#like man i don't know what's going on!! what even is this !! [<- usually something that was explained that i forgot about]

[daylighted]

baby's first kiss! — dean winchester x baby!reader

summary dean finally kisses baby, really kisses her, and now she thinks it's the only thing she wants to do for the rest of her life — find baby's timeline here!

after so long of having you around, it slipped from dean's mind that things could still be new for you. a truly shitty motel room once had a box tv that your mind couldn't wrap around the concept of, you'd been truly baffled by the sight of a real ticking clock and not the digital one on dean's phone, and you'd never been kissed.

never been kissed. what kind of guy was dean, being so sweet on you, and never having kissed you to show it?

it'd been a simple little thing. a peck before bed in a dimly lit bedroom, your face illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp beside his bed. you had your own room in the bunker, but you didn't sleep well without him, and he was never capable of denying you when you gave him that look.

the look you gave him right before he leaned in. big glossy eyes, a sleepy pout drooping your lips, love and adoration melting the expression right into your features.

dean just... leaned in, and planted a kiss right on the curve of your lips, with nothing but a, "goodnight, pretty girl." he reaches behind him to pull the string on his lamp, casting the room into darkness, and then further into the dark when his eyes closed.

he thought that was it. donezo. over. a short story with a happy ending, prepping the both of you for another night of you completely entangled in his arms.

the weight of your body settling on top of him forces his eyes open, a little oof leaving his lips on an exhale. he blinks once, twice, three times to focus in the dark, and no, he'd been right with his first assessment: your face was nose-to-nose with him.

"what was that?" you ask, the innocence in your voice another thing that never failed to make his heart swell in his chest.

dean blinked once more time for good measure. "that was the lamp turning off."

your hand collides with his chest, just hard enough for him to feel it through his t-shirt. the corner of his mouth quirks in amusement. "no. the other thing. where you put your mouth on me."

now, he's fully smirking. he had no right to take advantage of your innocence like this, even if it was just to chuckle a little at your wording, but he couldn't help himself. he was sleepy, you were on top of him, and dean was nothing but a man, in the end.

"you want me to do it again?" he asks, tilting his head to mimic the confused stance of your own.

"no," you huff, in that unconvincing way that told him without being able to see that you were blushing. his fingers come up to pinch one of your cheeks and, sure enough, it was warm beneath his fingertips. "i wanna know what it was."

dean tilts his head up enough to brush his mouth against yours, his eyes searching the both of yours for any indication of hesitation. as usual, all he finds is the deep curiosity that makes him feel like putty. putty in your hands for you to play with, and you do. always do.

"that was a goodnight kiss," he whispers, just lightly enough against your mouth to feel his lips tingle at the slight pressure. "it's something you do when you love someone."

your hands cup his face before he can process they've moved, squishing his cheeks between your palms. "should i kiss you goodnight?"

yes, dean's head screams it at the top of its lungs, god, yes. but he's behaved, and civil, and honestly? if this was something you wanted to explore, he wasn't going to rush it. you were probably the one person who'd ever gotten dean to take a moment and slow down. "do you want to?"

"yes." dean could have wept. "and then i will go kiss sam goodnight."

dean could have wept — for a different reason. "no. don't do that."

"but i love him." he can hear the defiance in your tone, the fierce irritation that the conclusion you'd drawn from his words was wrong. your fingers curl into his shirt, your nose firmly pressed to his, and dean wished with all of his being that he had the strength to entertain your confusion better than this, but he's a little distracted by the feel of your legs framing his ribs and your lips tickling his with each word.

"different type of love," he tries to explain, even though his voice is a little strained and more than a little muffled through the smush of his cheeks in your hands. "the kind of love that makes you feel like you're gonna die."

you blink, taken aback. for a second, your hands on his face loosen, but then they're right back, puckering his lips like a fish with nothing but your little hands' strength. "like i'm gonna die?"

he lifts a hand between the both of you, tapping your chest. "heart races, thoughts full of the person, can't breathe." he tries to smile, and he must look ridiculous, because you laugh like the sun lives within you. "symptoms of being in love."

slowly, your smile mimics what his would look like if you weren't holding his face captive. it's bright and radiant, lighting up your face in gold. "i am in love."

"i know you are," he carefully extracts your hands from his face with a gentle grip, his eyes downturned to watch your mouth, so close but so far away, on the precipice of kissing him but not quite there yet, "and i love you."

the words leave his mouth in a breath. he doesn't know how long that thought has been trapped in his mind, begging to be set free, but now that it was out, he'd never been more sure of something. he loved you, and it set him free.

your head tilts down just enough to meet his lips, kissing him slowly but surely, with all the confidence of a girl who's done this before, even though he knows you haven't. you're attached to his hip, his arm, his life — you had no time to kiss anyone but him, he knew it, so where this skill came from was beyond him. but dean wasn't going to argue with it, not when you were warm, sat on his lap and holding his hands on his chest.

you break apart like you don't really want to, a huff being the first thing to leave your mouth, as if he personally had been the one extricating you away from him. "i like it." for the first time in your life as his personal little (pretty) leech, you sound small and uncertain, a confession whispered to the wind in hopes that the words don't get crushed by his fists.

"yeah?" he shifts a little beneath you, just so he can sit up and reach you a little better. "i like it, too."

"do we have to go to sleep now?" you ask, just as tentative, and all dean wants to do is sweep you into his arms and poke at your sides until you laugh and smile again, just to see his baby back, but this shyer version of you is beginning to capture his heart as much as the typical you does.

dean cocks an eyebrow. "you don't want to go to sleep? i mean, that's fine n' all, but..."

"you said it's a goodnight kiss." the authority is back in your voice, those beautiful lips in an aggravated pout. "so do we have to sleep?"

dean huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "you can kiss for fun, baby. doesn't have to be for goodnight. that's just... a variation of kisses."

"i wanna learn all of the variations." and by god, even if he wanted to, you spoke so strongly that dean took it not as a wish but as a command.

he's breathless, now, even though he's trying very hard to be the all-knowing instructor god you've always seemed to think he was. "you don't want to sleep." a question said as a statement.

"i already said it twice now." an answer said as an argument.

"just wanna stay up all night n' kiss me, is that it?"

you roll your eyes, another little gesture that makes him grin. you've always pulled his smile out of him like you had them in your back pocket, so easy to access. "is it not obvious?"

dean can't help it this time. he huffs out a bout of laughter, his hands closing around your thighs, and takes your top lip between his in a quick kiss. "god yes," he breathes into your mouth, and any exhaustion is gone and forgotten in the wind as your lips properly connect with his once again.

notes. this was long overdue!! hope you guys like it teehehe it was very fun to write. i hope the baby!reader hype has not fully died & u guys will still love this </3

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @ultravi0lence14 @bruisedfig @theosaurous @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @samslovebug @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @angelblqde @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @nperoconelcositoarriba @bejeweledinterludes @pieandflannel @pearlsvie @viluren @h8aaz @yulianie @angelicjackles @lanasgirlfr @veyveyx @itszarinaig @tinas111 @briisbananass @spiritkissin @skyfaeriex @deanswidow @aurevina @jensenacklesballsack @honeyroots @angelicp0etry @blossomingorchids @idk6505 @irecalllatenovember1 @mahi-wayy @k-slla @lilyyyjcb @maeji-may @rositaslabyrinth

[yandere-sins]

Solitude

a/n: Just a little something I wrote after playing the update and seeing Mydei be all alone. Hope you guys enjoy it ♥ Warnings: Yandere, Kidnapping, Depression & Desperation, Depiction of loneliness, Possessiveness, Sexual Innuendos, Implied Forced Marriage by Parents, Soft Yandere (at some parts), Long Post

Cruelty came in many forms.

Kicking someone who was already down was cruel, as was forcing another person to commit crimes. But it all paled in comparison to kidnapping you in your sleep, taking you too far from your home—or any civilization, really—to return to it by yourself, and keeping you in constant danger and maddening loneliness just so he could have you all to himself.

On that day, when you first heard of Mydei's departure, you were filled with relief. Relief which you hadn't felt in so long. Usually, it was discomfort, stress, and fear. There were days you didn't leave your home just to avoid him. But you couldn't on that day, so your fate ran its course.

Even though you tried, you couldn't outrun it this time.

Standing at the edge of the once glorious city, you watched the rubble perish into an endless abyss beneath your feet. One step further and you would have lost your footing, plummeting together with the earth. He wouldn't have let you, realistically, but you liked to imagine it occasionally. It soothed your anguished mind to think about possible escapes, even if there was no way out from his clutches.

Castrum Kremnos—or at least what remained of it—was mostly quiet that day. No moaning, groaning, or growling from the beasts that haunted it, and yet, the ground shook ever so often, reminding you of the monster fighting on the other side of the city. The vibrations beneath your feet were a reminder and a promise at the same time.

Don't do anything stupid. I am right here.

As if the colossal walls and buildings didn't constantly remind you of that. Even when they were empty, it felt like watchful eyes leered down at you from above, the wind howling through the broken parts as if they were whispering to Mydei about you, telling him all he wanted to know. It was never truly silent in this prison that was your life.

In a way, they reminded you of your parents, the original perpetrators of your misery. They hadn't been happy when Mydei declared himself the last king, laying down his title that they had always hoped would make their child a consort one day. For some reason, they had followed this poor man for so long on his journey, shoving you into his face until, eventually, he'd take you for a spouse, and they'd get to benefit from this union. That was their hope, their whole purpose in life.

Your purpose.

It failed the day Mydei left Okhema and all Kremnoians behind. But only partly, in a way they wouldn't have expected. Because they didn't know or didn't want to know what and who he really was. Your parents wouldn't listen to you and would put you in your place if you even dared to express disapproval of the union they wished for you and the former prince. Mydei never even knew why you were forced to approach him in the first place.

But by the time you told him, it was already too late.

Because he was in love, he said. With you, he whispered in the corner of the Garden of Life a long time ago, holding your hand loosely clasped in his, with the tips of his golden claws digging into your palm. I want you, said in a voice that didn't befit him, too soft, without the edge of a nagging or scolding undertone. It created a knot in your stomach and almost made you throw up into his lap then and there. Ironic, wasn't it? That the thing you were forced to want, was what unsettled you the most.

And yet, your parents made you go to his farewell ceremony. Even if you were not going to be his consort, they hadn't lost hope of being rewarded for their efforts by being patriotic to their king. You thought they were stupid to still play this game, even if Kremnos had fallen. Even when Mydei had decided to become a god and fulfill the only duty he felt bound to.

You had almost admired him as he parted the crowd with every one of his steps, head held high. His gaze dropped to you, despite the countless heads between the two of you, and you had bowed, smiling as you were filled with a feeling of freedom that you thought went through him, too, at that moment. Mydei looked so at peace. You thought it meant the same for you.

"Careful."

Sharp, golden claws wrapped around your arm as you were pulled back. Still catching his breath, his chest rose and fell against your body, Mydei's other arm reaching for your hip, caging you against him. You were far enough away from the edge, yet you still looked out at it longingly. It was a way out. One of many, you assumed. And one of many he disapproved of.

"You don't want to fall in there."

"I wouldn't know," you whispered before taking a deep breath, brushing off his hands, and turning around to look him in the eyes, hoping that some of the distaste and hatred you felt for him would convey through your gaze. "I wasn't even born when my parents left the city."

"I know what it's like to fall in there, that's enough," Mydei insisted, the swirling red in his eyes both unnerving and challenging to look at, reminding you he wasn't like you. It made you feel... helpless. Trapped. Punished for some reason. So you shook your head and looked away.

Once more, the city fell silent with only the wind whispering as it rustled through hair and clothes, making them sway in the wind. Almost like the day that Mydei took you, the same day he left the city. By the time you laid your head to rest, everyone thought he was long gone, and you enjoyed leaving your window open for the first time in years. It felt so good to feel the wind on your face without worrying over nightly visitors and you slept with a smile.

Only to be harshly awoken by wetness splattering on your face. Cruelty knew no bounds as the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was the life leaving a Titankin, blood splaying everywhere while you were clutched tightly against Mydei's chest, his skin and clothes just as bloody, and you were, too. Mydei was cruelty incarnate, yet you were surprised that he left with the only thing that meant enough to him to take with as he returned home.

You.

"I saw this. Made me think about you."

The sound you made as Mydei held out the little violet towards you was more sneer than you wanted it to be. Ironic. Everything about this was so ironic. You took it from his claws, the poor thing being squeezed to death between his fingers. Much like you were, you thought, in a strange feeling of camaraderie.

"It was the only flower I could find beneath all the rubble. Thought you might like it since you keep complaining about the dirt."

Opening your mouth, you were about to tell him that he just had to take you back to Okhema so you could be rid of it all. However, the constant arguing with him had worn you down enough to not start it again. Pointing out the similarity between his statement and your situation wouldn't help either; Mydei effortlessly ignored any mention of wrongdoing. But he had made it clear, even before kidnapping you, that you were a flower amongst the ruins of his life. A rare ray of sunshine in a world dipped in blood and cruelty.

You agreed with a man's opinion once, telling him that his ideas weren't absurd, and now he worshipped you in his own twisted way.

Twirling the stem between your fingers, you watched the petals dance. One single flower in all of Castrum Kremnos. And Mydei had to ruin it, another similarity you shared with the flower. One god, one human, one flower. A whole lot of fighting, rubble, and monsters. It was all so ironic and all so... lonely.

Taking a few steps away from him and the enticing abyss, you came to a halt again fairly quickly. There was no one you had to hurry for, nothing to go to. This place was the kingdom of isolation, and you needed to almost fall off a cliff for Mydei to appear, why not use the chance?

"Do you ever regret leaving Okhema?", you asked, still watching the flower in your hand. However, when you had to wait for a reply, your eyes darted up, seeing Mydei stare at the flower, too, deep in thought.

"No," he finally said, looking up to meet your gaze, and your lips twisted into a knowing pitiful smile.

"Liar," you called him out. "It's so lonely here. The solitude is killing me; I don't believe it doesn't affect you."

"It doesn't," he immediately replied, firmly this time. He closed the distance in a meager two steps, grabbing your hand that was still holding the flower and squeezing it tightly. The tips of his claws poked your skin, burning as they tore through the layers until you released the fragile bloom with a gasp. But it never hit the floor.

"I never lie. I don't need to lie," Mydei hissed, resentful of your mischaracterization of him. He had caught the flower between his claws, and your heart ached for it, seeing how it most likely was going to be destroyed in his clutches, the god having very little sentiment for the fragility of life.

But to your surprise, he raised it high, all the way up to your temple. The cold metal brushed your skin, hair strands tangling between the claws, some of them getting cut off as he brushed them back. When Mydei withdrew his hand, there was no flower left in his grasp, instead, he rested his palm alongside your face, cupping your cheek that was wet with tears that you hadn't realized had fallen.

"I'm not lonely, I have you. What more do I need, when all I want is right here? And what more do you want when I am here with you?"

"My freedom," you croaked. "My life, my peace."

Mydei let out a loud, humorless laugh as he listened with furrowed brows. His hand fell from your face, tears making the gold shimmer in the lights as his gaze softened ever so slightly. "That's what I gave you."

"No," you whispered, shaking your head with increasing ferocity. "That's not it, this is--"

"Solitude. The freedom to do what you want, live the life you want and find peace with everything and yourself. It's exactly what you wanted."

"But..."

Unable to find the words to argue against him, your body slowly stilled, shoulders sacking as you realized you couldn't debate it. He was right. Mydei was actually right.

All your life you had done what others wanted, never what you did. You hadn't even played in dirt as child before coming to Castrum Kremnos. You didn't get to live you life or be at peace with your decisions... there never were any decisions, not even whether you'd come here. But now that you were... Mydei was right.

So why weren't you happy?

"But I'm lonely," you whispered, barely loud enough to even hear yourself. Even without living by your own definition before, you had always been surrounded by people. Friends, neighbors, good people. Even Mydei had been by your side long before he loved you. But now that it was only you two, it was no longer enough, even if he had given you everything you always wanted in life. He couldn't return the happy times you hung out with, talked to everyone else, learned new things, and worked hard towards a common goal with those around you.

Despite it all, it still wasn't what you wanted.

Mydei thought for a long time, his back turned towards you, before he suddenly placed his arms akimbo, looking at the sky. "I wanted to wait, you know," he sighed heavily, as if burdened by his words. "Give you the time. Have you come to me."

In a split second, he had turned around and closed the distance between you two. He was so close, you felt his breath on your skin, your eyes having fallen on his lips that hovered just above you. "I gave you freedom," he murmured, goosebumps running down your spine as your pulse quickened. "Returned your life to you, gave you a chance to acquire peace."

Next thing you knew, Mydei's lips crashed on yours, hot and tight, both passionate and awkward, as if it was his first time. And yet, he took the lead, confidently, unwavering, as he pried your lips open, sliding his tongue inside to meet yours, unite them as he sucked in the remainder of your breath. Taking it all from you as if possessed with prying your very soul from you. Cruel, demanding, and so, so devoted to making your head blur, mind race, and heart leap.

Your fingers clawed into his shoulders, which he took as a sign to draw closer, to bare himself even more to you as the lovesick fool he was. You felt his weight leaning on you as he tipped you backward, as if to throw both of you off the cliff he had warned you about. Almost as if his knees were giving out beneath him as he wanted to kneel before you. As if this kiss was a sign of worship, rather than whatever Mydei thought he was doing. You could have torn him open, and you doubted he would have minded at that moment as he sunk you both deeper into the kiss, like an ocean, deep and neverending.

And you could only hold on to him, as the only lifeline keeping you from drowning.

Abruptly, your feet left the ground, legs spread open as he forced your hips against his, securing you with one arm beneath your thighs and one clawed hand clasping the nape of your neck. Suddenly, you were the one looking down at him from above, his neck stretching to look up at you, following the lure of your lips even though it was interrupted not shortly after.

"Ask me," he demanded breathlessly. "Ask me to take it away."

"Take what?" you answered, your brain still too frazzled to understand.

Mydei's face contorted in something akin to pain as if it hurt him to tell you what he wanted, and you couldn't understand it. He always had a snide retort. He never hesitated to throw back a comment and to argue with anyone. Yet it hurt him to ask you something? Or was it not hurt you had seen at all?

What if it was the desperation of need?

A need for what?

"Please," he begged. Mydei begged. The Mydei softened his voice to beg you. "Please ask me."

"Ask you to what?" you replied more firmly, assured by the shivers you felt beneath your nails as you dug them deeper into his body that he understood that he needed to speak clearly. Suddenly, you were in a completely different situation than before, a surge of power going through you as his eyes darted back and forth between the two of yours, his jaw ticking as he fought his inner demons not to sink so low. If he asked you, and you said no, it would surely tear him apart, you realized that, but you didn't even know what he wanted to say in the first place.

"... away."

"Louder," you whispered as you missed the first part, Mydei's teeth so delightfully clenched as you made him repeat himself.

"Let me take the loneliness away."

Abruptly, the strange tension Mydei had created between you two fell off, your shoulders slacking as you breathed out curtly. You felt the risen spirits fall back into a deep depression as you shook your head slowly, Mydei's body tensing even more than it had before.

"You can't," you whispered. "It won't last."

"Then I'll prove it to you."

Tightening his hold on you, Mydei squatted slightly before taking a big leap. The sudden loss of gravity and the disappearing ground tore a scream out of you, and you clung to him unintentionally.

"You can't!"

"I do!" Mydei replied, sounding optimistic as he clutched you tightly against him, freeing his arms to wrap them around you as you were holding on to him mostly on your own now. "I did it all for you, I can take the loneliness away as well! Watch me!"

"You're crazy!"

"Stop talking like Phainon, it pisses me off!"

The heavy thud that followed should have broken some bones if not for the fact that Mydei absorbed the landing completely. And further, he continued walking as if he hadn't just taken a massive leap across the city, completely unbothered, his goal still unknown.

"You can't," you mumbled, feeling unwell after the experience. But you forced your eyes open, recognizing the hallway leading to the room he had claimed and reinforced for you to live in.

"You don't known that."

"No one can take loneliness away, Mydei!"

His shoulder suddenly rammed into the enforced door, opening it up enough to squeeze you two through the gap before he turned his back, forcing it to shut again. "I'll show you I can. All you need is me. You should have asked me for it, why don't you understand that?"

Somehow, his words gave you a bad feeling. When you met his eyes, your stomach churned with the fear of the unknown, his gaze tearing you apart, baring you down to the bone to him. You two were back in the safest place in all of Kremnos, and yet, you felt in grave danger, especially when the heavy door finally closed to perfection. It was as if you were locked in with a predator, and you were the meal he was starving after for years.

You gulped.

"I didn't say yes."

Mydei's lips curled into a grin as you were slowly released from his hold, sliding off onto wobbly feet. Every step you took back, he matched one of his. However, he moved towards you, the space to escape him running out quicker than you wanted. There was no running, yet you still didn't believe him. It was impossible to take away the loneliness. Even for a short moment, it wouldn't change the situation or your relationship for the better. It wouldn't make a change big enough to stop you from longing for more.

"But you didn't say no," was his final reply to this matter, and once again, frustratingly, he was right.

One day, if it wasn't the solitude that killed you, it would be Mydei; you were sure of it as you had to watch him close the distance—pounce like the monster he was.

Gods, you prayed silently. Let it be solitude.

[yokohamapound]

Ooh, a new BSD blog! :D How about the reactions of Dazai, Ranpo, Chuuya, Akutagawa and Fyodor when they see their female S/O in fancy attire for the first time? Like if they're going to some formal events together as a couple.

Hmm, it's almost like you knew I am addicted to fancy clothes...this sent me on a deep dive through my extensive Pinterest board.

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Edogawa Ranpo, Nakahara Chuuya, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, Fyodor Dostoevsky

Contents: fem!reader, possessive, controlling Fyodor

Dazai Osamu

Dazai is the type of man to enjoy seeing you in everything you wear, especially when you're puttering around the apartment in just one of his his shirts, but seeing you in formalwear is something special.

Maybe it's another award ceremony for the Armed Detective Agency, a fancy gala that requires you to wear something more upscale than business casual. Dazai has a suit he can fall back on—probably something in a dark blue or a shade of camel, because black reminds him too much of his time in the Port Mafia.

He's waiting in the living room for you to come out of the bedroom, periodically whining for you to come out of the bedroom and pay attention to him.

"I'm going to die of neglect out here," he calls forlornly. "And I always wanted us to die togeth—"

The door slides open, and Dazai cuts off his wailing, looking over his shoulder. There's a moment of silence—yes, actual silence from Dazai—as his gaze moves slowly up your legs, his eyes getting progressively wider as he takes in the slinky little number clinging to your curves, how the neckline reveals the arch of your throat. Your make-up, those smoky eyes and glossy lips...

"I don't want to go," he blurts, shuffling over on his knees and wrapping his arms around your waist. "Let's stay home. I'll pour you sake and feed you grapes."

Edogawa Ranpo

Ranpo doesn't tend to make a big deal about what you wear. He notices of course, because he notices everything, but he'll only comment if you're wearing something particularly cute or if he's deduced something interesting from your choice of attire, which usually goes like:

"Are you wearing that skirt 'cause you wanted me to notice you waxed your legs?"

"Ranpo, even if you know something, it doesn't mean you have to say it."

"What? You wanted me to notice and I'm noticing. It's not my fault you're not subtle," he says, grinning around his lollipop.

"Right, because I'm the one that's not subtle."

He's fiddling with his tie as the pair of you get ready for a formal event thrown in the ADA's honour (normally he'd complain about going to something so boring, but Fukuzawa promised him there'd be a buffet and lots of people wanting to praise him) and complaining that he can't tie it and he doesn't want to wear it.

"Oh, you big baby," you chide playfully, sauntering out of the bedroom, heels clicking as you fix one of your earrings in place "You wear a tie every day."

Taking the ends of the tie, you start to weave it into a simple Windsor knot, glancing up to see Ranpo gawking at you, his pretty green eyes wide open. For once, his brain isn't processing information at warp speed. It's crickets in there, like he's short-circuited.

"That good, huh?" you ask, tightening his tie. "No deductions, smart boy?"

"Uh..." Ranpo falters a bit as you draw him closer by his carefully knotted tie. "Nope."

You give him a kiss and release him. He's grinning like a Cheshire Cat as he follows you to the door.

"Hey, is there room for snacks in your clutch?"

Nakahara Chuuya

If you're Chuuya's girl, you'll never want for the finer things in life, but that first, first time he sees you all dolled up is very memorable. Even if you have cash of your own, he would have handed you his shiny black card, pressing it into your hand with a kiss and a grin.

"Let me treat ya. Don't even look at the prices."

After some credit card BDSM—that plastic rectangle got used and abused and it liked it—you came back to the penthouse laden with shopping bags, your hair freshly styled, a mani pedi, and a facial. By the time Chuuya comes to pick you up, you're dolled up to the nines.

Chuuya walks in, calling out for you, only to stop dead in his tracks when he sees you. You've got your back to him, carefully fixing the edge of your lipstick in the vanity mirror, when you spot his reflection.

"Hey, babe, almost ready," you say, turning to face him.

A slow grin breaks out across Chuuya's face. He reaches up and pushes his hat back, as if to see you better, his blue eyes wide.

"Fuck me, doll," he says, his voice coming out rough. "You look incredible..."

You make a show of checking your beautiful antique watch. "I don't think we have time for that right now, but when we get home..."

Chuuya lets out a groan, pulling you toward him by the hips. You won't let him smudge your fresh lipstick, so he leaves a love bite on your throat instead, like a promise for later.

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Akutagawa swears by formalwear (even if his taste in formalwear is over a century out of date), so he's no stranger to being suited and booted. Perhaps the two of you have been tasked to infiltrate a high society soiree as part of Mori's plans, or perhaps you are his undercover bodyguards while he attends one himself.

Akutagawa dislikes clothes shopping, so he flatly refused to accompany you to buy a dress for the occasion. This is probably for the best. It's a lot less stressful to shop with Gin and Higuchi than it is with an irritable, murderous Ryuunosuke dogging your heels and glaring daggers at the sales assistant.

Which is to say, he has no idea what you are wearing until you show up to the gala. He's watching Mori from near the wall, his hands thrust into the pockets of his long black coat. Disinterested.

His pale grey eyes sweep over you at first, mistaking you for another of the wealthy partygoers.

Then they snap back, going wide. Akutagawa stands there as if he's been locked into place as you saunter over to join him, a flute of champagne in each hand.

The way the dress moves, how it flows or clings to the various planes and curves of your body, how you move while you wear it, as if you've become a new, elevated version of yourself.

"Sorry I'm late," you say, handing him a champagne flute. He's surprised enough to take it without muttering that he doesn't like champagne. "The boss did say to arrive separately."

"...what are you wearing?" he finally manages to say. "You look—"

"Ridiculous? Yeah, I know, but this is what we have to wear to these stupid things. I can't even get away with hiding a gun under this thing."

"No—"

Too late, you've already moved away toward the buffet to grab a couple of hors d'oeuvres for you and him. Akutagawa finds his voice a little too late.

"You don't look ridiculous."

Fyodor Dostoevsky

I can guarantee with 100% certainty that Fyodor knows exactly what you're wearing, because he took you to the exclusive boutique in order to purchase it—after he had you model several dozen gowns for his appreciation and approval. He had to spend all that money he stole from the Guild on something, after all, so there were shoes and jewellery into the bargain.

There are staff to pamper you: a hairstylist, a nail tech, and a make-up artist, all under strict orders not to speak to you or dare look you in the eye as they primp and doll you up.

"Doll" being the operative word, because you look like a porcelain doll by the time they're done with you.

Airy layers float around you as you carefully pick your way down the sweeping staircase, ankles wobbling in your slightly-too-high heels, giving you that vulnerable, fawnish air that Fyodor likes so much.

He stands at the bottom of the stairs, cool violet eyes watching every tentative step. His masterpiece is complete.

"Myshka," he purrs at the sight of you. "You look perfect."

He offers you his hand, cold fingers closing around yours as you stumble off the very last step and into his arms. He makes a soft, slightly mocking sound of amusement in the back of his throat.

"Careful, darling," he chides, his hand settling firmly, possessively in the small of your back. "I can't have you falling for anyone but me."

The humour carries a note of truth. Fyodor's finger traces along the line of your jaw, curling beneath your chin and tipping your face up toward his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

"I will have to dress you this way more often."

AO3 | Other Blogs: Bleach | BNHA | Naruto | JJK

[trippinsorrows]

lessons in love

authors note: here we are with yet another au...i don't wanna hear it. 😭 friendly reminder that this story is set in 2004, or this is where it's kicking off, at least. thus, some of the dialogue and pop cultural references may read as dated and/or cringe. that's because it is. i'm writing it to reflect the time back then, friends.

faint hint of pride and prejudice as well as the move 'ever after' influences if you turn your head to the side, close one eye, and squint the other.

words: 6k

warnings: angst, violence against women, scenes of abuse. also, roman is a dick. that needs its own tw.

September, 2004

“Naw, you crazy as hell man,” Jey’s voice is much louder than it should be considering where they all are. Not that it makes a difference. The conversation at hand demands to be had, at least, according to the twins. “You’d really choose to bang Melyssa Ford over Esther Baxter?”

At being presented with the question once more, Jimmy sucks his teeth, Naomi, his longtime girlfriend since high school, with one arm over his shoulder, a wry smile on her pretty face. If she’s bothered by the conversation at hand, she’s doing a fine job not showing it, even though Roman knows she’s not. It’s why she’s one of the few people he likes, more tolerates, outside of a select few people. She’s just chill.

“Dawg, have you seen the Big Pimpin video? Thong Song?” Is Jimmy’s rebuttal as he shakes his head, whistling lowly. “That’s a fine ass shawty.”

“Have you seen Esther’s juggs?” Jey shoots back, leaning in his seat, rubbing his hands together. “You trippin, man.”

“Why can’t they both be fine?” Bayley asks, the only one of the group halfway paying attention to the lecture being taught. Roman would also pay attention but not for the fact that he couldn’t give two shits about this class. He’ll do a quick review before the next exam and pass it with flying colors, as per usual. 

“Exactly,” Naomi agrees, her brown eyes falling onto him as she lifts her chin. “Roman, what do you think?”

It's an easy question, thus his answer is almost instant, as it came to him the minute the conversation started. 

“Why choose one when you can have both?” 

His response earns a round of whoops and “ohh’s” that are somehow loud enough to snag the attention of a few nearby students but not the attention of Professor Guerrero. Again, not that he cares.

“You a dog, uce,” Jey laughs, reaching for his hand as they share the secret handshake they’ve had since they were kids. “A straight up dog.” 

“Tell me about it,” Bayley mutters, as Roman just smirks and rolls his eyes. He’s always been 50/50 on her. Best friend of Naomi since middle school, her admission into their tight friend group is something he’s always gone back and forth on. Some days she’s tolerable, others, she’s an insufferable, judgmental bitch. 

“Babe.”

Roman’s eyes shut. 

Speaking of insufferable…

Samantha props herself down in one of the empty seats in the row in front of theirs. The row that’s always kept empty, because it’s a known fact that Roman likes his space. Not to mention his security detail sits not too far, incognito but also not, because everyone knows who Roman Reigns is.

Whether they want to or not. 

He sighs, ignoring the snickering of the twins. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, clearly either uncaring or ignorant to the fact that he really doesn’t want to be bothered right now. Or, ever.

“Let’s go out this weekend,” she proposes. Smacking her gum obnoxiously, she twirls her fingers around her chestnut ringlets, Roman’s eyes falling to the beaded, silver Bebe written across the chest part of her sleeveless shirt. Her tits look nice in it. He’ll give her that. Not much else. “I wanna see that new Residential Evil movie that just came out. The one with that girl. Milla Jolly, or something like that.”

“It’s Milla Jovovich,” Bayley corrects, muttering something in Spanish that Roman is pretty sure was an insult. It makes his smirk return just a bit. 

“Whatevs,” Samantha scoffs, smacking that damn gum even louder, focusing back on him. “What do you say?”

“I have a game this weekend.”

“Yeah, on Saturday, but what about Sunday.”

“I'm going to Church.” 

Jey snorts. “The closest uce ever has and will get to a church was that lil’ preacher kid he was banging junior year.”

Naomi shakes her head. “She was a nice girl, too, until she got caught up with your ass.”

“You know what they say about nice girls,” Jimmy smirks, leaning over to kiss on her neck, prompting Naomi to fight back a smile as she playfully pushes him away. 

“Whatever.” Samantha sounds even more annoyed. Good, he thinks. Maybe she’ll leave me the fuck alone. 

But, she doesn't, instead crossing her arms. “Roman, I’m really getting tired of this.”

“Tired of what, Sam?” Not that he cares, he really doesn’t, he’s just needing to know what delusion about “them” she’s telling herself this week.

She motions between the two of them with them ugly ass duck nails. “You acting like this with me.”

“How is it any different than he’s ever acted with you?”

Roman has never been one to tell people when they’re right, but Bayley hit the nail on the head. His cold, stoic, almost cruel disposition has been the same since they first started messing around with each other during freshman year of high school. He’s never lied to her about what “they” are. She just hears and believes what she wants. To a detriment.

Samantha turns her glare to Bayley. “Was I talking to you, chica?” The disgust in that final word is enough to get Bayley sitting forward in her chair.

“No, but you’re in my space getting on my nerves, puta.” And without missing a beat, Bayely translates, “that means bitch, bitch.”

Roman readies to tell Samantha to shut the fuck up and go the fuck away when another party enters the space. Another unwelcomed party. 

“Excuse me.” Professor Guerrero’s irritating ass voice is added to an already irritating conversation as she stands in the walkaway, arms crossed, the overhead lighting highlighting her thick ass mustache. “Is there something you’d all like to share with the rest of the class?”

Roman sits unbothered, as Naomi, the good girl of the friend group, offers an unnecessary apology. “No, Professor Guerrero. We’re sorry about the noise.”

“Are you?” She challenges, prompting Roman to sigh loudly. “Because it seems all your little group has done in my class this semester is cause disturbance.”

“You still teaching, ain't you?” Roman shoots back in a bored tone, pulling out his Blackberry to check for any unread texts, feeling Samantha’s heated gaze on him. Again though, not that he actually fucking cares. “Can’t be that much of a disturbance.”

Naturally, his smart ass retort earns chuckles from around the room, Jimmy and Jey dapping him up, which only further irritates the professor. “Mr. Reigns, I will not tolerate that kind of flippancy in my classroom.”

“So do something about it,” he challenges, still not matching her fiery gaze. When nothing is said, or done, he scoffs, “exactly.”

Because at the end of the day, she’s not going to do shit. Roman is untouchable, and everyone knows it. Including Vicki Guerrero.

As the noise continues around, she steps closer, leaning far too into Roman’s personal space, earning a vicious glare from the nineteen year-old. “I may not be able to remove you from my class, but I can certainly make this experience as unpleasant as I possibly can for you.”

At that, Roman finally lifts his gaze, voice as nonchalant as the expression on his face. “Good luck with that, Vickie.”

If he didn’t dislike this bitch as much as he does, Roman might be impressed by how she doesn’t back down. But, the hate is too strong for an acknowledgement. She straightens up, clearing her throat, voice projecting, “the next unit will require a semester long project that you all will complete in groups of two. Pairings that I will put together.” 

At that, the entire atmosphere shifts, sounds of grumbles and protests. Roman sucks his teeth. He already hates people enough as it is, but to be put in a group with someone he doesn’t know and won’t like is only going to make this wack ass class that much more unbearable. 

She walks away, down the steps to head back to the podium, right as Samantha opens her mouth.

Thus, he promptly puts her in and reminds her of her “place” in his life.

“If I’m not filling it, I don’t want to hear it.”

Her cheeks burn bright red from obvious embarrassment as the twins are fight for their life beside him.

“She must really like your ass, Roman, cause ain’t no way…” Naomi trails off, shaking her head. 

She might have a point, but also, that’s Samantha’s problem. Not his fault she’s a dumb bitch who can’t accept the fact that he only likes what she can do for him sexually. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Alright, listen up everyone,” Guerrero starts, and Roman actually pays attention this time, because he has a strong feeling he’s not going to like what she says. At all. “This next unit will be focused on Pride and Prejudice, arguably, one of Jane Austen’s best books.”

“Damn,” Jey curses. “Can’t we just watch the movie?”

“You all will read this book and work together with your partner over the semester to create a presentation touching on a variety of subjects and literary tenets.” 

Roman shuts his eyes, already dreading this shit. It’s not that he hates reading. He doesn’t mind it at all. He just hates reading classics. That shit gives him migraines. “Now, the groups will be as follows….”

Naturally, he tunes her out, uncaring about any of the other pairings except the one this bitch has put him in.

“...Jey Uso and Sami Zayn.”

Beside him, Jimmy, Naomi, and Bayley are in fits as Jey angrily throws down his pencil. “The water boy? Man, this some bullshit!”

“Jey!” Sami, the man in question, the actual equiptment manager from their football team, stands from where he sits, turned around and waving wildly like a fucking groupie. “Hey, my dog! We’re partners!”

“I’m about to drop out,” Jey mutters, completely ignoring an ecstatic Sami. “She done put me with fuckin’ ginger Jesus Christ Superstar.”

“Be nice,” Bayley scolds, looking among the guys. “He idolizes you all.”

“And? I ain’t ask for that shit.”

“....Jimmy Uso and AJ Lee.”

At that, Jimmy and Naomi lose all sense of humor, Naomi the first to protest, “oh hell no.” 

AJ looks over her shoulder and happily waves to Jimmy, clearly celebrating in her seat. Naomi points to her, while speaking to Jimmy, “she got one goddamn time, and the minute she do some shit I don’t like, I’m beating that ass.”

Naturally, Bayley lifts her hand for a fist-bump, the two in obvious agreement.

Roman chuckles. This’ll certainly be interesting. AJ is known across campus as the psycho/obsessive cheerleader, and for good reason. Her last breakup with some dick from the baseball team resulted in her disappearing all last semester and randomly showing back up for this one like nothing happened. Like everyone doesn't know she had some sort of psychotic break and was in the nuthouse.

How the fuck did she get let back in?

Roman tunes out the sound of Bayley and Naomi now rejoicing as their names were listed together, making them partners. Expected, but also not. Guerrero’s issue has primarily been with Roman and his twin cousins, not necessarily the women.

Sexist bitch.

“....And finally, Roman Reigns and Solana Miller.”

He frowns, intrusive thought/question escaping the confines of his mind. 

“Who the fuck is Solana Miller?”

“The Miller's daughter.”

Laughter from not only beside him but the students in hearing distance of Jimmy’s dumbass response, prompting a borderline lethal glare from the young Tribal Chief that has everyone quickly quieting down and the twins coughing.

Still without an answer, Roman sits up in his seat and looks over at the women, knowing if anyone would know, it’s Naomi. “Who is she?”

Naomi opens her mouth, looking around the classroom, moving her head past the bodies up and moving around, familiarizing themselves with their partners. “Umm….” She stops, making a face. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Roman mocks. “Oh, what?”

Discreetly, Naomi points down, Roman following her finger to see it’s landed perfectly on a back. A back that’s draped in an oversized sweatshirt, dark hair pulled back in what he’s pretty sure is considered a “messy” bun. Naturally, her back towards them, he can’t make out a face.

His frown shifting into a scowl. “That her?”

Naomi nods. “She’s also in my math class. I don’t know anything about her. Just that she’s super quiet,” Naomi answers. “Like, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk. Here or in math.”

“Damn, you got Helen Keller for a partner.”

“Jimmy!”

“Now that everyone knows who their partner is, make sure to exchange contact information, as you’ll be working together closely for the rest of the semester.” Roman’s dislike for this woman just reached level 10, cause why the fuck would she put him with a mute bitch? “And, I’d highly advise you all to take this project seriously, as it’s worth half  your final grade.” She then moves to hand out the packet with all the necessary information to the front row, starting with this Solana person, as it gets passed around to the rest of the class.

“Damn,” Jey groans. “Now, I actually gotta try.”

Roman ignores him as Guerrero goes to dismiss the class, some packing up to leave, others still talking to their partners. He waits until he gets the packet with the project overview, before standing up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. 

Jimmy offers a lazy warning of sorts, as Roman starts to move down the steps. “Don’t be late, or else Coach Booker gon’ have all our asses.”

“I know,” he mutters, seeing Sam stand up out the corner of his eye, clearly hellbent on following him.

“Roman—”

“Fuck off.”

The sound of her scoffing diminishes with each step he takes, and the closer he gets to this girl, the more he realizes just how tiny she is. He practically towers over her. 

“Hey.”

She jumps, turning around, unintentionally dropping some of the folders in her hand that she was hurriedly trying to stuff into her backpack. “S–sorry.” Comes a voice that’s quiet and soft, a perfect match for the girl in front of him.

Roman sighs, eyes lifted to the paneled ceiling as she moves to pick up the dropped items. For a second, he considers doing it for her, but she’s fast, already on the move.

“I’m s-sorry.” Another apology as she stands before him, lifting her eyes to his, finally meeting his annoyed gaze.

Huh.

Roman takes a second to take her in. Despite the homeless themed outfit she has going on, baggy ass sweatshirt, sweats, and some creased Nike’s, she’s not ugly. At all. Big, light brown eyes, full lips, her face shape on the rounder side, but it works for her. Makes her look….angelic almost. She’s pretty. He won’t deny that, but everything else though….is annoying.

She’s annoying. 

“I—” He sighs, yet again. That damn stammering is irritating as fuck. “I—I don’t—you don’t have to help me, ya’ know.”

At that, he pauses. “What do you mean?”

For whatever reason, her cheeks start to flush red, as she drops her gaze, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I–I can…I can do the project by myself, and just—”

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” He rebuffs, voice harsh and criticizing. “That I can’t do a dumbass book project?”

Her eyes widen, as she shakes her head. “N–no, that—that’s not what I meant.” She winces, voice softening even more, gaze back on the ground. “I’m sorry…”

For the briefest second, he feels something. Something…different at seeing her reaction to his spurning. Something close to…guilt?

Whatever.

He shakes his head, pulling out his phone. “What’s your number?”

The floor, or her sneakers, no longer have her attention. He does. “Wh–what?”

“Your number,” he says it slowly, like talking to a child, lightly shaking the phone in his hand. “So we can work on the project.”

Truth be told, he’d much rather do all the work himself, slap her name on it, and let her have a few talking points during the presentation portion. Or, none. Something tells him that damn stuttering will cause them to get points deducted, and he can’t have that shit. 

As long as he’s been in school, he’s always been an A student, and that’s not about to change because of some girl who can’t even maintain eye contact for longer than two minutes. 

She opens her mouth. “Umm—” Another push of her hair behind her ear, as she chews down on her bottom lip. He makes and takes note of that. Her lips. They’re even nicer than he realized. “My—my phone isn’t working right now.” His eyes narrow. The change in intonation. Higher. Inconsistent eye contact. She’s lying. “But—” He watches as she turns slightly, not missing the almost wince on her face when she does so. 

Huh.

She pulls out a black composition notebook, small hands turning to a blank page as she uses the pen on the table to scribble something down. She rips the page out, turning it over and handing it to him. “That–um–it’s my school email.” He frowns. Email? “It’s—it’s the best way to contact me.”

Maybe, but it’s annoying as fuck. Text would be a lot easier. Hell, even talking on the phone. Nevertheless, while she’s lying about her phone not working currently, he doesn’t believe she just, for whatever reason, doesn’t want him to have her contact info.

Maybe she doesn’t have a phone? He wonders, but regardless, it doesn’t make a difference.

Taking the piece of paper from her, their fingers brush against one another, and he can’t ignore that something. Not a spark. Not anything to write home about. Just…something. She must feel it too, because she quickly retracts her hand, going to return her notebook in her backpack. 

“You work?” He asks, folding the paper into a square and shoving it in his back pocket. 

He’d ask if she plays any sports or anything, but something tells him he already knows the answer to that. 

She nods. “Yeah, umm, Borders.” The bookstore. Of course. “Only—only part time, though. I–I can work around your schedule.”

“Good.” That’d be significantly easier considering he’s almost certain that his is significantly busier than hers. “I’ll email you….” Damn. What was her name again?

“Solana,” she answers for him, a trace of an accent in the middle portion. 

“Solana,” he repeats, realizing that it fits her. He doesn’t know how, just that it does. 

And then, the faintest hint of a smile. “O–okay.” She looks at him, and he looks back, neither of them saying anything for a solid minute before she opens her mouth, as if preparing to to say something when her gaze fixes on something behind him. “Oh no.” He frowns, turning to see the only thing she could be looking at. The clock.

“I have to go,” she says, clearly in a rush. But, something else. Panicked. She sounds panicked.

“‘I’ll look for your email,” she offers, as he naturally steps to the side, allowing her to pass him. His eyes shut as the scent of her perfume or body spray invades his nostrils. Sweet. Again, it fits her. 

Roman says nothing else as she dashes out of the room, clearly late for something.

But, what?

—----------

“You’re late.”

It’s the first—and last—thing Solana wants to hear, but that’s exactly what she’s met with the minute she hops into the passenger seat of her brother’s BMW.

Swallowing, her lips suddenly feel dry, her stomach doing those flips in preparation for what she already knows is coming. “I’m sor—”

Thud.

Her eyes slam shut from the pain that shoots all throughout her head. Pain that’s a result of Wesley slamming it into the windshield. Naturally, she goes to feel for any sort of cut or blood, relieved when her blurry vision reveals blood-free fingers.

“Stupid bitch,” he mutters but says nothing else, just continues to drive them home in silence. Solana curls herself into the corner as much as she can, eager and almost needing to put as much distance between them as possible. Not that it makes a difference.

None of it ever does. 

The first thing she notices upon pulling up to the house is the black SUV parked in the driveway along with the two men, large, burly, dressed in black suits in black sunglasses standing near the vehicle. Watching, almost. 

It doesn’t necessarily make her take pause, but it does heighten her already shot nerves. Her father is usually temperamental on most days, but that temper only seems heightened on days when he has business meetings. Especially those from home.

“Hurry up,” Wes shoves her from behind, Solana having to catch herself from falling as they walk up and past the men to head into the home. Naturally, she does her best to keep her head down and mouth shut.

It’s just always worked better that way.

However, stepping into the home, dropping her backpack near the door, knowing it's going to be inspected, what she doesn’t expect is the sight of her father standing near the entryway with another man. It’s unexpected, because he usually does his business in his office down the hall. Except, the handshake between them seems to signify the conclusion of business. A deal made.

That helps her anxiety a little bit.

Maybe he won’t be in such a bad mood.

Except, the anxiety that was just settling spikes once more when the man opposite her father turns his attention onto her. He’s about what and what in height and build with her father, barely pushing 6’0, stomach a bit rounded from what she’d guess is a lifestyle full of bad habits and poor decisions. The hair on his head is full and almost certainly a piece. His dark blue eyes pierce into her, his thin lips, surrounded by an unkempt beard and mustache, unsettle her. 

He unsettles her.

She drops her gaze to the ground, naturally moving to the side and out of his way as he starts to walk in her direction. She’s prepared for him to pass her up, to ignore her like almost everyone else in her life has outside of when she’s upset them, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, because he stops and turns in front of her. His thick, clammy finger moving under her chin and forcing her to look up.

She can only stare back at him, his almost musty body odor invading her senses, the same way his hand on her face violates her personal space.

And, then he smiles, “perfect.”

Frowning, Solana does her best to remain quiet, though her confusion runs abundant as he finally walks out and takes his leave.

What was that about?

However, the slamming of the front door reminds her that a man’s strange gesture to and with her matters little in the face of everything else. 

Very little.

“Solana.”

Instantly, she’s straightened, back against the wall behind her. Eyes shut, she swallows, murmuring, “yes, sir?”

Xavier’s intimidating voice and frame move to stand before her, his hands clasped behind his back. “Your brother told me you were late today.”

The tremble in her belly is matched by the falter in her voice. “Y—yes, sir. I—I was.”

“Hmm.”

It takes everything in her to not break down right then and there. “I’m s–sor—”

One minute she’s attempting to plead for mercy, the next her eyes are wide, her fingers grasping the hand around her neck. 

Wes’s dark cold eyes bleed into her. “Did he say you could speak?”

No.

Never.

Solana feels her sense of reality draining away when he finally releases his tight grip, her body crumpling to the floor as she coughs violently. 

“Where were you?” Xavier asks in a bored tone, completely unaffected or bothered by the scene before him. Not that she expected anything other than indifference, or maybe even excitement.

It’s just always been that way.

Solana sniffles, doing her best to keep the tears at bay. “My—my class ran over.” She’s about to share the portion about the project, but quickly decides against it. He’ll ask questions, questions about her partner, and that’s the last thing she needs. For her father to find out that she’s been assigned to work with Roman Reigns, of all people, for the rest of the semester.

It’s something she’s still trying to sit on.

“I don’t believe you.”

Damning words that can only mean one thing.

“No,” she whispers, eyes widening in horror and terror at what she knows is about to commence. “Pl–please.” 

“Wesley,” Xavier’s deep voice cuts through her begging and the sound of her sniffling. “Remind your sister what happens to liars in this house.”

“No, please!” Tears run down her face. There’s no use or even ability to hold them back anymore. She’ll get on her hands and knees to beg, if that’s what it takes. Even if she knows better. Knows that no matter what she says or does, it won’t change the outcome. Won’t change what’s about to happen.

She shouts in pain when Wes grabs her by her hair and begins to drag her away. “Please! I’m sorry! I’m not lying!” Pleads for mercy from men who possess none. Cries that fall on deaf, uncaring ears. Always have. 

Always will.

—--------

The water raining down on her body provides the perfect blend and cover for the tears that cascade down her reddened cheeks. Eyes swollen from crying so hard and heavy, Solana hugs herself only to wince from the aches and pain that radiates throughout her body. A body covered in bruises, some new, some old, all holding a story, a tale that tells the story of unimaginable pain and torture. 

A story that’s been hers as far back as she can remember. It’s all she knows. If it wasn’t her brother, it was her father, and if wasn’t her father, it was her brother. Though, over the past few years, it’s been more her brother enacting the punishment her father always believes her deserving of.

While he just watches. Watches and ignores her screams and sobs, the way she’s begged for Wesley to stop, for Xavier to help her, only for the brutal beatings to continue, sometimes until she’s rendered unconscious, waking up bloody and bruised hours later. 

Like tonight.

Having to drag her battered body into the shower to try to rinse and wash away what can never truly be destroyed. The scars on the outside pale in comparison to the marring etched on the inside. Tattooed onto her soul. 

A healing she’ll never be able to attain. 

No matter what.

It’s a bit of a wash/rinse/repeat routine. She eventually cleanses her body, hands moving gently over the more tender areas. Pops the Tylenol she keeps in the medicine cabinet in her bathroom and applies the Vicks VapoRub over certain areas. The areas where the rub will make some sort of difference. 

Not much. 

Nothing ever really does these days. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, dressed in the dark blue soffee shorts and thin sleeved camisole, Solana holds onto her side, sore and aching from the brutal kicks Wes delivered. It’s a miracle he didn’t crack one of her ribs.

Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Moving into her bedroom, she carefully closes the door behind her, knowing better than to lock it. She learned a long time ago the beating sustained from that kind of disrespect wasn’t worth the false sense of security the action brought. It didn’t make a difference, anyway. One way or another, they’d get to her. 

They always have. 

She takes a deep breath and rubs at her head, wincing, remembering the impact it made with the car window. A small knot on her scalp. Another reminder of a the never-ending cruelty she’s been subjected to her entire life. 

An inescapable hell. 

Not wanting to spend too much time dwelling on what she cannot control, Solana walks over to her desk where her desktop sits, the screen already turned on, as she’d hit the on button and started the dial-up before getting in the shower.

Sitting down, her eyes briefly fall to the framed photo that sits beside her computer. Miraculously untouched and unscathed despite countless violent encounters that have taken place in this very space. 

A trembling hand lifts to grab the frame she still remembers picking up that day so many years ago. One of the few times they were able to go out together and just have fun. A cheap little $5 frame from Goodwill, purple with colorful, positive words and groovy flowers. In it, one of her favorite photos of the two of them. Her mother’s protective arms wrapped around her, Solana with a toothy smile, beaming up for the photo as Nina kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Solana’s eyes shut. If she tries, really tries, she can still smell the scent of her mother’s perfume. Light and floral. It’s one of the few, positive things she can recall. The sound of Nina Miller’s voice left her years ago, and for every time Solana tries to remember, she’s only met with her mother’s screams and pleads for mercy at the hands of her heartless father.

Similar to her own experiences. 

And, if she thinks too hard, then different kinds of memories haunt her. The kind, no matter how hard she’s tried since that day, she can’t seem to fully erase. 

“Mommy!” Solana’s tears partially blind her from the horrific sight before her, both a blessing and a curse. A face disfigured, a partially nude body violated, left bloody and broken. An innocent life taken at the hands of evil. “Mommy, please wake up.” A child pleading on ears that will never hear and focused on eyes that will never blink, forever damned to a vacant, lifeless expression.

“Mommy, please don’t leave me.” The cries of an innocent child, clutching and holding onto the limp body of the one person who’s ever loved her, who she’s ever loved. “You said you’d be okay!” She cries, laying her head on the still chest, uncaring of the blood that stains her little hands and body. Uncaring of the heat of the flames around them and the smoke that intrudes her tiny lungs. 

Uncaring if it consumes them both.

“I won’t leave you, mommy!” A vow, a promise to stay with her until the end, even if it means the end for two instead of just one. 

Solana takes a deep, necessary breath, free hand over her heart, as she reorients herself. Remembers where she is and not where she was, even if some days, it’s hard to tell the difference.

“I miss you, mommy…” She feathers her finger over her mother’s face, choosing to remember her as that, as the happy mother who was delighted at being able to spend the day with her only daughter.

Not the last day she spent with her only daughter.

Swallowing, Solana places the frame back on the desk and refocuses on her monitor, seeing a ‘1’ icon on her AOL email shortcut on the desktop.

It brings up a frown as she navigates to click it, opening her inbox. A tiny gasp leaves her mouth at the unread email and who it’s from. 

Shock quickly wearing away, she hits open on the message.

From: reignsr_26@kingston.edu

To: millers_27@kingston.edu

Subject: Meeting

Solana, 

The sooner we get started on this, the better. I have practice every day essentially, along with a lot of other things, but I have a gap on Wednesdays from 4 to 6. Could you make this work?

Roman

She reads over the email at least two, maybe three, times, still stuck on a couple things, really. The main one being just how this is supposed to work. How she’s supposed to work with Roman Reigns when it’s obvious he already hates her. It’s unsurprising though. It’s a widely known fact that Roman hates most and likes few, the few mostly being his inner circle that’s comprised primarily of his family members.

Beyond that, it confuses her to no end how she’s supposed to act like he’s not who he is. Like, he isn’t the Tribal Chief. Like he isn’t the Head of the Table. Like he isn’t the, for all intents and purposes, the, for lack of better term, king of Kingston. 

He runs this whole city, the state, really. And, maybe it’s less him and more his family, more the Bloodline. One of the biggest crime syndicates in this hemisphere. At nineteen, the world is in the palm of his big hands. Everything revolves around him. With just one word, life and death are dependent upon him.

A part of her is intrigued, but a larger part is just terrified. Terrified as to how this is all going to work.

In the moment, she’d told him she could work around his schedule, because that seemed like the smartest thing to do. Solana might live a sheltered life, but she’s not so with her head in the sand that she doesn’t know who Roman Reigns is.

That she doesn’t know if there’s one thing she can do to help herself, it’s to stay on his good side. 

Or, whatever less volatile side of him exists. 

But, in actuality, working around his schedule would actually be a lot harder than she was thinking in that moment. Because she lives her life based around the schedule of her father and brother, mostly, Wes, as he’s finishing up his last year at Kingston University while she’s just started her first year not only a month and some change ago.

However, it seems like, for once, life is on her side.

Because Wes’s schedule on Wednesdays is pretty booked, resulting in her having nothing to do but hang around campus for a few hours due to his back to back schedule, including an evening class.

It….it should actually work.

Solana moves to type out a response, editing it once, then twice, before hitting send. 

From: millers_27@kingston.edu

To: reignsr_26@kingston.edu

Subject: RE: Meeting

Roman, 

That will work for me.

Thank you. 

Solana

Not expecting a response tonight, she moves to shut down her computer and rises up from her chair. But, not before turning to hit the on button for her boombox. Already having memorized the order of tracks on the CD she burned a couple weeks prior, she skips to track 18, music quickly filling the room. 

Young girl, don't cry

I'll be right here when your world starts to fall, ooh

Young girl, it's alright

Your tears will dry, you'll soon be free to fly, ooh

Eyes watering from the lyrics that never fail to evoke a visceral, emotional response, she walks over to her bed, powering through her pain as she lifts the mattress up just enough to grab it.

Her diary.

Pink with ballerinas on the cover, it’s the latest addition to her growing collection that fills the bottom of her closet. But, this one, something about this one has quickly risen to the top of her favorites. She knew she had to have it the minute she saw the stack of them pulled out of the box while working inventory a few months back. And when her 18th birthday rolled around this past July, she did just that. Picking up the journal as her sole and only birthday gift.

Solana moves over to her nightstand, grabbing the key taped on the underside. The key needed to unlock said diary. Pen in hand, she slides to the floor, back against the edge of the bed, lyrics continuing to provide a hope she’s not sure she actually believes in anymore.

When you're safe inside your room, you tend to dream

Of a place where nothing's harder than it seems

No one ever wants or bothers to explain

Of the heartache, life can bring and what it means

Her eyes closing, a strong attempt to fake it, to pretend, to briefly try to act like this is temporary. That this life she struggles to call a life is actually hers. That better days are ahead. 

That someday, maybe, just maybe, she’ll finally be able to feel it again.

Happy.

That she can be happy. 

Unlocking her journal, she moves to an empty page and starts it out the same way she’s started every entry since then. Since that day. 

The day she died.

The day they both died, really.

Dear Mom…

[donat-senpai]

Yandere Jinshi x chaotic reader

Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere! tw: Jealousy, persecution Enjoy reading! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Everything highlighted in purple is Jinshi’s thoughts.

You constantly forget to bow to important figures, trip over your own feet, ask awkward questions... and laugh just a little too loudly. “They keep breaking protocol. I remember every mistake they make, yet somehow... I don’t feel annoyed.”

He finds himself listening for your footsteps. When you're in the corridor — he knows. When you're not — he knows that too. He's started noticing even when you're late by just a few minutes. “I should be focusing on the reports. Where are they? Who’s delayed them? Why don’t I know?”

Sometimes you leave little things behind in his office — a handkerchief, a ribbon, a feather. He keeps them. All of them. Hides them in his desk drawer. Sometimes, when he’s alone, he opens it just to look. “Their scent is almost gone. I should ask them for another handkerchief. Or... make them forget they ever left it here. That way, it’ll be mine.”

His jealousy is subtle. Almost invisible. You laugh with someone else. Thank another man for helping you. Bow just a little lower than usual. Jinshi only smiles. “I’ll remember his face. His name. His position. If he ever hurts them... or if they look at him too often...”

Sometimes you bring him strange snacks: “Try it, you’ll like it!” He doesn’t know where you find them. He doesn’t usually eat food like that — too unusual. But he accepts. Eats every last crumb. “Too sweet. But... if it’s from them, I’ll get used to it. I'll teach my body to crave their taste.”

“You're too perfect. It must be so boring. No chaos in your life at all,” you say with a laugh. “You are my chaos. And you don’t even realize how deeply you’ve already taken root in my life. All that’s left is to convince you to stay.”

Jinshi isn’t watching you. Of course not. He’s merely checking on the state of the garden. As always.

The fact that you happen to be there at the same time — a coincidence. Just like how he knows exactly who you're speaking to, what you're saying, and for how long. The physician needed help gathering herbs. Out of everyone in the inner courtyard, he chose you.

Laughter. Light and clear, like bells in the spring breeze. He loves your laughter. Usually.

Right now — he does not.

Right now, he wants to crush that sound in the throat of the one who drew it out.

Jinshi smiles. He approaches silently.

"Ah, you're here. How fortunate," he says, as if he hadn’t heard their entire conversation.

He doesn't spare the physician a glance. His eyes are only on you.

"I came for you. There's something… important."

You look up at him. Embarrassed. Offering a shy, awkward smile. But you follow, ready to do almost anything he asks. Because here, his word is law.

You belong to this place. To the harem. To his order. To his care. To his gaze. If anyone dares reach for you — they must be ready to lose a hand.

Jinshi gestures for you to go ahead. Once you've disappeared around the corner, he finally turns to the physician still frozen in place.

"In the future, please… delegate such tasks elsewhere." His smile remains flawless. "They are responsible for other, far more important duties. I'm sure you understand. After all, you seem to be a very busy man yourself."

And if not — Jinshi will make sure he becomes one

[muqingslover]

I just wanted to ask you (since I saw this prompt before and I wanted to hear your take on it), in a Cherry Magic AU setting, MC can hear the thoughts of the lads men. Who do you think would have the most unhinged train of thoughts/ stream of consciousness?

I just have a feeling that Zayne would be the most surprising/unhinged since he's so calm and collected, even cold on the outside, so he has to keep a lot inside. (Or maybe I'm just biased because I'm a Zayne girlie and he's my pookie)

I absolutely love the way you write! The flow is so nice and easy to follow. Overall, it's relaxing and entertaining to read what you write!!

[ AAA THANK YOU SM FOR THE KIND FEEDBACK! it means everything to me I'm so so so glad you enjoy it! 💕🫂 I actually didn't know what Cherry Magic was but omg?! it's so cute!? I just had to do this! ]

Coming in hot in first place we have the IT boy himself.

His thoughts are not technically unhinged as they are just OVERWHELMING.

You would be having lunch and Caleb's sitting across of you like 😊 while his mind is filled with so much stuff.

'Their lips are a bit redder today...Is it because of the spice? I should tone it down next time, oh but they look so cute like that. Their eyes are all watery it's so damn cute, so cute so, so so cute— Huh? They're staring? Oh *I* am the one that's staring. Look away look away, yeah, alright, smooth.'

His thoughts are extremely noisy all. the. time. It's pretty much about everything, but especially you.

I also feel like he repeats a lot of words regarding you like he'd immediately go 'Cute, cute, cute cute cute—' when you laugh at what he said or have an internal panic if you did something to tease him 'Too close oh god— They're close, close, close, too damn close— I can feel their body warmth—'

CATCH HIS LYING ASS POOKIES, I mean ahem.

Guys this man will have the most innocent smile on his face when he claims he'd never do something and when you take a peek inside his thoughts he is most definitely thinking about doing it.

"I have no reason to steal your clothes. C'mon now pipsqueak— Yes, yes, I pinky promise I'm not messing with you this time."

'Shit shit shit shit shit. I didn't have time to wash it yet— Why are they doing laundry today anyway? They usually only do it on Friday nights.'

Second place belongs to none other than to the neighborhood freak.

Now Xavier is a mix of absolutely empty no thoughts at all to freaky ahh stuff.

He will have a nonchalant face but his thoughts? oh dear lord.

"My throat feels a bit sore because of the weather recently."

"Let's buy some cough drops for you on our way back."

'I wonder if I can still do it tonight...I wouldn't want them to hurt their throat more. Oh. If I cover their mouth shouldn't it be fine? What should I use...Wait, I should ask them later about it...........I wonder if they'll sit on my face again.....that was nice..........Kinda sleepy.'

He is also the only one of the crew that is not particularly embarrassed, freaked out or even worried that you can read his thoughts.

If anything, Xavier believes it makes communication a whole lot easier. Sometimes he's so tired that even speaking takes a lot of energy from him so being able to tell you what he wants just by touching you is an advantage.

Yes, he will absolutely think about freaky things on purpose only to see your face turning red.

I think fishie takes third place.

#Meangirl alert. /hj

Rather than it being about you it's more about his brutal honesty in general. Lord have mercy when he is grading projects from his classes.

Rafayel is someone that calculates his words (and actions) A LOT, which means this is a nightmare for him. He doesn't want you to see past the fun, sassy persona he shows you.

Especially if the subject about his past came up because then things could get real ugly, real quick.

"I would never hurt you like that, Raf."

'...That sounds like a cruel joke. You don't know that. You don't know anything about me. About us. How is this fair? How can I tell you about what you did— About what *I* had to do when you look at me like that?'

"...I know. I trust you."

You would also realize he is actually a lot more apathetic towards others than expected. The humans' opinions/ problems are simply not something he can bring himself to genuinely care about unless they affect him or you directly.

Lastly, he hums and sings A LOT in his head. Usually they're very old, beautiful songs from his homeland and it's really nice to tune in his private radio station.

Maybe controversial but this man's thoughts are clean as a whistle.

Unless he is actively doing something sexual Sylus is not thinking about anything remotely dirty.

Personally I believe his mind is quiet in general. He has an internal "To-do list" and that's what you will hear for most of the time.

'Oh, their water bottle is cracked. I should get them a new one soon. The twins' new jackets are being delivered today, that's good. It's getting colder already I don't want them to get sick again. The new supplies will need my signature so I must return before the sunrise. Tomorrow the new restaurant they mentioned opens, I'll make sure to ask them for dinner. '

On the other hand, his thoughts can also be quite vulnerable and insecure towards your relationship with him.

Almost every night when he holds you in his arms you will hear him think 'Please stay with me.' and he sounds so genuinely afraid.

You will also hear him think a looooot of 'I love you' during the day at random times. He's just a large, lovestruck puppy looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

The calmest thoughts but the cutest of all of the boys.

Like, you don't understand he's sooo damn cute.

Zayne may look like he'd rather be anywhere else but here and then you touch him and what you get is

'...I wish I had gotten the limited cat keychain from the cafe. Perhaps they'll rerun it next spring. I'll take them with me then........We could get matching ones....Well, if they agree to go with me. Or I could bring it to them as a gift, that would be nice too.'

Another one that has an mental "To-do list". During work hours he's extremely focused and his thoughts rarely, if ever, stray from what he's doing.

When with you his mind is calm (unless you're teasing this poor man because then his mind is going into OVERDRIVE.) and his internal comments are suuuuper soft and loving.

'Their hair is styled today...it looks really nice. Should I tell them? ....No, it's best not to. Hm....Oh, right. I have some leftover candy from my appointments today, I'll give them some instead.'

10/10 experience guarantee.

[ashthesalamipiece]

can I request one where reader and katsuki are “best friends” until one day they have a argument and she ignores him and he gets clingy and jealous and finally confesses? please and thank you!

"Say You Won't Let Go"

You and Katsuki Bakugo had been best friends since your first year at U.A., a bond forged through sparring sessions, late-night studying, and silent support during your roughest days. People often mistook you for a couple, but you would always laugh it off — even if a tiny part of you wished it were true.

Katsuki was your person. Always had been. Always would be... or so you thought.

It started with something stupid.

He had been spending more time with Mina, Denki, and the others lately — and you noticed. It wasn't that you didn't want him to have other friends; it was just...you missed him. And when you finally worked up the courage to say something, it came out wrong.

"Maybe you should just go hang out with them then, if I'm so boring!"

Your voice cracked in the middle of it, and instead of seeing the hurt underneath, Katsuki bristled.

"Tch, don't be fuckin' stupid, (Y/N)."

"No, it's fine. I'm tired of being your backup plan, Bakugo."

You left before he could say anything else.

After that, you ignored him.

In the halls. At lunch. During training.

You weren’t cruel — you just... couldn't bear to pretend like nothing had changed.

---

At first, Katsuki thought you needed time to cool off.

Then a day passed. Then two.

By the end of the week, he was losing his mind.

It wasn’t just your absence — it was how easily you seemed to move on without him. Smiling at Kirishima, laughing with Sero, letting Todoroki carry your bag after a mission when you usually made Katsuki do it just to annoy him.

It made him angry.

It made him jealous.

It made him scared.

You had always been there. His constant. His anchor. And now? It felt like you were slipping right through his fingers.

---

He cornered you after training one afternoon, the setting sun painting the gymnasium in fiery colors.

"Oi," he barked, his voice harsh to mask the panic swelling in his chest.

You barely glanced at him. "I'm busy, Bakugo."

Hearing you say his last name so formally — like a stranger — was a punch to the gut.

"Don't fuckin' do that," he growled, stepping closer. "Don't act like I don't matter."

You bit your lip and looked away, crossing your arms defensively.

"What do you want from me, Katsuki?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He faltered. His fists clenched at his sides.

"I want you to stop actin' like you don't fuckin' care!"

You blinked, stung by the rawness of his voice. "You have everyone else now. Go bother them."

"I don't want them!" Katsuki exploded, making you flinch. His chest heaved. His heart felt like it was going to tear through his ribs. "I want you. It's always been you, dumbass."

Silence.

You stared at him, stunned.

He took a shuddering breath, stepping closer, lowering his voice like a secret meant for you alone.

"I'm a fuckin' idiot. I didn't know how to say it. But... you're not my backup plan, (Y/N). You're my everything."

Your eyes burned.

You wanted to stay mad — to throw his words back at him and protect your heart — but the way he looked at you, desperate and terrified, broke down every wall you'd built.

Slowly, you shook your head. "You should've told me sooner, Katsuki..."

He hesitated, then cupped your face with rough, calloused hands, as if he was scared you'd disappear.

"I'm tellin' you now. Don't make me fuckin' beg."

You laughed wetly through your tears, clutching the front of his shirt to steady yourself.

"Idiot," you whispered. "I was in love with you this whole time."

Katsuki kissed you like a man drowning — fierce, wild, full of all the things he never knew how to say. And you kissed him back just as desperately, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because he was.

Because he always had been.

---

Later that night, as you sat together on the roof of the dorms, his arm slung over your shoulders, he muttered into your hair:

"Never ignoring me again, got it?"

You smiled softly against his chest.

"Only if you promise the same."

Katsuki squeezed you tighter.

"Deal."

And this time, you both knew you meant forever.

[biancadoes1]

The funny this is i keep seeing "don't criticize Nicola" "she never said they were together" "stop twisting her speech" "she can bring him with her" "media outlet write what they want she can't stop it" "this wouldn't happen if it were Luke" "Nicola didn't say she wanted to be shipped" "Nicola never played games you interpreted it that way" "you are focusing on the man like she said she didn't want to"

All valid points made. We all have opinions and that's ok. The pattern I see is that:

1. Every single group in this fandom has said critical things and non critical things about Nicola and Luke. That should be accepted as fact because there is evidence out there. There are valid points made about things they have and have not done - professionally and what they have shown us personally. There are valid points about the reactions towards them that are/are not fair or good. No one is above critique or praise but it is how it is done that makes the difference. I see a lot of policing of opinions but some of the same persons doing the policing do not try to look at things from different angles and they do not take into consideration they at one point also held the same critiques. They shouldn't police anyone if they are being hypocritical.

2. Seeing something presented and questioning it doesn't necessarily translate to hate. Observing something is off or not the usual of the person character that is presented is not hate. Trying to come up with a theory to explain something isn't hate. Disagreeing with a fashion choice is not hate. Disagreeing with a choice of partner is not hate, it's not our business but it isn't hate. Rereading statements and trying to align that to their actions that goes against somethings they say is not hate. Pointing out where a public figure may have erred is not hate. Having a difference of opinion with another fandom member is not hate. Calling out media publications for articles is not hate. Calling out trolls or trolling behaviour is not hate.

3. What is hate is bullying, trolling, doxxing, name calling, extreme anger towards a celebrity who do not fit expectations and translating that anger into bullying/name calling/online sabotage. Doing the same to people in their circle is hate. Doing the same to others in the fandoms is hate. Doing it unprovoked is hate. Coordinated hit posts/tweets saying vile things about a stranger who happens to be an actor we see on screen is hate. Coordinated hit posts/tweets saying vile things about anyone in the fandom is hate.

4. Hate is a charged emotion that have left a sour taste in the fandom. From all sides not just one.

I only bring this up as I'm seeing the same flaming fire on Tumblr. Blogs are going after each other, calling people names doing the most. Bloggers are being targeted with rude anons or comments. It's ok to call out things that are not right. It's ok to have opinions that differ. It's ok to not like what someone shares on their blog. It's ok to have a change of heart or change of opinion. But the way I've seen it being done is like people are happy to be nasty with their words behind a screen. It isn't even necessary and it's adults doing this. We can enjoy the fandom, we can enjoy our differences, we can enjoy when we misunderstand something and get more information to update what we know/see. We can easily enjoy the actors' work and whatever else about them that draws us to them. They should not be idolized they are not gods. We can enjoy funny posts and reminiscence on past things. It does not matter where you stand in the fandom group/sub group the basic idea is to just enjoy the show.

It's become a nasty space and I see why some people are leaving.

It’s getting pretty bad and a lot of people are getting tired of it.

[thewertsearch]

Ask Comp 28/04

@worldweary-walker asked: Dad Egbert's genre friction with Homestuck is fun. He is about Serious Business… but he can take a joke! He has the very efficient Wallet Modus, but used a safe to store the note. A man of contrasts. A man of mystery…

Genuinely, the fact that he legitimately was a prankster despite his normie aesthetic is one of my favourite things about the man. Let's hope Dad Crocker is the same.

Anonymous asked: now that you've met her, the final Namco High character is Jane. you still can't play Namco High yet (I think the collection will automatically inform you when it's no longer spoilers) but soon. soon.

The fact that Namco High might actually include plot spoilers for Homestuck is hilarious.

In lieu of evidence to the contrary, I'm going to assume it's the only piece of Homestuck-adjacent media which actually explains the Aspects.

@honestlyvan asked: I hope whatever is going on with you is easygoing, and you don't feel too pressed about this side-project, tbh. I would also rather you take your time with it and enjoy yourself. @marineofthestars asked: 13/04? @gl1tchypyr0 asked: Are you planning anything for 4/13 because Homestuck day? Anonymous asked: so happy you're back! @ramdomartkid asked: Happy 4/13!!!!!!

Thank you - happy to be back!

Don't worry too much about the recent hiatuses - none of them have been prompted by anything serious. Sometimes, I'm just excessively busy, and need to catch my breath a little!

Anonymous asked: rereading your archive, dropping in a couple of my personal miscellaneous voice hc's while im here! John: Abed Nadir (Community) Feferi: Mabel Pines (Gravity Falls) Doc Scratch: The Narrator (The Stanley Parable)

Doc Scratch as the Narrator is inspired, and Mabel fits Feferi surprisingly well.

I've still never seen Community - and, in fact, I'm not sure I even know what it's about. I know about the pizza meme, of course, and I think they play Dungeons and Dragons at one point?

Anonymous asked: Is Sally being introduced to in-fandom memes at the point in the comic where they would have been popular, or are we just going off when they stop being spoilers?

(More the latter. If people want to spread the memes around, then as long as it isn't a spoiler, it gets a pass. And frankly, the two are usually pretty close together. - Vamp)

Yeah, what usually happens with Homestuck's major memes - Pantskat, for example - is that I'll get several asks referencing it immediately after it stops being a spoiler. My spoiler policy being what it is, I'm generally made aware of them during my next ask session after the fact!

@semaphoricwave asked: Hypothetically, if somebody wanted to write a fic about your trollsona's dancestor, would that spark joy or would you rather the hypothetical somebody didn't? The story you've laid out is fascinating and I (I mean, the hypothetical somebody) would really enjoy digging into it, but I also understand if that's not something you'd be interested in people doing with your trollsonas. Also follow-up in case it does spark joy: any other facts about Sahlee Senior that would be of interest to that hypothetical somebody? Either way hope you have a good week!

Absolutely! I'd be thrilled to read any fics involving my OCs. I've DMed you a short character profile on the Hostess that you can use for reference - and if you have any specific questions, feel free to ping me!

Anonymous asked: Just r3ad thr0ugh y0ur liv3bl0g, and I want3d t0 say h0w much I l0v3d r3ading it. Sup3r happy y0u d3cid3d t0 try 0ut th3 3pil0gu3s as well!¡! @heattth asked: I just wanted to say, I've been rereading the whole liveblog and it is a very fun experience. Thank you for having written it.

Thanks a bunch - it's always nice to get messages like this.

Seeing a post's note counter go up is a very abstract way to get feedback. Like, I'm aware that a ton of people are reading (and hopefully, enjoying) the posts, but it's still hard to conceptualize - so asks like this are a great way to make it feel real. I can see irrefutable evidence that people really are having a good time on TheWertsearch dot com, which is all I really ask for.

@mhafanlol2000 asked: Do you think about how Dave and Rose’s prophesied hero’s journeys both ended in suicide. What do you think that says about them? If I have to constantly think about this then so do you.

I think what it says the most is that Sburb loves suicide. It's the default way to achieve the God Tier, after all, and according to Terezi, the game actively wants the children who play it to wrestle with their own mortality.

This, to me, is one of the most explicitly malicious aspects of the game. It's really not necessary to achieve Skaia's stated goals, and I'm unconvinced that traumatizing these children makes them more effective custodians of a universe.

@caliquill asked: dropping in to say - jane is maybe my favourite homestuck character so it brings me great joy to see you cracking at her flaws in a genuine manner. thank you :]

Jane's great so far. She's not a carbon copy of John - and, honestly, she feels like the most unique of the B2 kids so far.

Hussie already had a framework to build on with Dirk, Roxy and Jake, but Nannasprite's main traits were 'grandma', 'ghost', and 'clown', none of which should logically transfer to Jane. She had to be mostly original.

@spiddermen asked: bowman just released a new track for the 16th anniversary! it's awesome and doesnt have any spoilies, it's called on the thirteenth day

Ooh, I'd love to give it a listen!

If anyone can link me a non-spoilery upload of the song, I'd appreciate it. YouTube and Bandcamp are both danger zones, and I'm not sure where else you might find it.

@faggoatquixote asked: “GT: Right o! If a man believes hard enough in imaginary things then i dare say that makes them slightly less fake!” Sounds a lot like talk from another Page boy I know… Rufio anyone?

Which is kind of weird, right?

I assumed Jake's 'belief' schtick was due to him being a Hope Player - but Tavros has said some similar things, and he shares Jake's class, rather than his aspect.

I suppose not every character trait has to be informed by a Player's Title. After all, Jade used to be defined by her clairvoyance, and she's no Seer.

@bellcarved asked: In defense of Jake, he lives alone on an island and has literally run out of people to talk to about this (unless he were to do something like ask Jane to hand her phone to her father and got advice from him)

Oh, for sure. Everything these kids are doing wrong is totally understandable, due to their frankly bizarre home lives - and Jake, in particular, appears to have been living completely alone on that island for some time, which is bound to stunt the guy's social development.

In retrospect, I'm kind of surprised that Jade turned out as well as she did.

@bladekindeyewear asked: And as expected, Kid Bro's hair is ALSO a bird, just a different one than Dave's.

Dirk's just trying to blend in with the local fauna, like his brother before him.

@elkian asked: A fun fandom trend is to give the ectogroups portmanteau names. "Strilondes" was pretty easy, but the Prospit quartet presents some difficulties and is usually an unholy amalgamation along the lines of "Crockerberts" "Harlenglishes" and the ambitious combination of all four like "Harlegbercrockerenglishes" and so on. (I feel like there was a particular one with a lot of staying power but can't recall it exactly.) There's still Reddit threads of the debates around here and there.

This is why I just call 'em the Prospit squad.

I tried to make something that's at least pronounceable, and came up with the Harkersherts. Not a lot of English in there, though.

Anonymous asked: "and I’d bet Boondollars to donuts that Jake and Roxy have 'em too." Come on, 'boondollars to bronuts' was right there.

Damn it! I really do need to step up my bro-punning now that our second Strider has entered the story.

@ben-guy asked: (in regards to your theory about B2 Dave having memory leaks possibly making him interested in Con Air) "something about an old friend" Emphasis on the "old" in this timeline lmao

Oh, good point. It is possible that Dave could have met Poppop Crocker at some point, especially if he was in contact with his Seer sister.

Maybe it wasn't his pre-Scratch memories. Maybe he learned about Con Air directly from the source, after all. <3

Anonymous asked: ”Kneel before Cal” Lil’ dude even if you don’t Know. That’s hella ominous yo

Dirk feels like the kind of guy who doesn't realize how foreboding some of his sentences actually are. He'd do numbers on Tumblr, and you know it.

...I guess, technically, he has done numbers on Tumblr. lmao

@elkian asked: Jane-Dirk is genuinely one of my favorite character dynamics in the entire comic so I'm delighted that they're resonating with you, too! Their conversations are so fun.

Yup! As I said, I'm really happy that Jane, in particular, is not just a remix of John. The way she relates to her friends is quite different from anything we've seen from Egbert - or anyone else, for that matter.

I really hope that this friend group doesn't collapse into some sort of nightmare love quadrangle, because I really am enjoying these dynamics, and I want to see more.

Anonymous asked: Do you think that when you are done for the day you could note that? Maybe as a tag or something? Then people would know to stop checking to see if you add another post?

I would, but the problem is that I never really know if I'm actually done for the day - not until the day is already over. See, I usually just liveblog until I get distracted, and often return later in the evening for a second round - that is, if I haven't fallen asleep before I've had the chance. Perils of ADHD, I guess.

I suppose I could add such a tag the day after a liveblogging session, but that sounds like it'd be too late to be useful for your use case. :/

Anonymous asked: Okay, so Lil' Bro gave both Jake the Brobot, and Jane Sebastian. What do you think Roxy's inevitable robo-buddy will be like?

There is absolutely no universe in which it isn't a cat.

Anonymous asked: Sorry about the spoiler! A while ago, I did some testing on YouTube and incognito mode because I was curious, and I found that, unfortunately, Google isn't fooled by it. YouTube's algorithm definitely prioritizes things you watch in normal mode, presumably to be subtle about this, but it also definitely knows what you watch in incognito. The effect becomes more obvious with an account that watches zero or very few videos in normal mode. (I tested this 3-4 years ago, so I can't say for certain that the specifics haven't changed, but I don't see why they'd have stopped doing this since then.)

Targeting algorithms are just too damn good these days. All I can really do is avoid watching Homestuck videos on my main account, employ a VPN, and hope for the best.

Anonymous asked: More like DORK strider

Fuckin' get him!

@mrjocrafter asked: I mean, you did get this three months ago

Those names were listed in order of likelihood - so yes, I expected it to be Dick. I really did.

Dick Strider seemed like exactly the kind of move Hussie would pull...

@library-seraph asked: Fun fact: when Dirk's name hit the comic, people were upset it wasn't Dick. Hussie still used tumblr back then, so they made a post saying that, as a small dagger, dirk is still a dick joke, and they're annoyed people would want them to go for the lowest hanging dick joke Anonymous asked: You're not alone. A significant majority of the fandom at the time also expected "Dick", enough that Hussie actually addressed it by saying that would have been too on-the-nose. IIRC, Hussie also described "Dirk Strider" as sounding more like a male porn star's stage name, while clearly implying that this is a major upside.

...but I suppose that's exactly why they didn't.

Low-hanging fruit is all well and good, but you can't always choose the path of least resistance, or your story will just keep getting flatter.

@shelbybunny asked: remember this post you made when you liveblogged jack: ascend, and how you wished they had a poster of that sburb shot? well good news PS: i’m pretty sure you can take a look at the full store now, but i’d have someone double-check just in case

(The store is, in fact, spoiler-free now. - V)

Oh, hell yeah!

I'm not going to pretend I'm not tempted - and not just by the poster, either. Those captchalogue boards look great, too.

In order to preserve just a little bit of hope for myself, I'm not going to look up the shipping costs to Europe until tomorrow.

@clueless-rarito asked: While Dave rambles fells a lot like a stream of consciousness that just spills out randomly in the middle of conversations, Dirk's fell extremely intentional and precisely deployed, make you fell he meticulously choose each word to be as full of complete bullshit as humanly possible.

Turns out, Rose and Dave's vibes blend together almost seamlessly. I could probably have told you they would beforehand, but it's still great to see it in action!

@sanctferum asked: Heiress Sans Parent could just refer to Jane's ectobiological origins as a true paradox rather than the beta kids who have ectobiological parents. (The alpha kids are clones of themselves, after all.) Well, either a reference to that or a hint that Dad Crocker is secretly a funny skeleton man.

It better be something like that. If Dad dies again, I'm ragequitting.

@aceotaku asked: when it comes to Jane's scepticism, while being a product of the Condesce's subliminal messaging IS a possibility, Dirk raises another one: that Jane simply only believes things if she's seen them with her own eyes directly, if she has direct proof of them. She's seen prospit in her dreams, she has no reason to think anything anyone says about it is wrong. The things she dismisses are things she hasn't seen directly and thus just thinks it's not true for reasons. or maybe I'm wrong XP

Nah, that's a good take. Jane's a bit of a cautionary tale, then, about how stubborn empiricism can severely limit your understanding of a concept or situation.

Sometimes, you really do have to take a leap of faith.

@liliflower137 asked: Hello!! I only just started reading your liveblog and I just want to say I love your commentary SO much, I read it pretty late (just between it ending and it being sold to viz media so the old website was still around) so my FAVORITE part of homestuck was always the mechanics of sburb, the alchemy stuff is just so cool!! So seeing you theorize about things and talk about how data structures work makes me so so happy, I hope you're having lots of fun!!!

Thank you! I really hope we get some post-Scratch alchemy binges - but sadly, I don't think it's guaranteed, as we're unlikely to be rehashing everything we've seen before.

Even so, there's got to be more we can learn about Homestuck's alchemy system... right?

Anonymous asked: congrats on finally reaching the end of one of Homestuck's Biggest Jokes. The Gift Of Gab.

I'm still hyped over those Dialoglogs - not least because it removes the main metabarrier which was preventing these kids from hanging out in person.

Let's fucking go! It's time!

@sashonya asked: Oh yeah, just a small aside as I'm sure you're going to realize in a bit. It's better to say the full "Act 6 Act 1" instead of "Act 6.1" since the intermissions also count as "Act 6.1"

Hmm. Well, it's pretty easy for me to edit my organizational tags retroactively, so I'll see what format works the best for me, going forward.

Generally, I prefer for these tags to be shorter, though - so if Act 6.1 Intermission needs its own tag, I might write it as Act 6.1.I, or something.

@jack-off-valentine asked: When, exactly, did AH pull an Aradiabot?

I initially asked myself the same question - but by now, I've learned to treat Hussie interludes as the breaks from canon they are.

We're probably never going to be told what's up with robo-Hussie, the same way that we'll never learn why Falkor the Luck Dragon has Lord English's cueball eyes. It's just Hussie being Hussie.

@pineapple-temporarily-moving asked: "By now, Jade should know why she arranged for herself to grab the Wall - but she's acting like she only did it because Karkat told her to. Maybe I'm just misinterpreting what she's saying." future jade told karkat to tell past jade to captchalogue the window because she remembered being told that by karkat (and karkat telling her that she told him to tell her that). it is simply one of homestuck's ubiquitous causal loops and it ultimately technically was only because karkat told her to LOL

Oh, god damn it, you're probably right.

Damn stable loops and their originless information. As much as I love time travel stories, this still has to be one of the least satisfying ways you could possibly resolve a plot thread.

@sanctferum asked: So, Jade, who just became a god tier Witch with striped leggings and ruby red shoes, levels up to Sayonara Kansas as she and John embark upon the Yellow Ruler Yard. Her god-tier self was formed from her living self and Jadesprite, a version of herself too cowardly to do anything despite her incredible power. Jadesprite used to be Dream Jade, whose physical counterpart on Earth was, thanks to Grandpa's inventions, a robotic version of Jade rather than Jade herself. A tin woman, one might say. Dream Jade herself was, prior to her death, notably absent-minded in a way no other dream self has shown themselves to be. It seems likely Hussie originally intended all dream selves to be this way while "asleep", but in the end only Jade acted like her brain was sleeping along with her body. And said dream self ended up being stuffed, of course. Do I need to elaborate on who Toto is in this analogy? No, I don't think I do. Original waking Jade is Dorothy. Jade's all of the Oz cast at once!

Even better:

The climax of Dorothy's story is her learning to teleport!

[writingpandagoth]

Omg a can you write about sev x fem!reader where he usually is so possessive and like kisses so possessive and jealous and reader lets him but he overhears her talking about how she just wants soft kisses that don’t bruise her lips or something like that so sev tries to make himself gentle/soft for her because he loves her so much im screaming into my pillow as i think about this ahhh

Here it is.

I might have added a lil' ✨spice✨I hope you don't mind but it kind of felt right.

I hope you like it!❤️

Where Your Fire Meets Me

The first time Severus kisses you, it isn’t gentle.

It happens in the quiet, shadowed corner of the Potions classroom, long after the other students have gone. You’re perched on the edge of a desk, laughing at something foolish he’s said — really laughing, the sound bubbling out before you can catch it — and something in him snaps.

He’s on you before you can think, hands gripping your waist, mouth crashing down against yours.

It’s not slow. It’s not careful.

It’s rough, claiming, almost desperate — teeth clashing, breath stolen from your lungs, fingers digging into your hips as if to leave a memory there.

You gasp into him, dizzy, but you don’t pull away.

Because this is Severus — complicated, guarded, intense — and you know, even then, that if he’s going to love you, it will never be in half-measures.

From that night forward, it’s the same.

Every time he touches you, it’s with a ferocity that borders on reckless. His hands grasp and pull; his kisses leave your lips tingling, swollen with proof that you are his. There’s an urgency in him — a need to mark you, to brand himself into your skin.

At first, you revel in it.

You’ve never been wanted like this before — never been seen so wholly, so unapologetically. When his hands frame your face, when his mouth crashes against yours, it feels like being chosen in a world that too often forgot you.

And Severus... he burns for you. You can feel it in every bruising kiss, every low growl when someone else so much as looks at you too long.

Sometimes, in crowded halls, you catch the way his eyes narrow when you laugh at someone else's joke. Later, he’ll find you, back you into a corner, and kiss you like he’s erasing every other man from your mind.

You never mind — not really.

Still... sometimes, late at night, when your lips ache faintly from the force of his love, a tiny, traitorous thought blooms.

What would it feel like if he touched you like you were something precious? Something fragile?

You tuck the thought away, ashamed of it. You know how much he loves you. You feel it in every frantic touch, every fierce embrace.

But the thought lingers.

It isn’t until one quiet evening, curled in an armchair by the common room fire with a friend, that the words slip out.

You don’t mean to say them.

You’re just tired — heart heavy, body aching from another night of Severus’s bruising affection.

"Sometimes," you murmur, almost to yourself, "I wish Severus would be a little softer."

Your friend raises an eyebrow. "Softer?"

You laugh, embarrassed, and trace patterns into the rim of your teacup. "Not always so... desperate. I love him, of course I do and he loves me, but sometimes... sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he kissed me like he had forever. Not like he was afraid I'd disappear."

Your friend smiles kindly. "Maybe he just is that way and that is just how he shows his love."

You nod, heart twisting with guilt. "I know. It's not bad. really. I just—" You shrug. "I wonder."

You don’t notice the shadow lingering near the doorway.

You don’t see the way Severus stiffens, his heart folding inward as your words settle deep in the marrow of his bones.

He had thought he was showing you love.

But now — now — he wonders if he’s been showing you fear instead.

That night, when you slip quietly into his chambers, you expect him to catch you immediately — pull you against him with those familiar rough hands, kiss you breathless before you even greet him.

But Severus stands by the fireplace, unmoving. Something about him is different. Tighter. More careful.

"Severus?" you whisper, unsure.

He crosses the room slowly, almost tentatively. When he reaches you, his hand lifts — but it doesn’t seize your waist or your face.

It hovers.

And then, with infinite gentleness, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing a slow arc across your skin.

You blink up at him, stunned.

When he leans in to kiss you, it’s not a crash or a conquest.

It’s a question.

His mouth is soft, almost shy against yours, his hand steadying you like you might break.

It’s a kiss that asks: Is this what you need?

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair and pulling him closer, heart hammering against your ribs.

And slowly, he kisses you again — tender, worshipful.

He is still Severus — fierce, possessive, utterly yours — but now, every touch trembles with restraint, with a kind of aching wonder he cannot hide.

The kiss deepens slowly, sweetly, his mouth moving against yours with a patience that makes your chest ache. His fingers slip to your waist, hesitant, asking. You answer him by stepping closer, threading your arms around his neck, feeling the taut line of his body pressed to yours.

When you whisper his name, something breaks inside him — not the sharp break of pain, but the soft collapse of surrender.

He lifts you carefully, almost reverently, carrying you to the bed as if you weigh nothing at all. His hands move over you with infinite patience, his mouth pressing kisses against every patch of skin he reveals, slow and trembling.

He lays you down with intention, not urgency — and the world outside could burn to ashes and he would not care.

His hands are careful, gliding over your body like he is learning it anew. He touches your skin as if it might vanish beneath his fingertips, as if pressing too hard would wake him from the dream of you.

When he kisses you, it is slow. So slow it steals your breath more thoroughly than any roughness ever could. His mouth lingers against yours, tasting, savoring, worshiping.

"Tell me," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked and low. "If it's too much. If I—" His hands tremble where they hold your hips, as if restraining himself costs him everything.

You hush him with a kiss, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. "I want you," you whisper. "All of you."

Still, he moves with painful patience, pressing kisses along your collarbone, your ribs, the soft dip of your belly. Every motion says you are precious, you are mine, you are loved.

And when he finally joins you, it's not with the frantic need he once wielded like a weapon, but with something far deeper.

He holds himself back, his movements slow, deliberate, fighting every instinct to simply lose himself in you. His brow presses against yours, his breath ragged as he rocks into you with a gentleness so raw it feels like a prayer.

Your name falls from his lips like a broken hymn.

He kisses you between every whispered word, every trembling thrust — on your cheeks, your eyelids, your mouth — as if stitching you into the fabric of himself.

And when you shatter beneath him, soft cries muffled against his throat, he follows you over the edge, clutching you to him as if the world might try to steal you away.

He does not let go.

Even after, when the room is quiet but for the sound of your breathing, Severus holds you as though anchoring himself to you.

His lips brush your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

Soft.

Fragile.

--

You notice it immediately, in the days that follow.

Severus moves around you with too much care now — as if you're spun from glass, as if even his breath might shatter you.

When he touches you, it's tentative. When he kisses you, it’s soft — but so careful it feels like he’s holding himself back from even wanting too much.

You feel the weight of his restraint in every brush of fingers along your arm, every lingering glance he cuts away from too soon.

And you love him for it — you love the effort, the aching devotion — but something about it unsettles you too.

He doesn't take from you anymore.

He doesn’t grip you, doesn’t pull you into hidden alcoves just to feel your body pressed against his, doesn’t kiss you so hard you forget your own name.

He’s still Severus, yes. But he’s muted now. Guarded. Careful to the point of pain.

You miss the way he used to need you — the way he once touched you like you were the air he needed to breathe.

You miss all of him.

At lunch, he sits beside you, too stiff, too silent.

You push food around your plate without much appetite, feeling the weight of something unsaid between you.

Finally, you hear him clear his throat.

"Are you happy now?" he asks, low, rough, not meeting your eyes.

You blink, surprised. "Happy?"

He shifts, his shoulders hunching slightly inward. He doesn't look at you, staring instead at some invisible point across the table.

"Now that..." He gestures vaguely, as if the words are heavy in his mouth. "Now that I've changed."

The way he says it — so flat, so hollow — punches the air right out of your lungs.

You set your fork down carefully, turning to face him fully.

"Severus," you say, voice soft but firm, "I was always happy with you."

His eyes flick up to you, uncertain, guarded.

You reach out, brushing your fingers lightly over the back of his hand.

"I loved you before," you say. "I love you now. I never wanted you to stop being you."

For a moment, he just looks at you — like he's seeing you, really seeing you, and not quite knowing what to do with the view.

A thousand things seem to flicker across his face — doubt, hope, fear, love — before he looks away again, his jaw tightening.

He says nothing more.

But you can feel the tension radiating off him, the uncertainty knotting itself tighter inside his chest.

You sit through the rest of lunch with the weight of his words pressing against your chest.

Are you happy now?

You turn the question over and over in your mind, dissecting it, pulling at its edges.

Maybe you were reading too much into it. Maybe it was just an awkward way of asking. Maybe he doesn’t really think you weren't happy before.

But a small voice in the back of your mind whispers: What if he does?

You don't want to assume. You don't want to invent sadness where there is none.

But you know Severus — you know the way he wears guilt like a second skin, how easily he folds into self-blame when it comes to you.

And if he does believe it — if he’s holding back, if he’s twisting himself into knots because he thinks it’s what you need — you can’t leave it alone.

You have to know for certain.

You have to be sure.

You spend the rest of the afternoon distracted, restless. The thought lingers at the edges of everything you do, tugging at you like an invisible thread.

By the time evening falls, you've made up your mind.

You’ll find a way to know. You'll find a way to show him — or to be shown — what is truly inside his heart.

Because if there's even a chance he’s holding back for you, you need him to understand:

You never needed him to be anything but himself.

--

The next morning, you dress carefully.

You choose a blouse that clings just a little too nicely to your curves, skirts that sways a little too easily when you walk. It's subtle — nothing scandalous — but you know Severus.

You know how tightly his restraint is wound when it comes to you.

And today, you intend to test it.

You move through the corridors with a lightness you don't quite feel, pausing to chat with colleagues, laughing a little more freely, letting your hand brush against an arm here, a shoulder there.

Nothing inappropriate — nothing that would give anyone else pause.

But enough that you can feel the tension across the room whenever Severus’s eyes find you.

And they do.

Again and again, you feel his gaze — sharp, burning — tracing every movement you make.

You pretend not to notice.

By midday, you catch him standing stiffly across the Great Hall, arms folded so tightly across his chest it looks painful, his jaw clenched hard enough to crack stone.

You allow yourself a private, shaky breath.

It’s working.

And then — it happens.

You're laughing at something innocuous, something trivial, when Severus crosses the distance between you in three long strides.

Before you can even register it, his hand closes around your wrist — not painfully, but firm, possessive — and he pulls you into the nearest alcove.

His mouth finds yours without thought, hard and hungry, his other hand curling around the back of your neck, holding you there as if he could anchor you to the earth itself.

It’s fierce.

It’s desperate.

It’s him.

Your heart stutters with relief — you kiss him back instantly, hands fisting in the front of his robes, welcoming the raw, overwhelming need of him.

But just as suddenly — he stops.

He tears himself away from you like he's been burned, stepping back so fast he nearly trips over his own feet.

His chest heaves with ragged breaths. His eyes are wild, panicked, full of a guilt so sharp it guts you.

He lifts a hand — as if to touch you, to apologize — but drops it again helplessly.

And you know.

You know, without question, without doubt:

He’s holding back for you.

He thinks what you wanted was to kill this part of him — the part that needs you so much it terrifies him.

He thinks loving you fiercely is a flaw.

And the realization breaks something open inside you.

You don’t move.

You don’t speak.

You simply watch him — watch the war raging behind his eyes, the way he fights himself even now, afraid he has ruined everything.

And your heart aches with love so fierce you think it might undo you.

You move before he can say a word.

Your fingers find his hand — cold, trembling — and you lace them tightly with yours.

Without speaking, without hesitating, you pull him with you, out of the alcove, down the hall.

He follows like he can’t help it, stumbling slightly, his other hand flexing uselessly at his side.

You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You know what he’s thinking — the weight of it bleeding off him like mist.

I hurt her.

I’m wrong for her.

I failed her again.

You lead him through the corridors, through the castle, through the heavy door of his chambers. Still without a word, you pull him all the way to the bedroom. Only then — when the door closes with a soft click behind you — do you stop.

You turn to him.

Severus stands there, tense and wary, as if he’s awaiting judgment.

You step forward, steady and sure, and push gently at his chest.

He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, blinking up at you like he doesn’t quite understand. And then you straddle him, your knees bracketing his thighs, your hands threading into his hair, and you kiss him hard.

Severus freezes.

His hands hover, not quite touching you, his body stiff with confusion. He pulls back slightly, panting, searching your face with wide, uncertain eyes.

"What—" he starts, voice hoarse, wrecked.

You cradle his face between your palms, holding him still.

"Let go," you whisper. "Severus, let go."

He stares at you, breathing hard.

You kiss him again — softer this time, coaxing — and when you pull back, you press your forehead against his.

"I never wanted you to change," you murmur. "I never wanted you to hold yourself back like this." He shakes his head minutely, his hands trembling where they rest on the bed.

"When I said I wanted soft," you continue, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones, "I didn’t mean I didn’t want you. I love how possessive you get. I love that you want me so much it drives you mad. It makes me feel... wanted. Chosen."

A shudder runs through him.

"I just" you kiss the corner of his mouth, "I just wanted you to enjoy it too." You kiss his jaw down his throat. He tilts his head back, trembling.

"Not to kiss me because you're afraid you'll lose me," you breathe against his skin, "but because you know you have me for as long as you need." You lift your head and find his gaze — dark, burning, raw.

"I'm yours, Severus," you whisper. "No matter how you love me. Fierce. Soft. All of it. I want all of you."

Something breaks inside him.

His hands snap up to your hips, gripping you with a strength he no longer tries to hide — and this time, he doesn’t pull back.

He surges up to kiss you — rough, consuming, his mouth devouring yours with a low, desperate sound in his throat.

You gasp into him, clutching at his shoulders, rocking your hips against his instinctively.

He growls low against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you feel the sharp edge of his need finally, finally released.

When he lifts you, carrying you further onto the bed, his hands are firm, greedy, sliding up under your blouse, tracing the bare skin of your back as if re-learning every inch of you.

He lays you down beneath him with a gentleness that’s all the more devastating because it’s his, and only his — that perfect balance of fierce and tender, hunger and worship.

His breath shudders against your throat, his hands clutching your hips with a force he no longer tries to temper. His mouth moves over your skin — frantic, worshipful — and when he lifts his head to meet your eyes, there’s nothing left of restraint.

Only love. Only need.

His voice is rough and broken when he whispers, "No more holding back."

And when he takes you — fiercely, fully — it is without fear, without apology. It is all of him, given freely, utterly, completely.

He moves above you with a rhythm that shakes apart your very soul, kissing you like a starving man, holding you like something he will never, ever let go of.

And when you come undone beneath him, sobbing his name into the hollow of his throat, he follows you with a broken cry, pressing his forehead to yours, panting, whispering words you barely catch but understand anyway.

Mine. Yours. Always.

The words fall between you like a vow, sealing the space where fear used to live.

You don't speak.

You don't have to.

Severus stays joined with you, his body heavy and real against yours, his arms wound tight around your back like he's anchoring himself there.

He presses slow, reverent kisses along your temple, the curve of your cheek, the corner of your mouth — not desperate now, but steady, endless, as if he has all the time in the world to love you properly.

You thread your fingers through his hair, carding them gently through the strands, feeling the way his breathing slows, evens, matches yours.

He shifts slightly, just enough to pull you fully against his chest, keeping you as close as humanly possible, your bodies still tangled together, your hearts beating in a rhythm only the two of you share.

You can feel the rawness in him still — the weight of all the things he can't say — but it's different now.

No fear. No doubt.

Only the quiet certainty of belonging.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, a low, content hum vibrating against your skin, and you smile, your heart so full it aches.

Neither of you moves.

The world outside the walls of his chambers fades away, forgotten.

There is only this:

His arms around you.

Your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the nape of his neck.

The steady thud of his heart under your palm.

Together. Safe. Loved.

You kiss the crown of his head, voice trembling with love,

"This — you, like this — it’s all I ever wanted."

[zoloft3]

never going home.

☆彡 joel miller x gn! reader

tags -> pre-relationship, hurt/comfort, homesickness, trauma, found family, living together, healing

a/n : a little different from my usual fluff antics but i can't write for tlou without being upset anymore. hope you like it :)

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The sound of his boots scuffing against the mat by door has you jumping. You don't even have time to wipe your tears before he turns the corner and spots you.

There's a moment of silence. Him, taking in your current state. You, frozen in shame and embarrassed to be caught so vulnerable on his living room floor. Your fingers tremble around the record sleeve you were clutching. The record itself, maddeningly spinning and letting out the tune that unlocked those deep memories within you.

"I'm sorry-" Your voice breaks from the sobbing you had been doing just a minute before. "I just,"

The tears well again as you look down at the record sleeve, "I heard the record playing and I-"

Joel suddenly remembered how to move again and knelt next to you on the floor, "Don't worry it's fine, you don't gotta be afraid, darlin’."

His hand gently rubbed your shoulder and your heart melted. The tears just poured down your cheeks now.

Fuck.

Since when did you let a man get to you like this. Joel was never meant to be anything more than a patrol partner. A friend maybe. But these last few weeks, god.

The winter storm had taken several chunks out of you and your roommates’ house, so you were staying with Joel until it could get patched. And in Jackson, that meant it was going to take a few weeks. Joel offered since he had an extra bedroom ever since Ellie moved out to the garage, and you couldn’t say no. Unfortunately, it turned out to be much better than you expected. Shared meals, cooking together, late nights on the porch drinking the shit they called coffee in this town. It all resulted in you being genuinely content for the first time in decades, and maybe, possibly, falling in love.

It was fine, it was going great even. Until now.

You'd been cooking, Joel had just run out to grab you something from the garden that you'd forgotten. You didn't notice him put the record on before he left. It wasn't until you finished chopping the onions that you heard it. So softly at first, you thought you'd misheard. You paused, frozen and waiting. And there it was.

The song your dad used to play. The music your mom would drive and dance to in the car. The album you hadn't heard since you'd lost them forever.

The knife fell from your fingers like it had never even existed. You walked into the living room like a ghost, numb and mindless, only stopping once you saw the album cover on the coffee table.

And it all came rushing back to you. Every single memory of home, childhood, growing and laughing. Suddenly you were sobbing like you hadn't in years. You fell to your knees, crawling towards the coffee table like you were a child again. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the record sleeve. The thick paper dug into your skin as you clutched it to your chest.

The world didn't matter anymore, you just wanted to go home.

Go back to the place where you were you. Before monsters and bloodshed, before men and bodies. The childhood that so many children will never get to have.

What you wouldn't give to sleep in your childhood bed, one last time. To have your mother say goodnight the way she used to. To brush your teeth next to your sibling. To sit in your spot at the dinner table.

You were wishing you could've said goodbye to your family, wishing that it wasn’t true that you could never go home. You know you can never go home but you prayed that for a second, one fucking second, you could be back there, right where you were, when he walked in the door.

And now he's holding you, pressing you into him as you grieve the child you were, the person you’ll never get to be, the home you'll never go back to, the people who will always know you.

"Homesick, huh?" Joel spoke with no humor or pity, only understanding.

You only sob harder, nodding into his shoulder. He waits, silently and patiently, rubbing your back and petting your head. He doesn’t say anything, didn't do any of the things people usually do when they see someone crying. He just waits until you have cried yourself out, hiccuping and attempting to breathe normally again.

"Want me to help finish dinner?" He asks softly, "Or do you need time?"

You let out a final shaky sigh, "No, we should finish, I don't want the food to go bad out on the counter."

Dinner goes fine, not your best, but it’s edible. And everything stays calm, until you move out to the porch for your nightly "coffee".

"You wanna talk about it?" Joel interrupts your dissociative stare.

The sudden reminder has your chest tightening. You bite your lip, glancing over at him. The fact that you were even considering telling him anything means you are well and truly fucked.

"Yeah, I guess I should," You sigh, fidgeting in your seat, eyes fixed on the boards of the porch.

"You don't have to," He reminds you.

The tears threaten once again, and you try to blink them away, "I want to."

It takes a minute, but you find the words. Claw them up out of your chest were you had hurried them so many years before. Deep and tucked away somewhere between your mother's grief and your father's anger.

You looked back at him, "The record you had on just reminded me of everything I lost that day. It was kinda... a family favorite. I guess, I forgot how much I lost. I'll never get any of it back."

You give a small smile, letting a few more tears fall.

"I feel like a solider who's come home from war, but home can never be the same, after everything. I'll always be there, in the blood and the screaming and the nightmare. I'll never get to leave like I want to. How I want to."

You look up from your fidgeting fingers to see his eyes staring softly back at you. You never find anything but solace in them. And that’s still true now.

You doubt there's a soul on earth who could know you like Joel Miller knows you. Your pain echos the same as his. Haunting and everlasting.

He reaches for your hand, interlocking your fingers, "Well, I'll ask next time before I put it on."

You both smile, and you wipe your tears with your free hand.

"Thank you, Joel. These past few weeks, right now, it all... means a whole lot."

"Anytime, sweetheart." He gives your hand a squeeze.

Home is still a long ways away. You know you can never go back there. But maybe you could build a new one.

-------༚☆༚-------

a/n : this one's for you @groggygrogu <3 you and tlou have been on my mind. hope it wasn't as devastating to read as it was to write :)

thanks again to @saemeret for being my beta and sorry for not asking you to beta the last two times :( i needed to word vomit on the internet before i exploded.

don't be afraid to leave a note or reblog! I love reading y'alls comments <3

[zepskies]

Girl YAAAAS!! 😍 I'm so glad you decided to dive into @chevroletdean's fun moodboard challenge~ 💛🧡🩵

I can't believe you've wanted to write about my home state, but I was cackling right from the start at the accuracy 🤣👌🏽

chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

🤭 sounds like Miami! loll

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Girl don't make me quote this whole fic, we're only like 100 words in! "swamp ass" is deadly accuracy, I cannot 😆😆

And yes we are indeed cursed - with throat-closing humidity and heat upon heat all year round, tropical storms, expensive bread, terrible traffic, and too many damn snowbirds coming to live here year 'round now 🫠🫠🫠

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

lmfaoo we call that ✨making a pearl✨

Also not the drone-sized mosquitos 🦟 <- THAT is also on point, especially in summer - and the closer you get to the Everglades. 😭 And the "fried seafood and moldy flipflops" def reminds me of the boardwalk at Fort Lauderdale Beach lolll

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

hahaaa We mostly divide ourselves by North, Central, and South Florida (SoFlo). All are different countries, essentially. I think a comedian once called it the dick of the U.S. or something, but I went to a Def Leppard concert years ago and Joe Elliot called it "Satan's ass crack." I haven't recovered since 🤣🤣

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

lmaooo absolutely LOVE this. She's really working that orange dreamsicle. Bet he wishes she'd do him like that 😝🧡

Also - "molten saffron sun" is my new favorite description ever now. 💓

That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

LOL I'm cackling imagining a sunburnt Dean, willing to do "whatever it takes" to be her new dreamsicle 😝

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls freeze midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips. Jesus fucking Christ. You just– Did you– He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high. You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?” “Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

DEANNNN. LOL just fucking talk to her already, before you implode!!! 🤣🤣 But I love how this scene played out in my head like a movie. Such a good freeze frame and cut to the reality of the moment 😂

He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

Oh poor baby. I feel so bad for you. 🙄 Talk to her!!!!!

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

oh my God poor girl, she'd burn the fingerprints off her hands - but I can appreciate where Dean's going with this 😂😂

But he sooooo is gonna die of heatstroke in his usual hunter garb, and I love her for cheekily calling him out on it! He's about to catch on fire in so many ways 🔥🔥🔥

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Ahhh you wove so much beautiful poetic imagery throughout this, but I really love this one^ and the "skin glinting like bronzed sugar" line 😍💖💖

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

Noooooo why does Sam have to butt in!! lmfao I love him but Dean was maybe on the verge of making a move! Maybe?! 😂

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

(lol sorry I had to)

But omg this was too much fun! Part of this felt like FL tourism in the early 2000s, but a lot of it was very legit and accurate too. 🤣 This story was so layered with rich imagery (which you're so amazing at), but also fun and playful and torturous for Dean.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like after a while she kind of knew what he was thinking! 🤭❤️‍🔥 I could so see her finally being the one to make the first move and be like, "now why couldn't you do that yesterday?" 😆😆

Florida!!!

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Florida can eat his ass.

Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.

Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.

Which is impossible.

Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.

Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.

Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.

His vision whites out at the edges.

You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”

Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.

You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”

“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”

You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you��

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.

This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.

You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.

And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.

But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.

He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–

Stop it!

You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.

But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:

You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.

He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.

His dick twitches miserably.

He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.

“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.

Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.

You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”

Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.

You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You just–

Did you–

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.

You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.

Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.

His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Dean’s mind drifts again.

He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.

He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.

He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.

He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.

“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”

Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”

You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”

Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”

You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”

“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.

Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.

Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Yeah. Pretty.

Pretty much the goddamn end of him.

“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”

Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.

And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.

“Dean?”

He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.

You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”

Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”

But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.

You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.

He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.

He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–

Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.

But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.

At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.

He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.

Florida is hell.

You are hell.

And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.

Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.

Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.

“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.

Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”

“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”

Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.

“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.

You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.

You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.

“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”

“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.

Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”

As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.

He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️

Hope you enjoyed this one! 🩵

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

[ddejavvu]

hiccup casual dominance haddock gently chastising reader who cannot stop biting the skin around their fingers……. (i love ur blog and ur writing btw<3)

the way he grabs astrid's arms and shakes her in the second movie. mhm mhm.

--

It's something mindless, the gnawing of your teeth at the sharp edge of your finger. You have a habit of biting the skin around your nails, and this one seems to have regrown from the last time you'd severed it. It's something you'd felt with the pad of your thumb and raised to your mouth without thinking, but Hiccup notices it like it's a lit neon sign.

"Hey!" He snaps, still bent over his workbench but no longer focused on the patches of leather he's sewing together. He says nothing more, and your hand lowers unconsciously from your mouth when you raise your head to look at him. You're semi-alarmed: there's really no good reason to be yelling in a forge, it usually means something is on fire. But Grump is very much asleep in the corner, and the flames have gone out.

"What?" You ask, truly stumped. You're not trying to be obtuse, your arm halfway raised to your mouth simply doesn't register.

Hiccup raises one eyebrow- you wonder whether he's gotten his sass from Stoick or Valka, because he's got buckets of it, and he flicks his eyes pointedly downwards towards your hand, then back up at your face, unimpressed.

You mirror his gaze, realizing that your eyes fall upon the mangled skin around your ring finger's nail.

"Oh. Shit," You mumble, shame heating your cheeks. You always feel like such a baby when someone points out your bad habit, but you know Hiccup isn't trying to tease you, so you jam your hand into your lap, smearing away saliva on your pants.

"You're gonna make yourself bleed." Hiccup's voice is gentle but pointed, "Again."

You neglect to tell him that the one time he'd witnessed your teeth grind too far into the meat of your finger- enough to draw blood, hadn't been the first nor the last time you'd bled. It's not the norm, but it's not the outlier either. You merely bite your tongue, waiting for further reprimands, or for gracious silence.

He's a kind man, so he grants you the latter. But as soon as the embarrassment clears from your head, you forget all about the incident, and you become immersed in the pages of your book once more.

Off-kilter stomping, one-part boot and one-part metal peg, is all the warning you get before your hands are snatched away from you, one pulled from your lap and the other from your mouth.

You're already rushing out a, 'Sorry, sorry, sorry!' but he won't let your hand go when you tug at it. He holds it firmly in his own, his brow set in a stern frown. He looks like his father's namesake, and you foresee him being a very intimidating chief one day- if perhaps he can pile on some meat to his bones.

"Stop biting your fingers." He says, shaking your arms gently with each word, "I have eagle eyes. You forget, I have to watch Toothless constantly to make sure he doesn't steal my leg right out from under me."

Toothless's great head raises from where it had been sleepily resting on the wood floor, and he presents his disdain for Hiccup's terrible accusations in the form of a testy huff.

"I notice everything." Hiccup promises, his eyes boring into yours, "You're never gonna be able to sneak it past me."

"I'm not trying to sneak it past you!" You swear, shame once again licking at the inside of your chest. You try not to whine, but your voice takes on a hint of hopelessness, "I'm- it just happens, I don't know! I don't think about doing it, and I don't do it on purpose, it just happens! It's like breathing! How am I supposed to stop doing it when I don't even do it on purpose?"

"I will help you stop." Hiccup decides, the frown on his features softening as your desperation bleeds through, "It's okay, I'll- we'll figure something out. Like gloves!" He brightens, "Leather gloves, I can make them, that way they'll stop you from biting at your actual finger. And then it'll force you to think about it, and slowly you'll stop doing it altogether. Or something that tastes bad on your fingers. I could ask Astrid to make some of her yaknog- that stuff's thick enough to be a paste. I can spread it on your fingertips and then you'll be deterred by just the smell. Or- or a restraint! I could chain some cuffs to the bench," Hiccup gestures at the slab of wood you're sitting on, "And you can have just enough give to read your book, but not to reach for your face."

"Hold on," You stop him, knowing his mind is filling with glorious, terrible ideas, "You want to handcuff me and chain me to the bench?"

Hiccup's face shifts, clarity dawning on his bright features and dimming them, "Okay, that one- you're right, that's not my best idea."

"I don't want yaknog on my hands either," You grimace, "Can we just- try the gloves?"

"Yeah. The gloves." Hiccup nods, squeezing your hands with finality, but only releasing one- the one you'd spared. He keeps the freshly-bitten fingers in his own hand, peering worriedly at the skin to spot any blood. When he finds none, he drags your hand to his mouth, kissing gently over the side of your finger before finally letting you have it back.

"I'll start on your gloves right away," He goes back to his workbench, sliding his previous project to the side, "Snotlout is just gonna have to wait for his new saddle. As long as Hookfang doesn't burn through the one he's got, he'll be fine for a few more days. But you need those gloves now." Hiccup stares pointedly at you from across the room, "For now, please try not to bite your fingers. Or I'll sick Toothless on you."

Big green eyes stare at you with interest from across the room, but the dragon won't pounce without Hiccup's command. You'd rather like to keep breathing clean air and not fish breath, so you tuck your hands beneath your thighs on the bench, electing to only remove one to turn a page of your book.

"Perfect," Hiccup grins, a hint of pride in his smile as he grabs for a fresh panel of leather, "I'll have your gloves done in no time."

[rekino2114]

Ya know, I ultra loved the Kirumi Tojo comforting a reader who was harshly rejected by Miu. So I was wondering how it would work in the reverse~ M. Reader who has a crush on Kirumi and confesses and gets harshly rejected or just coldly rejected, since while she does appreciate him as a classmate and "client", she doesn't view him as a friend or see much potential in him. And he gets comforted by said rejection by Miu or Kaede~ with ever fits best, or you can do both, but in seperate settings.

Miu comforting you after you get rejected by kirumi

A/n:I went with miu to make it a full parallel to the other post and also cause I haven't written stuff for her in a while

You looked in the mirror one last time and sighed, adjusting your hair

"Come on y/n, you can do it just tell her how you feel and everything will be fine"

You had been crushing on your classmate kirumi for quite a while, her elegant demeanor and determination to complete any request that people gave her were just some of the many things that made you fall for the ultimate maid, not to mention how beautiful she was

You constantly talked it over with your friends, especially your best friend, miu who for some reason looked even madder than she usually was and called her names you don't want to repeat

But even if she didn't approve of your decision that didn't matter. You decided you were going to confess today. So you went over to the kitchen and found her cleaning the dishes

"H-hey kirumi"

The maid glanced behind herself and then fully turned bowing a little when she saw you

"Hello y/n, are you in need of anything?"

"N-no welll actually.....i-i just need to tell you something"

"Of course, what is it?"

".......w-well.....will you go out with me?"

"......what?"

"I.....I've been crushing on you for a while and was wondering if you would like to maybe go out on a date with me?"

"...I apologize but I must refuse"

".....w-what...why?"

"Because I do not have feelings for you, I'm sure you are a great man but I only see you as a classmate and as a client.....I'm sorry"

"....n-no don't apologize it's fine"

You put your head down and started walking away while kirumi got back to doing her task

You went back to your dorm and laid down on the bed, starting to cry a bit

After a while you heard your door open, cursing yourself for forgetting to lock it and saw that miu had entered your dorm

"Hey y/n there's this new invention I made its super dope and-....hey the fuck happened!?"

"Huh? Oh......hi miu"

The inventor walked up to your bed and her heart broke seeing you in that miserable state

"Seriously what the hell happened? You look terrible"

"......n-no I'm fine, please don't worry about me"

"Heck no! I will worry about you all that i can, don't stand there and go spouting that bull crap, you're crying and you expect me to believe you're fine"

".......you know me well"

".....o-oh thanks, it's literally nothing, so what happened?"

Miu sat on the bed and looked at you softly, trying her best to comfort you with her presence

"I tried to confess to kirumi.....but she rejected me"

Now miu was actually mad and you saw that immediately when she scowled at your words

"Really? That bitch? Why the hell would she do that?"

"She......she said that I was only a client and a classmate to her"

"Are you shitting me? That's such a lame excuse, after all you did for her she doesn't even think you're her friend? She's even more of a bitch than I thought"

"I-i wouldn't say I did much for her-"

"Oh no, do not start blaming yourself, don't you remember all the times you helped her clean the dorms or with other stuff, and she didn't even give you as much as a thank you kiss or anything? AND now she has the gall to reject you?"

"It's not her fault, it's just because she didn't like me"

"Then she just has absolutely terrible taste. She has an absolute hunk who is sweet, kind, and helps her with stuff in front of her and she says no? Well it's her loss plus maybe it takes a brain as smart as mine to see all your qualities"

When what she said fully sunk in your eyes widened and you started blushing

"W-wait you mean....y-you like me?"

"Did I not make that obvious enough? Do you think all the times I asked you specifically to test all my inventions was because I couldn't find anyone else?......well that was also part of it....but also cause I like you. And what about all those nudes I "accidentally" sent you? You think someone as smart as me can make so many accidents"

You blushed even more remembering all of those pictures, you would be lying if you said they didn't play a part in you developing a crush for miu too

The ultimate inventor put a hand on yours and helped you get out of the blankets, giving you a genuine smile

"Hey I'm not saying you have to get with me today or something, that would be just shitty of me you just got your heart broken, but if you ever need a girl to love you, an absolutely stunning, incredibly smart girl who is ready to do anything for you....and I mean anything....is right here for you, you know where to find me"

She smiled again and started to walk away

"Oh by the way-"

Miu was taken aback by you kissing her when she turned around but very quickly melted into the kiss, hugged you, and turned it into a passionate make-out session

"Oh my fucking God, kirumi is such an idiot"

"Hehe, you think so?"

"Yeah, you're handsome, nice and an amazing kisser, she really said no to the perfect guy, not that I'm complaining, she just left you for me"

"She sure did"

"So.....a-are we a thing now, like I said before, you can take all the time you want, I want you to be happy when you start dating me"

"No don't worry I think I'm fine"

"Eh, I always said the best cure for a broken heart is a good making out, now let's go to that all prim and proper maid and make out in front of her, I want her to see what she missed out on.......o-only if you're OK with seeing her again of course"

"I'd much rather spend some time with my new girlfriend"

"Of course, but you might have to stop me from slapping that bitch the next time I see her"

"P-please don't, she didn't do anything wrong"

"If you say so, but that doesn't matter now, come on let's go, I got a super cool invention to show you"

Miu grabbed your hand and dragged you to her lab while you just smiled at her, happy to have someone who loved you so much

[lagooneah]

I love love loved your vash fic!! Could you expand on it and perhaps see how he’d do with smooching and kissing?>_< thankies >:)

Thank you for the ask! You've opened a can of worms 😊 (but srsly thank u, I love talking about him and I hope you enjoy!)

I'm a firm believer that Vash is very, VERY hesitant in most relationships at first, but as soon as he's given the green light, he goes a little... Crazy in a way. Like, maybe he's a little too much sometimes. He just has so much love to give okay? Leave him alone.

So our sweet Vash here OBVIOUSLY would know next to nothing about kissing.

Has he seen others do it? Yeah. Does he know what it is? Sure. Does he know how to do it? HELL NAH-

Due to his lack of knowledge and fear of intimacy that I have mentioned- you'd have to go slow with this too.

YOU would likely be the one to do it, kissing his cheek or his forehead as you two cuddle close for the night, stuff like that.

I feel like he'd be TERRIFIED to kiss you back in fear of screwing up somehow, but he'd eventually do it.

One night, as you two were snuggled up and near ready for sleep, he returned your smooch on his cheek with a peck on yours- and then looked at you, wide and puppy-eyed for some kind of green light.

Or ANY signal that he did good.

You'd smile, giggling a little at his silliness and say "Thank you Vashy", probably trying not to freak out at the fact that he INITIATED something for the first time.

And after that? Oh he keeps going, you can't stop him from kissing you actually.

It'd mostly be on your body- your cheeks, forehead, really wherever YOU have kissed him, he returns tenfold.

Once you realize he's basically following your lead, you give love to other places too.

His neck, shoulder, hands (especially his bionic one to make him feel better about it), the bridge of his nose...

You don't realize the potential mistake you've made until you've found yourself spending a solid hour just being PEPPERED with love and affection from him.

I just KNOW he feels validated in the relationship by making you feel good. That's like his favorite thing in the world.

You're his favorite thing in the world.

Whenever you'd ask him WHY he goes so far with this, he'd usually answer something along the lines of "You're just so easy to love" or "because you deserve it".

It'd take him a little bit with kissing you on the lips, but after your initiating he'd totally do it.

"Can I kiss you?" You'd ask him softly, your faces so close you can feel his warm breath on your lips. Your noses brushing against each other.

"Sure, where?" He asks, his grip a little tighter around you, continuing to gaze into your eyes.

You smiled, deciding to surprise him a bit, and give him a short kiss on the lips.

The man literally malfunctions.

His eyes are wide, his lips parted like he's going to say something but only strangled noise comes out, his cheeks BRIGHT pink...

You're pretty sure you've broken him.

And you have, but not in a bad way. You mean to tell him you're okay- scratch that- WANT him to kiss you there?

Oh boy, you're in trouble.

He's not the best at kissing your lips at first HOWEVER, he is a fast learning and he quickly begins craving it. Craving you, in a way.

Sometimes you have to stop him just to catch your breath.

And this wouldn't even be 100% sexual, he's just so- SO obsessed with you, that doing what he can do only with you is ALWAYS on his mind.

He is a bit bashful of it though, wanting to preserve his most obsessive love and worship for when you two are alone.

But he doesn't mind a peck ever now and then as you walk to the van.

He's a quiet, affectionate, kind in public- gently holding your hand, kissing your knuckles or your palm on his face. It's little- but it's attention he reserves for you.

This is what I've got (for now), but this is how I think he'd feel/react to kissing and smooches! He's so sweetie pie someone free me (don't)

I'm also attempting to cook up a "Your reaction to Vash's torn body" short fic, as well as a couple of other stuff, so stay tuned for that!

[kisakis-boyfriend]

*gets into dogeza pose* I would like to kindly ask for the whole NSFW Alphabet with Draken. This precious young man needs more attention.

Please.

Author's Note: *Anon sent a follow-up ask specifying that they wanted trans Draken.

For our 3000 follower celebration! (CLOSED NOW)

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He's actually a god of aftercare. So attentive and gentle, even when it's his holes that are sore and full. He wants to make sure you're satisfied too, and that you're able to relax and ground yourself. Draken will tell you how good he felt — how good you made him feel — and thank you for taking care of him.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

While he doesn't think too much about how he presents himself, Draken is proud of his abs. He works hard to maintain his athletic physique (both for practical purposes and for your gaze).

Of your body, I think he would find himself admiring your facial features. Though he does enjoy looking at your biceps as they flex whenever you're pinning him down too~

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

Draken cums so much, guys. It's unreal. Sometimes he'll squirt too, but usually it's just a bucket of cum 😳

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Not exactly a secret because you can read your boyfriend like an open book, but Draken really loves when you make him feel like a little puppy — craving the orders of his master. Being submissive for you is quite rewarding.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

While he didn't have any physical experience before you got together, he did pick up an array of tips from his time living at the brothel. The women there would confide in him and complain about clients, so he learned some random knowledge and what not to do if you're trying to please someone. As well as the kinds of things a partner should focus on to make someone with a body like his tick. Knowledge that's useful before and after pursuing phalloplasty.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. May include a visual)

As red as his cheeks will get, Ken likes facing you while sitting in your lap. Riding your dick while making out is heavenly~

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Generally serious, even if you try to be goofy, he's probably not going to giggle. This doesn't mean that he isn't enjoying sex, that's just how he is.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Well trimmed, and he uses some kind of oil meant for pubic hair so that it's super soft. (I'm not sure if that's a safe product, but I have seen it before. It exists somewhere).

His hair also matches whatever his natural hair colour is. I forget if he's a natural blond or not–

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

Draken is intimate, but it's more like he's receptive of your attempts to be romantic and tender. He's a little embarrassed to initiate something like kissing or hand-holding, but he will follow your lead.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

I don't know if embarrassed is an accurate word, but whenever Draken masturbates he feels something. Perhaps it's even akin to shame?

He still touches himself every now and then though. If you encourage this behavior, he'd probably do it more often.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Breeding, size difference, watersports, and hair pulling for sure.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Draken isn't super picky, but he does prefer to not have sex in public. He might still indulge you, if you really want that, but don't expect it to be a regular occurrence.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Thinking about the way you take care of him and praise him so generously. That's usually enough to get him wet. :P

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Any cheating kinks/fetishes, latex, or gunplay with a loaded gun. (Draken is very strict on safety!!!)

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

I think he would enjoy both equally. He says you're an expert at eating him out, and he never refuses when you offer it. And you've complimented his oral skills so often, it's become an activity that Ken looks forward to~

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

He likes a good mix, especially when changing speeds has an obvious effect on you too. The faces you make when you slowly pull out, holding yourself back so as not to cum too quickly, then say fuck it and pound his cunt until you're crying from pleasure? Heavenly!

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

They're alright. Draken won't outright refuse a quickie, but there needs to be a balance between quickies and sex where you take the time to truly connect and appreciate each other's bodies, and savor the orgasm 👍

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Somewhat, but, again, Draken is strict on safety. He wants to know exactly what you'll be getting into, the intricacies of the risks, and the proper aftercare for whatever it is you want to try.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

God, he's such a monster when it comes to stamina. Just give him a few minutes in between, and Draken could go for hours! Surely you've seen him fight before? This man can take a pounding like a champ.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Yes, but not too often. Toys are great, and Draken definitely enjoys when you use toys on him, but he requires your cock too… nothing can ever fully replace that 💛

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Not the teasing type at all, he would prefer to be straightforward. Now, when you tease him… he denies it and pouts, but he very much enjoys the outcome anyway.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

As quiet as a mouse. Draken doesn't make a lot of noise, nor does he talk much during sex. If you work his body just right, you can pull a few whines and moans out of him, but he's going to be silent in between.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Ken would probably enjoy dragon dildos. Dragon related items + his size kink + the unique texture of the dildos = very happy Draken~ (and you because holy shit, the faces and moans Ken makes when he's riding a thick, ridged, bumpy, dragon dick?!?!)

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

BIG, BIG BOY!! I think Draken would have a naturally large clit, so when he gets bottom growth it's so big?! The head is so defined, and I'm sure that he could penetrate someone if he wasn't a bottom.

I can see him eventually getting phalloplasty too.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Actually, not that high. Sex is great, but Draken doesn't find himself craving it often.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not easily, not with his stamina anyways. Now, Ken will lay with you if you fall asleep afterwards, cuddling you against his chest, but he's not tired enough to drift off.