#its a piece that always brings comfort and solace

[glitterghost]

Lord of the Rings is just so healing.

[larrylimericks]

19Oct24

No matter how mad the word made us, It always held hope — a “hiatus.”

I’m sad for so many reasons — the fundamental sadness of death, and at such a young age; having to process the mortality of someone so extraordinary it seems they should transcend a fate as ordinary as dying; aching for his family and friends; angry that he had to navigate such a cruel world, one that continues to disrespect him in death. Yes, Liam was damaged and in turn damaged others; he had demons to face and amends to make — I like to think he would have, given a chance. His talent was so immense, and there was so much more to come. I believe he would have found a way to redemption, and then had such a beautiful renaissance.

The joy of being a 1D fan has always been policed and mocked. We’ve so frequently been laughed at, dismissed for the intensity of our love for the band. And now, the world wants to do the same with our grief, questioning its legitimacy, trivializing our feelings. But this loss is real. And this grief is valid.

And the grief of losing Liam is compounded by the grief of losing so much else. He wasn’t just a celebrity. They weren’t just a boyband. He was an integral part of an integral part of our formative years — no matter how old we were when we found them. So many of us are the people we are in part because of the people they are. Were. We’ve lost a beloved one, we’ve lost innocence, we’ve lost inspiration, we’ve lost a piece of our foundation.

We’ve lost hope.

It used to frustrate me, in retrospect, that they called it a “hiatus.” It felt dishonest — like a gentle lie to let us down easy. Why couldn’t they just say it was over? That being a boy band has a built-in shelf life, and it was time to explore solo careers. But now I understand the kindness in that word. For hope springs eternal, and it didn’t matter if it never came. All that matters was that it might. And “hiatus” wasn’t just for us; it held their optimism too. Especially Liam’s. It left the door open, even if only a crack, for the possibility of something more.

It’s been a remarkable gift to watch each one find his own path and his own voice. But when they announced a hiatus in 2015, they planted a seed of hope that someday we’d see the unrivaled magic of those boys on stage together again — the greatest team the world has ever seen. Maybe Zayn would join, probably not. Maybe it would’ve been a one-off thing for charity or a special anniversary. Maybe it would be in their 50s when the allure of easy money from a reunion tour was too tempting to resist. But surely, eventually, 1D would reunite in some capacity. I was excited to see how their once frenetic energy and youthful antics would meld with the mature solo artists they’ve become.

That hope sustained us through 18 months and eventually eight years, but now the hiatus is over. I would have happily clowned for every remaining day of my life than know this new certainty brought by the finality of Liam’s death. Maybe, someday, there will be a memorial performance. Maybe we’ll see three or four out of five come together to honor him — and what a poignant testament it will be that Liam was what could bring them together. Or maybe it will never feel right to them to take the stage without him, and that, too, will make all the sense in the world.

I wish I had an uplifting ending for this post. I don’t. I wake up and my first thought is “Liam isn’t here anymore,” and then I go about my day with that relentless realization lurking around the corner of every mundane task I do.

I haven’t been able to listen to their music yet. It’s a cruel trick that the thing that always brought comfort is now a trigger for grief. But I hope that will soon change. That, at some point, I’ll put on WMYB, get choked up at “You’re insecure” and second-guess my readiness. But then jump to History, and find solace in the lyrics that are currently rattling around my brain but aren’t ready to be heard yet: “This is not the end, this is not the end” … “We can live forever.”

❯❯❯❯

[katmostardently]

Set after the Doyle arc, Emily’s been a bit distant and guilty for everything, you’ve been patient nonetheless.

Implied death, hurt/comfort, fluff, barely implied smut

ʕ⁎̯͡⁎ʔ༄

Word count: 737 words

a/n: I got some ideas after listening to Would You Fall in Love with Me Again, it’s short but it’s 4 am, I blame all my mistakes on that. I currently have some ideas for longer stuff but I’m lazy, tired, and uninspired so here are my scraps!! :;(∩´﹏`∩);:

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again

“I’m sorry, I know I’m not the Emily you fell in love with.”

Her voice cracked, and you’d never quite seen Emily so broken down. You could see the genuine sorrow in her eyes, each line of her face filled with guilt. After getting out of a life or death situation because of Doyle, it was as though the only thing she had left for you was regret. Emily hated it, because someone like you didn’t deserve it

Someone like you didn’t deserve to have your heart shattered, torn to bits, to be forced into grieving, just to have it all been for nothing. Yet here you were, and that was just what happened.

Even if a week had passed since her return, hardly anything was settling in, even then, you were still there.

You placed the plate of spaghetti you’d just prepared for Emily down, settling on the couch next to her. “Emily-“, you were quick to start, and Emily was quick to silence you.

“I’m sure you’re more upset than anyone on the team, you… You’re wearing my ring for god’s sake, I couldn’t bring myself to even let you know about all this…” Emily’s mouth had quivered, letting out a shaky breath as she turned to you. “I made you wait, and now I’m not even the woman you adored so much. Y/n, I…”

She looked at you, not wanting to leave you alone ever again, but at that same moment, not feeling worthy to hold you in her arms. “I’m so sorry…” Sure, Emily was in fact changed, anyone would be.

She had this tired look in her eyes, like she wasn’t truly there, like she needed some escape. You saw it in the moments where she got home from work, when she’d secretly discard your food at night. The cigarettes in Emily’s pockets, the nights you’d wake up and cradle her through a nightmare. It all tore away at her piece by piece.

But in those same eyes, you saw the same eyes that lit up every time you were near, the same eyes that called to you with a single glance.

The same eyes, pooled with that intense devotion, that stared up to you when she knelt down on one knee a year ago.

“It’s true, you left me waiting, and it hurt, the fact that I couldn’t know you were alright.” You answered her honestly, “but it hurt even more to think you were dead. I wanted whatever monster took you from me to suffer, and I felt cursed thinking that you were taken from me.”

Before she could muster a response, you took Emily’s hand, holding it against your cheek.

Instinctively, she traced her thumb against your lips.

“And I’m so, so, so happy that you’ve come back to me.” With the way you were looking at her, Emily was certain that she’d married a princess—no, some generous, all forgiving goddess.

“I don’t deserve you…” She whispered, her hand continuing its gentle caress.

You let out a little chuckle at her words, shaking your head, “see, now only my Emily, would say something so untrue. Because you, Emily Prentiss, deserve the world.”

Then to be exact, it felt as though you gave Emily a whole galaxy, because in moments like these you always brought her some solace. There was not a single doubt you couldn’t crush with your benign palms.

She could simply hold you close in response, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you felt her heartbeat.

Emily knew that her heart would never stop, not when she’d been given the best of all women to be her fiance. She vowed to never let it stop, not when you’d be waiting for her, she could never again leave you frozen in time. Her dearest, y/n y/l/n, soon to be y/n Prentiss.

Perhaps she didn’t have to worry all that much, because somehow, you fell back in love with her new, shattered self. But really, you just simply never stopped loving her, there was no need to win you back, to make you fall in love again.

“Now… Your spaghetti’s gonna get cold….” You reminded, about to move when Emily stopped you, tenderly pushing you against the cushions. “I want my fiancé right now, not some spaghetti…” She murmured against your neck, and you smiled in response.

Forevermore, you’d never even think of giving up Emily Prentiss.

[nouvxllev]

Request!!

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Summary: Jenna and R are like on ldr cuz of her work, after mooonthhss, J surprises R by going back home early to her. J gets so worried cuz R isn't in the house, and she can't contact her. R gets home wasted, J confronts her, R breaks down, rambling about how she just misses Jenna, not knowing it is actually Jenna who she was speaking to... she mistakes her to be Emma..😭🙏🏻

unbearable uncertainty

Pairing: Jenna Ortega x Fem!Reader

Summary: request! ^^

Words: 3.3k

Warnings: slight angst? maybe? bittersweet??

a/n: wrote tara carpenter smut then dipped. oh my god, i truly apologize for going on an unknowingly and unbearable hiatus from writing. but on the bright side, i met someone whos truly so special and i cherish the most on here :] thank you for the request and im sorry if ive been holding it back for months!

(ps. ive forgotten how to write entirely, please be patient with me)

Long goodbyes were never easy.

How could Jenna ever forget the last piece of comfort she felt in your arms as you held her for the final time before she boarded the plane? The warmth and security she found when you whispered "I love you" was something she couldn't find elsewhere.

You hugged her so tightly, Jenna felt as if you were trying to fold her into your very being.

You always did that, always have.

But you held her a little longer. Closer, tighter. As if it'll be the last time Jenna falls in love with you. It felt too surreal when she heard your voice started breaking in tears like there was a cloud over your heart Jenna used to bring life in.

She tried to memorize every detail of your face, every line and shadow, every crease and every feature like you were a past lover she's been searching for, she wanted to hold onto each imperfection and perfection as if capturing this moment in her heart could somehow lessen the pain of parting.

When you reached out, gently brushing a stray tear from her cheek, and she leaned into your touch, savoring the warmth that would soon be gone. It was a gesture so tender, so full of love, that it made her heart ache even more.

Would she have done something differently? Perhaps tell you she got it all wrong, tell the producers and chosen to live in peace with you and frolic in some field of flowers like a coming of age movie.

No, she could only swallow the lump in her throat and urge her heart to stop grieving for something that wasn't even dead but merely distant.

Vermont proved to be a cold comfort, like winter for a thousand nights without somebody to hold on, stark contrast to the warmth she'd known for all these months.

The first night was the hardest—cruel, even. As she unpacked her bags in the apartment paid for b the producers, it was a far cry from the home you had shared. Despite its charm for space, it felt emptier than it should've been. A shell.

Jenna remembers lying awake that night, unable to find solace even in the darkness. Each thought weighed heavier than the last, fearing you would grow to resent the fame she would have declined in a heartbeat if given the choice, that loving her had become more of a chore than a joy.

The frequent overseas flights and constant altering of time zones only added to the strain, affecting even how her heart would beat. Conversations became shorter while days grew longer, and only letters and distant updates from you brought reassurance. She missed the moments of quiet intimacy, the laughter shared, and the smile she could reach up and kiss, the comfort of knowing she was always there for you.

It was a constant routine of staring at the ceiling, desperate to imagine your arounds around her and your warm breath against the neck. The loneliness was a crushing weight, far more realistic than a mere idea it was. Unbearable.

She found herself wanting for the familiar warmth and solace that only your presence could provide her. She would watch herself listening for your voice, remembering how you would tell her if she's been overworking, half-expecting to hear your laughter or even a slight tone or maybe even the sound of your footsteps.

She always found small ways to feel connected to you.

The letters you sent were her lifeline. She would read them over and over as if it were new ink, tracing the words with her fingers that carried your thoughts and reassurances, imagining your voice speaking them. Each letter was a piece of you, a reminder that you were thinking of her, missing her just as much.

The voice calls were both a blessing and a curse.

Hearing your voice brought her comfort, but it also made the distance between you feel even more unbearable. She would stay up late into the night, talking to you, laughing with you, sharing her day and listening to yours. But when the call ended, silence would descend, and the emptiness would return with a vengeance. She would lie in bed, clutching the pillow, trying to replay the sound of your voice.

So it was a huge, pain-in-the-ass problem for her, the amount of calls and thousands of sleepless nights with her arms wrapped around a pillow instead of the love of her life was a step away from insanity. It seemed dramatic, but can you blame a girl!? Love always had a way of making seem things insignificant in comparison.

Another grueling month without the love of your life? She couldn't and wouldn't even bear it, you would have to finally cut the two parts of her brain in half and throw away the other one to endure that kind of torture.

So what started as a joke with her finger hovering over the "book flight" button while on the phone with you turned out to be, surprise surprise, not even close to a silly little joke.

She clicked it impulsively, without a second thought or even a first one.

Her heart raced faster than ever with the thought of seeing you again. Feeling your arms around her, hearing you laugh, smile, and talk was all the motivation she needed. It was like a recurring dream you’d betray another day for to live in.

And here she is now, at your place, luggage in hand in the dead of night, looking like she fled the country, with that familiar airport scent still clinging to her clothes and hair. She smelled like whatever hit-terminal coffee it was that day and recycled air.

Jenna's been muttering to herself all evening, "Pick up, pick up, pick up, oh my God, who leaves their house unlocked!?"

Her phone, balanced on her shoulder, was one slip away from hitting the ground, and she was one missed call away from losing it. She imagine the look on your face when you saw her standing there, unannounced yet so desperately wanted, not like wanting to send out a search party for you!

It was voicemail after voicemail, a ring before a cruel tone that mocked her for seconds, the unknowing certainty that something had happened to you.

You’ve been M.I.A ever since she arrived, and the last text she received from you was a breezy, "I’m going out tonight with co-workers" followed by a thousand kisses. The gesture was sweet, but it’s not helping now that it’s 12 fucking a.m. and you’re nowhere to be found.

She paced back and forth in your living room, the anxiety gnawing at her insides and the sharp pain from her palm to her heart had never been so severe.

Every creak of the floorboards made her thoughts race, hoping it was you finally coming home. The silence of the house was deafening, broken only by her thoughts replaying your voice. She glanced at the clock on the wall that displayed digits she seriously did not want to see.

She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep until she saw you with her own eyes, until she could touch you and confirm that you were truly safe.

Her hands immediately went back to her phone, wondering if your co-workers would even answer a distress actress concerned about her girlfriend if there was a high and 100% chance they were wasted with you. Obviously, each call went straight to voicemail.

Why is being sent on delivered the most humiliating ever!?

"Fuck," Jenna cursed under her breath, her head lowered in defeat as she stared at the countless of messages she sent to your friends, co-workers, shit even your family!

The only thought going through her head is "thank you for birthing Emma Myers."

emma

just said goodbye shes round the corner

sent one attachment

going back to her place

Even light couldn't travel as fast compared to how quickly Jenna reacted when that attachment processed in her brain. It was a photo of you (thank fuck), looking a bit tipsy, sure, maybe knocked in the head, but you were unharmed, waving goodbye to Emma.

The wave of relief that washed over Jenna felt like an overall baptism—a splash of water to commemorate coming back to a harsher reality than she didn't expect, but reality nonetheless.

She almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but she shoved the thought aside. Her focus was on you, and getting to you as fast as possible.

If you weren't going to come back home sooner or later, she'd come to you. Geared up and mentally preparing everything to combat the cold weather, plants of how she would take care of you, and a surprise. Aka, her.

Is what she would've followed through if she didn’t hear the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

The sound was so abrupt. Too sudden and swift it nearly made her jump out of her skin unlike any scare people tried on her.

Her heart pounded as she turned towards the door, hoping, begging, and nearly willing the universe to grant her at least one moment of sanity. She watched the door creak open, and there you were—alive. You stumbled in, eyes bleary but safe, and Jenna felt the tension drain from her body as if it had never been there.

"Y/n—!" Jenna's sudden movement was a blur, barely having time to embrace yourself before she collided with you, the force of her embrace nearly knocking out the ragged breath you had left.

You could've noticed the slight tremble in her frame, heart pounding against your chest, and a hand clinging onto your shirt that pulled you closer if you weren't drunk.

“Daaamn, girl, you walk faast! I swear we dropped you at your street?? Why are you in—shit—in my house??” Your voice slurred and you stumbled as if the very act required more effort than you could muster, mind sluggish and your sense dulled, voice thick and unsteady.

You were undeniably and completely fucked. To say the least.

Drunk, Intoxicated. Mentally impaired. Right, how could Jenna even forget that?

You barely managed to step inside when your legs gave out, sending you tumbling to the floor.

The world tilted and spun around you as if you were a sun blinded by its own solar system. Your vision blurred and you struggled to make sense of the swirling images and a familiar blobby brunette girl in your home.

To no surprise, Jenna was at your side in an instant, crouching down with her face filled with concern as she looked you over, her arms reaching out to steady you. "Y/n… Why on earth do you have a huge straight bump on your forehead?"

"I…" you mumbled, blinking up at her. Her face looked like one of those spiky and blobbed images you see through a rain-streaked window. "I was—I was watching one of those 'how to be a good girlfriend in an LDR relationship' videos on the way home. And—and well, there was a pole."

Jenna's expression shifted, concern to curiosity. "What… What? What do you mean? Why? Why are you searching those—"

You felt like your chest was closing in on you, your throat mimicked those of a barren wasteland, and embarrassment washed over you like a tidal wave. You wanted to shrug it off, to laugh and tell her you were just curious, that it was nothing. But you couldn't.

"Because!" you burst out, voice trembling as you looked away from her eyes, "How else am I supposed to believe that I'm good enough when Jenna's halfway across the world? When every time she touches me, it's like she thinks I'm everything you've ever wished for in a star, and I—"

You faltered, your breath catching, the words threatened to slip away from you, but the emotions, doubt and fear—they had been building up for too long. You couldn’t stop now, even if you wanted to.

"I don't deserve it, I'm not enough for her. There's something more that i should be doing, something more I could be, because how can I be enough when she's there and I'm here? I can't hold her, I can't comfort her when she's stressed, I cant show her how much I care every day like I want to. How am I supposed to truly feel that I'm doing fine and she's feeling loved? Every time she tells me that I'm enough, I try to believe her, but—but there's this voice in my head that keeps saying, 'What if she's just saying it? What if one day, she realized she was wrong? That I'm not great, that she's just loving a version of me she created in her head, that she finds a fatal flaw in me that keeps her away from loving me? What if I'm not who she thought I was?"

You can't speak anymore, but your mouth persists in words like a machine. Your eyes already welled up, you bit your lip to stop it from trembling and forming a frown.

"I want to be perfect for her. I want her to feel like she's never missing anything from me or feel like she's falling short from the love she gives me and I give her. But I don't know how to do that. I don't know anything. So I watch those stupid videos to hope I'll find a way to be enough, to finally feel like I am. But no matter what I do, it feels like it'll never be. How can I be it when I'm not with her? How can I be enough from so far away?"

Tears blurred your vision as you tried to reach out, "I just miss her, Emma. I just miss her so damn much. I thought I could handle it, you know? That I could be strong, that I could keep it together until the next time I saw her. But it's been too long, I keep feeling like I'm falling apart. That my relationship is falling apart for her. I thought maybe if I just stepped back, she'd find what she needed without me getting in the way."

"I try to keep things feeling normal. I try to tell myself that the distance is temporary, that we’re strong enough to make it through, but what if we’re not? What if the longer this goes on, the more we rip apart? I don’t want to lose her, but I feel like I’m losing pieces of us every day."

"I'm scared, Emma," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm scared that one day, she'll take all her words back, she'll realize it's not enough. That every text she sends me is in complete dread, that she's just staying for the hell of it. That she finds a better relationship than what we have now."

Your gaze was locked on the floor, but Jenna's eyes were on you, wide and creased with confusion. The words you've thrown at her just echoed in her mind, looping relentlessly until they became the only thing she could hear along with the race of her heart thudding so loudly. She had been silent the whole time, listening to you pour out your fears, insecurities, on how much you've missed her.

She shouldn't have. She wasn't Emma.

Jenna's eyes flickered to you, your eyes was stuck on the floor, your shoulders slumped as if you were carrying the weight of the world. And in that moment, despite the ache in her chest, all she wanted was to hold you. It's the only thing that felt natural for her.

She closed the gap between you two, close enough that her knees brushed yours, and slowly enough as if she were afraid that you might pull away. The contact felt like a connection, barely there, yet it grounded you and your worries. It felt familiar.

Jenna's breath as she looked at you, her eyes searching your face for any sign that you were uncomfortable, that you were still here with her.

Without a word, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around you at last. Her touch was tentative, she was unsure you wanted her there, but as her hand rested on your back, she felt the subtle rise and fall of your breathing. You were relaxed in her arms, you became yourself underneath her hands. She pulled you in closer like she was trying to shield you from the weight of whatever thought you had put on yourself.

"Y/n," she spoke, you knew that voice. it wasn't distant or abstract, it was real, present, and undeniably her. You knew this. The fact that you didn’t pull away. You didn’t flinch. In fact, the moment her presence reached you, it was as if a piece of you had been anchored to the ground again.

You knew her.

The warmth of her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as you let yourself pull in her, it was familiar, comforting. You hadn't even realized how tightly you've been holding onto your fears and worries. But now, with her, they're no longe the loud and consuming force they had been before.

"Jenna?" you whispered, your voice was barely audible, trembling as it left your lips and hope it gets through with her.

It was the first time you had said her name aloud in her presence. You could feel her heartbeat against her chest, the steady rhythm that took both of you off. You pulled away from her embrace, looking at her as if you saw a ghost.

"I'm back home," she whispered back, her voice soft like it never changed.

Her words settled into your bones, offering a comfort that you didn't realize you've been craving so desperately. And for the first time in what felt like a long time, you allowed yourself to believe them. She wasn’t just saying it—she meant it. Jenna was here, she wasn’t going to leave.

You didn’t care what she had to say; it felt impolite, selfish even, but all you wanted was to crash into her arms like you had before. You were no longer standing at a distance. You didn’t think, you didn’t hesitate, you just moved.

With a sudden rush, you wrapped your arms around her as if she were the only lifeline you had in a world that felt like it was spinning out of control.

You clung to her as you murmured her name over and over again as if it was a prayer the heavens needed to hear. Your fingers gripped the fabric of her shirt and every part of you was aware of her. How her body felt against yours, the way she held you felt like a promise saying she wouldn't let you go in her life.

“I’m so sorry,” you choked out, your voice shaking as you pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, your tears blurring your vision. "I'm sorry for everything. For doubting you, for pushing you away when you clearly didn't want to.

"You’re finally here," you murmured, as you looked up at her, "You’re back with me."

Jenna's grip around you tightened, and you could feel her smile that always made you float in the air, even though you couldn't see it. "I missed you," she said softly, "I was so worried about you and I kept thinking about all the things we used to do together. I missed the way you laugh, the way you always know how to make me feel better. I just wanted to hear your voice again, to feel close to you. Don't worry about falling short, I'm already standing on a mountain of love that you've given me."

It was her, she was the same Jenna you've always loved. How she held you in your arms, how she kissed you after apologizing countless of times, how she feels in your arms, how she moves, how she laughs, how she makes you feel like you're safe and secured. Uncertainty washed away from you.

[jadeshifting]

🍒 — FRUIT ASK GAME

( reblog … send a fruit … get an answer !! what will the fruit oracle tell you about other realities hmm )

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　

— 🍋 TERRIBLY SOUR LEMON … who’s your least favorite person in your DR? a poisonous ex, a toxic professor—maybe someone who tried to straight up murder you. who do you truly go sour in the face at the thought of?

— 🍎 SHINY RED APPLE … what are you the absolute best at in your DR? the thing that, when people need help with it, they let out the most gigantic sigh of relief when you walk in the room—everyone knows you do it best

— 🍓 SUGAR SWEET STRAWBERRY … what’s the most romantic, sugar-sweet moment you’ve had or will have in your DR? something so terrifically soft and perfect it could’ve come straight from a wild strawberry patch

— 🍆 DEEP UMBER EGGPLANT … what’s the most thrilling fantasy you have about your lover in your DR? no information is too much or too little, it’s all according to your comfort—a midnight rendezvous, a sudden vacation for two, or maybe just a night in with one-or-two extra glasses of wine and hanging out :)

— 🥝 FUZZY BURST KIWI … what’s something about you in your DR that people wouldn’t expect to be true? it doesn’t quite line up, some fabulous detail about you. when people find out, they’re positively shocked

— 🥭 TROPICAL LUSH MANGO … what adds the most dynamic, vibrant color to your DR? a person, a place, an activity, a part of your identity—its presence lights up your existence there like sun rays on a blank canvas

— 🍏 CRISP GREEN APPLE … what’s a memory from your childhood in your DR that stands out amongst the others? the edges of the picture are crisp, it may not be particularly good or bad—but intricately memorable

— 🍈 HONEY BLISS CANTALOUPE … what’s your favorite season in your DR? do you enjoy sun-drenched summers, an exhilarating back to school time in autumn, or perhaps some particularly festive Christmas traditions that make the wintertime special?

— 🍒 BLOODRED CHERRIES … what is your biggest fear in your DR? you don’t have to get deep if you don’t wanna—it can be as small and horrifying as a spider or the dark. something that truly rattles you to your bones

— 🥑 EARTHY AVOCADO … what’s the most comforting part of your daily routine in your DR? it’s grounding—something that no matter where you are or what you have going on, will always give you reprise and solace

— 🫐 DEWY BLUEBERRIES … what’s your comfort meal or dessert in your DR? maybe it’s something your parents make for you, something you order from room service while you’re reclined in a hotel room, or something simple you prepare for yourself—it makes you feel better the second you sink your teeth into i

— 🍑 OVERRIPE PEACH … what kind of a future do you imagine for yourself in your DR? white picket fence material, with marriage and a couple kids? perhaps childless but continuing on your adventures til old age, or all of the above?

— 🍌 SUNNY BANANA … what’s a piece of art, literature or music that truly moved you in your DR? perhaps something that shaped your identity, something that you enjoy for purely academic reasons, or just your favorite

— 🍅 SCARLET TOMATO … what’s the juiciest secret you’ve ever kept or will keep in your DR? the kind of scandalous thing that would positively burst into drama if revealed

— 🥥 SUN-KISSED COCONUT … what would your ideal vacation be in your DR? a tropical getaway, with white sand and bungalows? a secluded retreat into the foggy mountains? where would you go, and who would you bring with you?

— 🍉 JUICY WATERMELON … what’s your favorite thing about your lover in your DR? the way they smell like home, how they make your chest hurt with laughter, how they take care of you. maybe the way their hair falls in their face just so

— 🍍 SPIKY BOLD PINEAPPLE … if your life in your DR had a color palette, what would it look like? perhaps pastels, or a range of jewel tones? maybe a collection of shades that seem totally random, but that make perfect sense just to you

— 🍐 MELLOW PEAR … what’s a dream or goal you’re pursuing in your DR? it could be as small as reading more often, or going out with your friends more, or as large as saving the entire cosmic universe. whatever you’re working towards!

— 🍇 TART PURPLE GRAPES … if you could bottle the scent of your favorite memories in your DR, what would the notes be? base notes of parchment and ink for your academic pursuits? middle notes of jasmine and rose petals for a lover you hold close to your heart? perhaps top notes of sea salt and sand for a place you find solace in?

— 🍊 SUNSET CITRUS ORANGE … what’s your favorite kind of outing to go on in your DR, with your friends, family, or your partner? whether it’s a classy art gallery, a carefree rocky beach, or an urban jaunt to the mall, you know you’ll have a good time every time

— 🍋‍🟩 ZESTY SOUR LIME … do you have any scars in your DR? a little mark on your knee from a childhood mishap on a scooter, or some gigantic mark left as proof of your world-saving tendencies—one that tells a story, big or small

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　

[fel-09]

Warning: strictly 18+ reading

Part 1 Part 2

second life 3

Standing before his chambers, her breath caught in her throat. The confidence and cold indifference she had clung to earlier had vanished, leaving her vulnerable and trembling. She felt as though the ground might open beneath her feet and swallow her whole—a fantasy that seemed almost comforting in its impossibility. This imagined escape was a cruel solace her mind conjured to ease her dread. Yet the stark reality remained: there was no turning back now.

Her fear wasn’t of lying beneath him, of the act itself. No, it was deeper, more insidious. She feared the weakness she had already allowed to slip through that evening, the crack in her armor that he had effortlessly exploited. Geta—he always knew how to destroy her, not with brute force but with words, with his unyielding presence, his mastery over her mind. Escape was impossible; the guards stationed behind her would ensure she entered his chambers without hesitation. Her hands trembled as she exhaled through her nose, trying to regain composure.

The towering stone walls of the palace seemed to press down on her, suffocating, relentless. They left no room for deviation, no corridor to veer into—just her, the door, and the man waiting behind it. One could argue it was foolish to fear something as mundane as intimacy between a husband and wife, a mere physical connection. What harm could come of it? But to think so was naive.

If she gave in, it would be a capitulation of the highest order, a confession of his dominance over her. It would nullify the arduous path she had walked, the strength she had forged to become more than the weak, pitiable girl she once was—someone incapable of standing up for herself.

When she had entertained the idea of letting a mistress take her place, another realization had struck her. A bastard—how could she allow a bastard to tarnish the dynasty? To let the throne pass to the illegitimate offspring of some nameless concubine? Such a disgrace would bring shame to Rome and insult the emperor’s legacy.

She ran her hands over her nightgown, the garment meant for this very occasion. Every detail had been meticulously prepared: her body was adorned with aromatic oils, her attire exquisite, her jewelry dazzling. Yet all of it felt meaningless, a hollow display meant only to please his gaze, to feed his insatiable pride. For what purpose? So that he could revel in her submission?

Her thoughts shattered as the doors to Geta’s chambers opened. The guards ushered her inside, and the heavy doors closed behind her with an ominous thud. Each step she took felt like a descent into an abyss. Her mind went blank as his gaze fell upon her, searing through the layers of her composure.

He stood there, watching her—not her body, but her eyes. His expression was unreadable, a blend of calculated detachment and something deeper, darker. He took a step toward her, then another, until they were close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Neither of them spoke. The silence was oppressive, stretching endlessly between them.

Two figures stood in that dimly lit room—one confronting the monster before her, the other captivated by the fragile, defiant flower standing in his path. The curtains stirred as the night breeze slipped through the window. Moonlight spilled into the chamber, casting a pale glow that softened the harsh edges of their faces, yet illuminated every unspoken emotion etched in their features.

A faint sound broke the silence—a soft rustle as her nightgown slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. The clatter of jewelry followed as each piece tumbled to the ground. What purpose had they served, anyway, when they were destined to fall?

Ribbon by ribbon, layer by layer, she stood bare before him. Yet her gaze remained steady, her eyes unyielding. Did she fear the emperor? Did she acknowledge her defeat? Perhaps—but the fire in her eyes told a different story.

Geta’s fingers brushed against her skin, tracing an agonizingly slow path upward until they cupped her cheeks. A shiver ran through her as he leaned in and pressed his lips to her tears, which she hadn’t even realized were falling.

“I know what I’ve done to deserve your disdain,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “and I know I cannot undo it. Asking for your forgiveness would be futile. I won’t even try.” His words were a whisper, a confession delivered against her trembling lips. “But I also can’t let you go. And if I must, I will take what I want by force. I’ll say it again—” his voice broke, almost inaudibly, “I won’t apologize.”

The kiss he left on her lips was neither sweet nor harsh—it was devoid of flavor, an empty gesture of dominance. She stood frozen, unmoving, her silence deafening.

With a single motion, he lifted her into his arms, something he had never done before. His grip was firm yet strangely gentle as he carried her to the bed. The mattress creaked under his weight as he lowered her onto it, his gaze never leaving her face.

And so, the night began, with no words exchanged—just the unspoken .

Movement after movement, as sighs escaped her lips, the bed creaked, and the night stretched on, achingly slow. Each of his kisses was neither cold nor warm, though she tried to deceive herself—her skin burned. Every kiss of his felt like a brand, searing into her like the marks made on slaves. The touch of heated iron, pressed onto tender flesh—that was how his kisses lingered, imprinting themselves with cruel precision. Each deliberate motion became an exquisite torment, a bittersweet agony that turned desire into a force of its own.

His breath brushed against her skin, hot and heavy, sending shivers down her spine. His fingers trailed lazily over her stomach, caressing her with a deliberate slowness that made her feel as though she was unraveling beneath him. His lips found the faint freckles scattered across her body, planting kisses that left marks—proof of his possession. Yet, despite everything, it wasn’t unwelcome. She loathed to admit it, but her body betrayed her, responding to him in ways that terrified her.

She had often wondered how it would feel to lie beneath him, to experience the touch that he had granted to others. And now, she knew. Yet that knowledge came with fear—a fear that stemmed not from him, but from herself. It was the panic that swelled within her as she realized she liked it. No, more than liked—it consumed her, a wildfire burning through her carefully constructed defenses.

He moved faster, and she clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she cried out his name. "Geta..." The sound was torn from her lips, raw and unbidden, as he shifted her leg over his shoulder, forcing her to hold on to the sheets in desperation. Another thrust, another moment of surrender, and she gasped his name again, louder this time, her voice trembling with both fear and pleasure.

“Geta...” she whispered, the word breaking as it left her lips. His eyes, dark and intent, met hers—not wandering, not distracted, but fully focused on her. She had never felt so utterly seen, so entirely claimed. He let out a soft exhale and leaned closer, pressing his lips to her cheek. With that gentle kiss, he brushed away the tears she hadn’t realized were falling.

The night ended there—slowly, silently—as did her long and arduous journey of resistance. She had fallen beneath him, her spirit collapsing in the wake of his unrelenting presence. Beneath the weight of his touch, her world crumbled, leaving nothing but him.

_____

The end

[starshipsofstarlord]

lap girl (2)

summary. daryl needs comfort at the greene farm after he fails to find sophia again. luckily his girl is willing to give him exactly what he needs; her in his lap

warnings. fluff, angst mentions of daryl’s childhood abuse, mentions of death, swearing

divider credits. @cafekitsune

greene farm

It was a new place, and they didn’t belong, and were only welcome due to the miss-aim of Otis. If he had hadn’t ricocheted a bullet into Carl, then their group that had travelled from Atalanta to the CDC and then some, would never have found this little piece of solace. Daryl’s eyes squinted beneath the glaring sun as he sought out the figure that had brazen themself to be absorbed in the daylight, feeling safe since there were barbed fences separating them from the wilderness in which the dead freely roamed. Y/n was enjoying the quiet that surrounded her, sitting upon the blades of grass that handed no threat in her direction.

It was pleasant to see her so peaceful, she wasn’t running for her life, or scavenging for scraps to replenish her hunger, she was instead still, and content in being so. But feeling secure wasn’t enough; it wouldn’t last, it never did. They’d eventually be sent on their way back to the trailing lands that had lead them here in the first place. The road was cruel, and it would only get worse when winter devoured them with the hardships of its crisp air.

And Daryl resented the foreshadowed thought, as they would need more supplies and warm food, and a fire big enough to bring heat to them all. The embers would only attract the undead and threaten them with even more loss, and whilst Daryl wasn’t particularly fond of many people in the group, he had somehow integrated within its ties after Merle’s absence.

Merle had left him before, in the worst possible way - alone with their father William Dixon. He understood that his elder brother had wanted to escape from the abusive entrapment, and thus he had allowed Daryl to be single-handedly foreseen by their parent as a punching bag; and worse. He still had the scars that were far too prominent over his body, they were askew like lines in a map, permanent and hadn’t faded since the sharp indents that had once been bloody had healed.

He resonated in a ying and yang parallel with Carol, the mother of Carol. She was distraught with Sophia’s fleet, already grieving her loss when there was nothing sufficed to state that she was either dead or alive, and Daryl felt responsible to uncover the reality that encased the child, to bring comfort to not only her mourning mother, but the rest of the group. It was an unsure journey that he had already been scathed from, a bullet that only with luck grazed his temple, and an arrow that was plunged from the long fall into his side, but he needed to do this.

Daryl knew what it felt like to be alone when he had been of the same age as Sophia, however he had discovered a loophole through the tormenting years prior to the contagion that infected the human vessel; there was a girl. He had been instantaneously drawn to her, although at first he had wanted to keep his distance, he’d never allowed anyone close. But she made him see the sun shine in every smile that composed itself upon her face and each glimmer that reflected in her eyes.

She made him feel safe. And so here he was, seeking her out as the gauze remained attached to his head, and if anyone saw him he was sure he would look like a fool. The normally obscure and grouchy Daryl appeared giddy as he stepped towards his human lifeline, his footsteps uncoordinated as he felt the ache in his side brew.

At the sound of shuffling fabric behind her, y/n’s head whipped around, she knew better than to just assume that there was no danger that could appear out of nowhere. Even with the serene tranquility that was deranging her viewpoint from the world that had began feasting on itself, there was always the risk that getting too comfortable would end in death. And Daryl smirked at the sight of the blade that shone from the sun in her hand.

“Thought you were a walker you ass!” She exclaimed, her mouth widening in a teeth baring smile. Her blade was placed back in its hiding spot as she felt the need to aid Daryl in seating himself next to her, her palm remaining against his bare arm. “I kicked Andrea’s ass after her shit shot, told her to get Herschel check her eyesight.” Daryl shook his head lightly as to not cause any more disturbance to his injury, promptly nudging her with his shoulder as he allowed himself to laugh at her protective demeanour towards the blonde.

“Yer real funny sunshine.” His rare smile was prominent as he endearingly looked at his girl, wrapping his arm around the back of her relaxed shoulder blades as he brought her closer. But close was still not close enough. “C’mere.” Daryl agilely helped her climb onto his lap, the place he reserved solely for her, his rough yet tender hands remaining on her hips as he brought his face near to y/n’s, rubbing their noses together in a sweet eskimo kiss.

He was exhausted, and he felt like a failure, but she was the only comfort that he needed. Her form was facing his own, and she brushed her featherlight fingertips against his cheekbones, sparing a glare to the dressing. “We’ll find her.” She whispered gently, shutting her eyelids as she melted into him. “But for now you need to rest honey, I’m not having you wear yourself into the ground.” His head rested against her collarbone, inhaling her presence as he tried not to be frustrated with himself.

It wasn’t his fault that Sophia had ran for her life off of the highway, and he wasn’t guilt for being unable to find anything other than her stuffed toy. His hands ran up and down y/n’s back as he buried his head in the crook of her neck, finally taking a break from his daily searching. He just needed his girl planted in his lap, and all his qualms and insecurities became minor.

[alygator77]

✩ echoes of time, a love unspoken ✩

✩ pairing. satoru gojo x fem! reader

✩ summary. overwhelmed with grief and regret, you are desperate to reconnect with your closest friend and secret love, satoru gojo. when you discover an ancient relic that allows you to travel back in time, you are given the opportunity to finally share your true feelings

✩ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, spoilers for manga chapters 222 - 236, angst with comfort, friends to lovers, mostly smut (if you squint you can maybe find a hint of plot lol), dry humping, oral (f receiving), penetration, unprotected sex

✩ words: 4k

✩ a/n. writing short stuff like this makes me feel weird lol...but eh, felt like giving it a shot. i blame my whoremones. also if you know the artist let me know 🫶🏻 i thought it was so cute and found it on pinterest

"Satoru is dead," Shoko says, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words any louder would shatter the fragile reality you were clinging to.

“W-What?”

You blink at her, your mind struggling to process the information. Did you mishear?

The usually unflappable Shoko is visibly shaken, eyes red-rimmed and filled with sorrow.

"It was Sukuna," she continues, voice cracking. "The battle... it was too much, even for him."

Your heart felt like it had been ripped from your chest. Satoru Gojo, your closest friend and the man you had secretly loved for years, was gone. Memories of him flash before your eyes—his brilliant smile, his teasing remarks, the way he always seemed to be there when you needed him.

"No," you whisper, shaking your head in denial. "No, that can't be true."

Shoko reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs, her own voice breaking. "I know how much he meant to you."

Her words break the dam inside you, and you feel the tears begin to stream down your cheeks.

Your knees buckle as you slump against the wall, the cool surface a stark contrast to the burning pain inside you. Your grief wraps around you like a vice, squeezing the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping.

“He was... he was everything," your voice trembles. "I never told him, Shoko. I never told him how I felt."

Shoko's hand squeezes yours, offering what little comfort she can.

"He knew, y/n. Satoru always knew. He was just waiting for you to be ready."

The thought brings a fresh wave of tears, carving a river of sorrow down your face.

How could he have known?

For years, you had hidden your feelings—you had been so careful, so afraid of ruining the friendship that meant the world to you.

The pain of your regret is a sharp, gnawing ache in your chest.

How many times had you almost told him? How many moments had you let slip by, too afraid of what his reaction might be?

And now, it was too late.

He was gone, and you were left with a heart full of unspoken words and unfulfilled dreams.

Days pass in a fog. You go through the motions, but the world has lost its meaning, its color, its light. Without Satoru, everything feels hollow.

Every corner of the school is a memory of him—a reminder of what you’ve lost you. The training grounds where you would spar with him, the library where you shared quiet moments of study, even the halls where his laughter once rang out, bright and infectious. Pieces of him are everywhere, each one a dagger to your heart.

The weight of your sorrow presses down on you, and you seek solace in the school's ancient library—hoping to find a distraction, something to numb the pain.

Drowning in grief, your eyes fall upon a dusty, leather-bound book on a nearby shelf. The title catches your eye: "Chronomancy: The Art of Time Travel."

What if you could go back?

What if you could see Satoru one last time—tell him what you've always been too afraid to say?

Or perhaps, change the future?

The thought is intoxicating, a flicker of hope in your darkness.

Desperation fuels you as you delve into the book, your hands trembling as you turn the pages. The instructions are complex, but your mind is sharp, honed by years of sorcery and study. The book speaks of an ancient relic, used in tandem with cursed energy.

You vaguely remember the old stories, the legends of such a relic hidden deep within the archives of Jujutsu High, said to be from a bygone era, a powerful artifact capable of altering the very fabric of time.

You know it's risky, dangerous even—time travel was absolutely forbidden, but the pain of your unspoken love and your need to see Satoru drives you forward.

With renewed determination, you make your way to the restricted archives, a labyrinth of ancient texts and forgotten artifacts deep within the bowels of Jujutsu High. The air grows cooler and musty as you descend, the weight of history pressing down on you.

Searching through the dimly lit corridors, your hands brush over countless relics and tomes, each one whispering secrets of a long-forgotten past. Finally, you find it—the relic described in the book. It’s a small, ornate device, deceptively simple in appearance but thrumming with a powerful, ancient energy.

Carefully, you take the relic and make your way back to your room. The instructions in the book replay in your mind as you prepare the ritual. Every detail has to be perfect—there’s no room for error.

As you channel your cursed energy into the device, chanting the incantation, the air around you starts to hum and vibrate. The relic glows brighter and brighter, the light almost blinding until suddenly, the world around you dissolves into a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations—you feel yourself being pulled through time.

When the light fades and the world comes back into focus, you find yourself standing in your bedroom yet again.

Did it work?

Without a thought, you instantly run, sprinting to Satoru’s home. The familiar path is a blur as you push your body to its limits, your heart pounding with a mixture of hope and desperation. You reach his door, breathless and trembling, and knock frantically.

The door swings open, and there he is, eyes lighten up with surprise and a hint of confusion as he sees you.

"Y/n? What are you doing here?"

Seeing him, standing there alive and well, almost undoes you. Your legs feel weak, and your eyes well up with tears of relief. Without any thought, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him towards you, crashing your lips against his with a desperate fervor.

His eyes widen in shock for a moment, but then he starts to melt into the kiss, returning your passion with his own. A soft moan escapes as his arms instinctively wrap around your waist, pulling you closer while his lips move hungrily against yours.

He guides you backwards into his house, closing the door behind you as he leans you against it, returning the kiss like a man starved of touch, of you, for years. His fingers grip the fabric of your clothes, pulling you closer.

You feel his heartbeat against your chest, a steady rhythm that grounds you in the reality of his presence. Every touch, every movement, is a reassurance that he's here, alive, and with you.

"I… missed you… so much," you mutter between breaths, a fragile confession between each fervent kiss.

Satoru’s grip tightens, his hands move to cradle your face, a touch gentle yet urgent. He lets out a soft hum and reluctantly pulls away from your lips, quirking a brow with a crooked grin.

"That was unexpected. Missed me? Y/n, we saw each other earlier today."

You shake your head, tears flowing freely now.

"No, you don't understand. I missed you... so much."

His grin fades as he notices the depth of your sorrow—concern etched in his features as his gaze softens, eyes searching you with confusion and worry. He gently wipes away a tear with his thumb.

"Why are you crying?"

With a shaky breath you struggle to find the words. The weight of everything you know and everything you've felt threatens to overwhelm you. But now, in this moment, you don't want to burden him with the truth.

Not yet.

Shaking your head, you manage to whisper—

"Later... please, just let me savor you right now."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he nods slowly, pulling you closer once more. His touch is tender, his embrace warm and reassuring. Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then to each of your tear-streaked cheeks, as if trying to kiss away your pain.

"Okay," he murmurs against your skin. "I'm here. Not going anywhere."

Satoru's lips find yours again, and this time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate. He pours all his feelings into it—his reassurance, his comfort, his unspoken promises. As you lose yourself in the kiss, your hands move to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you pull him even closer, not wanting to let go.

The kiss deepens, a mingling of desperation and relief—his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, before traveling down to your legs. With effortless strength, he lifts you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips.

For a moment, everything is perfect. The pain, the sorrow, the regret—all of it is swept away in the embrace of the man you love.

Between breaths, you manage to whisper again, "I missed you," each word filled with all the longing and desperation you've held inside.

Satoru responds not with words but with action. His kiss grows more fervent, his grip on you tightening as he presses your hips down on his. Your core is met with the growing pressure of his erection, causing you to mewl into his mouth.

He swallows your sounds as his kiss grows more intense, more needy, his tongue continuing to explore your mouth, tasting, claiming. You roll your hips against him, causing a low groan to rumble from his chest. His hips instinctively buckle from the friction and he presses you further against the door.

Breaking the kiss, his lips slowly make their way down your neck. He murmurs your name against your skin as his hips grind up against yours, sending a shiver through you as his fingers leave a trail of warmth in their wake, exploring every inch of your body.

With a gentle urgency, his hands find the buttons of your shirt, deft fingers undoing them one by one. As the fabric parts under his touch, his lips follow, leaving a trail of heated kisses down your exposed frame, tongue and teeth marking you with gentle nips.

As his lips find the curve of your breast, he gently bites down on it, causing a soft gasp to escape from your mouth.

“Satoru,” his name escapes you breathily as a ripple of pleasure courses through you, pooling straight between your legs.

Satoru's response is a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your skin. His hand comes up to cup your breast, his thumb stroking over your nipple as he continues to grind against you.

"I want you," he murmurs, voice hoarse with an aching need, coming out as both a statement and a request.

You meet his gaze, your breath hitching at the intensity of his desire.

"I'm yours to take," you whisper. "Take me, Satoru. I'm yours."

The words seem to ignite something deep within him—eyes darkening with a mixture of passion and determination. He immediately captures your lips in a fierce, demanding kiss.

With a swift and almost forceful movement, he lifts you from the door, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist as he carries you to the bedroom, opening it with a nudge of his foot. His body presses against yours and he pins your wrists above your head, lowering you onto the mattress with eager vehemence.

The sensation of being held in place, of being at his mercy, sends a shiver of anticipation through you—feeling the heat between your legs intensify.

His eyes lock onto yours between loose tousles of his snowy hair, a silent question and an unspoken promise in their depths. The outline of his erection is evident through his taut clothing, a physical manifestation of his aching desire that burns for you. The heat of his body sears into you as he settles between your legs.

"I've wanted you for so long," he murmurs, voice low and ragged. "I can't get you out of my head."

He rocks his hips gently against yours as his hands move from your wrists, tracing a path down your arms. He reaches the hem of your shirt and guides it off your shoulders.

His hands then slide beneath your back, lifting you slightly as he unclasps your bra, discarding it to the side. The cool air against your bare skin is quickly replaced by the warmth of his mouth.

You gasp and writhe beneath him as his tongue grazes over your sensitive peak. Each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, sends waves of pleasure coursing through you as his hips continue their slow, deliberate rhythm, rolling against your core and creating a delicious friction through the layers of clothing that still separate you.

You arch your back in pleasure, and with a groan, Satoru allows himself to sink deeper into the sensation of your breasts against his mouth. Every lick, every suck has him growing harder, his member straining against his pants.

“Fuck..” he mutters, pulling away from your chest just long enough to tear off his own shirt and discard it carelessly.

He leans down to lavish attention on your other breast, his free hand hooking into the waistband of your pants, slowly sliding them down your legs.

Once you remain only in your underwear, he abandons your breasts momentarily, trailing kisses down your stomach. As he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you with a gaze so intense it makes your breath hitch—a raw need that sends a shiver of excitement throughout you.

"Satoru," you moan, your voice a plea and a promise, urging him on. "Please."

He holds your gaze for a moment, searching for any hesitation. Finding none, he moves his hand across the fabric of your panties, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles around your clothed core. The friction is maddening, each touch making your body hum in pleasure.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers, voice a husky murmur.

"I want you," you reply, voice trembling with need. "I need you, Satoru."

His eyes darken further at your words, a low groan escaping his lips as he slides your panties down your legs, discarding them with the rest of your clothes. The sensation of the cool air against your exposed skin is quickly replaced by the heat of his breath as he leans in closer.

He takes a moment to savor the sight before him, your body laid out beneath him like an offering. Then, without warning, his tongue slips between your wet folds, lapping at your juices in long, languid strokes.

Satoru groans in approval of your taste, the sound vibrating against your heated flesh as he delves deeper. His hands part your thighs, holding you open as his tongue explores every crevice and fold, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. The intensity of his ministrations has your hands fisting the sheets, your back arching as you struggle to remain grounded under his relentless assault.

"Oh my god, Satoru..." you gasp, your voice a breathless plea as you arch into him deeper, relishing in every skillful flick of his tongue. Each stroke, each swirl, drives you closer to the edge, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak.

He works with a practiced precision, knowing exactly how to push you to the brink and pull you back, teasing you with the promise of release—alternating between gentle, teasing licks and deep, intense strokes.

Your hands move from the sheets to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you hold him close, your body trembling with force as you chase your release.

Feeling your impending orgasm building, Satoru pulls away from your quivering folds, causing you to groan. He locks eyes with you as he slowly drags his tongue from your swollen clit to your dripping entrance, a grin upon his lips.

He can see your resolve cracking, your composure slipping away as you teeter on the edge of bliss. He relishes watching your face contort with pleasure as you writhe beneath him, desperate to climax.

His movements are deliberate, torturous even, each lick and suck designed to prolong your pleasure. He can taste your arousal, your desperation, and it only fuels his own hunger.

His grip is firm and possessive as he tightens his hold on your thighs, devouring every part of your womanhood. The sound of his groans, the feeling of his tongue against you, it's all too much. The tension within you coils tighter and tighter.

You gasp as he slides two fingers inside you, feeling your walls clench around him as he curls them upwards, seeking that spot that would send you over the edge.

"Satoru, please..." you beg, your voice a desperate whisper. "I can't... I'm so close..."

He suddenly pulls away, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal, causing a whine to escape your lips. The sudden loss of contact leaving you aching.

He looks up at you, a wicked glint in his eyes as his lips curl into a grin.

"Not yet," he murmurs, voice low and seductive. "Want to feel you cum around me."

He moves back up your body, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. With a groan of pure need, his hands move with a purpose as he reaches for the button of his pants.

Rising to his knees, his eyes lock with yours as he sheds the last of his clothes, freeing his throbbing cock from the confines. It springs forth, thick and rigid, the tip glistening with precum.

You watch as he gives it a few slow strokes before settling back between your legs, his erection pressing against your core, tip brushing between the folds that are coated in your essence. The teasing sensation sends another wave of desire through you.

Slowly, deliberately, he pushes forward, sheathing himself inch by tantalizing inch inside you. A low growl escapes him as he feels your warmth enveloping him, your walls squeezing him delightfully. You gasp, your back arching, your body welcoming his with a need that borders on desperation.

He pauses once fully immersed, giving you a moment to adjust to his size as he revels in the feeling of your inner muscles clenching his length. Then, with a slow, sensual thrust, he begins to move, withdrawing until just the head remains before plunging back in to the hilt.

“Ah, fuck,” he breathes out, his hips snapping forward with more urgency, his head falling back as he loses himself in the sensation. The sight of him, eyes closed in bliss, his mouth slightly open as he gasps for breath, is almost enough to send you over the edge.

The pace he sets is slow and deliberate at first, each thrust deep and measured, allowing you to feel every inch of him. The friction, the heat, it all combines to create a symphony of pleasure that has you gasping and moaning his name. Your hands move to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you cling to him, body moving in perfect harmony with his.

"Satoru," you moan, voice trembling with need and desire. "More, please..."

He responds with a growl, his movements becoming more urgent—thrusting harder and faster as his hands move to grip your hips, anchoring you to the bed as he fucks you with a raw, primal energy. The slap of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by your moans and his growls of pleasure.

His name escapes your lips in breathless moans, each sound driving him further, pushing him to give you everything you need.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this, feel so good,” he groans, his voice rough with passion. “So tight, so perfect.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, tongue mimicking the rhythm of his thrusts. Your hands move from his shoulders to his back, your nails raking down his flesh as you cling to him.

Your body responds instinctively, your hips lifting to meet his, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. The deeper angle sends jolts of pleasure through you, each thrust hitting just the right spot. The heat between you builds, the pressure mounting with every movement.

"Satoru," you gasp, your voice a mix of pleasure and urgency. "Don't stop... please..."

His response is a deep, guttural moan, his hips snapping forward with renewed intensity. The sensation of him filling you so completely, kissing your cervix with each thrust—the way his body moves against yours, it's all-consuming. The pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak, your body arching into his as you chase your release.

He feels the change in you, the way your body tightens around him, and it drives him to push harder, to give you everything. "Cum for me, princess," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a rough whisper. "I want to feel you cum around me."

His words create a tension within you, coiling tighter and tighter. With each powerful thrust, you feel yourself getting closer and closer, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak.

"Satoru... I... I'm going to..." you moan, your voice trembling with the force of your impending climax.

"That's it," he growls, his hips snapping forward in powerful thrusts. "Be a good girl and let go. Cum for me."

His command is the final push you need. With a cry of his name, you shatter, the pleasure washing over you in profound, overwhelming waves as your inner muscles clench around him, coating him with your essence.

Feeling your climax hit, Satoru's own control snaps like a brittle twig, sending him spiraling into blissful release. With a guttural roar, he spills himself deep inside you, hips jerking violently as his hot seed fills you, painting your insides white. He keeps thrusting, prolonging your orgasm and milking his own, his cock twitching as he empties himself completely dry.

Suddenly drained and spent, Satoru collapses atop you; his chest rising and falling against your own as he buries himself into the crook of your neck. The weight and warmth of his body against yours is comforting, grounding you in the aftermath of your shared passion. Not wanting to dislodge himself just yet, he drapes one arm across your stomach, holding you close, while his other hand gently caresses your cheek, his fingers brushing lightly over your skin.

You look into his eyes, now softened with a deep satisfaction and affection. The intensity of the moment lingers between you, a silent acknowledgment of the connection you've always shared but never fully expressed.

"I love you," you whisper, your voice barely audible but filled with all the emotion you've held inside. The words you've desperately been wanting to say for years now finally roll off your tongue, carrying with them the weight of your unspoken feelings. Each word is a release, a freeing of the heart that has longed for this moment.

Satoru's eyes widen slightly at your confession, and then a tender, loving smile spreads across his face. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as if to seal the promise of his affection.

"I love you too," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "I always have." The sincerity in his words resonates through you, filling the spaces that have long been empty with warmth and joy.

He shifts slightly, allowing you to nestle more comfortably against him. The rhythm of his breathing begins to slow, his body relaxing into a state of contented fatigue. You match his breaths, finding a perfect synchronicity that lulls you into a sense of peace.

In this moment, everything is perfect. You are his, and he is yours, and together, you can face whatever comes next.

Maybe, just maybe, this future will be different.

You can only hope.

[xoxochb]

can i request somthing super domestic and fluffy maybe like a tiny hint of angst but like only in the way that its comfort, but like it would be will solace like kissing your scars and telling you how beautiful they are trying to make you smile and laugh

and if it isnt like to triggeribg or anything maybe has sh scars, if thats to triggering or your just not comfy doing that, dont do it thats totally fine just a thought

i just want fluffy comfort about any scars with will 😭

cw: mentions of sh, angst, comfort/fluff, I tried to write will with a southern accent tell me how I did…

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

a light sensation, comforting. like early mornings in the spring, the sun not yet all the way up, illuminating a soft light through the curtains as they dance to the wind, the small chill rushing over your skin leaving tiny goosebumps. and the grass veiled in morning dew similarly, you’d know to wear the appropriate shoes to step over it, not yet ready for sandals. or maybe it’s like that feeling of overwhelming serenity when you sit by the beach, the waves cascading over the wet sand, the salty air filling your nostrils as the wind blows your hair in all different ways, leaving it messy, but never leaving you angry with it.

“this one’s almost like a heart, can ya see it?”

the son of apollo’s soft voice interrupts your deep state of reverie. yet it wasn’t unwelcoming— quite the opposite, you’d want to tell him all your deepest secrets, act as vulnerable as possible. you avert your gaze to wear his finger runs over a scar on your knee. you see that, indeed, he’s right, it appears to be a cordiform scar. you hadn’t intentionally made it out that way, actually, on that thought, you hadn’t really cared what they looked like as long as they had left a trail of crimson after the cold metal split open your skin into two pieces.

a tear falls from your eye as you remember the process. you had been in a deep melancholic state a few months back, hurting yourself was an awfully common occurrence. thankfully, the last time you had done so will had caught you in the act, you started crying, he started crying because you were crying and he had made you promise not to hurt yourself again. you told him you were unsure if you could stop, he consoled you and told you ‘try your best’ for him. you hadn’t hurt yourself since then.

“I see it,” you whisper nearly inaudibly. will runs his finger up and down it gently, as if he was trying to memorize the feeling of your skin underneath his own fingertips. he then takes your hand into his own and rubs his thumb over another scar along your palm, one deeper and more prominent. his hold is so gentle, like you’re a porcelain doll that could break at any given moment. you could start sobbing. another tear falls from your eyelids. you blink but it only increases the tear pace, falling onto your boyfriends hand beneath you.

he looks up to you with his bright blue eyes, though now replaced with a darker shade. “please don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry.” you use your free hand to wipe them away swiftly. he sighs and looks back down at your hand. he brings your palm up to his lips tenderly, and with such love kisses it twice.

“do ya wanna know a story?”

you nod. he continues.

“when I was a kid… I used to think that when I ate watermelon, the seeds would grow a watermelon tree in my stomach. my mom didn’t tell me the truth until I was nine.”

you don’t try to stifle the light laugh that begins to escape your lips. “she let you think that?”

“yup. I found out on my own, insteada her tellin’ me herself.”

“that’s too good.” you wipe your tears again, this time replaced by happy ones instead of sad.

you suppose, as long as will is here, things won’t be half bad.

༯ as the topic of this is sh, I wanted to note that if you’re ever struggling with this, as I personally have in the past, know I’m here for you always. if you need to talk, my dms and inbox are open for vents <33

[ttulipwritezz]

This Is Our Place.~ S.Black

Ootp! Sirius Black x gn! Reader

Synopsis: After azkaban, Sirius falls for his best friend's colleague, who just so happens to return his feelings. They find their place within the confines of a war. Perhaps they'll leave the Christmas lights up till January.

Wc: 2k

Warnings: lots of italics, probably grammatical mistakes, inconsistency, mentions of presents, Christmas, bad family (s.b), kiss(es), might be ooc idk.

The clouds began to form in delicate shapes, and the roar of thunder echoed through the gloomy room. The light from a candle illuminated the kitchen, in which you sat, your mind preoccupied with the thought of the incoming rain.

Preoccupied with the thought of having to take the clothes off the drying rack anytime soon or bringing all your potted plants indoors to avoid them drowning.

It was not an odd thing—rain—being that it was the end of August.

"Knock, knock."

You looked up from where a blank piece of parchment lay in front of you, curious to know the source of the words.

"You could just, you know, knock? Like a normal person,  Sirius."

You found yourself speaking before you could collect your thoughts. The said man glanced at the parchment once and looked back at your face, his lips curving up the tiniest bit at your attempt to lighten the mood.

"Who am I, if normal, love?" He chuckles with a crooked smile.

You let your eyes roam around his face, his hollowed-out cheeks, and his half-lidded eyes. He looks tired. You conclude.

"Do you want some tea? I was just about to make some.."

You weren't really, about to make tea, that is. Still, you found yourself speaking, wanting to comfort the man, even if just a little.

Sirius was, by no means, your friend. He was just a friend of your colleague, Remus. You'd joined Hogwarts the same year Remus did; being new, the two of you hit it off immediately.

It always amazed you how well of a grasp Remus had on DADA. And he returned the favor by complimenting your herbology. You were a couple years younger than Remus, at best, and had known of him and the infamous marauders during your time at Hogwarts. Sirius Black did intrigue you the most.

You knew he came from a wealthy family, a bad one—of course, by no means did you want to intrude on his family life, but the heart does what the heart wants—and that he found solace in the friends he called brothers.

When Remus introduced you to his falsely convicted friend, Sirius Black, You damn near fainted on the spot, not because of his (undeniable) handsomeness but because of the sheer fear of standing in front of a possible murderer.

Now, years later (two to be exact), you find yourself enamored by the faded gray of his eyes and the curved bridge of his nose, which, you reckon, has been broken at least once during his time at Hogwarts, noting the sudden halt in the curve that then sharply turns to the other side and resumes its path.

Maybe it is a little peculiar to be noting such details of his appearance that you can paint a picture of his past. Strange, they'd call it. But it's routine for you. A routine you find comfort in.

"Thank you, Love," he replies.

A mumbled "'course" leaves your lips as you put the kettle to boil on the stove.

Sure, you could use magic, but these mundane tasks that don't require it seem to bring a sort of normalcy to your life. Even if just for a moment, it stops feeling like you're in the midst of a war and that people aren't dying left and right.

You were only nineteen when the first wizarding war came to an end, when your friends lost their lives, and when the dark lord seemingly disappeared forever.

He hadn't; that much was evident from the current situation.

The tea was set in front of Sirius almost unknowingly. You had been a little into your head and had been going about the task with practiced ease.

"Thanks again, Love. When do you reckon the others will return?"

Remus, along with the other order members, had gone on yet another mission. They left Sirius, concluding he was too weak to fight right now, and you, as you'd offered to stay back.

"Any time now, and really, it's no problem,"

you replied, sort of bashful at both his gratitude and the endearment.

As if on cue, the door opened with a jingle of the keys, and numerous voices rang through the empty corridors of Grimmauld Place.

Remus stalked into the kitchen and put his left hand up, leaning against the doorway with his right for some sort of support, revealing a gash running from his middle finger to his wrist and a sheepish smile on his face as he looked at you. Immediately, wordlessly, you walked forward with your wand and began healing the wound.

Removing a tin of herbal paste from the drawer beside and handing it to Remus.

"How'd that happen? I thought this was a 'harmless' mission," you asked, quoting his reassuring words from earlier.

"I nicked myself on a broken shelf." As confident as he sounded, his lie didn't escape you.

All it needed was a 'really?' look on your face to get the truth out.

"Death eaters," he stated, defeated.

"You really ought to be more careful, Rem. It worries me."

You said that and guided him out of the kitchen to assess his other wounds, which included one on his arm and a twisted ankle.

Unaware that a certain raven head was watching you from the table, envious and defeated at failing at his attempts to talk to you. The rain began pouring down, and the clothes and plants still outside ran through your mind.

The rain mirrored the heart of the black, sitting at the table, gloomy as ever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You'd last seen Sirius when Harry and the kids stumbled through the door of Grimmauld Place, bringing an unconscious, but thankfully alive, Sirius with them.

Harry had told you that he was leaving to retrieve his godfather from the ministry, mentioning something about a dream, but you weren't paying much attention after you'd heard the news. With Dumbledore's permission and assistance, you'd returned to Grimmauld's place to help in case they ever needed it. Praying that Sirius made it back alive.

The kids, along with Remus and a few other order members, laid the unconscious Sirius on the couch and went to clean themselves up as you offered to take care of Sirius in the meantime.

Once conscious, you dragged Sirius to the bathroom on the ground floor of the house, squeezing through the thin hallways and sitting him on the counter as you retrieved a first-aid kit from the cupboard.

"Couldn't you use magic to fix my wounds?" came his distraught voice, cutting your thoughts short.

"Do you want me to inflict pain on them? Just sit still. Besides, it's not like I'm a healer."

As you cleaned each wound with precision, one thought roamed your head.

It's not like they don't have wands—the death eaters, that is—they injured him in a way that seems almost muggle.

"If you're wondering how, it was Bellatrix," Sirius said, trying to suppress a hiss at the particularly deep wound on his arm, as if reading your mind.

"Your cousin?" you answered, or rather, asked, continuing and moving onto the smaller cuts that littered his face.

Humming, he let you get the rest of the wound cleaned.

You glanced up at his face when opening the packet of cotton, only then realizing how close you had been. His breath was fanning your nose as he stared deep into your eyes, no trace of guilt or shame in them, as if he trusted you wholeheartedly.

You could have sworn you saw him glance at your lips in anticipation. The thought alone swarmed your stomach with butterflies.

Only now had you realized how intimate your shared moments were and how he had always tried to enlighten your mood with his jokes. You thought it was his defense, his coping mechanism.

Though now it seemed amidst the war, all he tried to do was hear you laugh. By pausing your movements as if in a trance, you maintained eye contact with him. He looked so stern and so soft all at once.

In his mind swam thoughts of the previous night, when you cradled Remus's hand with such grace and concern.

His lips parted, and you wanted to kiss him. You don't know why, but you did. All you had to do was move your face half an inch forward, and his lips would crash into yours. You wanted to do it so badly.

And so you did.

His eyes fluttered close, and the arm that wasn't injured came up to grip your neck, light as a feather.

His hands caressed the tiny hairs on your neck and sent a tingle down your spine. The kiss was phenomenal.

You didn't sleep that night; the thoughts were fluttering in your mind even hours later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I kissed him."

As soon as those words left your mouth, Remus choked on his tea and had to take a moment to steady himself.

"You kissed whom exactly!?" came his exasperated voice.

"Sirius," you said sheepishly, suddenly feeling small under his wide gaze.

"I didn't even know you liked him," Lupin said as he went to dry his clothes from the tea.

"It just…sort of happened..you know-"

"no, I don't know y/n..what were you thinking!?" Remus was confused, and a part of him felt betrayed.

You liked his best friend, but he had no clue.

The patter of the rain outside added to the deafening silence that you left. The sound brought you back to the first night in the house, the night when you shared tea with Sirius.

Your eyes flitted to the scar running along the Lycanthropes hand, and you grimaced at the angry red surrounding it as it healed.

"Did you put the balm on it today? your hand, I mean " Your words cut through the silence like a knife, and you moved your hand toward one of the many drawers housing your herbal balms.

"You're deflecting, love... If it's any help, Sirius would much rather pretend nothing happened than act on his own; you're best off confronting him first."

Remus's words were assuring, but the tone in which he said them made you scrunch up your brows and tilt your lip downward.

"Umm, I'll see what I can do." Your hesitance was evident in your voice.

You walked back to your room after handing Remus the green and silver tin, silently reminding him of his wound.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the other side of the house, Sirius lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the kiss.

His mind wandered to the feeling of your lips, his hands on on nape, and your gaze before it all.

Your lips. My lips.

"A Rubber Duck!" A shout came from the room beside him. Harry's room. They were playing a round of charades, he remembered.

Harry! Yes!

He should ask Harry. So he made his way towards their room.

"Harry, could I talk to you for a moment?" Just as Harry was getting up and ready to join his godfather,

"actually hold that-"

He turns to Hermione

"-Hermione!! You're a muggle. You'd know! of course" The hopeful tone of his voice sends Ron into a laughing fit, and Harry's mouth twitches into a grin as Hermione sits confused with a frown.

After discussing the matter with the kids, Sirius decides he's done with his stupid old ways. He wants to say something; make the first move.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It happened on christmas eve.

Everyone had taken to opening presents under the large tree at the living room.

After watching Ron fawn over his new wizard chess set, you decided it was time for a much needed break.

"I think i'm going to go make some hot chocolate...anyone want some?" You asked, already getting up to yout feet.

Most of them nodded no and you only just realised all their mugs were rather full.

Making your way into the rather small kitchen of grimmauld place, you got out your wand to help make your hot chocolate.

"Knock knock" a familiar raspy voice came from the doorway.

An odd sense of deja vu enveloped you and you turned around to look at the source.

"you could just knock. Like a normal person" you repeated your words from the previous day.

The relationship between you and sirius had strained quite a bit after that shared kiss.

"sorry love, how's your day going so far?" He asked, seemingly trying to dissipate the awkwardness from the air.

"Alright...i suppose, what about you?" You replied with just as much hesitation.

"Good." And it stopped at that, the conversation.

Only now did you realise just how close he had gotten. You backed yourself away slightly, only to find your leg hitting the back of the counter.

The world seemed to be silent as the sound of your breaths mingled with one another, accompanied by the ticking clock.

The noises in the living room had become nothing but a blur and muffled by your thoughts.

"I really like you y/n. I truly do" Sirius spoke first, drawing your attention from the planes of his face

"Huh?" Your reply came meek and unsure.

You weren't even sure you'd heard it right.

"i like you." He reiterated.

You did hear it right.

Your knees felt weak but at the same time you were on cloud nine.

Before getting the chance to gather your thoughts you found yourself speaking..

"I really like you too sirius"

your voice came out just louder than a whisper, you're sure he wouldn't even have heard it.

His next words sent a flurry of butterfiles to your stomach.

"May i..?" You noticed him glancing down at your lips and back at your eyes.

You couldn't stop the smile that bloomed on your face as you nodded yes.

The kiss was diferent than the last, less desperate yet more passionate. It was slow, steady and loving.

You could feel his smile against your lips before you pulled apart.

"I've waited so long to do that" his voice came a mere whisper

Your eyes followed the movement of his lips, which were on yours moments ago.

" I...umm got you a gift" he continued, his hesitation surprising you.

Forcing your eyes to look back at the grey irises you managed to let out a breathless

"what?"

Sirius pulled out a box, a small one of velvet, the kind that would normally house a ring, now held a singular locket that was shaped as a star.

"A star...for my star" he said

You couldn't stop the heat from spreading to your cheeks, eyes widening a touch and lips quirking up the slightest.

Two voices giggling could be heard from the kitchen that night.

The whole night.

A/n: I spent WAYY too long on this- and the ending is super rushed lmao i hope you enjoyed it and all reblogs help me reach more ppl! I had sm fun writing this. i'm v proud of this ❤️❤️

[luffytheworld]

Thronebound Hearts (Ushijima Wakatoshi x F!Reader Royal Au)

Hello! Before beginning, It's right to mention that I was inspired by this beautiful work , a sakusa royal au fanfic. If you haven't read it and you like Kiyoomi and Royal AU's then I highly recommend to go check it out :)

Anyways, I really loved the fanfic so much and the wording make me feel like a true queen (ahaha) and I was inspired to write this fanfic but with Wakatoshi instead.

PSA: This fanfic takes place in the same universe and timeline as that work. If you want to, definitely go check out their beautifully written work. Enjoy!

themes: Royal Au, Heartbreak, Princess F! Reader, Past Kiyoomi Sakusa x Reader

w/c: 1.1k

INTRO: LOSS

The Princess’s art room was a sanctuary of light, a place where the golden hues of the setting sun filtered through tall arched windows, bathing the space in a serene glow.

Stacks of pristine parchment sat neatly on an ornate wooden table, and vases of fresh flowers, chosen daily by her devoted servants, adorned every corner.

The faint scent of jasmine oil lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp tang of paint. Yet, despite its beauty, the room felt suffocating, the air heavy with the presence of melancholy.

You sat by the grand window, your fingers delicately holding a paintbrush. You worked in silence, the tip of the brush gliding over the canvas, bringing to life a sweeping landscape of a stormy sea.

As the second-born child of the royal family, you had lived a life free of weighty expectations. Your older brother was the crowned prince, destined to rule, while you were simply the cherished princess—a symbol of Ichibayashi’s elegance and grace.

You were given every luxury, every comfort but still remained more than just a spoiled royal. You’re Ichibayashi’s heart, a gentle soul.

Your life had been simple in its own way. You weren’t burdened by the responsibilities of governance or the weight of expectation. Your days were filled with gowns and tiaras, embroidery and tea parties.

Your greatest concern had been which dress to wear to the next ball or how to impress visiting royals with your perfect curtsies, while still remaining reserved.

Your parents, the King and Queen of Ichibayashi, had often teased you about your future. “One day,” your mother would say, you’ll marry a fine prince, and you’ll charm him with your wit and kindness.” You had always felt embarrassed at such remarks, hiding your face in your hands.

They were almost right because then along came Prince Kiyoomi Sakusa of Itachiyama.

The memory lingered like an old scar, ever-present and faintly aching.

Kiyoomi, the reserved and enigmatic prince of Itachiyama, had been your first love. Your engagement, negotiated when you were young, had promised an alliance of power and prosperity.

But it had also promised your very own happiness. For a fleeting moment in your youth, you had believed you would rule beside him, be his queen with your heart safely tethered to his, and his to yours as well.

Then, like a bitter storm, he had ended it all. No reason was given, no explanation offered. He had simply walked away, leaving you standing in the ruins of a dream you hadn’t even realized you had built so carefully.

The pain had nearly consumed you. For months, you had wandered the palace with heavy heart. But time, as it always does, dulled the edges of your heartbreak. Slowly, you began to piece yourself back together.

You found solace in painting, pouring your soul into every brushstroke. You returned to your duties, smiled politely at the nobles, and assured your family that you were fine.

And you were fine—until the news came.

The day you learned that Kiyoomi had ascended to the throne of Itachiyama as King, taking the Princess of Karasuno as his queen, was the day you felt your fragile progress crumble.

He had chosen another princess, and the announcement left you utterly shattered.

You couldn’t bring yourself to attend the wedding, claiming illness, despite the diplomatic importance of your presence.

The very thought of standing in a room filled with celebration while your heart threatened to collapse was unbearable.

Your absence had been noted, whispered about in court, but no one dared to press on the matter.

Since then, you had retreated further into yourself than you already were. Meals became a chore you frequently skipped, much to your servants’ dismay.

Dances and galas—once a chance for you to dazzle in gowns of gold and sapphire—were now nothing but opportunities for avoidance.

You kept to your chambers and mostly now your art room. Your family was worried and your servants murmured here and about, but you cared for none of it. The world outside simply felt so distant, irrelevant.

Your brush hovered over the canvas as you hesitated. You were painting the horizon now, the storm clouds thinning into a pale wash of light. You wanted it to feel hopeful but found yourself unable to finish the thought. The light refused to reach the edges of the sea, as though hope itself was too far away.

Your parents and elder brother noticed the change immediately. You ate less, your appetite for your kingdom’s ravishing dishes fading. You spent hours locked away in your art room and painted somber landscapes that mirrored your mood.

Months passed, and you slowly began to find a deeper solace in your art once more. Your paintings grew more beautifully intricate, each brushstroke a reflection of the emotions you couldn’t voice. But just as you were beginning to regain a sliver of yourself, tragedy struck.

You were in your art room, the candles in the room shining through the tall walls, casting a warm hue over the canvases and paints scattered around you.

Lost in the delicate details of a painted blooming chrysanthemum, a flower that bloomed in your kingdom, you had been working on. Your brush hovered over the canvas, your expression serene.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence. A servant entered, her face pale and her hands trembling as she held a sealed letter. “Your grace!” she said, her voice unsteady, “Pardon me but…urgent news has arrived.”

You turned, your dark, expressive eyes narrowing slightly as you noted the servant’s unease. “What is it?” you asked softly.

The servant hesitated, then stepped forward, bowing deeply as she handed the letter to you.

You broke the seal, your elegant fingers unfolding the paper. Your eyes scanned the words, and the world seemed to tilt beneath you.

The paintbrush fell from your hand, clattering against the marbled floor. The servant gasped as the palette followed, the vibrant colors spilling like blood over the polished surface.

Your breath caught, your vision blurring as the words on the page seemed to burn into your mind. The letter fell from your hands, fluttering to the floor like a dying bird.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, you took a shaky step back, your hands clutching at your chest as if trying to hold yourself together. The servant’s voice was faint, panicked, but you didn’t hear her.

The tragedy had arrived, and with it, your world would never be the same.

to be continued….

[cemeteryspider]

Disco Inferno

Alastor x Hippie! Reader

Summary: Your carefree soul learns how to navigate your friendships and a budding relationship in the Hazbin Hotel

Trigger Warnings: Drug use, mature themes, violence, party atmosphere, alcohol consumption

Word Count: 1699

Maybe the years of drugs, protests, and sexual acts were what did you in. After all, good people don't end up in Hell you suppose. You lived as a relative nobody in Hell, except for the people you raised hell with.

Your best friend Cherri Bomb, adorned with fiery hair and exuding leather-clad confidence, sported a rebellious flair. Her devil-may-care attitude made her the perfect partner in crime.

You were casually talking it up with some big shot when out of nowhere a pink bomb landed on the table in front of you. Quickly, you jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding the blast. However, the shrapnel struck the Overlord you were engaged in conversation with, sealing Cherri Bomb's claim to his territory.

In addition, you encountered Angel Dust, revealing a shared passion for drugs that strengthened your connection. While you may not have the same drug of choice it doesn't mean getting high together was any less fun.

You navigated a niche between Angel's popularity and Cherri's intimidation, finding your place as their intriguing and adventurous companion.

This is how you ended up being the Happy Hotel's second patron.

~~~

Although smoking became off limits, in the hotel at least, you were still swaying around to music and dancing through the day.

You almost felt better when you weren't smoking but that wasn't something you wanted to admit to Angel or especially Charlie. You knew there would be a party thrown as soon as you said it.

The now Hazbin Hotel, was home to quite a few demons, not all there to rehabilitate but it made it feel more at home. The more people around the more you felt reminded of your friends topside, now they were almost certainly dead or "double dead" as Angel might say.

Charlie and Vaggie were stern but friendly towards you. They told you to stay sober if you wanted to stay at the hotel and you happily obliged. Although sometimes you still snuck a blunt, why did they have to know?

Husk was always able to talk you down and put a drink in your hand. He heard your troubles with Cherri and how she didn't want to talk to you anymore, and heard you talk about your worries with Angel. You and Husker, bonded by shared experiences and unspoken understanding, found solace in each other's company. Often, you sat around doing absolutely nothing, reveling in the comfort of a companion who needed no words.

Sir Pentious, Hazbin's third rehabilitant, was just the sweetest. Again you two often sat around talking, usually about his inventions and sometimes about Cherri. You gave him subtle hints about what she liked and how to win her over, but usually he got too nervous to act on these. This never stopped you from trying to help, and frequently having sleep-over with him and his sweet Egg Bois.

Alastor's enigmatic presence left you with a lingering curiosity, a puzzle you were determined to put together with every passing day. However, this didn't stop you from trying to become his friend. You listened to his radio show to try to find out things he liked and often accompanied him to Cannibal Town, not for its namesake but for amazing chats with Rosie. Alastor was the one piece of the puzzle you just couldn't figure out, and the more time you spent with him the more about him you wanted to know.

~~~

So when Charlie and Vaggie went on their trip to Heaven, you decided to invite Alastor out. You decided not to call it a date, but hoped the message would get across well to him. You and Alastor left shortly after everyone else when to a club nearby.

Wanting to bridge the gap between your worlds, you chose to bring him to your favorite disco joint, even if the music wasn't his usual taste. If you wanted him to like you, he did have to get to know you.

Studio 666, with pulsating neon lights casting an otherworldly glow and a bass so deep it reverberated through your very soul, stood as Hell's most renowned disco club. Though Alastor's smile didn't fade, a twitch betrayed his discomfort amidst the crowd and physical contact. The music was nothing like what he was used to and so far away from his favorite dance tunes.

Alastor was well aware of hippie culture as he had talked with many people who died and how they lived on his radio show. He had been to a club like this once with Rosie and he did not think that he would ever be back to one. Let alone with a beautiful dame like yourself.

He stood frozen for a moment and felt very out of place in his coat and slacks. You were dressed impeccably for the occasion wearing a halter top jumpsuit adorned with red rhinestones and sparkles. Platform boots make you just a hair taller than your usual height.

You had decided to match Alastor on your night out, trying to make others notice you were with him and maybe have them be more friendly. Well as friendly as some sinners were willing to be.

Gently you took his hand and led him to the bar.

"Yo, Y/n, where have you been? The Studio's been missin' you"

"Oh you know Flower, I've just been truckin' on"

"Wearin' some groovy threads"

"When am I not, ya goof"

Alastor noticed you fall into a rhythm with the bartender, Flower you called them. Again he felt sorely out of place, even though before this, you had always made him feel right at home.

"Anyways, what can I get you and Casanova here?"

A small chuckle escaped your lips.

"You know me," you grinned, "a tequila sunrise, and Alastor will have a-"

"I'll have a Greyhound"

With that, a playful grin graced your lips as you looked up at him. For you, he would try to embrace this night of loud disco festivities with a drink he normally would never try.

Once Flower had served the two drinks Alastor saw them whisper in your ear. Despite the attempt at secrecy he heard exactly what was said.

"I got primo grass and mushrooms if you're interested, foxy"

Alastor saw the glance you gave him and quirked his eyebrow. You moved away from Flower.

"Nah, we best keep on steppin', peace, Flower"

With a smile and a nod of their head they went to serve the next customer.

~~~

You were able to find a table a little ways away from the ruckus to talk with Alastor about anything and everything that came to your mind. The hotel and its apparent success, things Alastor spoke about on his last radio broadcast, and your favorite color.

However, the smooth flow of the night was interrupted when a small group of demons approached the table where you were chatting.

"My my, here's a brick house I'd never I'd see again"

Your smile instantly turned into a scowl. You turned toward the short stubby man who seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

"Psych, the bug I thought I squished a long time ago", you practically snarled at them.

"Hold up, Dollface, no need to freak out. We just wanna talk. Why don't you take a chill pill and come boogie with us. We sure do have lots to catch up on"

Alastor appeared between the two of them before Psych could make a move to grab her.

"Why gentlemen, that is no way to treat a lady, now scurry along, u̵̪̓n̶̲̋l̶̑͜e̷͉̊s̶̜̽š̸̙ ̷̞̑y̵̪̅ơ̵̞ṳ̴̕ ̶̪̓n̴͇͂o̷̮͑ ̵͎̆l̵̫͒o̶̥̕ň̵̗g̸̠̓e̶͍̊r̴͓̉ ̵̹̋ẅ̴̳ḭ̵͠s̸̮̅h̶̛̩ ̷͈̈t̴̬͒o̶̜̔ ̴͔̿u̴͍͝s̵̗͂ē̸͎ ̴͓͝y̴̻̕o̴̮͊u̵̟͒r̵̗̈ ̸̥͂h̵a̸n̴d̶s̴"

"Snaps man, were goin'"

They stalked off, and Alastor returned to his seat.

"So, Cher, do you wish to, how did they say it, boogie?"

"Al, we don't have to dance if it's not to your liking," you suggested tentatively, concerned about Alastor's comfort.

"Nonsense, I did not learn to disco for nothing." Alastor's response carried a hint of excitement. In an instant, you found yourself on the dance floor, the disco ball casting a dazzling display of lights above your heads.

The dance floor pulsed with neon lights, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the room. The infectious rhythm reverberated through the air, prompting everyone to move in synchronized harmony. Happily you take Alastor's hand and his overcoat disappears leaving him in his black button-up.

The bassline kicks in and you synchronize your movements, letting the music guide you.

The dance floor ignited with a playful series of twirls and spins. Your sequined jumpsuit scattered sparks across its surface, catching the neon lights in a dazzling display. Your bodies moving in harmony.

The tempo rises and soon a transition into sensual and intricate dance moves. Your fluidity contrasts Alastors strong and controlled movements. You playfully tease him with every step. The crowd soon had all of their eyes on the two of you.

A continued show of trust and chemistry flowed through every dip, lift, and spin. The disco lights danced in their eyes, mirroring the euphoria of the music that surrounded them showcasing laughter and glances, you were completely lost in the magic of the moment,

The music reaches its peak, and you lock eyes with Alastor. His usual smile was replaced with a lovesick grin.

As the song concluded, your heart still pounding with the rhythm, the world slowly came back into focus. The applause of the entertained crowd echoed, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment and joy. Alastor's expression, a lovesick grin, reveals a side you hadn't seen before, deepening the connection between you two.

Leading the way, Alastor guided you from the dance floor to the exit. As you stepped outside, his coat materialized on your shoulders, a protective gesture in the crisp night air.

"Wow, Alastor, I didn't know you could dance like that" The revelation left you pleasantly surprised and craving more insights into this mysterious demon.

"Mon Cherie, next time we'll go to a jazz club and you'll see how well I can dance"

Still breathless from the dance, you sighed contentedly as you continued the walk back to the hotel, the night filled with the echoes of joy and music.

[astraystayyh]

A sun and a moon

pairing: minho x reader, pre-established relationship.

genre: hurt/comfort. reader is going through a rough patch.

On days when the mere thought of breathing gets tiring, Minho makes it feel a bit easier.

Please let me know if you enjoyed reading, it means a lot to me <3

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

It was one of those weeks when you woke up every day feeling out of place. In your home, in your mind, in your body.

You never really understood why you'd start feeling this way. It would happen out of the blue, and you'd be forced to carry the heavy weight of your insecurities with you throughout the day.

On days like these, you'd wish you'd be able to crawl out of your skin, float in the air, and not feel anything. You'd give everything to quiet the thoughts in your head that criticize your every move- the way you walk, the way you talk, the way you breathe.

Minho would always notice- how you wither down like a flower that was left to fend for itself, rootless. You'd become quiet, afraid that if you ever spoke, you'd break down and he'd be forced to pick up your shattered pieces. You didn't want to be a burden for him, you wanted to be easy to love.

And when Minho noticed, he didn't comment. Because he knew that part of being human is feeling down, and that it can't always be sunshine and roses. But what he didn't convey in words, he did in actions. He would kiss your forehead randomly, his fingers threading gently through your hair. He'd make you lunch, drawing a smiley face on the rice with sauce. He'd bring you water, making sure you drank it all, patting your head when you are done.

He wouldn't talk, but his gestures spoke for him- they were telling you, 'I know, I know you are not feeling like yourself and I still love you'.

But you couldn't voice your gratitude or your love for him. And it made you resent yourself more. You'd spiral down, and you'd start to think that he deserves someone else, someone better. Someone who doesn't sit on a couch unmoving; selfishly hoping that the universe would pass on their insecurities to somebody else.

"I'm sorry", you mutter on a particularly draining night, and he frowns, placing his chopsticks down.

"I'm sorry you are stuck with me. You deserve better", you slip out, angry tears welling up in your eyes. You don't even know why you spoke. Maybe it was the sight of the dinner he made you left untouched, because you couldn't bring yourself to eat it.

He's quick to your side, kneeling in front of you and holding your hand in his. "There is no one better, sweetheart. There is only you", he reassures, his tone so soft it makes you cry even more.

His warm hand in yours doesn't make the insecurities go away, but for a minute, your mind forgets. It allows you a moment of solace- like a rainbow that comes once in a while to remind you that the sun will shine again.

That night in bed, Minho pulls your body toward his, your back snug against his chest.

"You know, they say that the moon and the sun are lovers", he starts off, tone hushed. "And they say that one day, the sun started to notice how soft the moon's light is, compared to its own warm rays. And how lovers always write poems about the moon, when no one can look at the sun for too long", he pauses, and you nod to show him you are listening.

"And the sun thinks, maybe... maybe the moon deserves a better star to love". He's talking about you, you realize. You are the sun and he is the moon.

"But... what the sun doesn't know is that the moon only shines because it reflects the sun's light. The moon wouldn't be the moon without the sun. Just like I would be nothing without you, my love".

Minho kisses the back of your head, and you shake in his arms, your sobs resounding loudly in the room. "I am who I am because of you", he whispers right in your ear, hugging you even tighter to him.

Right now, you aren't okay, and Minho's words don't fix everything. But they are the light at the end of the tunnel, so you clutch onto them. You store them in a sacred cabinet in your mind, in the wait of the day where you'll wholeheartedly believe them.

It will happen soon, you think to yourself. Soon, you'll be okay again, and Minho will still be by your side.

[nameless-ken]

Bucky Barnes x Reader - Part Four

Word count: 6.3k

Warnings: angst, PTSD, mentions on nightmares, angst but also fluff

Part One | Part Two | Part Three |

Masterlist

The nightmare comes like it always does, creeping in on the edges of his consciousness as he sleeps. It starts innocently enough—a flicker of light, the soft murmur of voices, the comforting weight of camaraderie as he walks alongside Steve and Sam. They’re joking about something, Sam gesturing animatedly while Steve laughs. The warmth of the memory is almost enough to lull him into a false sense of security. Almost.

Then, without warning, it shifts.

The light dims, and the voices fade, replaced by the deafening roar of explosions and the staccato rattle of gunfire. Bucky is back there—back in the middle of it all. The dirt and blood, the acrid stench of burning metal, the sharp bite of fear coursing through him.

His hands shake as he grips his weapon, but it’s no use. The fight is over before it even begins. He feels the impact before he hears it, the sharp crack of something hard against his skull. The world tilts, and he falls—down, down, down—into the cold, unyielding grip of darkness.

When he comes to, it’s worse. He’s bound, restrained in a dimly lit room that reeks of sweat and despair. The faces of his captors are blurry, their voices distorted, but the pain they inflict is sharp and clear. They demand answers he doesn’t have, punish him for things he hasn’t done. Days blur into nights, and time loses all meaning. He’s reduced to a name, a rank, a number, and eventually not even that.

And then there’s the arm.

He doesn’t want to remember, but the dream forces him to. The cold, clinical voices discussing him like he’s an object, a project. The excruciating pain as they take everything from him, piece by piece, until all that’s left is the man he is now: broken, incomplete, a ghost of who he used to be.

Bucky wakes with a start, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon. He stills, glancing down at you, your head resting against the couch cushion. He was slightly glad you had moved in your sleep so he didn’t disturb you. He quietly raises from the couch, taking quiet steps toward your kitchen. His metal hand clenched involuntarily, the faint whir of its mechanisms the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. He feels damp with sweat and his heart pounds erratically in his chest. He finds an empty glass, filling it with water and downing it quickly, adding more seconds after. He runs a trembling hand through his hair. The echoes of the nightmare linger, clawing at the edges of his mind, and he presses his hands to his temples, willing them away.

The early morning brings little solace. The sunlight streaming through the windows feels intrusive, too bright for the heaviness in his chest. 

This is the routine now—wake up, survive the day, go to bed, repeat. Some days are better than others. Some days, the nightmares don’t come. Some days, he almost feels like he belongs in this world again.

But most days? Most days, he feels like an imposter.

The people around him don’t understand, and he doesn’t blame them. How could they? They haven’t seen what he’s seen, haven’t lived through what he’s endured. Steve and Sam try. God, they try. Steve’s relentless in his optimism, always urging Bucky to "talk to someone." Sam’s more subtle, nudging him toward his veteran support group with promises that "it helps to just be around people who get it."

But Bucky always finds a way to back out. The thought of sitting in a circle, baring his soul to strangers, makes his skin crawl. Therapy feels even worse. He’s not ready to dissect the mess inside his head, to pick apart the memories that haunt him. He’s barely holding himself together as it is.

And yet, for all his resistance, there’s a part of him—a small, quiet part—that longs for something more. For peace, for connection, for a life that doesn’t feel like it’s teetering on the edge of falling apart.

He glances at the small bouquet of daisies on your counter, the ones he’d given you the night before. They sit in a glass vase filled with water, their bright petals a stark contrast to the greyness he feels inside.

His gaze drifts back to your sleeping form. His mind thinks back to the ways you’ve smiled at him, the way you’ve listened to him like every word he said mattered. You make him feel... normal. Like he wasn’t the sum of his scars and his mistakes. Like he was just a guy, sitting across from you, trying to figure out how to be whole again.

You don’t know the half of it.

He wonders, not for the first time, what you see when you look at him. Do you see the broken man he feels he is? Or do you see the mask he tries so desperately to hold in place? He wants to tell you—everything. To let the words spill out, to show you the jagged edges of his soul and trust that you won’t flinch. But then the thought of it makes his chest tighten. How could he put that weight on you?

His metal hand tightens involuntarily, the faint whir pulling him back to reality. He releases the counter and crosses the room quietly, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. He sinks into the armchair across from the couch, his gaze fixed on you. The early morning sunlight filters through the blinds now, illuminating the strands of hair that have fallen across your face.

He exhales slowly, rubbing his hands over his face. He doesn’t deserve this—doesn’t deserve you. The guilt twists inside him, sharp and unforgiving. How could someone like you—someone so kind, so warm—want to be around someone like him? He’s a mess of nightmares and broken pieces, a shadow of a man who’s spent more time fighting ghosts than living.

And yet, here you are.

The minutes tick by, and Bucky finally moves, he slips his jacket off the back of the chair he’s in and finds his notebook, pulling it out of the inside hidden pocket. He flips it open to a blank page. Writing has become his lifeline lately, a way to purge the thoughts he can’t say aloud. The words come slowly at first, his handwriting uneven, but they come.

I had the dream again.

His pen hesitates, hovering above the page.

It’s always the same. The sounds, the smells. The way it ends. I woke up practically choking on it, trying to convince myself it wasn’t real, even though it was.

He pauses, glancing at you again, and then continues.

She was there when I woke up. I didn’t want her to see me like that, so I left the room. I don’t know how she still wants to be around me. I’m not sure I’d stay, if I were her.

The vulnerability of the admission makes him shift uncomfortably. He closes the notebook, setting it aside, and runs a hand through his hair again. His thoughts swirl, chaotic and unrelenting, but then you stir on the couch, stretching as your eyes flutter open.

“Morning,” you mumble sleepily, your voice soft and warm.

Bucky swallows hard, his instinct to deflect kicking in. “Good morning. Sorry if I woke you,” he says gruffly.

You shake your head, sitting up and brushing the hair out of your face. “You didn’t. You okay?”

The question hangs in the air, simple but heavy. He wants to lie, to brush it off like he always does, but something about the way you look at him—concerned, but not pitying—makes him hesitate.

“I’m fine,” he says finally, but the words lack conviction.

You tilt your head, studying him. “You don’t have to tell me,” you say gently. “But you don’t have to go through anything alone, either.”

The sincerity in your voice almost undoes him. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

You don’t push. You just smile softly and get up, heading toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”

He watches you go, the sunlight catching on the daisies in the vase, and for the first time in a long time, the weight in his chest feels a little less suffocating. Maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to carry it all alone.

Bucky watches you move around the kitchen, your presence steady and calming. It’s the quiet, everyday moments like this that unsettle him the most—not in a bad way, but in a way that makes him feel like he’s on the brink of something unfamiliar. Something terrifying. Something good.

You hum softly as you pull down two mugs, the sound faint but soothing. “How do you take it?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder.

He hesitates. “Black,” he answers, his voice rough from the lingering tension of the nightmare.

You nod, setting the coffee to brew, and turn to lean against the counter, your arms crossed casually. “Rough night?” you ponder, your tone light but your eyes searching.

Bucky freezes for a moment. He’s not used to people asking. Not like this, at least. Not in a way that doesn’t feel intrusive or demanding.

He nods once. “Yeah,” he says, the word clipped and quiet.

You don’t press, and he’s grateful for that. Instead, you keep talking, your voice filling the space with something normal, something grounding. “You know,” you start, “my mom used to say that nightmares were just your brain’s way of clearing out the junk. Like it was cleaning house.”

Bucky huffs a dry laugh, the sound unexpected even to himself. “If that’s true, my brain’s got a hell of a mess.”

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you pour the coffee, bringing a mug over to him. “I wouldn’t say that,” you add. “I think it’s more like a fixer-upper. Needs some TLC, but it’s got good bones.”

He takes the mug, his metal fingers brushing against yours briefly. He flinches, pulling back instinctively, but you don’t react, don’t even blink at the contact. The warmth of your acceptance cuts through him, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.

“Thanks,” he mutters, taking a sip of the coffee as if it could anchor him.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. You sit across from him at the small table, cradling your own mug, and he finds himself relaxing under your steady gaze.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” you state softly after a while, “but if you ever want to, I’m here.”

Bucky studies you, the sincerity in your expression making his chest tighten. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve someone like you in his life, but he’s starting to realize that maybe it’s not about deserving. Maybe it’s just about showing up, about trying.

“I don’t really know how,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“How to talk about it?” you wonder

He nods, staring into his coffee as if it holds the answer. “There’s just... so much. And every time I think about it, it’s like I’m back there. Like it’s happening all over again.”

Your hand reaches out, resting lightly on his, and the touch startles him. He looks up, meeting your eyes.

“That’s okay,” you admit. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to take it one step at a time.”

One step at a time. The words echo in his mind, foreign and yet strangely comforting. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to take that step yet, but for the first time in a long time, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could try.

He nods again, this time with a little more conviction, and offers you a faint smile. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

“Thanks,” he repeats, and this time, the word feels lighter, like it carries something more than just gratitude.

You smile back, your hand still resting on his. “Anytime, Bucky.”

The sound of tiny, excited feet pattering down the hallway greets Bucky before he even has a chance to knock on the door. Elizabeth flings it open with all the strength her little six-year-old arms can muster, her face lighting up at the sight of him.

“Uncle Buckyyyy!” she squeals, launching herself at him with unbridled enthusiasm.

“Whoa, hey now!” Bucky laughs as he catches her mid-leap, hoisting her into the air with ease. “What’s all this excitement about, huh? You act like you haven’t seen me in years.”

“It’s been forever,” Elizabeth insists, her voice carrying the kind of dramatic weight only a six-year-old could manage. She throws her arms around his neck, squeezing tight. “I missed you.”

“I just saw you, kiddo,” Bucky says with a grin, setting her down gently. “But I missed you too.”

From the living room, Steve appears, an apologetic smile on his face as he adjusts his jacket. “She’s been talking about this all day. Are you sure you’re okay with watching her tonight? I know she can be a handful.”

Bucky waves him off. “She’s never a handful for me, are you, Bee?”

“Nope!” Elizabeth chirps, beaming. “We’re gonna have so much fun. Right, Uncle Bucky?”

“That’s the plan.” He crouches down to her level, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Alright, Bee, say goodbye to your mom and dad. We’ve got some serious babysitting to do.”

An hour later, Elizabeth sits cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by her collection of stuffed animals, blocks, and an impressive stack of books she’s deemed “necessary” for tonight’s reading time. Bucky is lying on his stomach across from her, his metal arm resting beside him as he builds an elaborate block tower under her careful direction.

“No, not that one, Uncle Bucky!” she exclaims, holding out a red block instead. “That one’s the roof. You need to use this one first.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says with mock seriousness, taking the block from her. “I wouldn’t dare mess up your masterpiece.”

Elizabeth giggles, her laughter filling the room like sunshine. “You’re silly.”

“You think so?” he teases, pretending to wobble the tower just to hear her shriek with delight.

“You’re the silliest. And the strongest,” she says matter-of-factly, leaning in to inspect his metal arm. “Your arm is so cool. Does it make you a superhero?”

Bucky pauses, his heart catching slightly at the innocence in her eyes. “Something like that,” he murmurs. “But don’t tell anyone, okay? It’s a secret.”

“Okay, I won’t tell,” she whispers, as if they’re sharing the most important secret in the world. She leans closer, her voice dropping even lower. “Can I tell you my secret?”

“Of course, kiddo.”

Elizabeth cups her hands around her mouth, her eyes sparkling. “I think you should marry Miss Y/L/N.”

Bucky chokes on a laugh, sitting up straight. “What?”

“Miss Y/L/N! My teacher!” Elizabeth exclaims, her face lighting up. “She’s so nice, and you’re nice, and you brought her flowers, and I think you’d be a good husband.”

“Well, that’s... a big idea,” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice steady. His ears burn, and he scratches the back of his neck. “Where’d you even get an idea like that?”

Elizabeth shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I dunno. You just look happy when you see her. And she’s pretty, right?”

“She is,” Bucky admits softly, feeling his heart race.

“And you’re pretty too, Uncle Bucky!” Elizabeth adds, giggling as she clambers onto his lap. “So you’d make a pretty couple. You could get married and have a big cake. And you can still babysit me, ‘cause I’m your favorite person, right?”

“You’ll always be my favorite person, Bee,” Bucky says, ruffling her hair. “But you might be getting ahead of yourself with the wedding plans.”

Elizabeth sighs dramatically. “Grown-ups are so slow.”

“Well, some things take time,” Bucky replies, lifting her up and standing. “Now, how about we pick out a book for bedtime?”

“Okay,” Elizabeth says, resting her head against his shoulder as he carries her to the couch. “But you should really think about it, Uncle Bucky. Miss Y/L/N is perfect for you.”

As Bucky settles Elizabeth into bed later, her words linger in his mind. Watching her drift off to sleep, he feels a warmth in his chest—a small flicker of hope, something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, she’s onto something.

The apartment is quiet, too quiet. Bucky sits on the edge of his couch, the faint light of the city spilling through. His hands rest on his knees, one flesh and one metal, both clenched tight as if he could somehow wring the restless thoughts from his mind.

The notebook lays open on the coffee table in front of him, its pages filled with uneven scrawl—his private confessions, his outlet for the chaos in his head. He stares at the last line he’d written hours ago:

I’m scared I’ll always feel like this.

The words stare back, unflinching and raw. He closes his eyes and leans back, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples. The weight in his chest felt unbearable tonight, heavier than usual, and no amount of pacing, writing, or staring into the dark seems to shake it.

He glances at the notebook again, his fingers twitching. Picking it up, he flips to a fresh page.

It’s getting harder tonight. Everything feels too loud, even though it’s dead quiet in here. I keep thinking about the way Bee looked at me when she said those things about being happy. She’s too young to know what I’ve been through, but she sees right through me anyway.

I don’t know what I’m doing, pretending like I’m normal. Like I’m someone who can belong in this world. Most days, it feels like a fight just to stay here, to keep breathing.

But then Y/N smiles at me, and for a minute, it’s like all the noise stops. Y/N probably doesn’t even realize it. And when I’m around her, it’s easier to imagine that I’m not completely broken.

I don’t know if I can say any of this out loud.

He puts the pen down, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. Writing helps, but it doesn't fix anything. The ache in his chest remains, gnawing and unrelenting.

His eyes flick to his phone sitting on the table. The rational part of him screams to leave it alone, to not risk saying something he’d regret. But the need to hear your voice was stronger than the fear.

He grabs the phone, his fingers hesitating over your contact. He’d been careful not to push, to keep things easy between you, but tonight... tonight he can’t stand the silence.

With a deep breath, he presses the call button.

“Hello?” Your voice comes through the receiver, warm and slightly groggy, like you’re half-asleep.

“Hey,” he says softly, suddenly unsure of himself. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, it’s okay,” you answer, your tone instantly reassuring. “I wasn’t sleeping. Just reading. What’s up? Are you okay?”

He hesitates, his grip on the phone tightening. “Yeah, I just... I don’t know. I needed to talk to someone. To you.”

There’s a pause on your end, not awkward but understanding. “I’m glad you called,” you remark gently. “What’s on your mind?”

Bucky leans back again, closing his eyes as he lets the sound of your voice steady him. “I don’t even know where to start,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just... one of those nights.”

You hum softly, and he can picture you nodding. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you just want me to talk to you for a while?”

“Just hearing you is enough,” he comments, the honesty surprising even himself. “I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere, Bucky,” you state firmly. “If it helps to talk, I’m here. And if not, we can just sit on the phone. Whatever you need.”

His chest tightens, not in pain but in something that feels suspiciously like relief. “Thanks,” he replies after a moment.

You start talking then, about your day, about something funny Elizabeth did in class, about the book you’ve been reading that you thought he might like. Your voice is like a balm, softening the sharp edges of his thoughts.

A soft, quietness falls over you both, the sound of breathing only letting each other know the other is still there. 

The silence between you both stretched for a moment longer, comfortable and warm, and then your voice broke it, light and teasing.

“You know, Bucky,” you begin, your tone holding just the hint of a smile, “if you keep calling me in the middle of the night like this, people are going to think we’re secretly dating.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the sound low and a little rough. “Yeah? What people?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you reply, a playful lilt in your voice. “Elizabeth, for one. Did you know she’s been telling anyone who will listen that we should get married?”

He couldn’t help but grin, the tension in his chest easing slightly. “Yeah, she mentioned it while I was babysitting. She’s got some strong opinions for a kindergartener.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” you remark, feigning a casual tone that doesn’t quite mask the flirtation beneath it.

His breath hitches, caught off guard by the boldness of your words. “You think so?”

“Maybe,” you tease. “Guess you’ll just have to find out.”

He leans back against the couch, his lips twitching upward despite himself. “And how exactly would I do that?”

“Easy,” you state, your voice soft but undeniably confident. “Take me out again. Somewhere fun this time.”

Bucky is silent for a moment, processing your words. He isn’t used to people wanting to spend time with him—just him. And the idea of it being fun, of it being easy, felt like something out of reach. But the way you said it made him want to believe it was possible.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice quiet but steady.

“Of course, I’m sure,” you said, your tone gentle but firm. “I like spending time with you, Bucky. And I think you like spending time with me too, even if you won’t admit it.”

“I do,” he said quickly, the honesty surprising both of you. “I mean, yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good,” you express, the warmth in your voice unmistakable. “It’s a date, then. I’ll let you pick the place—just no dive bars or anywhere too fancy. Deal?”

He chuckles, the sound genuine this time. “Deal. But don’t blame me if it’s terrible. I’m not exactly an expert on this kind of thing.”

“Oh, I have faith in you, Barnes,” you declare, your tone light and teasing again. “Besides, how bad could it be? Worst case, we end up sharing fries somewhere and laughing about it.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” he admits, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“No, it doesn’t,” you agree. “Now, get some sleep. You’ll need it to plan this amazing date.”

“Yeah, I will,” he mutters, his voice softer now. “Goodnight, doll.” The nickname slips out before he realizes. 

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you reply, the nickname making your heart flutter.

As the call ended, Bucky leaned back against the couch, the faintest of smiles lingering on his lips. For the first time in what felt like forever, the darkness didn’t seem quite so overwhelming. Maybe, just maybe, he could let himself have this.

The car ride to Coney Island is filled with excited chatter, the kind that makes time slip by without you even realizing it. You're a little surprised when Bucky pulls off the main road toward the iconic amusement park, its bright neon lights glowing in the evening twilight.

“Coney Island?” You raise an eyebrow as you glance over at Bucky. “Seriously?”

Bucky grins like he’s just won a prize. “Yup. Thought we’d take a little trip to the beach. Have you ever been here before?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s been years. I used to come here when I was a kid, but I don’t think I’ve been in ages.”

“Well, it’s about time we change that,” Bucky says as he parks the car, his tone light and confident, like this is the best plan ever. You don’t argue with him; the energy in his voice is contagious.

As you both get out of the car, the salty breeze from the beach hits you, carrying the scent of the ocean and the promise of summer fun. The sounds of distant laughter, the low hum of carnival music, and the clinking of game booths fill the air. You feel the giddiness in the atmosphere, and Bucky—true to his word—looks like he’s absolutely loving every second of it.

"First stop," he says, grabbing your hand, his grip warm and steady, "the Wonder Wheel."

You can’t help but smile. The Wonder Wheel, with its classic wooden gondolas and towering height, looms ahead of you. The thought of being so high up makes your stomach flutter, but with Bucky’s hand in yours, it doesn’t seem so daunting.

You both wait in line for a bit, surrounded by the sounds of laughter and children running past with stuffed animals in their hands. When it’s your turn, Bucky leads you to the gondola, and you climb in together.

As the wheel begins its slow ascent, the lights of Coney Island spread out below you like a field of stars. The breeze ruffles your hair, and you can’t help but feel a little like a kid again, grinning like an idiot. Bucky, however, looks like a man on a mission.

“Don’t look down too much,” Bucky teases as he catches your wide-eyed gaze. “It’s not as scary as it looks, promise.”

You laugh. “Sure, says the guy who probably rode this thing a hundred times.”

“Maybe a few more than that,” he replies, a twinkle in his eye. “But hey, I’m used to heights. And I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, so relax.” His smile is comforting, reassuring. As the wheel creaks and moves higher, you feel your tension ease away, leaning into him just a little.

Once the wheel stops at the top, you both take in the view—Coney Island sprawled out beneath you, the Brooklyn skyline in the distance, and the ocean lapping softly at the shore.

“This is perfect,” you murmur, still amazed at how calm and peaceful the moment is, despite the chaos of the carnival below.

Bucky turns to you, his eyes soft. “I’m glad you think so.”

You sit there for a moment, just enjoying the view and the company, the gentle rocking of the gondola lulling you into a peaceful, contented silence.

When the ride ends, you both make your way toward the games. Bucky insists on winning you something, so you find yourselves at one of those booths where you have to toss rings over bottles. Bucky is all concentration, his tongue peeking out the side of his mouth as he takes careful aim.

“Alright, alright,” you tease as he throws another ring that misses by a mile. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Bucky?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he shoots back, unbothered by the missed shots, his smile never fading. “I’m getting the hang of it.”

When he finally manages to land one, he raises his arms in victory like he’s just won a gold medal. You laugh, leaning against the counter.

“See? Told you I could do it,” he says, handing you the stuffed bear the booth attendant gives him. “For you, beautiful.”

“Aw, thanks,” you say with a smile. “I knew you had it in you.”

The rest of the evening is filled with more laughter—riding the Cyclone roller coaster (which Bucky takes in stride, but you scream the whole way), playing skeeball, and eating way too much cotton candy. Throughout it all, Bucky’s right hand never strays far from yours, his touch a constant reassurance that you’re safe and in good company.

The air on the boardwalk is crisp, the evening wind carrying the salty tang of the sea. You and Bucky walk side by side, the colorful carnival lights reflecting off the glossy wood of the boardwalk, creating a dreamlike glow. The sounds of distant laughter, the soft hum of the roller coasters, and the lapping of the waves combine to form the perfect backdrop to this surreal moment.

Bucky glances over at you, his expression soft but thoughtful. “Do you ever just... stop and appreciate the little things? Like, right now. Just... this. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

You smile, glancing out at the ocean. The soft sound of the waves crashing on the shore gives the moment an added depth, like the world is giving you a little peace. “Yeah,” you murmur, your voice quieter now. “It feels perfect.”

Bucky nods, falling silent for a beat, before he turns his gaze back to you. “You’ve got this way of making everything feel... less complicated. You know that?” His voice is gentle, not too heavy but carrying a sincerity that makes your heart skip a beat.

You can’t help but look at him, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m just here, Bucky. Just trying to enjoy the ride.”

He chuckles, that deep, warm laugh that always seems to draw you in. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he adds, the smile on his lips genuine. “Because this... this feels like one of those nights that could go on forever.”

It does feel like that, and for a moment, it almost seems as though time has no bearing on what is happening between you two. No rush. No agenda. Just the two of you, walking in sync along the boardwalk, with everything in its right place.

After a while, you reach a quieter part of the boardwalk, away from the laughter and games. It’s peaceful here, the glow of the lights reflecting in the calm waters as you stop near a railing that overlooks the ocean. The cool breeze makes your hair fly in all directions, but it only adds to the charm of the evening. You lean against the railing, gazing out at the horizon, as Bucky stands beside you, his arms cross loosely.

For a while, neither of you speake. The peaceful silence is comforting, as though words aren’t necessary. But eventually, Bucky breaks the quiet, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t do nights like this often. But with you, it just feels... right. Like this is exactly how things are supposed to be.”

You turn to face him, your chest tight with something that is part gratitude. You can see the vulnerability in his eyes, something raw and unguarded that makes you feel even closer to him. There’s a sweetness in the air, in the way he looks at you, like you’re the only person in the world.

Before you can respond, Bucky speaks again, his tone lighter this time. “Come on, I think we’ve soaked in enough of the boardwalk for one night. How about I take you home?”

You smile, nodding. “Sounds perfect.”

The car ride back to your place is comfortable, Bucky’s hand rests lightly on the steering wheel, his grip relaxes as he navigates through the streets, the city lights passing by in a blur. Every so often, you glance over at him, your heart swelling with a mixture of emotions—something tender and real.

As you approach your building, you can practically feel the inevitable tension rise, the unspoken “goodbye” lingering in the air. Bucky pulls up to the curb, the engine quieting as he shifts into park. Neither of you move right away.

For a moment, it feels like the world has paused. You stare ahead, the soft hum of the city outside barely reaching your ears.

“Well,” Bucky clears his throat , breaking the silence, his voice a little more serious than usual, “Let me walk you up.” 

Nodding, you open the car door and step out, the cool air greeting you as you both make your way to the entrance of your building. The soft click of the door closing behind you marks the transition from the casual fun of Coney Island to this quieter, more intimate part of the evening.

As you stand in the elevator, the silence feels different now, like it’s wrapping you both in unspoken. Bucky stands a little closer than he needs to, one hand resting on your back, his presence a quiet reassurance, and you can’t help but notice the way he’s gazing at you, like he’s trying to read your thoughts.

When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, you step out, leading the way to your apartment door. The hallway is lit softly, casting gentle shadows on the walls.

You unlock your door and step inside, turning to look at Bucky. For a moment, you both just stand there, the air between you thick with something unspoken. There’s no rush, no pressure. 

“Well,” Bucky says softly, his voice carrying that same sincerity from earlier. “This was a really great night.”

You smile, the kind of smile that comes from a place deeper than simple politeness. “Yeah, it really was. I’m glad you took me there.”

His eyes soften as he looks at you. There’s a flicker of something, maybe hesitation, but it’s quickly replaced with a small, almost shy smile. “Me too,” he says, stepping closer, just enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence. His eyes drop briefly to your lips, and for a split second, it feels like the world slows down, the hum of the city outside fading into the background.

Before you can say anything, Bucky’s voice breaks the stillness, a quiet but sincere tone. “I’ll see you next Friday afternoon, yeah?”

It’s not really a question, more like an understanding, a gentle promise. You nod, a little surprised by how much you want to say more, but you can’t quite find the words.

“Yeah,” you reply, smiling a little wider now. “Friday afternoon.”

Bucky’s hand brushes against yours for a moment before he pulls away, stepping back with a slight nod. “Take care, okay?”

“You too.” you mutter softly, watching as he turns around but his footsteps slow, almost like he’s second-guessing his decision to leave. The seconds stretch, each one heavier than the last.

He stops and turns back around with his hand resting on the doorframe. His head tilts slightly as he glances back at you, eyes lingering on your lips again. The air between you two crackles with something raw. Something neither of you can ignore any longer.

“I’m not ready for this night to end,” Bucky says softly, his voice low and filled with that warmth you’ve come to crave. It’s almost a confession, the way his words linger in the space between you.

You don’t say anything at first, your heart racing, all of the unspoken words swirling inside of you. And then, without thinking, you move toward him, your steps measured but filled with an urgency you can’t deny. His breath catches just as you’re standing right in front of him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You both just stand there, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his gaze locked onto yours like he’s waiting for permission. The tension is thick, and the world outside seems to fade away entirely.

Without another word, you reach up, your hand brushing against his cheek, your fingers tracing the familiar stubble along his jawline. His eyes flutter shut for a split second, a quiet exhale escaping his lips. And then, before either of you can think better of it, you close the gap between you.

The kiss is soft at first—tentative, almost like both of you are testing the waters, savoring the closeness you’ve been craving all night. But it doesn’t take long for the kiss to deepen, for the slow burn to turn into something hotter, more urgent. Bucky’s right hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, his lips moving against yours with a hunger you hadn’t expected but completely welcome. You feel him hesitate touching you with his left arm but it gracefully cradles your cheek. The smoothness of his leather glove, cold to the touch. 

You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you deepen the kiss even further. The world falls away as you lose yourself in the kiss, in the feeling of Bucky’s arm around you, the warmth of his touch, the taste of him. There’s no hesitation now, no barriers between you both—just the electricity crackling in the space where you meet.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless, your hearts pounding in sync. Bucky looks at you, his expression soft but full of that same intensity, his hand still resting on your back, like he’s afraid to let go.

“Wow,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his eyes full of something you can’t quite name, but you know it’s the same thing that’s been simmering between you since the moment you met. “That... that was something.”

You nod, your lips still tingling from the kiss. “Yeah. It really was.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything more. He just looks at you for a moment, his hand lingering on your back, as if he’s waiting for something. You feel the weight of his gaze on you, the connection between you two stronger than ever.

Part Five

Thanks for reading! Please reblog & comment <3 would love to hear how you enjoy it and feel free to send in requests!

[kiki-smith21]

The Comfort of Quiet Companionship

Wednesday Addams x autistic fem reader

A/N: This is my first fanfic, and any feedback would be appreciated. Let me know if you want a part 4. (I am actually autistic, so this is mostly based off the symptoms I show, but if you have any typical symptoms of autism you wish for me to add to the story later let me know and I'll try my best. Please be respectful to all, and remember to drink water and look after yourself, cuties❤️)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

Summary: You and Wednesday get into a comforting routine, and quiet moments together bring you closer and closer.

The routine began seamlessly—an unspoken agreement that formed as naturally as the setting sun casting shadows across the hallowed halls of Nevermore Academy. Each evening, as the day gave way to twilight, you and Wednesday would find your way to the library, the sanctuary of your shared solitude.

The library, with its towering shelves and dim, cozy lighting, became your haven. There, amidst the ancient tomes and quiet corners, you both found a unique comfort in each other’s presence.

One evening, you entered the library to find Wednesday already seated at your usual table, a large, dusty volume open before her. Her concentration was absolute, but she looked up as you approached, offering a rare, understated smile.

"Evening," you said softly, setting down your bag and taking your seat. You pulled out your sketchbook, a familiar sense of calm washing over you as you began to sketch.

Wednesday’s eyes briefly flickered to your work before returning to her book. The silence between you was comfortable, a testament to how your bond had evolved. It was not the silence of strangers, but of two people who found solace in each other’s presence.

Over the next few nights, your routine solidified. You would often bring along a puzzle to work on, and Wednesday would occasionally join you, her sharp mind making quick work of the more challenging pieces. The way she would lean in, her concentration evident, always made the moments feel intimate and special.

Sometimes, instead of puzzles, you would both simply read—Wednesday with her usual dark literature and you with whatever book you happened to be engrossed in. Occasionally, the conversation would flow as easily as the turning pages. You’d share insights about the books you were reading, debating characters, plots, or even the occasional morose detail that Wednesday found particularly intriguing.

One night, as you sat reading beside her, the subject of conversation drifted from books to more personal topics. "Have you ever thought about how much comfort there is in these quiet moments?" you asked, breaking the silence.

Wednesday glanced up, her eyes meeting yours with a hint of curiosity. "Comfort is not something I often seek, but I find this—our time here—somewhat... reassuring. It is a different kind of connection."

You nodded, your gaze drifting to the cozy dimness of the library. "I feel the same. It's strange how just being here, with you, makes everything feel... right. It’s like we’ve created our own little refuge."

Wednesday’s fingers traced absentmindedly along the edge of her book, and as if guided by an unspoken agreement, her hand brushed against yours. The contact was gentle, and you both allowed the moment to linger. Your fingers intertwined briefly, a simple yet profound gesture of support and affection.

As the nights passed, the library visits became a cherished ritual. You would often find yourselves sitting side by side, content in your separate activities but always close enough to feel connected. The occasional hand-holding or shared glance was a reminder of the growing bond between you.

The act of simply spending time together, without the need for grand gestures or constant conversation, became a source of immense comfort. For both of you, it was a refuge from the complexities of the outside world, a space where you could be yourselves without pretense.

In these quiet evenings, surrounded by the soft glow of the library lamps and the comforting hush of old books, you found a mutual support that was both profound and reassuring. The gentle act of sharing space and time became a pillar of strength for both girls, solidifying a bond that was both subtle and deeply meaningful.

And so, with each passing night, the library became more than just a place of learning—it became a testament to the simple, quiet comfort of true companionship, one that neither of you had realized you needed but now cherished deeply.

[writing-in-glitter-pen]

Genshin Men With a Sweetheart Who is Stress-Eating

This one is kind of an intense topic, but I thought it would be a good comfort read for someone weathering this problem. You're not alone, you are completely normal, AND BEAUTIFUL! Our genshin boys are here to reassure you of that and give you all the love and support you deserve ♡

Diluc, Kaeya, Itto, Childe x gn!reader II comfort, romance

Content Warnings: Depictions of fear/anxiety/stress, descriptions of stress eating.

I am not a medical professional. Stress eating is not an eating disorder within itself, but can be a component of an eating disorder. It is not a healthy coping mechanism and can make stress worse as it generates feelings of guilt and shame. In this piece, I'm trying to remove the guilt and shame from the habit and bring comfort, not give official medical advice on ways to treat it. The alternatives I use are only tips I've researched in overcoming the compulsion. If you experience this habit, please tell a medical professional so that you can be given proper guidance on how to manage it!

♡sending love♡

Diluc would be concered at first. The first time he witnessed your habit, you were sitting at the bar during one of his busier shifts. You were agressively tapping your foot and your face was marred with a worried expression while bringing the cashews from the free bowl on the counter to your mouth in rapid succession. Something was clearly bothering you, but he was hesitant to pull the bowl away or interfere with your soothing by inserting himself. He wanted to let you know that he was there for you, that you could talk to him, that he would comfort you if you let him---but he wasn't sure it would help. So he discreetly watched you for the rest of the night (as he normally did, never able to take his eyes off of his beautiful partner), setting a bowl of clementines and a glass of water in front of you as well, touching the small of your back comfortingly as he did. You took your time peeling the clementines and finishing your glass of water, feeling better after slowing your actions down. He still gets worried about you when he sees you engaging in your habit, only because he wants to fix what is bothering you, though he knows it's not always within his power to do so. You were the most precious thing in his life—he would fight the entire world if it meant bringing you an ounce of solace. He knows the action soothes you, so he makes sure to put food that will support your body and make you feel good in front of you---a bowl of cherries or strawberries or grapes, pressing a sweet kiss to your head, your cheek, your mouth as he does. If you wanted a comfort food, that was an entirely different story--it would be in your hands immediately, but if just engaging in the action was soothing, the only way he knew to help would be to make sure you wouldn't get a stomachache and that your body felt its best.

Kaeya, like Diluc, would also be concerned. He would interfere, but not for any reason other than wanting to make sure you were ok. After he came home to you staring off into the distance with fear in your eyes as you shoved a spoon into a tray of apple pie over and over, he put his hand over yours, halting your action for a moment, asking, "is something the matter, love?". He wouldn't let you feel embarrassed ashamed for even a moment. He just wanted to understand what was compelling you to self-soothe this way. He would let you vent to him about whatever it was that was causing you such immense stress. If he could fix it, he would have you two come up with a plan of action to right it together. If you couldn't solve it that night, or it wasn't in his power to help you solve it, he would snuggle up next to you on the couch and ask for a spoonful himself. The compulsion just became dessert as you two shared it until you'd had enough. You enjoyed the treat together, because he would never let you sit with your troubles alone.

Itto would take a while to notice. He just thought you liked food as much as he did. He wasn't the most observant guy, so he wouldn't immediately clock the stress weighing on your features. He'd see you tucking into a big bowl of ramen noodles and he, the perpetually hungry oni he is, would only think to ask for a bite. Then another. Then another. Until you were both fighting to slurp down the soup. If he saw you compulsively eating, he'd just assume you were hungry and take you to get something better to eat or make you something better to eat himself. Have you ever tried this guy's yakisoba? Of course you have. It's delicious. After he caught on, he didn't stop his process of making/getting you food that would actually comfort and fill you instead of letting you eat whatever was in front of you. He discovered that, even though he didn't know it at the time, he was supporting you by having you in the kitchen with him or sitting beside him at a ramen stand whenever you were in these episodes of pain. That just being near you and diverting your attention to food you actually wanted was the best way he could support you. After you decided you were done with the Yakisoba, he'd hug you around the waist with one hand and pick your plate up with the other, kissing the top of your head and saying, "My pretty sweetheart with an oni's appetite. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect partner!".

Childe knew what stress-eating was before you showed signs of it...because he stress eats too. He noticed it in himself after he had joined the Fatui; the anxiety of his family's well being hanging in the balance, the grueling hours he had to put in, the insecurity and misdirected anger, all showed up in the need to consume. His heart ached when he noticed you doing it--he empathized with the pain in your chest and disruption in your stomach. He wasn't going to make you do anything you didn't want to do, but he would offer to take you on a run or ask you to spar with him when he noticed you engaging in the habit. What worked for him was to get his blood pumping and stimulate himself in a different activity, instead of sitting with the stress he needed to compulsively soothe. After he wore you out, he would give you a space to talk about whatever was going on that was causing you to engage while he held you close. He would assure you that you are loved, that many people, even him, developed this habit, you aren't alone in your plight, and that you had absolutely nothing you needed to be ashamed about. This was a normal compulsion you experienced in response to a situation where you were suffering. All he cared about was making sure the scource of the stress was disposed of, so you wouldn't be in pain any longer.