#literally my first ever time writing a fic

[taintandviolent]

be my woman, girl ; Remmick x reader

summary: As a lonely woman whose prayers are going unanswered, you prayed for something to take away your hurt. This time, something answers.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 2.6K | female reader, vampires, brief religious themes (praying, mention of God), spit kink, spit as a major aphrodisiac, dub-con if you tilt your head and look at it the right way, vampire sex, monsterfucking, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, biting, blood mention, blood drinking and loss, I guess it's implied virgin!reader (though it isn't focused on).

a/n: just a quick lil somethin' somethin', but it is HEAVILY inspired by Nosferatu, and the vibe of this song. sorry that - spoiler alert - the vampire bites reader in every fic I write about them, I literally cannot stop myself from doing it. not beta-read, as per usual. dividers by @/v6que and @/adornedwithlight! PS: Thank you so much for all the love on my previous Remmick fic, you guys are such darlings!

↓ fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

The house is quiet aside from the occassional creak or whine; wood panels shift against each other, moaning low like your grandparents as they sat in a chair. Houses breathed every now and then — never scared you any.

Unlike everyone else, you're wide awake. Though your room is dark, the dreams haven't come for you. Pale, blue moonlight washes your features as you stand in front of the window, looking out into the front yard. There's nothing, no one.

That's just it… no one.

Your head hangs heavy, burdened by the aching, stinging loneliness that you felt.

No one for you, ever.

Hell, even your sister had found someone this past spring. Everyone always said you'd get married first 'cause you were the pretty one of the two. But you hadn't. Men didn't flirt with you, they just passed you by, as casual as can be. People shushed your worries by saying that God works in mysterious ways, when the time is right, can't rush love, and so on. None of those trivial phrases helped you any, you were still alone at the close of every night. So you'd pray. Just like you did every night. You looked up into that sky and prayed your heart out, prayed until you were blue in the face.

You thumb the latch to unlock it and with a small vocalization, push the window up. The sheer curtains flutter delicately, like ghosts in the breeze. The night air floods in, bathing your face and neck in it and you sink softly to your knees, resting your elbows on the wood of the sill. Your hands are clasped tightly together — as tight as you can — and you press your fists against your mouth for a moment as the tears well up in your eyes.

"Please," you beg, speaking against your own fingers. "I am so lonely. I can't bear it any longer. My heart aches somethin' awful..."

You sniff, and lift your eyes to the moon in all her luminous glory, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. "If there's anyone out there… take away my sufferin', take away my pain. I am beggin' you."

You hold your breath, waiting. You're acutely aware of all the sounds; a breeze flutters through the tall grasses and the old trees on your daddy's property, the branches creak loudly against each other, a twig snaps somewhere in the distance. Pricks of light flitter across the forest. An animal, probably. You see them every night.

"Please, come to me." Spoken through tears and snot. "I'm beggin'."

Still shrouded in the shadows of the forest, two of the pinpricks of light stop in the foot-trodden pathway to your front door. You clumsily wipe your tears away with the back of your hand and lean forward out of the window, trying to focus on the fuzzy darkness. They look like eyes, of a coyote or something similar, but you didn't notice until now that the figure seems taller than that, on account of where the eyes are.

You blink.

They blink back before they grow closer, carried on upright steps.

You gasp. Shocked by your own noise, your hand flies to your mouth as though it'll muffle the breathing. You duck back inside the window and fall backwards, catching yourself on your hands. There's a funny feeling roiling in your stomach, like a pit of wet snakes, slippin' and slidin' around in your gut.

From this angle, you can't see the reflective gaze anymore, but the curtains still flutter, seeming to whisper to you, calling your name in a tone that only you can hear. You scoot back, dragging your body along the floorboards until your back hits the bed post, and keeping your gaze locked on the window, you awkwardly crawl up into the bed, twisting your body in a way that doesn't disrupt your line of sight. You slither underneath the covers, pulling them up to your neck like a frightened child.

The window's still open… but you're too afraid to get up again, 'cause maybe those eyes would still be staring right at you. So, you nestle yourself deeper under the covers and stare at that window until your lids get heavy. Eventually, though you don't know how long it takes, you drift off to sleep.

The dreams start as soon as your body settles, as soon as your limp hand falls off the side of the bed, fingertips pointing towards the floor. A shadowed figure stands at the edge of your bed, his hand extended. His fingers are long, tipped by claws that reach out to you and cast terrifying shadows on your bedsheets. Those same reflective eyes stare down at you, watching you tremble. He moves closer, the shadows crawling up the length of your bed until they're pressed down against you. There's nothing on top of you but shadows, and yet, you can't move, pinned in place by some unseen force.

You awake with a heave, a strangled cry that dies in your throat as soon as you're upright. Beads of sweat decorate your chest, and ribbon down into the confines of your nightgown, disappearing into the fabric. Your room is dark and cool, but that does little to bring down the temperature of your feverish body.

Downstairs, you think. It felt natural, like you'd thought it. You throw the covers off your body, and tiptoe to your bedroom door, careful of each barefoot step. You bite your lip and with a gentle pull, you twist the knob and pull it open, praying it doesn't squeak. It doesn't.

You pad carefully down the steps, avoiding the one that creaks, and make your way to the front door. Again, the night air greets you like an old, forgotten friend and you inhale.

Those reflective eyes are staring right at you through the screen door. You can see 'em, clear as day. A moth flutters past your line of sight. As you turn on the porch light, your bare toes tease the edge of the threshold.

"What… what do you want?" Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You make a fist in your nightgown, digging your nails into the soft fabric. He takes another step and leaves the shadows behind, allowing the light to illuminate his handsome features. His head tilts slightly as he considers your question, and an assured smile crosses his face.

"Aww, darlin'. You. I'm here for you…" he says, sweet like honey.

His accent is heavy and Southern, but something hides underneath it. You grip your nightgown tighter, suppressing a shudder that threatens to rip through your core. Something about him makes you wanna' step forward into the night, into his arms, but you resist. You shake your head, dislodging the lustful thoughts that try to take root in your brain.

He looks you up and down a few times before clicking his tongue in a disapproving way. You look down at yourself; sweat-soaked and dissheveled, your hair probably a mess, eyes swollen with sleep… God knows what else this man saw. Smelled. Understood.

"You poor thing… Ain't you tired, baby? Tired of screamin' and cryin' for a God that don't listen?"

You were.

"You called," he drawls. "I came."

He did.

He shoulders the door frame, leaning against it, peering at you through the mesh screen. You take a step back, and shake your head again, like a child shaking off her bad dreams. He runs a single finger along the edge of the screen, sharp nail scraping across the mesh with a barely audible tick tick tick. You understand now.

Quickly, but quietly, you push the door shut with a flattened palm. Maybe you were still dreaming. There. All better. Because really… what kinda' prayer is answered in the middle of the night? You hurry back through the darkened house, up the stairs and back into your room. For a moment, you listen in the hallway for sounds of stirring.

Satisfied that everyone's still sleeping, you turn around, leaning your back into the door gently. As soon as your eyes focus again, your muscles tense up and go rigid like steel. You slap your hand over your mouth, muffling the yelp that claws its way up your throat. You reel back, pressing yourself tightly against the door, like you could melt back through it.

Your eyes scrape tenatively along the floorboards, crawling up the elongated shadow of a man until you get to the figure that owns it. That same man leans against your window in a casual, relaxed position.

Be brave, girl.

"How'd you get in here?" You hiss, looking back at your bedroom door. "I ain't said you could—"

He lifts up a single finger, waving it back and forth, effectively shushing you. "Ohhh, you sure did, darlin'."

Remmick clears his throat theatrically, and falls forward to his knees. All at once, his nonchalant expression contorts into one of pain, of longing, of desperation, as he crawls towards you, frowning. "Please come to me…" he mocks in a higher tone, clutching his hands at his chest. "I'm beggin'…"

The realization feels heavy, your jaw hanging slack as you hear him. The world seems to lose its color around you, the floor drags you down by the hem of your gown. You sink to the wood, your ass hitting it with a soft thud. I called him.

His hands drops away from his chest as he knee-walks closer to you, reaching out to sweep your hair away from your temple. "Don't you fret now, ain't no sense in that. Remmick's gonna' make that hurt go away."

Remmick? Was that his name? When you give a devil a name, does it make him less terrifying?

As Remmick crawls over your body, you flatten against the floor, trying to shrink yourself away from him. He throws one knee up and over your hips, pinning you in place with his own. The sensation is intoxicating, and you feel damp heat pool between your thighs. He smiles, savoring the look of you beneath him, soft and supple, pretty and vulnerable.

Somewhere, you were scared. That somewhere that was too far away because your cunt, hot and aching, betrays you, clenching deeply at the feeling of a man on top of you — his weight felt like a blessing, like the long-awaited answer to a prayer. You writhe out of instinct though, clinging to some pure ideal, one that makes the corner of Remmick's lip hitch up in a snarl like he's smelled something foul. His teeth glint in the moonlight, pricks of jagged white amongst the darkness of his mouth.

"Y'got whatcha' asked fer'… don't go and be ungrateful now."

Lightning fast, Remmick's hand lurches out, pinching the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. He holds it there, while his own mouth opens, a stream of thick saliva stretching from his tongue. As it descends, you want to convulse and rip your head away, but with a clawed grip, he holds your head in place. It hits your tongue, dripping towards your throat. A warmth, a comfort, settles over your body, like the rays of sun kissing your body on a summer day, or slipping into a warm bath on a cool night. It's an all-enveloping feeling and you shudder, relaxing into the floor. Your body is no longer rigid, no longer fighting against him. Your legs part, hitching your nightgown up around your thighs in the process.

All you can do is look up into his glowing eyes, watching as the corners of his mouth curl up into a smile. Your back arches against his touch, his thumb brushing over the plumpness of your bottom lip. He smears his own saliva across your mouth. Onto your cheek. You smile lazily, and he nods encouragingly. "That's a-girl…"

With a little maneuvering, he slots himself between your thighs and his hands come down on either side of your neck. You feel his proximity, and whimper, angling your hips upward to grind against a rigidness you know is there, and Remmick lurches forward, sealing his lips to your neck.

He sucks at the skin, sucks until the flesh reddens, until it aches. The ache is a dull one, and even though you ought to stop him, you don't. Your hands find the nape of his neck, fingers sliding up through his dark hair, pulling him closer. He draws one hand down to free himself, and yank your panties to the side. You're no longer lonely, no longer sad. Lust claims your senses, without a care in the world.

Two fingers prod your entrance and you hitch your leg higher, allowing him more room. He sinks them in, breaching her, his thumb bumping into your swollen clit. Satisfied, he exhales above you, enamoured with the way your body sings back to him. With no hesitation, Remmick curves them deep within your cunt a few times, sending stars across your vision. As soon as you moan against the shell of his ear, he withdraws them and you feel him line himself up, the thick, velvet head pressing against the slit.

He's met with no resistance from your eager body, so Remmick sheaths himself inside your slick, waiting walls in one thrust. At first, there's heat as his cock stretches you wide, but your cunt adjusts, hungrily clenching around the shaft. His body undulates against yours, pressing tightly against your sweet, womanly figure as he thrusts, driving himself as deep as he can.

For a good few minutes, there's nothing but the sound of skin slapping against skin, feverish breaths and hushed moans. Remmick hums suddenly into your neck, pressing one tender kiss to the bruised flesh, reverently. He's still buried inside you, cock twitching with an impending release.

Breathily, he speaks as he strokes the side of your sweat-streaked face. "You asked fer' someone to take yer' sufferin' away and I'm gonna' do just that. I'm gonna' take away that hurt."

You whimper below him, a semblance of understanding of what's about to happen flashing across your darling features. "Shhh, this ain't gonna' sting but a second."

He leans in again, and you feel a flash of searing pain as fangs pierce your tender skin, drawing a gush of your sweet, cerise nectar out onto his tongue. Remmick groans at the coppery taste of your blood as it floods his mouth, and begins hungrily suckling at your neck, swallowing against the bleeding flesh. His hips find a new rhythm, and you feel your heartbeat pounding through your body — every inch of you seems to have a pulse — but he's right. It only hurts for a moment before you ease into the feeling, your body's natural defenses numbing the pain.

Now, the feeling drives you over the edge. Your vision darkens around the edges, throbbing between focused and blurry. You give a hard shiver as you spasm around his cock, coating him in slick arousal, and Remmick bucks his hips hard into your clenches, chasing his own release. With your hot blood clogging his throat, he asks of eternity, and you nod sleepily.

When he crashes down from that electric peak of pleasure, you feel dizzy. The sensation of being full claims you, wraps you up, and coddles you. Though, in your last moments, you can't mourn the loss of your precious life, you can't be sad… you'd asked for someone to take away your pain, your suffering, and for someone to come to you.

He'd heard you.

"Remmick," you say, drowsily.

He shushes you again with a clawed fingertip. You hear the dull thud of knuckles against a door. Your head lolls to the side, and Remmick straightens it out, leaving crimson fingerprints on your cheek before his weight leaves you.

The last thought you have is daddy, don't open that door.

But he does anyway.

Remmick is there to meet him.

[jollyhunter]

Finally I get to react to this lovely review 🧡

This description of period pain is the best. I gotta say - you know what the one benefit of having a baby is? No period. And sometimes it takes even looonnger after. And okay pain, sure, but you forget that, and yes, bleeding once the birth is done, but you have the excuse to wear nappies and use ice packs for your hoohaa and, and, people give you sympathy lol - sorry, tmi… 😂

ice packs for your hoohaa?? I - I had no idea 😳 never excuse yourself for tmi, this is educational okay 😂

And excuse me miss, spoiled our self with Chuck spoilers did we? I guess it’s hard not to…

Yup, I've read it in so many fics. Just little things like "Oh for Chuck's Sake". And the first time I read it, I was VERY confused for obvious reasons but yeah, I pieced it together quickly 😂

Hahaha - I know you said you like One Piece somewhere, I’m sure we spoke about it once - do they teach kids that in the ahow/manga? I’ve only ever seen it in samurai stuff. Have you ever watched any of the Rurouni Kenshin adaptations! You NEED to see it if you haven’t. The dude in the live action version is hot 🔥

LOL yes we did! And we spoke about Dragon Ball too 😂 No I haven't watched it yet!!! But I know who you're talking about! (Also that Mackenyu, who played in Rurouni Kenshin's live action, plays Zoro in the One Piece live action 😏)

Hahaha - he’s not wrong 😂 benefits all round…

Let's be real. It's the only benefit, Dean.

I mean, she’s surrounded by Dean, wouldn’t she be horny all the time, but truth. I also liked how you word played the nub here at the bottom - look, I did it too - it really liked that. I feel like that fruit gut is called for right about now…

Probably, lol. Aaah yes, that gif... here you go, only took me another 10 minutes to find it (I don't know why I just spent so much time for that. For the future; It's literally the first one for "squishy fruit finger" lmao)

Ahhhh - I love it. Dean totally would, too. They’re surrounded by blood as you said, what’s different. Though I love how clueless he is about the days. Unless this has been going on for a little longer, anyone who has their period for two days, I’m very damn jealous of! Is it even possible?

Aren't most men just clueless about this? Even when they should know. I feel like I'm repeating myself every month that - no - my period is not done after the second day 😂

I’m seeing bean a lot lately! It is cute ❤️

Really?? I feel like I must've picked it up somewhere at some point but I can't remember where

Hahaha - Dean you horny fucker! But yes please? I was kind of hoping he might’ve convinced her 😏 I was enjoying this way too much.

😂 don't worry, I'm pretty damn sure he would find a way to convince her if he tried long enough

Okay. So when I read Nathan Algren, I was scratching my head. Is that his Last Samurai character’s name? I think I’ve seen that move once - shame on me. But it didn’t click till I got here.

Yeah, okay, so, you got me there. I didn't remember his name either, had to google it. I just tossed it in there for Dean's pop-culture reference's sake, thinking that he would've probably liked that movie and the idea of being a Samurai. 😅

This was marvellous! I can’t wait to see what your mind comes up with next. I just love the way you write the inner monologues with the touches of humour - speaks to my soul ❤️

Thank you so so much Beth!! You're one of my inspiring writers for humour 🧡🧡🧡

Shower Reliever

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE Dean Winchester x f!Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS SMUT 18+ MDNI, established relationship, menstruating (evil cramps!!), tooth-rotting sweet fluff, mention of blood (light), Dean being dorky and cute, guided masturbation in the shower? (idk how to tag this sryyy), Dean’s misuse of a shower head as a magic wand, no use of Y/N, English isn’t my native language

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY It’s that time of the month; Cramps are tormenting you, but Dean’s there to cheer you up and look after you by giving you some relief. ♡ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 4,2k

It’s afternoon. Or maybe it’s evening.

How are you supposed to know when you’re surrounded by the bunker’s concrete and artificial light all day?

A pathetic, writhing-weeping blood sacrifice wrapped up in bed sheets like a burrito. That’s what you are. Ready to be served. Honestly, though? Big Hellhound pupper toying with your guts suddenly seems much more appealing than a day ago. At least the doggo wouldn’t take three damn days to rip your innards out.

But you won’t complain. Because right now? Things seemed oddly… okay? It’s almost suspicious.

A deep sigh of relief falls of your lips and you dare to sprawl out on the mattress. Star-fish formation. Plain ceiling staring back down at you.

You’re maybe 5 seconds into your newfound content - and then the little bitch ruins it by raking her peeler down your walls. A sharp hiss presses past your clenched teeth.

Nevermind. Here she goes again.

Peeling your uterus out from the inside. Like Lilith herself is down there, having a feast on your unborn – and very non-existent – baby.

Muffled by Dean’s pillow, you scream. Fuck that time of the month.

Why’s it always that time of the month? Again and again and again.

Why can’t you just get the period twice a year like a bitch and get on with it? It’s not like you signed up for this. In fact, you’d very much like to file a complaint.

Not that Chuck would care. “That bastard knows why he doesn’t own an uterus...” you grumble.

A hot flush shoots through your body. Wheezing takes over your breathing. The bedsheets go flying along some of the pillows you’d burrowed yourself in.

Burning up. Hot. Your body feels like your ovaries decided to have a meltdown.

You roll around the bed, aimlessly. A ball of messy hair. Entangled in the sweat-drenched pyjama you couldn’t get yourself to change from. Arms clutched around your stomach, fingers clawing at the hot-water bag which so far hasn’t done much more than give you third-degree burns and only add to the feverish heat steaming beneath your skin.

When the door to your and Dean’s bedroom opens, you can’t even bring yourself to lift your head. Instead you’re curled up like a salted snail, squirming, each and every noise escaping from you thick with pain.

“Hey baby, ‘m back…” Dean greets you from across the room, his voice dying down as he spots you on the bed just where he'd left you this morning.

Your face plants into the sheets when you double over from another stab to your uterus.

“It’s trying to kill me, Dean,” you whimper into the mattress. Dean’s face contorts at your strangled sound.

“That bad?” It’s a stupid question, and he realizes it the moment it leaves his mouth. Of course it’s bad. You look like hell.

And worst is, it’s been going like this the entire day already. First time Dean’s witnessing it from the start, too. You’d been together for a couple of months now, but you being you, you’d so far managed to slip away just in time before your period kicked down the door.

Now that you moved in with the boys in the bunker that didn’t seem an option any longer.

You watch Dean’s face harden, the way it always does when he starts to feel helpless.

Indeed, Dean could feel the frustration claw on the inside of his chest. To the point he secretly wished your state would just be the aftermath of a hunt gone wrong.

At least he would know what to do then, y’know? Clean your wounds, stitch you back together if needed – maybe it wouldn’t look as neat as when you did it, but it’d do the job – because that’s what he’s good at.

But this? He didn’t quite know how to work with this.

There’s no injury he could just patch up. No swig of whiskey to dampen the pain. No way for him to help. And watching you writhe like you were being tortured from the inside, was killing him.

He sighs. The shopping bag in his hand gets dropped to the floor and he rounds the bed to your side. A frustrated hand ruffles back his hair. His eyes taking in the battlefield you’ve caused. And they come to rest on your crumpled form, smack in the middle of it all.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart…” He mutters softly. And he means it. You know he does. The words were simple, yet you know that if he could, he’d take your pain away in a heartbeat. But he can’t. Because for some reason, despite all the supernatural crap you get to deal with on a daily basis, this isn’t an option.

Damn you Chuck.

You make a sound between a whine and a sigh at the grave conclusion, at which Dean’s eyebrows pull together.

The bed dips down beside you and next moment the warmth of his body presses against your side. He slowly runs his hand over your shoulders to rub your back in soothing circles.

“Anything I can do to make you feel better..?” he asks.

“Rip it out. Use it for your next blood sacrifice. Sell it to Crowley. I don’t care- I don’t want it no more.” You wail while crawling into his lap, your face burying into his grey shirt and the blue jacket that’s partially covering it.

“Jesus,”– Dean laughs softly, his deep voice rumbling under your cheeks –“Yeah, not happening.”

His arms wrap around you to pull you closer. The familiar smell of his fills your senses when you nuzzle your nose into the fabric of his clothes. A combination of his musk, fresh lemon and a hint of sweetness of his cologne clouds your mind.

Your muscles relax for a fraction. Melting into his heavy embrace. It’s odd how just a smell can have such a calming effect. As of right now, you wished you could just climb into his shirt, buttoned-up, and pressed flush against his body. All safe, warm and fuzzy.

But Uterus-Lilith had different plans. The sharp wince you try to bite back, doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean.

“My poor baby… C’mere…” He leans down to place a tender kiss onto your crown while he cradles you on his lap like a wounded animal.

His chin comes to rest on top of your head. Lips press against your hair. “It’ll pass… You’ll feel better soon… My brave girl…” He murmurs softly and you sigh.

Another twinge to your abdomen. Your body jolts, then caves in. Dean startles for a moment but then tightens his arms around you, pulling you up against his chest.

While he continues to rub your back, his other hand begins to card through the back of your hair. “Shhh, it’s okay… I got you…”

“It’s like the damn thing is committing sepukku.” You lament with fingers curled into his shirt. Nose buried in his chest. Trying everything to physically ground you until the cramp goes by.

At that comparison, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and his lips twitch into a pressed smirk. “Damn it, don’t make me laugh.” His stomach contracts and shakes beneath you.

In response, a disgruntled noise gets huffed into his chest. And Dean can’t help a short, surprised snort.

“Sepukku?” He tries so hard to sound serious and to hold in his chuckles, but finally loses his battle. “Seriously?” He shakes his head lightly and his green eyes crinkle slightly when he continues to tease you, “You telling me, you got a wee little Samurai down there?”

A wee little Samurai throwing a tantrum in your uterus? Okay, that image carried a smile to your lips. Sounds a lot cooler than Lilith feeding on your unborn child.

Unfortunately the wee little Samurai was not amused and rammed it’s katana once more into your uterus.

Another jolt goes through your body. Another strangled sound follows. You burrow your face even further into his arms in hopes that his smell will just work like some narcotics.

Perhaps it’ll just knock me out when I dig my face deep enough into his shirt? A weird thought. But you guess that’s just what menstrual hormones mixed with pain does.

“Yes.” you wince, “And it failed to conceive a child,” then groan in agony, “So now it wants to punish me for it.”

Now Dean actually has to bite back a hearty laughter. “Oh, sweetie.”– he taps your head lightly with his finger –“Look on the bright side. At least we know I didn't knock you up. It's like a free monthly pregnancy test.“

That jab would have earned him a deadpan glare of yours if it wasn’t for the next attack on your inner walls and your body jerked into his arms this time.

Dean’s light-hearted expression contorts into a pained one. Jaws clenched with a twinge of guilt.

“Want me to get you some painkillers? Or – uh – maybe some whisky?” he inquires, his head tilted down in an attempt to meet your gaze. But your eyes are scrunched up, face still hidden in his bunched up shirt.

“Baby, can you look at me for a sec?” he pleads, while his hands slip underneath to cradle your chin now, coaxing you out of your den. You lift your head, just enough to meet his concerned eyes.

“None of that helps…” You mutter. Although you did wonder whether whiskey might even do the trick. Get the wee little samurai bitch a little tipsy down there, hm? Maybe it would pass out?

No – no, now you’re thinking like Dean. That’s a terrible idea.

“Imagine you’re getting stabbed in the stomach and the blade gets twisted. Repeatedly. For hours.”

Dean winces inwardly at your description. A hand instinctively clutches his stomach. He doesn’t have to imagine what that pain feels like. He knows.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to snap out of some memories from downstairs, his eyes back on you just when you writhe again with a stifled groan.

“Okay, that‘s enough. I‘m getting you off the rack,” he declares and you don’t even get the chance to react when he’s already scooping your curled up form up into his arms.

“W-what? What are you going to do, Dean?” you ask confused while he pulls you to your feet and starts leading you out the bedroom and down the bunker's hallway.

"I'm going to distract you," he replies, glancing back over his shoulder at you while he leads you to the main bathroom, "I did some digging this morning... to see what I could do to help with your period cramps, and it looks like an orgasm might do the trick."

You stop in your tracks. Quick enough for Dean to almost stumble into the bathrooms doorframe.

"N-no," you squeak, eyes wide.

"No, what? No it won't work or no you don't-"

"No, I'm fine."

"So it does work?"

"Well- uh-" you trip over your words when the heat rushes to your cheeks, "It's - it's different when I... uh..."

"Hey, it's okay. Nothing to be ashamed of," he chuckles softly and brings up his hand to cup your cheek, "Is it 'cuz of the blood? You do know I don't care about it, right? You really think I won't touch you just 'cause you're on your period?"

"No, but... it's awkward... and gross..." you mumble, eyes averted as you can feel the heat going both ways now.

Because, even if you wouldn't admit it, you did feel a bit horny. It's just one of those many fluctuating emotions a period entails. In those blessed days, it feels like your mood is being regulated by a pinball machine. And as of right now, it hit the tingling nub at the very bottom.

"Gross? Honey, I've been covered in guts, sludge, crap and all sorts of other nasty stuff. Do you honestly think a little blood's gonna phase me?" He tilts your head up to make you look at him, his lips twitch in amusement but his words are genuine, "You're not gross, sweetheart. Not to me..."

"But-" the next argument forms on your lips when he dives down to muffle them with a kiss. Your cheeks cradled by his large hands. Tender, soft, but enough to shut you up and make you melt into him.

When he finally pulls back, his plump lips still hovering inches from yours, he speaks softly.

“Why don’t you just let me take care of you?”

His green eyes flick back and forth between yours, intense and yet calming. And really, how could you ever say no to him when he looks at you like you'll break his heart if you don't let him help you.

A sudden twinge in your stomach has you hunch over, and it's enough to finally convince you to let go of your tribulations with a weak nod of yours.

“Okay," you wince under your sharp exhale. The pain in your voice has Dean's hands dart down, one to your contracted stomach and one to the small of your back.

"Alright then, c'mon, sweetheart..." he mutters. Then gently guides you towards the shower after he closed and locked the door behind you.

When he notices how your teeth pull at your lower lip the way they always do when you're overthinking things, he grabs both of your hands. He squeezes them to get you to look at him, just to bestow you with one of his trademark grins. Confident, cheeky and oh so lovable.

“You trust me, right? It won't be awkward, promise. Nothing wrong with giving my girl some relief. Besides... This is purely therapeutic,” he quips and winks at you.

Once both of your clothes are piled up in a corner, you pad over the cold tiles and into the shower. Dean slides in after you, his naked body flush against your skin, his body heat a warm welcome in the cold air of the large bathroom. His arms envelop you from behind, one hand splayed out on your stomach to try and sooth your cramps, the other reaching for the shower head to pull it from its holder.

“Lean back, I got you baby,” he assures you while tugging you gently further back into his chest.

He turns on the shower, tests the temperature until it's the perfect heat and then slowly brings it down to the level of your stomach with the spray of water still pointed to the floor.

“Spread your legs a bit for me, sweetie,” he gently nudges his knee between your thighs, coaxing you into a wider stance while he continues to hum above you, “Mhm, that's it. Now just relax and lemme take care of you...”

Dean rests his chin on top of your head, the stubbles tingling your scalp as he does so. The air around you slowly begins to mix with steam while his body holds you close. Save and protected. The world reduced to just the two of you and the warmth hugging you from head to toe. Your thoughts and worries are drowned out by the rhythmic pattering of the droplets hitting the smooth shower floor as the sound echoes off of the tiled bunker walls all around you.

You feel yourself relax against him, despite the occasional, small jolts of pain which keep reminding you of that fact.

At last, a heavy sigh drops off your lips. The signal Dean has been waiting for.

He tugs at the hose, just enough to guide the water up your legs, then your thighs...

When the first jet of water hits right on your bundle of nerves, you almost buckle over with a gasped, “Oh shit-”

Your fingernails bite into the skin of his forearms, drawing a hiss from him. He moves his free hand to your hip, his grip on your squishy flesh gentle but strong. Steadying and grounding you.

“Feels good?” he asks while playing with the angle of the shower head.

You nod. Jolting whenever one of the water jets grazes your sensitive spot.

“Want me to keep goin‘?”

“Mhm,” you hum.

The hand on your hips slides over the bump on your bones and dips down between your legs. Next moment, calloused fingers slip along your folds to spread them open.

You shiver under the touch of his rough fingertips and at the feeling of him coating them in some of your arousal.

He angles the shower head slightly lower now, until a row of water jets skim your entrance. Your breath hitches. Then comes out in a shaky whimper.

Your legs start to go weak, feeling like jello.

Dean gently tugs you up again and pulls your back flush into his chest to keep you upright, making sure he's your anchor in this tidal wave of pleasure he's drowning you in.

“Just let go... that’s it…” he coos, now his head angled to nuzzle his nose against your temple.

Another shockwave travels through your body and tightens your coil even more, to the point it feels like it’s going to explode soon.

Your head drops back onto Dean‘s shoulder. Neck draped over his collarbone, just where his anti-possession tat lays. Shaky and ragged breaths mingle in the damp air of the shower.

“Just relax,” he places a kiss to your temple, his stubbles tingling the wet skin as he murmurs, “I got you.”

His fingers spread you further while he brings the shower head closer, allowing some of the water to push past your entrance.

“Oh fuck- Dean-” you gasp and whine at the same time.

„Language, young lady,“ he chides playfully, „This is purely therapeutical, remember?“

You choke on a giggle when he moves the shower head a fraction lower and the water jet grazes your sensitive nub just the right way, enough to send an intense jolt of pleasure through your body.

“Ah, so that's the magic angle, huh?” Dean laughs softly, his chest rumbling against your back.

“Uh-huh,” you manage to get out in a weak whimper as Dean's making sure to keep the right angle.

The intensity has your nerves on fire, like your core's being hooked up to electricity with hundreds of little needles tingling your most sensitive spot.

“M-move - p-please,” you beg in a shaky voice that has Dean's smile next to your cheek widen.

“Guide me,” he prompts softly, the hand on the shower head waiting for your instructions. You slip your hand along his strong arm, over the bump of his wrist, until you cover his hand with your tender fingers.

Slowly you begin to guide his hand into small, circular motions. The water jets brush your nub now from all sides, the overwhelming sensation enough to make you whimper weakly and your head loll to the side to bury your nose under his jaw.

“Too much?” he asks, his head tips to the side to look down into your eyes. You shake your head, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as they meet his. Hair’s stuck to your damp, flushed, skin, pupils blown wide, gaze intoxicated from pleasure.

The corner of his lips tugs into a smirk at your blissful expression. It's such a stark contrast to what you'd looked like moments ago when you were doubling over from pain. And if it wasn’t for the special circumstances, he’d make sure to keep you in this state all day and night. The growing pressure of his own arousal heavy against your back is evidence of his thoughts.

But this is about you now. His needs will just have to wait for – for… how long did a period even last? A day? Two? Hm, maybe if you’d feel comfortable enough, he wouldn’t need to wait this long. But one step at a time.

When your legs begin to shake, Dean presses his lips to your ear, murmuring into it, deep and hoarse from his own arousal.

“You’re doing so well for me… Now close your eyes, sweetheart. I want you to just relax and feel…”

You don't have to be told twice. The intensity is enough to make your eyes flutter close, squinting them even as your face contorts from the jolts of pleasure coursing through your body like a firework.

“Now I want you to imagine it's my mouth down there...”

While he keeps you distracted with the images he's painting in his husky voice, the hand on your folds leaves you and he reaches for the tap, increasing the water pressure.

“Y'know... the way I like to wrap my lips around you… and suck on that cute little bean 'til you're sobbing.”

“O-oh my God-” you mewl after the hard jet of water swallows your pulsing nub, causing your legs to buckle. The feeling's like a lightning bolt has just hit you. And it just keeps striking. Your other hand darts to his thigh behind you, fingernails biting into his skin in an attempt to ground you. But the jolts of pleasure set the nerves down your legs on hot white fire now, with everything from your stomach downwards tingling.

“That’s the reaction I was hoping for…” he chuckles and keeps going with his sweet words of praise somewhere outside of your clouded mind.

Images of Dean kneeling between your legs pulse under your eyelids. How his broad shoulders shove your knees apart, keeping your legs spread as they begin to fight him from the intensity of his mouth on your core. How the soft flesh of your thighs is squished under the force of his fingers, how you witness the veins on his arms pop as his muscles work relentlessly to prevent you from squirming away. How he holds your gaze the entire time, pupils blown up wide from hunger and lust as they eat away the deep emerald pools circling them.

Ragged breaths leave your lips. Another row of jolts has your body shaking in his arms. Each one driving you closer to your climax until you’re teetering on the edge. When your body begins to fight him and thrash around, Dean quickly tightens his grip around your hips to hold you in place.

He moves his lips to your temple, planting a tender kiss there, prickling stubbles brush the side of your face while he continues to talk you through it.

“You're doing so well... Let go for me, sweetheart... I've got you, I'll catch you, promise.”

Just when you feel yourself tip over, his free hand leaves your core to the constant onslaught of the circling water jets and moves it to your hand. His fingers slide between yours, intertwining them.

Then the tidal wave crashes down on you.

Dean's hand squeezes yours. The corner of his lips still pressed to your temple.

A guttural sound leaves the back of your throat when waves after waves of ecstasy course through you, enough for your knees to give in as your body goes limp.

“Oh- we goin' down?” he jokes softly as he follows your movement.

As promised, Dean catches you right after you've dropped some inches. Chuckling lightly above you as he pulls you back to your feet. Legs still shaky like a newborn foal’s.

“C'mon, bambi...” - he teases and slides the shower head back into place before he wraps both of his arms around your waist and turns you to face you with a soft smile - “…there you go.” You smile back at him, your hands finding purchase on his hips, gaze still a bit woozy.

He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, head tilted down to your eye-level, “Hey there, sweetie. You feeling better?”

“Yes,” you sigh, one of relief at the missing pain. At least for the moment. You melt into his embrace, feeling how your wet and naked bodies lock together like a perfect puzzle piece. “So much better.”

“Good, that’s good…” he murmurs into your hair after your forehead had dropped to his chest.

After a moment of peaceful silence, a mischievous grin creeps onto his face.

He clears his throat.

“You want me to battle that wee little samurai with my sword now?”

It takes your dazed mind a moment to catch up with his rather creative innuendo.

Once it hits you, you sputter an amused chuckle, “Please don’t.”

Dean huffs through his nose, feigning disappointment.

“Aw c’mon… Y'know, I’ve always wanted to fight a samurai… I’d make a pretty good Nathan Algren, don’t ya think?” he quips, then his lips quirk into a boyish, innocent grin as he adds, “...and my sword wouldn't mind getting bloody either.”

Now this has you raise your head to meet his cheeky expression and burst out in laughter.

“You do us both a favour and keep your mighty sword in your pants for now, you hear me? Idiot-” you playfully slap his chest, the wet sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. Dean’s grin doesn’t waver, instead his hands on your back slide down your spine until they reach your ass cheeks.

He clicks his tongue.

“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, s’all I’m sayin’,” he jabs softly as he pats both your ass cheeks. His eyes crinkle at the corner, and he's got a secret smile on his face, proud of how he made you not only smile, but laugh, despite the hell trip you’re on. Maybe he’s not as helpless as he thought.

His features suddenly harden, eyes narrowed as they dart down to your stomach, a pointed finger now prodding the spot below your bellybutton.

“Now back to you,” he growls, you giggle, and he has to fight to keep a straight face and his voice especially low and warning as he continues, “You leave my girl alone now. Or else I’ll personally come down there and take care of you, Tom Cruise style. You hear me you evil little bitch?”

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES May Dean bring some relief to all of you poor, fellow victims of Uterus Lilith. <3

And thank you, @ambiguous-avery for your help with the correct name for the shower head lol 😌

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[glitchyporcelaindoll]

I love your jjk dilf fics!! If it’s not too much could I request them making you squirt? I love love love Higuruma😫 you write him so well!

AAHHH THANK YOU SO MUCHHH!!! he's js such a softie and hottie i can't help it😔☝️

here's the fic you requested for btw🫡😋:

jjk dilfs making you squirt

characters: toji fushiguro, hiromi higuruma, nanami kento, shiu kong, atsuya kusakabe

warnings: 18+ smut mdni

notes: afab!reader, based on my own opinion, no beta read again cause wtf even is that

toji fushiguro

this man's fingers, tongue and dick are huge enough to make you come just from the sight of it. he treats your clit like a joystick and would chuckle when you squirt on his fingers, "aww...is my toy broken already?" and then he speeds up his already fast pace, making you squirt again. his movements are always quick from the beginning, not letting you adjust to his size at all, cause he knows you'll squirt. would tease you more if you're embarrassed about squirting on him. you could literally be puddling and trembling beneath him, but this man wouldn't take a break. would threaten you teasingly to make you squirt in public when you get wet seeing him (implies it later) so if making you squirt embarrassingly quick was a sport, toji would have won trophies of gold.

hiromi higuruma

since his style of having sex is slow and quite sensual, he tries his best to stay composed, but the moment you are overstimulated and your back is arched instinctvely trying to push yourself inside him, he looses it completely. and when he sees you get embarrassed and your hole clenching around his dick cause of squirting from him going rough, he tries to apologise like, "oh—i'm sorry, i didn't mean to—" while thrusting deeper in you so you do it again. he'd wrap his arms around you and pull you on his lap as your toes curl when he hits your g-spot over and over again while you squirt all over his stomach. tbh his sense of justice is so gone when you squirt, he apologies, yes, but wouldn't want you to stop squirting.

nanami kento

you squirted once when he was stretching you out and he has never forgotten it, and never let's you forget it either. won't talk abt it in public like toji, but once y'all are home, he's all smug, "shall we ruin these sheets again?" while secretly hinting at the day you squirted. uses his thumb to press on your bud, while his index and middle fingers thrust inside your clenching hole. he's so scientific with it, it's so hot tbh. wouldn't put his cock in until you're begging, twitching and squirming on his fingers alone, embarrassed to squirt. but when you do squirt, he has this soft smirk on his face, like he's proud of you. is also surprisingly very precise and calculated with his moves, like he had all this planned ever since the first day you squirted.

shiu kong

huge boner the moment you squirt. he has this cocky smirk, like he knows he would make you squirt anyways. shiu is most definitely a tongue user, so when you squirt inside his mouth, he stops for a few seconds and mutters a soft, "oh...", grins and licks the dripping liquid off his lips. next thing you know, he's opening up your legs wider and pushing your limits to the most so you squirt again, "you thought that was it? baby, we're just getting started..." as he tugs at your bud with his teeth, which makes you twitch and push your clit closer to him as you press your hands to your mouth tighter so your moans aren't too loud. he would experiment more positions and different speeds so he finds out more about how you'd squirt on his face.

atsuya kusakabe

panics slightly when you squirt for the first time, cause he was trying to be gentle and your waterworks activated all of a sudden. he gets flustered and stutters, "that—that was me??" but then he realises how good you felt doing that and now he's going deeper with his fingers so he can make you squirt again. initially, he's just curious and so he's doing it with all sweet and shy techniques, but then he gets addicted to seeing you come all undone and overstimulated like that so he gets filtheir with every round. but he's blushing every single time you squirt, like he's satisfied he made you feel good. would probably also use his dick later when he knows how to make you squirt.

divider cr @cafekitsune

header cr @/namaikizakari on pinterest

fic cr @glitchyporcelaindoll

[yo-ri-su-ki]

Hey… me again….

Do NOT flame me— I’ve literally never played the games before, so think of this as an au.

Arranged marriage au with Vergil? We fell first, he fell harder? You do NOT have to write this one immediately/if you don’t want to because I’m SURE you already have a lot on your plate, but I read a Mydei one with this trope and I’m OBSESSED.

LOVE YOUR WORK!!!!

An: Hnnnhggg Mydeii uhhhhhh oofmmm it's all over the screesewnn... THIS ONES LONG BUCKLE UP, ALSO SOME OF IT IS BASED OFF ONE OF MY VERGIL FICS WHERE THE READER NEARLY DIES.

Bound by blades and vows

The air in Fortuna was chilled with the scent of steel and roses, the perfume of both blood and duty. You had grown up hearing tales of the infamous Sparda bloodline—how they were gods among men, warriors forged in the fires of hell, half-demons who walked among humans with disdain in their hearts and power in their hands.

You never expected to marry one.

Especially not Vergil Sparda.

Your father, a high-ranking diplomat with a penchant for forging peace through paperwork, had somehow orchestrated an alliance between your family and the house of Sparda. After the recent skirmishes between human factions and demonic forces, a marriage between a powerful neutral family and the son of Sparda was deemed “strategic.”

You had expected someone cold, arrogant, cruel.

And you were partially right.

Vergil was a man of few words. Sharp as his katana. Eyes like frozen fire. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk much. During your engagement ceremony, he didn’t so much as look at you, save for the brief moment when your fingers brushed during the exchange of ceremonial vows. Even then, his hand felt more like a weapon than a comfort.

You were captivated anyway.

Not by his power—though that was undeniable—but by the broken silence that surrounded him. The loneliness cloaked in stoicism. You wanted to understand the man behind the blade. The son of a legend who had carved his own cruel path.

He didn't even remember your name the first week.

---

Weeks Later — The Fortress Estate

Married life with Vergil was… quiet. Awkward. You had separate rooms. He trained before dawn and returned well past dusk. His only words to you were logistical, sometimes edged with condescension.

But you saw more than he wanted to show.

Like how he always left his coat hanging in the hall closet so it wouldn’t track mud into your side of the estate. Or how your favorite tea blend always appeared in the kitchen, perfectly restocked. Or the single time he had caught you crying in the garden—silent tears over your loneliness—and instead of offering comfort, he had simply left a single white camellia on your pillow that night.

Vergil did not understand love.

But he was learning you.

And you were already hopelessly falling for him.

---

Three Months Later — A Shift

One evening, after a particularly exhausting council meeting where you had defended Vergil’s decision to withhold demonic intervention in a human war, you returned to your chambers only to find him waiting.

“Why?” he asked, leaning against the window. Moonlight gilded his silver hair, his arms crossed in that ever-defensive way.

You blinked. “Why what?”

“Why defend me?”

You swallowed. “Because you were right. And because you're my husband.”

His gaze narrowed. “That is an obligation. Not affection.”

“I care for you, Vergil,” you admitted, heart pounding. “Even if you don’t care back.”

Silence. So thick it almost choked you.

Vergil walked past you, slowly, his boots silent against the stone. When he paused beside you, his voice was low. “You shouldn’t.”

And yet... he didn’t leave.

---

The First Crack

That same night, he stayed in your room. Not in your bed—but in the armchair by the fire. When you woke with a scream from a nightmare, you found yourself wrapped in his coat. He was gone, but the faintest scent of him lingered—cool metal, storm, and sword oil.

Your heart ached.

He was opening.

Slowly. Painfully.

But he was opening.

---

Six Months In — He Falls

The moment Vergil realized he loved you came like a blade through the heart.

You were nearly killed.

A mission to escort a high priestess to a neutral territory had turned into an ambush. You had fought, of course—you weren’t defenseless. But there were too many. Demonic mercenaries. Blood-magic blades. Poison-laced arrows.

Vergil arrived in a storm of judgment, his Yamato slicing through the air with brutal precision. But when he saw your body crumpled, your blood soaking into the snow, something snapped.

He destroyed them all.

Not with his sword.

With his fury.

When you opened your eyes three days later, he was at your side, hand clasping yours so tightly it nearly hurt.

“You came…” you rasped.

“I should never have let you go alone,” he whispered, voice raw. “I thought… I thought I had more time.”

“For what?” you whispered.

“To love you properly.”

---

And So, He Loved You

It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t easy.

But from that moment on, Vergil was different.

He started training you personally—“so I never lose you again.” He began sitting beside you at dinner, eating in silence but present. He touched you more often—not with passion, at first, but with presence. A hand at your back. A gentle brush of your fingers when handing you a scroll. His sword callused hand brushing your cheek one evening as you studied near the fire.

And one night, as you watched the stars together on the balcony, he finally whispered, “You said you cared for me even if I didn’t care back.”

You nodded, heart in your throat.

“I care now,” he murmured. “More than I should. More than I know how to.”

He turned to face you.

“But if you’re willing to teach me, I’ll spend the rest of our days learning how to be worthy of you.”

The days after your near-death bled into weeks of quiet recovery.

Vergil stayed close. Not smothering—he never could be—but present. In the subtle ways you’d come to cherish.

He brought you tea, perfectly steeped. His fingers lingered a little longer when he adjusted your blankets. His voice, though still edged with that familiar sharpness, was softer around you now. Tinted with something that wasn’t quite affection… but not far from it.

Something fragile. Reverent.

He never said love again.

But he showed it.

With a blade sharpened each night at your bedside. With the callused touch that brushed your temple when he thought you were asleep. With the furious rage that flickered behind his eyes anytime you so much as winced in pain.

You had never felt so protected—and so afraid of how deeply you wanted him to stay.

---

Two Weeks Later – Midnight

You couldn’t sleep. Your body was healing, but your thoughts raced.

The moon cast silver light across your chambers. Outside, wind brushed against the trees like whispers. You rose, quietly, wrapping yourself in a robe, and stepped into the hall.

He was there.

Vergil always trained at midnight now, Yamato dancing under starlight in the open courtyard. But tonight, his blade was still. He stood staring into the sky, hair glinting, expression unreadable.

“You should be resting,” he said without turning.

“I wanted to see you,” you admitted.

He turned then, and for once, he didn’t look away.

There was something in his eyes—hunger, yes, but not the kind born of lust. It was yearning. Quiet. Terrifying. Tender.

“I thought I had time,” he murmured, stepping closer. “To keep you at a distance. To avoid the mess of human emotion.”

He stopped a breath away.

“But when you fell, I realized… there is no version of this world where I survive losing you.”

Your heart thundered. “Vergil—”

“Don’t speak,” he whispered, stepping even closer. “Please. Not yet.”

He cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing the soft skin under your eye. You leaned into him, trembling.

When his lips finally met yours, it was not like fire.

It was silk.

Soft. Lingering. Terrified.

As if he was afraid the world would end if he pressed too hard.

And maybe it would.

---

Aftermath

He didn’t say anything when he pulled away. Just rested his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly, like that single kiss had stolen the fight from his lungs.

You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the tremble beneath his coat.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice a vow.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“I am not worthy of that,” he whispered.

“But I will be.”

It began, like most arguments, with something small.

You were preparing for a diplomatic visit from a neutral kingdom—one that had long distrusted the Sparda lineage. You offered to attend alone, hoping to ease their tensions without the looming presence of Yamato.

Vergil refused.

“I will accompany you,” he said flatly, standing near the hearth, his arms crossed. “I do not trust them. Nor do I trust you to keep yourself alive without oversight.”

The words cut.

“Oversight?” you repeated, your voice rising. “I’m not some fragile doll you have to chaperone, Vergil. I’ve led more negotiations than you’ve sat through in your entire—!”

“And nearly died during one,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Do you expect me to forget that?”

You recoiled.

“That wasn’t my fault. And this—this isn’t about my skills. This is about your fear.”

His silence was all the confirmation you needed.

“You don’t trust me,” you whispered. “Not really.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deny it.

You turned away. Hurt blooming in your chest like a fresh bruise. “I thought we were becoming partners. Equals.”

“We are not equals,” he said coldly. “You are mortal. Human. You feel everything too deeply, too quickly. That makes you weak.”

The air left your lungs.

For the first time, you walked out and left him standing there.

---

Hours Later – The Garden

The moonlight made the roses seem silver. You sat on the cold bench near the back of the garden—alone, angry, aching. The wind tugged at your robe, and somewhere deep down, you hated how much his words still held power over you.

“I do not believe what I said,” came a voice from the shadows.

You didn’t look up.

“I said it to push you away. To keep you where it was safe. For me.”

You finally met his gaze. He looked… wrecked. His coat hung loose. His hair was wind-tousled. But it was his eyes that struck you most.

Soft. Lost. Bleeding.

“I have fought demons that threatened the world,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “I have slain gods and torn realms. None of it frightened me like the thought of losing you again.”

Silence.

Vergil slowly lowered himself to his knees before you—not as a warrior, but as a man.

“I do not know how to be soft,” he whispered. “I do not know how to love like a human does. My father left. My mother died. My brother—” He broke off, jaw clenched. “Everything I loved was taken or broken. So I learned not to need.”

He looked up at you.

“Then you came. And now all I do is need.”

Your heart cracked wide open.

You slid off the bench, kneeling before him, hands gently cupping his face.

“I don’t need perfection,” you whispered. “I just need you. Scars and all.”

Vergil leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours once more. It had become his way of seeking closeness when words failed him.

When he kissed you again, it was deeper this time. Desperate. Less afraid. His fingers curled into the fabric of your robe like he was anchoring himself in you.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

Because he wasn’t just yours now.

He had fallen.

And he had fallen harder.

Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work!! Likes and reblogs appreciated!! Also if you wanna see more like this consider following!!!

An: iM SORRY I COULDN'T REACH IT SOONER THIS WAS AN AMAZING IDEAAA IM SICK SO IT TAKES A WHILE TO WRITE!!

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED DOING THE PARENT AU BUT THEIR KID COMING OUT AS TRANSGENDER🏳️‍⚧️???LOVE UR FICS BTW THEYRE SO GOOD🫶🫶

(ABSOLUTELY ALSO THANK YOUUU SO MUCH

Honestly before reading my fics—i know there are transphobic jerks. And I definitely know that coming out as trans to literally anyone its not always going to be met with understanding and care (which fucking sucks!) because Honestly trans people in general should have someone who understands and cares. I know there are going to be people who don't agree with how I write the boys in this specific scenario but to me specifically I believe these dorks wouldnt really be bothered over trans people i mean they are literally in new York (pretty sure they've seen shit) with all that said enjoy!

Epilogue Bill Dickey – When his kid comes out as transgender

When your kid first tells Bill?

It’s not a scene. There’s no big argument. He’s in the middle of a rant about “how Hollywood's killing the genre with A24-core trauma-bait garbage,” when your kid says it—quiet, maybe nervous, maybe not. Just a plain sentence:

> “Dad… I’m not your daughter. I’m your son.”

Bill blinks. Squints. Sets down his paper plate of pizza.

> “...Okay.”

That’s it.

No fireworks. No tantrum. No “you’re confused” lecture. Just “okay,” and a scratch of his scruffy beard.

> “You still do the dishes? Then I don’t give a shit. Just don’t change your name to ‘Anakin’ or some dumb crap.”

That’s his way of trying. And for a while, it feels like enough. He messes up pronouns sometimes. He forgets. But there’s no hate in it. He buys his son a thrift-store Spider-Man hoodie without a word. Doesn’t bat an eye when you cut his hair. Even argues with the school over the bathroom thing—clumsily, loudly, but with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer:

> “If my kid can recite Klingon, he can pee wherever he wants, okay? You wanna fight about it, Principal Palpatine?”

But then—

One day, he comes home. Blood on his lip. Scrape on his cheek. Shoulders hunched. Won’t meet your eyes.

Bill sees red.

> “What happened.”

Your son tries to brush it off. “It’s nothing. Just some guys at lunch. They said I wasn’t—real.”

That’s when Bill goes quiet. Like truly quiet.

Not in defeat. In rage.

> “What’d you say?”

Your son repeats it. Voice cracking this time.

> “They said I’m just pretending. That I’m still—still a girl.”

Bill stands up, slow and dangerous.

> “Gimme names.”

> “Dad—”

> “Names. First and last. If they have a Facebook I’m gonna flame ‘these fuckin jerk offs”

You put a hand on his arm. “Bill, stop.”

But he’s shaking. Not because he’s mad someone touched his kid—but because for once, he doesn’t know what to say. This isn’t a forum flame war. This isn’t a fandom grudge match. This is real, and his kid’s standing there, bleeding, trying not to cry, and Bill realizes:

He wasn’t doing enough.

Not really.

So he takes a breath. Sits down. Doesn’t lecture. Doesn’t yell.

He just slowly opens his arms.

Your son hesitates—then folds into them, and Bill holds on like he’s gripping onto the last save file in a corrupted game.

> “Listen to me,” he says, rough. “You’re my kid. You’re a pain in my ass. And you’re real. Anyone says otherwise? They answer to me. Got it?”

Your son nods into his shoulder.

> “Good. Now c’mon. Let’s go buy you a new hoodie. One that doesn’t smell like Doritos and trauma. And after that, I’m teaching you how to throw a punch.”

> “You said I couldn’t hit people.”

> “Yeah, well. I also said Firefly was overrated. People change.”

‐--

Epilogue Pete DiNunzio – When Anthony comes out as a trans girl

Pete’s halfway through folding laundry—badly—grumbling about how socks keep disappearing and why the hell does one hoodie have three sleeves? You and him had just had a brief spat about his refusal to read the laundry tags ("I know how cotton works, babe!") and now he's cooling off with busy hands and loud music.

That’s when Anthony—quiet, nervous, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big—walks in and just… stands there.

Pete glances over.

> “Hey. You need somethin’?”

Anthony fidgets. Eyes on the floor.

> “Can we talk?”

The laundry gets dropped instantly. Pete’s always on full-alert when it comes to his kid.

> “Yeah. Yeah, c’mere. What’s goin’ on?”

Anthony hesitates. Then:

> “I’m… I’m not a boy, Dad.”

Pete just blinks.

> “Okay. So what are you then?”

> “I’m a girl. My name is Lily.”

It’s so quiet for a beat, you could hear a sock fall.

Pete looks at her—really looks. At the way her hands tremble. The way she won't meet his eyes. Like she’s expecting him to yell. Like she’s braced for disappointment.

And all that attitude Pete wears like armor? It just drops.

He walks over slowly, lowering his voice in that way he only does when something matters.

> “Lily, huh?”

She nods.

> “You scared I wasn’t gonna be okay with it?”

Another nod.

Pete doesn’t ask why. He just pulls her into the biggest, firmest hug.

> “Well that’s stupid. Because I love you, no matter what. You hear me? You could come in here and tell me you’re actually a werewolf and I’d still be your Dad. I'd just buy you more meat.”

Lily laughs. It cracks mid-sob.

Pete holds her tighter.

> “Hey, you know what else? Lily’s a beautiful name. Suits you.”

He ruffles her hair gently.

> “You’re brave, y’know that? Takes guts. And you don’t ever gotta be scared to tell me stuff like this. You’re my kid. My girl. Nothin’ changes that.”

Then, after a pause, trying real hard to keep it casual:

> “You wanna go out and get donuts later? We can get your favorite and, uh… maybe hit the thrift store? If you wanna look at different clothes or whateva. No pressure.”

Lily lights up a little. You can tell she wasn’t expecting this.

> “You’d really do that?”

Pete gives her a look like she just asked if the sky’s blue.

> “Are you kiddin’? I’d wear a tutu in Times Square if it made you smile.”

> “…Can I paint your nails?”

Pete groans with mock offense.

Lily grins through her tears. Pete wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of her head, gruff but full of warmth.

> “Love you, principessa.”

And he means it—with every ounce of that stubborn, foul-mouthed, fiercely loyal heart.

And one night, while Lily's asleep on the couch, Pete gently folds up that old blue baby blanket she used to wear as a cape—and tucks it away in a box. Doesn’t throw it out.

He just saves it.

Not because he misses who Lily used to be.

But because every version of his kid is worth loving.

---

Josh levy – When his daughter comes out as a trans man

Josh is pacing in the kitchen, ranting about the latest ridiculous plot hole in a sci-fi show nobody asked him to watch again. You’re doing dishes, half-listening, until your kid—quiet, tired-eyed, hoodie swallowed around his frame—stands in the doorway and clears his throat.

Josh freezes mid-rant.

> “You okay, peanut?”

(He still calls him that, even though he’s fourteen and taller than Josh now.)

Your son takes a shaky breath.

> “Dad, I need to tell you something. And I don’t want you to yell.”

Josh's spine straightens, face suddenly serious.

> “I’m not gonna yell. I swear.”

Another breath.

> “I’m not a girl. I’m a boy. My name’s Eli.”

Josh doesn’t answer right away.

He just… stares. Processing. His brow twitches the way it does when his brain short-circuits from too many emotions at once. Confusion. Shock. Guilt. And then—pain. Because why the hell was his kid scared to tell him?

> “Wait—wait. So... you’re a boy? You’re my son?”

Eli nods, looking at the floor, bracing for something ugly.

Josh swears under his breath. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands and paces.

> “Jesus. I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it. How long have you felt like this?”

> “Forever. I just… didn’t know how to say it. I was scared you’d get mad. Or say I was making it up.”

Josh turns to him, eyes glassy, voice cracking with rawness he doesn’t show often.

> “Mad? Mad?! Eli—Eli, I’m not mad. I’m pissed at myself. You think I care if my kid’s a boy, a girl, or a freakin’ alien hybrid with a lightsaber?! You could tell me you wanna live on Mars and I’d be there with a damn helmet on.”

> “But you always talk about, like… genetics. And how people ruin the science in everything—”

> “Yeah, in fiction! You think I care about chromosomes more than I care about you?”

Josh runs a hand through his hair. He’s rambling now.

> “You’re my kid. You’re Eli. You’re my son. And I swear on every signed Boba Fett figure in my room—I will figure this out. I will screw up. I’ll say the wrong thing. But I’ll learn, okay? Because nothing matters more than you. You’re not a phase. You’re you. And I love you.”

Eli wipes his eyes, sniffling.

> “Even if I don’t look like what you expected?”

Josh snorts.

> “Kid, I didn’t expect anything. I thought you’d end up a hacker who lives off SpaghettiOs. But this? This I can handle.”

A beat.

> “…Can I call you 'kiddo' still, or is that lame?”

Eli laughs—a real one this time.

> “Kiddo’s fine.”

Josh pulls him into a fierce hug, whispering into his hair.

> “I got you, kiddo. Always.”

Then, with a sniff and a sudden shift to humor to keep from crying again:

> “Now if anyone at school gives you crap, I will show up in full Federation uniform and quote Spock until their souls leave their bodies.”

Eli chuckles. Josh kisses the top of his head.

> “Welcome home, son.”

---

Jerry – When his child comes out as a trans man

It’s a quiet, golden afternoon. The sun’s pouring in through the windows, making everything feel peaceful. Jerry’s at the kitchen table, humming softly to himself as he mixes up something strange—probably some kind of potion for the garden or one of his magical projects. You can tell he’s in his element, lost in a world of fantasy, but when his daughter walks in, her eyes soft and a little unsure, the mood shifts.

She hesitates in the doorway, looking like she's carrying the weight of a thousand secrets.

Jerry looks up, his smile never wavering.

> “Ah, my brave adventurer! What brings you to my kingdom this fine afternoon?”

She blinks, a little taken aback by the whimsical tone, but it’s a relief. Jerry’s never made things feel heavy, always keeping them light. Her nervousness melts just a little.

> “Dad, can we talk?”

Jerry stands up, immediately sensing something deeper in his voice. He walks over and gives her a gentle touch on the shoulder.

> “Of course, my child. Always. What’s troubling you?”

Nathan takes a deep breath.

> “I’m not a girl, Dad. I’m a boy. My name’s Nathan.”

Jerry’s hands freeze for a second, his eyes widening just slightly. But then, he exhales, calm and thoughtful, as though he’s been expecting this, like it was always a part of the magic that makes Nathan…Nathan

> “Nathan, huh?”

Nathan looks down at the floor, bracing himself for Jerry’s reaction. Jerry places his hands on his son’s shoulders, guiding him gently to sit at the kitchen table. He sits across from him, their eyes meeting. A soft smile tugs at Jerry’s lips.

> “That’s a beautiful name. I knew there was something extraordinary about you. Like a hidden spell that’s been waiting to be cast.”

Nathan’s brow furrows.

> “But… what about all the other stuff? Will you still love me?”

Jerry smiles wider, his eyes soft and warm. His voice drops to a gentle whisper, almost as if he’s sharing a secret.

> “Oh, my brave son… my heart is a house full of love, and it has always had a room just for you. No magic, no potion, no curse could ever change that.”

He takes Nathan’s hand in his own, holding it with tenderness.

> “You are exactly who you are supposed to be. And you will always be enough. In fact, I think you’re even more magical now. More real. Like you’ve shed an old skin and are ready to be something... new.”

Nathan's eyes are welling up now, and Jerry doesn’t shy away from it. He just leans in, wrapping his arms around his son in a soft, almost ethereal embrace.

> “I’m so proud of you, Nathan. I know this can be hard, but I promise you, together, we’ll make this journey. And I will make sure you feel safe in my kingdom, always.”

Nathan sniffles, feeling a weight he didn’t realize he’d been carrying finally start to lift.

> “You’re not disappointed?”

Jerry chuckles softly, brushing a few stray locks of hair out of Nathan’s face.

> “Mad? No. Disappointed? Never. You’re my son, Nathan. Always have been, always will be. And if you ever feel lost, just remember: there’s a whole world of adventures out there, and you’ve got the heart of a hero.”

Nathan finally cracks a smile, and Jerry beams.

> “Now, do you want to see the garden? I’m working on a little something special. I’ve got a potion brewing that might just turn the garden into a fairy wonderland.”

Nathan nods, wiping his eyes.

> “That sounds amazing.”

> “Of course it does,” Jerry says with a wink, “It’s my magic, after all.”

---

[dakusan]

haiii!! i read all your works this evening and came to say your writing is insane. it has a very unique vibe and you just *get* things. like you get it. every line speaks to my soul

i saw your requests are open but i don’t really have a specific prompt. so may i just ask you to write your most unhinged and insane headcanons about chan? like literally any au, just spill whatever you have in your head. i’ll be soooo excited to read coz your brain is very seggsy my friend

thank you <3

you already knew what you were doing asking me this. i saw both of your asks, and first of all—thank you for inhaling my works. second of all—i am going to answer the first one, but i'm gonna be generous (delirious) and combine it with the second one too. consider this a spoilery snack. yes, Crimson Pact II is very real, soft edition incoming. yes, you may cry.

BUT for this ask, you're getting TWO treats: i. some unhinged chan headcanons ii. a bonus mini NSFW vampire!chan fic

enjoy, my degenerate darling. i’m feeding you tonight.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

UNHINGED & INSANE NSFW CHAN HEADCANONS (a.k.a. thoughts that make the Holy Water boil)

1. Mirror kink menace.

He has a full-length mirror at the foot of the bed not for décor—but because he needs you to see yourself while he ruins you. Pulls your hair back, pins your throat, and says:

“Look how messy you get for me. Look at your fucking face. That’s mine.”

2. Daddy but make it unholy.

He doesn't ask to be called Daddy. He doesn’t need to. He just growls when you don’t—and that’s somehow worse. When you finally whisper “Yes, Daddy,” mid-whimper, he moans like he’s been waiting for hours.

3. Praise + filth hybrid.

Chan doesn’t choose between praise or degradation. He does both in the same breath.

“Such a good girl. So obedient. Letting me fuck you dumb like the needy little cockslut you are.”

4. Clean freak, filthier mouth.

He’s germaphobic, yes. His sheets are triple-washed. His desk is spotless. But he’ll spit in your mouth and call it communion. He’ll say, “Swallow it, angel,” while fisting your hair and stroking your throat to watch it go down.

5. Voice kink king.

He’ll narrate everything he’s doing while he’s doing it.

“That’s it. Let me in. Mmm, yeah—so fucking tight. You clench every time I say your name, don’t you? Look at that.” And then he’ll hum like it’s a song he's producing in real time.

6. Gamer? No. Game Master.

He owns a vibrator with a remote app—and uses it at the most evil moments. Like when you’re at dinner. Or trying to speak in a meeting. He’ll text:

“Turn it to Level 3. Keep eye contact. Don’t come.” If you fail, he shows up after and makes you beg not to be edged for hours.

7. Permission kink, but make it a contract.

He writes out rules in a sleek black notebook with your name embossed on the front.

“Rule 3: No touching yourself unless I give explicit permission. Sign below.” You laugh at first—until he handcuffs you to the bed for breaking it.

8. Aftercare demon.

Wipes you down with a warm cloth, wraps you in his hoodie, gives you a boba and says, “All good, angel?” like he didn’t just fold you in half and leave you unable to spell your name. He’ll even record voice memos for you to listen to when he's away:

“Hey, baby. Drink water. Touch yourself if you miss me. Two fingers. Slow. Pretend it's me.”

9. Mindfuck Mastery.

He gaslights your orgasms. Like:

“You didn’t come yet, baby. That wasn’t real. You’re gonna do it for me now. Real this time.” Meanwhile, your legs are twitching and your soul is halfway out of your body.

10. Soft dom mask, unholy core.

He’ll tuck your hair behind your ears like a boyfriend. Kiss your forehead. Say “You’re safe.” Then bend you over the nearest surface and spit in your cunt with the most guttural voice you’ve ever heard.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

CRIMSON PACT : RIDING LESSONS (BONUS SCENE) NSFW | vampire!Bang Chan x fem!reader | pure filth. no aftercare. just ruin.

“You want to be on top tonight?”

His voice was low. Teasing. Soaked in that lazy, dangerous kind of patience only predators had. You were already naked, already aching. Straddling his lap like a good girl who thought she was in charge. He wasn’t even pretending to be dressed—shirt open, pants undone, cock already hard between you. Waiting. Pulsing.

Your hands flattened on his chest. “I want to ride you.” His brow quirked. Slowly. Like you’d just said something adorable. “Mm,” he hummed. “You think you want to ride me.”

Your hips rolled forward instinctively—slick heat dragging over the head of his cock. He groaned softly, letting it happen, hands still planted lazily on your thighs. But his eyes were fixed on yours. Dark. Amused. Possessive. Like a leash wrapped in velvet.

You reached between your bodies, wrapped your fingers around him—and watched his jaw flex. “Let me?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Just leaned in and bit your lip. Not hard. Not bleeding. Just claiming. Then he sat back on his elbows, smirking faintly. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Show me how badly you need Daddy’s cock.”

Your whole body shivered. He knew exactly what that name did to you.

You lined him up, breath trembling—and sank down slow.

Your cunt clenched immediately, body stretching around his thick cock, and Chan groaned—head tilting back, fangs just visible between parted lips. “Fuuuck—look at you. So fucking tight.” You whimpered. He felt impossibly deep. He wasn’t even moving and he already had you twitching.

Your hands braced on his chest, and you started to ride.

Slow at first. Testing. Letting your hips grind and lift, trying to take the rhythm into your own hands. But Chan’s gaze never wavered. And he wasn’t helping you.

He let you do all the work—eyes locked to the point where your bodies met, jaw clenched like he was holding back a growl.

“You look so pretty like this,” he said finally, voice dipped in smoke. “Trying so hard to be in control.”

Your breath hitched. “I am in control.”

That made him smile. Slow. Sharp. “Then why are you shaking?” You were trembling. Because his cock was dragging against every spot inside you, thick and deep and so perfectly shaped it felt like he’d been sculpted for this. Because he wasn’t even thrusting—but he was ruining you with just the weight of his body under yours.

Your fingers gripped his chest harder. You bounced faster now—moaning, panting, trying to chase your own high.

And he still… didn’t move.

“You’re soaking me,” he muttered, eyes dragging up your chest. “Making a mess all over Daddy’s cock. Filthy little thing.”

You whimpered. “Need to come—please—”

His hand snapped up, wrapping around your throat in one swift move. Not squeezing. Just holding. “Then come.”

You gasped. “On my cock, while I just watch. Since you’re in charge tonight.” That tone—mocking, indulgent—daddy dom dripping with condescension—It made your cunt clench so tight he groaned, cock twitching inside you.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re gonna squeeze me dry at this rate.”

You leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to his mouth—then to his cheek—then…To his fangs. You ran your tongue along one. He went still. You did it again. Licked it. Pressed your fingertip to it. Traced the curve of the sharp tip like it was something delicate. And Chan—he let you. Let you put your fingers in his mouth. Let you touch his fangs. Let you pretend.

But you felt it—the tension in his body. The coiled restraint.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

He chuckled. Low. Dangerous. “You like playing with fire, baby?” he purred, voice muffled around your finger. “You think you’re not gonna get burned?”

And then he snapped.

His hands gripped your hips hard, and he thrust up—once—brutal and deep. You moaned loud, body jolting as his cock hit a spot so deep it stole your breath.

“Thought I’d let you keep the reins?” he snarled, pulling you down again. “Not a fucking chance.”

He began fucking up into you—hips snapping, cock slamming deep while you bounced in his grip like a ragdoll. You cried out—loud, incoherent, eyes wide and glassy.

“You ride Daddy?” he growled, fangs gleaming. “No, sweetheart. Daddy rides you.”

You tried to speak—tried to beg—but your words slurred into whimpers.

“You gonna cum again?” he taunted, snapping his hips harder. “Go on. Show me what all that fake control got you.”

Your orgasm hit like a lightning strike. White-hot, shaking, overwhelming. You came hard, body spasming, cunt pulsing around his cock so tight he groaned, eyes flashing black.

“Fuck—fuck, just like that—”

And then he bit you. Right where your shoulder met your neck. You screamed—again—pleasure exploding as his fangs sank deep and his cock slammed into you one last time—And he came. Hot. Hard. Deep. His grip crushed you to his chest as he emptied inside you, groaning against your skin, blood on his lips and cum spilling from your soaked, twitching pussy.

You didn’t even register when he licked the wound. Or when he whispered—against your throat, with breathless reverence:

“Mine.”

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

jupitermarss, angel—you already knew what you were doing when you sent these asks. you poked the beast and said “bite me,” and i did. thank you for unlocking this absolute filthfest of a brainrot session. i adore you and your seggsy mind. come back anytime. i’ll be waiting—with fangs out and thighs open 💋🩸

[illegiblehandwriting1]

Wait I get to ramble about my own fics. I can do that.

Anyway we're talking about Buttered Pesto Toast today. Things to look out for!

1) Keep in mind where Shadow is with respect to Warriors at any point in time. The first part, he is entirely in front of Wars. Won't let him out of his sight. Later Shadow is allowed to be beside him - a vulnerable position, certainly, but Wars can still see him. He can see his hands, his face, his movements: even if he would be too late to react, he wouldn't be caught too much by surprise. But at the end, when they find the others, Warriors walks forward past everyone, not even bothering to be a barrier between Shadow and the other Links if he did in fact try to kill them. He completely exposes his back to Shadow freely, showing just how much trust he has in him.

2) check out how he reacts to Shadow's smile. If there's one thing Pesto!Shadow can be described as, it's toothy. His sharp teeth are noted a whole ton, glinting in low light, reflective, etc. Warriors keeps a sharp eye (pun intended) on his teeth as a form of threat and as a weapon, and it's noted even subconsciously through the narration. When Shadow first grins, "Warriors felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up". He's scared, his fight-or-flight is freaking out, all that good stuff. But by the end, the narration's calling Shadow's smile "award-winning" and "bright", also showcasing how Warriors views it - no longer menacing and dangerous, but the shit-eating grin of a sassy teen.

3) Shadow is a big fan of Sky's. He probably learned about him from Vio. Doesn't matter how he knows, but he does. When Wars tells him about travelling with other heroes, he calls Sky "the actual Chosen Hero himself" and when he MEETS Sky, "Shadow’s jaw had dropped entirely, and he simply stared at Sky, nodding a little" before stuttering out some semblance of a greeting. Adorable.

4) Buttered Pesto Toast is super easy to make. Literally just make toast, spread some butter on it, plop a bit of pesto on top of that, spread it even, and enjoy. I was craving it when I was first writing concepts (I was sick and we had pesto in the house) and it was so good that I couldn't stop thinking about it. There is no true thematic reason for it, just that it's good and it symbolizes Shadow. It symbolizes the innocent joy and wonder he finds in the Light World, the new experiences he wants to have, and the desire to share it with people he cares about 👍

5) Warriors' scarf. It makes me actually ill. Warriors is pragmatic, but as soon as Shadow saved him from that torch, he was one of his men. He didn't want to admit it, too afraid of being wrong and being betrayed, but he would never have given Shadow that scarf if he didn't have that instinct to protect and comfort his men. This is also shown through the fight with Time, when he orders Time to stop out of a "base instinct" from training as an officer. The original line was "base protective instinct". Anyway, not only that, but the image of Shadow bundling up in this massive fucking scarf was too cute to resist.

6) Wars' repeated "I kept him safe for you." He thinks it to Shadow impulsively, despite still being wary of him, because he knows how much Four misses Shadow. Without having seen Four literally talk to and cry over his shadow, I don't think he ever would've warmed up to Shadow as quickly as he did. The seeds were already there, they just needed to be watered. So Shadow's love for Four was really what he needed to truly begin to trust him. Meanwhile, the one he thinks to Four is just so cute because he could have done anything to Shadow - fought him, left him, let Time kill him - but he didn't. He still chose to stick with Shadow, who came out mostly unscathed. Adorable.

7) Aroace Wars who wants to know nothing about romance ("you know how my romantic exploits have always gone, Sprite") is amazing to me. I made a little post about it earlier, saying that he dates people just because that's what high society expects of their hero and that's why he's got the reputation of a heartbreaker or whatever.

8) Wars has depression btw. I think everyone picked up on that. Still, it was worse during the war, as evidenced by those two lines (the "his little brother, the one that saved his life" at the beginning, and the "I thought this had stopped" line from Time at the end, plus all the "I like being here," from Wars afterwards). Something happened during the war. No one else knows about it, but something sure happened there.

Uhhhhhh I think that's it for now. Anyway fun fic to write

[janiehellion]

Not to be dramatic, but this comment on AO3 actually made me tear up in the best way possible. I did respond to it already, but I still feel like nothing I say could do justice to how much it really means to me. (Keeping their username hidden due to privacy and out of respect.)

And I know... I don't usually post randomly like this, but writing fanfiction—especially in a fandom like The Walking Dead, where so many writers are ridiculously talented, writers like Krys, Murda, Taylor, and so many more, but especially those that I follow and got the incredible chance to interact with so far.

Yes, there are writers who put out works way faster than I ever could and ever did in years—it can be really isolating. (If this is the right word... I don't know how to explain it better.) Especially when you write slowly, when you're anxious as shit, or when your fics simply don't get much reach or interaction because they're just... too damn long.

(My current draft for a requested one-shot is over 30K, and I'm trying to shorten it simply because I know that most don't wanna read that many words regarding a Daryl Dixon x Reader fic. My drafts just keep getting longer, so no wonder I barely even post, and I do wanna apologize for that.)

Anyway, I'm one of those writers who rereads their own fanfics over and over again, and constantly hearing that little voice telling me, "This isn't good enough. It's just bad. Delete it." Like, all the time. I overthink every line and every word. So I end up trying everything to make a fic at least okay to read… and then doubting whether the plot even makes sense or if it sounds the way I want it to. Especially when writing for characters like Daryl, Rick, Negan, or Shane—these kinda characters that have been written so incredibly well by so many others, those who are able to put it all in fewer words than I do.

But then someone, a stranger, leaves a comment like this.

They didn't just say "Great fic!" (which I also appreciate so deeply, don't get me wrong,) but they saw the exact things I try so hard to do: tone, emotion, clarity, and consistency. They said my writing was inspirational. They literally bookmarked it as a reference for what they want to achieve. As someone with English as their first language, no less. And, as you can see, they said I should be less hard on myself.

Do you understand how healing that is to read?

I still can't believe it's real. This is just insane to me. It makes all the hours of obsessing over every damn draft feel seen and heard.

To the person who wrote this: thank you. You are one of the few humans that encourage me to keep writing. Same with the other authors I got to know through Tumblr, AO3, and Wattpad so far.

I just never would've thought that sometimes, a stranger somewhere on this planet, this world, would remind me of how much I love writing at exactly the right time. You never know what someone might go through offline, and I absolutely needed this. This is why feedback matters.

[ghostie-cola]

i love this idea?? i’ll start first!! :D literally anything written by:

ren @everydaydreamer !! i absolutely love love LOVE her works & also just her posts in general?? very fun, and definitely one of my fav tumblrs to scroll through like it’s my daily morning newspaper <3

sam @fireinmoonshot !! her writing is just soooo hhhhfjjfjh its so dang fluffy and sweet and wholesome!! and i’m obsessed with the way she writes joaquín! <3

lani @ofstarsandvibranium !! oh my gOODNESS THE STORYLINES?? absolutely incredible, 10/10. her joaquín x yn fics were actually the first reader insert fics ive ever read?? it was all just so enticing and well-written and now i have read so many reader fics that i have a list of my all-time fav writers haha

Thinking about how there's so many good Joaquin/Danny fanfics, and thought it might be fun to just have a post where we reblog with some of our favorite ones, or some of our favorite writers. So, consider this the post to start it! :)

[groceryreceiptss]

hii! could you do peeta melark x reader? just some domestic sunday morning cuddling :) thanks so much!

'cause it's gravity, keeping you with me

peeta mellark x reader | word count : 0.9k | requested

a/n : hii!! to be honest, i wasn't really sure on how to write this so i'm really sorry if this wasn't what you had in mind, but i tried my best, and i hope you'll enjoy reading it either way! :) thank you for the request < 33 (also yes, i know the picture i chose doesn’t quite match the theme of this fic but look at him!! and look at that golden light on his face!!!)

contains : baddd writing. fluff -> soft intimacy!! but a bit of angst too if you squint. you know, longings and a sense of vulnerability. feelings of hopelessness and despair in the past. let me know if there's more!

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the soft morning sun drifted its way to your face, resting its warm light against your closed eyes. you were just about to give yourself an excuse to sleep in a bit later before you subconsciously remembered that, today is a sunday. no business in waking up early then, you thought, as you pulled the blanket closer.

you shifted a bit and shuffled in closer to peeta’s body next to you. His breathing met at the same pace as yours and his heartbeat the same thrum as the one you had going.

peeta mellark. you knew it was silly to dwell on what could have and would have, but every day, each morning, as you woke up to his comforting presence next to you, you couldn’t help but wonder, what would your life have become, if he hadn’t been there to keep it going?

the war had destroyed everything, leaving trails of loss in its path, wider than the land itself. you didn’t know what you would have done, if you hadn’t seen him again. if he hadn’t come back to your life and reminded you that there were still reasons to live and try to heal for.

and every day you woke up feeling more grateful than the day before.

you didn’t know if an hour had passed, or had it been merely minutes later, when you felt peeta’s arms on your waist, pulling you back onto his chest, engulfing you in more of his warmth, his comfort. his head nested on the crook of your neck, his messy golden blonde hair on your cheek.

in response and out of habit, you brought your hands to his curls, smoothing them softly.

“y/n, sweetheart?” he muttered, and you could feel his lips on your shoulder, sending vibrations onto your skin and bone. it was crazy how he could still make your heart skipped a beat like it was the first time.

“hm?” you responded, still not ready to part with sleep too much to say anything else.

his lips lost touch with your skin and moved on to your ear, whispering, “turn around, look at me please.” 

and so you slowly did. with your eyes still refusing to open, you felt his fingers playing with your hair, pulling them off your forehead. 

“morning, sleepyhead.” he chuckled, and you could tell that he was playfully rolling his eyes. he kissed your temple slowly, and you let your eyes flutter open. 

rubbing your eyes in an effort to erase the sleep out of them, you mumbled, “how are you already awake? it’s sunday.”

“old habits die hard,” he’d answered before you felt his hands on your wrists, stroking them softly with his thumbs. 

you placed your arms around his chest, and as if on cue, he pulled you closer to him, earning him a soft sigh. “do you think it’s physically possible for us to get any closer?” he wondered aloud with a way too cute smile on his face.

still not entirely conscious, you muttered without thinking, “maybe once our bodies have withered into skeletons." oh, you caught yourself. “oh wait, that's dark.” 

he let out a light laugh at your scrunched up eyebrows. “i love you.” 

you looked up at him, into his deep beautiful blue eyes. his eyelashes are so long. “i love you too, peet.” 

and you did, you really did. you told him that everyday, but you never did think it was enough. it was so dramatic to actually utter it, but you truly didn’t think there was enough variety in the english dictionary to fully capture this. this thing that passed between you and him.

as if hearing your quiet thoughts, maybe your eyes had displayed a moment of fragility in them, he responded saying, “i know, love, i know.” 

the grip on your waist held on tighter, like it was scared if it faltered, then it would lose. you mirrored his gesture and snuggled your head further into his chest, the top of your head touching his chin. 

“you want to get some breakfast?” he mumbled into your tousled hair. 

you thought about it for a second, but then shook your head. you looked up at him, a wide smile etched onto your face. “no, i’m good here.” 

you didn’t want to leave this yet, this sacred place. one where you could feel his signs of life all around you, one where you could shut the entire world all around you and its bleak reality and made it only consist of you and him. peeta mellark. 

was it possible to fall further in love with the same person every time you heard his name in your head? was it possible to have the same name echoed through your head over and over like a promise?

you saw his lips formed into a bigger smile, his fingers played with the strands of your hair. 

maybe you knew, maybe you didn’t, but all he could think about  at this very moment was how he had gotten so lucky. to have you here beside him, letting him love you and and letting him show it to you. he looked at your face, with that big smile on it, eyes still bleary from sleep. you were so beautiful, my god. 

he nodded, agreed. he didn’t want to leave too. if he could stay here forever, he would. it would be like having lived a lifetime itself, he thought. “yeah, me too." he said softly as he planted a kiss on your forehead. 

[crossthread]

No jokes here. The Navy’s best pilot and the Navy’s best admiral. Between them, eight air-to-air combat kills and five stars. These were men who commanded respect with or without your approval. This was the picture of ruthless competence.

Debriefing (& Other Stories) • part 2 of Easier Done Than Said by @compacflt

[sforzesco]

"Since you've named yourself after Julius fucking Caesar, perhaps I'll follow in your lead and choose one of the conspirators." "Interesting," says Giuliano. "Should I worry about finding you at the center of some kind of conspiracy that ends with my death?" "Not from me," replies Ascanio. He sounds tired. "Not anymore."

informally, some kind of. conversational follow up to the last comic. I'm trying to get the atmospheric conversational whimsy out of my system because I have a vision of the vatican as a body in active decay, a point of infection spreading out and poisoning the well, a jaw unhinged that people walk into over and over, and I am so close to figure out how to convey this visually. maybe.

[silversinfinity]

Cabin Fever

*this is a fetish blog- non-fet blogs and minors DNI (no age in bio -> blocked)*

Fandom: L/ove and D/eepspace Spoilers: None Pairing/AU: Z/ayne X f!Reader, normal universe Length: 5.4k

Contains: sneeze fetish content (duh), sickfic, fevers, caretaking, that trope where a character’s powers act up because they’re sick, reader insert

Summary: L/ove and D/eepspace's "Winter's Emissaries" summer event, wherein everything is the same, except I made it better gave Z/ayne a cold.

Notes: Backstory time! This game had an event last summer that included four different virtual roleplaying games to complete (one for each guy). In the one featuring Z/ayne, you play as “Winter’s Emissaries” searching for treasure to save a village. While playing through these, you also receive special social media interactions, one of them being this one from Z/ayne. I think my inspiration should speak for itself… 🥴

I wanted this to feel like it could seamlessly fit into the original canon plot, so a few lines of dialogue and description were adapted directly from the game. There's also gonna be casual mentions of things which might go over your head if you haven't played, but it shouldn't ruin the fic reading experience!

Okay, enough yapping. Enjoy 🫶

Fic Masterlist

Your reflection was barely visible in the glass as you stared out the window. Snow swirled in a gray and white cacophony, past the glass pane and all across the region as far as you could see. The conditions seemed more treacherous now that you had escaped them, free to observe rather than experience it. 

You'd experienced it enough today, anyways. Your face still stung of whipping, icy winds, and your hair dripped as clumps of ice and snow melted off your head. Every part of you felt chilled- your fingers, your toes, hell, your very soul. This little cabin was truly the desert oasis of the frigid mountain forests. There was no way either of you could've survived a night out there. 

To your right and behind you, a stunted rush of flames brought the fireplace to life. Your hand curled over your chest, relieved. There was never a situation where you weren't grateful to have Zayne around, but this one especially so. His simple presence was enough to flip an unfortunate situation into a favorable one, or at the very least, an okay one. This would be okay.

Another bundle of snowflakes rushed past the window as a new gust of wind took to the air with violence. You leaned into the knotted pine of the window sill and walls, pressing one ear to the glass.

Your brow furrowed. Only the crackling of the fireplace registered to your senses. Not even a muffled echo of the blizzard’s roar could be detected through the glass. Was the soundproofing of this cabin really that thorough?

Zayne’s hand on your shoulder shook the question out of your mind. “You shouldn't stand so close to the glass. A blizzard can break the window.” His voice was calm. “Come sit by the fireplace. It'll warm you up.”

You stood back from the glass, and one of Zayne’s hands caressed your cheek, palm hot against the chapped skin of your face. You found him in a similar state, skin flushed and wind-broken around and across his nose.

Zayne led you to the fireplace with a hand to your back. Heat instantly washed over you, and you tugged off the heavy coat that still clung to your shoulders. 

“You say I need to warm up, but you're the one who gave up your coat,” you said, hanging it on the hook off to the side of the hearth. He'd insisted you take it, once you realized the hard way that your own coat was highly insufficient for the weather.

“You're right. Come sit.” Zayne had seated himself in a wicker chair a few feet back from the fire’s glow. You paused to consider whether there was enough room to join him. If you were expected to fit next to him, you’d practically need to be sitting in his lap.

…Not that you minded. You never minded that.

As anticipated, you found yourself crunching your knees up to settle yourself next to him. You were squished against him, legs to legs, warm body to warm body.

It occurred to you, though, that there was plenty of sitting space throughout the cabin suitable for two people, much unlike the chair you had just forced your way into. You looked at Zayne and smirked. “I get it. You're using the fireplace as an excuse to cuddle, aren't you?” 

Zayne tilted his head and met your gaze. His lip curled so subtly you had to squint to see it: “Well, if you knew that was my goal, why did you still join me?” 

You nearly got lost in his eyes, aglow with a sunset orange reflection of the flames. “Because… I may or may not have the same goal,” you finally admitted, nestling the rest of your body to Zayne’s. Your head settled perfectly against his chest, like a puzzle piece to its match.

“I'm honored to be your personal heater after serving as your navigator.” 

A comfortable silence followed Zayne’s words. Your attention honed in on the crackling of the fireplace, the flames within wiggling their unsteady dance and casting a faint, smoky scent into the air. You inhaled deeper, chasing the nostalgic memories of summer bonfires lingering behind. The air was dry, but warm enough now that you didn’t feel moisture chasing every breath in through your nose. But the same couldn’t be said yet for Zayne, based on the still frequent sniffling above you. It really was dreadful out there…

The whole reason for your journey here slowly crept back into your mind. Today the blizzard would keep you both within the safety and warmth of this cabin, but you knew there was still a long journey in the cold ahead of you. As Winters Emissaries, it was your duty to complete the task given to you. The whole of a village was counting on it. 

As to what it was though, you still weren't completely sure.

“Hey… do you think the treasure the villagers mentioned is something like this?” 

You felt Zayne move above you at the sudden sound of your voice. He pondered your question. “A treasure that brings warmth in winter… the concept is similar enough,” he eventually said. 

“But visiting the palace just to get firewood for them would be pointless. They could just go into the forest themselves, couldn't they?”

“Perhaps the treasure is a self-heating energy stone. Winters Emissaries are like torchbearers. They've been entrusted with the responsibility of bringing energy to the village.”

An image of yourself and Zayne wearing special ceremonial attire during an Olympic opening ceremony, sacred torch and all, flashed in your mind. It was far more flashy and loud than your actual reality, traveling alone together in the winter wilderness of the mountains as the elements assaulted you. “Zayne, your imagination got a little wild there,” you giggled. 

“Oh? Then what sort of fantasy would you prefer to listen to?” Zayne sniffled again. Outside, the world had begun to turn dark.

“Something real, maybe.” Your eyes searched the space above the fireplace, as if the answer would appear there for you. “Hmm… talk about your childhood memories. When we were kids, wasn't there a time a snowstorm trapped you at my house?”

Long was the history between the two of you. You spent your childhood together, grew up together, and now Zayne was a unique combo of your primary doctor, lover,  and a formidable fighter you could rely on in any Wanderer encounter. 

So, you were a little hopeful Zayne would still remember your early days, after everything you'd been through. 

Zayne’s hand fidgeted at the small of your back. “...I remember that,” he finally began. “My parents and I went to your place for dinner. And then it suddenly started snowing. It was getting late, and we tried to head home but the car wouldn't start. We had no choice but to spend the night there.” Zayne paused, swallowed, and cleared his throat. His voice was noticeably rougher when he spoke again though, as if he hadn't cleared anything at all, “But you had already returned to your room. We had barely talked that day…”

There was a tremble you noticed in his voice too, as though the memories themselves manifested within the language he spoke. He wasn't always the most straight forward with his sentimentality of your shared youth, but there were always signs he cherished them the same way you did.

Yet you always felt strange, separated from yourself whenever you reflected on it, everything being the same and yet so different from what you had with him today. As children, could Zayne and I have ever imagined ourselves nestled by the fireplace one day, enjoying idle conversation?

“Maybe it's because I went to bed too early that day. If only I had known…”

You waited for Zayne to respond, or continue, but it never came. His breathing steadied and slowed above you, and you craned your neck to look up at him. 

His eyes were closed, long, dark lashes completely still. No surprise sleep took him so quickly; for as often as he would lecture you about getting enough sleep, you knew his line of work didn't allow him to rest as well as he'd like. He was known for taking any time he could between surgeries to nap. This quiet time in a cabin was the perfect environment for Zayne to take advantage of.

You were careful not to disturb him as you settled your head back where it was most comfortable. The warmth you shared between your bodies had only grown, stealing away any drive you had left to stay awake. The fireplace became a blur as your eyelids drooped.

Against your ear though, you were still awake enough to notice the slight wheeze in his breathing. And from his nose, the tiniest whistle when he exhaled. Both were not typical for him, in all the times you had rested together.

Mentally, you winced, remembering the pity taken on your poor choice of winter wear once the blizzard hit. Zayne assured you he still had enough layers on, and initially you believed him. 

Now though, you realized he would've told you that anyways. Of course he would've; he was prone to worrying more about you than himself. 

You wondered if this wasn't normal tired for him, but sick tired. Had he been hiding it from you? Or was it too early for him to even realize?

You were only barely awake yourself anymore, unable to think clearly. “Zayne?” you murmured, quiet, still hesitant to wake him. You heard nothing back, and then you heard nothing at all, as sleep stole you away too. 

—

You woke up suddenly, somewhere soft, warm. Pillow under your head, and layers of blankets draped over you. Sluggishly, you picked up your head. The grey light of morning seeped through the windows, pale and too early to be awake. You squinted to make out flecks of snow billowing past the window, just as energetically as the day previous. 

This wasn't where you had fallen asleep. So how did you…? 

Oh, right.

Somewhere in the night, you vaguely remembered being lifted and held to Zayne’s chest before he settled you somewhere else- it was in this bed, you now knew. You stretched and whined beneath the blankets before rolling over. Next to you, the comforter was pulled back and the fitted sheet wrinkled, implying Zayne had slept there next to you. The bed suddenly felt cold.

As you sat up, you frowned. Something had woken you, but what? It was quiet in the cabin. “Zayne…?” you called out groggily.

“heh’tSCHh-!”

Oh.

“hegH’SCHUhh-!”

Sneezing. Zayne sneezing, to be exact. Muffled and echoey beyond the half wall immediately behind you, you concluded he was too far away to have heard you, in another room of the cabin. 

You heard him sneeze again, after a longer delay. You internally winced as you had the night before. For all the time you'd known Zayne, you'd never heard such frequent disruptions, except for when an outside factor- such as illness- was actively aggravating him.

The urge to investigate dragged you out of bed. Your ears pointed you towards the bathroom across the way. As you got closer though, you stopped. The sound of rushing water could be heard, loud and clear with the door of the bathroom wide open. Your approach to the door was a little more hesitant- was he showering this early in the morning?

Beyond the steam cloaking the room, you found Zayne not in the shower, but hovering just to the side of the sink. His hair was slightly disheveled from its usual neatness, and damp, implying he'd been standing in there for some time. Even from where you stood in the doorway, his body language read of discomfort.

Though you stepped lightly, your bare feet weren't quiet enough to avoid alerting him. Zayne turned to look your way. His posture instantly straightened, but it didn't hold, wavering in tune with his breath. 

“Y-Y/N, hih…! hH’gnx’SCHhh-!” He notably pressed into his wrist, cutting the volume. That wrist flipped, and his fingers clamped over his nose, pinching tightly over the bridge in a fashion you'd seen before, when he was either annoyed or- “heh-NGTt-uh!” -suppressing a sneeze. 

“Bless you… thanks for the wake up call.” You couldn't help yourself from teasing him.

“Did I wake you?” He paused to sniffle, thick, unproductive. “I tried to be quiet getting out of bed, but I suppose that didn't last…” Zayne’s voice cracked and he coughed, hoarse. 

Concerned, you stepped into the bathroom, closing the space between you. “What's with the shower?” you said. 

“Clearing out my sinuses. You can turn it off.” The steam in the room was pleasantly warm, but the humidity was a little much, you thought. You shut the water off.

“Did it help?” you asked. 

“Well, it made me sneeze through the worst of it.” With the water off, you can hear congestion in his voice more clearly, and you shuddered to think this was an improvement from when he'd first awoke. His illness had set in, and it had done so quicker than you thought possible. Zayne took one step back from the counter, touching one temple and wincing. You saw him sway.

Your brow furrowed. One of your hands drew up to his forehead before Zayne had the chance to stop you. Your fingers brushed his bangs aside with a gentle sweep, and the pads of your fingers ghosted heat, searing his skin deeper than any steam could create on the surface. 

“You have a fever…” Zayne swatted you away, but you grabbed at his wrist in rebellion. Instantly, you gasped and froze in place. Under your palm and fingers was an icy cold, etched across his skin and leaving purple welts in his wake- it could only have originated from his abilities. “Your Evol, why…?”

In one quick move, Zayne shook his head at you, tugged his freezing wrist from your grasp, and twisted away with a wrenching sneeze. 

“hegH’NSCHhih-! Hh…” The exhale carried exhaustion. You allowed him the space to recover but refused him another inch beyond that. As you examined him closer, you realized that white, crackling frost glazed not just his wrist, but his neck too. 

“Are you…okay? Why is your Evol doing that?” you asked.

But Zayne couldn’t seem to catch a break. “I'm f-fine…hih…!” His denial was drowned out in a shuddering hitch of breath. He managed to retrieve a bunched up wash cloth from the counter, just in time to jam it under his nose before he-

“hih’MPFSChh-!”

Punctual.

“Bless you,” you said, wincing. “Uh, you were saying? About being fine?”

He was even slower to recover, as though the very last of his energy had seeped out through his sinuses, dampening the already soiled cloth in his hand. “I'm not denying that. Obviously I'm not well.” Zayne slid past you to leave the bathroom, and you followed nervously behind him to where he dropped down on the couch. He barely seemed to be present, tilting his head back, eyes closed. The dark shadows under his eyes told you he hadn’t slept much. “I just meant… the ice. I'm fine, this always happens when I'm unwell.” 

From where you sat next to him, you took the chance to touch his forehead again, and Zayne didn't protest this time. It was worse than you initially thought. “You're really hot, Zayne…”

One eye opened. “Flirting with me while I'm sick?”

“Hey, you know what I mean…” You smiled and felt at ease- at least he wasn't so ill that mirth failed him. 

It couldn't cure all your worries, though. Your touch trailed down his cheek, to his jawline, and then his neck. It was there that the temperature under your fingers went shockingly cold, as though he'd just been outside in the winter elements without a scarf. Zayne’s brow knitted at your touch, and he shivered. 

“You're freezing,” you commented. It wasn't a question, but Zayne nodded anyway. “Let me warm you up, then.” This too, wasn't a question of permission, but rather a warning that you would try regardless.

Again though, Zayne nodded. Even a doctor as work-driven as he was knew when it was time for someone else to do the caring.

You looked first to the fireplace across from the couch, in front of the chair where you had both dozed off last night. The flames weren't flames but small, smoldering ashes- certainly of no substance to subdue a fever and keep the chill of winter out. 

You tossed another couple logs on and allowed a moment for the fire to catch.

Then, back on the couch, you adjusted your knees under you. “Here, let me squeeze in.” You sidled close to Zayne’s spot on the sectional. He hesitantly straightened his legs, allowing you space between him and the back cushion of the couch.

“It'll get nice and warm here soon,” you assured. Zayne hummed, glassy, hazel eyes fixed to the ceiling above. Your attention drew back to his Evol, still vicious and frosty at his wrists and throat. The warmth of the fire couldn't sedate this- this cold came from within, and the longer you lingered on it, the more uncomfortable it looked. You feared self-inflicted frostbite was in his near future.

“Do you think you might be overdoing it? Your Evol, I mean.”

“It's…” Zayne paused, shivering violently as though simply acknowledging the sensation made it worse. You swore you saw vapor as he exhaled, as if the air of winter itself were contained around his head in a bubble. “It's against my will, mostly…”

His discomfort was nearly palpable to you as you realized this was completely out of his control. This was the same cold extreme enough for Zayne to use in combat, after all, and now it was acting of its own accord, attacking him. 

“Think of it as a flight or fight response,” Zayne went on. “My temperature is up, therefore my body is responding by trying to cool down.”

“It's just too much, isn't it?” you said, finishing his thought for him. Zayne nodded, casting his gaze towards you. He'd never looked so openly vulnerable underneath you, except in distant memories, and you felt your heart soften despite the circumstances. 

You laid your weight heavier into him, shuffling so that one leg intertwined between his own. He caught your eye when he moved his hands out of your way. 

Maybe… if you resonated with him…?

You reached for one hand. “Here, let me just…”

Zayne shrunk away though, tucking his arms to his sides. “No, you shouldn't…touch me when I'm like this. Not on my skin.” Worry, genuine worry flickered in his eyes, and you felt that soft glow in your chest trip and falter.

“Zayne…” Your hands remained hovered at his wrist. Begging him with your eyes. He tensed, but he didn't stop you from closing your touch over his wrist. His skin was frigid, burning against your warmer palms, but only that. “You won't hurt me. I promise.”

You seemed to get through to him, and Zayne found it in himself to relax, finally. Your squeeze over his wrist was firm, but gentle, wringing your grip back and forth. You slowed your breathing and sought his Evol’s frequency, and it met you with a chaotic and unusual rhythm. A warm light glowed from your palms. In a matter of seconds, his skin took the warmth of yours.

“Better?” You asked. 

Zayne nodded, brow raised just slightly as though he didn't expect this outcome. You weren't sure you had expected it to work either. Discomfort crept back into his features, and he breathed through clenched teeth- you healed his other wrist with more urgency.

Briefly, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You couldn't deny that you found it all alarming, try as Zayne might to act casual about the whole thing. The nature of Evol was different person to person, but was it really okay for it to attack its user? Even under circumstances of illness? What if there was more to this?

…No, no. You had to shake this out of your head, stick to the task at hand. Interrogating him in the midst of being miserable wasn't good for either of you.

You forced the frown out of your expression, before Zayne could read it and interrogate you instead. “Your hands look better,” you said. “Is it just your shoulders now?”

“Yes. I think.”

“Get comfortable, then.” Both having lost their icy touch, he tucked his hands under you, and you properly draped yourself over him like a weighted blanket. Zayne tilted his head up to accept your arms wrapping over the back of his freezing neck.

You suppressed a shiver of your own as you nuzzled your cheek into the crook of one shoulder, the cold seeping into you through his shirt. Then, you remained still, focusing to match the frequency of his powers again, further resonating. Any remaining anxiety drained out of you. Maybe you couldn't cure his cold completely, but a small win was still a win in the war against misery.

Zayne sighed above you in relief. ”hh…hih…!” And then in urgency. He fidgeted under you, prompting you to lift your head.

You were greeted with the sight of a man most definitely about to sneeze.

And it had you a little mesmerized, to say the least- the stoic type, you rarely ever witnessed his face so obviously contorted. Somehow, Zayne always maintained a calm and collected demeanor, even when he was feeling anything but. This expression he currently wore though, was scrunched up, needy. His brow pinched together, eyelids taught. And the pink rims of his nostrils ticklishly flared, lip curled back into a snarl.

“Y-Y/N, my…hands…!” His breathy voice barely hung above a whisper.

You didn't get the memo- at least not fast enough. His hands remained trapped under you, and with nowhere else to hide, Zayne twisted toward the couch cushion, squelching the sneeze into submission by willpower alone.

Willpower didn't carry him very far, however. “hH’NXTt’shih-!” The burst of moisture that broke through was audible. Zayne’s chest swelled under you to gear up for a second one, and you braced a little tighter around his neck- “hegH’SCHUhh-!” The force his sneezes wrought nearly folded him at the waist, even with your full weight on top of him.

Zayne stilled after that. You were more timid as you looked back up to him. “Bless you. You shouldn't fight it like that…” you said softly.

“You shouldn't keep my hands trapped, then,” Zayne shot back.

You shrugged, although you did shift your hips up to free one of his arms. Zayne took to knuckling under his nose, before carefully dabbing at any excess dampness with the edge of his sleeve. 

“Really though, don't worry about politeness,” you went on. Your expression turned downcast. “You're sick because of me, after all.”

Several seconds passed as Zayne processed your words. Then, he gave you a look, the one he always had when you said something silly.  “You know people don't get sick just from being out in the cold, right?” 

“Says who?”

“Y/N, I'm a doctor. Your doctor,” Zayne deadpanned. 

You couldn't hide your grin. “Okay, but consider this: I saw it happen in a movie. A lot of movies, actually.”

Zayne shook his head. A yawn crept into his voice, and his eyes closed. “Right. Next time I need continuing education credits, I'll just watch some movies instead.”

“You better invite me over for a movie date night then!”

“But of course.” You held him a little tighter. The corner of Zayne’s mouth tugged into a smile. “Y/N… you really never grew up,” he said. 

“Oh?” You tilted your head at him. 

“You're just as unserious as you were when we were young,” Zayne went on. “More than when we were young, actually.”

To that, you stuck your tongue out. “Coming from the most serious guy I know? You should try it sometime.” 

Zayne opened his eyes, and there was That Look again, the Y/N-Said-Something-Ridiculous Look. For a moment, it even seemed like the feverish haze had left his eyes. But it only lasted a second, and the sorry state of him continued to be evident.

Your eyes shifted down to his throat. The skin looked healthy now, as though it had never been coated in a deadly ice. “So is this whole, uh, Evol thing gone now?” you asked awkwardly.

“For now. I imagine it’ll stay away now, so long as you're here.” 

A complicated knot of feelings sat in your chest, out of nowhere. For all the times Zayne had gone out of his way to protect you, save you, cure you, rarely could you return the favor. And it was a regular experience- you were good at getting yourself into trouble, after all.

But now, here you were, in a position where he needed you. 

“Good,” was all you could muster in response. 

Your hands snaked out from behind his head where they found his face. Cupping his cheeks, your fingers brushed over all the contours you now knew deeply, intimately. You let your eyes drift thoughtfully over his lips, threatening your resolve. 

Clearly you had grown up in some way- the idea of kissing Zayne would've been strange and wrong in your youth, but now you found yourself fighting with your better judgment not to. You could already hear him quietly scold you for kissing him while he was sick.

Only then did you realize Zayne was looking at you. You found yourself instantly shy under his scrutiny- for all the times you had kissed him, gone on dates, fully gave yourself to him, he still managed to make you nervous. 

Just as the tension of your eye contact threatened to become too heavy, Zayne sighed and melted a little deeper into the couch. You shook yourself back into a caretaker mindset. 

“Are you warm enough?” Zayne hummed his confirmation. “Okay… can I get you anything? Fever reducers, maybe?”

You sat up, preparing to get up from the couch, but Zayne’s hands held your waist firmly. “I already took some. Why don't you just rest here with me?” His words caught and he coughed into his shoulder.  

Zayne’s voice was growing ragged, even for how softly he spoke. You made a mental note to raid the cabinets for tea later, whenever he was ready to accept it. 

For now though, resting with him would be an easy task. The light filtering through the snow plastered windows was still too dim and early for your liking. And with the most concerning of Zayne’s symptoms relieved, you were content to relax a little. Your breathing synced with the slowed pace of his, calm.

For all the symptoms that had been relieved though, there was always another waiting to rear its head and break the moment.

Zayne suddenly stirred under you. He stiffly exhaled. “Actually, Y/N…” Zayne sniffled, and then sniffled again, sharply squeaking within his swollen sinuses. “Maybe…you should, hih…!”  You sat up in time to see the twinge in his expression take hold, uncertain, a will-he or won't-he battle. The fluttering of his eyes and twitch of his nares tells you he definitely will, though Zayne seemed intent on holding back. The rest of his words tumbled out in a rush, “...should get me some tih-! tissues, hH-!”

His arm tensed over your back, and he swung up with the intent to cover above you. You moved quicker though, tucking his face against your shoulder. Another gasp shook him beneath you, fluttering against your skin. You only held him tighter.

“heH’MFSCHHeh-!” Throaty and violent, the sound was squashed into your shirt. It was a warm and damp rush in the fabric, and Zayne jostled you as his nose betrayed him a second time. “hH-! ‘ESCHh’uh-!”

Several peaceful seconds came and went. You propped yourself up and met his gaze sheepishly, exposing the damp spot that now soiled your shirt. Zayne’s face was hard to read, but his ears were noticeably pink. “You know, when people ask for tissues, they don’t usually mean someone else’s shirt,” he mumbled.

“I- wasn’t thinking, I guess…” you said. One hand lazily traced along the curved top of his ear. “You don't need to be so embarrassed.”

“I have a fever, remember?” Zayne retorted, so casually that you almost couldn’t detect it as an excuse- almost. He sniffled again, wet and productive. “Listen, I could still really use those tissues… unless you’re expecting me to use your shirt for that too.” His eyes shifted away from you.

The heat on his face seemed to possess your own cheeks, as it occurred to you just how compromised he was under you. Completely at your will, or at least as completely as he would allow, and so far it seemed to be a lot. Your mind threatened to drift to places far from innocent. 

“No, not unless you- asked to, I mean…! N-not at all.” Your words tripped over themselves as your tongue knotted itself with your inner desires. You shimmied back to the other end of the couch, part in preparation to get up, but mostly to hide yourself from Zayne’s intelligent gaze. He could always read right through you.

You managed to pull yourself together while fetching a tissue box from the bathroom. And a glass of water- you were sure he needed it.

You stopped in your tracks exiting the bathroom. Zayne still laid on the couch, eyes closed, somehow serene despite  being in the throes of a bad cold. 

Cute.

He stirred once you approached close enough to be heard. “Here,” you said, passing the box of tissues to him.

“A whole box? How generous,” he playfully remarked. Zayne plucked a tissue from the box, and then another. You looked down at the glass of water still in your hands, for whatever shred of privacy it would offer him as he loudly blew his nose. Soiled, he tossed the tissues into the wastebasket nearby. At this rate, and with the way that had sounded, you had a feeling that the bin would be full of them by the end of the day.

“Thanks,” Zayne said in a thick voice as he took the water from you next. He made quick work of it, and you mentally patted yourself on the back for thinking of his needs before he had even voiced them. 

You checked that the fireplace was still lively, and then you turned back to Zayne where you stood before him.

“Can I get you something else?”

Zayne looked at you with warm eyes. “I don't know… I’d just really like my blanket back.” You frowned, only to falter when Zayne winked at you. Duh.

You needed no other prompting to crawl back into your original position, settling yourself over Zayne like a large lap cat, or a blanket, as he had put it. A new sense of ease washed over the two of you. 

You turned your head where it was more comfortable on its side. Snow still billowed past outside, and you found yourself reflecting again on why you were both here. Although there would be much to do later today, or more likely tomorrow, when the snow had slowed, you could both have this moment. You didn't get to lay and nap together at home nearly as often as either of you liked, but right now, you were free to indulge in it. 

You had each other's comfort. And you had each other's warmth.

“Ya know, maybe what you said yesterday was right,” you suddenly spoke.

“Hm?” Zayne opened one eye, brow raised.

“About the treasure being something warm within winter, or however you put it.” Your limbs twitched, and you curled a little tighter into Zayne. “Maybe it's cheesy, but I feel like we have our own little treasure here, ya know?”

Zayne exhaled a laugh, but it was genuine. “Perhaps you're right.” He closed his eyes, and through a yawn, “We had to find our own little treasure before we could find one for the whole village.”

“Exactly.” You smiled, closing your own eyes. Your ears zoned in on the cracking and popping of the fireplace, coupled with Zayne’s soft breathing. 

Flashbacks of the cozy night prior crept into your mind. “Can you tell me the rest of that story from last night?” Your words were slurred by almost-sleep. Zayne only responded with a soft snore. 

Ah well, you thought. Another day, then; this treasure was treasure enough. 

[6kate1bishop6]

when i write my aromantic fics, then youll see... then youll see

[fearandhatred]

thank u so much to my beloveds @crowleys-bentley-and-plants and @seven-stars-in-his-palm for tagging me, kissing u both for this omg <3 i'm doing two of each because i can

For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations.

transitional heart taxidermy [5986 words, wip]

They fit so perfectly together, the both of them, always. Not side by side like pieces of a puzzle, no, but like molten lava over sand; one over the other, one mellowing the other, changing its chemistry into something different, stronger, useful. The kiss tastes of Aziraphale, of copper and saliva and something holy. It's a taste he'll come to get used to, bloodied and bruised, a taste he chases after as the angel pulls back.

and one from an unpublished chapter:

It's been a day, two, maybe three. His hands are stained with blood and phantom glass, reeking of alcohol and rot palpable enough to taste. Aziraphale doesn't come for him, and he feels relief but also a pain so deep it's paralysing. It's a revelation in itself.

blood in my eyes [1953 words]

This is the first time in years he has stepped foot back into this place. It's a spontaneous decision, driven by a mellow melancholy and a soft wistful night. Muriel isn't in, so the bookshop is dark, and the streetlights cast an eerie, lonely glow on the ancient hardbacks. The rearing statue that once held his glasses every other day is coated in a thin layer of dust; he leaves them on.

Crowley wipes away a tear from Aziraphale's cheek with his thumb. It leaves a bright red streak. After, hours pass by before Aziraphale washes the blood from his face, imprinted in the vague shape of Crowley's hand. In those hours, when he sits in the quiet of a bookshop once again burned to ash, the blood stays there as a reminder, maybe, or as punishment.

sub-consequence [11567 words, wip] — six of crows

He wants to say everything he could possibly say to persuade Kaz to change his mind, because if he says everything in the world, strings together every word in every possible combination, there has to be at least one thing that would convince him to stay.

Sometimes Inej thinks Kaz cares about himself less than he cares about getting what he wants. It feels sometimes as if he's completely detached from himself, his own person becoming just another means to an end. People would scream at her that this isn't selflessness. It's ruthlessness, or psychopathy, or numbness. That's how the name Dirtyhands came about, after all. The willingness to do anything no matter the cost. To get his hands dirty with blood, be it others' or his own. But what is selflessness, really? A lack of selfishness, or a loss of self?

to sleep, perchance to dream [662 words] — the sandman

God, Calliope. His heart, face of cloud fields and white lily springs, a hope so blinding in contrast to his shadowed being that he had known from the start the hands of The Fates would pull them apart to opposite poles.

His lifetime of constraint allowed him to face the knowledge that any selfish will to see her in the wake of remembering all he had forsaken, all that had been ripped from him, would seal the vestibules to acceptance and he would beg with no dignity to stay by her side. And his heart burned, scorched unpleasantly at her parting words, just as the skin she touched and had once touched long after she was twice gone.

tagging those whose words i'd love to see (no pressure!!): @actual-changeling @sentientsky @irispurpurea @springofviolets @demonsandpieohmy

[lycoryspreachin]

guys i can't BELIEVE what i just fell upon, a 7,5k words fic i wrote when i was fifteen ( and never finished ), it was all from regulus's pov, and overall really not that bad ?? here's an extract :

We feel a longing for the tragic, and it's beyond us, truly. We can neither stop it nor satiate it. The broken, the traumatised, those who have seen everything at a time too early, the weird, the monstrous. Some are born with tragedy in their souls, a forgotten twin never meant to be born. Sirius Black, Sirius Orion Black, the blood traitor, the disgrace of the most ancient and noble house of Black. Older brother of the youngest son of Walburga and Orion Black, could his younger brother have been the unwanted tragedy? Where Sirius shined bright in the sky, true and bold, a sincere light emanating from deep within him, Regulus Arcturus Black was made a constellation, a complex alignment of stars, too close to be their own and yet too far to be one, a fragmented star, its edges sharp and hard, hardened by the hardships of life. Each star utterly alone in the void of the universe, all different and still you cannot see one and not look at the others.

Naturally, when one exists in the vicinity of a light as blinding as Sirius, one can only survive within the shadows. The forgotten child, one born from pain and hatred, surrounded by malice and viciousness, with thick black ink intoxicating his veins, mixing with his blood, poison infecting the core of his being, running through his already decaying body and soul. He was vowed to a life of suffering doomed from the very beginning. When you grow as a member of the noblest of houses, you quickly understand you get a very limited amount of choice. In a world in which one lives in the illusion of control, Regulus had to learn how to embrace it and set rules of his own. He can't escape his blood, but he can certainly hide from it. Their cruel and depraved claws could not shred what they could not see and Regulus was determined to make himself undetectable. It was a flawed plan, one in which you lose yourself the longer you follow it, but it was the best one Regulus could think of when way too young he realised it wasn't a family he was born into, but rather a nest of vipers. 

Growing up, loneliness was the only company the youngest son could afford, amidst loud voices and bitterness, a thick presence would be felt. Despair and agony would shape themselves into long dark figures of shadows and smoke. They were scary, their presence haunting. They would set an eerie atmosphere which seemed to sink under Regulus's skin, leaving behind slim scratches beneath his pale carcass. Loneliness was frightening, but nothing was more terrifying than his mother and the shadows only lingered when she was elsewhere. Solitude to him was a reminder, one engraved in his bones, every letter carefully carved, each time an inch deeper, hollowing his bones. A reminder of his tarnished soul. He knew he would beg if he could, drop both knees to the ground and cry in a desperate hope to be seen. But his mother hated tears and after a few hard-learned lessons Regulus understood that childish hopes and tears were activities of the night, to be practised behind closed bedroom doors and after stony good nights.

CHAPTER I

Most nights in the manor went on the same way, Regulus would be dismissed from his family duties and told to leave for his room, he would then calmly get up and exit the main hall while his older cousins and his brother remained seated. Sirius generally stayed around an hour longer, usually so he could be reminded of his heir obligations or to receive thorough criticism of his overall behaviour. During that time Regulus would cross the long and silent hallway leading to his chambers. He would choose a book to read and then get sheathed under the heavy covers of his bed. That night, however, anyone who paid close enough attention would have been able to notice the slightly hurried way Regulus behaved himself, his hands needing to be neatly crossed on his lap to hide the small trembling that would be observable otherwise. His day had been long and exhausting, filled with unpleasant tutoring and the excessive mannerisms required from a member of his house, but that was not the cause for his ever-growing excitement, in fact, he would normally be quite content with the situation, he was sitting at the table in the main dining room, his family surrounding him, everyone eating in a satisfying silence. In those rare moments, one could almost see a regular family, sharing a warm meal, all together, no one was arguing, no looks of hatred exchanged, just a normal afternoon meal. And at these thoughts, Regulus would let himself drown in the feeling of normality, of commonness and ordinariness, let himself believe that in those specific moments, they could all pretend they were capable of being a loving and caring family. However, the real reason for his eagerness was a simple one, a book and evidently, not a regular one, Regulus read those every day, instead, it was a gifted book, further still, an unlabeled one. All of Regulus’s books were labelled, each and every one given a designated title and had an identified author, they were all well known too, books his tutors had demanded he study or books his mother had given him as compulsory reads. The anonymity of this book had clearly picked his interest, never before had he been gifted a book in this manner, it was a book he was free to read or not, one he could write inside of, draw on its marges, not that he wished to butcher any of his belongings that way, but he enjoyed the freedom it allowed him, it was his. At least, that’s what Narcissa, his older cousin, had told him two days ago when she came to his chambers hours after he was dismissed to give it to him. 

Narcissa was his favourite cousin, and probably his favourite person too, he admired her in more ways than he could name. He liked how different she was from her sisters. Where Bellatrix was proud and confident, arrogant and mesmerising, a bit frightening too, her eyes dark and scrutinising, her voice loud and clear, calling to the dreadful parts resting within everyone, Andromeda was all smiles and charm, her mind constantly focused elsewhere and yet always able without fail to know what to say and when. She could almost be seen as rebellious were she not so good at playing with the limits, never respecting them but never crossing them either. Narcissa, on the other hand, had never quite seemed to fit, as if instead of being portrayed in a painting she could be seen in the reflection in the eyes of the sitter, she would stand out amidst her sisters in an almost disturbing way, they all shared the same features and still, she had always been othered, constantly ahead of everyone, as though she was given a script containing the ongoing of everything in details. Sometimes she would even appear practically disinterested with her surroundings, looking like she was forced to attend a ball she had no intent to dance in. The night she came to him he had asked her a question as she was leaving. 

“How did you know I was going to be awake ?” He had said it quietly but when she stopped in her tracks he gained confidence and continued more surely “The lights in my room are always turned off and you surely know Mother has servants overseeing this corridor, considering your room is in the south wing you walked for at least 8 minutes to arrive here, if I had been asleep you would have risked a lot in vain.”

She let her right hand gracefully fall from where it was clenched around the knob before swiftly turning around in the dark, the moonlight making her black hair bluish.

“And you think I wouldn’t risk that for my lovely cousin ?”

“It would have been inconvenient, and you don’t like inconveniences. You could have come during the day, you clearly came tonight knowing I would be awake, how come ?”

A gentle smile overtook her face, as though the situation was amusing to her.

“Well, how come indeed. How about you write me a list of all the reasons you think would have enabled me to know, make it structured and clear, it needs to be logical too, don’t disappoint me. I doubt you have much more to do during your long and sleepless nights.”

After that she elegantly faced the door once more, turning the knob and exposing the dark wood of the hallway floor. As she was leaving, she stopped for a second, before adding without turning around 

“Rest well Regulus, goodnight.”

And just like that she was gone, abandoning the room to a haunting silence, Regulus stayed in place a couple of minutes more, unmoving, still reviewing what had happened, the book Narcissa had given him sitting on his lap, looking like it intruded on an intimate moment, like it witnessed one of the rare family like acts you can observe within a family such as this one, and frankly it did.

Regulus doesn’t remember much after that, but he recalls pushing the book away from him and onto the heavy nightstand on his right, covering his frail boyish shoulders with his white and navy blue embroidered covers, then waiting in the silent night, looking at the moon’s light resting gently on every surface in his room until sleep came and he let himself get lost in it. 

       While he was reminiscing about the events of a few nights ago, more people had gathered and were already talking in the great hall, he was possibly the only one who remained seated, all the family he knew had headed elsewhere. Tonight is a Friday and Fridays are for reunions, as bothersome as such events had proved themselves to be, Regulus had learned to enjoy them, learned to allow himself to sink into the little freedom that was permitted to him, once enough people were present, to keep his parents disapproving eyes and unwanted attention away from him. On nights like these, he would not be expected to do anything other than behave himself, and that, he could do fairly well. Everyone around him was either discussing political matters or exchanging scandalous gossip about the 70s high society, neither of those activities was particularly appealing to him, the former might have interested him did he not have such a limited amount of knowledge on it, he would have to look if he can find any book of relevance about it in the manor's library. But for now, he wanted to be out of here, so he went around the house to look for his brother, or Narcissa, or anyone really, even Bellatrix was better than staying among that suffocating crowd of people. He found Sirius first.

“Sirius ?” 

“Reg ?” 

Upon hearing his voice, Sirius turned around stiffly, surprise transparent in his grey eyes, he quickly recovered and rested gracefully on the counter behind him before adding carefully

“What are you doing here ?” At that, Regulus’s face remains blank, unimpressed by his brother’s question, his gaze focussed on him for a few seconds more before saying 

 “What do you mean what am I doing here, I live here.”

“You live in the kitchens ?” Sirius smirks a bit, seemingly satisfied with his joke.

“Of course not” he rolled his eyes “Now tell me what are you doing here ? Aren’t you supposed to be alongside mother and father ?”

“I got bored so I came here, aren’t you supposed to be in the great hall ?” he said with an accusatory tone in his voice

Regulus ignored him, “ You got bored so you came to the kitchens ?” he raised an eyebrow 

“Yes”

“I don’t believe you” said Regulus haughtily, which looked a bit silly considering he was shorter than his brother by several centimetres

“Okay”

“Okay ?” 

“Yeah, okay you don’t have to believe me” Sirius shrugged then turned around, giving his back to his brother

Regulus furrowed his brows at that, he had never thought about brushing it off as a possible answer when faced with a raised challenge like this one, so he added in a last attempt to corner his brother

“Why is there no one in here”

“I send them away”

“You can do that ?”

“Of course I can, I’m the heir after all”

That didn't make sense, the maids are not supposed to leave their positions, especially on meeting days.

“What are you plotting again ? Mother and father will be furious if they see you here. There are other things to do around here that don’t involve scheming, you know that right ?”

Regulus couldn’t see his face but he was sure that if he could he would see his brother rolling his eyes

“I am well aware thank you very much, but plotting is the only fun thing to do around here” 

“Is it”

“Yes, you would know if you left that room of yours more often”

“Your argument is completely unrelated but whatever, I don’t think plotting is something I should aspire to do at 10 years old”

“Plotting is something everyone should aspire to do regardless of age”

“Of course, you would say that”

“I’ll take that as a compliment”

“It isn’t”

“I choose to take it as a compliment”

“You are delusional then”

“Reality is relative, dear brother, didn’t you know that ? What do you even learn in all those books you read” 

“I learn about things that actually serve a purpose, in other words, things more important than that”

Sirius turned around to look at him, amusement sparkling in his eyes, a smirk plastered on his face, why was he smiling ? This isn’t funny.

“Sure, but they don’t teach you how to have fun” he said turning his back to him once more

“Then teach me” He didn’t think about the words as they left his mouth, which isn’t something he usually does, but he wanted to have his brother's attention, and that was the first thing that had come to his mind.

At that Sirius turned around fully, looking stunned for a bit, his eyebrows started furrowing but he seemed to think better since he quickly changed his expression and smiled brightly “Alright, I’ll teach you”.