#my writing 🖋️

[kittywritesfics]

and the spring day came at last

🐶puppy hybrid!jungkook x gangster!jimin

🏷️ in which mob boss jimin is seeking companionship and shelter hybrid jungkook has lost hope of ever finding a good home.

❗️references to gang violence perpetrated by jimin; hybrid mistreatment, specifically use of shock collars, though NOT perpetrated by jimin; hurt 'n' sad puppy boy koo but he eventually gets love ‘n’ care i promise <3

Romance always bloomed with the cherry blossoms, and Jimin was determined not to spend another spring alone.

It was difficult finding true companionship as a businessman who ran the underside of Seoul’s economy, but there truly was nothing that money could not buy and Jimin had long-since earned wealth in excess. Though expensive, a hybrid would be the perfect companion as they technically could never leave him and would be grateful for whatever shred of affection he managed to show.

When it came down to it, there really was no way Jimin could've gotten his hybrid anywhere other than Seoul's Second Chances. While he could easily adopt the rarest and best-trained breeds, there was something undeniably cruel to him about leaving sentient beings to wither away with the dying hope of being rehoused. Even he, with his bloody hands and cold reputation, could recognize that.

So there he was, the only customer in the huge shelter that opened after-hours for the CEO. Most of the hybrids were fast asleep in their tiny, cell-like rooms, but sniffling on the other side of door forty-three had him pausing. This was the only room without a window for potential adopters to peek through, and there was a strange red tag tied around the handle. This door had more locks secured to the outside than even the exotics' a few aisles back.

Jimin stopped walking.

"Oh! Mr. Park, sir, he’s nothing to consider. I can wake up some of the other hybrids if you'd like?" The owner said, noticing where his attention had drifted. The owner was human just as Jimin, but something about him was strongly reminiscent of a weasel. "We have some very well behaved Main Coons and Labradors just down the hall. Domestics are perfect for first-time owners."

If anything, his vague dissuasion had Jimin only further interested in what, who, lied beyond this door. Visions of a grizzly the size of Namjoon or a pit viper more poisonous than Yoongi flashed before his eyes, and he felt the intrigue growing.

"Tell me about this one," He ordered, pointing a ringed finger toward the mysterious door number forty-three.

The owner squirmed, obviously not liking where the conversation was headed.

"He’s a mutt, sir. A dog with no distinguishing characteristics other than his hostility. He’s a biter and will never be rehomed because of it. A very bad boy all around. We're keeping him here until the President finally passes the bill to put down dangerous hybrids. Now, if you'd like me to wake up—"

Jimin was a man who enjoyed challenges, and being denied one so blatantly did not sit well with him, nor did the clear lack of a second chance this unnamed hybrid was given. Wasn't that this shelter's whole brand? So what if the mutt was vicious; wasn't it their job to train it out of him?

Besides, maybe Jimin could make do with a mean beast of a hybrid. Most of his dealings were.... Less than savory and not exactly above board, so perhaps a guard dog would be the perfect replacement for Hoseok. He'd grown tired of seeing his good friend laying his life on the line for him everyday.

"I want to see this one," he said, an air of finality in his voice.

This was the tone he used when making offers no one could refuse, and the owner seemed to realize that. He nodded without another word, pulling a set of keys from his belt and a small remote out of his pocket. As he began unlocking an unnerving amount of bolts, the owner passed the remote to Jimin.

"You can press the red button for three seconds if he tries to bite, Mr. Park. I advise against any sudden movements or close contact, and there shouldn't be a problem. Knock when you're ready to come out," he explained quickly, as if he was ready for Jimin to take a look at the mutt and move on to a real sale.

What a prick. If he wasn't inches from the nameless, faceless hybrid that had captured his attention by reputation alone, Jimin would've decked him. That was saying something: the CEO didn't like to get his hands dirty; his rings were too expensive to bloody up. As soon as the heavy metal door creaked open, Jimin couldn't resist going inside, curiosity at an all time high.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this.

The owner had shut him in with the supposed wild beast, but Jimin merely felt like he was in Namjoon's bedroom. It was monk-like with no decor or personal items like he'd seen in other rooms, but books were stacked high against the wall. His eyes caught on a few titles atop the piles, and he was confused to see the most boring assortment of texts possible. It was as if the hybrid's collection was intentionally devoid of anything that could be pleasurable or stimulating.

Other than the books, there was only a single mattress on the floor, so flat it was barely inches from the ground. Atop the mattress was the supposed aggressive, hopeless, bloodthirsty biter.

Two furry ears flopped across a tangled mess of dark hair, just visible from where the majority of the hybrid was cocooned in one of the standard issue blankets he'd noticed in every room. Large doe eyes peeked out at Jimin from a gap in the fabric, and the dark pools were sadder than any he'd ever seen before. Something like alarm and fear swirled within them, and as Jimin stepped further into the room, the blanket tightened around the small form perched atop the mattress. He looked like a child, a pup, and a terrified one at that.

"Hello," Jimin said evenly, allowing a rare ounce of kindness to warm his tone.

The hybrid made no move to speak, and, acting on impulse, Jimin sat down directly on the floor. His Brioni suit trousers had never touched anything as grimy as the cold tile of this hybrid's cell, but the act of ease was one made instinctively. Perhaps the little thing wouldn't tremor so violently if he wasn't being towered over.

"My name is Park Jimin, and I'm looking for a friend to come home with me," he explained politely when the silence had stretched too long.

The smile on his face was a foreign thing, but he knew from his mother's cooing that it made him look much softer. So he simply beamed at the unidentifiable mass on the bed, refusing to speak another word until the hybrid did. His intentions had to become clear when the room grew uncomfortably silent and he didn't move to break it.

The hybrid shuffled slightly, peering down at him with mistrust and a little bit of what looked like awe. Finally, a very timid voice sung out from beneath the bundles of fabric.

"Bad dogs can’t have friends, sir," he said, the words spoken in such a way that Jimin knew he was repeating something he'd been told before, maybe many times. The hurt tenor in his voice sent a pang straight through Jimin's heart of ice.

Jimin got the sense that this puppy wanted a friend very, very much.

At this, the smile Jimin had painted on his face dimmed. Ever so gently, he asked, "And why do you think you're a bad dog, hm? You sound rather polite to me."

The hybrid's eyes left him for the first time, peering down shamefully at the floor. For a moment, Jimin thought he wouldn't answer. They both knew he had been told about the hybrid’s history of biting, but for some reason, Jimin wanted to hear it from the pup himself. Someone so quiet and shy couldn't be a vicious creature like he'd been made out to be. It just wasn't adding up.

"Only bad dogs bite their owners," the dog mumbled softly, hastily adding, "sir" to the end of his confession.

Surprise jolted through Jimin's chest as he realized tears were rapidly welling up in the puppy’s dark eyes. Living with the brand of a bad dog was killing him, that much was obvious. Jimin could practically hear his heart break as he spoke. The man's instincts were rarely wrong, and Jimin's were telling him that this hybrid was a very good boy indeed.

"Why did you bite your owner?" He asked softly, trying his best to avoid sounding judgmental.

Though most of his face was still covered, Jimin could hear the pout in his voice as he said, "He pressed the button too much, sir."

Jimin didn't understand until the hybrid’s eyes flicked at the remote loosely held between his fingers, looking away quickly after like the sight alone hurt him. Still, Jimin didn't know what his words or the remote meant. He said as much, and the pup hesitated for a very long time. Those big eyes looked over every inch of his face for a few stretched moments before apparently finding what he was hoping for. What it was, Jimin hadn't a clue.

Jimin had seen men get their brains blown out more times than he cared to think about, but nothing had ever disturbed him more than the sight revealed to him when the hybrid unraveled himself from the blanket. The fabric pooled around his hips to unveil an oversized jumper drowning tense shoulders and clenched fists, but what really got his attention was the heavy black collar fastened around the pup’s slender throat. Unlike the other collars he'd seen on hybrids, this one had a small box on the side, and Jimin assumed it was responsible for the violently red and purple ring burned into the hybrid’s pale skin.

Jimin dropped the remote like it burned his fingers, and the hybrid flinched at the sound of it clattering against the floor.

They'd put an electric shocking collar on this little puppy boy, a device that was rarely used for the most feral of predators. If Jimin were anyone else, he would be sick or maybe cry. But he was Park Jimin, and all he wanted to do was burn down the world. Maybe he would, after his hybrid was safely holed up in his penthouse suite, far from any danger that could ever befall him again. Yes, that sounded like a grand idea; coming home to the sweet pup after tearing apart everyone who had ever mistreated a defenseless thing like him.

"I think I see now," he said quietly, and he did. He saw it all quite clearly. "You've been very polite when speaking to me, and I can see it in your eyes that you're a good puppy. It's your previous owner who was bad, and the man who runs this shelter is bad, too. Is that right? I don't think you have it in you to be a bad dog, baby."

He was right, of course, and, almost in disbelief, the hybrid affirmed his words with an eager nod. His black ears flapped with the movement and Jimin was hopelessly endeared. More tears spilled down the pup’s cheeks as he looked at Jimin like he was an angel sent from heavens he'd almost started to believe weren't real. How could the sheltered hybrid know that sitting before him was the devil himself? But from the way this puppy boy regarded Jimin, nothing could make him believe the actual, ugly truth.

The longer he stared, those tears turned into tiny rivulets trickling down his red cheeks. Jimin fought the urge to wipe them away, suspecting that he’d never let the poor thing go when they finally touched.

"Do you want to come home with me? You'll never have to wear a collar like that again. All you'll have to do is be the good puppy I know you are," Jimin said softly, almost crooning at the hybrid. "I'll take the best care of you. You'll be so happy and safe, forever."

Jimin was saying the words quite clearly, but they were foreign in his voice. Never before had he spoken so warmly to anyone, let alone a hybrid he'd met minutes ago. The fury he felt at the realization of these circumstances had given way to something strange and much more terrifying. An overwhelming sense of affection had gripped his heart when the boy nodded so desperately at his first question. He'd been treated so poorly, so unfairly, and yet he could still look with eyes that twinkled like stars; he looked that way at Jimin.

Yes, Jimin was determined for this to work out, and he always got what he wanted.

"Yes, sir, please. Please wanna go with you," he answered so quietly it was a mere whisper. The response was nearly drowned out by the sound of dull thumping just behind him, and as Jimin stood, he saw the long black tail wagging with excitement. It nearly sent him back to the floor, knees threatening to give out.

Fondness for the sweet little thing warmed his body so genuinely that it came as a shock. In the span of one short conversation, this hybrid had melted the icy shield around his heart and wiggled his way in. If he didn't step outside to get a grip on himself right then, Jimin knew he would do something irrational like sweep the puppy into a hug and murmur promises of all the good things to come.

"Good. I'd like that very much," Jimin said sincerely, understating just how overwhelming his want was. "And no more calling me sir, please. I'm your Jiminie, and you're my good puppy. Do you have another name you want me to call you?”

The puppy wiggled a little bit at the praise and said shyly, “My name’s Jungkookie, b-but I like it lots when—when you call me ‘good puppy.’”

The admission sent a pretty pink blush rising up to the pup’s cheeks, and Jimin hummed in satisfaction.

“Well, good puppy, pick out your favorite books; we're going home."

Jimin's promises were golden and even more rare because he never broke them. The hybrid smiled so brightly it nearly stole his breath, the utter joy emanating from him so pure and all because of him. Yes, they would stay like this forever. He was sure of it.

+

The shelter owner had quaked earlier at Jimin's no nonsense tone, but this low, ever so calm register was the one he truly should be afraid of. When Jimin grew unnervingly quiet, it was because he was beside himself with rage. This was the side of him that ran Seoul's underground with an iron fist and empty conscience. This was the man who ordered death and destruction like it was Sunday brunch. As he stood in the disorganized clutter of Second Chance's main office, Jimin was moments away from doing just that.

"I don't give a fuck about your bullshit sealed history policy. You'll give me the name of her previous owner, and you'll do it right goddamn now before I really grow impatient. You're lucky I haven’t had your neck snapped for putting that ugly fucking shocking contraption on her," Jimin seethed, monstrous anger biting in every syllable.

The last time he’d been this angry, his gang had laid siege over every outfit south of the Han; it was the start of Park Jimin’s terrible reign. The owner seemed to realize then that he was in grave danger.

Jimin had lied, though. The owner was already dead, and he had been since the moment Jimin laid eyes on his pup in that atrocious collar. The only reason the owner still breathed was because he was the only one here to take care of the hybrids for the night. Hoseok was under orders to see him disposed of the minute employees arrived the next morning; he'd texted the situation to his enforcer right after leaving his pup. Hoseok sent question mark emojis at the delay in wiping out the man who had mistreated the hybrid, but Jimin had his reasons. The thought of other creatures like his sweet boy left all alone broke the heart Jimin just remembered he had, so the owner would live for a few more hours.

But there was no reality in which he went unpunished for locking that shock collar on Park Jimin’s hybrid.

"Sir, I'm so sorry, sir. I'll get the file now. You have to understand, he nearly took off three of his fingers. We had to use precautions. Please don't–"

Jimin turned before he finished, not wanting to waste another moment with the scum. As he left the office, he called over his shoulder for the man to deliver the file to his driver. Hoseok would get a good look at him then, the man he’d make disappear in a few short hours. It was a familiar dance for his head enforcer; there wasn’t a hit that Jimin fulfilled without Hoseok having a hand in it.

The walk back to door number forty-three was relatively short, but Jimin appreciated the moment of silence to process this night.

When he entered Second Chances, he had prepared to leave with a tough companion to share his life with. Now, for the first time in a long time, he couldn't think straight because of a pretty face with doe eyes that looked at him like he hung the moon and each star. The thought of coming home to a place that wasn't empty and soulless delighted him more than he cared to admit, and if the puppy kept up the clear admiration he felt for the man, Jimin knew the ache that had grown like mold in his chest these past few years would heal very quickly.

Jimin would be better than he was before with something as sweet as Jungkookie in his life. It felt like spring had arrived in earnest for Jimin after years of cold winter, the gentle caress of affection an unfamiliar and welcome sensation in his heart.

💖💗💓💞💘💝🩷

hi!!! so here’s this… it’s a preview draft of one of the misc works I’ve had written for a long time and just decided to post. this is just the first part as sort of a drabble teaser… I’m going to post the full thing to ao3 eventually if y’all want to read the rest! lmk what you think via the message option.. I’m very curious 🙈

[ofbatsandballads]

please take this. I made myself cry writing it and I have nothing to say except that putting ya’aburnee and darling by halsey on my jason playlist was a brutal choice. also look up flower language if you want additional feelings.

There’s so many things you want for Jason Todd.

You want him to get a good night’s sleep for once. You let him close his pretty seafoam eyes and lay his head in the crook of your neck as you scratch gently at his scalp. It always calms him down, grounds him in the here and now. Your arms around him, your fingers carding through his hair, the rise and fall of your chest that’s synced with his–it all reminds him that he’s safe, that he’s home. You want that feeling to follow him into his dreams, to let him find true rest. So when his body goes tense and his breathing gets labored, you hold him closer and hum gently into his ear until whatever haunts him in his sleep is chased away by the comfort you bring.

You want to make sure he’s protected. You wish you could deflect every hit, blade, and bullet away from his body. You wish he would see his body as something worth protecting. He would stop if you asked, would settle into a normal life as best as he could. You would never ask because to do so would be to deny the part of him you love most: his heart that beats to help others. So you protect him in the ways that you can. You stitch cuts and treat burns, you mend his jackets and help clean his guns. More than anything, you guard his peace of mind like it’s the most valuable thing in the world. You’re never cruel to him, never scream vicious words or toss him out into the cold night. You call Bruce and thank him for the first edition Jane Austen novels that arrived on your doorstep on August 16th when Jason just…can’t. You let him grip your hand brutally tight under the table when you go to the manor for Thanksgiving for the first time. And when it gets really bad? When he feels the burning of green waters that breathed life into him that he didn’t want, when hideous laughter echoes in a place it’s never been? You do something no one has ever done for him. You wait. You stay. You stay by his side until he can breathe again, until dawn breaks and he can see the light again. And always, always you, haloed in it like an angel he doesn’t think he deserves. He does.

You want him to have a good cup of hot chocolate. He told you about it once when he came home after a long winter patrol. Half delirious from exhaustion, he reminisced about how Bruce would make them both a cup of hot chocolate after particularly rough or successful patrols in December. How this specific hot chocolate had no equal—even Alfred couldn’t replicate the richness and warmth. You noticed the fondness in his voice, the longing so intense that it still makes your heart ache for him. So you do some light stalking and hunt down Tim Drake, demand that he give you the information you want or else you’ll disclose how he really lost his spleen to Bruce (why he was dense enough to tell Jason, you’ll never know). And that is how Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist single father and the Batman, receives an email with the subject line “URGENT: Recipe Request” that reads as follows:

To whom it may concern,

I have been made aware that you have a remarkably compelling hot chocolate recipe that is hitherto unparalleled by cafes, franchises, and butlers alike. I am emailing you to inquire about my being sent this recipe post-haste. This is less a request than a demand. I will do my best to ensure that you, at some point in time not specified (it will take great effort on my part), are able to witness the consumption of the hot chocolate by the individual that will be receiving the product of the recipe.

Best regards,

Someone who loves your son.

Bruce sends the recipe the second he receives the email. He has to sneak his phone under the conference table at the Wayne Enterprises board meeting to do it, but he still manages to reply in two minutes and forty-seven seconds. And you make good on your promise. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Jason shine as brightly as he does that Christmas, lit up by the lights on the twelve foot tree as he sips his hot chocolate from the same red mug that’s been sitting in the kitchen cabinet since he last drank from it. The matching black mug is clasped in the hands of the hot chocolate connoisseur himself, who smiles softly like the magic of the season has returned to his life for the first time in ages.

You want him to heal. It’s a big ask; you know that. But you’ve never been one for giving up hope, and if anyone can manage to achieve the impossible, it’s Jason. So you tell him it’s a great idea when he jokes about getting a therapist. You wait for him in the car the first time he goes and you let him open up to you in his own time when he comes out of the appointment body tight as a bowstring and eyes bloodshot. You watch quietly and celebrate the little victories you see him win. He can call his father first now; he doesn’t do it often, but he can. He can talk to his younger brother without hating his hands and the blood that’s been spilled on them, without going out on patrol and intentionally letting all the worst hits make contact. He can go out to lunch with his older brother and his youngest, can laugh with them over that ridiculous thing Bruce did at a gala once to make them all laugh. He can bear his birthday a little bit better now, can accept the cake you bake and actually make a wish when he blows out the candles. But you’ll never know about the moment that you start to get what you want. Jason goes to visit his own grave on the anniversary of his death and finds a bouquet of red carnations, baby’s breath, and honeysuckle with a note in your handwriting that reads “Someone told me once that you were magic, that that was the best thing about you. I think it’s far more important that you were loved. I don’t know what you could’ve been. I don’t wonder about it like those that loved you did because all I know is who you became. He’s wonderful. He’s still magic. I think you’d be proud of him. I’ll do my best to take care of him for you.” He sits there for an hour in tears. Then he takes one bud of each flower and the note, goes home and presses them into the pages of his favorite book. He holds you in his arms in bed that night and feels, for the first time in a long time, a sense of peace down to his very bones.

You want—above all else—Jason Todd to feel loved. You want him to feel so cherished and wanted that he cannot possibly look at himself without realizing that he is something precious, something beloved. So you tell him that you love him and you accept his warm embrace as his way of saying it back. You make him chocolate chip cookies and sneak one into the pocket of his tactical pants when he goes on patrol (they’re soft, they don’t get crunched when he’s thrown from a roof). You read his favorite books to understand what he’s saying when he goes off on tangents about class and social hierarchy and how they governed life in the 19th century. You trace his scars and kiss away his tears when he can’t believe that he could be transformed from a being marred by brutality into a man revered with gentleness. You will love him until the day you both die. You will love him in death, until whatever atoms made up you and him come together again. You will love him until everything that ever is or ever was ceases to be in a supernova of light. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll love him in whatever is born after.

[loveiiirene]

[ierr]

↳ summary katsuki can’t stop visiting his favorite support tool.

¡ a.n ; hey yall! it’s been awhile I know 😔 I don’t have much to say but I will say updates are still gonna be coming slow, i’ve been busy with work and on top of that school so bare with me.! 🙏 hope you guys enjoy.

being a support tool for a pro hero was interesting to say the least. every time and you mean EVERY time he would come into your workshop your co workers would always tease you, whenever he came in with a broken gauntlet, or his belt, or anything for that matter, as soon as he would drop off his gear for you to work on they would tease you, says stuff like “I bet he likes youuuu.” said one “isn’t this his 2nd time coming today? he must really like seeing you~.” said another just smirking shaking your head working on his gauntlet.

you do have to admit, it’s nice being a support tool for a pro hero at that being dynamite. it was cool working on his stuff or even explaining your ideas for his gauntlets or even little gadgets you had in mind, like for his gloves for the winter, when you were explaining it to him you’ve never realized how much he actually listened to you keeping eye contact with you till one of your co workers said something. he doesn’t like admitting stuff but he loves when you talk about ideas that’s just for him. would nod his head in agreement everytime getting lost with your voice..”so for whenever winter comes you’ll have these!. there automatic hand warmer gloves to help you produce more sweat for your explosions. It’s still a project in mind but— dynamite?.” you paused furrowing your eyebrows seeing him stare at you, almost like he’s glaring at you??.

did you say something wrong?!. shit! you probably pissed him off..great work y/n!. while you were mentally cussing yourself out as he was deep in thought…he never liked when people talked his ear off but you? he can make an exception..he loved hearing every single idea you had for his suits or to help him. honestly he could listen to you ramble on and on if he had the chance, he didn’t even notice your panic up until you called his name getting him out his thoughts. “what?.” — “I said did I do anything..? you’re glaring at me.” you nervously chuckled, almost in an instant he cursed to himself. he’s always had this mean resting bitch face, so whenever he’s calm he still looks mad. dynamite shook his head oddly quickly, “no!— I mean no..uh you didn’t.” he cleared his throat. fuck! you furrowed your eyebrows but shook your head looking back down at the glove, “I’ll let you know when the full designed is completed.” you gave a small smile turning back around to place the glove back on your work bench.

some days your co workers would catch on how many times he’s came in, saying one day he came in three times! one was when his belt broke, two is when his gauntlet was malfunctioning and the third..? you don’t think you remember him saying anything about any of his stuff being broken. when you had asked he had this small blush on his cheeks as he tried to explain himself, grinning at him trying to find his words. at first you thought it was cute by how many times he’s came to see you but then you started to get curious, the night where it was just you in your workshop working on your project you heard heavy footsteps approach you from behind. you paused your work lifting your head up, the more the steps came closer the more your grip tightened on the screw driver. your quirk wasn’t as cool as the pro’s but it was very helpful..if a person is atleast 15 feet from you, you can feel there presence and hear their breathing.

as if someone was about to touch you, you whipped around fast pointing the screw driver at the persons neck but once you realized who it was your defenses dropped. “dynamight?.” you questioned, furrowing your eyebrows. he looked different? instead of his costume he was wearing casual attire, a white t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers. you think this is your first time seeing him wear something outside his costume, he was also holding flowers in his hand?. you felt your heart drop but you kept a smile on your face tilting your head, “what are you doing here? It’s late you know.” you chuckled as he sighed nodding his head. “yeah..I just thought I could stop by..” he was nervous. you could tell. you hummed looking back down at the flowers then him, “you’re all dressed up. you got a hot date tonight?.” you teased, though you didn’t want it to be true.

In an instant he shook his head furrowing his eyebrows, “no!. I..no. uh there actually for you..” he said quietly, you raised a brow. “there for me?.” he didn’t say anything but nod his head lifting them for you to grab. they were your favorite too..how did he..? “and there my favorite..” you smiled admiring them, “how did you know?.” dynamight shrugged looking away trying to cover the small blush, “I asked shitty hair.” of course, you shook your head chuckling softly. “dynamight—“ — “katsuki.” you paused. “call me katsuki.” he looked back at you and you swore he had a smile on his face, “katsuki..” It rolled off your tongue in a good way, “well then katsuki, why you get me flowers?.” this was the hard part. admitting he took a liking of you and wanted to ask you out on a date, he went to kirishima for advice since you’re basically his sister and he knows everything about you. though kirishima can be an idiot sometimes he’s actually really good at advice..

he cleared his throat trying to get the right words out. from the silence you gave a soft smile placing the flowers gently down on your desk, grabbing ahold of his hand squeezing it. “you know, you don’t have to tell me anything right now. I won’t force you.” the gentle in your voice could make anyone calm their nerves. it was calming his. he sighed squeezing your back, “well..I want to take you out or something.” — “like a date?.” he nodded his head, you smiled. when he didn’t get an answer he thought you were gonna decline but when he felt you kiss his cheek his eyes went wide, “I would love that.”

“I really would.”

[adoresia]

— 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ Racks on racks on racks !

⋆.˚ featuring : Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Choso, Inumaki, Yuta, Megumi.

⋆.˚ Synopsis : How they would react to you spending money on their cards

⋆.˚ Sia here! : This is my firsy smau 😈😈😈 I had so much fun doing this im ngl but its sooo time consuming, Is there an app that other people use for these types of smau’s? I just used my messages app and texted myself😭😭 it was so longgg omg. Anyways I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!

[heretodestroyou]

Hello i am requesting for Carmen from the Bear!! Something sweet and heart warming about Carmen being worried about the reader and just the whole kitchen seeing how in love he is ❤️ thank you

yes to heaven.

pairing(s); carmen “carmy” berzatto x gn!reader

fandom; the bear (fx on hulu)

w/c; 758 words

trigger/content warnings; brief sexual implications, brief mention of past injuries, language, richie (he’s a warning all by himself), tina n richie being mean to carmy lol, tina and reader chisme together, is this another fic with an ldr song title????, brief touches on carmy’s trauma (not in-depth cuz this is a fluff fic), not-proof read, lmk if i missed anything.

stella speaks! i need him biblically. at first, i was like “mmm, jeremy allen white” as a joke. but bro. i don’t think it’s a joke anymore…

Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto who’s always watching you. Who has his eye on you, if you will ;)

Carmy, whose eyes are trailing your figure when you first meet. Not in a sexual way, just taking in every detail. The way you stand, the way you move your hands when you talk. Any time you wear a shirt more than once, the nervous tics you have while he tries your food, if you have any visible tattoos, freckles, or birthmark. His eyes snag on every little thing you do for a split second.

Carmy, whose gaze is locked in your hands while you demonstrate your abilities. He’s taking in every scar, every cut, every tear, every burn that was once fresh in the skin of your hands and committing it to memory. He doesn’t know why, he just is.

Carmy, whose eyes will flicker to your face every so often as you cook, lingering in the scrunch of your brow, the purse of your lip, the muttering under you breath, every curve and divet on your cheeks.

Carmy, whose brain short-circuits the first time he sees you in anything other than your lose white tee, black pants and blue apron. Logically, he knows your body has always been shaped that way, so why is heat crawling up his neck in the biting Chicago air?

Carmy, whose new favorite thing is watching you cook. Especially the recipes you know by heart, when every lovely movement your body makes is muscle memory. Seamless and smooth.

Carmy who appreciates the habit you have of cleaning your station as you cook. Those pale blue eyes locked in you as he exits his office, watching you dumping veggies in a crock pot before scooping up the cutting board, knife, and any food waste and making short work of it.

Carmy who is personally offended by Richie watching you cook. Richie and his Richie-esque comments making him roll his eyes, or warning a scoff. “Makes you wanna know what other moves they can do, eh?” “Shut the fuck up, cousin.”

Carmy, whose habit of paying microscopically close attention to you has whispers from Marcus to Tina to Sydney to you. He appreciates the way you wave them off, using the new kid excuse.

Carmy, who’s been reduced to a stuttering mess when you confront him privately about it. He’s spilling out excuses, until you quietly ask him if he wants to grab coffee with you sometime.

Carmy who, the more and more he arrives to work either with you or with a dumb smile on his face, is getting endless teasing from Richie and Tina. Sydney quietly smiles at him, but mainly sticks to talking about the nature of y’all’s relationship with you.

Carmy, who admittedly fears anytime you let sitting with Tina, exchanging words that have her yelling curses or exclamations in Spanish.

Carmy, who has a retort ready for Richie when he asks you if that means he has a chance now, only to clamp his mouth shut when you wordlessly flip Richie off, bringing another soft look into Carmy’s eyes and a dumb grin on his lips.

Carmy who has to kiss every scar, every mark, every little thing in your body when given the chance. It’s a love language, remembering and worshipping every little thing about you.

Carmy who has his eyes on you so much, regulars at The Beef are silently questioning if there’s anything going on. (there is, but Carmy would sooner be Richie’s personal chef than admit it to customers.)

Carmy whose new greates comfort is you. Any fleeting fragment of you. Maybe you washed his clothes once and now they smell like you. Maybe you hugged him so much your scent lingers in his nose. Maybe he’s got a small piece of jewelry from you or reminiscent of you. Anything that has to do with you can bring him out of the deepest panic.

Carmy who swears up and down and to the ends of the Earth that he’s never gonna lose you. It’s not even an option anymore. He would actually just fall to pieces on the floor.

Carmy who shows the uglier parts of him slowly. You actually have to peel back the first layer and stare it directly in the face without fear before he shows you more. He’s just so scared.

Carmy who’s so so grateful you don’t try to fix him. You just leave him as he is, just giving extra love to those broken bits.

Carmy who used to hate love songs before you arrived.

Carmy who was losing faith in the very idea of love until you arrived.

[roronoagem]

cw // yandere themes & creepy law lol + not proofread

yandere!law stopping by your island for a supply run and when he saw you working at the pub of your small town, he couldn’t help but fall for you.

yandere!law that offered you a visit to his submarine, noticing how you looked at his ship in fascination, stating that “i’ve never seen a pirate ship like that! it looks so cool!”

yandere!law that noticed you were running a fever one day and offered to visit you, wanting to help you feel better. a side of him wants to take advantage of that and lie, lie about your health.

“i’m sorry [y/n]-ya, but it seems that you have a rare disease. i’m one of the few doctors who know how to treat it… it’s really dangerous and i don’t want to leave you in such a state,” he started explaining, you were completely unaware of what he really did while visiting you.

yandere!law that started using medicines to prevent your legs from fully functioning and you started panicking, because the disease he was talking about must be showing its symptoms and he was the only one able to help you!

you must leave with him, he said he could help you feel better. he offered you to go with him since he would go on a trip to look for a final medicine to cure your disease, but he couldn’t leave you there alone. and you accepted because what could possibly go wrong? he had really good intentions!

you were truly sick, it was dangerous not being around him at this point . . . right?

[webanglikethat]

⋆⁺₊❅. Lonely winter, cradle my heart.

Pairing: Vyxaria x Walter. Words: 4004. Tags: for @agattthaa’s birthday, @eeriedreamer, @malbontesmrs and @liykaii — thank you for always believing in me. & shoutout to tswift for writing peace, give it a listen!

🎼 “could it be enough, if I could never give you peace?, ts.

Raindrops fell down the window, as if chasing trails they were afraid to lose, slithering down like snakes on a fresh slippery bruise. The wind whispered against the walls, similar to how waves crash into the shore with more strength each time, as if seeking something, demanding it. The room was dimly lit and warm, but the heart of the succubus felt anything but.

It was truly pathetic; and the worst part was … she knew that.

A creature like her had no use for pain or sadness, let alone grief, but her heart felt consumed by it.

Vyxaria laid on the bed, eyes closed, replaying over and over the scene that would haunt her till her bones decayed, and her spirit vanished — …. Xantheia stabbing her.

Surely that couldn’t have been her Xantheia right? Not the Xantheia she spent all of her valuable moments with – not that succubi were supposed to have valuable moments, not with mortals, and certainly not with each other. But Xantheia had always been her exception. The Xantheia who laughed with her under moons swollen with silver light. The one who would trace her fingers along Vyxaria’s cheek, murmuring words too sweet to belong to their world. The Xantheia that would sit on the thrones of kings they’d manipulate, pretending that the kingdom now belonged to them. The Xantheia that – as human said – took her under her wings, as if some kind of protecting angel – and oh, how cruelly heaven turned out to be another fake.

It couldn’t be her Xantheia.

Maybe she imagined it. Maybe the chill of the air perforated her stomach. She had read somewhere that the mesosphere of this world was becoming weaker – whatever it meant. She hadn’t understood it then – for what did she care for human science? It made no sense to her nor brought her any kind of advantages — but now it cruelly reminded her of her own figure. Wasn’t she just the same? Once impenetrable, now fractured. Once strong, now laying on a bed of a house she couldn’t call her own, in a world that didn’t listen to her, eyes that closed which betrayed her with the same image under her lashes and in the depth of her iris. She could almost feel it, that weakening, spreading through her veins like frost, breaking apart everything she thought she was.

She pressed her hand against her chest, fingers trembling as though searching for a heartbeat. Of course, it wasn’t there; there was no pulse to find. There never had been. But now, the absence felt louder, deafening.

How could someone miss what they had never needed before?

What good was power, when she couldn’t even protect herself from a mere memory?

She closed her eyes, damning her own figure. Centuries of hunting, scheming, attacking, and yet all it took was one betrayal to crumble her down. Her chest heaved, and before she could stop herself, a sob clawed its way out of her throat, as if begging to finally be let free – something she could never be. It was raw, jagged, unfamiliar – a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. Her grief had welled up, transporting itself from her organs to her mouth, climbing the soundbox of her lips, and it finally bled. 

The flood was open.

Dark blue drops bruised her bedding, as if to shame her, drown her into her incompetence. Tears spilled over her lashes, unbidden, and the sky itself seemed to react, for the wind got stronger, smearing the windows of her room, the jalousies of her face.

No, no, no. 

This wasn’t her. This couldn’t be her.

The storm outside screamed as though mocking her, ridiculing her for behaving like a weak mortal whose heart had been broken, but her own grief was louder, more strident, intrusive, pushy as if to say - yes, I know, and I’m already punishing myself.

She tried to stifle the sound, dissect it with her fingers clamped over her mouth, but the battle had been lost long before it began. It couldn’t be buried, it was implanted. And so, the roots of pain grew over her figure, reaching her neck, and in a twisted way, it reminded her of the touch she so desperately wanted to forget.

Vyxaria wished she could turn it all off. She wasn’t supposed to feel in the first place, perhaps a curse disguised as a blessing. She was a soulless creature, mistress of the night, conquistador of men and women alike. So why, why did she now feel like a spider in the corner of someone’s room? Weaving, weaving, weaving till her fingers bled.

Feelings weren’t for her.

She was not for this world.

She wasn’t for her “home world”, either.

A Soulless creature who felt too much. Foreigner on earth, stranger at home. Everywhere she went, it wasn’t enough. She was rejected, as if her mere presence was a toxin nobody could withstand – too eager to be purged, buried, forgotten.

She wished she could reach into her stomach, cradle her bones and caress the spot where her body’s warmth had been cascaded with blood, warm blood, blood that had begun at her hips and ended at her head, where it ultimately stayed, festering the remains of the cavity of her ruin.

It was pathetic because all the times she had been hunted, she had assumed that one misstep would lead her into a trap. One day she’d be too slow, maybe she’d slip, perhaps she’d accidentally turn around and be hit right in the chest. It would be a scheme, a well thought plan, a step-by-step approach for her downfall. 

But alas, the world sneered at her, for it wasn’t strength, desire, fury or confusion that brought her down, but affection. 

Pure, unbridled affection.

She should have never let it into her chest, but she didn’t notice the way her guarded bridge opened itself for the closest thing she had to family. Her castle had crumbled overnight, both by the admission and the betrayal. It was nauseating, the kind of disease you cannot name. Maybe in fifty years humans would look at her, dichotomize her bones and blood, and classify it after her. ‘The plague of trusting’ – and so, she’d be immortalized as a weak, fragile creature whose sin had not been existing, but trusting.

Vyxaria pressed a hand to her abdomen, feeling the presence of the phantom wound. It lingered, and lingered, and lingered, braiding itself in the marrow of her being.

Pathetic. Truly fucking pathetic.

The name burned on her lips, seared through her arms and dissipated in her legs — for yes, the blade might have only plunged into her stomach, but it spread like a wildfire through the rivers and valleys of her body.

Perhaps this was the hell humans so ardently feared.

Fires of hell, daughter of seduction.

Maybe this was her home call.

Caught in the place that she had sneered for others.

A spider, suffocated by its own construction.

A knock broke through the storm’s howling, pulling her away from her thoughts. She rolled her eyes, the sound reverberating in the small room, against the mournful rhythm of the rain. Even with tears on her face, she could feel annoyance. Of course, of course she wasn’t graced with silence when she needed it!

Another knock, this one softer, almost hesitant, tentative.

There was only one, who could treat even her door so softly.

Only one who had ever treated her so tenderly.

“Vyxaria?”

The voice was unmistakable — she could’ve written down the notes of his talking if she were to go deaf. It was accompanied by a warmth that didn’t belong in the cold chaos of her night, or the tempest of her mind.

Walter.

She didn’t answer. Her throat felt dry, and the thought of facing him — of being seen like this — was unbearable. But Walter was nothing if not persistent. The entrance door creaked open slowly, just enough for him to step inside.

“Vyx? The door was open. Are…are you here?” If the demon felt anything at the nickname, she didn’t show it. She quickly stood up, annoyance replacing her hurt. How dare he intrude? How dare he be here? But as she thought that, something else intruded her heart too. Blue warmth, the colour of his eyes.

She wouldn’t let that drown her too.

“Don’t come inside!” she yelled at him, now standing up in her room. She couldn’t risk him seeing her like that. She was a mess, both inside and outside. He couldn’t view the unravelling. It wasn’t meant for her body, nor his eyes.

“Vyxaria… I’m not going to leave unless I know you’re alright”, he whispered, as if trying to not intrude with his voice. Even then, he respected her space, as if it was some kind of human being. He was too nice for his own good, she thought with a slight grin. Maybe he had been right, maybe they should’ve just stayed out of each other’s orbits – she brought nothing but upheaval.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, as she left her bedroom. She was going to regret it, she could feel it in her bones. Her voice was shaky despite her attempt to sound biting. “Always needing to be the hero.” 

She finally reached the living room, where he stood. As soon as their gazes met, his softened, while hers hardened. She knew her eyes were probably red, she knew her hair was probably a mess, she knew but yet… she let him witness that. Her hair was falling like a curtain to shield her expression, but even in disguise, Walter knew her too well.

“Maybe,” he replied softly, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and slow. “But heroes don’t walk away when someone they care about is hurting.”

Her breath hitched, the word care ringing in her ears, unwanted but impossible to ignore. She clenched her fists tighter, her nails digging into her palms. What was she thinking? She couldn’t. She couldn’t let him in. What was care in the face of death? 

‘Care? Is that what this is? Your way to look better?’, she answered, trying her best to sound enraged. But she wasn't. She wanted him to feel it, to reject it, to reject her. But she never could do the opposite.

“You don’t get it,” she added sharply, her voice cracking despite her best efforts to sound composed. “You think you can just — what? Walk in here, say the right things, and fix this?” She laughed bitterly, her fists clenching. “This isn’t something you can fix, Walter. I’m not a cloth for you to iron and smooth over. I’m not a crease you can undo. I’m not a toy whose batteries have been drained. And you’d be foolish to think otherwise”

Walter flinched at her words, but he didn’t back away. Let the waves of her anger overtake him, he thought –  as long as she reached the shore of understanding. He clenched his hands, to stop himself from reaching for her. The action didn’t go unnoticed, making the demon’s hurt bleed even faster. Even then, he respected her choice, even if it tore him apart. “That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer despite her glare. “Whatever you think you’ve done—whatever’s tearing you up inside—”

“Stop!” she snapped, her voice rising as she took a step back, putting distance between them. Her legs hit the couch, but she didn’t care. She needed space, needed air, not whatever this was. “Don’t act like you know what this feels like. You don’t know what it’s like to be … betrayed by an embrace that turns into the gates of death. To be—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing the rest of the words out. “To lose the one thing you held onto. This world isn’t for me, Walter, and now I lost my only bridge to home. Or whatever that world was. I can barely call it home now, can I?”

His gaze softened, his iris moving in confusion, understanding, and fear all in one. He could see the same reflected into her own face. ‘This isn’t your f–’

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s not my fault. I let her in, Walter. I trusted her. I wanted to trust her. I let myself believe—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep going. She might as well unlock the vault and let the contents spill. “I should have seen it coming. I should have known. Affection isn’t for creatures like me. I should have known better. That thing? That thing you clutch so desperately? It’s not in my chest. But for a moment it felt like it. And I liked it. I liked that feeling..”

“For a moment, I let myself forget I was a succubus. And now I feel anything but. Look at me!”, she almost screamed. His eyes had never left hers, but he knew what she meant. “I’m a mess. But I don’t break. I shouldn’t break. I’m the one who conquers, who breaks, who disturbs, who crumbles and separates — and now … now I’m this”, she spat out the last word, as if it was choking her.

Walter moved closer, step for step, till the distance between them was of arm reach. It wasn’t hesitation, far from it. He wanted nothing more than to extend his hand, let her face be caressed by his affection, to unravel the strings of the pain that chocked her and transform it into jewelry to be adored. He wasn’t here to challenge her or further rattle her — when, and if, she wanted to, she’d be the one to close the gravity between them.

He spoke again, "You think being unbreakable is strength, that it is something to admire and parade – and I can understand why! We were taught that, you and I. But even those stones that you admire in passing in the streets? They crack under pressure, Vyxaria. That doesn’t make them useless or futile, does it? And you — God, you're more than that. You are so much greater than the parts you’ve lost or feel like you’ve abandoned. So let yourself break if you must — because even in pieces, you'd be more whole than anyone I've ever known. You're not a simple  'this.' You're so much more."

The words hung, like roots on a wall, battling her, confusing her… comforting her, all at once. Vyxaria hated how they made her chest tighten. Hated the way his presence, calm and steady, made her want to crumble. She wanted him to leave, but she needed him to stay. To stay, stay as he was — stay with his ocean filled irises, his sweet smile that always reached his eyes around her with his shoulders that would slump when laughing, guards falling down as if to welcome the mistress of the fortress home.

“What do you think this is?”, she whispered, brows furrowing. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I want to be here for you” his arms were shaking as he raised them, as if to touch her face. And she let him. She finally let him. His touch met her skin, and waves of pain met the shore of tenderness, the moon’s somber light mingled with the gleam of elliptical celestial bodies. 

“You have no idea what you’re asking for”, she muttered, leaning into his touch, even when her mind asked her not to. She felt his fingers move tentatively, as if not daring to break the moment, as if afraid of breaking her. 

“Perhaps. Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know how to undo it, I don’t know how to come up with words that can alleviate it. But I know you. And that’s enough for me”

Her breath hitched at the sincerity of his voice. They weren’t words that could be faked, no, not when his voice sounded like he had been hit himself by the dagger. And for once, she didn’t know what to say, how to retort, how to push him away, to change the situation in her favour.

And it terrified her.

Not because his touch hurt her, but because it didn’t.

The clouds lifted from the sky, and she finally crashed into him, shores welcomed home, at last. It felt like a magnetic pull, a thread pulling her closer and closer, and she followed it, she trusted it, she let it happen. Because it was him, it was Walter. Her arms found the back of his neck, his hands the dips of her waist, and they held each other as if lost in the sea, as if their gazes were the only lifeline available.

“I hate you”, she whispered, “No you don’t”, he replied with a smile that finally bloomed again. Winter unfurled, spring brought its suitcases and sat down. It felt like a promise, one she didn’t dare accept, but at the same time couldn’t fathom refusing. She traced the lines of his smile with her fingers, and he let her. He’d let her do anything, even destroy him, if she needed to. He’d drown in her sadness if it meant saving her from it. Not that she needed saving, that part was clear. Not a bayonet, not a spear — perhaps a shield, a crossbow. He could be that for her, if only she let him.

Her nails dug into his shirt, as if holding onto him could keep the flood contained, but it was too late. The dam had broken, and she was drowning in it, spilling the parts of herself she swore no one would ever see. Tears unraveled again, this time quicker, as if they knew they now had a vessel, something that would catch them. 

Walter simply held her closer. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t push her away, he didn’t grab her and scream at her for how pathetic it was. He simply stood there, held her as if the mere proximity could heal her panic, his hands circling the back of her neck, as if to soothe her. She hated how easy it was to fall, if he was there. She hated how easy she let herself crumble because in his eyes, she wasn’t a wrinkle. She hated how he was her truest undoing, and at the same time, the only shore she wanted. Her rusting armour fell, and instead of glaring at her scars, he held her. And she knew, deep down, that she didn’t hate it.

He pulled away only to be able to look at her, and before she could react, his lips pressed to her tears, as if they were bandages keeping the flood at rest. The world was in pieces, draining on the floor, bodies circling in the bleeding rain. But here, here she was at rest. In the final storm, what is there to do if not stay? Everything else drowned in the wreckage, but it was her whom he held onto. She was the only real thing. He simply caressed her face with his lips, as if to absorb the pain she couldn’t name. 

She didn’t push him away, instead she let him kiss away her pain. It was new, unfamiliar, and she didn’t know how to react. She was used to pushy hands, tore clothes, messy lips and selfish demands. She didn’t know what the procedure was for affection — perhaps he would have to teach her. But it didn’t matter, nothing did when he looked at her and wasn’t afraid of what he saw. The inundation slowly stopped, and he smiled at her — something crashed, clung, ached in her chest. His fingers softly wiped the remains of her pain, and with him, she could pretend it was never there — but for once, she didn’t want to. She wanted him to view her, not the artificial figure she put up. The rawness, the anger, the ugly and the messy — for his eyes only.

She searched her mind for things she could say, sentences that would explain what this meant for her, but instead she rushed out “… Well, were you that thirsty? I didn’t take you for a guy who liked salty things”. As soon as she did, she cringed at her attempt to let a joke break the tension she had created, but he looked at her and pure unbridled laughter broke from his throat. It wasn’t a polite, perhaps nervous chuckle or the forced sympathy filled grin she expected. It was the kind of laughter that rattled your body, that made you shake your head in disbelief, and your eyes light up. And she liked that, being the reason of his reaction. She liked being the cause of his eyes closing in joy, his hands rising to cover his face as he laughed and laughed. 

“Oh, Vyx…”, he replied, still laughing as he now held her even closer, “You’re lucky you’re not allergic to demons”, she added with a shrug, her hands reaching again for the back of his neck. She liked the position, she never wanted to be untangled again. 

“Vyxaria, not even an allergy could stop me from reaching out for you”, he continued with a smile that began on his face and ended in her eyes, as if the very essence of his joy ended in the vast depth of the affection on the stage of her face. It travelled from his hands to her legs, and there it reached for her chest. She didn’t know how to respond, not with words, so she simply leaned into him again, breathed in his scent, and smiled to herself. A pure, gentle smile. 

“You’re impossible”, she whispered against his shoulders with a grin she couldn’t veil.

“For you, I want to believe the opposite”, he admitted, holding her by the waist, as the sun finally turned to greet the two lovers. A little too late, she thought to herself, but she didn’t care, not when he held her Ike this. 

And perhaps, Vyxaria could never give him the kind of peace he desired — she didn’t even know how to, but perhaps, they could still be enough.

Maybe the sky would bleed again, and the sun would hide to worlds they couldn’t reach — but they could be more. Fire to warm, protect, guide. So fierce it could create a new dawn, just for them. So soft it would erect sanctuaries.

“Does it always feel this …empty?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She let the words find place on her tongue, and freedom in the space between them.

He didn’t answer at first, afraid his words might break the fragile stillness between them, so he simply held her tighter, lulled her. One day, he decided, he’d sing for her – the way his chest did when she touched him like this. He gently cupped her hand in his. His thumb traced the delicate curve of her knuckles, a silent promise he didn’t know how to voice. 

“No,” he murmured finally, his voice low and steady. “…not when you let someone stay.”

It wasn’t the grand confessions or fervent kisses she thought she would experience — it was more. The warmth of a hand that didn’t let go, the quiet strength of someone willing to hold her loneliness until it was no longer just hers. To be a vessel, a repository. To pull the strings of sadness of their chests, and make a sweater out of it to share.

Vyxaria and Walter both knew they weren’t perfect, and they might never be, but this was enough. It was enough to just exist, to be in each other’s orbit and let their hands find home in the dips, curves and heights of their bodies.

The rain outside stopped, windows finally shining again, and spring bloomed, fragile yet relentless. In the chest of the azul eyed merman and the succubus’s stirred soul, something new began to grow.

It wasn’t peace, but it was something more.

And it was enough.

It finally was enough.

[dancingafterdark]

snippet from a draft of a new wip

@hiemaldesirae i blame u :D

[nvirskies]

children of hestia hc's

a/n: was thinking about how the other two maiden goddesses (athena + artemis) both have their own way of claiming/having kids, biological or not. and then it made me think about how hestia was the only one left with no cabin and no children in the canon pjo universe

warnings: none? lmk if there are any i need to add!

nsfw, 16-/21+ dni

read under the cut! - ✄┈┈┈┈

not her biological kids but hold reflections of her powers

formed from the ashes of the hearth up in olympus, breathed life into by hestia

since the hearth is always burning and tended to up in olympus, there's a lot of ashes and embers so she scooped them up in her hands and formed little dolls

kind of like how humans were first formed in myth by prometheus' hand of clay & breathed life into by athena

if they find each other in the wild they'll have an inexplainable pull to each other, almost immediately clocking each other as someone oddly familiar + familial (being formed from the same divine ashes) even without the knowledge of their godly roots

pretty mellow people, will not throw the first punch

that being said: if they're pissed off for whatever reason, someone fucked up real badly

usually mediator/neutral middle man for any conflicts

cabin is neutral ground for entire camp, no violence allowed within it

they'll lead the vast majority of ceremonies if chiron or mr. d don't make any request to lead themselves or it isn't a god-specific thing

will be claimed if any part of their body is immersed in flames

symbol above their head would be an outline of a sacrificial fire, the main brazier up in olympus

once at camp and claimed, they work with hephaestus kids with fire for forge, and will monitor all sacrificial fires

granted privilege of first burn for any and all sacrifices

a few of their powers includes:

invulnerability to any and all heat + flame (including greek fire and hellfire)

healed by flames/heat of any kind

teleportation to any building with a fire burning within it, or even a campfire

memory manipulation in relation to family/familial bonds (does not have to be blood family chosen family trope &lt;3)

typhokinesis/fumokinesis (smoke manipulation)

pyrokinesis (extending to all forms of fire + flame)

[kittywritesfics]

☀️GOLDEN HEART, STARDUST SOUL💫

The path to humanity is nonlinear, but Jimin worked for three years as a tour guide at Jeju Island's Greek Mythology Museum. If anyone can teach Sun God Yoongi what it means to live and love, it’s him.

Or: Jimin unwittingly summons a lonely God, and Yoongi answers.

[ofbatsandballads]

turn me into something tragic

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: slight suggestive thoughts from reader, brief mentions of Jason being hurt

a/n: been listening to the secret of us by gracie abrams and “let it happen” just feels so much like what falling in love with jay would be like. so here’s a song fic!

divider credit: saradika-graphics

You’re in deep. You wish you weren’t because this whole longing thing sucks. But you’re here now—so it goes, you guess. It’s not like you have any other options. You can’t just quit your job at the Robbinsville Public Library because there’s a very handsome man that always shows up from one to four in the afternoon. You can’t uproot your life and your ability to pay rent because he smiles at you whenever he returns his books, because his voice makes your chest feel warm when he asks if you can put a copy of Emma on hold for him.

No. You just need to suck it up and stop thinking about Jason fucking Todd.

A remarkably hard task, honestly. Especially when he shows up at one o’clock on the dot as always. The weather’s pouring rain today, a clockwork symptom of Gotham winters. You watch as he diligently drags his boots along the entry rugs, careful to not track water on the hardwood floors of the library. It’s sweet. He’s sweet—no. You don’t need to be thinking anything about him.

He walks up to your circulation desk, unzips his black leather jacket and places the books he’d been keeping safe from the rain on the old oak. He always returns them early. He must be a particularly voracious reader. It’s a trait you find ridiculously attractive. He reads all these classic romances, so he must have a good appreciation of longing and devotion and soul crushing love and what would it be like to be loved by a man like that—God, you need to stop.

“Hi Jason,” you greet him cheerfully.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

His voice is so pretty. It’s deep but not rough, and he’s got that lilt that all born and bred Gothamites have. He’s so soft spoken, whether by choice or nature, you don’t know. But it’s a beautiful combination, his tone and inflection. You could listen to him talk all day. You do listen to him talk for at least 30 minutes of each day you work.

“Your hair looks nice.”

It’s sheepish and it’s nearly a whisper, but it’s got your heart racing nonetheless. You’d cut your hair over the weekend, wanting a change. And if you’d hastily curled it this morning before work in a vain attempt to make it look extra pretty, then that was for you to know.

“Thank you,” you say, face growing warm, “Oh, your copy of Emma just came in!”

You reach into the cubby under your desk where you’d specifically placed the book once it was returned by a guy named Dick. You had asked how he liked it and he’d just said he didn’t get why his brother enjoyed these things so much. You didn’t talk to him much after that.

“Took ‘em long enough,” Jason mutters, shaking his head and causing little droplets of water to fall from his damp curls.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Most times people don’t wait over a month, but I got the sense that the guy didn’t really like it. Probably DNF’ed it,” you ramble as you push the book towards him.

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Some people have no taste,” he grumbles.

“Your taste is incredible.”

You don’t realize how horrible that double entendre is until you see the bright red of Jason’s cheeks. Oh, God, your inside thoughts are becoming outside thoughts. You really, really need to reel yourself in.

“I mean–I just meant–obviously books. Your taste in books. I have no idea about your taste otherwise.”

Yeah, that didn’t help. You want to crawl under your desk and die. Maybe the little old lady who works the morning shift will find your corpse when she clocks in.

“I–um–thank you?” Jason says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

He looks pretty when he’s flustered. You wonder just how pretty he’d look if he was under you all flustered like that. Jesus Christ, you want to gag your own inner monologue. You take one steadying deep breath.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a day,” it hasn’t, but he doesn’t know that, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

He pauses, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He looks to be contemplating something of extreme importance. Then a resigned look crosses his face and his shoulders drop as he lets out a deep sigh.

“No, nothin’ yet. ‘M just gonna browse.”

And with that he’s off into the stacks. Once he’s out of your sight, you drop your burning face into your hands and groan. Humiliating. You’re so embarrassed that you’re jittery. You toss Jason’s books into the cart of returns and decide to make your way through the library returning them. The work distracts you from your own social suicide, as do the headphones you’ve pulled over your head.

You’re wandering along, head bobbing to the playlist you’ve entitled “book return bops”, when you encounter the source of your sudden emotional instability reading peacefully on the ground. He doesn’t notice or acknowledge you at first. It gives you time to admire him.

He truly is pretty. The cloudy light from the window throws shadows on his face, accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones, his jaw, his nose. He’s like an old Roman statue. A beautiful man that reads, is kind, and is built like a brick house. You’re doomed.

You wheel your squeaky cart into the aisle and start placing the books back in their rightful homes. Jason looks up at you, a soft smile blooming on his face as he watches you work. Little do you know that he stares at you the same way you stare at him.

You glance over at him and see that he’s reading Frankenstein. You drag your headphones to hang around your neck and interrupt the peaceful quiet that’s settled between you.

“I need to know what you think of that book,” you demand.

Jason raises an eyebrow, gaze roaming from you to the book in his hands and back.

“It’s one of the best novels ever written. And one of the most widely misinterpreted by modern media. It’s a little infuriating, actually, just how much every adaptation misses the point.”

You’re in love with him. End of discussion.

“Thank you!” you exclaim. “First of all, the Creature isn’t green and bolted! Second, he’s not the fucking villain! Victor is! How do you create something, knowing every step of the way what you’ve made, then abandon it altogether once you’ve given it life. It’s bullshit. He’s neglectful and obtuse and utterly unaccountable.”

You continue to rant about Frankenstein for a good ten minutes, allowing Jason to make annotations to your verbal essay. In your literary fire, you completely miss the stars that are dancing in the eyes of the pretty boy sitting on the floor. If you did see them, maybe you’d realize that you’re not the only one with increasingly absurd inside thoughts.

“Anyways,” you sigh, “you’re the only person I’ve ever spoken to who gets it. So thank you.”

“No problem. You’re the only person I can talk to about it,” he says, voice going quiet at the last part.

You cock your head and raise an eyebrow in question.

“Well, my best friend isn’t much for reading. He prefers building weird shit. And my…dad,” he chokes the word out like it’s poison, “he just reads fuckin’ history books. Not even the good ones. He reads stuff like the history of semiconductors.”

You laugh so loud that it echoes. You slap your hand over your mouth, suddenly conscious of where you work. You’re still giggling as you sit down next to him. You look over and feel any of the air you’d regained leave your lungs. He’s smiling at you, bigger and brighter than he ever has before. And the way he’s looking at you…it’s not at all dissimilar to the way you look at him. Maybe you don’t have to stop thinking about him after all. You steel your nerves and dig your fingers into the shelf behind you.

“Well, maybe I could get your number so we can book club it sometime. Just so you don’t have to talk about semiconductors,” you joke, nerves coming through in the slight shake of your voice.

His smile grows even bigger.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he says as he hands over his phone to you.

As you punch in the numbers, you swear that you can see how it’ll all unfold. You don’t love him yet, but you will. One day you’ll love him so much you don’t know how it stays contained in your body. You’ll discover that he loves chocolate chip cookies and you’ll learn how to make them for him. You’ll learn he’s ticklish right under his ribs, that the muscle that joins his neck and shoulder is extremely sensitive to kisses.

You’ll have bitter arguments when he comes to pick you up for a date with a black eye or a busted lip or a bum shoulder. You’ll have a vicious screaming match where he finally tells you what he does at night. He’ll vanish for a week, then come back to find you curled up in a ball on your couch. He’ll never vanish again, he’ll make a home with you. You’ll worry every night he leaves your side. You’ll rejoice with every sunrise you watch together on your fire escape.

Jason Todd will turn you into something tragic, into a love-struck, devoted, messy version of yourself that you didn’t know existed before he walked into your life. And, just for him, you’ll let it happen.

[minty-bubblegum]

Can I request a writing prompt of jace leech and Floyd eigh an so who's very silly 🥺🥺😇😇

HOLY FUCK I CAN SEND ASKS TO MYSELF

Jade

He is very suprise to know you are sily!!!!! He do the cute little 😮 face. He give you kiss and say "you are so silly. I must study you, my interesting little parasitic bacteria"

Leys just say he loves your silliness!!!! He libes to do expeirmen on you, like seeing how fast you react when you see your favorete Tumblr artistsststs post!!! (Based on true events. I'm looking at you. You know who you are 👁️👁️)

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑

Floyd

When he found out you were silly, he yhrew you acrooss the room and giggled.

"wow!!!!!! You are so sjill!! My goodness!!! Let's see if you can get sillier!!!!" He aggressively bited your hands and finher off before licking your toes. He squurzef you and cuddles younlike kitty

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑

A/n: hihi guys!!! If you didn't knoe, I write :3 I will be writing more silly reader if you guys want!!! :3

Tags bc I can: @cheezy-moon @citrusitonit uhhh @xptobie

[ierr]

↳ 𝗄𝖺𝗍𝗌𝗎𝗄𝗂 𝖻𝖺𝗄𝗎𝗀𝗈

↳ 𝖺.𝗇; I got this idea from listening to a song ☹️ I’m so lonely that i had to write this because I need comfort in my life. it’s bad. anyways enjoy! the song in question

weird as it is, katsuki had a habit of showing you his soft side. one being he can’t keep his hands off you. he’s clingy, real clingy. It was shocking of how much he would touch you, and on top of that he was protective too. overprotective you would say. whenever you guys were doing practice missions and one of the guys (kaminari or mineta) would look at you with heart eyes, he would always stand behind you glaring at them. by the aura that flamed around him, they would end up getting scared or nervously laughing looking away from you. knowing exactly why you smiled shaking your head with a sigh turning around to spot katsuki looking away with a scoff, “don’t look at me like that.” you raised a brow placing a hand on your hip not even willing to argue with him, only shaking your head walking up to him. “you need to stop.” pecking his cheek as he grinned with a shrug. “not my fault those damn idiots keep staring at you.” l you shake your head watching him walk past you with a chuckle but gasp feeling him pull you by your waist as he did.

what else is weird that ever since he started to have that change in his attitude, he’s been showing affection around everyone but it would be small minor things. like holding your hand, whenever you guys are watching a movie or sitting on the couch he or you would put his arm over your shoulder, or whenever it’s just you two out in the dorms he would always back hug you enjoying the comfort he got from your warmth, giggling each time. “kat, what’s goin on?.” he would hum holding you tighter, “shut up loser..I just had a long day.” smiling everytime using your hand to ruffle his hair. he would do this so everyone knows who you’re with, though he didn’t like the constant teasing mina and kirishima did he still does it so no one gets any smart ideas with you. you even knew he did it to remind everyone that you’re dating him, but in reality.. he only makes that excuse so he can hold you 🤫.

he also loves touching you. like really much. though it was not a common thing he would tell everyone, touching is his love language. you thought it was cute teasing him everytime but he thought it was stupid pushing you away each time, but couldn’t help but have that cute grin on his face. the relationship was cheesy— according to kaminari and mineta probably due to jealously that bakugo out of all people got to pull you, but in reality it was cute and everyone thinks you guys look adorable together. bakugo would always yell at them feeling flustered but you would always laugh saying thank you to everyone, “awww look at them!.” mina cooed as she saw you both on the couch, katsuki’s arm wrapped around you as you were cuddled to his side eating. “they look like a married couple.” kirishima added on with a smile but his smile dropped eyes going wide as he saw bakugo’s eyes on them glaring at em both. mina and kirishima looked away from them pretending they were doing something as you heard katsuki scoff. “what’s wrong?.” you asked taking another bite from your plate looking up at him who looked at you with a frown, “pinky and shitty hair fan girling again.” he rolled his eyes as you laughed shaking your head. “let em. there’s nothing wrong with that.” you muttered, leaning up to peck his lips hearing them “awww!!” again giggling pulling back. katsuki groaned glaring at you as you laughed, “you did that on purpose didn’t you?!.” you poked your tongue out shrugging, “I don’t know..did I?.” before you knew it, he pushed you off the couch with a smug grin feeling your glare on him. “I’ll kill you!.” — ��If you can catch me nerd!”

“they’re so cute together.”

“couldn’t agree more.”

[adoresia]

Hello there (　＾▽＾)

I read you were taking requests for JJK. I'd like to request something w/ Choso... maybe something along the lines of Reader frequents a small local coffee shop, Choso just happens to be the owner & barista on shift.

• Reader is a coffee connoisseur

• Choso remembers the flavors she likes & dislikes

• Fluff/Angst

• fresh coffee kisses ○o。..。o○

— Flavors of Us

⋆.˚ Featuring : Choso x fem!reader

⋆.˚ Sia here! : HELLO ANON THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SENDING THIS IN IT WAS SO FUN TO WRITE HEHEHEHDHSHDHHEHSHSHEHS (I Love these Choso requests. I love my man. Just look at him. ISNT HE SOOO FINEEEE 😫😫) okay anyways really sorry I took so long write this I hope you like it!!,

The cozy warmth of *Kurobai Coffeehouse* enveloped you the moment you stepped inside, the familiar scent of roasted beans and rich espresso curling around you like a comforting embrace. The quiet hum of the café settled in your bones, a welcome reprieve from the outside world. You weren’t a stranger here—this little corner shop had become a second home to you over the past year. But more importantly, your boyfriend Choso was here!

Behind the counter, Choso moved with his usual quiet precision. His tall, muscular frame was slightly hunched as he adjusted the grinder, his long dark hair tied back in a messy bun, the small parts of his bangs framing his pale, sharp features. Even from across the room, you could tell he was focused on his work, his sharp, pale features set in that familiar, pensive expression. Choso had always been a bit shy, and sometimes a little clueless when it came to people, but he had this way of paying attention to the things that mattered. Especially when it came to you.

He looked up as you approached the counter, and the hint of a smile tugged at his lips—a subtle gesture, but it was one you’d come to recognize as reserved just for you. His eyes softened, though there was still that flicker of uncertainty behind them, like he was never entirely sure what to do with the feelings you stirred in him.

“You’re early today,” he mumbled, his voice low and quiet, as always.

“Thought I’d change things up,” you replied with a teasing smile, leaning casually against the counter. “But I’m guessing you already know what I’m going to order, right?”

Choso’s brow furrowed slightly, his eyes narrowing in concentration. You watched as he silently replayed your usual preferences in his mind, the way he always did when you teased him like this. Over the months, he’d learned exactly what you liked and disliked when it came to coffee. You weren’t just a casual drinker—you were a connoisseur, and Choso never let you down.

“Colombian beans,” he said after a pause, his tone thoughtful. “Medium-bodied, floral, no sugar… but maybe not too strong today?” He glanced up at you, his expression uncertain as if waiting for confirmation.

You smiled, genuinely impressed. “You know me too well.”

A faint blush crept up Choso’s neck, and he quickly turned back to the grinder, his hands moving a little faster than before. “I just… pay attention,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for you to hear.

You bit back a laugh, charmed by his bashfulness. He was always like this, quietly remembering the details that mattered—what kind of beans you preferred, the strength of your coffee depending on your mood, and even the way you liked to linger at the counter just a little longer when the café wasn’t busy. He never made a big deal about it, but that was just who Choso was.

As he worked, you let your gaze drift around the café. The wooden floors creaked softly under your feet, the low jazz playing in the background adding to the cozy, intimate atmosphere. The shop was small, tucked between two towering bookstores, and the soft glow of amber light from the sconces bathed everything in a warm, golden hue. You loved the way it made the world outside seem far away, like you and Choso were the only two people in it.

Before long, Choso slid your cup across the counter. The familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled your senses, rich and floral with a hint of brightness. It was perfect—just like every other time he’d made it for you.

“Thank you.” you murmured, your fingers brushing his as you took the cup from him. You noticed the way his hand lingered for just a second longer than necessary, and your heart skipped a beat.

Choso glanced away quickly, his cheeks tinged with pink again. He was always so easily flustered, especially when your hands touched, even after all this time.

You took a sip, savoring the way the flavors bloomed on your tongue. “It’s perfect, as always,” you said softly, meeting his gaze over the rim of your cup.

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the compliment. “I— I’m glad,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He was trying to play it cool, but you could tell your praise had gotten to him.

The café was quiet today, only a few other patrons scattered at tables, engrossed in their books or laptops. With the lull in activity, you leaned forward a little, resting your elbows on the counter. “You’ve really got this down, huh? I could never make coffee this good.”

Choso’s eyes flickered to yours, then back down to the counter. “It’s just… practice. I’m still learning.”

“You’ve mastered my order, though,” you teased, your voice low and playful. “That’s gotta count for something.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Instead, he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he glanced at you from beneath his lashes. “I just… don’t want to get it wrong. Not for you.”

The sincerity in his words, paired with the soft, almost nervous look in his eyes, made your heart clench. For all his awkwardness, Choso always managed to say the things that mattered most without even realizing it.

You felt the warmth of the coffee in your hands, but there was a different kind of heat spreading through you now—the kind that came from being so close to him, from the way he looked at you like you were the only person that mattered.

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers gently curling around his wrist, tugging him just a little closer. “You never get it wrong, Choso,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

His eyes widened, startled by the sudden closeness. “I—” He tried to speak, but the words died on his lips as your gaze lingered on his mouth.

Before either of you could second-guess it, you closed the distance between you, your lips brushing softly against his. The kiss was gentle, tentative, as if testing the waters, and for a moment, Choso froze beneath your touch. But then, slowly—so slowly—he melted into it, his free hand coming up to rest on the counter as if steadying himself.

The taste of fresh coffee lingered on both your lips, bitter and warm, mixing with the softness of the kiss. It wasn’t rushed or sloppy—just slow and sensual, like savoring the perfect brew. His lips were slightly parted, unsure but responsive, and you could feel the slight tremble in his breath as your lips pressed a little more firmly against his.

When you finally pulled away, the café seemed quieter, the world smaller, as if time itself had slowed for just the two of you. Choso’s eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed a deep red that stretched all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I—uh—” He tried to speak, but the words were jumbled, completely lost to the haze of what had just happened. “Was… that okay?

You couldn’t help but smile at how utterly flustered he was, his usual composure shattered in the most endearing way. “Yeah, Choso,” you whispered, your thumb brushing lightly over his wrist. “It was more than okay.”

He blinked, still dazed, but a small, shy smile tugged at his lips as he nodded. “I’m glad.”

And just like the perfect cup of coffee, the moment lingered—warm, comforting, and undeniably sweet.

[heretodestroyou]

How to cast of hotd will act is they see reader fire bending , maybe like the castle was under attack and someone tried to attack one of the cast and reader had no chose but to spit out fire from her mouth

pairing(s); daemon targaryen, rhaenyra targaryen, aemond targaryen, alicent hightower x fem!firebender!reader

fandom; house of the dragon (HBO Max)

w/c; 412

trigger/content warnings; firebender!reader, canon-typical violence, both the targs and reader have fire immunity, canon divergence, there is no homophobia in westeros, the dragons never danced, unspecified battles

stella speaks! ahahaha finally writing again! i loved this request, tried to crank this out as quickly as possible

Daemon Targaryen's breath is stolen from his throat before the wave of heat dissapates. You'd never given any sign of any sort of power like this. Yes, you're a handmaiden-turned-consort, so the people of the court haven't exactly been kind to you, but now they have to be! Daemon's not about to usurp his brother, but trust he'll be extra bitter that he will never have the throne and Westeros will never have a firebending queen. Oh, and those not-so-nice-people in court? If you're ever before the king and someone mouthes off, Daemon's on it. He doesn't care who he just killed. The important thing is no one is smack-talking you.

If Rhaenyra Targaryen wasn't whipped before, she surely is now. She's fascinated by your firebending, even in the midst of some fight. Harwin Strong already has her thrown over his shoulder and is herding her to safety, but she's still scrambling to be near you. All she really wants is to watch you with those huge heart eyes. Afterwards, she'll insist you tell her show off everything you possibly can. Feasts are being thrown just for you and your new talent, and she calls you her "byka zaldrīzes" (little dragon) in private.

Aemond Targaryen's first honest thought is how to usurp Aegon. Listen, he loves Helaena (Aegon less so), but he just knows everything in Westeros would be right if he could be king and you could be queen. You two could conquer realms, lay waste to armies, even travel across the narrow sea! His mind is bursting with possibilities, and he's gotten together teams of historians to document everything they know about firebending and anything else you can tell them. His new favorite thing to do now is examine your hands, still confused at how there's not a single mark on them from all the firebending.

Whatever you were to Alicent Hightower before you breathed out a wall of fire and saved her life doesn't matter anymore. Now, you're her only Queensguard, made a white cloak, your name is written down as the firebreather, misogyny be damned. Anyone who even breathes a word that you're not suitable to protect the queen consort has their tongue pulled out with hot pincers. Otto tried to bring it upt to Viserys once, but Alicent threatened to have him banished from King's Landing and he's never spoken a word since. He's kind of afraid, since Alicent loves you more than she feras Otto now.