually stay.” There’s a silence that follows—thick, weighted, fragile. It takes everything in you not to reach for her. To ask her again. Beg her, even. But you don’t. You just wait “We sleep together all the time,” you say gently. “So why not sleep, too?”

That gets her. She straightens slowly, back still to you, her breath a little sharper now. Her arms move mechanically as she slides the bra straps up and over her shoulders, fumbling slightly with the clasp behind her back.

You watch her chest rise and fall. Watch her try to compose herself. Then she glances back, just for a moment, eyes flicking toward you with something you can’t name “You know that’s not what this is,” she says finally, her voice low. Measured. Controlled. Like she’s forcing herself not to say too much.

Your heart twists. “I know,” you whisper. “But I want more.”

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Because it’s already written across her face—conflict, fear, maybe guilt. But not agreement. Never that. She slips her shirt over her head and finishes dressing without another word, without another glance. Her silence cuts deeper than a no.

You nod once, slow and small. It’s enough. Not for your heart. Not for the ache that keeps crawling further up your throat. But it’s enough to stop you from asking again. And that, somehow, hurts the most.

Agatha shifts on the edge of the bed, clearly uncomfortable now. Her back is half-turned to you, and her fingers are fumbling with the clasp of her bra like she’s racing against a clock only she can hear. Her movements are sharp, too quick, like the silence between you has become unbearable.

“I—I should go,” she says abruptly, her voice a little too high, a little too rushed. “I’ve got some early calls tomorrow.”

She doesn’t look at you when she says it. You nod anyway, slow and steady, like your heart isn’t fracturing one quiet crack at a time. Like you believe her. But you know her schedule. You always do. Brunch at eleven, drinks with a friend she doesn’t even like at four.

Nothing urgent. Nothing that should pull her away from you. But you don’t say any of that. Instead, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, the edges clutched in your fists like they can hold you together. The warmth of her touch is already cooling on your skin, leaving behind a hollow echo that your body doesn’t know how to fill.

She fumbles for her shirt next, pulling it over her head backward. The tag pokes out near her throat. She curses softly under her breath, dragging it back off in a flurry of annoyance, then flips it right and tries again. You watch her—not because you want to make this harder on yourself, but because you can’t help it. Because she’s still beautiful in this state: disheveled, uncertain.

She grabs her jeans next, hopping a little on one leg as she pulls them on, her hair falling in messy waves around her face “I’ll text you soon” she says lightly, flashing a smile that’s too casual, too forced. A smirk meant to play it cool. “We’ll… set something up again. I promise.”

You return it with a smile of your own—tight, automatic, practiced. The kind of smile that’s meant to make everything easier, even when it costs you something to wear it “Sure,” you say. Your voice doesn’t shake. Not yet. You won’t let it. She leans down to grab her boots, tugging one on, then the other, in silence. She still doesn’t look at you. Not once. Not even a glance.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Not the excuse. Not even the way she’s be already halfway out the door before her body’s fully dressed. But the way she avoids your eyes like they might tell the truth too loudly. Like if she meets your gaze, she’ll crumble—or worse, you will. When the door finally closes behind her, the sound is louder than it should be. Too final. Too sharp. It echoes through the apartment like something breaking.

You don’t move for a moment. You just sit there, blanketed in fading warmth and growing silence, staring at the same spot on the wall you’ve looked at a hundred times before. It never felt empty until now.

You try to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. But your chest feels tight, too full and too hollow all at once. Your lip trembles before you can stop it. Your eyes sting. And then the tears come—not fast, not dramatic, just soft. Quiet. Unapologetic. They trail down your cheeks as if they’ve been waiting for her to leave. As if your body knew what she’d take with her when she did.

Because you weren’t asking her to love you. You weren’t even asking her to say it. You just wanted her to stay. To want you in the stillness, not just the heat. To want you when there was nothing left to take. But Agatha Harkness always leaves before morning. And this time, she didn’t even say goodbye.

It’s almost two days later before you hear from her again. The café is loud. Too loud. The kind of overstimulating clatter that would usually fade into the background like white noise—comforting in its own way. But today, it feels like every cup clink and every hiss of steam from the espresso machine is a jab to your nerves. The chatter is too bright, too alive. And your heart won’t stop pounding.

You spot her before she spots you. She’s tucked into the corner booth, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown she forgot to take off, her fingers lazily stirring a drink that’s already watered down. She looks… casual. Effortless. Comfortable in her skin in the way only Agatha Harkness ever could be. Like none of this is serious. Like she has no idea what’s coming.

Her hair is half-pinned back, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. She looks soft in the sunlight, radiant and out of reach. You almost turn around, running feels easier. Your hand even twitches toward the door—but then she looks up and sees you.

Her face shifts. Not dramatically. Not in the way people do in movies. Just a small smile curling at the corners of her lips. A spark of familiarity in her eyes. The kind of expression she never gives anyone else. The kind you used to live for. It hits you right in the chest.

She stands when you reach the table, slow and graceful, like always. She leans in without thinking, arms coming around you in that easy, instinctive way that speaks to how often you’ve done this before. You let her. Let yourself be held for just a second, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin—cedar and something warm, something uniquely her.

You pull away, carefully, and sit down across from her. She mirrors you, sliding back into her seat, fingers brushing over the rim of her glass. “Sorry for bailing the other night,” she says casually. “I really did have an early morning.”

You meet her eyes. You nod “Don’t worry about it.” The lie comes out smooth. Polished. You’ve had forty eight hours to practice it.

She relaxes slightly, as if that’s all she needed—permission to believe her own excuse. Her shoulders drop, and she toys with her straw, glancing at you with a flicker of something hopeful “I was thinking,” she starts, her voice lighter now, like she’s testing the waters, “maybe this weekend—”

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” Your voice cuts in gently. Not sharp. Not cold. Just… final. Even. Honest. You watch as her expression freezes, the words hanging between you like broken glass. Her fingers still against her glass. Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out.

You can see it happen in real time—the shift in her posture, the flicker of confusion that gives way to something darker. But she doesn’t say anything. Not yet. And you don’t move. Because this is the moment there’s no going back from it “What?”

Her voice is quiet but sharp, like she heard you the first time and still needed to ask again, just to be sure she didn’t imagine it.

You glance around the café, suddenly all too aware of how public this is. Of the couple laughing two tables over, the barista shouting out names, the clatter of cups and silverware. But in your world, in this tiny bubble between you and Agatha, everything else blurs.

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you, fingers trembling slightly before you curl them into a loose fist in your lap. “The sex. The… ‘benefits.’ I think we should just be friends. Real friends.”

She blinks at you—once, then again—her mouth parted like she’s struggling to catch up. Her brows rise, almost incredulously, like she’s expecting a laugh to follow. A grin. Some sign this is all a joke “You’re being serious?”

You nod, your stomach twisting with the movement. It feels like a betrayal—to her, to yourself—but you do it anyway. Because it’s the only thing left to do. Her smile falters. That easy, cocky grin that so often saves her from sincerity slips from her face. “Is this about the other night?”

“No,” you lied smoothly, though it tasted like ash on your tongue. “It’s about all the nights.” You take a breath, then another “I just… I need something else. Something dependable, real—” The silence that follows is thick, heavy. Like a storm on the edge of breaking.

Agatha leans back slowly, folding her arms across her chest—not casually, not comfortably, but like she’s building a wall between you. Her jaw tightens, her eyes flicker down and away “So you’re saying you don’t want me anymore?” The question lands between you like a knife. Your chest clenches.

“I’m saying,” you construed your next answer carefully, voice softer now, “that I want more than you’re offering. And if you can’t give me that… I’d rather just be your friend than keep pretending this isn’t hurting me. I don’t want to hate you, but if we stay this way I fear I might—”

Her mouth opens like she has a retort ready, like she wants to fire something sharp back at you. But nothing comes out. She looks down at her drink, her fingers tracing the condensation on the glass like it might hold the answer she needs.

You wonder if she feels the same pressure in her chest. That suffocating ache that tells you you’re doing the right thing while it tears you apart “Okay,” she says finally, and the word is so small it barely makes it across the table. “If that’s what you want.”

You nod again, slower this time. Every motion feels like walking uphill through water. You manage a smile—tight around the edges, brittle behind the eyes—but you give it to her anyway. Agatha’s expression goes still. Neutral. Like a mask sliding into place. “So….. friends.”

“Friends,” you echo, and it feels like the word tastes different in your mouth than it does in hers. She nods again, but it’s almost mechanical now. Like she’s trying to practice it. To rehearse for a role she never wanted.

She finishes her drink in silence, the ice clinking softly against the glass. Neither of you says anything else. When she finally stands, she doesn’t touch you. Not a brush of her hand. Not a teasing nudge of her knee against yours. Nothing. She walks away without looking back. And you let her.

You sit there long after she’s gone, staring at the seat she left behind, the ghost of her presence still imprinted in the cushion, in your lungs, in every aching inch of you. You tell yourself it was the right decision. Even though it feels like you just cut out a part of yourself and watched it walk out the door.

Weeks pass. Not a single text from you. Not a half-thought “hope you’re good,” not a late-night question mark, not even a like on her Instagram story. It’s complete silence. And Agatha… Agatha pretends that’s fine.

Because that’s what she does. She pretends. She wakes up with her cheek pressed against the cool side of the pillow, throws on her robe like it’s armor, makes her coffee too strong, and moves through her morning routine like muscle memory. Her makeup is flawless.

Her smirks are still sharp. Her laugh still comes easy—too easy. But underneath all of it, there’s something burning. Low and constant. A slow ache that tightens in her chest when her phone lights up and it’s not your name.

She tells herself it’s for the best. You wanted this. You asked for it. You said friends, and she agreed. She told herself she didn’t need more than that. But the silence? That wasn’t part of the deal.

So she starts going out again. Dull, meaningless dates arranged by friends or stumbled into at events. Glasses of wine with strangers who ask too many questions or not enough. She leans into it, into the distraction, the performance.

One woman takes her to an overpriced French bistro and spends the entire night talking about her vacation home in Italy. She smiles, nods, stabs at her food like it personally offended her. When she leans in to kiss her, she lets her. It’s short, dry, disconnected. Like she’s checking a box off a list.

She never texts the woman back. The next is a woman named Cora, who wears red lipstick and leans too far forward when she talks. Her stories are wild. Her laugh is real. But the moment she brushes her hand across Agatha’s wrist, something twists inside her. It’s not the same. None of them are. Then comes the infamous Rio Vidal.

They bump into each other at an art opening downtown, one of the first times they’ve seen each other since the break up. Its one of those sleek, modern installations full of tortured sculptures and overpriced wine. The room buzzes with chatter, the kind that clings to Agatha’s skin and feels more exhausting than thrilling.

And then she hears that voice “Well, well,” Rio says from behind her. “I didn’t know they let witches into this place.”

Agatha turns, already smirking. “Only the hot ones I fear…..” Rio looks good, almost sinisterly so. Tailored black blazer over a dark satin top, heels that click with every step like punctuation. She moves like she owns the space. Like she always knows exactly what she’s doing.

They talk. They flirt. It’s easy. Agatha laughs more than she means to. Lets Rio pour her another drink. Lets the brush of fingers along her arm linger too long. By the time they end up back at Rio’s apartment, it feels like inevitability. When Rio kisses her—mouth confident, hands roaming, breath hot against her jaw—Agatha doesn’t feel a thing. No thrill. No heat. No ache. Not like she felt with you.

Not like she still feels with you. She breaks the kiss first, gently stepping back, her palm on Rio’s chest to create space she desperately needs “I should go,” she says, breathless but not because of desire. “Early morning.”

Rio cocks an eyebrow, smirking as she leans against the back of her sleek leather couch. “You’re a terrible liar. You’re hung up on someone—I can almost taste it. ”

Agatha doesn’t argue. She just grabs her coat from where it’s draped over a nearby chair, fingers shaking slightly as she slips it on. “Goodnight, Rio.” And then she’s out the door. The next morning, she tries everything to get the feeling out of her system. Coffee. Tea. A strong pour of whiskey before noon. A long shower so hot it scalds her skin. Loud music. Work. A run around the park until her lungs burn and her legs feel like jelly. But nothing works. Because no matter what she tries, the touch left lingering isn’t Rio’s. It’s yours. And it won’t go away.

It gets worse when she hears it from a friend. A mutual friend, no less. The kind who always overshares without realizing it—who means well but doesn’t know when to stop talking. They’re seated outside at a sunny sidewalk café, umbrellas flaring overhead, silverware clinking, the clatter of weekend traffic just far enough away to dull into a hum. Agatha’s wearing her sunglasses, oversized and tinted, but even that doesn’t hide the exhaustion behind her eyes.

She’s halfway through her second cappuccino when she unknowingly spills it, just like that—casual, careless, and cruel in its innocence “She’s dating now, you know?” A sip of mimosa. A swipe of lipstick from the rim of her glass. “Finally looking for something serious.”

Agatha freezes mid-sip. The coffee burns against her tongue, but she doesn’t react. Not visibly. Not yet. “She deserves that,” the friend continues, totally oblivious to the way Agatha’s posture shifts, her spine just a little straighter, her grip on the mug just a little tighter. “Someone to settle down with.”

The words punch harder than they should. Agatha forces a smile. It feels like pulling a rubber band to its breaking point. “Yeah,” she says smoothly, her voice even, her tone betraying nothing. “She does.”

She takes another drink, her eyes hidden behind the tinted lenses, her lips pressed tight. The conversation moves on. Brunch is finished. She parts ways with the friend, gives the usual air-kiss goodbye, waves like she’s unbothered. She even makes it to the next block before she lets herself breathe again.

But her mood?

Ruined.

For the rest of the day, she’s quiet, distracted. The next day, the restlessness sets in. The one after that, she doesn’t even pretend to try. She stops answering Rio’s texts, the ones that ping with a brightness she suddenly finds annoying. She leaves them unread, doesn’t even bother coming up with an excuse.

She cancels a dinner date she wasn’t excited about. Deletes an unopened dating app. Lets her phone sit face-down on her desk for hours at a time. Her house feels colder somehow, even with the thermostat cranked up and every candle she owns flickering like little distractions. The music she plays is too loud and too curated—an attempt to fill the space, to drown out the silence she swore she liked.

It doesn’t work.

Because every time she turns a corner, she thinks of you. Every time her phone lights up, her heart stutters like maybe, maybe, you finally reached out. You haven’t. And when she’s alone, when the noise dies down, when it’s just her and the ache she refuses to name—she does the one thing she swore she wouldn’t.

She opens your profile. Scrolls. Lingers. Refreshes. Just to see if you’re smiling. Just to see if you’re with someone new. Just to see if you look happy without her. But what finally breaks her is a Thursday night, cold and sharp, the city lights smeared by mist on her windshield as she drives in circles with nowhere in mind. The evening feels too quiet, too still, until she picks up her phone and, without thinking, sends a text to one of your mutual friends. Something harmless. Something casual.

“Hey. You heard from y/n tonight?” The reply comes fast. Thoughtless as always. “Oh, she’s out on another date with that finance type woman I think. Sweet. Polite. Took her to that Italian place on Fifth.”

Agatha stares at the message, fingers frozen around her phone. Her heart skips once. Then again. The air feels too thin. Her throat too tight. She reads the message over and over, like it might change if she just blinks enough times. You’re out. With someone else. Again. And this time, you’re at that place— specifically the little Italian spot with the wine you liked, the one you used to walk past together, always saying we should go there sometime, make an evening of it. The same one she never grew the courage to take you to….

Her pulse kicks up. Her skin feels too hot under her coat. She doesn’t even remember turning the car around, but suddenly she’s there—parked across the street from the restaurant, craning her neck to peer through the fogged windows. You’re not there.

She steps out anyway. Paces once. Twice. The air stings her cheeks. Still, no sign of you. So she tries the bookstore. The cozy one tucked on the corner with crooked shelves and handwritten staff picks. You always linger there, fingers trailing spines like secrets. It’s quiet now. Closing.

You’re not there either. She moves quickly now, her panic disguised as urgency. The wine bar. The café with the rooftop you always loved. The bench near the fountain where you often like to sit and talk about nothing for hours.

Empty. All of it. It’s only then that she finally lets herself go to your house. She sits on the front steps , breath visible in the cool night air, her coat drawn tight around her like a poor excuse for comfort. Her hair’s a mess from the wind—loose strands clinging to her lips, the pins long fallen out. Her mascara’s smudged at the corners of her eyes, not from crying—not yet—but from rubbing at her face in frustration. In disbelief.

Her hands are shaking. She clasps them together, digging her nails into her palms just to feel something solid. Something real. Because if you don’t come home alone tonight, If you don’t come home at all…Agatha knows she won’t be able to take it. She can lie to herself about a lot of things. She’s had a lifetime of practice. But not this. Not the thought of someone else holding you the way she used to.

Not the image of your laugh softened under someone else’s hands. Not the finality of knowing she pushed you too far, too fast, and now there’s no going back. Because if you don’t return…Then she’s lost you. Completely. And this time—it’s no one’s fault but her own.

11:42 p.m.

Agatha is still sitting on your front steps. The stone beneath her is biting cold, seeping through her coat and jeans, but she doesn’t move. Her legs have gone numb, her fingers trembling where they clutch the wrought iron railing beside her. She shifts slightly, trying to relieve the ache in her back, but it’s no use—the stiffness has settled in, just like the dread blooming in her chest.

Every sound on the street makes her flinch. The hum of a car engine blocks away. A group of teenagers laughing as they pass, their sneakers scuffing the sidewalk. Someone’s dog barking behind a fence across the street. And none of it is you.

She pulls her coat tighter, tucking her knees closer to her chest. Her hair is a wind-blown mess, strands clinging to her damp cheeks. The air is damp with the kind of cold that clings to skin and makes everything feel heavier. She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there—an hour? Two? Time warped the second she realized you weren’t at the restaurant. Or anywhere she hoped you’d be for that matter.

Now she’s waiting—without a plan, without dignity, without a single excuse for being here except the ache in her ribs and the words she never said when it still would’ve mattered. She’s been rehearsing the whole time—what she’ll say, how she’ll say it. She runs over every version in her head. An apology. A confession. A plea.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

Please don’t choose her. But none of it feels like enough. None of it sounds right. And then, finally—headlights. They wash across the street slowly, the engine quiet as the car creeps toward your driveway. Her breath hitches when the vehicle pulls to a stop, tires crunching softly over gravel.

A familiar silhouette sits in the passenger seat. You. Agatha stands too quickly, her knees protesting the movement. She runs her palms down the front of her coat, trying to smooth out the wrinkles, trying to look composed—but her hands are shaking too hard.

You don’t see her at first. You’re laughing. That laugh she used to think belonged only to her. The one that melted every wall she ever put up. You toss your head back slightly, your eyes crinkling at something your date says. Agatha watches from the shadows, stomach lurching.

Your date—gets out first. She’s tall. Polished. Confident. She opens your door and walks you to the porch with a sense of ease that makes Agatha’s teeth clench. And then she leans in. Agatha sees red. Not rage. Not exactly. Just heat. Panic. Something visceral and splitting in her chest. Something old and terrifying and unspoken. But then you tilt your head, gently—deliberately avoiding the kiss “Thank you for tonight,” you say, soft and kind. “I had a nice time.”

And then your eyes lift.

They land on her standing just behind your date in the dark, her figure barely lit by the porch light. Her face pale. Her shoulders hunched like she’s been holding the weight of the world and only now realized how heavy it truly is.

Your body stiffens. “Agatha?” Her name comes out quiet. Surprised. Disbelieving. You take a half-step back, instinctive, your date completely forgotten. The warmth from the conversation dies instantly.

Agatha exhales a shaky breath, one that almost sounds like a laugh—but there’s nothing funny about the way she looks at you. Like you’re the only thing tethering her to the ground. Your date glances between the two of you, her brow creased. “Everything okay?”

Agatha doesn’t even blink in her direction. Her eyes are on you. Only you. You manage a quick, quiet: “I’ll call you,” but even you know it’s not true. Not really. The other woman hesitates, then nods. She gives Agatha one last look—part wary, part understanding—and walks back to her car.

Then it’s just the two of you. Silence crashes in, thick and breathless. Agatha’s lips part. Her hands twitch at her sides. She looks like she wants to speak, to explain herself, to crawl inside your skin just to be closer—but nothing comes out.

You step forward making your way up the porch, unlocking your front door. You don’t look at her when you say it, but your voice slices through the air “Are you coming in,” you murmur, “or just planning to haunt my steps all night?”

You step inside. And without a word, she follows. You shrug out of your coat with trembling hands, hanging it on the hook by the door out of habit, even as your heart thuds wildly against your ribs. Your shoes come off next, the scrape of the soles against the floor impossibly loud in the heavy silence between you. The space feels too small now. Too intimate. Like your home is holding its breath along with you.

Agatha doesn’t move. She stands just inside the doorway, soaked in moonlight and hesitation. Her coat hangs awkwardly off one shoulder, hair slightly wind-tossed, eyes wide and unguarded in a way you’ve almost never seen. She looks like a storm that finally broke open “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date,” she says finally, her voice low and hoarse.

You glance at her, tired and unimpressed. “Yes, you did.” Her lips twitch in a ghost of a smile, the guilt clear in the tilt of her brows, the faint flush rising in her cheeks. Caught.

You cross your arms, trying to keep your voice steady. “What do you want, Agatha?” She hesitates. Opens her mouth. Shuts it. You see the war behind her eyes—the part of her that wants to run and the part that dragged her to your front steps to begin with. Finally, she draws in a shaky breath.

“I want you.” You blink. Your throat tightens.

“For the night?” you ask, your voice sharper than intended. It’s a defense. A scar.

“No,” she blurts, voice breaking with urgency. “Not like that. Not anymore.” She looks at you like she’s standing on a ledge with no safety net beneath her.

“I know I ruined it,” she says, stepping forward, her voice trembling. “I know you offered me something real, and I—God—I was too scared to take it. I thought I didn’t need it. That I could keep you close without letting you in. But I was wrong.”

She stops in front of you now, barely a foot away. The tension between you is thick, alive “You’re all I think about,” she whispers. “I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe without wondering if someone else is holding you the way I used to. I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone else to touch you. I—” Her voice breaks off completely.

Then, softer than anything she’s said tonight “I love you. I’m in love with you.” The words are raw. Terrified. Honest in a way that steals the air from the room. You don’t answer. Not right away. You just stare at her, the sting of every lonely night and unanswered ache sitting in your chest like a bruise. She watches you too, eyes rimmed with the threat of tears, but she doesn’t dare move “you don’t have to say it back,” she adds quickly, voice cracking. “I just… I needed you to know. Before I lost you completely.”

You take a breath. One shaky, reluctant breath. And then, you take a step toward her “You already did lose me, Agatha.” She flinches like you slapped her “But…” you say, eyes on hers, “I didn’t stop loving you.” Her breath catches, lips parting. “I just got tired of begging for scraps…” you add, voice barely above a whisper.

Agatha nods, a tear finally breaking loose and slipping down her cheek. “You won’t have to again. I swear it. I swear it.” And when you reach for her—fingers sliding along her coat, gripping the lapels, dragging her toward you like you can’t stand the distance anymore—she falls into your arms like gravity itself gave up trying to hold her back.

She doesn’t kiss you gently. She kisses you like she’s been drowning for weeks and just found oxygen. Like she’s starving and you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted. It’s desperate. Fierce. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you in closer like she’s terrified you’ll vanish again if she lets go for even a second.

There’s no teasing, no hesitation, no games. Just heat. Possession. Truth. She kisses you like she’s furious at herself for ever letting you go. And you kiss her back like you’re done pretending it didn’t kill you to watch her leave. When you finally pull apart, breathless, her hands are still gripping your face like she’s anchoring herself to it.

“Mine,” she breathes, the word not a question, not a plea—just a fact. A vow. And you nod. Because of course you are. You always were. Your back hits the nearest wall with a soft thud, her mouth meeting yours once more. Agatha’s hands are everywhere—your jaw, your waist, the curve of your spine, like she can’t decide where to anchor herself first. She kisses you with a desperation that’s part apology, part hunger, and part something she’s never let herself say out loud until now.

You kiss her like you’re trying to burn every moment of pain out of your skin. Like you’re reclaiming the pieces of yourself that were left behind in every night she walked away. It’s not soft. Not at first. It’s fire. Her coat slips from her shoulders as your fingers work blindly at the tie.

Yours is next, discarded somewhere by your feet. Agatha’s lips move to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—like she’s trying to memorize every inch of you with her mouth “I missed you,” she breathes between kisses, her voice wrecked. “God, I missed you.”

You tangle your fingers in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp. “You don’t get to miss me,” you say, though the words lack real venom. They come out wounded. “You left.”

She pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye. Her chest rises and falls in uneven bursts. Her hands come to cup your face, her thumbs brushing over your cheekbones like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she blinks “I know,” she whispers. “And it kills me.”

Tears mix with the heat on both your cheeks, your mouths crashing together again before either of you can say something softer—something that might shatter what’s already so fragile. The dam breaks. You stumble together down the hall, still kissing, hands shedding clothing like it’s holding you back from something inevitable. Shirts pulled off, discarded without care. Skin meets skin, and everything feels sharper—like a reminder, like a promise.

She lifts you—literally lifts you—and you let her, legs wrapping around her waist like second nature. Her mouth trails down your neck, nipping, worshiping, claiming. You gasp her name like a prayer, and she groans against your skin like she’s been waiting weeks to hear it again.

By the time she lays you down on your bed, both of you are flushed, breathless, wide-eyed and aching. But this isn’t the same as before. Because when she looks at you now—bare beneath her, hair splayed across your pillow, eyes full of everything you never said—her expression shifts. Softens. And something raw glows behind her gaze.

Love. Not lust. Not curiosity. Not convenience. Love. She leans down and kisses you slow this time. Reverent. Like she’s sorry it took this long. Like she’s not sure she deserves to be here—but she’s going to spend the rest of her life proving that she does “I’m yours,” she murmurs against your lips. “If you’ll still have me.”

You run your fingers down her back, anchoring her there. Right where she belongs “Stay,” you whisper. “Just… stay.”

Agatha pauses, her breath catching in her throat at your whispered plea. She looks into your eyes, searching for any hint of uncertainty or doubt. But all she finds is a steady, sure gaze that mirrors her own longing. With a soft, shuddering breath, she nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

She settles her weight more fully onto you, fitting the curves of her body against yours like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. Her hands roam over your skin, mapping the dips and swells of your form, committing every inch of you to memory. Agatha leans in, resting her forehead against yours, nose to nose, breath intermingling with each exhale. "I'm not going anywhere," she murmurs, "Not now, not ever again if I can help it."

Her fingers trace the delicate line of your jaw, the angle of your cheekbone, the flutter of your lashes as you blink up at her. "You're mine," she whispers, "And I am irrevocably, completely, yours." She seals her promise with another kiss, softer this time - a brush of lips against yours, a breath shared, a silent vow. Her heart beats against your own, a steady, slowly building rhythm that syncs with your own as if they've always been one.

You pressed yourself harder into the kiss, arms tightening around her neck, nipping her bottom lip roughly, you pulled away soothing the skin with your tongue “Then prove it-“ you whispered into her mouth, one of you legs dropping from around her waist and slipping deftly between her own, grinding up against her waiting core. Agatha groans into the fierce kiss, your arms pulling her impossibly closer, your teasing nips sending sparks of pleasure-pain straight to her core. When you whisper the challenge against her mouth, she feels a surge of determination, a hunger to prove to you the depth of her devotion.

As your leg slips between her own, pressing against her aching sex, Agatha rocked her hips forward, grinding down to spread her folds against your thigh, her clit grazing your skin on each pass, she moans softly into your mouth. You can feel the slick heat of her arousal coating your skin, the evidence of her own desire stoking the flames of your own.

"Fuck, baby..." Agatha pants against your lips, her hands slipping down to grip your ass, holding you in place as she grinds against you with increasing urgency. "I'll prove it. I'll prove it in every way imaginable..." She claims your mouth in another searing kiss, her tongue delving deep, swirling around yours, tasting every inch of you. At the same time, one of her hands slips between your bodies, fingers cupping your dripping sex, stroking and teasing your sensitive flesh.

Agatha breaks the kiss to trail her lips down your neck, sucking and nipping at the delicate skin as her fingers continue their teasing assault. Spreading your slick folds apart, stroking her fingers languidly against your sensitive flesh "I'll prove it every day," she murmurs against you, her breath hot and heavy on your throat. "Every fucking day, until you never doubt it again...never doubt me again"

Two fingers slipped lower, sinking deep into your tight heat, pumping slowly, steadily. Agatha sets a sensual rhythm, her touch intent on building you back up to that peak "Tell me what you need, sweetheart," she urges, fingers never pausing their sensual dance.

Her thumb circles your clit, rubbing firm and fast, the dual sensations of her fingers delving deep and stroking your most sensitive place pushing you towards your climax. Agatha can feel your walls starting to flutter, your body tensing as your pleasure builds. Your head lolled to the side fully exposing your neck to her assault “Fuck—mommy please—“ you whimpered hips rolling pathetically against her hand chasing her restless pleasure “need you so bad…”

Agatha growls against the column of your throat when as expose more of your delicate skin to her hungry mouth, your breathless plea spurring on the raging lust that's been building inside her "Fuck—" she rasps, sinking her teeth into the tender flesh where your neck meets your shoulder, marking you momentarily as her own.

Emboldened by your begging, Agatha pistons her fingers faster, driving into you harder, the obscene sound of your juices squelching filling the room. She grinds the heel of her palm against your clit with each thrust, a delicious pressure that borders on pain but brings only pleasure "You need mommy to ruin this perfect pussy don’t you sweetheart?" Agatha purrs, voice dripping with filthy promise. “Need me to stuff you so full that the only thing this slutty thing remembers is the feeling of my fingers?"

Her fingers curl against your inner walls, stroking that secret spot inside you that makes your vision go spotty and your toes curl. She rubs it firmly, relentlessly, while her thumb strums your clit with expert precision "Come all over mommy like a good girl…please baby"

Agatha rears back just enough to meet your gaze head-on, her eyes blazing with a fever that threatens to consume you both. She looks like a woman possessed, a woman on a mission to utterly wreck you, to ruin you for all others "Now baby," Agatha commands, punctuating her words with a harsh twist of her fingers, a vicious grind of her thumb. "Come now."

You hands shoot up around her back as you nails raked her delicate skin, leaving a trail of red marks in their wake “Fuck—Mommy I—“ you could form much more of a sentence, breath seizing in your chest. Agatha whimpers as your nails scraped down her back, the sharp sting only fueling her. She grins fiercely when your breath hitches and catches, your body going rigid beneath her touch as your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave.

"That's it, sweetheart. Fuck yes, give it to me—" Agatha growls, fucking you through your orgasm with wild abandon, every thrust pushing you higher, every jolt of her hips driving you closer to oblivion.

Your cunt clamps down viciously around her invading fingers, the rhythmic squeezing and fluttering sending bolts of pleasure shooting up Agatha's arm. She can feel every clench, every spasm, your climax playing out exquisitely across her fingers, painting them with your slick release.

"That my girl" Agatha hums out, pressure building at the base of her spine from the exquisite sensation of feeling you come undone. "Fuck, just like that sweetheart—absolutely fucking perfect” With a final thrust, Agatha buries her fingers deep inside your spasming cunt, grinding against your bundle of nerves, your eyes rolled back in your head as your orgasm crests, pushing you to the very brink of euphoria.

"Good girl..." Agatha praises breathlessly as your spasms slowly start to ease, your walls fluttering and clenching around her fingers as your climax recedes. She leans down to brush a tender kiss against your sweat-slicked brow, a stark contrast to the ferocious passion of just moments before. "Such a perfect, beautiful girl..."

With ragged breath you skimmed you hand up her side rest on her jaw, grip slightly tight. Turning her gaze to your own you leaned up brushing your nose against her own “I think it’s only fair you clean up the mess you made…” you whisper leg slowly drawing from between her own opening your up to her once more.

Agatha settled back between your spread thighs, the loss of your touch against her aching sex making her groan. But tonight wasn’t about her, she knew that. It was about convincing you. Agatha shivers at your commanding touch, your grip tightening almost possessively on her jaw. She turns her gaze to meet yours, Her eyes locking with your own, the air between you charged with lingering lust and something deeper, more profound.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face at your whispered words, the corner of her mouth kicking up in a grin that holds a promise of sin and satisfaction. "You may be right my love—" Agatha purrs, her voice a low, husky rasp in the aftermath of your shared passion. She leans in, brushing her nose against yours in a gesture of intimate familiarity, her breath mingling with your own as she speaks. "And I intend to clean up every last trace..."

With a final, gentle caress of your inner walls, Agatha slowly withdraws her fingers, dragging them out in a way that makes you whimper and squirm. She brings them up between your bodies, coated in your slick, glistening with your climax. She makes a show of suckling your essence from her fingers, her tongue laving each digit clean until not a single trace of your release remains. "Delicious," she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed in bliss. "The sweetest fuckin' nectar..."

She leans down to capture your lips in a deep, filthy kiss, your mixed flavors mingling on your tongue as she presses you back against the mattress. One of her hands tangles in your hair, gripping gently as she ravages your mouth with a renewed sense of hunger. Nipping you bottom lip she begins a trail across your jaw, down your neck and chest stop just at you stomach, stopping to suck a deep claiming mark.

Your fingers tangled in her hair and your hips starting to rock forward softly, her mouth always was a weakness of yours, your nails dug into her scalp in an exquisite blend of pleasure and slight pain. A low, approving growl rumbles from her throat at your touch, telling a story of desperate, aching need.

Your hips start to undulate, rocking slowly against her as her mouth blazes a searing path down your over-sensitized skin. Agatha can feel the heat radiating from your core, the residual warmth of your climax against her belly as you grind yourself against her "How do you want me to clean you up, sweetheart?" Agatha murmurs against your skin teasingly, her breath hot and heavy, her words disjointed and ragged with lingering lust. "Tell me, baby. Tell me just how much you need mommy’s mouth—"

She nips and sucks at the soft skin just below your belly button, pausing to circle the small indentation with the tip of her tongue. Her hands skim up your ribcage, cupping the soft swell of your breasts, palming the tender flesh and rolling your nipples between her fingers until they stiffen into tight, aching peaks.

"Do you want mommy's tongue buried deep in this greedy little cunt?" Agatha purrs, one hand drifting down to stroke through your soaked folds, teasingly spreading them, brushing against your clit as she spoke. She licks a slow broad stripe up your slit, her tongue delving deep to gather your slick on every pass. "Or maybe you want me here…." Agatha continued on, now circling your puckered rear hole with the tip of her finger, pressing teasingly at the entrance. "Stuff it full of mommy's fingers and tongue until this gorgeous body remembers nothing but the feeling of me..."

“Oh fuck—“ you whimpered softly hips snapping forward. Even in the few short weeks apart you’ve truly forgotten just how bad you missed this—missed her. Agatha feels your grip tighten almost painfully in her hair, your fingers pulling the strands nearly to the point of tears springing to your eyes. The sharp sting only serves to ignite the hunger burning inside her, the need to utterly consume you, to claim you in every way possible.

With a low, feral growl, Agatha surges forward, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as she throws your legs over her shoulders. She buried her face between your thighs, inhaling deeply the musky, heady scent of your arousal "Fuck, I love how fuckin' wet you always are for me," Agatha rasps, her voice muffled against your sex.

She doesn't waste any more time, her tongue delving deep into your folds to lap up the slick evidence of your pleasure. Agatha groans at the taste of you, hot and sweet and utterly intoxicating on her tongue. She can't get enough, can't seem to stop until she's tased every inch.

Her tongue swirls around your clit, flicking and sucking at the sensitive bud until your hips buck and writhe beneath her touch. At the same time, Agatha plunges two fingers knuckle-deep into your dripping channel, pumping slowly, steadily, curling against that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Come on, baby," Agatha coaxes, voice heavy with lust as she fucks you with single-minded determination. She seals her lips around your clit and sucks hard, flicking the tip of her tongue against it rapidly as she drives her fingers deeper, fucking you harder, pushing you towards your peak with every thrust. The obscene sound of your juices fills the room, the slick squelch of her fingers pumping into your soaked hole spurring on your impending climax.

Agatha can feel your body tensing, your breath coming in sharp, keening cries as your pleasure builds to a fevered pitch. She doubles her efforts, fucking you with wild abandon, the obscene slap of flesh against flesh echoing through the room as she chases your release with single-minded focus.

Suddenly, your grip on her hair tightens once more as your back arches clean off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your throat. Agatha feels your pussy clamp down viciously around her fingers, the rhythmic squeezing and fluttering a telltale sign of your impending climax.

"Yes baby, fuck yes!" Agatha growls against your sex, the vibrations sending shockwaves of ecstasy straight up your spine. "Come on my fucking face sweetheart " She pistons her fingers in tandem with the movements of her tongue, each curl and thrust pushing you closer to the edge. Just as your scream turns into a hoarse, piercing wail, Agatha feels your pussy spasm around her invading digits, milking them, greedily trying to suck them in deeper.

"FUCK! Oh god—!" you cry out, body writhing as your orgasm crashes over you in fierce, unrelenting waves. Your release gushes from your cunt in thick, creamy spurts, flooding Agatha's mouth and chin as she works tirelessly to prolong your pleasure. Agatha swallows every drop, greedy for your essence, starved for the taste of your completion. She laps and suckles until your thighs start to tremble, until your grip on her hair turns to gentle petting as the aftershocks start to ebb.

Finally, as the last waves of your release roll through you, leaving you boneless and spent beneath her, Agatha slowly lifts her head. She keeps your thighs hitched high over her shoulders, her fingers still buried deep inside your fluttering sheath as she gazes up at you with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.

"Just as addictive as I remembered," she murmurs, voice low and sated. She leans in to brush a tender kiss against your inner thigh before slowly, reluctantly, withdrawing her fingers from your still-twitching hole. Bringing them up to her mouth, Agatha makes a show of licking them clean, savoring the flavor of your climax on her tongue.

Satisfied that every last drop has been licked away, Agatha shifts back softly placing your legs down before crawling up to lie beside you, draping one arm across your waist and pulling your limp, pliant body flush against her own. She buries her face in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of your neck, breathing in the scent of sex and satisfaction.

“There’s no place I’d rather be than right here, sweetheart,” Agatha murmurs, her voice low and intimate, the kind of tone that vibrates against your skin more than it touches your ears. Her hand glides slowly, reverently, down your side—her fingers tracing the gentle slope of your waist, the soft give of your hip. The caress is tender, almost worshipful, her palm wide and warm as it soothes the small tremors still lingering in your muscles.

You can’t speak yet. Your body’s still humming, the aftershocks of your intense climax still pulsing through your limbs like echoes. But it’s different now. No longer electric, just… warm. Lingering. Gentle. Like your body finally knows it’s safe to let go.

Agatha feels the shift. She senses the way you begin to melt against her, the way your breathing evens out as your cheek presses to her chest. Her arms wrap tighter around you, holding you close like something she can’t believe she gets to keep. And she cradles you like that—protective, unyielding, reverent. As if you’re something sacred.

As if she’ll never let you go again. You nuzzle instinctively into the crook of her neck, your nose brushing the soft line beneath her jaw, chasing her warmth. You breathe her in—her scent, her skin, her presence—like it’s air and you’d been starving for it.

Agatha tilts her head to press a kiss to the top of your hair—soft, lingering, full of something unspoken and endless. Her fingers resume their slow path down your spine, tracing every curve and hollow with care, memorizing the feel of you beneath her touch.

“I’ve got you, baby—” she whispers, her breath a soothing rush over your ear. “You’re safe with me…” The words settle into your bones like a lullaby. Her voice is warm and steady, a low, calming rumble that sinks into the quiet spaces inside you and fills them with something like peace.

She shifts then, gently guiding you as she rolls onto her back, taking you with her. Your body drapes over hers effortlessly, like you were always meant to fit there. One of her arms wraps securely around your waist, fingers spreading over the small of your back, grounding you. The other rises to cup your cheek, thumb stroking softly along the edge of your jaw before brushing against your bottom lip.

You feel her eyes on you, and when you look up, what you see nearly steals your breath. Agatha is gazing at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. Her eyes are darker, molten with warmth, glowing with a depth of tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best possible way.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “So perfect. So beautiful. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you…” She leans in slowly, giving you time to meet her halfway—and when your lips touch again, it’s nothing like before. This kiss isn’t rushed. It’s not urgent, or desperate, or wild. It’s slow. Deep. Full.

Agatha kisses you like she’s laying down roots. Like she’s planting something in you that will never stop growing. She pours everything into that kiss—every apology she never voiced, every night she spent aching for you, every ounce of devotion she only now feels brave enough to show. It seeps into you with every press of her lips, every sigh, every quiet, sacred pass of her thumb along your skin.

When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests gently against yours, nose brushing yours, breaths intermingling in the soft dark. “I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs, the promise stitched into every syllable. “And I need you to know I mean that—”She pauses, her thumb sweeping across your cheek. “Not now. Not ever again.” Her fingers trail across your face, gentle as starlight, tracing the curve of your cheekbone, the line of your jaw, the flutter of your lashes as you blink up at her. Her gaze never leaves yours.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, voice breaking just slightly. “And I am irrevocably, completely, yours.” She seals the vow with another kiss. This one is soft—barely a brush. A breath shared. A silent promise. Her hand settles at the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, holding you close.

Your heartbeat syncs with hers as your body fully relaxes against her, chests rising and falling in tandem, the rhythm natural, familiar. Home. Agatha kisses your forehead, then your temple, then your lips one last time before pulling the blanket up around your shoulders. She keeps you pressed to her, arm tight around you, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart.

“I love you,” she says again, so quietly it’s almost a prayer. Wonder drips from her voice, like she still can’t believe she’s allowed to say it. “I love you so damn much.” You respond only by curling into her, your breath warm against her collarbone, your body sighing against hers. And finally, together, limbs tangled and hearts steady, you both begin to drift—safe, wrapped in each other, love settling around you like the softest kind of peace.

[heartyluv]

Note: This is very different from anything I’ve ever written, but the idea came to me and I just had to try it out. I really like this, to be honest. I hope you do, too! ♡ (I proofread it as best as I could, but I had to rush, so please forgive any mistakes!)

Rating: Explicit - !!Minors DO NOT Interact!!

Warning: Oral (Fem!Receiving), Rafayel is drinking blood, you’re in the middle of the ocean (This is set in like the Medieval period.)

Word Count: 2,847

Summary: Rafayel gets his pretty princess back.

VampireLemurian!Rafayel/Princess!Reader

Your father deciding to marry you off was not something that surprised you. It didn’t even disappoint you. It pissed you off.

Since you were a baby, your mother has ensured you were raised and taught about what it meant to be a queen as well as what it should look like. But in truth, you knew that every etiquette lesson and monotonous instruction was really a step-by-step guide on how to be a subservient woman under the iron rule of an insufferable man.

It was last month when your father, the king, told you that you were to be married to the eldest son of one of your families most important allies to ensure loyalty and companionship for many more years to come.

Your father was never a man to back down from a decision once it was made, especially if it was one that would offer him great benefit. You’ve been on this dreaded ship for two days now—with three more to go—to marry a man you’ve seen no more than three times in your life. But you had no say and no way of escaping it.

Even if the castle you’ve lived in since the day you were born was uptight and stuffy, it was still home. Now, you’d have to learn your way around another if you wished to fool yourself into some semblance of comfort. Outside of that castle that felt like the rooms were a little too cold with halls too barren, there was a kingdom outside of it with people you’ve grown to know and respect. People who treated you like you were somebody other than a princess.

You’re below deck now, refusing to step outside to enjoy any light, whether it be from the sun or the moon. Guards stood ground in front of your door and were posted all around the ship and servants would come and go like clockwork to bring you meals, clothing, and hot buckets of water to bathe. In truth, everyone aboard this ship feared your father, even down to the crew who safely guided you through these unpredictable waters. You’ve been taken care of. At least it was being done by someone since the people who were supposed to be your parents couldn’t bother to do so.

As you sit in your quarters on a bed so luxurious that it makes you huff out a small laugh to yourself at such a ridiculous thing, you dip your quill in the small bottle of expensive ink and draw on the parchment you brought with you on your journey. Drawing calms you, even if you’re not great at it. The ability to have some sort of power in your hand to create anything you’d ever want is as close to freedom as you’d ever get.

It makes you think of him. Of the man you met a handful of times on the small walks you’d take on the beach to get away from the responsibilities you carried. He was always there, somehow. Always where you were, ready to talk and listen. He taught you how to properly distribute the ink on your quill so that it let you control the flow of your creativity. It was him who showed you an appreciation for art in a way that you’ve never had.

He was the one who showed you that love was real, even if you never told him how you felt. In the small time that you knew him, you were certain there was no other person on this planet that could ever fulfill you like he could. He made you laugh at his jokes and theatrical antics, made you wonder if his lips were as soft as they looked. He made you feel.

Beautiful just isn’t enough of a word to describe him. Maybe magnificent, ethereal, even god-like would have to suffice because not even that did him justice. He was perfect. He was the one thing you looked forward to every night. You would sneak outside of the castle walls late at night, just to see him longer than the few hours you did before the sun set. But, you were sent off without ever being able to say goodbye. Your parents had you on lockdown, as they feared you flee after you were told about your impending doom of a loveless marriage.

Would he think you’ve abandoned him? You’d never know.

You lose yourself in the mediocre drawing, feeling the sleepiness start to set in. That was the only way you knew it was night time besides the fact that you’d get your final meal and a snack to follow a few hours later before all was silent for the evening.

It’s not long until the serenity is disrupted. Once soft and calm steps above you on the wood were starting to rap against the boards with urgency. Small thuds would follow, then came a scream. Followed by another before they started to blend, stopping as quickly as they started.

Panic fueled you. Were you being attacked? No one besides the family you were set to marry into and your kingdom knew about your departure.

You quickly stand, your royal blue nightgown gliding across your ankles as the lace trim tickles your skin before resting, unlike your rapidly beating heart. You grab your dagger that you were gifted by your grandfather from the nightstand, pulling the sharp blade out of its scabbard.

Your mother never wanted you to learn how to fight. She said it was unfit for a lady and that a man would protect her at all times. But your grandfather never believed in such idiotic things. It’s why he secretly gave you lessons on how to take care of yourself should the time ever come. You were always grateful, but truly hoped you never need it. But it seems like it may be a reality sinner than you imagined.

You take a deep breath before taking cautious steps toward the door, twisting the knob and quietly pulling it open to see the two guards who seems to never leave. Their swords are ready, holding a stance that is prepared for a threat. The soft glow of the candle scones on the wall behind them makes their gold and red armor shimmer. l

“M’lady, please get back inside,” the one to your left says without looking at you.

“What is happening?” you question quietly, not wanting to alert whatever or whoever is out there. “Has anyone gone to check?”

“No,” answers the one of your right. “Our duty is to keep you safe. Leaving would jeopardize your safety.”

While you understand, not knowing what you’re going up against is equivalent to going into a battle with your eyes closed and your weapon sheathed. But you’re not dumb. You have no armor to try and go find out yourself and this dagger could only help you against so much.

The noise outside starts to increase, this time the thuds are so forceful that you’re sure the wood is splintering. The ship rocks as if the water is just as afraid of what’s happening, making goosebumps decorate your skin. Rain spatters, the usually calming sound now eerie and dreadful.

“Princess, please—” Before the guard can say anything, the door on top of the steps swings open so hard that it hangs off the hinges.

There’s only one person there. For a moment, you believe that one of the crew members escaped and is coming to help, alert, offer anything to inform, but when a blue glow emits from where the eyes should be, you freeze.

“Announce yourself!” commands a guard.

The moonlight behind this person from outside is the only thing that outlines their body, making them impossible to see the shadowed outline clearly.

“Someone has tired to take my princess away from me without my permission,” the airy voice tsks.

You know that voice. You couldn’t imagine forgetting it. You step forward and the guard to your left roughly grabs your arm to keep you back. You can’t correct him or even snatch yourself away because he’s hit with a ball of flame that throws him roughly against the wall.

With wide eyes, you look down at the man that you hope is only incapacitated.

“Rafayel?” you whisper his name, unsure now. The man you knew on the beach wouldn’t have down this.

“You know this man?” questions the last guard standing.

The stairs creak as the anonymous individual starts to descend with grace. As he comes into candlelight, your breath hitches. It is him.

But he’s not the same. He’s not who you know. The white dress shirt with wide sleeves that taper at the wrists, the one you told him was your favorite, is stained with crimson red blood. His glowing eyes pulse with power as he smiles the closer he gets. He’s soaked from the rain and blood dirties his perfect lips, a trail falling down his chin.

Once he reaches the final step, a sword is thrusted into his abdomen.

“No!” you scream. You look at the guard who has triumph all over his face. It’s swiped away when Rafayel tilts his head ever so slightly. His hand juts out, grabbing the guard by his throat and effortlessly lifting him off the floor.

“Remove this for me would you, love?” he asks you. Your hesitance is momentary. You grasp the blade’s grip with one hand and shudder at the blood that seeps through even more when you pull it out. His lack of reaction is even more disturbing.

Thrown to the floor, the metal clatters. The man in Rafayel’s hand chokes at the constriction on his throat. His feet dangle as he struggles to get them to touch the floor.

Then, it happens too fast.

Rafayel brings the man close and stares into your eyes with his glowing blues before two sharp teeth present themselves before sinking into his captive’s flesh. The burly man screams in pain as teeth piece his skin. Within seconds, Rafayel pulls back and licks the red off his plush lips before releasing the guard to let him crumble to the floor.

You can’t speak. You want to, but you feel frozen with shock and partial fear. You hold your dagger tighter. With the only sense you seem to have, you turn around and run into your room before shutting the door.

What is happening? This isn’t real, you try to convince yourself.

You’re frantic in your search to find another way out, but there isn’t and you know that. Deciding to barricade it with what you can, you find that you don’t have enough time because the purple haired man pushes the door open with ease.

“Have I scared my princess?” he smirks.

“Don’t hurt me,” you plead breathlessly, raising your dagger in warning.

The blue in his eyes rest, returning to the unique mix of color you’re accustomed to. The rain platters cease at the same time as the waters calm. The boat settles, allowing you to finally feel as steady as you can be.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” he steps closer, ignoring the threat. “Left without saying goodbye, miss. That’s quite rude, don’t you agree?”

“I had no choice,” you push out.

“I know,” he nods. “It’s why I’m here. To give you back your ability to choose. As well as…” He trails off, using his thumb to push the small amount of blood at the corner of his mouth inside. “Give you the opportunity to make more decisions.”

With a whoosh of sudden flame conjured by his hands, the dagger is out of your hand and in his.

“You killed those people.”

“I’ve killed no one, pretty. What kind of monster do you think I am, hm?” He studies the dagger. “This is cute. Fit for you.”

“Rafayel…”

“I like when you say my name, you know? You don’t know how much I’ve missed you during the nights. Our nights. Had to ask around that kingdom of yours to find out what happened to you,” he sighs. He sees your concern and decides to ease it.

“No one is dead, truly. Just unconscious.”

“But you—”

“Drank their blood, I know. Believe me, they’re fine.”

“But the fire… The teeth, the strength—”

“A vampiric Lemurian. Shocking combination, indeed.”

“How did you—”

“Get here?” The small scowl on your face because of how he keeps interrupting you makes him smile. “You have a very memorable scent, my sweet. I can track you with ease. And Lemurians are very fast swimmers.”

“What do you want?” you command from him, trying to seem stoic. That makes him smile more before he tosses the dagger somewhere.

“You, of course. Duh,” he grabs your hands, making you flinch. “Believe me, if there was a way for me to have gotten to you without all this, I would’ve done that.”

You nod slowly, taking his word for some reason.

“Are you afraid of what I am? Of what you’ve seen?” he asks.

“More astounded than anything.”

“Hm,” he hums. “And if you could do the same?”

“What?” you say lightly.

He presses his face into your neck, gently licking your skin and follows it with a kiss. “One bite here, and we’d be together. Forever, without worry or interruption. Would you like that? To be with someone who knows your heart better than the woman who formed it or the man who ignores it?”

He nips at your flesh, making you press closer against his body. His arm wraps around your waist to keep you there. “I’d show you true freedom, my princess. A world that could be yours if you just said yes.”

As if you’re enchanted by his very presence, all your body can muster in response is a nod.

“Is that a yes?” he checks and you do it again. “Excellent,” he grins harder. “It’s an easier transition when you’re relaxed. I can help you. Will you let me?”

Your breathless yes is enough to make him push you onto the bed behind you. He doesn’t waste time pulling your gown up and above your hips. As he kneels like a loyal subject, he spreads your legs wide once settled on his knees.

“No panties?” he smiles as you look down at him. “You knew I’d be here, didn’t you?”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s just… more comfortable.”

“And easier for me.”

His mouth is on your pussy, burying his nose deep as he inhales your scent. You cry out as his tongue licks long and languid stripes up your hot cunt. You feel the wetness of his saliva lubricate you and the strength of the muscle push into your hole. Your hand tangles into his damp locks, pressing him closer.

“Raf…” you breathe. “Your tongue…”

He sucks your clit then uses the tip of his warm tongue to stimulate you and your hips buck abruptly. “Oh, you’re so sensitive. So perfect and so, so, delicious.”

Needing to be closer, he takes your legs and puts them over his shoulders and grabs your hips to pull your body towards him. He consumes you whole, devouring your doubts and fears and replacing them with want and eagerness.

You grind your hips against his face as he tongue fucks you slow, smearing your juices all over your soft curls. Had blood not been a crucial part of his survival, your pussy would undoubtedly be the only thing he needs to live.

“I’m… I feel—”

“Relax,” he mutters against your pussy lips. “I have you.”

The sounds wet kisses and filthy licks erase the silence, accompanying your soft cries and mind numbing moans.

It’s like he clears away all the memories you had of the people he harmed to get to you. You can’t even seem to care as he brings you to ecstasy. Your eyes close at the overwhelming pleasure, using one hand to curl the sheets in your fist and the other to hold his face close.

His tongue is magic and i’s as your orgasm approaches that your body starts to relax, welcoming the bliss. But, Rafayel moves at a speed so inhumane that you have no time to register. He’s in between your legs and his fangs bare. Leaning down on top of you, his teeth sink into your neck, venom secreting and mingling into your bloodstream to change your very being.

He covers your eyes as he feeds, disorienting you. The sharp pain is replaced with a burn and before you can scream, he pulls back and his eyes pulse blue before swiping a hand over your eyes and putting you to sleep.

He stands, ignoring the aching of his cock in his pants. Later, he tells himself. He closes your legs and pulls down your dress. Pulling you up and over his shoulder, her carries you out the room and up the stairs, stepping over the pitiful guard’s bodies. The litter of unconscious bodies remain all across the deck as he approaches the edge.

“When you wake, princess, you’ll be Queen in the world you belong.” With that, he jumps into the water, surrounding you both in a bubble that will help you breathe until your transformation completes.

He has you now. He’ll give you everything. And when your pretty eyes open, all of that will be revealed to you and it’ll be more than you could’ve ever imagined.

[bangtanjjks]

Hi hello friends. You would not believe the effort I went into to get back into this account to post this rant. So today, I was mindlessly working and said, "Ah, it's kinda hard to look for non-mc lads fics on ao3"

AND THEN! My friend just go, "Babe, get a check on that internalized misogyny before it went out of control."

?!??!?????????

internalized WHAT?

Internalized misogyny?!?! Where did that come from? Then they explained to me that I like non-MC fics because I want to imagine myself with the love interests so I'm jealous of MC and saw her as my rival and enjoyed reading fics where the MC is villainized. Hence internalized misogyny.

When I tell you my whole face is just a big question mark. No?? Where did that come from? And then I look up online and it seems like my friends belief was common?

But mayhaps I'm just a freak? Maybe I'm just a wee little masochist who loves my fanfic served bone searingly cold and bitter with enough angst and pain to kill a Victorian era maiden via heartbreak?

And what better way to get a dose of that but from non-MC fics? The insanity of doing something (falling in love with the LIs) over and over again expecting a different outcome (them not falling in love with and choosing MC) until there's nothing left of you but an empty husk of a person who's been heartbroken one too many time. The tragedy of knowing how the story ends but hoping against all hope for you to be enough to change the course of fate only for it to happen as how it's been destined anyway ??? THOSE kind of exquisite angst can only be found in a non-MC fic y'know. Or maybe a fic from an LI's POV where MC ended up with another LI.

And even if the non-MC ended up with the LI, there's still potential for pain from the uncertainty, the questioning of how long will this last? Is this a forever thing or would fate step in and fix it as how the storyline should be? Chefs kiss.

So imagine my surprise when my own friend thought I like reading non-MC fics out of envy for MC ??? Bro that's my girl. I like reading fics about her being happy but I also like mentally damaging emotional pain in my fics y'know.

Besides, I distinctly remember reading a viral post about Caleb being a favorite LI because MC was his first, because the current main plotline was their first life together (this post was made in January before his myth), and so he chose her for her, not because of a memory of a long dead woman or any other destiny. He just chose MC (kinda wonder how that OP is feeling now after his myth was released lol). The point is, when it's an LI choosing MC without any prior ties or life with her it was seen as sweet AND YET when I want to read similar story just from another perspective it's internalized misogyny?!?!? Be so for real bro...

Anyways. I hope everyone's been having a good 2025 so far, stay safe and healthy friends (˶ > ₃ < ˶)♡

[bougiebutchbinch]

Megatron dropping ass harder that a Megan video and Skyfire just like “Oh nooo, do you need help? A cube of energon? I can help take you to the medic?”

Only bit that knows how to drop hints that Skyfire CAN CATCH is Starscream. But he keeping that shit to himself cause honest watching Megatron and on occasion Optimus try is just too entertaining to pass.

Starscream smirks as Megatron and Optimus suffer. He laughs, mocking their pathetic bids to get Skyfire to initiate. Then he saunters up to Skyfire, pert little ass SWANGIN', wings flicked out real coquettish, and purrs his name...

To which Skyfire holds up a finger, engrossed in his experiment.

He finishes what he's doing before Starscream's sultry smirk can twist into a snarl and he can bite that finger off. But as Megatron snorts and Optimus Prime fights not to roll his eyes - what a surprise; Starscream has overestimated his seductive abilities - the success of Starscream's gambit becomes clear. Skyfire picks up the little seeker. He dumps him on the lab table, then - in front of all of them AND PRIMUS - proceeds to ravish him.

Thoroughly.

Megatron and Optimus are baffled. Bamboozled. What's Starscream's secret? How come he can never fail to break Skyfire from his focus on work, and get drilled by that supreme shuttle-sized spike??? It simply isn't fair.

But life isn't, as a rule. Maybe Skyfire only likes to take a dominant role with Starscream?

("We should respect that," says Optimus, noble as ever, though he can't quite vanquish his disappointment. Megatron crosses his arms, scowling. "You should respect that. I would never submit to a mech - certainly not one with such atrocious taste." Optimus gives him a sidelong look that indicates this is not what Megatron said last night. "Mm," he says.)

Starscream, of course, does not claim his victory gracefully. In fact, he loudly declares to Megatron and Optimus that his ability to get Skyfire to spike him whenever he damn well pleases, is proof that Skyfire likes him best.

Skyfire interrupts before Megatron can scrap him. He spills the overdue truth: he sucks at picking up on cues, so if Starscream wants to be fucked to within an inch of his life with Skyfire taking the lead, he sends him a private ping reading the cybertronian equivalent of the 'i NEED dick!' meme beforehand.

[wallofchynax]

ALL THAT YOU ARE

Synopsis: You and Seth have been fuckbuddies drifting apart. Now that he's a Heyman guy, he comes back unto your life and wants you for real this time. You shouldn't want him; you don't trust Heyman but Seth won't take no for an answer this time

content warnings: dubcon, oral sex (f!recieving), creampies, seth being manipulative, choking

got a request? send it over to me <3

You weren't exactly on speaking terms with Seth these days. 

Something had changed with him. It started at Elimination Chamber, and it went through to Wrestlemania. You weren’t surprised when he had became a Paul Heyman guy. You could have seen the writing on the wall months ago. Your relationship, if you wanted to call it that, had been tense. You weren’t exactly in a purely platonic relationship but you weren’t in a romantic relationship either. Truthfully, you didn’t really know how you felt about Seth and recently, you were even more confused.  

However, when you were getting ready for Raw in your locker room, you heard the door open. You didn’t invite him in but then again, people like Seth Rollins don’t wait for permission. Being a Paul Heyman guy meant that you didn’t need to wait for anyone now.  

You were on the bench, taping your wrists not really looking at him but you could feel his eyes. He wasn’t watching you with the eyes that he normally did and you could feel it on your back. Something had corrupted that charm and made it more calculated. Feral.  

He didn’t speak. He closed the door and watched you but you knew he was there. You always knew he was there without him saying a word because the air in the room changed each time.  

“You know you are wasting your time down here,” he said, finally, voice smooth and low, the way temptation always sounded before it turned into sin, “You should be at the top with me, like you deserve,” 

You didn’t look at him – you just spoke flatly, “I’m not interested in being one of Heyman’s puppets,” 

He laughed. Not his normal over the top, show boating laugh. It wasn’t cruel, it wasn’t kind. It was just knowing.  

“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying,” You heard his steps alongside his words. You felt him, even before his fingers grazed your shoulders, “You wouldn’t belong to him. You would belong to me,” 

You hated that it made you shiver with want.  

“You don’t get it, do you?” He murmured as he moved to crouch in front of you. He was forcing you to look at him and there was something soft yet so calculating about the way he looked right now. He placed a hand on your knee, soft circles just under the hem of your gear, “I asked for you personally. Heyman didn’t even need convincing,” 

His eyes were full of fire and smoke with something you weren’t sure you could resist. 

“You can say no, Y/N. You know you can always say no and I’ll leave you alone…” his voice was soft, almost caring but you knew better when his hand was pressing up against your thigh, “But that’s not what you want, isn’t it? 

He tilted his head, mouth slightly parting. 

“You’ve always wanted this. You’ve always wanted me,” 

You opened your mouth. You wanted to argue with him, slap him or maybe kiss him but you were conflicted and it showed on your face and the way your face went pink when his hand was sliding higher on your thigh, urging your thighs to spread for him.  

“I barely recognise you, Seth…”  

His smile curled but his eyes looked soft. Sympathetic even. 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he murmured, voice dark like honey as he leaned in closer, so close his breath fanned your cheek, making you ache even though you wanted to run, “Maybe this is who I’ve always been. Maybe you just haven’t been looking close enough,” 

His other hand came up, not rough but intentional as his fingers slid along your jaw to hold you still, so you didn’t have a choice but to meet his gaze. 

“I see you,” he whispered, “Even when no one else does. I see you even when you try and bury it underneath all that pride. I see you,” 

Your lips parted but no sounds came out. You were trembling but not out of fear. His words were hitting something that was raw and true. You hated how Seth seemed to know that he had some sort of power over you.  

“You don’t have to trust Heyman. You don’t even have to trust me,” he said as his thumb brushed over your lip, slow and a touch manipulative, “But you will come with me whether you think it’s right or wrong,” 

“Why? You asked, voice tight and aching as your breath caught up. His fingers felt your jaw and trailed down your neck, right over your pulse point, “So you can say you own me? Is that it, Seth?  

His chuckle this time was lower, and more honest. 

“I already do,” 

He leaned in, lips just ghosting your own. You felt him everywhere trying to cage you in and the worst part was he didn’t even need to try,  

“Don’t lie to yourself. You have never belonged to anyone but me…”  

You wanted to shove him away. To scream, to laugh in his face, to tell him he was wrong. 

But your body betrayed you.  

You didn’t move. You didn’t flinch. You stayed still, breath catching in your throat as his lips brushed over yours, not quite a kiss, not yet, but claiming all the same. Seth’s fingers moved lower, down your collarbone, dragging with the slow reverence of someone memorising the shape of you. His other hand still cradled your jaw, not tight, but with just enough pressure to say you’re not going anywhere.  

“Say it,” he whispered.  

Your eyes snapped to his. “Say what?”  

“That you feel it,” he said, lips brushing the edge of your mouth again. “This pull between us. You always have.”  

“You’re wrong,” you said, but it sounded weak. Unconvincing. Because his touch was burning through every inch of resolve you thought you had.  

Seth tilted his head, smiling faintly, and it looked almost sad. “You think I didn’t feel you watching me? You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me before I was his?”  

His thumb brushed the hollow of your throat.  

“I was yours long before I became Paul’s.”  

You shook your head, voice cracking 

“You don’t get to twist this...you don’t-” 

But his lips were on yours before you could even finish your sentence. It was a kiss that silenced you. A kiss that dominated without pushing too hard. 

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t forceful. It was worse, it was intimate. Designed to unravel you. Meant to make you need it, crave it, beg for more even when you hated yourself for doing so. 

You gasped against him, but your legs were parting instinctively when his hand slid up your inner thigh again, this time with purpose. 

Seth broke the kiss with a soft bite to your lower lip, watching your flushed, dazed face with something darkly triumphant. 

“You can keep pretending you don’t want this,” he whispered. “But sooner or later, you’re going to come with me.” 

And then his mouth was on yours again, but this time it wasn’t a tease—it was consumption. His hands were on your thighs, spreading them effortless. Fingers yanking at your gear, pushing the waistband down, exposing you like it was his right. 

“You think I can’t smell it...” he murmered, dragging your soaked panties down your thighs, “You were dripping and I barely touched you,” 

“Seth...what the fuck.” 

His hands grabbed your knees and spread you open, eyes flickering with lust and triumph. 

“I’m going to ruin you,” 

And then he dropped to his knees. Before you could even stop him, his hands were pressed against his thighs pushing them far apart before his head dipped down. When his mouth met your heat, tongue immediately flattening and dragging up your soaked folds with zero hesitation. He groaned like it fed something deep in him, something starving. You grabbed at his hair, not to guide, but to survive. 

“Seth...jesus,” 

He didn’t stop. His tongue circled your clit, teasing it, then pressing hard, just to feel the way your thighs jumped. He sucked, licked, and devoured like a man obsessed. 

And maybe he was. 

“You taste like you belong to me,” he growled into you, breath hot, voice wrecked. 

You cried out, loud, grinding against his face before you could stop yourself. Your hips moved on instinct now, chasing him, chasing the friction that burned so good you couldn’t breathe through it. 

He held you down when you started to shake,palms firm on your thighs as he sucked your clit harder, tongue flicking and teasing until tears brimmed in your eyes. 

It was too much. 

Too deep. Too raw. 

And still, he kept going. 

Your first orgasm tore through you like a scream, but Seth didn’t stop. He just kept going. He licked you through it, kept licking, mouth relentless as your hips jerked and your body spasmed. By the time the second orgasm hit, you were almost in tears, legs shaking uncontrollably, hands fisting his hair so tightly he was moaning against your clip. 

He loved it. He fed on you wanting him as much as you wanted him. You broke on his tongue, crying now, voice hoarse as your body collapsed backward on the table, wrung out and soaked and shaking. 

Only then did Seth rise. 

He leaned over you, lips glistening, licking them slow as he stared down at your red face. He did not wait, after what he just pulled from your body. His fingers stroked along the folds of your sensitive pussy before scooping up your slick. 

“There she is,” he whispered, brushing a tear off your cheek with the same thumb that held your lip earlier. “There’s my girl.” 

His fingers pressed against your lip, forcing them inside so you could taste yourself on his fingers. Your lips parted automatically, tongue curling around the fingers he pushed in, coated in your slick, warm, salty. He watched the way you sucked on them, expression burning with pride and hunger, like he’d just claimed a prize he’d been chasing for years. 

“My perfect little mess,” he murmured. “So fucking sweet for me.” 

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb sliding across your wet bottom lip before he pulled his fingers free and stood fully between your spread thighs again. 

You whimpered from overstimulation, but you were far from done. 

Not even close. 

He grabbed your hips, yanking you towards the edge of the table until your ass nearly slid off. He pulled down his wrestling gear enough to pull his cock out, thick, flushed, twitching with anticipation as he dragged the tip through your soaked folds.  

“I should make you beg,” he said, his tone a low, dangerous purr. “But you don’t need to. Not anymore.” 

You choked out a breath, too far gone to argue, thighs trembling as he lined himself up, pressing in, slow but deliberate. He wanted you to feel every inch, every second of the stretch. 

And you did. 

“Fuck,” you gasped, clawing at his arms as he sank deeper, inch by thick inch, stretching you open until he bottomed out. 

He was so deep it hurt and felt too good to stop.  

Seth grunted through his teeth, jaw clenched as he held still for a moment inside you, like he was savouring it. 

“Made for me,” he growled, one hand gripping your thigh while the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head forwards and lowering so his lips were just hovering over his lips, “Say it. Say you were made for me,” 

He slammed into you, hard and sudden, driving a moan out of your throat. 

“Say it,” 

You were crying now, but not from fear. From how full you were. From the way it felt to finally let go. From the way his cock split you open like you were made for this, made for him. His hand slid from your hair to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. Just there. Just enough pressure to ground you in the chaos of everything. 

And God, you wanted it.  

You moaned, loud, arching under, wrapping your legs tighter around his hips, thighs trembling.  

“Say it,” he growled again, fingers digging in slightly deeper, brutal thrust that made the breath punch for your lungs, “Tell me your mine,” 

“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice cracking as your fingers dug into his back, “Seth... I’m yours. Fuck, please don’t stop-” 

That’s all he needed. 

He fucked into you hard, deep, filthy, each thrust driving the table under you just a little farther back on the floor. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the room, along with your broken moans and the low, possessive growls from his chest. 

“You feel that?” he rasped, fucking you harder. “That’s me inside you. Claiming you.” 

You could feel everything, the stretch, the drag, the way your body clenched down on him so tight it almost hurt. Your pussy was so soaked it sounded obscene, each thrust messier than the last, slick and wet and perfect. 

“You love it,” he snarled. “You love how I take you. You love being ruined.” 

You nodded frantically, eyes wet, lips parted. 

“Yes...yes, I fucking love it, don’t stop, please, don’t stop—” 

His thumb found your clit again, circling it with rough, fast pressure that made your whole body jolt. Your moans rose in pitch, high, wild and helpless. 

“Gonna come again for me?” he whispered, mouth close, tongue flicking over your earlobe. 

You whimpered, head dropping back as the pressure spiralled, white-hot and uncontrollable. 

“Yes! Fuck! I’m gonna...!” 

And you shattered before you finished your sentence. You came hard, screaming his name as your body convulsed, your cunt squeezing his cock in tight fluttering waves that had his eyes rolling back. 

“Shit!” he gritted out, slamming into you a few more times before he stilled, spilling inside of you with a broken guttural groan, his cock pulsing deep as he came, filling you with hot thick spurts until it leaked around the base. You clung to him, trembling, completely spent. His chest was heaving against yours, his forehead resting against the side of your neck, his voice a raspy whisper: 

“You’re mine now. And I don’t share.” 

His lips kissed the skin just beneath your jaw. Soft, almost sweet, a stark contrast to everything that came before. 

“I know,” you breathed, heart pounding, fingers threading into his damp hair. 

And this time, you don’t think you will leave him. Not now, not ever. 

[daydreamgoddess14]

💫 For Your Consideration - Act 3 💫

actor!Bucky x fem!actress!Reader (no use of y/n, l/n, reader is not described in any great detail. I save that for the gowns 💃)

Warnings: Hollywood AU, language, internet nasties, flirty!Bucky, a little power imbalance, age-gap (Bucky is around 40, actress reader is closer to 30 or younger if you prefer 🤭)... more to be added later.

Bucky Barnes, the suave and talented leading man of the 'Winter Soldier' movie series, finds himself on the red carpet circuit during awards season with his latest film 'The Howling Commandos'. But the season takes an unexpected turn when he crosses paths with a mesmerizing newcomer - the actress who has become the talk of Tinseltown with her captivating performance in her most recent film. Sparks fly as they navigate silly season in Hollywood, with a spotlight on their every move will their chemistry ignite a real life romance?

Note: I used Daisy for these insta posts just because their chemistry was so great, and the pictures fit perfectly. She's just here for the ~vibes~, not as a descriptor.

Tagging: @winchestert101 •

< Prev Act | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Next Act >

NOVEMBER 2025

It was a small set with only a tight crew, so it was easy to pick out her voice amongst the group. She had her back turned, talking animatedly with someone from her studio. Her posture, her laugh, everything about her pulled him in like a magnet.

"You're staring," Sam’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Bucky shook his head and turned to look at his best friend with a glare, but Sam’s grin was too knowing.

"I’m not staring," he muttered, his face flushing.

"Right. Sure, just... looking intensely." Sam shook his head, still smirking. "You should just go talk to her."

Bucky turned his attention back to her. She hadn’t noticed him yet, but his heart still thudded in his chest.

“I don’t do this,” he muttered.

“You do today, buddy, that's the whole idea of the segment. And behave yourself, she's already nervous.” Sam slapped him on the back and headed in her direction, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to relax himself. He’d been in front of cameras more times than he could count, had done press junkets in five different time zones in the same week. But this felt… different.

When she finally turned, her eyes scanned the room, then landed on him.

The shift was immediate. The polite, professional smile she'd just given Sam faltered, just for a second, as recognition dawned. Then it curved into something more genuine. Something warm.

He raised a hand in greeting.

She hovered in the space between them, clearly debating whether or not to cross the studio floor and go to him.

He was surprised when she did.

“Hi,” she said, and her voice was a little breathless, like she hadn’t expected any of their surroundings to be real until now.

“Hi,” he echoed.

“It's nice to meet you,” she held out her hand and he took it.

“You too, properly this time.”

They sat in the two velvet seats angled toward each other, while production assistants moved the lighting, the table, shifted her chair a little more, adjusted the set dressings…

For a second, they were quiet while they were fussed over.

Then she grinned. “So… this is happening.”

He laughed, relaxing an inch. “This is happening.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do I get to tell you I’m a fan now, or should I wait until it’s being recorded?”

“Depends,” he said, leaning back. “Do I get to tell you I’ve seen your movie twice?”

Her eyes widened. “Twice?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about the chair,” he deadpanned.

She burst out laughing just as the producer called “Rolling in thirty seconds.”

You heard laughter before you realised he'd arrived, you'd had your back to the door talking with a publicist from the studio.

They were lovely, and calming, but you couldn't help wishing you had Dani or Lulu around for moral support.

They could read your emotions and fears from a single breath.

When Sam Wilson, the man whose laughter you'd heard, gently placed a hand on your shoulder as he walked past, and smiled warmly, you turned to see Bucky in the doorway.

He looked just as composed as you remembered from the festival, though this time… there was something else. A softness around the eyes, maybe. The faintest smile tugging at his mouth as he spotted you.

Oh.

He was more handsome up close than you remembered. That wasn’t entirely fair.

“Nice to meet you,” you managed, your voice steadier than you felt as you stepped forward and held out your hand.

“You too, properly this time.” He said, his palm was warm against yours.

You were still recovering from the feel of it when the producer’s voice called out final cues.

As you both sat down, the lights flicked brighter and people milled around you.

It felt like you needed to get it off your chest, the fact that you were a fan, that you enjoyed his movies.

“Do I get to tell you I’m a fan now, or should I wait until it’s being recorded?” You asked cautiously, tucking your hair behind your ear.

You couldn't believe it when he said he'd seen your movie twice. Once, yes, you'd seen him there with your own eyes, but twice?

“Couldn’t stop thinking about the chair,” he told you calmly just as the director called rolling in thirty.

The sound of your laughter filled the set, the red light on the camera blinked on.

And just like that, it began.

“So, how’s playing Sally Bowles been for you?” He asked, leaning forward slightly, genuinely interested. More interested than he probably should be.

“Well, it’s a challenge,” she admitted, her body settling into the chair like she was finally letting herself breathe. “It’s so much more than just the party girl act. You have to balance the darkness and the energy, but also stay grounded enough to play a woman who is truly struggling with addiction and self-worth. There’s a quote I think about a lot by another Sally: ‘The contradiction of playing Sally Bowles is you have to be sober, rested, well fed and hydrated to play a drunk, addicted party girl.’”

He smiled, something catching in his chest. The way she spoke about her work, there was no performance in it. She meant every word. “That makes perfect sense,” he said. “Sounds like all of my prep.”

“Yeah? Hydration is the key, right?” She grinned.

That grin knocked something loose in him.

“So what drew you to The Commandos?” She asked, tilting her head. “Other than the obvious chance to play the brooding leader?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “That was pretty high on the list. No, I liked that it didn’t let the character off easy. He’s messy, broken. Still trying to be good. That kind of struggle… it’s human.” He paused, then looked at her, really, looked at her. “Same with your Sally.”

She paused, just for a moment, and then nodded.

“Yeah. People think Sally’s all glamour, but there’s this slow erosion underneath. You can’t fake that. You have to build it in piece by piece. You had a guy that was already on his knees -”

“And I had to build him back up, piece by piece,” he echoed, feeling the words settle somewhere deep. She got it. Not just the performance, him.

“You made it feel like Sally didn’t know she was falling apart,” he added, softer this time. “That was the most devastating part.”

“Thank you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat quickly, like she was trying to shake off the weight of his compliment.

He wanted to say something else. Something funny, maybe, to let her breathe again.

“What about you?” She asked before he could, “you’ve done so many action-heavy things, do you ever just want to sit in a room and cry on cue?”

“I mean, I basically did that on set anyway,” he said with a smirk. “They just edited it out.”

She laughed again, and he couldn’t help but lean in closer, drawn in by the sound.

“Yeah. I like work that cracks something open,” he admitted. “Makes you feel a little exposed. You can tell when you’re in the room with someone doing that.”

“Like you were saying before, messy and human,” she nodded.

“Exactly,” he murmured, his eyes not leaving her face.

As the interview moved on, he found himself wanting to just listen to everything she had to say.

He usually hated interviews and talking about himself, but she seemed so open and curious, he wanted to mirror her.

“So, how did you end up working with Yelena Belova? She’s amazing,” she held her hands up in awe.

“She just called, out of the blue, said, “I wrote this with you in mind.” Which is either really flattering or really threatening,” he started eagerly.

“Or both,” she added.

“Or both. She has such a clear vision, and the way she directs people is incredible. It's made me really appreciate the creative process from a new perspective. I couldn’t say no. She's sharp. Fierce. Kinda terrifying in the best way… I've got a friend for life in Yelena. How about you? How did you end up swapping a stage for a movie set?”

“I guess this film was kind of an extension of where I already was, I’d been doing musicals on stage, and this just... happened completely by chance.”

“That old chestnut,” he rolled his eyes in jest and she reached out to swat him gently.

“It's true,” she insisted. “When I auditioned for this role, I wasn’t even on the list. I’d got my times mixed up, showed up at the wrong place. The stagehand shoved me on without checking anything. If he had, he would’ve sent me away… I was meant to be there. Otherwise I never would’ve gotten this role.”

He sat back in his seat with a soft smile.

“Haven't told anyone that before,” she blushed.

“And now you're here. Fate, huh?”

“Fate.” She whispered.

You were suddenly fully aware of his eyes on you. It felt like he was seeing straight through you, right to your bones. The air between you was taut.

“Fate,” you echoed, barely audibly, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Bucky cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So... can I ask how you feel about being immortalised by that poster?”

Your jaw dropped as you were momentarily caught off guard by the shift from intense to relaxed, then let out a laugh. “Well… it's weird because my face isn't exactly the main focus of our movie poster.”

Bucky grinned, settling back into his chair like he’d been waiting for the joke. “Really? I hadn't noticed.”

“Is that so?” You dared.

“Yeah, like I said earlier, I was taken in by the carpentry, to be honest.”

“You studied it, then?”

“Purely for research. I’m very thorough when it comes to furniture.”

“Well, if you know anyone that needs a chair model, my rates are negotiable.”

“I’ll talk to my agent,” he smirked. “That chair’s been living rent-free in my brain ever since.”

You couldn't help your grin widening at his comment. “Wow. Must’ve been some impressive craftsmanship.”

“It really was. Clean lines. Great structure. Memorable silhouette.”

“Memorable, hmm?” You pinched your lips together in an effort to hide just how amusing you found him.

“Unforgettable, actually.”

“You’re a lot more dangerous than you look,” you said, half-laughing as you settled deeper into your chair.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? That so?”

You nodded. “You’re funny, you’re sharp… people should be warned.”

“I’ll put it in my bio.”

Your smile lingered as you looked down at your lap. “Honestly? I was terrified to do this interview.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. You’ve got that super cool guy, intense stare, probably hates small talk kind of reputation.” You shrugged, sitting back in your chair.

“I do hate small talk,” he agreed with a smile.

“I knew it.” Your laughed before adding, “You’re way more fun than I expected.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he warned, “I’ve got a brand to maintain.”

“Ahh, too late! I’m screenshotting every joke for future blackmail,” you giggled.

“Guess I’ll have to keep being funny, then.”

He smiled like it was a promise.

You vaguely heard the crew calling wrap, but neither of you moved.

He glanced over as a technician leaned in to unhook his mic, and you stood, brushing your hands down your skirt, suddenly aware of his eyes still on you.

“It was really nice talking to you,” you said, your voice lower now, a little softer. It felt strange, trying to close the distance with words after talking non-stop for two hours.

“Yeah. You too.”

His gaze hadn’t dropped. It didn’t waver.

You hesitated, then stepped closer, heart racing. “I feel like... we’ve earned a hug?”

His mouth curved, his smile giving you butterflies. “More than earned.”

He pulled you into his arms, and for a second, the ground under your feet slipped sideways. He was solid warmth. His steady breath lingered against your ear, a contrast to your own shaky exhale, he had one large hand low on your back, the other pressing just firmly enough to make you forget how to stand.

You didn’t mean to linger. But you did.

So did he.

When you finally pulled back, your fingertips skimmed his arm a second too long, like they didn’t want to let go. He looked at you and you felt his gaze trap you, like a spark catching the hem of something flammable.

Someone called your name. You turned your head reluctantly.

And when you looked back at him, it was with a smile you couldn’t quite contain.

Bucky stepped outside into the fading light, the buzz of the interview still vibrating under his skin. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake the ridiculous grin tugging at his mouth.

She’d surprised him. Undone him, a little.

It wasn’t just the way she looked, though, sure, that didn’t hurt, but it was the way she talked. The way she held her ground, made him laugh, made him feel like maybe he wasn’t so closed off after all.

They were supposed to be promoting their films. Instead, he’d spent most of the interview feeling like he was on a date.

He could hear Sam in his ear; “You should just go talk to her.”

He had. And now he didn’t want any of it to end.

His thumb hovered over Instagram. Her profile was already pulled up.

He didn’t even remember doing that.

His jaw flexed.

Her laugh still echoed in his ears, real and effortless. God, he hadn’t expected her to be funny. It messed with his head a little, how fast she’d gone from “the girl from the festival” to someone he couldn’t stop trying to impress.

Sam was waiting in the hallway, scrolling through something on his phone. “You gonna ask her out or just write sonnets about her in your Notes app?”

Bucky shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”

“Bucky-thinks-he’s-slick-but-he’s-smitten,” Sam’s singsong voice followed him down the corridor toward the exit.

But Bucky’s heart was thudding louder than Sam’s teasing.

She was unexpected.

Sharp, grounded, warm. And more than that… interested. Maybe?

And he already wanted more.

He wondered what the appropriate amount of time was to wait before sending her a message.

What did normal people do?

He didn’t do this. Didn’t date, didn’t flirt. Barely socialised.

He finished his movies, promoted them when he was told to, and then disappeared back to quiet routines and the safety of anonymity.

But The Howling Commandos was different.

It was already generating as much buzz as his Winter Soldier series ever had, maybe more… but this wasn’t just popcorn cinema. This was the first time his name had been mentioned in conjunction with awards season.

And to campaign? To be in with a shot?

He had to step out of his comfort zone.

Maybe that started with a DM.

He mulled it over for a day or two.

Then the promotional clips dropped.

And because the studios had money to make and investors and fans to please… They started with a clip of the hug.

He knew it had reached a fever pitch when Sam sent him a TikTok with the caption “That’s not an interview, that’s foreplay.”

He read Sam's accompanying message and gritted his teeth, speaking his own reply into existence, “this is all out of context and you know it.”

He scrolled past another fancam titled ‘I fear we are in our enemies to friends to lovers to Academy Award-winning power couple era.’

He shut the app. Opened it again ten seconds later.

This was ridiculous. He’d done movies with Oscar winners, shared red carpets with people he grew up watching.

But she was the one he couldn’t stop thinking about.

He watched it all unfold, his heart bouncing off the walls of his chest, but he still hadn’t messaged.

It wasn’t just the hug, or the interview.

It was everything.

He stared at her profile photo in his DMs.

Typed a message. Deleted it.

Typed again.

hey, was great meeting you yesterday. you did great, it was the most fun I’ve had in an interview in a long time. BB

You watched the promo clips drop from a hotel room.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. You were curled under the duvet, your phone held inches from your face, the screen cast a pale blue glow over you.

There’s ship names, screengrabs, slowed-down footage of you both, memes, headlines… So many headlines.

“Interview Chemistry Sends Fans into a Frenzy”, “Cabaret Queen and Commandos Star: Something Brewing?”

You curled further into bed, feeling more overwhelmed with each flick of your thumb.

Twitter was a war zone.

Your name was trending. His name was trending.

Every clip of the interview had already been dissected, subtitled, turned into thirsty little edits that made your stomach flip with secondhand embarrassment.

“the way he LOOKS at her???”

“they’re already married in my mind”

You dropped the phone to your chest, breathing out slowly.

It had all felt so real in the moment. You weren’t performing. You’d forgotten about the cameras halfway through, forgotten about the entire world watching.

And now you had to wonder - you couldn't not - was he performing? Was he playing up to the camera? Knowing it would generate… this?

Every time you refreshed, there were a hundred more posts.

Edits. Threads. Think pieces.

Some were calling it PR genius.

Some were calling it love at first sight.

You had to laugh at that one.

It was just an interview. Two people talking.

You'd had coffee dates with less eye contact.

And yet...

You watched another clip, muted.

The moment right after you'd teased him, when he looked at you like he knew things he wasn’t supposed to.

Your stomach flipped, traitorous and warm.

You opened Twitter again and switched to the Trending page.

Big mistake.

It sent you spiraling.

Should you have said less? More? Did you come across too eager? Was it that obvious that you liked him?

The internet certainly thought so.

You watched clips of the interview stitched next to slowed-down footage of the hug.

That only sent you further downwards.

How long would it be before the comments turned? Before you were portrayed as desperate? Fake? Scheming?

It wouldn't be the first time.

You locked your phone, tossed it to the other side of the bed like it had burned you.

Tried to breathe.

Tried not to care.

Your chest felt tight, your heart raced.

You needed your dad.

He'd pick you back up, with a hug, a large gin and his famous lemon drizzle cake.

Across the bed, a notification lit up your screen.

Followed by a buzz against the soft sheets.

You sighed, expecting another alert, another headline.

But it was a message. From him.

You stared at it.

Read it twice. Three times.

Your stomach twisted, then swooped.

Ok.

Ok.

You weren’t going to read into it.

You picked the phone up like it might bite, thumbs hovering uselessly.

What were you even supposed to say?

Thanks? You too?

God, you were an adult. A professional. Get it together.

You typed a reply.

Deleted it.

Tried again.

Sent.

Regretted.

Immediately locked your phone again and buried your face in the duvet.

You didn't expect a reply, but there was another buzz.

He called you doll.

Who were you kidding, he probably called everyone doll.

You replied again, another response that absolved him of any need to reply.

You set your phone down slowly and stared at the ceiling with a stupid smile.

You were in so much trouble.

God help you if he replied again.

God help you if he didn't.

[xjulixred45x]

Imagine if Parent! Yuu's kids are all the Yuus (aka Yuuken, Yuuka, Yuuta, Yuuna, etc) from the TWST manga?

(LOL WHEN THE YUU RUNS IN THE FAMILY)

BUT IMAGINE—

Imagine that all the Yuus are siblings, that one by one they appear in Twisted Wonderland as time goes by and have their adventures (in their respective episodes, the other siblings stop appearing or don't appear as much because they're looking for a way to get back home).

Yuuken, being the ultimate Mommas Boy, gives me great feelings of an older brother who takes care of his younger siblings, even a little too much. He's very protective of his parent (especially if his other parent isn't in the picture) and wants to be the man of the house and help them as much as he can.

Yuuuka is the one who tries to protect her parent in the most direct way. If you talk shit about her siblings or, God forbid, her mother/father/parent, you'll face a world of pain followed by the biggest burn of your life. But she's ironically sweet to Yuu! Parent. It's probably because of their perseverance and optimism that Yuuka is the way they are; she admire them so much.

Yuuta, my sweet boy, another mama's boy who went to work in an attempt to help out around the house and ease Yuu! Parent's burden, whether it be with work or learning housework to make the house less of a mess. Yuu!Parent is not only a successful parent of four children, but they don't lose their composure even though, socially speaking, they probably receive a lot of scrutiny for being a "soft(bad)" parent in Japonese eyes(especially for how they raise their daughters or being too soft with their sons). But they never give up. Yuuta wishes he were that resilient and tough. He's probably the most vocal about missing home and their mother/father/parent.

Yuuna loves Yuu!Parent! They're always front and center when she auditions for singing roles. They help her rehearse, they make her tasty food when she spends too much time practicing without leaving her room, they make her favorite meals when she gets rejected from a group she wanted to join. Yuu!parent is basically her rock. When she arrived at Twisted Wonderland, she was probably so excited to tell Yuu!parent about a possible success for once...

I like to think about how this could expand the Yuu dynamic, how tensions would increase as more Yuu arrive, how in certain tense moments, they end up saying harsh things or things they didn't mean, precisely because they're children who were torn from their home and can't help but get upset.

Not just for them, but for Yuu!parent.

They don't know that they're okay, they don't know that they're all there together or what the hell is going on. They don't even know! All they know is that their father/mother/parent is left ALONE in their world, perhaps even thinking they've been abandoned by their own children, and that HAUNTS THEM.

So, they triple their efforts to get back home, pester Crowley even more, investigate on their own—anything! Anything to get back home! ANYTHING TO GET BACK TO THEM!

Until one day, something changes. again.

The Yuus don't even think much of it when Crowley calls them into his office again; they're so tired from another all-night investigation.

So imagine their collective surprise when they walk in and see a VERY familiar face sitting in Crowley's office. Yuu!Parent.

They probably thought it was a hallucination from lack of sleep at first, until Yuu!Parent went straight to check on them, telling them how something super weird had happened with a carriage and the strange birdman who was giving them the creeps, how awful they look, etc. And they know it, this is real.

And the biggest, most necessary hug they could have happens, even if it's not how they wanted it. Finally, the months of anguish are over, they're finally together, finally everything is okay.

(Crowley repeatedly ruins the moment by saying how "kind he is." Don't worry, as soon as the Yuus tell YuuParent everything, they'll make Roast Chicken.)

Should I talk more about this concept?

________

(ESPAÑOL)

(LOL CUANDO EL YUU CORRE EN LA FAMILIA)

PERO IMAGINA—

Imagínate que todos los Yuus son hermanos, que uno a uno van apareciendo en Twisted Wonderland mientras va pasando el tiempo y tienen sus aventuras (de sus respectivos episodios, los otros hermanos dejan de aparecer o no aparecen tanto porque buscan la forma de volver a casa).

Yuuken siendo el Mommas Boy definitivio, me da unas grandes ibras de hermano mayor que cuida de sus hermanos menores, incluso un poco demasiado. Es muy protector de su madre (especialmente si su padre no esta en la foto) quiere ser el hombre de la casa y ayudarla lo mas que puede.

Yuuka es quien trata de proteger a su madre de la forma mas directa, si hablas mierda de sus hermanos o, dios lo prohíba, de su madre/padre, te enfrentaras a un mundo de dolor seguido de la quemada mas grande de tu vida. Pero es irónicamente dulce con Yuu! Parent. Probablemente sea por su actitud perseverante y optimismo que Yuuka es como es, los admira muchísimo.

Yuuta, mi dulce niño, otro niño de mama que se puso a trabajar en un intento de ayudar a la casa y aliviar la carga de Yuu! Parent, ya sea con el trabajo o aprender tareas domésticas para hacer la casa menos un desastre. Yuu!Parent no solo es un padre de 4 hijos exitosos, sino que no pierden la compostura pese a que, socialmente hablando, probablemente reciben mucho escrutinio por ser un padre muy “suave” (especialmente por como educa a sus hijas o es muy blando con sus hijos), pero nunca se rinde, Yuuta quisiera ser asi de resiliente y rudo. Probablemente es el más vocal con respecto a cómo extrañan casa y su madre/padre.

¡Yuuna ama a Yuu!Parent! ellos siempre están en primera fila cuando ella hace sus audiciones de cantante, le ayudan a ensayar, le hace comida sabrosa cuando pasa demasiado tiempo practicando y sin salir de su cuarto, le hace sus comidas favoritas cuando la rechazan de algún grupo que ella quería unirse, Yuu!parent es básicamente su roca, cuando llego a Twisted Wonderland probablemente estaba tan emocionada por decirle de un posible éxito a Yuu!Parent por una vez…

Me gusta pensar en cómo esto podría ampliar la dinámica de los Yuus, como las tenciones irían aumentando mientras mas Yuus van llegando, como en ciertos momentos de tensión se terminan diciendo cosas duras o que no querían decir, pero justamente porque son niños que fueron arrancados de su hogar y no pueden evitar angustiarse.

No solo por ellos, sino por Yuu!parent.

Ellos no saben que están bien, ellos no saben que están ahí todos juntos o que diablos están pasando ¡ni siquiera ellos saben! Lo único que saben es que su padre/madre quedo SOLO en su mundo, talvez incluso pensando que los abandonaron, y eso LES ATORMENTA.

Por lo mismo, triplican los esfuerzos para volver a casa, atosigan mas a Crowley, investigan por su cuenta ¡algo! ¡cualquier cosa para volver a casa! ¡CUALQUIER COSA PARA VOLVER CON ELLOS!

Hasta que un dia, algo cambia. Algo vuelve a cambiar.

Los Yuus ni siquiera piensan mucho cuando Crowley los llama a su oficina otra vez, están tan cansados por trasnocharse otra vez.

Por lo que imagina la sorpresa colectiva cuando entran y ven una cara MUY familiar sentándose en la oficina de Crowley. Yuu!Parent.

Probablemente al principio pensaron que era una alucinación por la falta de sueño, hasta que Yuu!Parent fue directamente a checarlos para ver si estaban bien, diciendo como había pasado algo súper raro con un carruaje y el extraño hombre pájaro que les daba escalofríos. Y lo saben, esto es verdad.

Y ocurre el abrazo mas grande y necesario que podrían tener, aun si no es como querían, finalmente se acabaron los meses de angustia, finalmente están juntos, finalmente todo está bien.

(Crowley para varias arruina el momento diciendo lo “amable que es”. No te preocupes, en cuanto los Yuus le cuenten a YuuParent todo, van a hacer Pollo asado).

¿deberia hablar mas de este concepto?

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

[ratgirlcommunist]

Ambessa x reader where she makes you sit on her strap while she’s on a meeting 🥰

Ambessa x reader where ties your hands behind your back and feeds you fruit

Ambessa x reader where she is a pirate and you are a siren that she caught by accident (she falls in love reluctantly)

Ambessa x reader abo where your nations are at war and your a princess that needs to mary the war lord to stop the bloodshed (oh no, don’t make me mary big scary lady nooooooooooo) (Ambessa falls in love at first sight and keeps trying to be nice (unsuccessful) but reader has been told she is pure evil so she thinks it’s a trick)

[helmip]

guess who!? hint: it's a self portrait :)

[thatfriendlyanon]

i think part of my problem is i lived with my best friend for two years of my life and have been searching for the same feeling of joy & acceptance & support ever since

[kindahoping4forever]

And everyone gasped

(no one was surprised, not even a little)