#in all actuality life is looking on the up

[madamechrissy]

Pornstar Satoru

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation, mentions of drug use, weed smoking, Gojo has an OF hehe, lots of longing, pining, Satoru can't get hard if it's not you, whipped ass Satoru

This will be a FULL fic as a thank you for 11k followers (I can't BELIEVE I'm almost there!?!??) I wanted to show a little preview first, so here are some hcs!! Thank you all sm for following meee <3 Comment to get tagged!

Pornstar Satoru is one of the most famous pornstars there are, hence him constantly wearing jet black shades and hoodies at times, he never knew just who he'd run into that would recognize him. Whether it's his flicks or his OF - he's the top .01 % - he gets a lot of notice, especially in bustling LA. But, he loves what he does, he especially loves watching his abs flex in the camera as he hits one of his lovely costars from the back.

Pornstar Satoru loves making the costars and girls he collabs with actually cum, where they're shaking and squirting all over his latex covered cock. Not that fake shit like he watches them do with other men- no Satoru makes sure to slam that curved tip against their cervix, to roll his thumb right on their clit with the perfect amount of pressure. Perhaps that's the secret to how famous he really is, along with his good looks.

Pornstar Satoru makes so much money from each shoot and is in high demand, so he can have whoever he wants as a co star. They line up to have a chance at him, watching his videos and aching for a chance to feel his cock hitting them deeper than damn near anyone could hit, to say they got to shoot with the Satoru Gojo. This just makes Satoru fuck them harder, smiling right at that camera, as women dream it's really them that have captured his pretty blue eyed gaze.

Pornstar Satoru thinks it's a pretty damn good life, being rich for fucking beautiful women on camera, as he's inhaling a blunt after a threesome shoot with his best friend - and often costar- Pornstar Suguru, as they talk about who got the girl to squirt more, right in the middle of a bouguie party in East LA. Suguru let's out a throaty laugh, while Satoru narrows his blue eyes. 'I had her cumming so hard she was shaking' he says, taking a hit and handing it back to Suguru. 'Nah, that was all for me, did you see...'

Pornstar Satoru stops listening when he sees you enter the room, completely out of place at the coke filled, booze filled party, wearing a pair of black glasses that cover half of your pretty face, and a little nervous look as you stand there, in a cute white pleated skirt and a big oversized sweater. Satoru smacks Suguru on the shoulder then and he coughs up smoke. 'Shit what is it?' Satoru looks back at you, when you're handed a drink, some guy flirting as you look down shyly. 'Who's she?' Suguru blinks a bit curiously. 'I don't know, she's pretty though'

Pornstar Satoru scowls at Suguru who snorts in laughter then. 'Satoru we don't have 'girlfriends' and she... looks like a good girl' your eyes catch his then, across the room, like something shifts as you smile sweetly, before peering at your phone, biting your lip in concentration. 'I'm talking to her' Suguru chuckles as he watches his friend, and Satoru feels his heart race when he comes too close to you, something he can't say he's felt, even pleasing countless beauties, nothing has quite altered him as your sweet turn of lips, as you look down at your converse, so out of place you're fucking adorable. 'Hey sweetheart... Satoru Gojo' he says, introducing himself with ease, expecting you to maybe notice him, get starstruck, fuck women get wet just near him, but you simply grin, and your name whispers through his mind when it spills from your lips.

Pornstar Satoru has you sitting with him later, you fall into easy conversation, you're a little gamer nerd, you love science and the environment, he just bets you were head of your ecology club in college, which you quickly confirm, all while you're in awe of just how beautiful this man is. He's sweet, he's sexy... you feel he shouldn't even be talking to you. You're pretty but... he's experienced so clearly, by every way he moves, he's worldly, so confident, and you've never really left this little part of LA, but the two of you can't stop talking, to the point you forget what brought you here.

Pornstar Satoru laughs with you, as you're sitting side by side, and he lights up a blunt, leaning back on the burgundy couch on the outskirts of the party, inhaling it deep into his lungs. 'Want a hit, sweets?' he murmurs, you take it nervously, putting it to your lips and inhaling a bit, before coughing, covering your mouth. Satoru chuckles, 'you're cute' earning your cheeks heating up. 'Can you tell I don't do this?' you're nervously tapping your leg now. 'Yeah, what does bring you here, doesn't seem your...' 'my scene?' he nods then. 'yeah, that.'

Pornstar Satoru watches avidly as you sip on your drink, wincing at the strong liquor. 'Well, my friend invited me over, but she's running late' Satoru grins now. 'Party time is different, everyone comes late, that's on time. About fifteen minutes late' 'oh no I came early!' you smack your own forehead, giggling along with him. 'Are you like... a model, or an actor?' you ask, eyeing him and his baby blues, the cheekbones so perfect, those lips that wrap the blunt again. 'You could say I'm a bit of both,' he muses, then spits out his drink when you ask 'what are you in!?'

Pornstar Satoru coughs just a bit, he's never been ashamed of what he does, but he's nervous for some reason to tell you. Why, he doesn't know. 'I'm... into some indie flicks' you brighten up then. 'Oh, let me know, I love lowkey films! I bet you're great' Satoru sighs, gulping down the rest of his drink and eyeing your cup. 'Want more?' you frown now, maybe you're asking too much, or offending this actor that you don't recognize him!? You nod, the amount of people around you making you press against this friendly, pretty white haired stranger just a little more.

Pornstar Satoru has another drink, eyeing the sea of bodies undulating in the extravagant mansion, and soon the two of you are dancing together you're cute and so awkward, Satoru's enjoying this far, far too much. He has plenty of costars and fans come up to the two of you, but he's too interested in showing you how to move your hips to pay them any mind, when finally your friend comes. Satoru instantly recognizes her, she's a pretty famous co star he's collabed with on her Onlyfans not long ago. When she sees you giggling and enjoying yourself so much, she damn near drags you away, making Satoru curse.

Pornstar Satoru eyes you when your friend whispers in your ear- 'you really don't recognize him!?' you blink curiously, looking at him more closely. 'Should I?' she sighs then, eyeing Satoru up and down. 'He was in my OF videos, we collabed' you heat up furiously then. 'I never watched your videos! I just subbed to be supportive!' she giggles. 'You're so cute, I thought you at least watched some?' you shake your head nervously. 'I don't really watch, is he... like an OnlyFans guy?' Satoru is back over with Suguru now, while you sip your drink, feeling your body warm up. 'He's the top pornstar there is, the collab was like a dream. He's really sweet but you should know is all, you're kinda...' you glare. 'kinda what?' she giggles again. 'you're just... sweet, emotional, is all'

Pornstar Satoru expects you to be done with him once you find out, after all you just seem innocent, uncorrupted for this city, not the kind of girl to be at this party where lines are being snorted off bodies, and people are naked and jumping in the pools, a heady, wild atmosphere. But you smile at him, as you murmur - 'he's sweet?' to your friend. She nods then. 'He is, but just know... he doesn't date so, it'd only be physical' you frown at that now, that's not something you think you can do, you're about as demisexual as it gets, hence your very limited experience. 'He doesn't date at all?' Your friend gently touches your shoulder. 'No, love, I'd hate to see you hurt'

Pornstar Satoru catches you before you leave later that night, when you are just feeling too out of place, his big hand wrapped around your delicate wrist, earning you looking up at him. He can't stop thinking how pretty your eyes would look rolled back, how good your lips would feel wrapped around his cock, as you relax a bit, turning and looking up. 'Headed out already?' he asks softly, you flush as you remember just what he does for a living, your friend had just described his cock in far too vivid detail. 'It's not really my thing, but I'm glad we met, Gojo' you smile so cute then, leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, his arm wraps your waist as he leans down, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent cloying to your skin.

Pornstar Satoru pulls you in closer, blue eyes staring under snowy lashes. 'Can I... get your number?' Satoru has never asked for a number a day in his life, but he delights in watching you shift nervously, nodding as you tuck your hair behind your ear. 'Yeah, I'd like that' he exchanges numbers, tilting your chin up then, watching the way your eyes dilate, the color spread on your pretty cheeks. 'She told you?' you clear your throat, nodding a bit, still being captured by his fingers. 'I don't judge at all, Gojo, I'd still like to be... friends...' your whisper is met with the most subtle kiss on your lips, shooting desire hot and heavy until Satoru releases you, plump lips smirking- 'sure, sweets, we can be friends'

Pornstar Satoru can't get you off his mind, the feel of your skin on his, the sweet sigh against his lips. He is on a big shoot and - the Satoru Gojo that never gets soft - is having trouble keeping it up, to the amusement of his costar Pornstar Sukuna. Satoru scowls at his comments, just picturing your sweet lips against his for that brief moment. A man who just fucks and fucks, and doesn't feel, is hung up just on some fucking kiss. He has to take a break after pleasing his costar with his fingers, she's cumming so much she doesn't notice, but the directors wonder why he's off. He's in his own dressing room, eyeing the phone, hands shaking as he decides to type a message - 'could you give me a picture, sweets, to save as your caller id?'

Pornstar Satoru finds his cock is right back on hard when you send one quickly, just a cute selfie with a little peace sign, but he sees your glossy fucking lips, the teeth indentations he aches to rub the tip of his cock on, along with just a hint of your breasts. Your nipples press against the thin material of your little tee shirt- Pokemon, he notices, smiling- his cock throbbing. 'Can I get one too?' you're biting that lower lip nervously as you ask, getting a picture of him shirtless then, doing nothing to stifle the curiosity in your mind, your heart racing as you seee his body. 'You at a shoot?' you ask in the messages, he hesitates before answering - 'yes' - and somehow you feel jealous of whoever his costar is. You message a - kill it, Gojo! - despite the feeling in your tummy, little do you know you're drowning his fucking mind when he performs later, feeling the star squirting all over his latex covered cock.

Pornstar Satoru can't stop texting you that week, he can't even get hard if he doesn't look at that picture, and you can't stop your curiosity, when you friend mentions he's doing a live stream. Since Satoru can hardly perform, he's decided to masturbate on live cam, in minutes making more than he'd make in a shoot, all while having your picture propped up. People are chatting, watching, dollars by the hundreds being tipped every moment, fuck he's making way more than he usually would, and he can think of you. He laughs softly, abs flexing as he hits the right angle, reading the comments, making you dripping wet, this isn't what you do!?

Pornstar Satoru is stroking his wet, slick cock that's glistening, up and down with his huge hand, and you feel your pussy clench, breath coming faster, unsure whether to look away or keep staring, meanwhile he's picturing you in all sorts of positions, on your knees, a fucking mating press. He's shutting his eyes for a moment, grinning as the viewers go crazy. 'I know, it's pretty, huh?' he spits right on that long, veiny cock of his, pinching his pink tip and whining, white lashes fluttering open right when he sees a familiar name enter the chat.

Your name.

hehe it'll be a FULL FIC not a drabble/oneshot - if you're interested in getting tagged drop a comment <3

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[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Ultimate Glow-Up

Part 2

Word count: 559

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Y/n was Lando’s childhood best friend who used to have braces, bad bangs, and a deep love for Minecraft. Years later, she shows up at a Grand Prix looking stunning.

________________________________________________________

Lando Norris had seen a lot of shocking things in his life.

He’d seen Max Verstappen drive an entire race with a broken car and still win.

He’d seen Daniel Ricciardo shotgun a shoey without flinching.

He’d even seen his own pit crew change all four tires in under two seconds.

But none of that compared to the absolute whiplash he experienced when he saw her.

“Mate, are you okay?” Oscar’s voice barely registered in his ears as Lando stood frozen in the McLaren hospitality. His drink was halfway to his lips, forgotten, while his jaw quite literally dropped. His eyes were wide, nearly cartoonish, as his brain short-circuited.

Because Y/n—his Y/n—his childhood best friend, his former Minecraft-building buddy, his partner-in-crime during their gangly, brace-faced, awkward teenage years—was walking toward him looking like that.

What the hell.

Gone were the crooked bangs she had once cut herself in his bathroom mirror. Gone was the oversized creeper hoodie she practically lived in from ages twelve to sixteen. Instead, she looked… elegant? Effortlessly hot? Her hair was all glossy and perfect, she had an easy confidence in her stride, and—was that eyeliner?!

Lando gulped. His fingers twitched around his drink. This was bad.

He wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that she looked this good or the fact that she seemed completely unaware of it.

“Lando!” Y/n’s voice cut through his existential crisis, bright and familiar as ever. Her face lit up when she saw him, and before he could even react, she threw her arms around him in a hug.

Okay. Cool. No big deal. Just his childhood best friend pressing against him like it was nothing. Just normal, casual, totally platonic best friend behavior.

Lando did not freak out. He did not inhale her perfume like a total weirdo. And he definitely did not melt like butter in the sun.

“Y/n! Hey! Wow, uh—hey,” he sputtered as he pulled away, struggling to form actual words. He ran a hand through his curls, vaguely aware that Oscar was watching him like he was witnessing the most entertaining disaster of his life.

Y/n just grinned. “It’s been ages! I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Lando let out a laugh, slightly unhinged. She almost didn’t recognize him? That was rich.

“Yeah, uh, same,” he said, because he couldn’t just say what he was actually thinking, which was What happened? Who allowed this? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to transform into a goddess before showing up at my workplace?

She beamed. “You look exactly the same.”

Lando nearly choked on air.

“Wha—I—excuse me?” he sputtered, gesturing vaguely at her. “I look the same? Y/n, have you seen yourself?”

Her brows furrowed. “Yeah? Why?”

“Why?!” Lando’s voice cracked. “Because—because you—you’re all—” He waved his hands at her helplessly, looking to Oscar for support, but the Aussie was absolutely no help, hiding his laughter behind his hand.

Y/n, meanwhile, just looked confused. Like she genuinely had no idea what he was freaking out about.

“What?” she asked, blinking at him like he was the weirdo.

Lando opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Nothing,” he mumbled, defeated. “You just—you look great.”

“Oh.” Y/n’s face lit up in surprise, and a faint pink dusted her cheeks. She smiled—an old, familiar smile, braces or not. “Thanks, Lan.”

Lando was so screwed.

[suiana]

yandere! soldier who can't help but miss you every time he heads to work. what? it's a normal thing for him. if it was up to him he wouldn't be working in the first place. what better place to spend than with you?

yandere! soldier who comes home as soon as he can, holding flowers and gifts as he daydreams about you, his lovely spouse. bro is this emoji '😍' and he is NOT ashamed of it. like??? he's finally allowed to go home to his beautiful amazing absolutely gorgeous spouse??? how do you expect him to be normal.

"i love my darling." "alright, we get it." this is probably the third time he's said it. his poor friend doesn't know whether he can take another word out of your husband's mouth. it's not even halfway through the day and his ass is already talking about going home to his spouse. "my darling is the best, y'know? they're so pretty... and ah... I can't wait to go home." "we get it." what else is he supposed to say? shut the fuck up you don't have to rub your marriage in my face? if he tries to scold him... god knows what would happen. "i love my darling❤️" "we get it dude. you love your spouse." man, i think your husband is is going to be the death of this poor lad. fuck being the single friend dawg, imagine having to hear your bestie yap about their bf or gf everyday💀

yandere! soldier who's the type of guy to wear a heart shaped locket with a picture of you inside. yeah, romantic huh? wait until you realise he kisses it and holds it tenderly between his fingers on the nights when he gets dispatched on long missions and cannot see your face.

it's been two fateful weeks since he last saw your face. two long gruelling weeks without the touch and presence of his beautiful loving spouse. "i think I'm going insane." a curt chuckle leaves his throat. hah. he doesn't remember the last time he had gone so long without... without you. it's actually pure torture, he thinks. he's existed so long, refuelling himself with your loving touches, and slightly shaky reassurances... yes, he knows you're still wary of him but you're loosening uo now and that's all that matters. "i miss you, my love." the locket rests gently between his fingers, his lips cold from the lingering touch of the gold jewelry. inside is a picture of you. beautiful you. it's something he never takes off. too precious to risk anything, after all. "I'll be home soon."

yandere! solder who would lowkey actually stab someone with his knife if they dared to approach you 😂🤣 haha... that's funny... they thought you, his beautiful amazing gorgeous silly spouse, were single? haha well, not so funny now that they're on the floor huh?

yandere! soldier who is FINE SHYT😍 and loves looking handsome for you. look man, he knows you're scared shitless of him but he had to do it! he had to kidnap you from your fiancé, okay? he had no choice! why would you willingly spend your entire life on that mid ass man who doesn't even treat you right??? clearly you were forced into that relationship 🤬 meanwhile HE on the other hand... he knows how to treat you right, in fact, he'll treat you MORE than just right. this man LOVES you, okay? and he isn't afraid to show it at all. plus he looks handsome as hell in his uniform so if he's crazy at least he's crazy hot😍

[lexiputellas]

Car Kiss

The moment your car collides with his, two things hit you harder than the airbag that just exploded in your face:

1. This was absolutely not your fault. (Technically.)

2. You did not deserve this.

For a second, everything is still. Your hands are locked around the wheel, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. The scent of burnt fabric and chemicals fills the car, the deployed airbag sagging pathetically in your lap like it just gave up on life.

Then—

"Are you fucking serious right now?!"

A voice—loud, pissed, and very much alive—cuts through your haze.

Your pulse stumbles.

Right. The other driver.

Slowly, stiffly, you peel your fingers off the wheel, every nerve in your body still humming with leftover adrenaline. The heat outside is relentless, pressing against the windshield, turning the inside of the car into an oven. Your skin feels sticky, your dress clinging uncomfortably as you try to process the disaster you just walked into.

You force yourself to move. The door groans as you push it open, and the second you step out, the sun slams into you like it's personally offended by your existence.

The man standing by the other car is fuming.

He's tall, broad, dressed in a crisp white button-down that’s now slightly wrinkled—probably from the sheer force of his frustration. His tie is loosened, his hands are on his head, and his expression is pure disbelief.

"You weren’t even looking!" he accuses, waving a hand toward the wreckage like it’s some kind of crime scene.

You inhale slowly, adjusting your sunglasses, trying to summon even a shred of calm. "Okay, first of all—let’s not jump to accusations."

His nostrils flare. "Look. At. My. Car."

You do.

And—okay. Yeah. It’s… seen better days. The bumper is hanging on by a miracle, the front crumpled in like a crushed soda can.

Then you turn to Alexia’s car.

And feel actual fear for the first time.

The front end looks exhausted. Like it’s seen things and would like to never be perceived again. The airbag is fully deployed, slumped over the steering wheel in silent, tragic judgment. The scent of burnt chemicals still lingers in the air.

You swallow hard. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home today.

"Are you even listening?!" the guy snaps, dragging a hand down his face. "You literally just crashed into me, and you’re acting like—"

"Okay, I hear you," you interrupt, forcing a smile. "I do. But, like… have you ever tried deep breathing? It’s amazing for stressful situations."

His eye twitches. "We're calling insurance."

You're already pulling out your phone. "Great idea!"

Of course, you’re not calling insurance.

You're calling her.

Alexia picks up after two rings.

"Bebé” Her voice is soft, familiar, but there’s an edge to it—like she already knows.

You hesitate.

The airbag. The crumpled hood. The fact that this isn’t even your car.

"Before I say anything," you start, voice syrupy sweet, "just know that I love you."

Silence.

Then—

"What did you do?"

You glance at the guy, who is still pacing beside his ruined car, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like legal threats.

You wince. "Hypothetically speaking, if something happened to your car—"

The silence sharpens.

"—not saying it did, but if it had a little accident—"

"Define ‘little.’"

You peek back at the scene. The wreckage. The airbag’s limp, tragic existence. The guy still looking like he’s one second away from suing you for emotional distress.

"Like… a kiss. A car kiss. Just a very unfortunate, high-speed one."

"You said you needed my car for work."

"I did. And I used it so responsibly. Except for this… one tiny—okay, medium—moment."

She exhales, long and sharp. "Is it bad?"

You hesitate. "...Define bad?"

"Is it drivable?"

"Technically."

"Is anything hanging off?"

"...Define ‘hanging.’"

"You’re actually unreal."

"It’s mostly cosmetic!" you argue. "Like, it still looks like a car! Just… also like it needs a nap. And a therapist."

"Where are you?"

"Outside work. I just parked. But the guy’s yelling about insurance and—wait, hold on—" You lower the phone. "Sir, are we exchanging info, or are you just gonna keep pacing?"

He glares. "Someone’s paying for this."

You sigh, lifting the phone back. "Ale, babe. Help."

"Send me a picture."

"...Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather hear about it first?"

"Now."

The call ends.

You groan and snap a photo of the wreckage. Then, because you’re already in deep shit, you send another one.

Of your boobs—one of the many emergency nudes you keep saved, because honestly, who doesn’t have a backup plan?

Her reply is immediate.

Alexia:

You are actually deranged.

A few more seconds. Then—

Alexia:

I’m leaving training. Stay there.

Uh-oh.

Fifteen minutes later, an SUV pulls up fast.

Too fast.

The tires bite into the pavement, rolling to a sharp, precise stop. The door swings open, and she steps out.

And suddenly, the heat of the sun feels second to the way she carries herself.

Alexia looks dangerous in the way only someone completely in control can. She’s still in her training gear—dark compression shorts hugging her legs, a fitted Barça tee damp with sweat. Her hair is tied back, loose strands framing her face in a way that should not look as good as it does. She shuts the car door with purpose, her sharp gaze sweeping the scene like she’s assessing an opponent.

First, the damage.

Then, the guy.

Then, you.

You smile delicately, clasping your hands together like the very picture of innocence. "Hi, my love."

"Are you hurt?"

The question takes you by surprise.

You blink. "Huh?"

Her eyes soften—just barely. "Are you hurt?" she repeats.

Your stomach does something weird.

You clear your throat. "No. Just—bruised ego."

She nods once, accepting that, before turning to the guy.

"We’ll handle this through insurance," she states, her tone cool, absolute.

The guy, who had previously been full of righteous anger, suddenly looks… uncertain. "Well, yeah, obviously, but—"

"Give me your details," she cuts in, leaving zero room for argument. "The tow truck is already on its way. We’ll handle the paperwork."

You glance at your phone, realizing you missed the call she must’ve made while driving.

The guy hesitates, then sighs in defeat. "Fine."

Alexia doesn’t waste another second. She turns to you, jaw tight. "Passenger seat."

You hesitate. "I can explai—"

"Passenger. Seat."

Your stomach flips.

Something about the way she says it—calm, but final—sends a thrill through you. You don’t argue this time.

The tow truck arrives as you settle in, the driver stepping out and immediately greeting Alexia with a handshake. She’s already handling it, already making the process smooth, efficient. You watch her through the windshield, chin propped on your hand.

Eventually, she gets back in. Silence settles between you as she pulls onto the road. It lingers for a while, heavy with everything that just happened.

Inside the car, you watch her, awed despite yourself. The way she carries herself. The way people listen to her. Honestly, kind of hot for someone who’s about to yell at you.

You reach over, fingers brushing against hers on the console. Her grip loosens slightly.

"You're mad," you murmur.

She exhales through her nose. "You sent me nudes after crashing my car."

You grin. "Did it help?"

Her lips twitch—just slightly. "You're impossible."

You smile. "But you’re not mad about the boobs, right?" A pause. Then, carefully—

"You crash my car and send me nudes." She shakes her head, half in disbelief, half in something else you can’t quite place. "Honestly. Who raised you?"

You shrug. "A woman with taste."

A pause. Then, carefully—

"Your driving privileges are suspended."

You gasp. "You can’t do that."

"Watch me."

"Babe. My freedom."

She glances over, lips twitching. "I’ll think about it."

You grin, leaning in, voice low, teasing. "I can be very persuasive."

She hums, eyes still on the road but amusement curling at the edges of her mouth.

[kenyummy]

✰ 03. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 03. each coin can be flipped twice.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: you guys don't know true pain until you have to copy and paste each individual paragraph into a new draft because you forgot how tumblr drafts work </3

n e ways getting into the batfams characterisation yipiieeeee . i tried to incorporate overthinking into tims part realistically bc that's lowkey how i overthink things but hey. im open to respectful criticism. ive also been consuming a lot of batfam media and i tried to my take on their guilt and how it plays into the crazy thing hagaashhaha im going insane fml

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

You'd always been far too normal. That's what had driven you, all these years, to such a bitter nature. It wasn't like you'd done anything wrong—you'd done everything a regular person would do, and that was the problem.

This kind—your kind—of normality was impossible for a family like yours.

Impossible for them to understand. Relate to. See. Always falling behind, watching as their costumes and capes flutter in the wind, blowing their vision of you. Too wrapped up in the latest villain to spot the regularity in their life.

You'd wake up at 8am, eat a slice of toast with yoghurt and mixed berries—do pilates, and go on with your day.

(Your family would stay up till 8, fighting the crime that riddled the Gotham streets with an iron fist—sneaking out of the house to play dress up with a bunch of mentally insane criminals.)

You'd spend your nights at home, having done everything you'd needed to that day—lazing around with a comic book in hand.

(Your family were far too busy most nights at Arkham—preventing their hundredth breakout and the spread of fear toxin.)

You'd watch, pupils dilated as your siblings, your father came home bruised, beat, and bloodied (with whose blood—you could only guess).

You'd watch in agonising silence as they'd shoo you off after you'd peek from behind their doorframe—saying this kind of work wasn't suitable for eyes like yours.

Those same eyes dimmed that day—staring blankly into nothing as the sight of that sickening crimson red became more common to you, with each passing day.

Dripping down onto the ground—you'd never be able to get rid of that blood. No matter how hard you scrubbed the floorboards, there would always be that stain of red.

You'd grip the sheets—nails digging into mesh fabric—with a steel-knuckled hold. You'd draw what it would be like to be one of them. That same blood-red suit—yet with a different kind of venom to a bat.

Crawling up a water spout—you, the spider—were washed out by the bitterness enrapturing your heart that was once full and blooming like the most beautiful of gardens.

Venom drips from your fangs and yet left unbitten. Never poisoning anything but your own tongue.

To be overlooked and unseen with the most brilliant mind a god could conjure; the world, your family—may never love a spider, but you will find somebody, someday, who will.

Tim Drake was not used to that expression on your face.

... Actually—he wasn't really used to any expression on your face. For a moment, it felt more like a blur to him than anything. Memories of you—they were few and far between.

Except that look of pity you'd always seem to give them. The image appeared in his mind suddenly, for whatever odd reason. That sad, almost puppy-ish, expression that he'd never really given a second thought.

(Though—it made you appear more of a baby to him.)

Perhaps he'd just gotten used to it. After all this time, what could've possibly changed?

He was wrapped up with something strange given to him by Bruce when he'd seen you. A strange, web-like substance—he was just getting ready to study it when it dissolved like nothing were ever there.

Like silk, it was soft. Like glue, it was sticky. Like fibers, it was stringey. Yet—after just a few hours, it was as if it never existed. Like it were nothing but a bad dream.

Bruce and Damian talked about it like it were a spiderweb—fitting, considering the hero that wielded it, they described as looking more arachnid than human.

Regardless—his mind was already frazzled and buzzing with all kinds of thoughts. Spider. Spider Web? Spider.

Where is that fucking web?

The stress crawls under his skin like bugs and he itches. The red left over is so familiar to him—but perhaps never the same at all.

(That same red you'd seen with those big, glassy eyes—unlike that motionless gaze you'd give him sparingly. If he bled again, would you look at him kindly like that once more?)

Then, a shoulder crashes into his. Hard. Enough to almost knock the vial out of his hands. The frustration is just about to bubble over—the words crawling up his throat like bile and his chest tightens with that familiar burst of rage.

(Tim, crash-out, Drake—Steph called him once.)

But he stops.

It's only you.

Why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be at school? He hadn't been to school in a while—being a vigilante leaves a guy's schedule pretty packed—but he's sure...

"[name]? What are you doing here? Isn't it school hours...?" He asks, curiously.

You blink, face blank. He can't get a read on that face. He simply can't decipher it. It bothers him more than it probably should've. "I felt sick, so I decided to come home. Still a bit frazzled from... you know."

His heart beats faster. What? You went to school? You really went to school?

(Even if he realised it beforehand, it's like the shock runs through him again. What's wrong with him?)

You went to school even though you were shot a few days ago? Did that really happen? Did he... not realise? He's supposed to know this stuff, isn't he? Isn't he the smart one? Doesn't he keep tabs on everybody? Doesn't he look at you?

A cold chill fills his body, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. Before he can stop himself, the words spill.

"...Bruce is going to be worried. You know how he feels when you and Damian skip."

You glance to the side, considering something. He wants to know. Will you tell him? He feels like he knows nothing about you anymore. It's dehibilitating.

Since when have you brushed them off so easily? You were never like this before. You used to preen at a simple headpat (not from him—but you seemed to especially love your two oldest brothers) and practically glow when somebody talked with you.

"I think I'll live. Bye." You shrug.

His heart nearly beats out of his chest. What? Why are you acting like this? Don't you care?

Why are you acting like you hate it? You hate them? You don't care? What's wrong with you?

Did you get a concussion when you were shot? Did you hit your head and forget everything? Did you lose your mind after getting lead poisoning? Is this even you? What happened when you were shot?

Every possible question excluding—what has he done?

The bullet he saw in your shoulder flashes in his mind. When Jason practically kicked the door down, carrying your heavily breathing body bridal style and yelling for Bruce to get his ass over here.

Why were you out in the first place? Why weren't you at home? What happened to you? Why were you shot? What could you have done?

He had no time to think about it before. Not when he was so busy, and Riddler was causing up a stir.

Now, he is crumbling.

You're walking away, but his vision shakes. He feels like he's going to crumble. He hates it. This feeling. The feeling of knowing he simply just can't figure this out. He's mad. At you, or himself—he isn't quite sure. Perhaps a mix of both.

Why have you changed? Why did he not realise? Had you even changed? Did he ever know you?

He nearly crushes the vial in his grip. His hand reaches out, to grasp you. Your shoulder. The bullet lodged deep within you. Maybe if he got rid of it, you'd go back. To normal. You'd be your normal self again.

He feels it so deeply.

That crippling, nihilating urge to—

He stops. Watching you walk away. Fast. So fast. He can't catch up. No amount of training could've allowed him to walk alongside his little sibling.

Perhaps he found himself caught in that spider's silky trap—bound and unmoving as he just couldn't seem to tear his eyes away.

The empty vial doesn't concern him much anymore. He stares at it with eyes as hollow as the glass is.

Tim wonders when everything changed.

Dick Grayson watched your convulsing body with shaking eyes. A bullet lodged in your shoulder and crimson dripping onto the ground in a sickening rhythm. He couldn't reach out. He couldn't have touched your face. Not when Jason held you like that. Like a guard dog. His bloody helmet slamming to the ground just for Dick to see the absolute fury on his little brother's face.

Pupils blown—Dick knows what's going on. Better than any of the rest of them, he'd even go as far as to say. He's manic. Absolutely manic. Shouting and yelling for anyone—asking what Bruce was doing, letting you out alone this late. What he was fucking expecting.

Nobody speaks. Nobody can. What could they possibly say? That they didn't notice? That nobody did?

Jason might have taken them all on in your honour if he had truly said those words out loud. He always would've, even if he never stayed for long.

Dick almost wants to sock Jason in the face for keeping you away, so close to his own heart.

(He would've done the same, if only he had you. If only you would let him.)

The only thing he can see in his brothers' arms is that child who used to hide in the most obvious of spots. Crouching behind that large TV with the tips of their hair peeking out. Who used to laugh so gleefully when everyone pretended they couldn't find them.

He sees you, and nearly falls over.

Dick Grayson isn't a stranger to blood. Blood had followed his footsteps wherever he goes. He is made of the blood of everyone he lost and fears to lose.

He didn't think you'd fit into the former so quickly.

(You never thought you were either—did you?)

He can't do anything when he sees Jason carry you out. Slipping into a car with Bruce and Alfred and driving off, far past the speed limit.

He is powerless to move. He is useless. As he was when he watched his parents fall. When he was held back by Bruce when he found that vile man.

He hadn't felt like this for a long, long time.

He was the perfect one. He was the best of them. The first. Everything Batman was supposed to be. Nightwing. Robin. Doing everything he could to be what Bruce wanted.

He was the perfect one.

What use was that when your blood stains the hardwood floors?

What use was him not remembering what you looked like until this moment? The only time he'd ever seen you was when a bullet was lodged in your shoulder, and your body was practically convulsing.

... This should never have happened.

You were always the normal one. The most regular. Never tainted by the horrors of Gotham. Bright. Kind. Your eyes were always so kind. Pitiful. You'd always pity them. Wanting to help, but how could he possibly let you?

How could he possibly let you see the shattered expression on his face each time he'd seen you hurting? (Even if it was you hurting for them.)

You never should've...

He stops his own train of thought.

Why were you out, anyway? Hadn't you known how awfully terrible Gotham is at night?

Hadn't he... warned you...?

Dick walks off, eyes following his retreating figure—he can't find it within himself to care. He storms upstairs—almost frantically.

Everything is so quiet. Nobody here. Nobody waiting here like there usually is.

Where you usually are. The end of the hallway. It's brighter over here. The windows more open. The floorboards more bleached by the sun than back where his childhood room used to be.

He almost kicks the door open when his sweaty hands can't get a good grip on the doorknob.

(He can't. He can't destroy the barrier between you both, no matter how hard he tries.)

It slips open, eventually. Dick takes in the sight, silently, eyes darting around.

There's dust littering the air, highlighted by glittering light. The glow of the sun pours into your room like molten honey. Shining down onto your carpet.

There is nothing else.

Your room is so empty. If he didn't know better, he'd thought this were a guest room. Scuffed—but suitable for a short visit nonetheless.

How long have you stayed here?

Dick tries to ignore the bleakness that fills his head when he tries to answer his own question.

He can't bring himself to step inside. Not without you there. He stands in the doorway, as lost as he felt when he world came crashing down with that tightrope.

He feels like a little kid all over again. As helpless as a little kid is in this world.

As helpless as you were.

As helpless as you are.

Your face looked like a blur for all these years. Lingering in the background, but never for long. His nails dig into the calloused flesh of his palm. Hardened from years of fighting, protecting all he cared about. All those he failed to protect before.

He didn't do anything, did he? Not for so long. For as long as Jason died, was it?

... How long was that?

He wasn't sure when you slipped from his mind. So caught up with those beside him—he hadn't seen you slip behind, silently.

That little kid, staring up with tearful eyes. Asking where Jason was. Asking when they could all play together again.

Behind the capes, the masks—behind him, there was you.

Dick would've fallen over if he hadn't caught himself on the doorframe.

How could he have possibly, ever let you out of his sight? How can he stand to look at you when he let this happen? The most regular thing in his life. Something he had never given a second glance.

His chest hurts with a white-hot pain that stings his entire nervous system.

The best of them all—it was never him. It was always you, wasn't it?

The one keeping him grounded was you—he feels like his heart can't beat properly. Clutching it hard, nothing works. The ache stings, but nothing feels worse than his mind spiralling with thoughts of you laying in a hospital gown with red seeping out your side.

He will never, ever let something like this happen to you again.

Dick will let you know you'll never need to worry about anything again as long as your favourite big brother is here.

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[munsonsmixtapes]

Just One More

virgin!eddie x fem!reader

You literally fall into Eddie's lap and after doing you a favor, you somehow become his first.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v)

The party is in full swing when you get there. This is the first one you’ve gone to alone since your messy break up and it feels weird but oddly freeing to not have anyone by your side. You had no one to answer to, to wait on and you didn’t have to worry about being abandoned so he could go talk with his friends and pretend like you didn’t even exist. 

But because you have the most terrible luck, you spot him in the kitchen, flirting with the exact guy that he always told you not to worry about. This all has to be some elaborate joke that life has decided to play on you, that’s the only thing that makes sense. Well, good for them. They deserve each other. 

You swear you see Johnny look your way and hurry into the living room, backing up as quickly as possible to make sure that they can’t see you, but of course, because this is all still some joke, you end up falling onto something, or rather, someone. A cute someone at that. He’s got curly, dark brown hair and the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen. 

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize quickly. Instead of being offended like you assume he would be, he just smiles and it’s pretty. 

“I’m not,” he says, his voice taking on a flirty tone. Maybe life is actually starting to be kinder to you. 

“You’re not?” You ask, sitting up and the stranger just smiles wider. 

“Not at all. It’s not everyday a pretty girl literally falls into my lap.” Your cheeks heat at his compliment and you shyly turn away, only seeing that Johnny’s eyes have locked on yours. 

“Can I ask a huge favor?” He doesn’t even know you but is sure that he’d do whatever you asked. You’ve already bewitched him and he doesn’t even know your name. He always falls fast and hard and it never seems to get him anywhere. His heart always gets broken in the end. 

“Anything,” he breathes, not even caring how desperate he sounds. 

“My ex is over there and I really need you to kiss me,” you say, leaning closer and Eddie is standing to wonder what kind of dream he’s entered because surely something as perfect as this wouldn’t be real life, right?

“Sure,” he nods, his lips parting, and you slot yours between them as your arms wrap around his neck. One hand rests against your waist as the other cradles the back of your head. 

The kiss is soft and sweet, everything you could have ever hoped for. It’s like what you’ve seen in the movies but didn’t think was real. There’s a spark there and you already feel sad knowing that you’re going to have to break the kiss eventually. 

You stay like that for so long that you completely forget why you initially asked him, so caught up in his lips that you forget about everything else but him. And Eddie’s not even sure how he’s able to kiss you back since his mind is so fuzzy, no thoughts going on besides your lips. 

You’re straddling his waist now, kissing his neck and all he can do is whine, wanting more, needing more. You’re whispering the most filthy things into his skin. He wants to do everything you’re asking of him. He wants to fully submit to you. To be your good boy. 

“That’s a nice sound,” you tell him, your lips finding his again. “You wanna make it again? Maybe somewhere more private?” 

He wants to, he really does. But he’s never done that kind of thing before. Hell, he’s barely even kissed anyone before tonight so he’s sure that he’d have no idea what to do. You clearly seem to be much more experienced than him and he wouldn’t want to disappoint you. 

So he’s not sure why he agrees and lets you lead him up the stairs to an empty bedroom. His heart is pounding as you close the door then push him onto the bed. He knows he should say something, but his mind goes blank as you start to undress, your lacy bra making his cheeks flush. 

He just stays there, staring up at you as you move onto your jeans, giving him his own personal show and he’s not going to dare to tell you to stop. Especially not when he feels his pants getting tighter. 

He’s adorable, you think. He’s staring at you with drool practically falling from his lips and you wonder why he’s here alone tonight when any woman would be lucky to have him. He’s sweet and kind and you feel so grateful to have fallen into his lap. He’s unlike any guy you’ve ever met and you just know that he’ll be nothing but a gentleman when he finally gets you into bed. 

He’s staring intently, his pupils getting bigger so that his eyes look almost black and you decide that you need him and you need him now. and he needs you too considering how hard he is right now. 

You’re now just in your bra and panties and you make your way for him, placing yourself on top of him, kissing him until he’s breathless. Your hands slide up his shirt as your lips move to his neck again, pushing the shirt up slowly until you can get it over his head. 

“I-I’ve never done this before,” he says breathily. You’re quick to pull away, reaching for your clothes, but he stops you, taking your hands in his. “But I want you to be my first.” 

“You do?” You ask. “You don’t even know my name.” 

“I’m Eddie,” he replies with that pretty smile and you swear your heart melts for just a second. 

“Y/n.” 

“Y/n,” he repeats, putting emphasis on each syllable and it sounds so pretty coming out of his mouth. ”Now I do know your name and I still want you to be my first…if you want.” 

“I’m not very good, just so you know.” Those were the exact words that Johnny had said to you every time 

“How would I know?” He lets out a laugh and it makes your heart flutter. God, he’s perfect. He’s perfect and you’re probably never going to see him again. That’s why you’ve got to make tonight count. So you pull him in for another kiss, sticking your tongue into his mouth this time and he moans, loudly, a sound he’s only made when he was by himself. 

You begin to grind against him and now he’s whining into your mouth and the sound is intoxicating. You need more. You need to ride him until all he can get out is your name, screaming it until he can’t anymore. 

“You gonna be a good boy for me?” You ask as your hands slip between your bodies, feeling around for the button of his jeans. 

“God, yes,” he breathes. Once they’re off, it’s much easier to see his bulge and how much of an effect you’ve had on him from giving him your little show plus your kisses. He’s never wanted anyone so badly and he’s prepared to do whatever, be whatever you ask of him. 

He sees you pulling something from your purse and immediately realizes that it’s a condom as soon as comes into view. You slowly pull down his boxers and he should be shy about you being the only girl to ever see his cock, but he’s not. 

“I’m gonna put this on you, okay?” You tell him and he nods as his boxers finally come off and your eyes widen at the size of him. You roll the condom onto him then quickly remove your panties before straddling him. 

You settle on top of him nice and slow to get him used to it and the moan that falls from his lips is enough to make you soaked. He’s already coming undone so you’re going to take your time because you know he’s not going to last very long. 

“God,” he whines. “This is far better than using my hand.” You’re moving slowly, your hands pressed against his chest as you continue to move. 

“Yeah? You like that? How about this?” You begin to bounce even faster, moving your hands to grab onto his hips, pushing them against yours until he’s able to do it on his own, mimicking the movement perfectly. 

“Fuck,” he whines again. “Does it always feel this good?” He’s moving slowly, trying his best to keep up with your pace and you watch him come completely undone underneath you, his body pouring sweat as he pushes in and out of you, his words quickly slurring by the second.

“To be honest, not really, but with you, it feels just right. You’re such a good boy.” Those seem to be the magic words because not long after, he’s reaching his orgasm and you feel so smug because of how loud he’s being. You did that and you feel even more confident that you made him feel that good. 

When he comes down, you turn to leave because that’s what you’re used to, but Eddie grabs hold of you and pulls you down to lie beside him. You turn to face him and his eyes are pleading. You know what he wants and even though it’s programmed into you to leave, you just can’t. Not when he’s been so sweet and not when he made you feel so good. He’s not like the others that you’ve slept with. He actually cares what you’re into and isn’t interested in using you just to feel something. 

As you pull him into another kiss, you just know that you’re going to go for another round and you give in. You let him take the lead this time, only with a little guidance and he’s nothing but a good boy. He doesn’t even have to ask to know what you like. He just does. As he makes you orgasm, you just know that you won’t be able to sleep with anyone else after that. And with the way he pulls you into his arms after you come down, he tells you exactly that.

Pretty much everyone is gone when the two of you sneak downstairs and out the door. You head outside hand in hand and Eddie walks you to your car. Kissing you again and again, stalling going to his own vehicle and only leaves when he gets your phone number and plans to meet again for one more, but you both know that it won’t be just one more. Not if you can help it, anyway.

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Table 11 (H.S One Shot)

ceo!harry x fem!reader

Summary: based on this request.  An encounter at a restaurant brings together Y/N, a hardworking waitress with little time for love, and Harry, a successful yet guarded man who fears opening up. Both hesitant to risk their hearts, they find themselves drawn to each other, their bond growing through late-night conversations, stolen moments, and quiet acts of understanding.

A/n: Hi again!! my second one shot out there! i’m so excited! i hope you all enjoy it and thanks to @panini for sending the request i enjoyed writing this sooo much. And as always thanks to @eileenrry for hyping me up always. If you wish to be tagged in other works please comment, or dm me.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: A tiny bit of angst, use of y/n, casual alcohol consumption over dinner, 700 words of SMUT at the end, use of puppy and daddy, unprotected sex. (If i missed something please do not hesitate to tell me)

“Can you grab table 6 for me?” you asked Mandy while balancing three cocktails on a tray, your fingers trembling slightly from the weight. It was Valentine’s season, and Velours et Flamme was packed to the brim. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses echoed through the gilded dining room, where even the flickering candlelight seemed to exude wealth.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t Valentine’s Day yet—everyone wanted their moment under the chandeliers. For them, it was romance; for you, it was a chaotic shift.

You’d been working at Velours et Flamme for a year now, and you knew the drill: smug diners with wallets thicker than your rent, checks that could pay off your student loans, and that absurd scotch on the menu—£1,500 a pour. To this day, you were waiting for the kind of client who would actually order it. 

“Sure thing,” Mandy said with a wink, swooping past you with practiced ease. She had a knack for smoothing things over, whether it was with a picky customer or a stressed coworker. If Mandy wasn’t here, you weren’t sure how you’d survive these shifts.

London was unforgiving, and the pay barely covered the essentials—your rent, your transit card, and the occasional discount coffee from the café down the street. Your shoes, now with a small but growing hole near the toe, told the story of just how tight things had become. God forbid you needed to replace anything.

As Mandy headed for table 6, you stole a moment to glance around the room. The scent of truffle oil and roasted lamb was in the air, mingling with the sharper scent of overpriced cologne. Couples leaned in close at every table, champagne glasses raised, their conversations drowning in the clinking cutlery and soft piano music. Mandy, as usual, glided effortlessly between the chaos. She was stunning—like she belonged on the cover of Vogue instead of weaving through tables at Velours. The way she carried herself, you wouldn’t guess she was struggling just as much as you were. But you knew better. Beneath her flawless smile and the perfectly knotted apron, she was just like you: one bad week away from disaster.

You adjusted the tray in your hands and sighed. This was your life now. Maybe someday you’d climb out of this rut, but for now, it was all about surviving one shift at a time.

Just as you turned to deliver the drinks to table 9, the heavy oak doors of the restaurant creaked open, and the cold London air swept in. You glanced toward the entrance, catching sight of a man walking in. His tailored coat was with some raindrops, and his dark hair was just long enough to curl at the edges.

He was greeted by the host, and you caught his name—Harry Styles. You watched as the host confirmed his reservation.

Harry was alone, which was odd for this time of year. Valentine’s season practically demanded companionship at a place like this. But maybe his date was running late. Or his wife? You glanced at his left hand, but from this distance, it was impossible to tell.

He looked about 33, though it was hard to pin down exactly—youthful yet mature, effortlessly put-together in a way that suggested his wardrobe cost more than your yearly salary. His tailored black coat hung perfectly over broad shoulders, and when he ran a hand through his hair, the movement seemed practiced, like he was used to being observed.

And worth a million dollars? That part wasn’t in question. Everything about him screamed money—the subtle watch peeking out from his cuff, the polished leather boots, the way he carried himself like the room was his even though he’d just walked in.

The host gestured for him to follow, leading him straight to a table in your section. Your section.

You felt a flicker of something—nerves? Annoyance? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. All you knew was that your curiosity had been piqued. You adjusted your apron and reached for the notepad tucked into your pocket, readying yourself to take his order.

Before you could take a step, Mandy appeared at your side, her lips curving into a sly smile.

“Think that’s the guy who’s finally ordering the scotch?” she teased, nudging you with her elbow.

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “If he does, I’ll frame the receipt,” you muttered.

Mandy’s grin widened, and she winked before sashaying off toward table 6.

You took a steadying breath and made your way toward his table. As you approached, you couldn’t help but notice how his gaze briefly flicked up from the menu he’d been scanning

“Good evening,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you reached his table. “Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

He looked towards his phone on the table “Just water for now, thanks,” he said, his voice rich and smooth, but maybe with a tired undertone

Not the scotch, then.

“Of course,” you replied, scribbling it down. You walked towards the bar and Mandy was there patiently waiting

“The scotch??” she asked, her smile mischievous as her eyes flicked over your shoulder in the direction of his table.

“Water,” you said, your voice tinged with mock defeat as you plopped your notepad on the counter.

Mandy looked at you for a moment before the bartender slid the glass of water across the counter. She grabbed it and handed it to you with a knowing smile. “C’mon don’t be so sad, we will find that scotch guy”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you headed back to his table. As you approached, you couldn’t help but glance at him again—his fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table, his eyes scanning the room but never settling on anything. There was something about him, something you couldn’t quite place.

“Here you go,” you said, placing the glass of water on the table.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Can I get the smoked salmon, the asparagus salad, and…” He paused, finally looking at you. The pause lingered longer than you expected. “A Blackthorn Reserve. Neat,” he finished, his gaze still fixed on you.

“Smoked salmon, asparagus salad, and Blackthorn Reserve,” you repeated, trying to read him, but his expression gave nothing away.

“Thanks…” he said going back to his phone No date, no wife—just him, casually dining in an absurdly expensive restaurant while everyone else was tangled in whispered conversations and candlelit stares. He was the only one alone, a stark contrast to the Valentine’s frenzy buzzing around.

Something about him tugged at your curiosity. Why was he here, of all places? Who was he? How much was his coat, and why did it cost more than your rent? Rich men came and went every day, dripping with smugness and entitlement, but he was different. There was no show, no pretense. He treated this place like it was McDonald’s—calm, unbothered, as if the exclusivity and extravagance meant nothing to him. That nonchalance only added to the mystery, making it impossible not to wonder what his story was.

The bar hummed with activity, a low symphony of clinking glasses, muted laughter, and the occasional scrape of chairs against polished wood. You navigated the crowd, the weight of the tray in your hand feeling oddly grounding amidst the chaos.

“Can I get a Blackthorne Reserve, neat?” you said to the bartender on call. He barely glanced up, focused on shaking a cocktail for the group at the other end of the counter. The momentary wait was a blessing—giving you a second to steal a glance at him again. He sat at the corner table, the one slightly shrouded in shadow. His posture was relaxed, one hand tracing the rim of the empty glass in front of him.

When his drink was ready, you balanced the tray carefully and made your way over. The coaster slid neatly onto the table before you placed the drink on top.

“Blackthorne Reserve, neat,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt.

He looked up, his expression calm yet unreadable. “Thanks... Can I get your name, please?” His tone was casual, but his words carried a strange weight that made your heart stutter.

“Y/N, sir,” you replied, meeting his gaze for a second longer than you intended.

“Thanks, Y/N.” He smiled then—a small, soft smile that you could feel, inexplicably, in your chest.

You nodded and turned away, heading to the next table, though you were suddenly more aware of the way you moved. You kept busy—taking orders, clearing plates, laughing politely at some table’s joke. Yet, every so often, your gaze wandered back to him. He wasn’t demanding, not like some of the regulars who snapped fingers or tapped glasses. No, he sat with an air of quiet patience, occasionally checking his phone, occasionally glancing around the room. You wondered what had brought him here tonight. A celebration? A distraction?

When his dinner order was ready, you rushed to the kitchen pass, grabbing the plate with a precision born of habit. You steadied your breathing as you approached his table, placing the dish down with care.

“Smoked salmon and asparagus salad,” you announced.

“Perfect, Y/N. Thank you so much,” he said, and there it was again—the faint curve of his lips, his voice as soft as it was warm.

The evening rush began to taper off, leaving the restaurant quieter but no less busy. You caught sight of him still at his table, the remnants of his meal neatly pushed to the side. His glass sat empty now, save for the last amber droplet at the bottom, and you found yourself wondering if he was ready to leave.

Before you could approach, he raised his hand slightly—a small, deliberate gesture that seemed to summon only you.

“Another Blackthorne Reserve?” he asked when you were close enough to hear.

“Of course, sir.”

“Drop the ‘sir,’ please,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a barely-there smile. “Harry, my name it’s Harry”

You felt a flush of warmth creep up your neck but nodded. “Coming right up, Harry”

At the bar, you relayed the order, watching out of the corner of your eye as he leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting lazily around the room. By the time his drink was ready, you were certain he had no intention of rushing out. You placed the glass in front of him with the same careful precision. “Blackthorne Reserve,” you said softly.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though the dimming energy of the restaurant had reached him too. “Anything else?” you said softly

He didn’t immediately answered instead, he cradled the glass in his hands, staring down at the dark liquid for a moment before lifting his gaze again. His eyes roamed the room, landing briefly on each table. Couples sat scattered around the restaurant—some leaning close, sharing quiet conversations; others laughing over shared plates. A few tables sat in comfortable silence, the kind that came from years of companionship. And then at you.

“Busy night,” he murmured, catching you lingering nearby.

You looked around as if you didn’t knew it ws a busy night, then nodded. “Always is, especially with so many couples out. Valentine’s coming up”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice carrying a wistful note. He swirled the drink in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Guess I picked the wrong night to dine alone.”

The words caught you off guard, but you managed a polite smile. “Some people prefer it. A quiet drink, good food—it’s not a bad way to spend an evening.”

He looked at you then, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “What about you? Do you get much time for quiet evenings like this?”

The question was unexpected, and you faltered. “Not much,” you admitted. “Work keeps me busy.”

He nodded, as if that answer satisfied him, but there was something in his gaze that lingered. It felt like he wanted to say more but didn’t. As the evening wore on, he stayed longer than most, nursing his second drink and watching the world around him with a quiet attentiveness. You found yourself glancing his way more often than you meant to, wondering what kept him there—and whether he might ask for something else before the night was over. The restaurant was nearly empty now, the hum of conversation replaced by the clatter of plates being cleared and the occasional murmur of the remaining people. You passed by his table one last time, noting the way he stared into the near-empty glass, lost in thought.

As if sensing your presence, he looked up and offered a faint smile. “Can I get the check, please?”

You nodded, quickly retrieving the bill and placing it on the table. “Here you go.”

He glanced at it, pulled out a sleek black card, and handed it back to you. “Thanks, Y/N.”

The transaction was quick, and when you returned with the receipt, he stood, slipping the signed copy back into your hands.

“Have a good night,” he said softly, pausing just long enough to meet your eyes before heading toward the door.You watched him leave, his figure disappearing into the cool night air. The faint sound of the door closing behind him was a strange punctuation mark to the evening—unremarkable, yet lingering all the same.

And then, the rhythm of work pulled you back, but you couldn’t quite shake the weight of his presence. “Y/N? C’mon there’s a lot of mess here” you heard Mandy and glanced at her, plates, glasses, napkins. It was going to be a long week.

-----

Valentine’s day arrived and the soft murmur of conversations filled the elegant space of Velours et Flamme. You were just adjusting a neatly folded napkin at your station. It was already late, just 2 hours before closing, couples were coming and going, but this was the last shift of reservations

“Good evening, welcome to Velours et Flamme. Do you have a reservation?” the host asked.

“Yes, Styles. Harry Styles,” came the reply. His voice was smooth, distinct, and enough to draw your eyes toward him. Standing tall in a sleek coat.

“Table 11, if possible,” he added with a polite nod, his gaze drifting briefly over the dining area.

“Table 11 is currently busy, but I can offer you 19. It’s a lovely table by the window.”

There was a brief pause “19 it is,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance.

The host gestured toward the far side of the room, leading him past softly glowing tables and couples lost in intimate conversations. He sat down, still looking for you but his perspective was interrupted by Mandy, the epitome of calm under pressure, She greeted him warmly, placing a menu on the table. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Can I start you off with a drink tonight?”

He looked up from the menu, his polite smile softening as he spoke. “Thanks, but before I order… Is Y/N working tonight?” 

Mandy blinked, caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “Y/N? Oh, yes, she’s here tonight. She’s been covering the other section.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable “Do you think she could take my table instead?”

Mandy’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Of course. Let me check with her, and I’ll be right back.”

As Mandy walked toward you, you noticed her smirking like she was holding onto some juicy secret. “You’ve got a request,” she said, her tone teasing.

Your brows furrowed. “A request? For what?”

“For you,” she said, nodding toward table 19. “Mr. Styles wants you to take his table. Any idea what that’s about?”

Your stomach flipped at the mention of his name. You clearly remembered him from two nights ago. You wiped your hands on your apron, trying to steady yourself. “I’ll take it and you can take table 10 for me” you said, as you headed toward his table.

When you arrived, he looked up, his expression softening into a warm smile. “Y/N,” he said, your name sounding effortless on his lips. “Good to see you.”

“Good evening, Mr. Styles,” you replied, your voice steady despite the quickening beat of your heart. “I’ll be taking care of your table tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?” “Wine, Soléne Blanc, Truffle-infused Fettuccine and sparkling water” he said not even looking at the menu “Coming right up” you said smiling, you somehow felt happy, you had your usuals clients, but they were cold, smug, mostly annoying, him? totally different vibe. You kept serving him with a small smile, always checking in case he needed something, but he didn’t ask for much. He ate quietly, sipping his wine and enjoying his pasta like it was just another evening out. Like if the restaurant wasn’t all decorated with heart balloons and cupid stuff.

The night went on, and the restaurant slowly emptied. Couples left hand in hand, tables were cleared, and the soft hum of conversation faded away. Eventually, it was just one other customer in the far corner—and him. You busied yourself wiping down tables and resetting for the next day, glancing at his table now and then. He didn’t look like he was in a rush, finishing his wine and leaning back slightly in his chair.

Finally, he raised his hand, and you walked over, thinking he was ready to leave.

“Would you like the check, Mr. Styles?” you asked politely, ready to grab it for him.

But instead of nodding, he looked up at you, his expression calm but curious. “Not just yet,” he said. “Are you allowed to sit down for a bit?”

The question caught you off guard. “Yes, of course,” you said, glancing around. The manager and the host had gone home early that day to be with their SOs, but you? Along with the servers, chefs, and cleaning staff? Yeah, no such luck.

You sat down across from him, feeling a bit nervous, not sure what this was all about.

“You know,” he started, his tone hesitant, “I don’t know if this is weird at all—and you can tell me to fuck off if it is—but...” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t have many friends, and tonight... I just need to vent.”

“Well, I’m a good listener,” you replied, suddenly way more curious than before.

He exhaled deeply, his hand still resting on the base of his glass. “It’s Valentine’s Day, you know?” he started, glancing out the window. “Supposed to be about love, connection... all that.” He let out a dry laugh. “But here I am, eating dinner alone, wondering if I’ve got it all wrong.”

You tilted your head slightly, encouraging him to go on.

“My love life?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s... nonexistent. And it’s not like I haven’t tried. But most people don’t stick around. They see me, and they assume—‘CEO,’ right? So they’re either intimidated or they expect me to be some larger-than-life, perfect version of myself. I end up pushing people away because... what’s the point? I’ll never be what they want me to be. And even if I could... it wouldn’t feel real.”

He paused, his expression softening. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? A room full of people earlier tonight, and I’ve never felt lonelier. Sometimes, it feels like there’s this... wall between me and the rest of the world. Like I’ll never find someone who’s really... my person.”

Your heart ached a little at his words. “I don’t think that’s stupid at all,” you said softly. “I mean, I get it... in a way. Maybe not from a CEO perspective,” you added with a small laugh, “but... I get it.”

You leaned forward, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of the table. “I’ve been working as a waitress for years now. Just trying to make ends meet, you know? And between shifts and side jobs, there’s no time for... anything else. No time for dating or even dreaming about a real future.

“The few boyfriends I’ve had?” you continued, shaking your head. “They never got it. They’d complain about me working too much or not spending enough time with them. But they never thought about my goals—what I wanted. And let’s be real,” you added with a small shrug, “it’s not like my paycheck could make those dreams happen anyway. So, yeah, I guess I’ve given up on that, too. What’s the point, right?”

You let out a short laugh, trying to lighten the moment, but he didn’t laugh with you. Instead, he studied you, his expression softening even more.

“It’s different,” you said quickly, “but... I think I understand. Feeling like you’re giving so much of yourself but never really... being seen.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on yours. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Exactly that.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the kitchen winding down and the soft hum of the music filled the space between you.

“Thanks” “Anytime”

-----

After that first night, when he opened up to you, something shifted. He became a regular, showing up more often than you expected. Always in your section. Always polite, Always Harry. with that soft smile that somehow made your stomach flip no matter how much you tried to ignore it. And yet, every time he walked through the door, you felt a tiny pang of dread mixed with curiosity.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t kind—he was. He never made you feel uncomfortable, never crossed a line. But that was exactly the problem. It was too easy to talk to him, to laugh at his dry jokes or share fleeting glimpses of yourself you hadn’t meant to reveal. You’d been down this road before, or so you told yourself. You knew what happened when you let someone in. It started with little things—a laugh, a smile, a shared moment. And before you knew it, your heart was tied up in something messy, something that always felt like it demanded too much of you.

Your exes had taught you that love wasn’t about equal footing, at least not for someone like you. Love had been another job, another place where you had to prove yourself, where your dreams took a backseat because someone else needed more—more time, more attention, more of you.

And now, here he was. Harry. A man who, on the surface, seemed worlds apart from you but had a way of making you feel like he truly saw you. And that terrified you.

Because what if he didn’t? What if, like everyone else, he was drawn to an idea of you—someone kind, patient, maybe even a little mysterious—but not the real you? The one who worked double shifts just to keep the lights on, who barely had time to think about her own dreams, let alone share them with someone else?

So, you kept your walls up. You kept things professional, polite. You smiled, laughed when it felt safe, but you never let yourself think too much about why his visits mattered or why your heart raced when you saw him.

Until that night.

You brought the check over as you always did, a practiced smile on your face. He signed it, handed it back, and thanked you like he always did. But rushed to go out.

When you glanced down at the receipt, your breath caught.

“123-456-7890 Call me? - Harry”

The number scrawled below it was neat, confident, like he hadn’t hesitated for a second. But you did.

You gripped the paper tightly, your mind spinning. This was the moment you dreaded—the moment where things teetered on the edge of something more. And with it came all the fears you’d been trying to bury.

Because what if he meant it? What if he actually wanted something real? What if he saw more in you than you could see in yourself? And maybe worst of all... what if you let yourself hope, only to have it all fall apart again?

You froze for a moment, staring at the slip of paper, your mind racing. He had just walked out the door, and you glanced after him through the window, catching the faintest glimpse of his silhouette.

----- A few nights passed, and you convinced yourself that ignoring the receipt was the right thing to do. The thought of calling him felt too big, too real. You’d gotten good at guarding your heart, at keeping things simple. But deep down, you felt the faint sting of regret every time you thought about it.

Then, on a quiet evening, as the rush died down, there he was.

You saw him before he saw you, his figure familiar now, confident but approachable. He made his way to the host stand, scanning the room until his eyes landed on you. His smile was soft, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t entirely sure he’d made the right decision coming back.

“Table 11 again?” he asked the host.

---

You approached, trying to steady your nerves. “Good evening,” you said, your voice quieter than usual.

“Hi,” he replied, leaning slightly forward. His expression wasn’t upset, but there was something thoughtful in his eyes. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by.”

You shook your head, unsure what to say. “Why would i?” 

“I just wanted to check in,” he said. “About the number. I wasn’t sure if I crossed a line leaving it. If I did, I’m really sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

You blinked, surprised. The last thing you expected was for him to apologize. God you expected an angry response, even pretentious but you even scolded yourself in your mind just thinking Harry was capable of that. “No, you didn’t cross a line,” you said quickly. “Not at all. It’s just...” You hesitated, feeling your walls crack ever so slightly. “It’s complicated.”

“I get that,” he said softly, leaning back in his chair. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing I’d want.” The sincerity in his voice made something shift in you. For all your fears about opening up, he was here, not pushing, not demanding, just... waiting. The crack on your walls was now getting bigger.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For saying that. And for... being patient.”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “I figured it was worth it. You seem worth it.”

The words hung between you, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. Your chest felt tight, like you were standing at the edge of something unknown. And then, before you could overthink it, you made a decision. 

One wall completely down.

You reached into your apron pocket, your fingers brushing against the scrap of paper you’d tucked away days ago. Slowly, you slid it out, unfolding it carefully before placing it on the table in front of him.

He glanced down, his brows lifting slightly as he recognized the paper.

“I didn’t call i did save the number in my phone but..i didn’t call…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because I was scared. I’ve always been scared. But maybe...” You took a shaky breath. “Maybe I’m tired of being scared.”

His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something you hadn’t let yourself hope for—understanding, warmth, maybe even relief.

“So,” you continued, your voice steadying as you looked him in the eye. “If the offer’s still open, I’d like to start over.”

His smile widened, and he picked up the slip of paper, tucking it into his jacket pocket like it was something precious.

“The offer’s still open,” he said, his tone light but full of meaning.

For the first time in a long time, you let yourself smile back. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” you said going back to your waitress self, but this time with a big smile on your face.

The rest of the night carried an air of something new, something unspoken. You noticed it in the way his gaze lingered as you brought over his glass of wine—a different one tonight, a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.

“You’re not sticking to a favorite?” you teased lightly as you set the glass down.

He smirked, his fingers brushing the stem. “I like variety. Keeps things interesting.”

“Does that apply to everything or just wine?” you asked, surprising yourself with the boldness.

He chuckled “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

The banter flowed easily after that, your interactions feeling more relaxed, almost playful. When you brought out his dinner—tonight, a wild mushroom risotto—you couldn’t help but make a small quip.

“Risotto,” you said, placing the plate down. “Trying to impress someone tonight?”

“Just my server,” he replied smoothly, making you glance away with a shy smile.

As the evening wore on and the restaurant began to empty, you found yourself gravitating toward his table more often. He didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he welcomed your presence with a smile each time. When he finally asked for the check you came quickly and handed it over.

“Thanks,” he said, glancing up as he pulled out his card. “Should i leave another note on the receipt or should i ask right away?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “About what?” 

He handed back the signed receipt, a sly grin on his face. “Well, if we are skipping the middleman. Have dinner with me—somewhere that isn’t here. I promise I won’t make you serve me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how casually he’d said it. “You’re asking me out?”

“Too fast?” he teased.

“A little,” you admitted, but your heart was pounding. “But i like it this time”

He stood, shrugging on his jacket. “Well, think about it. No pressure. Just... somewhere nice, where we can talk and you don’t have to carry plates around.”

You couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face. “Okay,” you said softly. “But only if I get to pick the place, no fancy Michelin-star restaurants.”

“Deal,” he said, standing and shrugging on his coat. “But just so you know, I’m good with street tacos or diner burgers.”

The laugh that bubbled out of you was genuine, and as he waved goodnight and walked out into the night, you realized you were already looking forward to whatever came next.

-----

The dates started slow, testing the waters of this new, fragile connection. Their first was at a cozy, family-owned pizzeria, far removed from the polished dining spaces Harry was used to frequenting. They sat in a corner booth, sharing stories over thin-crust slices and soda. You learned that his laugh came easily when he was truly comfortable, and also learned or imagined how wealthy he was. Him telling you about his company didn’t compared how one of your ex-boyfriends talked about a new crypto. He was passionate, honest, not even mentioning how much money he makes in a year, it was pure. As pure as corporate can get.

After that, there was a second date at an indie bookstore. Harry had smiled as you danced from shelf to shelf, excitedly recommending titles, while he kept his hands tucked in his pockets, quietly absorbing your passion. You ended up leaving with two novels you insisted he had to read and a poetry collection he bought, saying, “I thought of you when I saw this.”

Then came the late-night phone calls. You both quickly learned that your lives rarely aligned, but you made the most of the small pockets of time you shared. He’d call after a long day at work, his voice a little tired but steady as he asked about your day. You’d talk quietly from your bed, recounting the chaos of the dinner rush and sharing little anecdotes about your coworkers. sometimes until you fell asleep and he heard your steady breathing through the call.

“Do you ever get a day off?” he joked one night, his voice warm through the receiver.

“Not often,” you admitted. “But I’m used to it. And hey, at least I’m not running a company.”

“Touché,” he replied, laughing softly. “But don’t think for a second I’m not impressed by what you do.”

The weeks passed in a flurry of mismatched schedules and stolen moments. When aligning your off-days seemed impossible, Harry started stopping by the restaurant on his way home from work, not to eat but just to see you.

“Table for one?” you teased the first time he showed up unexpectedly.

“Not quite,” he said with a smile, taking a seat at the bar instead. “Just water, please. I didn’t want to add to your workload. i just wanted to see you” 

You brought him the water, leaning against the counter for a brief moment when the restaurant was quiet. “You didn’t have to come all this way,” you said softly.

“I wanted to,” he replied, his gaze steady. “You’re the best part of my day.” ---

The first kiss came on a rainy night after one of those visits. The restaurant was closing, and he had waited outside under the awning as you locked up. When you stepped out into the night, he was there with an umbrella, holding it out for you.

“Need a ride home?” he asked.

You nodded, and he quickly arrived to your place. At your door, there was a brief pause as you turned to thank him.

Before you could speak, he leaned in, his movements precise, as though giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. When his lips met yours, it was soft and sure, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek.

It wasn’t hurried or frantic—it was the kind of kiss that made you feel like you had all the time in the world. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe you deserved this. When he pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, he whispered, “Finally.”

You laughed softly, your cheeks warm despite the cool rain. “Took you long enough.”

And with that, the lines between your busy lives blurred a little more, the moments you carved out for each other feeling less like an interruption and more like a necessity.

----

It happened on an unusually quiet night. You were sitting across from him at his place, a cozy loft that felt miles away from the chaos of the restaurant. The table was littered with the remnants of takeout boxes, and you were laughing at a story he had told about a disastrous business trip. The laughter faded into a comfortable silence, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning your face as if trying to figure out the best way to say something.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, his tone casual but his expression serious.

“That sounds dangerous,” you teased, though the look on his face made your heart flutter with curiosity.

“I’m serious,” he said with a small smile, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the table. “I’ve been watching how hard you work. You’re on your feet all day, running around, dealing with difficult customers. And then you come home and somehow still have the energy to take care of everything else in your life.”

“That’s just life,” you said, shrugging. “You know how it is. You make it work.”

“I know,” he said, his voice softening. “But it doesn’t have to be like that. Not for you.”

You frowned slightly, unsure of where this was going. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’m saying I could offer you something different. A way to work that doesn’t involve twelve-hour shifts and aching feet. Something where you’d have more time for yourself, for your dreams, and…”—his voice faltered just slightly—“for us.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you leaned back in your chair, trying to process his words. “Harry, are you asking me to quit my job?”

“Not asking,” he clarified quickly. “Just… suggesting. If you wanted to. I could offer you a job. Something in my company, but nothing high-pressure. Maybe in admin, or operations, or whatever you’d like. You’d have a flexible schedule, a good paycheck, and, most importantly, time to breathe.” Of course he wasn’t asking, he’s Harry, ALWAYS making sure it was purely your decision.

The weight of his offer hung in the air, and you felt a tangle of emotions—gratitude, doubt, and an overwhelming sense of being cared for in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I don’t know,” you said slowly, trying to find the right words. “I’ve always worked for everything I have. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m just…”

“Stop,” he said gently, cutting you off. “This isn’t about charity. It’s about giving someone I care about a chance to live their life differently. You deserve that. And it’s not just for you—it’s for me too. I want to see you happy. I want to see us happy.”

You looked at him, his eyes earnest and unwavering. “And you think this would make me happy?”

“I do,” he said simply. “But it’s your choice. If you’re not ready, or if you want to keep things as they are, that’s okay. I’ll still come to the restaurant and order my overpriced water just to see you.”

That last comment made you laugh, easing the tension in the room. You stared down at the table, tracing the edge of a takeout container with your finger. “What would I even do at your company?” you asked softly.

His expression brightened slightly, and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Anything you want. Admin, scheduling, planning events—whatever feels right to you. And we can figure it out together. No pressure.”

You bit your lip, considering his words. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “You deserve more than what you’ve been settling for. And selfishly…I’d love to have more time with you.”

His honesty warmed you in a way you hadn’t expected. For so long, you’d carried everything alone, convinced that leaning on someone else meant weakness. But Harry wasn’t asking you to lean on him; he was offering to walk beside you.

“Okay,” you said finally, the word barely audible.

His brows lifted in surprise. “Okay?”

You nodded, a nervous laugh escaping. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll work for you.”

The grin that spread across his face was enough to make your heart skip a beat. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“I better not,” you teased, though the smile on your face betrayed your nervousness. “But just so you know, I’m not going to be some pushover employee. If you’re a terrible boss, I’ll quit.”

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Fair enough. But I think you’ll find I’m quite charming.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “We’ll see about that.”

In that moment, the fear you’d been carrying felt lighter. You weren’t just throwing yourself off a cliff—you were trusting that Harry would catch you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe that was okay.

----

Life had changed in ways neither of you could have imagined. The small apartment you'd once called home was now replaced by a shared space filled with light, laughter, and little touches of each other everywhere—his collection of vinyl records stacked neatly in the corner, your books scattered on the coffee table, and the scent of fresh flowers he insisted on buying for you every week.

You had found a rhythm together, a balance between his busy days running his company and your own work, which had evolved into a role that allowed your creativity to shine. You weren’t just an employee at his company—you were a partner, bringing ideas and energy to projects in ways you never thought possible. And at the heart of it all, there was love. Open, unapologetic, and boundless love.

Mornings were filled with teasing banter over breakfast, and nights ended with shared dreams and whispered promises under the covers. On weekends, you’d go on adventures—sometimes exploring new cities, other times simply enjoying lazy days at home. There was no hesitation in showing how much you adored each other, whether it was in the way he’d kiss your forehead absentmindedly or the way you’d hold his hand tightly in crowded rooms.

One evening, after a particularly exciting day of work, Harry had an idea. “Let’s go out for dinner,” he said, tossing his jacket onto the back of the couch.

“Sure,” you replied, grabbing your shoes. “Where to?”

He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Velours et Flamme.”

You froze for a second, then burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all,” he said, his grin widening. “It’s been a while. I think it’s time we revisit the place where it all started.”

Despite your initial hesitance, you found yourself walking into the restaurant hand-in-hand with him that evening. The familiar scent of wine and spices filled the air, and the decor, though slightly updated, still held the charm you remembered.

The host greeted you with a polite smile “Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Do you have a reservation?”

“Styles,” Harry said smoothly, squeezing your hand.

You were led to a table by the window, the same spot you’d served him on that Valentine’s Day when everything began. As you sat down, you couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia wash over you.

“This feels surreal,” you admitted, glancing around.

“Good surreal?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as he leaned forward.

“Very good surreal,” you said, smiling and carefully looking at the menu, when an idea quickly popped into your mind. You bit your lip, hesitating for a brief moment before speaking up. “Can I splurge a little? Or maybe… a lot?”

Harry tilted his head, intrigued. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, glancing at the menu with a playful smile.

You took a deep breath, letting your finger trace over the menu’s edges before landing on the words you’d been eyeing. “Cairnburn 18,” you said firmly, looking at him with a small, determined smile.

“Scotch?” he asked, raising an eyebrow but not even glancing at the price.

“It’s something I need to do. Please,” you said softly, a touch of vulnerability in your tone.

He didn’t question it, didn’t protest or ask for a reason. Instead, his expression softened, and he reached for your hand, cradling it gently before bringing it to his lips. The kiss he pressed to the top of your hand was tender, a silent reassurance. “Anything you want,” he said, his voice calm and sincere.

The waiter arrived, and Harry placed the order without hesitation, his gaze never leaving yours. You couldn’t help but feel a swell of gratitude for him in that moment—not just for agreeing, but for understanding without needing an explanation.

As the Cairnburn 18 arrived, the rich, £1,500 a pour, amber liquid catching the light, you smiled and raised your glass to him. “To us,” you said simply.

“To us,” he echoed, clinking his glass gently against yours. ----

You both knew how the rest of the night would go the minute you left the restaurant. Back home, he helped you undress, kissing every inch of exposed skin as he did. When you were bare, he pressed his lips to yours, the heat between you building as his hands roamed over your body.

The way he touched you everytime was unhurried, like he was memorizing every curve. His fingers teased along your collarbone, traced your hips, and softly grabbed your breasts. His hands were everywhere, But nowhere near the place you needed him most.

Finally, he pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. You let him guide you to the bed, watching as he stripped off his clothes and joined you. The heat of his body was intoxicating, and you found yourself craving more—more contact, more skin, more of him.

He sensed your need because he moved closer, the length of his body pressed against yours, his cock hard and thick against your thigh. You ached for him, the anticipation coiling in you, but he didn't rush.

Instead, he trailed kisses along your neck, his stubble rough against your sensitive skin. His fingers danced along your inner thigh, teasing closer and closer to your folds. When he finally touched you, it was with a firm, confident stroke, his thumb brushing against your clit and making you gasp. "Harry..." you moaned breathless

"Yes puppy?" He asked with an innocent tone and used that nickname that made you weak, and kept up the torturous pace, working you higher and higher until you were a trembling mess beneath him. You moaned, begging him for more, and he finally relented, easing a finger inside of you and setting a relentless rhythm. “More” Your pleasure built quickly, the intensity making you cry out, but just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled away. Before you could protest, he positioned himself between your legs, his cock hard and glistening at the tip.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on either side of your head and gazing down at you with a look of pure devotion. "I love you," he whispered, the words sending a thrill through your entire body. "And I'm gonna take care of you, puppy. Always."

With that, he thrust into you, filling you completely and stealing the breath from your lungs. The feeling of him inside you was almost too much, and you clung to him, desperate for more.

"Fuck, Harry," you breathed. He didn't respond, instead burying his face in your neck and moving slowly, deeply, as if he was savoring every moment. His hands roamed your body, teasing and caressing as his hips continued their torturous rhythm.

"Do you like it puppy? me being so deep inside you?"

You could only nod, too overwhelmed to form words. The sensations were overwhelming, the pleasure building and building until it threatened to consume you.

Suddenly, he shifted, changing the angle and hitting a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. "it's so....big" you barely said in a moan

"That's right puppy. Take all of it. Just like that"

You writhed beneath him, unable to hold back the moans spilling from your lips. Your release was within reach, and when he finally slid a hand between your bodies, stroking your clit, it was enough to send you tumbling over the edge. "Come on daddy's cock puppy, don't be shy" he murmured

His words were enough to push you over the edge, your body tensing and trembling as pleasure washed over you. You felt him pulse inside you, and he followed soon after, his breath hot on your neck as he came with a groan filling you with his hot cum.

When the last waves of your orgasm faded, you collapsed against him, completely spent. You both stayed there for a moment, tangled in each other's arms, neither of you willing to break the spell.

Eventually, he pulled out and gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You nuzzled into his chest, breathing in the scent of his skin and the faint trace of his cologne.

Both of you were now cuddled in bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm light across the room. Harry’s arm was wrapped securely around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your shoulder as you rested your head against his chest, listening to the now steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Your eyes drifted to the two frames hung just above the bed. The first one held the receipt from the night that had changed everything—the receipt where he’d written his number, sparking a connection that had grown into the life you shared now.

The second frame hung beside it, empty but not forgotten. Its purpose was clear—it was waiting for tonight’s receipt, the one with the Cairnburn 18 scribbled on it. The night where everything had come full circle.

Taglist: @hermionelove

[timmydraker]

Tim who is scarily good at the Hitman games.

Everyone is good with it mostly, excluding Cass who won’t play it, with everyone having completed the first few missions at least during a training exercise made by Jason who was hiding an injury and came up with the idea on the spot.

This is how they find out that not only does Tim already have all the games, he’s finished them all, got all the achievements and has over 2,000+ hours.

Turns out it’s what he plays when he feels his mind is running too rampant and needs reigning in. He knows all the secrets and has a spreadsheet made up of all the ways you can complete a mission per chapter. He has a strategy for each type of assassination from getting someone else to do it, killing everyone, making it look like an accident, ect. He’s even managed to kill every soldier in some chapters without getting caught and somehow managed to save Diana from being shot by 47?

It’s kind of scary watching him seamlessly navigate around any new map that comes out and complete all missions under a self imposed time limit.

(His record is 1 minute and 27 seconds)

Bruce is naturally worried and it isn’t helped when the response to these concerns is, “would you rather I do it in real life?”

Tim can do it in real life, came closest with Captain Boomerang, and he has at least thirty ideas of how to kill everyone in his life subconsciously. He doesn’t want to, nor will he ever act on it, but it’s sort of… fun.

It’s like puzzle solving but with higher stakes and Hitman is a good way to test his theories without actually killing anyone.

If playing Hitman made him test how sneakily he could drug people by putting sugar in peoples drinks at Galas when he was nine, that’s just childish curiosity. Plus, it made him put out a campaign when he was older to prevent drugging because he himself knows how easy it is, so win win.

At least he didn’t shave his head like he thought about, though that was only because a certain acrobat did it and made Tim realise how unstylish it was if it wasn’t natural.

At the end of the day playing Hitman made him a better Robin and helped him sneak around the League of Assassin’s base that was filled with people even 47 would struggle against.

And he won the training exercise.

[masterchef901]

Oh man this shot fucking kills me

For the first time in her life, this isnt about her, Vriska just wants to save everyone from a doomed timeline because it's the right thing to do, and they're her friends and her family. It isn't about playing the hero anymore, she's finally doing things out of real empathy and a desire to do good for the people she cares about

And what she gets are just the kids

The kids she met for one day, 8 years ago (and only just earlier that same day to them), who all without hesitation agree to abandon their world, and are obviously driven to that because they want to escape from the nightmares that are their parents

Their parents, who were Vriska's actual friends, who she knew and trusted for years and probably looked forward to seeing again every damn day she spent in the Point

And this shot does so much to show just how much it hurts her to see this

8 years unraveling the trauma and pain of her own childhood, how much damage was done to her by her own parental figures - and now it falls to her to rescue another set of kids from her own friends

she finally wants better only to find that it's still so much more fucked up than she knew, and she's ashamed and disappointed and hurt

[pwnyta]

OK... So I know I said I wasnt gonna do anything with my EVO AU (https://pwnyta.tumblr.com/post/778204178228068352/the-other-day-i-was-trying-to-sleep-but-instead-i) but.... IM A LIAR!

Cuz I just thought of something...

Like when Ivo is making his announcement to Stone I thought about Stone using his ability to connect to all the tech he could to show Ivo how much he cared in his last moment.

Honestly my initial idea was that Ivo blows up and Stone dies from forcing himself to connect to an ungodly amount of tech to reach the mini-Nik recording and for once controlling one of Ivos babies just this once.

BUT.

Im not a bully. Sometimes.

Shadow hanging out with Stone for a bit was probably the most normal his life was for a long time. I feel like he'd appreciate it.

Stones genial nature inadvertently saves Ivo, Ivo has feelings about it.

While I was doing this I thought itd be neat if Shadow was the test subject for the bio-augmenting GUN does to its soldiers. Shadow doesnt know if the teleporting is his real power or one that GUN gave him but they dont always work the way theyre supposed to.

Shadow didnt even think he should have been able to save himself and Ivo but luckily Ivo had his AMP on to give him the extra boost.

Stone manages to get back to the states with the help of his powers and the fact that even though he LOOKS like a wanted AWOL soldier that is a wanted criminal... clearly this person is an EVO and that soldier IS NOT.

Stone is ambivalent to his marks fading... on one hand he'd like to hide his powers again but on the other hand... its kind of his last connection to Ivo. Self preservation wins out in the end... cuz his life was actually the last gift Ivo gave him. He'd do anything for Ivo. Even live on without him.

Im Ivo and Im Shadow and we are THE EMOTIONALLY STUNTED COUSINS.

They go on a space road trip to get back to earth.

Once they get back Ivo will get his loving family and Shadow will get a new home.

Home is where the heart of Stone is... or something.

[twigstarpikachutroll22]

my result:

stories about stories aka The Narrative congratulations, you are very sexy. you also probably knew that this is one of the possible results when you took this quiz, because i never shut up about it. the only human nature is telling stories - we are shaped by the stories that we tell, the stories that others tell about us, the stories that we allow to be told at all. telling our own stories is a form of empowerment. telling other's stories can be an act of love. it can be an act of violence. “I remember always thinking that life itself doesn’t actually exist, because if no one tells it as a story or turns it into a narrative, life is merely something that happens, nothing more. To understand life, you have to tell it, even if only to yourself. This doesn’t mean that a story can make life comprehensible, because there are always gaps in any narrative, whatever sutures or remedies you might try to apply. That is why a narrative only restores life in fragmentary form.” - Enrique Vila-Matas, ‘Invented Memories’ Vampire in Love and Other Stories (translated by Margaret Jull Costa) fave examples: black sails, the wire

my imaginary friend’s result:

dynamic duo deeply entangled in each other's trauma now THIS is spicy! this character dynamic is my kryptonite, and here is why: i looooove mess. also it's very versatile. it works for romances, friendships, enemies, family relationships...slap some of this trauma on there and watch these 2 people hate and love one another and [****] each other over and leave each other bleeding and save each other...usually if this is a romance it's kind of unhealthy, though. i just love to watch characters stretched to their limit, and there is nothing better for this than other characters. "Bury me next to you in an unmarked grave... Oh, we'll still hate each other, my dear, we have hated each other too long and too passionately to stop...but my bones will rest easy next to your bones." fave examples: flint & silver (black sails), remus & sirius (hp), luke & leia (sw), mercy & augustine (locked tomb)

“You’re the one who’s insane about ctntduo, not me.

*i give her an Extremely Doubtful look*

“…Okay, yes, but YOU got me into it.”

*i grin*

“And at any rate it hardly seems like something to primarily assign to me and NOT you.”

Fair.

hi kings let’s find out which of my fave literary devices you are

[anhesacardia]

Forbidden Promises

Chapter 7 (Series Masterlist)

Pairing: Modernau!Sukuna x Mother!Reader

Genre: Hidden Baby Trope

Summary: Reader opens up a bakery after running away from her three year relationship with Sukuna, effectively ghosting him and hiding away in the middle of the countryside. Unknown to Sukuna, reader also had a baby, and now is living peacefully until an unfateful meeting starts to pull her back into the life she so desperately escaped from.

Tw: Reader lowkey cries again, Misunderstandings resolved!! Finally!! Sukuna does kiss reader but consent is kind of implied. More drama ensues!! No Hana :(

Wc: 2.4k

Sukuna had always prided himself on being somewhat of a good actor, or at the very least masking his emotions better than anyone else. From a young age he learned the hard way that his emotions were to be suppressed, he wasn’t supposed to feel anything but anger and frustration. 

He can still remember his mothers disgusted face when Sukuna had taken barely a week to conform to the new rules set on him, distaste weighing heavy in her mouth as she pushed him away from her embrace.

“Don’t ever try that with me, Ryoumen. You will regret it.”

Her indifferent tone hit him like a bucket of cold water. The man couldn’t remember what happened next, Jin rushing in and comforting his younger twin as Sukuna held back tears.

That’s why he finds himself plastering a business smile on his face, masking the shock with a charming smile as he extended one arm out to Aoi, the other coming to wrap around your waist and pulling you closer,

“Ah it is good to meet you too…?”

He paused, letting Aoi introduce herself, shaking Sukuna’s hand with enthusiasm.

You quickly interjected before Aoi could go any further than her name and occupation, wrapping an arm around Sukuna’s and making up some excuse to pull him away from the sea of onlookers,

“I didn’t know you were going around telling other people I was your husband?”

Though Sukuna sounded offended, he was nothing but relieved. His eyes trailed down to the chain on your neck, a simple golden ring glinting in the morning sunlight. It felt like a heavy weight had been pulled off his chest. His arm dropped from your shoulder to the small of your back, resting comfortably like it did years ago. 

“That’s not- I haven’t been telling anyone you are my husband, it’s a simple misunderstanding,”

Sukuna hummed, high on the euphoria of the thought that you had no husband to be paying any actual attention to the words stumbling from your mouth. 

“Whatever you say wife,”

He smirked, feeling far too happy for himself as he turned his head to look at you, eyes gleaming in happiness. 

“That’s not the point- oh god you’re just so!”

That fond feeling rose up in Sukuna’s chest as he watched you fuss over the situation, freeing yourself from his grasp as you walked up the sidewalk faster. 

Sukuna merely took longer strides to catch up with you, eating the distance up in a few seconds as his hand wrapped around your elbow, tugging you away from the curb and claiming the space you left.

The action made you flush, highschool feelings returning all at once at the sweet gesture. So many people asked you what you saw in Sukuna, some even straight up asked you if you were being held hostage. They just didn’t know about your Sukuna, they didn’t know about how sickeningly sweet he treated you. 

He’s not even on social media, neither does he even know about the pathway rule but it’s ingrained in him to look after you, to make sure you were the most comfortable at any place. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to let go of him after all these years. 

“Where did you even find out that I have a husband?”

Sukuna turned his head to look at you, almost pouting as his eyebrows furrowed together opening his mouth just as you opened the door to the bakery. 

“Let’s talk inside your house,”

He mumbled under his breath, making you pause as you sighed, flipping the sign on the glass doors of the bakery to display closed.

Sukuna sat quietly at your dining table, no longer awkwardly trying to fit himself in the cramped space, instead just staring at the tiny piece of furniture like it had personally insulted him. 

You whipped a few more pancakes, making sure to reduce the sugar content just like how the CEO liked it, placing a few berries on top along with a cup of black coffee. You were surprised he didn’t blow up on you without his daily fix- then again you suppose you wouldn’t know a lot of things about him, not after all this time.

Sukuna eyed the pancakes with a hungry look, scarfing them down as you watched him amused, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips,

“Is Uraume not cooking for you anymore?”

Sukuna glared at you, gulping down mouthfuls of the scalding coffee as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, 

“Nah they’re working at some fuckass restaurant, just been a while since I had your food,”

Sukuna continued eating his pancakes without a care in the world, like him saying that sentence didn’t have a million thoughts swirling in your head,

He missed me.. 

You thought to yourself, looking down at the cup of coffee in your own hands, twirling the cup so the liquid was sloshing around inside the ceramic. 

“Where did you get the information that I had a husband?”

You peeked through your lashes watching Sukuna finish the pancakes and the rest of the coffee. He looked like he was struggling to get the words out, licking over his lower lip and pressing his thumb to his temple as he was left in deep thought. 

Under his lip was the light pink stain of a strawberry and you instinctively reached over to wipe at with your thumb, eyes widening as Sukuna’s own shocked gaze met yours, 

“Oh uhm- Hana- she gets messy- so I,”

You pulled your hands back, immediately going to explain with a flustered expression while Sukuna started barking out in laughter. You glared at him with a pout, sitting back in your seat white your arms crossed under your chest,

Sukuna stopped laughing, wiping away imaginary tears as he took another napkin, wiping his mouth with it as he grinned at you. He then crumbled up the tissue in his hand, looking out at the balcony that was a few steps away from the dining room with a complicated expression.

“I guess you deserve to know what really happened back then,”

When Sukuna finally came home after five long weeks of not seeing you, he made a beeline for your room, then your shared bedroom, then the kitchen, then the specialized baking room he had built for you, then the living rooms followed by all the washrooms and guest bedrooms.

His heart was thumping irregularly in his heart, body drenched in cold sweat when he sent a thousand missed calls only to  find your phone abandoned  on the dining room table.

His head chanted your name like a mantra, like it would suddenly make you appear in front of him. A few days passed by where he didn’t really move from the house, praying to the gods out there that you were safe and would come back home. 

Uraume stayed over with him for a few weeks, cleaning up after his messes and cooking for him. They got to work immediately, slowly removing the traces of you that were left behind, pacing them all into a box and storing it in the attic lest Sukuna find them and go on a witch hunt. 

Sukuna had already established himself in the company- he had a few more fuckers to send to the afterlife and he could finally stop these month long trips away from you. He had officially been recognized as the CEO by all the board members, a velvet box tucked into his pocket when he came home, just for the ring to be discarded in one of his bedside drawers. 

He waited for a grueling three months before he decided enough was enough and hired people to go look for you. What he got in return was photos of you with an obvious baby bump, a man helping you walk with a hand on your back, smiling at each other like you were a lovesick couple. His ring was glinting in the light, both of you disappearing into the bakery as the man held open the door for you. 

Sukuna felt his heart stop, dread crawling up every blood vessel, scalding and freezing him at the same time. He crumpled the photo in his hand, frozen in place as he felt his head go blank. 

Uraume watched him with a careful eye, ripping the photo from his hand and frowning at the sight, 

“Sukuna-” 

The CEO held up a hand, chair screeching as he got up from his office chair, effectively silencing Uraume as they pocketed the photo.

“Get a new place for me. I will move in by tonight,”

You were silent when Sukuna finished his story, red eyes glancing at you every now and then at you as you picked at your nails,

“I was never married, I- there's been no one, not after you..”

Sukuna nodded, eerily quiet as he scratched at a sticker on the dining table, trying to scrape it off with his nail. 

“The man you saw, I think you mean my cousin. He’s married, three kids and all- Hana plays with them,”

You finally looked up, meeting Sukuna’s gaze as you continued, voice feeling far too raw and much too exposed. You took a deep breath, calming yourself 

“I would never-,”

You shook your head, biting your lip as you scowled at the mere thought, 

“I would never cheat on you- Ryo you meant far too much for me to even think of that-,”

Sukuna cut you off, voice unnaturally cold as he spoke, you wondered how long it had been since you heard that tone directed to you,

“Why didn’t you reach out,”

You took another long breath, looking down at your hands and then the worn out house.

“I was hoping you’d have moved on. I don't know- I hoped you would have found someone better, not someone like me. It was obvious that your board didn’t approve of me and I just-” I felt like you were holding yourself back for me, you were doing things you didn’t have to- just for me and that scared me. I never thought I’d have become the coward in our relationship. I just craved when we didn’t have to think so much just to be together. I was scared you wouldn’t want Hana even though I did. Maybe I was trying to fill in the hole you left when you went on those week-long missions, I was scared- I was just so scared Ryo. 

You wondered why the words you wanted to say didn’t come out, stuck in your throat like it was held down by cement, weighing heavy on your chest. The hurt of those unspoken phrases was far more than you thought them to be. The words swirled in your head, your mouth pulled to a thin line as you stopped talking, 

“I got rid of them all.” 

Sukuna finally spoke, getting up from his chair and pulling his seat closer to you, 

“Huh?”

Your voice squeaked out and Sukuna had a crazed grin on his face, cradling your face with his hand, thumb brushing over your cheekbones, 

“Every fucker that didn’t approve of you- thats why I left for so long,” You felt like time had stopped again, it was just you both again and it was like you were in his college dorm room again, cleaning up the cuts he got from punching a guy who was talking behind your back. 

“I promised I’d protect you, didn’t I?”

Sukuna leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against yours as his breath fanned against your face. You leaned into his hand unconsciously, biting your lip as tears streamed down your face. 

“Ryo I’m sorry- I’m so sorry, I just didn’t realize what I had done and by the time it was too late and I didn’t have the courage to face you-”

Sukuna shushed you, pressing his lips to yours in one go. He tasted like pancaked and salty tears and nostalgia all at once. He pulled away staring into your eyes as he wiped away your tears, 

“Stop crying you baby,”

Sukuna teased, pulling you closer by your shoulders and enveloping you in a hug. 

Sukuna and You stayed like that for a while, hugging each other till Sukunas back started to ache and he pulled you into his lap, resting head on your shoulder as he mumbled reassurances into your ear. 

“So why are you going around telling people you have a husband?” 

You stilled in Sukunas arms, pausing for a second before you continued. 

“Didn’t want people prying into Hana’s life and teasing her. She already gets into so much trouble for fighting with the boys in her class. Honestly I don’t know how she even learned how to fight,”

Sukuna chuckles, his laughter settling deep into your bones as you let yourself enjoy the timbre of his voice, 

“That’s my girl.” 

You rolled your eyes, scoffing as you got up from his lap and looking at the time, 

“Don’t you have work?”

You asked raising a brow at the carefree man, 

“Nah I’m letting the Gojo handle it for now heh, took a week off too” 

You smiled, Sukuna was having far too much fun relaxing around in your home. You started your way up the stairs, glancing back to see Sukuna on his heels trailing after you like a big tiger. 

“Well I’m going to get to work then,” 

Sukuna caught up with you on the top of the stairs, twisting you around to face him as his hands rested comfortably on your hips, rubbing smooth circles. 

“We’re not done talking though are we?” 

You stopped, averting your gaze as you avoided speaking on the topic. Sukunas hand came to rest above your collarbones, twisting the ring on your chain and tugging it off you, 

“When are you going to tell the kid?”

You sighed, pulling Sukunas hands away from you, he looked dejected for a second, immediately masking his emotions as he took a step forward, bending his neck to look at you  properly, hands fisting at his sides, 

“Are you trying to run away again pet?” 

You shook your head, words dancing around in your mouth as you bit your tongue, hands resting on Sukunas arms as you tried to comfort him, 

“With Hana, we should take things slow, she’s never asked me about her dad. She's kind of perceptive- never been one to pry about the stuff I didn’t like,” 

Sukunas jaw ticked and he glared at the floor, pulling away from you this time. 

“What- what about us,”

He called out your name when you didn't respond, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he stared at you longingly, 

“Sukuna-” 

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Taglist: @lady-of-blossoms @shokosbunny @after-laughter-come-tears @glads-stuff @acidrefiux @linny-bloggs @dahliadaenerys @gojotech @emi311 @poopooindamouf @sadrna @domainofmarie e @sukubusss @nousija @pjofics @katsukiseyebrows @the-reas0n-is-y0u @krispywhisperswhispers @pillkits @rier @needsleep3000 @tangsakura @raquel12 @not-aya @melancholycries @desprrssooo-espresssooooo @tojisbabymommasblog @thebumbqueen @melancholycries @totallygyomeiswife @kiyotosbae21 1 @bwlol7 @ratedrrrr @ihrtbin @kunascutie

A/n: Issues are getting resolved but are they really. I want to build up the tension between Sukuna and Reader a bit more but a kiss was much overdue. MORE DRAMA!!!!

[misaerabl]

WHERE THE COFFEE IS ALWAYS HOT

(Diner Owner Abby x Single Mom Reader Headcanons / Inspired by Luke Danes and Lorelai Gilmore from Gilmore Girls)

!!Includes SFW and NSFW!! CW: wc... 2.7k - hc's, fluff, rough, real long and dirty tbh, mentions of both of you having partners before getting together, tension, morning sex, diner counter fucking, shower sex, face sitting, fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (a!receiving) mostly top butch abby

SFW

Grumpy Abby, Sunshine You: Abby Anderson—the butch, no-nonsense, grease-stained, and flannel-clad diner owner—is known for her deadpan humor, perpetual scowl, and habit of cleaning a perfectly clean countertop just to avoid small talk. Meanwhile, you’re the charming, chatty regular who somehow worms your way into her life. You stroll in every morning, all bright-eyed with your kid in tow, talking her ear off about your chaotic work schedule or your latest attempt at cooking something other than boxed mac and cheese. Abby pretends to be annoyed, tossing out a gruff, “You ever shut up?” but she secretly looks forward to your rambling.

Saturday Breakfast Tradition: Every Saturday morning, you and your 9-year-old daughter settle into your usual booth—the one near the window, where the sun hits perfectly. Your kid demands a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a pancake shaped like a dinosaur (even though it always ends up looking more like a deformed blob). Abby, with a playful eye roll, dutifully delivers, never once mentioning how misshapen the pancake actually is. She even drizzles syrup around it like a moat, just to make your daughter giggle.

You and Abby have your own language of banter, a constant push-and-pull that keeps everyone in the diner entertained.

You: “Is the coffee supposed to be this bitter, or is this just a reflection of your personality?” Abby: (deadpan) “You want sugar or are you just gonna keep being a pain in my ass?” You: (grinning) “What’s the difference?” Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smirk, but you catch the subtle dimples anyway.

Your kid picks up on the playful bickering and joins in.

Your daughter: (innocently) “Abby, why are you always so grumpy?” Abby: (mock scowl) “Because some kid makes me make weird pancakes every week.” Your daughter: (smugly) “You love it.”

Late-Night Diner Visits: On your worst days, you find yourself at the diner long after closing. Abby, still wiping down tables in her usual rolled-up sleeves and worn-out jeans, lets you in without a word. She makes you a grilled cheese and sits with you in the dimly lit diner, quietly nursing a beer while you vent about work or single-parent struggles. She never says much, just listens with a steady presence. When you get too tired to talk, she squeezes your hand, calloused fingers firm but gentle, and you swear she holds on just a little longer than necessary.

The Handywoman:

Abby, ever the butch handyman, becomes your unofficial repairwoman. When your kitchen sink leaks or your window frame sticks, she’s at your place with her toolbox before you even finish describing the problem. She grumbles under her breath the whole time—mocking your “shoddy” faucet and declaring your window “a lost cause”—but she fixes it anyway. You offer to pay her, but she just smirks and says, “You cook. I fix. Deal?”

You often come home to find tiny repairs you didn’t even ask for—a newly patched wall, a freshly oiled door hinge. She never mentions it, but you always notice.

Abby and Your Kid: Abby is a total softie for your daughter. She teaches her how to tie proper knots, use a wrench, and change a bike tire. Your kid starts bragging to her friends, proudly declaring, “My mom’s friend can fix anything.” Sometimes, Abby lets her help at the diner—letting her sprinkle cheese on burgers or pretend to take your order with a notepad.

When your daughter gets sick, Abby shows up with a fresh batch of soup and a stuffed dinosaur she won at the county fair, grumbling about how she “just had it lying around,” even though you’re pretty sure she spent an hour trying to win it.

Jealous Abby: The first time you go on a date, Abby is grumpier than usual. She slams plates onto tables a little too hard and glares at the poor bastard sitting across from you through the diner window. When you return, she doesn’t ask how it went. Instead, she casually mutters, “Your taste in men sucks.”

The Girlfriend Phase: For a brief, painful period, Abby dates someone. The woman is conventionally pretty—stylish, delicate hands, perfect makeup—and she clearly doesn’t like you. She gives you the cold shoulder and glares when she catches Abby sneaking smiles at you from behind the counter.

One night, you find Abby on your porch, beer in hand, freshly broken up. “She didn’t like the people I care about,” she mutters. She won’t meet your eyes, but her knuckles brush yours on the porch swing, and you feel your heart stutter.

The First Kiss: It happens after months of unresolved tension—after late-night repair visits, lingering stares, and brushes of her fingers against yours. One evening, Abby is fixing a leaky faucet in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, arms slick with water. When she finally finishes, she leans back on her heels and grins smugly.

“What would you do without me?” she teases, wiping her hands on a rag.

Without thinking, you grab her wrist and tug her toward you. You kiss her—slow, lingering, and deliberate. Abby freezes for half a second before she melts into you, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. When you pull back, breathless, she presses her forehead against yours and chuckles softly.

“Finally,” she whispers, before kissing you again.

Your Daughter’s Adorable Reaction: You try to be subtle at first, keeping your newfound relationship quiet. But your daughter catches you sooner than expected. One morning, she strolls into the kitchen and finds Abby pressed against the counter, your hands in her hair, lips locked.

Your daughter: (deadpan) “Umm… are you guys kissing?” You and Abby freeze, eyes wide. Abby: (awkwardly) “Uh… yeah.” Your daughter just shrugs and grins. “Cool. Does this mean Abby can sleep over all the time now?”

NSFW

Kitchen Counter Chaos: One night, you stop by the diner after hours to thank Abby for fixing your broken window. One thing leads to another, and suddenly, she’s pinning you to the counter, her strong arms bracketing you in. Her rough hands slide under your shirt, tugging it over your head, and her mouth trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. You dig your fingers into her short hair as she pulls your legs around her waist, her hips grinding against yours. The countertop digs into your back, but you barely notice with her between your thighs.

Lazy Morning Sex: When Abby sleeps over, she wakes early but doesn’t leave the bed. Instead, she rolls you onto your stomach, pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder blades. Her hand slowly drifts beneath your shirt, palm splayed across your stomach, fingers trailing lower. She takes her time, slow and deliberate, until you’re trembling beneath her.

Possessive Words: After confessing how jealous you were of her ex, Abby pins you against the wall, her breath hot against your ear. “You could’ve just said you wanted me,” she murmurs darkly before kissing you roughly. Her fingers curl around the back of your neck, voice low and possessive. “You’re mine. Got it?”

Sweaty, Greasy, & Gorgeous:

You have a not-so-secret thing for Abby fresh from working—a grease stain on her cheek, arms flexing in her white tank. She’s halfway through kicking off her boots when you grab her by the tool belt and pull her onto the couch, kissing her hard enough to make her groan against your lips, and everytime without fail, it ends in you on your knees, face buried between her legs as your toungue laps on her pussy.

Rough, Desperate, Can’t-Wait Sex:

One night, after the diner closes, you’re helping Abby clean up. You’re wiping down a table, and she’s behind the counter, her gaze dark and heavy as she watches you bend over ever so slightly. The tension is palpable—the kind that’s been simmering for weeks. Finally, she snaps. Without a word, she grabs your wrist and drags you into the back storage room. She slams the door shut and presses you against the wall, her lips crashing against yours with raw, unrestrained hunger.

Her hands are rough and desperate as they push your pants down, knuckles grazing your thighs. Her mouth is on your neck, biting and sucking, leaving faint bruises as she growls low against your skin. “Why do you have to be so damn gorgeous?” she pants, voice husky. She doesn’t waste time with teasing—she’s already dropping to her knees, lips trailing down your stomach as she hooks your legs over her shoulders, holding you in place with a bruising grip.

Her mouth is hot and relentless, making you squirm against the wall. When you tug at her hair, she groans into you, the vibration making you shudder. Her fingers are rough with callouses as they curl inside you, moving with purpose. She doesn't stop until your legs are shaking and you’re clinging to her broad shoulders, gasping her name like a prayer.

Kitchen Table:

It’s late, and Abby’s at your place after fixing your leaky faucet. She’s still in her flannel, the sleeves rolled up, and she’s leaning against your counter, arms crossed, watching you with a lazy smirk. You’re leaning over the kitchen table, cleaning up your daughter’s craft supplies, when you feel her warm breath against your neck.

“You should’ve asked me to fix you instead,” she mutters, voice low and gravelly.

Before you can retort, her hands are on your hips, guiding you back against her. She’s firm but careful, holding you in place, her lips teasing along the shell of your ear. When you push your hips back against her, she groans, hands tightening possessively.

She bends you over the kitchen table, sliding your shorts down with slow, deliberate movements. Her hands are rough—calloused and slightly scraped from all the repair work—and they feel so good gripping your thighs. She doesn’t hold back, fingers thrusting into you with an almost punishing pace, making you gasp and clutch the edge of the table.

Her voice is gravelly in your ear as she mutters, “You take it so fucking good for me.” When you moan her name, she smirks against your neck and growls, “Louder. Let me hear you.”

Over the Diner Counter:

You show up at the diner after hours, wearing one of Abby’s flannels over nothing but your underwear. She’s leaning against the counter, cleaning a mug, but her eyes lock onto you the second you walk in. Her pupils darken as she slowly sets the mug down, wiping her hands on a rag.

“You’re gonna regret that,” she mutters darkly, her voice low and raspy.

You saunter over, leaning against the counter, giving her a teasing smirk. Before you know it, she’s grabbing your wrist and hauling you over the counter. Your back hits the cool surface as she wedges herself between your legs, pulling the flannel open with one swift tug. Her lips are on you instantly—hot, possessive kisses that leave you breathless.

She doesn’t waste time. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, squeezing your hips. When she pushes two fingers into you, she watches your face with that cocky, satisfied smirk. “You’re so wet for me already,” she growls against your jaw. Her pace is rough and unrelenting, her fingers moving with purpose, hitting that spot that makes you arch off the counter.

When you whimper her name, she grips your jaw, forcing you to look at her. “Eyes on me, baby,” she commands, her voice rough with need. She doesn’t let you look away, holding your gaze as she makes you fall apart beneath her.

Shower Sex – Steamy and Wet:

After a long, sweaty day at the diner, Abby shows up at your place. Her white tank is clinging to her back, her hair damp from running her hands through it, and she smells faintly of motor oil and wood smoke. You drag her into the shower without a second thought, stripping her down and pulling her under the hot spray.

The second the water hits her skin, she’s all over you—backing you against the tiles, her lips trailing down your wet skin. She drops to her knees, her hands spreading your thighs apart, and she kisses the inside of your thighs with slow, teasing nips. When you whine her name, she smirks up at you, droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes.

Her tongue is slow and deliberate at first—long, languid strokes that make your legs tremble. When you clutch her damp hair, she groans against you, gripping your hips tighter. Her fingers leave bruises on your thighs as she holds you still, devouring you with a maddening rhythm that makes your legs buckle.

When you tug her up by her wet hair, desperate for her lips, she presses you into the wall and slides her thigh between your legs. Her voice is rough in your ear as she growls, “Ride me.” The friction of her strong thigh against you is almost too much, and when she grips your ass with both hands, pulling you harder against her, you come undone with a cry muffled by her kiss.

Wall-Fucking, Abby Style:

You show up at the diner wearing a little sundress—short enough to drive Abby absolutely feral. She watches you flit around the place, talking to other customers, flashing smiles that should be hers. By the time you get up to leave, Abby’s practically vibrating with jealousy.

The second you’re out of sight, she grabs your wrist and drags you into the alley behind the diner. She presses you against the brick wall, caging you in with her broad frame. Her lips crash against yours, hot and possessive.

“You like driving me crazy, huh?” she mutters against your mouth.

Her hands yank up your dress, bunching the fabric at your waist. She hikes your leg around her hip, her strong thigh pressing between yours. Her fingers are rough and desperate as they slide inside you, and she growls low in your ear,

“You’re mine. No one else gets to see you like this.”

She fucks you against the wall with raw need, her pace relentless. When you dig your nails into her back, she grunts in satisfaction, grinding her hips against yours as she pushes you higher and higher. When you finally cry out her name, she smirks wickedly and presses her lips against your throat,

“That’s it, baby. Let everyone hear who you belong to.”

Face-Sitting:

You’re sprawled out on Abby’s bed, legs spread, breathless and needy. She stands at the edge of the bed, shirtless, jeans unbuttoned, looking down at you with that cocky smirk.

“You’re gonna ride my face,” she growls, gripping your hips and pulling you onto her. She lies back, hands firmly gripping your thighs, keeping you in place.

She doesn’t let you be shy—she pulls you down onto her tongue with firm hands, growling when you try to squirm away. Her tongue is relentless—slow at first, then fast and needy, flicking and curling in perfect rhythm. Her rough, calloused fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

“Don’t run from it,” she groans against you. “I wanna feel you fall apart on me.”

When you finally come undone, legs trembling around her head, she holds you there, keeping you riding her through the aftershocks. And when you collapse, breathless and boneless, she grins smugly from between your legs, her face flushed and slick with you.

[moonstruckme]

Hi lovely, how are you?? I hope you’re doing okay. First of all and most important I want to tell you how much I love your fics and your writing, they bring me so much comfort and you are truly a talent so ilysm. I wanted to ask you if you’d be up to write a poly!marauders x reader (I think request are open now but if I’m wrong dont mind this, sorry) where reader is just very overwhelmed and feels like everyone has a purpose in life (hobby, dream job etc) but reader feels like she hasn’t one, and she fears she will waste her life (if you think some of your others works are too similar then again dont worry :) ) anyway so sorry for the kinda long request (and not totally a rent, pfff…) I literally love you so much, have a great day/night🩷

Thanks for requesting angel <3

modern au

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Sirius can always be counted on for an unquestioning cuddle. You only had to enter the sitting room and lay yourself down on his lap, and he began playing with your hair as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Remus looked up from where he was reading in the chair next to you both, but ultimately he must have decided it was common enough behavior from you not to remark upon. 

It’s a nice day out. Sunny. James woke up and opened half the windows first thing, letting in the breeze and the smell of changing seasons. You were thinking earlier about finding an excuse to go lay about on some grass somewhere, but now you can’t be bothered. You turn your cheek to Sirius’ chest instead, soaking in the warmth that comes from him. 

“Darling,” he says after a while. 

“Yeah?” 

Sirius traces his pinkie finger along your hairline. “If we’re going to mope together, you’ve got to at least tell me what we’re moping about.” 

You very intentionally do not sigh. If you focus, you can feel his heart beating underneath your cheek. “We’re not moping.” 

“We’re not?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, good.” There’s a hint of amusement in his tone. You don’t dare look over to see if Remus is paying attention. “Let’s have a smile, then?” 

You’re reluctant to pick your head up, but you do, turning so Sirius can see you before stretching your lips until you feel your cheeks pushing up against your eyes. 

Sirius actually laughs. It’s so fond you can’t really hold it against him. 

He takes your face in his hands. “That’s good,” he says, kissing you right in the center of the stretch. “Really persuasive effort, lovely. Penny for your thoughts?” 

You hesitate. “I…” 

Sirius' grin fades as he realizes you’re serious. He keeps his eyes on yours, steady and encouraging. 

“I feel like I don’t really do much.” 

He frowns. “That’s not true.” 

“How do you mean, love?” Remus asks in a more considerate tone. He is paying attention, then. 

“Like…” Your face is still trapped in Sirius’ hands, but you find yourself looking away from him. “I just sort of go to work and come home, you know? I don’t have hobbies or…or aspirations or any of those things.” 

“All any of us do is go to work and come home,” Sirius argues. 

“No, you have other things. You have goals.” 

“You have goals. You were just saying you want to start stretching and become more flexible.” 

Your mouth tightens. “That’s not the same. That’s a small goal.” 

Sirius lets his hand drop from your face, stroking lightly down your arm. He looks genuinely perplexed. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“It’s not the same as having a purpose.” 

Your boyfriend’s eyebrows jump. “A purpose?” 

“Yeah,” you say. Your upset feels like it’s solidifying the more you put it into words. “I don’t do anything. My life doesn’t have any purpose.” 

“Well, hold on,” says Remus. He tents his book on the armrest of his chair, leaning forward to see you better. “That’s an awfully large leap to make.” 

“It’s true,” you say, embarrassment softening your voice halfway through. Both Remus and Sirius look displeased, but they don’t contradict you. You’re sitting in an elongated beat of silence when the front door opens. 

“I’ve brought juices!” 

It doesn’t quite make you smile, but something in you lightens as you and your boyfriends share a look. Ever since James got a membership to this new fancy gym, he can never leave without buying one of their overpriced wares. 

He’s stolen one of your headbands again. Sweaty hair pushed back from his face but flopping forward anyway as he bends to kiss Remus’ head, passing him a plastic cup of green juice. 

“Who wants the one with lots of ginger?” 

“I’ll take it,” you say, because you catch the face Sirius’ makes. James passes it to you. “Thanks.” 

“You know, I have a guest pass.” James slumps down beside you, sipping from his own juice. “If you still want to get more flexible, we could do a yoga class together sometime.” 

The ginger in your drink burns slightly as it goes down. How pathetic does it make you, that you mention one small goal to your boyfriends and suddenly that’s your whole life? How dull does it make you? 

“Jamie,” says Sirius, “what would you say your purpose in life is?” 

James nearly chokes on his juice. He coughs, Remus reaching over to pat him on the back. You feel culpable. 

“Sorry—that’s rather a lot for the morning, isn’t it? I usually keep my existential crises to the evenings.” 

Sirius grins wryly, nudging you where you sit between his legs. “Someone didn’t tell this one the rules.” 

“Oh.” When James realizes that the question has come from you and not as a result of some of Sirius’ mischievousness, he becomes more contemplative. “Hm. I suppose I usually tell myself that my purpose is to be happy, is that a good answer?” 

“I like that,” says Remus. He’s looking at James with a fond expression. “What about you, sweetheart, do you think that’s a good answer?” 

You shy at being put back on the spot. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s sweet. That’s a good one.” 

“I think it’s all we can do.” James shrugs. He’s obviously tired from the gym, sweat-damp clothes sticking to his skin, but with the light that comes in through the window shining on his face he does look like he’s fulfilling his purpose. His eyes are bright. “Try to enjoy life, I mean. Try to be happy, try to make other people happy, try to be good.” He smiles, cringing a bit at his own earnestness. “Why, what’ve you all been talking about?” 

Sirius and Remus are quiet. They’re letting you take the lead. You appreciate it and wish they wouldn’t at the same time, every word you try out too heavy on your tongue. 

“I’ve just been feeling like,” you say after a handful of moments, “I’m sort of wasting my life by not having some higher aspiration or something. Like, I don’t do very much, and I’m not unhappy, but I don’t want to just…never do anything with my life. I don’t know what I would do, though.” 

You keep making your boyfriends frown. James’ expression isn’t quite that, but he’s not smiling either. 

“I don’t think it’s fair to say you’re wasting your life,” he says. “You’re…we love you, and you love us, right? And there’s other people who you love and they love you back, too. That’s a good life purpose, isn’t it, to love? I don’t see how anything can be a waste if you have that.” 

Your throat constricts. Sirius gets his arm around your middle, squeezing. 

“That’s a good answer,” you admit. 

James’ cheek dimples. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Sirius gives you a very thorough cuddle after that. You pretend to be neither embarrassed nor overly needy about it, though you’re both. James attempts to do the same to Remus, who only allows it for a minute before ushering James towards the shower. You finish your juice and then Sirius’ too. 

When James sees you looking contemplative again during your yoga class together the next week, he comes out of child’s pose to kiss you sweetly on your head and tell you he’s proud of you. You feel deeply loved.

[jabbasyogainstructor]

I have never been much of a crier at anything, at least not as a kid.

I remember the biggest thing to hit me was probably when Rogue One came out. Carrie Fisher was unresponsive, basically in a coma, as she had been for a few days before her death, the night I saw Rogue One in theaters. I grew up with Princess Leia, she was unequivocally my hero. As was Carrie in an equal way, as a separate person, herself, the amazingly funny and talented lady who brought her to life, and I remember I was so stressed, I had trouble enjoying the movie (I love it now, but that night was hard, I was so stressed that I became kinda sleepy somewhere around Grand Moff Tarkin stealing all the credit for Director Krennic’s work) and in addition to all the main character deaths, watching them go down one by one after falling completely in love with all of them, I got hit with a double whammy.

The plans for the death star made it out of Scarif. I saw Darth Vader chase down a hallway full of men in very familiar uniforms. (I’m crying right now as I type this, believe it or not.) I saw them pass it hand to hand, trying so hard to make sure this mission wasn’t for nothing, that the rebels would finally take them empire down. I saw a ship take off with Darth Vader looking on and I absolutely knew whose ship it was. We all recognized it, everyone in the theater got kinda still: the Tantive IV. Her ship. And a man runs down a hallway to a woman in a white dress, silhouetted against the dark backdrop of space. Even though it wasn’t really Carrie, even though, the cgi wasn’t perfect and she looked a little off, she said “hope” and I bawled.

I saw Rogue One on December 26th, 2016, and she died the next day. I cried for much longer than was probably necessary. I still cry at the ending of this movie. Starting with the deaths of the Rogue team on Scarif and then just flat out sobbing for Princess Leia. Not even the character’s actual death in Rise of Skywalker affected me like this. (The movie was so convoluted and Chewie’s death was a weird fake out? I mostly pretend that particular film isn’t real. )

fuck it, i'm curious. reblog and tag with the first fictional death to ever rewrite your brain chemistry and/or make you cry like a baby. mine was ares from the underland chronicles (who, for context, was a giant bat.) to this day i will weep if i think too hard about it. okay, go.

[azrielbrainrot]

Let Me Hold You

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

A/N: I'm still having awful writer's block and have been busy and not having a great time in my personal life so here's a very short and very self indulgent story.

The air was colder than you anticipated, wrapping your arms around yourself as the wind caressed the bare skin, raising goosebumps with its touch. You were ready to give up when the shadowsinger spoke up from his place sitting against the railing.

“Can I hug you?”

It takes you a moment to process the words, eyes widening slightly as you did. You'd think you heard him wrong if it weren't just the two of you on top of the roof, making it impossible to mistake the whispered words. In all the years you've known Azriel he had never asked something like this of you, or anyone, not so openly.

You followed him here because you noticed how upset he seemed at dinner, barely saying a word and keeping to himself even more than he usually did, but beyond a few encouraging words from you and a refusal to share his feelings from him, you had expected to go back to your room empty handed.

Azriel always seemed so intent on keeping his emotions to himself that it made you even more curious and worried for the reason he was feeling like this today. You weren't going to let that stop you though. Nevermind what happened, all that matters is that he needed you.

“Of course,” you answer quickly, perhaps a bit too loudly, especially in the quiet of the night and the vulnerability of the moment. You've always wished Azriel would let you or anyone else in at times like these, that he shared his problems or at least let someone comfort him.

A ghost of a smile appears on his face before you both reach for each other at the same time, kneeling down in front of him and letting him pull you closer, your arms wrapping around his neck as his circle your waist, his wings following suit and creating a cocoon around your melded bodies, his shadows joining in and effectively hiding you both from the outside world.

You let him hold onto you like it was his last lifeline. His face falling onto the crook of your neck, breath hitting your skin in unhurried pants, as you run your fingers through his hair, trying your best to give him the peace of mind he seems to be craving so badly.

Over the last few months, your relationship with Azriel seemed to have evolved into something else, something you were too scared to admit for now, not quite ready for such monumental feelings. Still, your heart stirred as he held you close, as his breath came out slower and his body relaxed against yours. You were happy to be a calm and comforting presence for him, it was all you needed actually.

“You don't have to tell me what's wrong,” you start, softly this time, careful not to disturb the air around you, “but I want you to know that whenever you feel like this and you just want someone to hold you, or listen to your worries and doubts, take a walk with you or even spar with to let out your frustrations, you can come to me.”

He stops for a second, letting your words sink in before he pulls his face away from the safe place he made for himself against your neck, never straying too far as he looks into your eyes, searching.

“I'll always be here for you,” you confirm softly, a smile playing at your lips, one that widens when he lets out a sigh, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against yours, arms holding onto you even tighter than before, until you could feel his heart beating against yours.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”