#one of those days i wish i was brave enough to end it

[oldinmagroin-resurrected]

This'll get deleted, just my stupid rants so you know ignore it and stuff. Mainly just me typing the feelings out.

[aetherraeys]

hideaway

for this request x

sirius black x reader ⊹ 6.8k

cw ⟢ swearing, very toxic household, angsty, reader has a bad homelife, descriptions of panic attacks, hurt/comfort

summary: in your mind, home was home no matter what, and as much as leaving crossed you mind, it was never a real option, never something you could commit to. you'd learnt to be brave in a different way, through sacrifice and endurance. and it wasn't until one slip-up, one glimpse through a crack that sirius found out about your well kept secret.

a/n:...i just twisted the knife in myself WHY?? this is prolly my most angsty fic yet, cried three times. not proofread x

Everyone found their way. Moved on, living their lives comfortably—peacefully.

Everyone except you.

It’s like you missed the train. Standing on the platform in a terminated station—frozen, trapped—living the same days on loop over and over.

You had small moments of peace; fleeting, few and far between—but it was something. something to take you out of the relentless dark cloud that loomed over your home.

If you could even call it that.

It even burned you to admit how it truly made you feel—imprisoned, burdened. Part of you wished you could feel different about it, and some days you did.

And though they were rare, they were truly amazing, each room overflowing with joy and light—as if there had never been a second of despair between the walls.

Sometimes, it was hard to explain what made it so suffocating.

It wasn’t the shouting—not always. It wasn’t even the silence that came after, stretched so thin it felt like it might snap and slice your skin open. It was the way it changed—constantly, rapidly—until you couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

It was cruel, in a way. The house knew how to pretend. How to charm you into staying, to blur the sharp edges with just enough warmth to convince you it wasn’t always bad. That maybe you were the one making it worse, and the one keeping it together, all at the same time.

There were moments where everything felt fine. Better than fine, even. There’d be laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles, the faint smell of something sweet baking in the oven, sunlight pooling across the floor like warmth had always lived there. Someone would tousle your hair, call you darling, say how proud they were of you for something small and stupid—doing the washing up, remembering to take the bins out—just being around even.

In those moments, the house felt almost normal.

But peace never stayed long. It never stayed.

A single misplaced word could ruin everything. A look. A sigh. A silence that lingered just a second too long.

Suddenly, the temperature would shift. Like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. The same mouths that had just praised you would twist into sneers. The eyes that once sparkled with love would turn sharp, empty, or worse—disappointed.

And it was always your fault. Somehow. Some way.

You should’ve said something. Or not said it. You should’ve known. Should’ve tried harder. Should’ve been better.

And once the mood turned, it didn't end in hours—it lingered for days. Weeks. Sometimes it felt like the bad would never end, caught in an endless storm that just kept circling, even when the sky looked clear.

Before going home, you learned to prepare. It became a ritual.

Standing outside the door, hand frozen over the knob. Breath caught in your throat. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched. You’d stare at the grain in the wood or rusted metal of the bell, counting backwards from ten like it would change anything, like it would miraculously make it more bareable.

The russian roulette of what version you were going to get.

Maybe it would be the loving one. The one who called you precious and kissed your forehead and begged you to believe they were trying. The one who cried in your arms after yelling too much, whispering “I don’t mean to hurt you, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m just...tired.”

Or maybe it would be the other one. The version that needed someone to blame—someone to tear down so they didn’t have to feel so small. And you were always within reach.

It was like being whiplashed by affection.

One moment, you were too much. The next, you were everything.

And you knew, in your heart, that they loved you.

But they also burned. And when the fire started, you were always the one left singed.

They hated themselves for it—told you that often. Said you were the only one who understood, the only one who stayed. And you held them. Every time. Because that was the part that hurt the most: you wanted to help them. Even as they broke you. Even when your chest felt hollow and your hands shook.

You learned to read the room like a map of landmines. Learned which words to avoid, which tones to use, when to keep your head down and when to nod, to agree, to thank them for their cruelty as if it were a gift. Because sometimes it came with a kiss on the head or a rare, fragile I love you.

You couldn’t leave.

Not because you weren’t desperate to.

But because the entire house felt built on your presence. Like the walls would collapse without you, someone needed to carry it all—and you did. Every single day. Without asking for help. Without complaining.

Because how could you justify saving yourself when they were still drowning?

Passing moments of peace kept you head somewhat above water, it was easier to pretend when you were with them—your friends—dulling the neverending whoosing ring of your heartbeat in your ears and the weighty pressure of your own thoughts.

Just slightly.

You’d laugh along, smile widely when expected. Hug back and sway along with each easy, warm embrace.

And sometimes, in those short-lived, temporary moments of solace—you’d indulge yourself, allow yourself to believe it.

When James would throw you over his shoulder with loud barking laughter, when you and Lily would spend hours lounging on the sofa, nonsense conversation filling the room, or when Remus would drap his arm over your shoulders—you could feel weightless. Safe.

But those moments always ended.

And when they did, you’d find yourself drifting. Zoning out in the middle of a conversation. Watching James and Remus banter across the room, listening to Regulus hum absently to himself while reading, or Sirius—loud, beautiful Sirius—throwing his head back in a laugh so real it cracked something open in your ribs.

And the ache would start.

That slow, creeping anxiety that curled its way up your spine like frost. A sadness so soft and sharp you couldn’t explain it. The kind that whispered: This will end. This peace isn’t yours to keep.

You almost envied them—quietly, desperately.

Not just because they were happy—they’re happiness was your only escape, only taste of normality in your wharped, upturned daily combat. But because they’d all chosen to be. Sirius and Regulus had walked out of the same kind of fire you were stuck in, years and years before the idea even crossed your mind, and they didn’t look back

They had each other.

Sometimes, you wanted to Sirius. Tell any of them. But the words never came, getting caught on the lump that forms in your throat at the mere thought at opening up. And you trusted them—with your life—but they’d already escaped. They’d clawed their way into the light. You couldn’t drag them back into the dark for your sake-you couldn’t taint what they’d built with your shadows. So you kept it to yourself.

You bore it in silence. Let it hollow you out.

The first time Sirius really noticed, it wasn’t because of something you said.

It was more because you weren’t saying anything.

Sirius noticed it the first time when you were sitting at the edge of the couch, surrounded by warmth and noise and comfort, yet entirely apart from it. Your shoulders were stiff, posture too still to be at ease, your eyes fixed on nothing in particular—swimming with a dejected sort of melancholy that seemed to drag your whole presence down like an anchor.

All sprawled across the living room with mugs in hand, a record spinning lazily in the background. Conversation hummed around you, warm and full, but you barely blinked. You sat curled in on herself, tucked into the far corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear into it. Eyes dull, distant. Fingers pressed so tightly into the palm of your hand that Sirius could see the tremor across your knuckles, and the skin by your thumb was raw, scratched and pinched like a nervous tic left to fester. It was a small glimpse—accidental, unmasked—of something Sirius couldn’t name but knew wasn’t right.

It was like looking at someone underwater.

He watched you from the seat opposite, brow slightly furrowed, worry pressing lines into his face. And then Lily came around, all bright eyes and warmth, with a cup of tea held out toward you and a gentle hand on your shoulder. You blinked, startled, your body jerking almost imperceptibly before you looked up at her, and in the span of a heartbeat, the wall slammed back up.

You smiled—too quick, too practiced—and took the tea with a murmured thanks. Sirius could see the way you tried to shake it off, tucking your hands beneath the throw pillow in your lap, casting your gaze downward with a practiced tilt of your lips. But he saw it, always saw you.

He didn’t miss the performance.

The second time, it was during a seemingly harmless spat between James and Marlene. Something inconsequential—voices raised, tones sharp and clipped but still laced with the air of playfulness. No one else batted an eye.

Except you.

You’d gone still again, your fingers twitching faintly like you were reaching for something—some invisible thread to tug the tension down. Your eyes darted back and forth between them, wide and alert, chest rising too quickly for what the situation called for. And then, without a word, you slipped away into the kitchen.

Sirius waited a beat, ignoring the puzzled look on Remus’ face, trailing after your absences, heart tightening.

You were hunched over the sink when he found you, your hands gripping the ceramic edge so tightly your knuckles were white. Forcing the lump in your throat down with a laboured swallow—ears filled with a dreadful high pitched ringing that made your head spin.

Trying desperately to at least be discrete—avoid detection, because now really wasn’t the time for this. You were trying to breathe—he could tell—but it was shallow, uneven, a tremor threading through every exhale. Your shoulders trembled, your head bowed, and he could hear the faintest sound of numbers being whispered under your breath.

“Y/N,” he called softly.

You didn’t react.

He stepped closer, cautious, watching you closely. He could hear the shuddering breaths now, the way your voice cracked on the number seven, like your lungs were collapsing inward. “Y/N,” he tried again, a little louder.

Still nothing.

Coming around your side, ducking his head down to catch a glimpse of your face, eyes screwed shut tightly, brows pinched high on your forehead. He reached out, hand tentative as it landed on your shoulder. You jumped—nearly recoiled, entire frame jerking as you tried to flinch away from his touch. Sirius immediately withdrew, holding his hands up between you like a surrender.

“It’s just me,” he said, gently. His voice was quiet but firm, grounding. “Just me.”

Your eyes were wide, glassy, rimmed red. Panic painted across your face in strokes Sirius had never seen on you before, and it made something in him crack.

He slowly took your hands, still trembling at your sides, coaxing them away from the tight curl of your fists. “Look at me,” he murmured. “Just me, alright?”

He guided your hand to his chest, letting you feel the steady beat of his heart. “Breathe with me, yeah?”

It took a moment—didn’t speak, didn’t nod, but your breathing started to shift—still shallow, but not so frantic, breathing just barely evening out, He walked you backwards gently, step by step, until the kitchen door opened behind you, the air brushing cool against your skin, subdueing the flush that burned under your skin ever so slightly.

“Come on. Let’s get some fresh air,” he suggested softly, guiding you to the bench in the garden.

You still hadn’t said a word—curled up, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself. Fingers picked absently at the skin of your thumb, scratching with a quiet urgency that made Sirius reach out again, covering your hand with his.

And though your face was no longer twisted and scrunched in panic, its replacing expression had Sirius feeling no more comforted; the vacany in your eyes, the way you were scrunched into the corner, taking up as little space as physically possible. Scooting closer to you cautiously, his warmth washing over you in slow swathe, silence stretching between you.

“Are you okay?” his voice was quiet, careful.

It was too fast—too easy, the wa you nodded, not able to look at him. Gaze focused on an unimportant slab of concrete.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” he said, his thumb brushing slow circles over the back of your hand.

Another nod, a shorter silence gracing you.

Before you stood up abruptly, muttering something about needing to go, moving faster than Sirius could process. Words only computing when he heard your short excuse and rushed goodbyes to the others.

He followed you in, quiet in his pursuit, waiting until the living room door closed before he rush his endless flow of questions—why you were leaving, if you were alright. You waved them off, pulling your shoes on with hurried hands, pulling on your coat—swift to escape.

“Just need to go,” you said.

And Sirius stopped you at the door, stepping out onto the road with you, voices and laughter from inside barely audible through the cracked front door, now a distant hum.

“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” completely dismissive, voice pinched.

Sirius scoffed, disbelief cracking through his voice, frustration creeping in. “There’s plenty to talk about. And don’t lie to me—I know when you’re lying.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “Go back inside.” inching further down the path, putting a small distance between you.

“I’m just worried, alright? I’ve never seen you like that, you were shaking—.”

You huffed, turning your back to him, cutting him off. “—Sirius, I’m fine. Just drop it.”

Trailing away from him, walking down the driveway to the main road in hurried steps, and he was moving after you before he realised, instinctively reaching out, stopping you with with the soft pull of his hand around your wrist, his desperation seeping out, words adopting a pleading tone.

“At least let me drop you home—”

“No.”

The response was immediate, not even a second after his voice had uttered the words, home. So sharp, too much like a command, tone foreign to both your ears, voice cracked at the edges, panicked—raw.

He stopped, hands slipping from where they’d held you, palms raised. Your was breathing fast again, shoulders twitching with effort to stay composed, whole body ridged as though you were bracing yourself.

“Y/N…” he said your name like it hurt. And it did. Seeing you like this, curled in on yourself—it hurt in a way he hadn’t expected. And he stepped tentatively towards you, his approach so painfully careful—as if he was closing in on an injured animal, like he was fearful of scaring you away. You still wouldn’t look at him, but he could see it—that same dread swimming in your eyes and it made his stomach lurch.

“I’m sorry. I just want to make sure you’re okay. That you get home safe.”

With a shake of your head, you voice was quiet, hollow—“Don’t be sorry. I’m fine—I promise. Goodnight, Siri,”

And then you was walking away before he could stop you, the night swallowing your figure whole, shadow stretching before it vanished under the dull streetlights. His throat was painfully dry, the way you said his name, it lacked all aspects of you. Void of all warmth and wary, your empty words—promise—sounding too much like a lie for his liking.

Sirius stood there for a long time, the front door cracked open behind him—frozen on the pavement. A quiet ache twisted in his gut, cold and heavy as he pushed down the urge to chase after you. Brows furrowing further—tightly on his forehead as a small reality dawned on him.

He wouldn’t even know where to start.

He’d never been to your house, in all the years of knowing you, loving you, being your friend, he’d not once even seen the road you lived on, what your area looked like, what you went home to.

Stepping back inside the house where everything buzzed and thrived in his absence, settling solemnly into his seat—leg bouncing while he droned out the chatter around him—endlessly racking through his brain, almost spiralling.

Sighing as he tried to pinpoint just one time you’d spoken about your family, your home, something soild—real. But he couldn’t, not one detail. Not one word—throat tightening under the weight of his discovery, under the shame he felt.

It could be nothing, could be something—could be what he hoped and prayed it wasn’t. And now, he couldn’t stop replaying every second of what just happened, feeling sick to his stomach almost, scolding himself over and over. For not asking. For not realising. For not knowing for sure that you were okay.

The walk home was long, so long your feet burned in your shoes, hands tucked firmly into you coat pocket, fiddling with a loose string—the night’s biting wind had your ears burning. But you needed it—the time, the solitude. Watching the half-moon with a lonely eye, your only company until you reached your driveway.

Hesitating before you twisted the key, counting down slowly, fingers trembling and palms sweaty. Its been bad recently, the worst its been in a while; lasting especially long. And it had you on edge all the time, hands twitching around the door handle—and it was eerily silent.

You swallowed thickly, slipping off your shoes as silently as physically possible—treading up the stairs, recoiling under each whine and creak of the steps.

It felt like a short forever before you reached the top of the stairs and pausing, chest tight, fingers still wrapped in that string from your coat pocket. You didn't let go. You couldn't. That fraying thread was the only thing tethering you in the moment—something to anchor you before you crossed the threshold into your room.

The door clicked shut behind you with the softest sound, but it still made you wince. You stood in place for a second, maybe two—waiting. Listening. Hoping you hadn’t drawn attention, it was better this way—waiting for the storm to pass silently, with as little interaction as possible.

Looking down at your hands—red and raw from where you’d scratched them earlier, the skin near your thumb scabbed over. You picked at it without thinking. It was a habit you hadn’t even realised had gotten worse until Sirius noticed. You didn’t want him to notice. You didn’t want anyone to see the parts of you that were unravelling.

You curled up under the thin blanket on your bed, still in your clothes, pulling your knees to your chest. The silence wasn’t comforting anymore. It was just waiting for the next blow, the next explosion over the miniscule. And you lay awake like that for hours, flinching at every floorboard creak downstairs, eyes wide open in the dark, unable to find peace even in sleep—your pulse disruptive and invasive in your ears.

It was cruel, the way you felt trapped in your own space, in your own skin, folding in on yourself.

The look on Siriur’s face flashing behind your eyes—pleading, concerned. But you couldn’t drag him into this. He had escaped his own hell. He didn’t deserve to be tethered to someone else’s.

You turned over, burying your face in your pillow, holding your breath until your ribs ached. Truly forsaken—not even granted the small mercy of peace when with your friends—tainted with subsequent aftermath, the risidual burn from the scorching fire of your house.

Dinner was meant to be a break.

A breath of fresh air after two long, suffocating weeks. You had told yourself that over and over again while getting ready—while dabbing concealer beneath eyes sunken from too many nights spent awake. You’d smiled at your reflection in the mirror like you were rehearsing for a play. Even your voice, when it left your mouth, felt unfamiliar. Bright. Effervescent. Someone else's.

But the truth was your bones ached with exhaustion.

Two weeks passed. You hadn’t slept properly in days.

Maybe it was the walking-on-eggshells routine, the volatile rhythms of home. Maybe it was the internal noise that never seemed to stop—gnawing at the walls of your brain, keeping your body tired and your mind too wired to rest. You weren’t really sure anymore.

Your appetite had long since vanished. Food sat like lead in your stomach now—you hadn’t eaten all day, but the idea of it made your stomach lurch. The energy it took to just sit there—smiling, nodding, pretending—was all-consuming. The world felt too loud. Every clink of a glass. Every laugh. Every shifting of silverware scraped against the edges of your nerves.

Sitting at the restaurant table, smile wide, voice artifically light. You even laughed once or twice, chiming into the conversations with a manufactured sort of brightness. But it never reached your eyes.

But your posture was a little too perfect. Your hands too still in your lap—firmly pressed to your thighs so you wouldn’t give yourself away. Because the minute you let them move, they’d be scratching. Picking. Clawing. The skin at the base of your thumb already bore the quiet story of weeks spent fending off invisible monsters.

Sirius was watching you—he hadn’t looked away once in the past twenty minutes.

You could feel his eyes, a constant presence weighing on your shoulders. It was suffocating. He saw everything—every fake smile, every too-long blink, every glance downward as you recalibrated your mask.

And he wasn’t the only one watching anymore.

Regulus had clocked it too. His eyes didn’t leave you for long. The weight of their observation heavy on your shoulders—brothers with matching glares of concern—watching you across the table. Quiet. Calculating. Waiting.

It made your chest constrict.

So you excused yourself. Bathroom. You even smiled when you said it, tossing out a breathy little laugh to sell the illusion, leaving your phone on the table without thinking.

First mistake.

The bathroom was cool, mercifully quiet. You weren’t even gone for five minutes—fingers gripping the edge of the sink, letting your head fall forward. Gone just long enough to take just one breath. One single breath that didn’t feel like you were underwater.

When you returned to the table, something in the air had shifted.

Sirius had your phone. He wasn’t looking at it—not really. But he was holding it like it had burned him. The screen still lit up with missed calls. Texts. All from the same contact. Dozens of them. You felt the blood drain from your face.

Sirius didn’t look at you. Not directly. But you felt the flicker of his gaze as your expression fell—just a millimeter, just enough to crack the mask you’d so carefully painted on.

You forced another smile. Another hollow laugh. “I’ll just—step outside for a second,” you said, tone light, like your hands weren’t trembling at your sides.

He watched you slip out the back exit of the restaurant, disappearing into the alley. And the moment the door clicked shut behind you, you thumbed through your notifications and hit the call button.

It didn’t even ring once.

The voice on the other end was sharp. Cold. Punishment. Words hurled at you with precision and force, too fast for you to defend yourself. You tried anyway—murmuring apologies, soft placating words. Recoiling instinctively, holding the phone a few centimeters away from your ear as the berating began.

It wasn’t a conversation. It never was. Just a torrent of demands, accusations, complaints. Ech time you tried to get a word in, it only escalated the volume. Pacing the small space, like that might somehow drain the pressure building in your chest. Head bowed in shame—lump settling familiarly in your throat—one arm wrapped tightly around your torso, the other fiddling compulsively with the raw patch of skin by your thumb, picking until it bled.

Sirius cracked the back door open quietly. He’d lasted three minutes before excusing himself under the pretence of a smoke.

You didn’t even see him.

Didn’t hear him call your name quietly as he stepped into the alley.

But he heard everything.

The voice on the other end of the phone was loud even from a distance. Not the words, just the tone—loud and sharp enough that it cut through the quiet evening air. He watched the way you winced, head ducking as though the volume alone could bruise you—the way you flinched—physically leaned away from the device pressed to your ear. How your body shrank into itself as though trying to disappear. His stomach turned.

When you finally saw him, you froze.

He looked furious—hurt. And you backed up, instinctively shielding him from the sound, from your shame, from the bile being spilled into your ear, from the chaos bleeding through the tiny speaker.

The call ended after another five minutes, your voice small and desperate: “Yes, I understand. I’ll be home soon. I’m sorry—I’ll fix it.”

Silence followed. The kind that rang louder than shouting.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

A few long moments passed before your lips parted to say something, anything, but he cut you off, sharper than he meant to be; “Don’t—lie to me.”

It made the air in your throat catch, a grimancing frown pulled at the corners of your mouth as your eyes slipped shut, forcing a breath through your nose. His tone stung, the simmering anger in his voice almost too much—take a second to push down the urge to breakdown right then and there. Already on edge.

Sirius’s face immediately softened. He took a deep breath, correcting his tone before he spoke again, “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry. Please…just talk to me.” Lips curving into a frown when he stepped closer to you, and in return you back away slightly.

Your voice came out flat, strained, as you shook your head. “Can we not do this right now?”

And he runs a hand roughly through his hair, feet twitching in the ground, desperate to reduce the distance between you, he tried to keep the soft tone of his voice, regulate his emotions not just for your sake, exhaling hard. “If not now, then when? You’ve been holding this in for God knows how long. It’s not fair—just let me help you.”

“I don’t want your help,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I can handle it.”

His eyes widened. “Handle it?” he repeated, voice laced with disbelief. “You’re not handling anything—this isn’t handling it. This is barely surviving.”

“I don’t need you to rescue me, Sirius,” tone rising. “Not everyone gets to run away,” you snapped, the words out before you could stop them.

Your voice cracked, sharp and cutting, and his mouth fell open, recoiling like you’d hit him.

“Do you even hear yourself?” he asked bitterly, stepping closer. “You think this is normal? That panic attack you had at James and Lily’s?” He didn’t even notice the climbing volume of his voice, the abrasive tone his words took as he stepped further into your space—stopping just out of arms reach.

“That twenty-minute verbal assault on the phone?! That’s not normal?! That’s not love!”

His words ricochetted off the brick walls that surrounded you, loud and booming. It had you staggering a step back until your back hit the cold wall, like you were trying to disappear into it. Breathing turned jagged—short breaths that never made it out again. Eyes screwed tightly shut.

Hands came up instinctively in surrender, shoulders tensing, chest heaving.

Sirius’ heart cracked, all air punching out of his lungs—eyes glossy as he watched you shake.

You flinched away from him.

Sirius reeled, instantly stepping back. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry,” he breathed, hands held out in front of him like he was warding off a wild animal. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

But you couldn’t hear him. Not properly. The ringing in your ears was deafening, pressing your trembling hand to your mouth, trying to breathe, but your chest was tightening like a vice—vision blurring. The only sound filling the backroads were his slow, cautious footsteps closer, eacch pitched shallow fight for breath accompanying.

And your hand came out infront of you, as if to keep him away, trembling and outstretched like a shield between you and him—an unspoken plea for space.

But your breathing was no longer steady. It had unraveled completely, fractured into desperate, choking gasps, each one more strained than the last. Your chest rose and fell in stutters, panic carving hollows into your ribs, lungs too tight to hold even the shallowest breath.

Sirius froze, his heart in his throat at the sight of you unraveling in front of him. But then—slowly, carefully—he edged forward, hands open, voice impossibly gentle as he murmured your name over and over again like a prayer. Like the sound of it alone might bring you back to yourself.

“Hey, hey—breathe with me,” he whispered, voice steady even as panic swelled in his chest. “Just breathe. In. And out. Come on, love, with me.”

And something about his tone—low and sure, threaded with a kind of fragile desperation—broke through the haze. Hands latched onto him like you were drowning. He cradled your head to his chest, murmuring affirmations, stroking your hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Just breathe.”

You did your best to listen. To match the rhythm of his breathing, to follow the rise and fall of his chest, to drown out the echo of everything else.

And eventually, your gasps turned into shaky, stuttered breaths. Still uneven. Still fragile. But breaths, nonetheless.

Sirius held you for a moment longer, just breathing with you, hands never leaving your skin—afraid that if he let go, you might disappear altogether.

“Do you want to go back inside?” he whispered, voice barely audible.

You shook your head. “I have to go.”

His brows drew together. “You’re not serious—you're not going back there.”

“They need me,” you said quietly, still not looking at him.

“Y/N, they’re hurting you.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just stepped away—untangling yourself from his arms, slipping from his grasp with quiet finality.

And all he could do was watch—stood there, helpless, in that dark alley as you walked away.

The ghost of you still in his arms, the ghost of you pressed into his chest lingered, carved into his memory like a wound. His lungs ached. His eyes burned. His heart—he wasn’t sure he still had one. It had followed you down the street, scattered in broken pieces behind you.

The back door swung shut behind him. Inside, laughter echoed. Warmth spilled from the lights and the soft hum of conversation. But Sirius felt none of it. Just the sting of cold night air and the bitter ache of the knowledge that you were suffering.

The following days were unbearable for Sirius. He tried to keep himself distracted—he really did—but every time he sat down, his eyes would flick to his phone. And when there wasn’t a notification lighting up the screen, he’d pick it up anyway, tapping to refresh the messages you hadn’t answered.

He called you more than he’d admit—morning, midday, evening. Sometimes just to leave voicemails: “Hey, just checking in… again. Let me know you're okay, alright? Please.”

But you rarely answered. When you did, it was always the same. Vague assurances, soft and distant: I'm fine. Don’t worry.

But Sirius did worry. Constantly. He couldn't help it.

He found himself wandering the halls of Grimmauld Place like a ghost, distracted and irritable. The silence echoed louder than anything else, and it left him pacing the creaking floorboards of Grimmauld Place, heart thudding with unease. He hovered by the fireplace more than once, fingers twitching with the urge to call Kreacher to search for you—just to know you were somewhere, breathing, safe. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to breach your trust, even if it cost him his peace of mind.

Then came the silence.

By the third day, his calls stopped going through altogether. Messages went unread.

Not even a "seen." Just nothing.

Not even the hollow comfort of your voice. And that silence drove him mad. Rain lashed against the windows that evening, dark clouds crawling across the sky like bruises spreading. A storm had rolled in and so had the panic in his chest. Something was wrong. He knew it. Felt it deep in his bones.

You were just making dinner when it happened.

Standing quietly at the stove, stirring, trying to stay invisible. But they came in, heavy-footed and already brimming with rage. The moment the door swung shut behind them, it all snapped. And you barely had time to brace yourself before their voice exploded through the kitchen.

“Useless. Just fucking useless. Can’t even stand the sight of you anymore—GET OUT. OUT!”

You didn’t move right away. You stood still, spoon hanging limply from your hand, staring at the bubbling pot like it might anchor you in place. But then you set it down gently. Shoes. Jacket. Phone. That’s all you took.

And then you walked. No direction. Just away.

The sky wept with you as you wandered aimlessly, soaked to the bone, your skin ice-cold and trembling. Hours seemed to pass—or maybe it was minutes. The line blurred in your exhaustion. Your eyes were bloodshot, swollen, throat raw from holding in sobs that still found their way out. And then, as if your legs had decided for you, you found yourself standing at the foot of Grimmauld Place. It loomed tall and dark, but it wasn’t scary.

It was familiar.

Safe.

Your hands were trembling so violently it was hard to hold the phone, your fingers fumbling until Sirius’ name was highlighted in green. The rain relentless, soaking through every layer of clothing, your skin burned from the cold.

Staring up at the steps for a long moment before lifting your phone with shaking hands, battery hanging on its last breath.

The call connected on the first ring. “Y/N?” His voice cracked with urgency. “Y/N?! Where are you—?”

But you couldn’t speak.

The only thing he heard was the storm. The rain pouring and your soft, broken sobs tangled in its rhythm. He was already moving, phone clutched tight to his ear.

Sirius didn’t hesitate. He was out the door in seconds, shoelaces untied, jacket forgotten, his voice cracked, “I’m coming, I’m coming—just hang on, alright?” as he threw open the door, leaving it wide open as he raced outside into the storm.

But there you were. Just at the bottom of the steps, a ghost in the rain. He froze for a moment, heart seized in his chest at the sight of you—drenched, shaking, hollow-eyed and utterly broken. He didn’t hesitate after that.

Rushing down, wrapping his arms around you, whispering your name like it was the only thing he knew how to say. You didn’t resist. You didn’t speak. You just leaned into him, letting your head fall to his shoulder as he half-dragged, half-carried you inside.

The warmth of the house hit you like a wave, but it didn’t reach you. Sirius took your coat off with trembling hands, calling Kreacher in a voice tight with urgency. The elf vanished to prepare a bath as Sirius led you to his room, cradling your shivering body with care.

You stood motionless, silent tears accompanying the drips from your clothing on the rug—barely there. He fetched a towel, wrapped you in it, pulling you gently into his arms again as you finally hiccuped out, “Didn’t know where else to go.”

He cradled your head gently, resting his chin there, whispering.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me now. You’re home, yeah? You’re home.”

You didn’t nod, just let him hold you, your body trembling in his embrace. When the bath was ready, he guided you there slowly, his hand on your back like a tether, steady and warm. You let him undress you like a doll, mechanical and unresponsive, let him wash your hair with careful fingers, his touch delicate, reverent—like if he was too rough, you might shatter completely.

Afterwards, he dressed you in his clothes, gently guiding your arms through sleeves, pulling the jumper down over your head. You sat where he put you, legs curled under you on the sofa, barely blinking.

He brought food—warm, nourishing—but the moment the smell hit you, your stomach turned. Your hand shot up to your mouth, eyes watering with a lurch of nausea. Sirius reacted instantly, waving the food away, concern etched deep in the lines of his face.

He brought you back to his bed, wrapping you up in the thick duvet, curling himself around you like a barrier against the world.

You barely registered when the door knocked gently and Regulus stepped inside, a mug of tea in hand. He said nothing, just handed it over with a soft look, his concern etched in the way he lingered before retreating.

Sirius coaxed you to sit up, holding the cup near your lips, voice tender. “Just try, yeah? Please.” Palm warm against your spine, making small soothing circles of encouragement, eyes pleading before he continue

“You haven’t eaten or drank anything since you got here. Just a sip. For me.”

A long pause. And then, finally, you nodded. The smallest motion. He let out a quiet sigh of relief and helped you sip slowly, one hand around yours to keep the mug steady.

When you finished, he set the cup aside and pulled you back into his chest, wrapping the duvet around the two of you like a cocoon. You were shivering again, even under the warmth, so he rubbed soft circles into your back.

“You’re so brave, you know that?” lips brushing your temple as he spoke softly. “You’ve been so strong for so long. But it’s okay now. You don’t have to go back. Not ever. You’re staying here. With me.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought you’d slipped into sleep—until the first shake.

That was when you broke—really broke. Not violently. Not loudly. Just a soft, unraveling cry that soaked into his shirt, your fingers weakly clutching the fabric, your breath hitching in little sobs you couldn’t control. He held you through it all, his own eyes stinging.

“So tired, Sirius.”

His throat closed. A sharp, painful tug in his chest.

“I know, love.” he murmured, kissing your temple with trembling lips. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. Just close your eyes. You’re safe here. You can rest.”

The rain still whispered outside, but within Grimmauld Place, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself fall into sleep.

And Sirius stayed awake long after you’d gone quiet, holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to this earth—because maybe you were.

He pressed one last kiss to your temple, letting his eyes slip shut.

[yuriisclumsy]

hii! How are you darling :)

Can i request a crack/ funny and fluffy cale x pregnant reader ? Like she is a few months pregnant, so cale and the kids always lay with her and dont let her do much.

Ofc the others are overprotective of her, bc like shes clumsy😭 like always falling down the stairs, nose bleeds (me core) and she watched everyone panic while looking at them with a deadpanned look bc

1. Shes a baddie whos to hot to die

2.the baby is fine and alive

And cale is loosing his mind bc he cannot leave her alone for two mins bc she will somehow make even more trouble simply bc shes ✨just a girl ✨

Stay still, will you?

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝:1,267

»»►This is a funny scenario. I like to think Cale is a super, over the top, overprotective, man. If you mess with those he cares about or loves, you’re about to find yourself in an interesting situation. 

»»►But when Cale finds out he’s going to be a papa, he goes wild. Forget accepting whatever mission the crown prince wants him to do, he needs to be right next to his wife–24/7. 

»»►And let’s be honest with ourselves, this man would literally take this chance to laze around even more. This is the life he wanted, no? 

»»►Oh, but his dear wife doesn’t like sitting still for more than a minute. This is torture for her—but can’t do anything about it because her husband and (adopted)kids want her to relax and take care of herself and the baby. 

»»►But, why? You may ask. That’s for the single fact that she is clumsy (hey just like me!). She crashes stuff, trips, falls, hurts herself—according to Cale and the others—she denies such accusations—and last but not least, she gets herself in trouble. 

»»►So, yeah. [Name] have no “stepping outside the state” privileges until after the baby is here physically. But [Name] is a tough cookie. She can handle herself when no-one is around. So—to everyone’s dismay—she goes outside one day. It’s just to stroll around and see what has progressed in Harris Village. 

»»►One thing to note: she didn’t tell a soul about her outing. 

»»►Now imagine Cale’s face when he comes back to see the staff panicking for the whereabouts of his wife. 

»»►Let's just say…it was chaotic that day. 

“Woah, that looks tasty...!” [Name] drooled at the sight. 

“Good morning, lady [Name]! What can I get you today?” The shop owner greeted [Name] with a smile. 

“Can I have this please?” [Name] pointed to one of the delicacies of the bakery. It was a croissant-looking-bread stuffed full of chocolate. 

The owner of the bakery gave her a bag filled with what she ordered. “Here you go! Please come back soon!” the owner waved goodbye. 

“I will!” She waved back at the owner. [Name] took one of the baked goods and began to eat it.  

“I wonder how everyone is doing at the state.” 

… 

“LADY [NAME]!” 

“M’lady! Where are you?!” 

“Does anyone remember the last place [Name] went to?!” 

“M’lady, please be okay!” 

Currently, everyone is in a frenzy. The lady of the house was nowhere to be found, and everyone and their mothers were running like headless chickens in search of her. And if they did not find her, their master was going to kill them! 

“What is with the commotion here?” a voice spoke from the entrance of the manor. 

Everything stopped. Slowly, the housekeepers and butlers turned their heads towards the voice. They knew this voice. Very well in fact. Although they grew to like it, right now, they wish they didn’t hear it. They prayed that it was a ghost. Dread overtook them as they saw the voice’s owner. 

Cale Henituse. Their young master. And the husband of the manor’s lady they were trying to find. 

“So? Is anyone going to tell me why you are all running like the world just ended?” Cale spoke. 

Who was mad enough to even dare to tell the young master that his wife magically disappeared? Not me. And not anyone in this room.  

Yet a brave soul stood up and spoke. May he rest in peace. 

“Ah…y-young mater Cale,” a young butler went forward and vowed, stammering in his word, “we..uh…. Can’t find lady [Name] anywhere...?” 

“...” 

“...” 

It was deafeningly silent. No one moved an inch, waiting—waiting for the order to execute them. They fully accepted their fate. 

“Well, what are you all just standing there for?” he spoke, breaking the iceberg. 

“Huh?” 

“Standing still isn't going to bring back [Name].” He stood there, staring at the crowd. 

He was right. 

They needed to get back to searching for Lady [Name]!  

A chorus of ‘yes, sir!’ was heard before a horde of housekeepers and butlers left in search of their Lady. 

“*sigh* Why are you like this [Name]...?” Cale whispered and looked up. He slowly walked to the exit of the manor heading to the town; the children followed after him–this included Choi Han. 

“Master Cale, where are you going?” Hans asked. 

“I’m going to the market area in the town,” he said, not bothering to look back. “Ron, make my bed as comfortable as you can make, will you?” 

“Yes, young master.” Ron responded. 

“Great.” 

… 

Lovely day for [Name] sitting in the shade of an umbrella and her delicious foods. Going from one shop to another, she had managed to gather a lot of food. She had gone overboard again, yes, but the baby she was carrying and her were happy. Who could ever disturb such happiness? 

“[Name].” A male voice called her name firmly from behind. 

Of course. The only person that could was her husband. [Name] knew he only meant good, but right now he had broken that tranquility. 

“Oh! Cale, love, darling, how are you...?” [Name] turned and looked at him nervously. The children had gathered around her–with Raon being invisible naturally. 

“[Name]...” Cale rubbed the temples of his face before sighing, “why are you out?” he asked sternly. 

“Well clearly, I was taking a walk. And I bought some snacks on the way.” She answered, petting both Hong and Raon while On made herself comfortable in her lap. 

“What–no. That’s not what I meant.” 

“You asked why I was out, and I told you why.” 

“You know exactly why I asked that.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” [Name] gave the children the treats she had bought earlier. 

“[Name], please. You know how dangerous it is for you to be here right now. You are due at any point now! And I just…agh..I just want you to stay safe.” He said in frustration. 

[Name] looked at him, feeling a bit guilty that he is like that. She had reached her ninth month a week ago, making this month the most crucial. She just didn’t want to stay locked up in her room all the time. It was something that did not sit right with her. 

“I’m sorry…” [Name] looked down in shame. 

“I…*sigh* You are going to be the death of me.” Cale came closer to her and placed his hands underneath her. 

“Hu-huh? Cale? What are you doing?” panicking a little before realizing he was going to carry her. 

“Carry you, obviously.” He scuffed. “We’re going back to the manor.” 

“Aww…can’t we go to another shop? It’ll be the last one, I promise!” Her begging went to deaf ears. He wasn’t letting her get away with it, so she started to wiggle her way out his arm. 

“Stay still, will you?” 

“Not until I get my last treat.” 

“*sight…* Fine. But you’ll have it after dinner. Dinner is going to be served soon.” Cale said while walking to the nearest candy shop. 

“Mmmm, I'm fine with that. Oh! Choi Han, hello. Sorry, I didn’t notice you there.” 

“It’s fine lady [Name].” Choi Han gave her a small nod. 

“Moooom…I want a treat too!” 

“I also want one!” 

“The great Roan Miru will get one too, right?” 

“Wait a second. Since when do they call you mom?” Cale asked in confusion. 

“Yes, yes. All of you will get one.” 

“Don’t ignore me.” 

Choi Han giggled as Cale continued to ask and get ignored by them. 

Fin 

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Master-List

[dilemmaontwolegs]

just gonna put this here while its fresh in my mind but since lando has been wildin and wont stfu about OF... what if reader does OF 😏 faceless and lando makes a cameo once in a while😵‍💫😵‍💫 OKAY BYE WHY IS HE LIKE THIS LATELY

Your Biggest Fan || Ln4

Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, masturbating, only fans WC: 1.3k

One || Two || SMAU || Three

You were a solo act, that was your choice. Everyone who subscribed to your account knew the deal despite offers from some very big names in the industry - you were happy on your own - you couldn’t risk getting caught. Your parents would surely disown you, but you liked the danger that came with your side hustle. 

You could still remember the day he subscribed, top tier no less. The username was generic and he kept his camera turned off but that wasn’t unusual - you preferred to keep your face hidden too. A selection of toys lay across your bed and he hummed indecisively while he internally debated which one to watch you play with this time.

“If I was there, I know what I would do,” he mused, his voice dropping in a way that had your stomach flipping.

You settled amongst the pile of pillows surrounding you, keeping your face above the view of the camera, and teased your nipples while you patiently waited for his choice. “Yeah, what would you do to me?”

Your touch ran further down your body and you spread your legs for him. His breathing changed to slower, deeper intakes and you wished he had his camera on so you could see the effect you had on him. 

“Fuck, I would fill you so good, babygirl,” he groaned. “I would make you cum harder than any of those toys can. You don’t even have one big enough to stretch you like I could.”

Your pussy clenched at the threat and you grabbed the biggest dildo from the pile, running the tip through your slit. You moaned as you pressed it to your entrance and it slowly slid home, filling you completely as you pumped it all the way to the base. “This one stretches me pretty good, big boy.”

“Not as good as I could.”

“Brave words for someone who can’t prove it,” you dared. 

There was some shuffling before his camera lit up and half of your screen filled with a toned stomach, muscled thighs and a dick that put your toy to shame. You sat up straighter, wanting a closer look and salivated at the way he stroked himself, his thumb and fingers not even touching because of the girth.

“Fuck me,” you exhaled longingly.

“Don’t tempt me, babygirl.” He dragged his thumb through the bead of precum and his hand disappeared from view as he licked it clean, something you were completely jealous of. “Now turn around, I want to see you fuck yourself and pretend it’s me.”

You did as you were told, more than eager now that you had the image to use. You got on your hands and knees, reaching between your legs to pump the dildo in time to his strokes, moaning in unison at the sight. Wanting to give him the best show, you shimmied back so he had the best view of the silicone cock stretching your pussy.

“That’s it, come to daddy.” His filthy words surrounded you and your back arched as you fucked yourself for him. You were nearing your orgasm and the sight of his cum spilling over his fist and abs threw you into oblivion. His urging kept you going, even when your orgasm tried to squeeze the toy from your pussy, you kept stuffing it back in until the pressure grew too much and you fell panting to the bed, the blanket wet from the fluid that had gushed from you.

“Holy shit, babygirl, that was fucking amazing,” he praised as you struggled to catch your breath. “Fuck, I have to go. Same time next week?”

“Only if you have your camera on again, big boy,” you half joked, half wishing he would.

“For you, babygirl, of course,” he chuckled and wiped up his mess with a green and white shirt you were sure you had seen the logo for before. “I’m your biggest fan, I would do anything you said.”

“I’ll have to remember that, big boy. See you next week.”

You ended the feed and closed the site down for the night before cleaning up the toys and changing your bed sheets. You had never squirted like you had with L404 and you briefly wondered if you should invest in some waterproof bedding. 

It was late by the time you had showered and settled back into the fresh sheets but you weren’t able to sleep. With nothing better to do, you logged into Twitch and browsed the Just Chatting category for some white noise, eventually coming across a streamer with nearly 20k fellow viewers.

You were a little disappointed to see it wasn’t Just Chatting but playing Fortnite and you nearly left the stream. You weren’t interested in trying to sleep to the sound of gunfire. Before you could exit, you heard the voice. It was one you were intimate with, one that sent goosebumps prickling over your skin.

“Come to daddy,” Lando, that was his name, said. He laughed with his friends he was playing the game with and they joked while oblivious to the epiphany you were having. “Ohhh, doggy man.”

The handsome man in the tiny square of your screen was L404, your biggest fan. 

Hey big boy, you sent to the chat and watched it get swamped by the hundreds of other comments. 

“Ha, mate, someone called you big boy.”

Lando’s head snapped away from the game and he was quickly shot but he didn’t care as he scrolled through the chat to find your username. It was different enough that it wouldn’t be linked to your Only Fans but had enough similarities that he recognised the name. “Shit, I gotta go. Something’s come up.”

He logged off without a goodbye and the comments blew out with disappointment and questions.

Suddenly, your email pinged with a new message: L404 was requesting another private chat. 

“Hey big boy,” you answered as you sat up in bed, grateful you were wearing a cute lace babydoll nightie. “Back so soon?”

His camera was off but now that you had seen his face you could only imagine the confusion on it.  “Uh, did you…what you saw…did you…” 

You giggled at the loss of his confidence, such a stark change from how he was an hour ago. “You’ll have to finish your question for me to answer, Lando.”

“Fuck.” His camera came on and you had a much larger picture of him. He wasn’t just handsome, he was gorgeous. You desperately wanted to run your hands through his curls and tug on them, maybe while they were between your legs. “No one can know, please, it will ruin my career.”

Taking a deep breath, you tipped the camera back and looked him in the eyes. Realisation dawned on his face and his lips parted in shock. “Guess we both know each other’s secret now.”

“You…you’re…”

“Yup, that’s me.” Like most rich families, your parents had moved to Monaco for the tax haven it provided and you had fallen in love with the province too, opting to buy your own place in the city when you left home.

“So…” You bit your lip as the idea danced on your tongue and Lando remained in a state of shock. “I remember someone threatening to stretch a certain part of me…”

Lando swallowed deeply before licking his dry lips. “On camera?”

It was your turn to think before nodding. “If you’re up for it, I can make an exception to the rule. We might need to practice a few times, you know, compatibility wise.”

He nodded, the thought growing more and more interesting and he palmed his erection beneath the desk. “Practice sounds good. Tonight?”

The idea of sleep was long gone and your nipples were clearly visible through the lace, the stiff peaks begging for attention. “Come on then, big boy,” you teased as you sent him your address. “I’ll see you soon.”

Click here for part two.

[miaoua3]

hii ! could you do a jeonghan drabble where like hes cuddling reader and soothing her period cramps away ? also could u make it 600 words+ (if u can!!) becus i LOVE jeonghan fluff and i only can find those short ones ☹️ thank you !

hii! ofc i can do it, i just don’t know if i can make it 600+ words as that is quite long and i have 20+ requests in my inbox atm😭 still, i hope that you like it!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••

(pairing: bf! jeonghan x f! reader)

warning: mentions of cramps and blood

you twist your whole body until your face ends up buried inside your pillow, eyebrows furrowed as you try to brave for another wave of pain and cramps.

you really hated surprises, especially when it’s a surprise period that we are talking about. you weren’t supposed to get it for another few days, usually somewhat on time. to say that you were completely unprepared for this is an understatement.

the cramps are so bad this time, you can’t honestly remember the last time they were this bad. unfortunately for you, the medicine doesn’t seem to be kicking in for some reason, leave you at mercy of the strong pain in your tummy.

you hold onto your tummy strongly, pushing your hands into your skin as you moan and groan in pain. you peak with one eye at the bloody sheets that you only had the strength to peel them off and throw them onto the floor, mentally making a note to put them to wash later, once your cramps stop feeling as if you are getting stabbed.

it is at moments like this you wish your boyfriend had a more flexible job, just so you could call him and ask him to come home.

almost like a prayer getting answered, you hear the front door unlocking, opening and closing, before you hear hannie’s sweet voice calling for you.

“angel? are you there? i’m home!”

you groan as you weakly call out “in the bedroom”.

in the matter of seconds, hannie appears, his joyful mood immediately souring at your state, cooing in empathy.

“oh baby why didn’t you say anything? i would’ve been home much earlier had i known that you got your period.”, he slowly approaches you before he sits down beside you, pushing the messy and frizzy hair out of your face as he looks at you with sad eyes.

you close your eyes as another wave of pain and nausea hits you, before you answer him through gritted teeth “didn’t want to bother you…plus you are here earlier either way so..”

jeonghan frowns at your words for a second before he bends down to kiss your temple, softly mumbling against your warm skin “you are never a bother to me, baby. next time, whatever the case-if you need me, call me.”

from there on, you completely shut your brain off, because jeonghan takes over and does everything he can think of to help you relax. takes a shower with you where he makes sure that the water is hot enough that it burns his skin off but he ignores the pain because he can see that it helps you with your pain. changes the sheets and puts the bloody ones into the washing machine. boils the water for the hot water bottle for you to hold onto.

and lastly, he gets into bed with you, his strong chest pressed deeply into your back as he hugs you from behind.

it seems that the painkiller finally started to kick in, or maybe your boyfriend has a magic touch, because the moment he stuck his hand under your shirt and started to softly massage and rub your tummy, your cramps started to get better, finally allowing you to relax and enjoy your boyfriends presence.

you close your eyes as you enjoy the series of kisses jeonghan softly presses into the nape of your neck, his lips taking time as he presses them into your skin. although you can feel how they are a bit scratchy, probably due to him biting them from all the stress he had to endure during the day, you just ignore the feeling and just…let his presence calm yours down.

his big and strong hand on your tummy continues to rub slow circles on it, the warm water bottle completely abandoned by you in the name of feeling the warmth jeonghan provides to you. his other hand (the one you are laying on) is intertwined with one of yours, thumb rubbing soft circles on the back of your hand.

you two don’t speak, whatever show playing on your tv providing the only sounds within the four walls of your shared bedroom.

you feel yourself slowly drifting off to dreamland, but before you can fully succumb to the sweet dreams, jeonghan presses one soft kiss onto your cheek, waking you up immediately upon feeling the touch on your skin.

his tired yet soft voice gently asks you “feeling better, my angel?”

you only have it in yourself to nod and whisper a small ‘thank you’ before you feel your eyes slowly close again, all on their own.

as you drift away, almost pain free and completely comfortable in your lover’s embrace, you hear his voice softly say

“nothing to thank me for. anything for you, baby. anything for you.”

[sthilarions]

Had an idea that I can’t think too much about without it fucking me up so I’m offering y’all the bare bones

Charles gets made alive again as the consequence of an accidental wish. They’re never quite sure who heard the wish; a djinn, a monkey’s paw, a fey, a powerful witch, a god, an Endless. It doesn’t really matter, in the end. A wish is a wish.

The thing about being alive is that you can’t remember being dead. Mortal minds fundamentally can’t comprehend it, they’d snap under the strain, and whoever granted the wish, they seem to have been kind, more or less. They made sure Charles remembered nothing of being dead except for the traditional white light that is all mortal minds can hold on to. And they made sure he was able to more or less seamlessly fit into modern life, despite effectively appearing from nowhere with no records, via having him take the place of a 16 year old who had just died. They fix him up with Life so fully that he doesn’t even count as having had a near-death experience. A remarkably thorough job, really.

You may have noticed the issue.

Crystal, at first, thinks it should be an easy fix. She can go and tell Charles what’s happened, maybe they bop him on the head so he can see ghosts, and they become the One Dead Boy One Living Boy and One Psychic Girl Detective Agency.

Edwin has to stop her physically, in the end.

Because they can’t. They can’t remind Charles of his afterlife. They can’t risk those memories coming back, breaking through whatever barrier the wish-granter placed. They can’t risk Charles’s brain melting in ways he would never recover from, might even not recover from after his eventual death.

They can’t do anything.

For several years, Edwin and Crystal and Niko run the Agency together. It’s rocky, but Niko provides just enough of a stabilizing influence to keep Edwin and Crystal from killing each other. The girls grow out of it eventually, move on to the wider mortal world, and Edwin works solo for only a few months before putting up a Closed sign on the Agency door.

Charles has married, by then. A wonderful girl, a spitfire, clever and sharp. Edwin moves in to the empty lot across from their house, and he waits.

He waits as Charles has two children, who are warm and clever and sharp and brave. Too brave, too reckless; Edwin saves their lives half a dozen times, from falling out of trees, from fights they shouldn’t have gotten involved in, once from a riot cop putting down a protest.

He waits as the children grow up, moves with Charles when he and his wife become empty-nesters.

He waits as Charles becomes more and more respected in his profession, and finally retires with the greatest of honor; moves with Charles again to a house by the sea. Charles always liked the ocean.

He waits as Charles’s wife gets brain cancer. Three years later, he waits at her bedside, his hand on Charles’s shoulder, unfelt. He ducks out of the room just as Death comes, and then back, holds his arms around Charles for hours as Charles holds his wife’s cooling hand, and he knows his ghostly touch is making Charles shiver but he can’t bring himself to let go.

He waits as Charles’s grandchildren get older.

He waits as Charles gets Alzheimer’s, and sometimes when Charles stares into the distance it seems like he’s staring at Edwin, but Edwin can never quite be sure.

And finally, one day, it’s time to stop waiting.

Edwin sits at Charles’s bedside, hand over his, in a chair left empty between the children and grandchildren, because many of them can see him, by now. He’s told them he’s Charles’s guardian angel, and that they must never, ever tell Charles.

He sits, and he thinks he’s never been more terrified in all his existence, even in Hell, even when he was dying himself.

He sits.

Charles closes his eyes.

Charles sits up.

Charles opens his eyes again, and they look right where they should, like they’ve been pulled by a magnet, like they’re pulled by destiny.

“Edwin? Are you all right?”

[zeroseuniverse]

Folded Notes

Word Count: 875 Summary: When Jeongin wasn’t looking, she slipped a folded note into the side pocket of his backpack."I saw you smile at the little kid playing outside earlier. It made me smile too." Pairing: Jeongin X Fem Reader

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The sun filtered through the wide classroom windows, casting dappled patterns across the desks. Jeongin sat a few rows from the front, glancing discreetly to his left. There she was, perched near the window, her notebook open and pen in hand. He smiled faintly to himself as he watched her draw, her fingers gliding over the margins of her notes. The sketches were small but intricate—flowers, clouds, little animals that seemed to frolic across the page.

She didn’t know it, but Jeongin admired those tiny details more than she could imagine. He wasn’t brave enough to strike up a real conversation, even though she’d exchanged polite smiles and the occasional "Hi." Words always seemed to lodge in his throat when he thought about speaking to her. Instead, he channeled his thoughts into something simpler: little notes, left anonymously in her sketchbook.

It started on a whim.

One day, she’d stepped away from her desk, leaving her sketchbook open. Jeongin had noticed a drawing of a small bird perched on a tree branch. He scribbled a quick message on a sticky note: "Your art is beautiful. Keep going!" With his heart hammering, he tucked it between the pages and returned to his seat.

When she came back and found it, he saw her surprised smile from the corner of his eye. His chest warmed at the sight, and he knew he’d do it again.

Over the next few weeks, the notes became a ritual.

"Good luck on your exam today—you’ll do great!""The bunny you drew yesterday was adorable!""Your flowers make even the margins look like a garden."

Jeongin spent more time crafting those small, heartfelt messages than he ever spent on his own assignments. He would sneak them into her sketchbook during breaks, always careful not to get caught. The way her face lit up each time she found one made it worth the risk.

But what Jeongin didn’t know was that she had started to notice him, too.

At first, she was simply curious about her anonymous admirer. Who was kind enough to leave such sweet messages? But as the days passed, her attention drifted to Jeongin—the quiet boy who sat a few rows away. She noticed the way his pencil tapped rhythmically against his notebook when he was deep in thought. She caught the soft hums he let slip when he thought no one was listening. And that laugh of his—low, shy, but utterly infectious—it lingered in her mind long after class ended.

It didn’t take long to piece it together.

The timing of the notes, the proximity of his seat, the way he avoided her gaze whenever she caught him glancing her way—it all pointed to Jeongin.

The next day, she decided it was her turn.

When Jeongin wasn’t looking, she slipped a folded note into the side pocket of his backpack.

"I saw you smile at the little kid playing outside earlier. It made me smile too."

When he found it later, Jeongin froze. His heart raced as he read the message over and over, his mind spinning. Was it... her? He glanced in her direction, but she was focused on her notebook, as if nothing had happened.

The game had begun.

The following days were filled with small exchanges.

"You have a really nice laugh. I wish I could hear it more often.""I noticed you always lend people your extra pens. You're really thoughtful.""That doodle of the cat with sunglasses? Hilarious."

Jeongin couldn’t believe it. The person he’d admired from afar was now leaving notes for him. Each message felt like a gentle nudge, encouraging him to be a little braver. But still, neither of them made the first move.

The tension built with every exchange, a delightful mix of excitement and nervousness. She started leaving notes in his notebook. He began slipping messages under the edges of her sketchbook. The unspoken game pulled them closer and closer, like magnets drawn together.

One crisp afternoon, Jeongin finally decided he couldn’t wait any longer.

Class had just ended, and most students had filed out. Gathering his courage, Jeongin walked over to her desk. His hands trembled as he slid a folded note onto the corner of her sketchbook.

She looked up, startled, meeting his gaze. For the first time, he didn’t look away.

With a small smile, she unfolded the note.

"Can I take you out for coffee?"

Her heart fluttered. Without a word, she opened her bag and pulled out a bundle of folded papers. She placed them on the desk between them.

Jeongin’s eyes widened as he recognized the notes—his notes. But when she flipped through the stack, he realized something else: his notes were mixed with the ones she’d been leaving for him.

“I guess we’ve both been playing the same game,” she said softly, her cheeks tinted pink.

Jeongin stared at her, his lips parting in surprise. Then, a slow, radiant smile spread across his face.

“So... is that a yes?” he asked nervously, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, laughing lightly. “I’d love to.”

And just like that, the game of notes ended where it was always meant to—with two hearts finally meeting, no longer hidden behind words on paper.

[revelboo]

Some wheeljack smut, your majesty? 🙏🏻

I’ve been summoned by the mention of Wheeljack smut. I love Jackie so much, he was and still is my favorite, though Soundwave gives him a run for his money- why they’re both in Needs and Wants

18+ Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Wheeljack Scenarios- Intimacy

G1 Wheeljack x Reader

• Mouth sliding against yours, the tips of his servos ghost down your spine, over your thigh. Afraid of being too rough with you without meaning to. Those soft hands of yours are on his vocal indicators as you shift where you’re sitting in his lap straddling him. Moving restlessly against him as he vents raggedly. Letting you set the pace and your fingers slide down his chassis to trace around the edge of his modesty plating as rock yourself against him, lips parting on a moan to let his glossa steal inside. Wants to bend you backwards, cover you and claim you, but knows he can’t dare. Hates when his hands leave bruises on you, feeling like he’s failed you. Hurting you even though you never complain about it.

• Wish he’d let loose and seize control, instead of being so gentle like you’re going to break under his touch. And you wish you were brave enough to just tell him what you want instead of doing it his way. Mouth brushing from the corner of yours down along your jaw, you keep moving against him, fingers teasing his plating. Wanting his spike. Feel his mouth open against your neck, the scrape of his denta electric through you, and he finally frees his spike for you, groaning when you grip him and begin rocking more insistently against him. Watching those vocal indicators get pinker for you.

• Head falling back, he watches you shift over him, reaching to grip his spike and slide it against your slick heat. Palms brushing over your hips as you look down at him, eyes dark with arousal, you’re beautiful. Alien. His. And then you’re taking his spike deep, whimpering as his hips lift at the feel of you wrapped so tightly around him. Wanting to roll you under him, lose control thrusting against you. “I love you,” he murmurs, watching you ride him, finding a rhythm. Satisfying himself with stroking his servos over your belly, up along your ribs. Watching your lips part as you bounce on his spike. Wanting more, but afraid to risk hurting you. Afraid to take what he needs.

ES Wheeljack x Reader

• Looking up when the door slides open, your smile wavers when Wheeljack wanders over to you and the berth and just sprawls across the end of it face down. Biting back a laugh, you move closer and reach out to run your palm over one of the fins on his helm and he groans, mass displacing and reaching to hook an arm around you, dragging you down onto your knees. “Rough day?” You ask as he buries his face against your lap and curls his arms around you. Being so dramatic that you’re sure something went wrong with one of his inventions.

• Tries so hard to be upbeat and positive. Optimistic, but sometimes it seems like everything he does goes wrong. That all of his inventions are flawed and behind his closed door with you is the only place he can stop smiling. Stop pretending nothing bothers him. Hates burdening you with this, but he can’t seem to stop himself either. Soft hands stroke over his helm, soothing him with your touch, your scent. And he reaches up to touch your wrist, pulling it to him to press a kiss against your palm. “Better now,” he murmurs.

• Smiling down at him when his head tilts enough you can see one blue optic looking up at you, you run the pad of your thumb against his cheek. Looks so tired, always busy, never stopping like he’s afraid to. Like if he does he thinks he’s failed everyone else. They’re always asking him for things, to make things and it makes you feel guilty to ask him for anything more. Even his time. But he’s sliding a palm up your spine as he presses his face against your belly. And you start stripping for him and he shifts over you, mouth brushing skin as it’s revealed. Always worrying about everyone else and never himself. “Jack,” you whisper when he brushes a kiss against your inner thigh and he looks up your body at you. Smiling tiredly before his mouth is on you, glossa stroking over you, inside you as you arch. Taking care of you.

TFP Wheeljack x Reader

• Head sleepily lifting when his palm thumps down on the berth near your hip, his other hand is gripping your thigh to nudge you open to him. “Jackie,” you groan in protest. “I’m not even awake.” Hear him laugh at that, servos running over your inner thigh and then he’s stroking you, coaxing your body until it’s on board with the plan sleepy or not. There’s really no stopping him when he’s in a mood and he always seems to be. Hugging a pillow to yourself, you squint over your shoulder at him when he steals a couple of your extra pillows, and manhandles you so your hips are propped up and open.

• “You miss me?” He growls, servos playing with you as he kneels behind you, freeing his spike. And you can protest all you want, but you’re already slick for him. That compulsion to be inside you, breed you, bond you surges every time he leaves you. Fragging you, filling you calms it down for a while, but he wants to bond you so badly it hurts. Every time it’s a little harder to resist laying that claim to you. Making you his. Gripping his spike, he slides himself against you, optics shuttering as he strokes himself lazily, slicking the head of his spike with you and you make a low noise, pressing your face against your pillow. Denying him those needy sounds. “Don’t you fragging dare try to keep quiet.”

• Fingers digging into the pillow as he shifts against you, the head of his spike stretches you in a slow drive. And then his big frame is caging yours as he vents to stir your hair. Spike sliding almost free of you in another slow stroke. And then he’s moving, hips snapping against you. Hear him snarl in your ear as his hips pump and you give him what he wants, don’t try to hold back. Crying out as he ruts against you in urgent thrusts. Not letting you ignore him as he surrounds you, fills you. And one of his hands finds yours, grips it in an uncharacteristically tender gesture at odds with his rough pace. Like he cares about more than just the sex and you don’t know what to do with that. How to respond when you want to keep him at a distance, don’t want to understand him. Trying your best to ignore the glimpses you’ve caught that convince you that under that cocky attitude, he’s actually lonely. It’s just sex. If that’s all, he can’t hurt you when he gets bored of you.

I don’t think I ever explained it, but a few folks have asked why TFP Wheeljack is yandere in Crooked Ways. It’s because it’s an older TF fanfic of mine- it was meant to be a soulmates AU like the TF One, but Jackie isn’t that happy to be so obsessed with a human and hasn’t figured out why he’s fixated on the reader yet. He will mellow out some when he’s not in a state of constant sexual frustration/denial about being interested in a human.

[r1nstaaa]

Mingyu x fem!reader

MDNI!!! this ones for u, maya <3

masterlist

warnings: uh idk sex? raw sex yes. angst if u squint. smut mostly. childhood bsfs to lovers. happy ending bc im too soft sorry. it's my first time writing smth like this pls be nice

should mingyu feel ashamed? ashamed for thinking about how good those tiny hands of yours would feel around his thick cock, pumping him and stroking him while you’re on your knees looking up at him through those oh so innocent eyes of yours? should he feel ashamed for not focusing on a word you’ve been saying for the past 15 minutes, his eyes being glued only to your chest and lips?

it started when you were in high school. you and mingyu had been inseparable, almost as if your souls were created from the same one. he lived next door to you and you would go to his place every time you wanted to do something together. your mom treated him like her own son and his mother had practically accepted you as family.  you could never have imagined a life without him. and frankly, you’re not even sure if you’d want to.

it wasn’t until the day that mingyu broke the news to you that you realised it was time to let go. it was time to let go of all the big warm hugs, or the ‘bear hugs’ as your mingyu liked to call them. it was time to let go of all the cheek kisses, all the lingering gazes that you were both too scared to act on. you wished you could have said it. you wished you were brave enough. but you weren’t. and neither was he. 

he was leaving for korea in a week and there was nothing for you to do except let go of him.

you wished you could have gone about your life casually after his leave, but it would be a lie if you said you didn’t miss him everywhere. you missed him when you went to the restaurant where you bought him his favourite spicy ramen. you missed him at the park where he made you laugh so hard you almost choked on your soda. you missed the smile on his face every time you told him you hated him for making fun of you. the smile that made you wonder if the stars envied him for the way he could brighten up darkness so effortlessly.

it wasn’t until 6 years later that you finally caught a glimpse of him again. 

you were at the airport in korea. you’d managed to fulfill your dream of becoming an architect and had finally gotten a project outside of your country. you saw flashing cameras, paparazzi, and a huge crowd of people surrounding a 6’ something guy wearing a mask and some sweats. you never got the idea of surrounding people as if they’re some god. they’re just people too after all. 

you had managed to get through some of the crowd when you reached for your phone in the back pocket of your jeans. you pat it several times just to make sure until you realised something. shit. it was missing.

it was right when the realisation hit you that you felt a tap on your shoulder. you turned around and were face to…chest? god, this man was freakishly tall. you looked up to meet his eyes with yours and it was as if the breath had been knocked out of your damn lungs.

mingyu.

it was YOUR mingyu. 

“y/n?” he questioned, almost to himself. he couldn’t believe it. it was you. there were so many thoughts trying to rush their way out of his heart into his mouth that they seemed to all get clogged up in his throat. your name was the only thing that felt right on his tongue.

“gyu?” you questioned back, the look of surprise on your face quite evident.

“you dropped your phone.” he said, his eyes not leaving yours for even a second. almost as if he was afraid you’d disappear the second you left his eyesight.

“i- oh yeah. thank you” you managed to sputter out as you took the phone from his hand. “what are you- what are you doing here?” you ask him. oh god. this was such a dumb question. what was he doing? you knew what he was doing. you stalked his account like a thousand times. you knew he was an idol.

he flashed a smile when he heard this question. the smile that you hadn’t seen in at least 6 years. it was almost as if it was reserved only for you. he was about to answer you when his bodyguards notified him about something that made his smile drop. 

“i’ll reach out to you later. i promise.” he said as his bodyguards seemed to rush him out of the airport. you were left there alone with your countless thoughts and overflowing emotions, unable to decipher which one was tugging at you more.  

and so, here you were, in your new and surprisingly well furnished flat, all thanks to your sister. you had changed into your tank top and shorts while emptying your bags and setting up your closet. your room was fairly clean by now, even though you were only about halfway done. you had never been a fan of messy surroundings anyways. 

right as you were about to put the last pile of your shorts into your closet, you heard your phone ring. 

“oh. an unknown number? at 9 pm? isn’t it a bit too late for that? or maybe it isn’t?” you thought to yourself. you figured the culture here at korea must be different. 

“hello?” you said, hoping for some sort of an explanation as to who it was.

“hi.” the voice on the other side greeted you. it was almost embarrassing how quick you were to realise who it was.

“mingyu… oh, hi. um, wow. hi.” your voice was shaking already. oh god. way to go, y/n.

“yes,  hello.” you could hear his honey laced laughter from the other side. it made your heart melt. “how have you been?”

“i- okay. first of all, how the hell did you get my number?” you asked, a hint of bewilderment in your voice.

“i had it memorised.” you could HEAR the love in his voice. this was so bad. you were doomed. 

you didn’t really have anything to say, nor did you trust your words at the moment. you were afraid if you said something now, everything else would spill out uncontrollably. 

“why didn’t you call earlier?” your voice was getting shaky. oh no. you knew this was a bad idea. “it’s been 6 years gyu. 6 fucking years.”

‘“i know, i know” mingyu cut you off before you could continue, your words shooting daggers at his heart. he’d always hated seeing you cry. but the pain was different when he was the one making you cry. “i’m so, so sorry. god, i have so much to make up for. please trust me when I tell you there hasn’t been a single day when you haven’t crossed my mind. i know 6 years isn’t nothing. ghosting you was a dick move. i- please. don’t cry. no. god, can i come over?” he asked, picking up on your silent sobs just as well as he did back then.

and just like he used to be back then, he was here at your doorstep to make you forget about everything that ever made you sad. except that this time, he was the one making you cry. he couldn’t ever forgive himself for this, but he could try to atone for his sins, as he’d like to call it.

you weren’t exactly crying anymore, since you’d always been pretty good at regaining your composure. but there was a certain emptiness in your heart, one that you knew only gyu could fill.

you were standing face to face, him panting slightly because of the 7 flights of stairs he’d just conquered. 

“hey.” you said. 

“hi.” he looked down at you. the longing in his eyes too evident for you to ignore.

“no security this time?” you questioned with a smile on your face.

“ah, no. that was airport security. kind of a formality.”

you nodded. “you’ve gotten so big. i can’t even hug you now.” you said while giving him a faint smile, referring to the dozens of fangirls he was surrounded by and not to mention, the security.

“oh bullshit.” he said as he pulled you into the tightest hug you could have ever imagined. his arms fully caging you in as if he never intended to let you go. and you wouldn’t admit it, but you never wanted him to either. 

“i missed you.” he whispered into your hair. “god, i missed you so much. i’m so sorry.” 

he spent 3 hours explaining why he couldn’t contact you and what he had been upto without you. after a while, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care about anything besides the fact that one, he did not have a girlfriend. and two, he had changed a lot. appearance wise, that is. he wasn’t the mingyu who had left for korea anymore. he was taller, stronger and undeniably hotter. little did you know, mingyu had been thinking about the same things as you were. when did you get so fucking irresistible? i mean, sure he did have a thing for you back in high school. hell, he hasn’t even been able to get over it for the past 6 years, but seeing you like this, with barely anything on and a newfound confidence which you certainly did not have back then ignited something in him. he didn't know how long it would be until he finally gave in.

and so, here you were. facing him on your bed, talking about some degree of yours, when all he could focus on was the way you licked your lips before continuing, or the way your tits were almost fully out on display for him due to that sad excuse for a clothing item you were wearing. you noticed too. he wasn’t exactly being subtle. the way his knees were touching yours and the way he kept playing with his fingers was driving you insane.

“well, then yeah. here i am now, i guess.” you finished telling him about your life. you were almost completely caught up on each others’ stories now, or so you’d like to believe.

his stare hadn’t once left your lips. you hadn’t really noticed how close his face was to yours until you had finished talking.  “gyu” you questioned, your voice almost a whisper. the space between you could be easily closed with just a lean forward from either of you. it had come down to self control now. and lucky for you, mingyu barely had any when it came to you.

“can i?” he questioned, his lips almost on yours. almost. 

you responded by putting your lips on his, and his hands immediately snaked around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. his grip on you was so strong, it made you whimper against his lips. you didn’t bother pulling away to breathe, the action seeming a bit too unimportant at the moment. you had other things to do right now. “gyu..” you moaned out as his lips made their way down to your neck. “so sweet. so good. been thinking bout this for so long.” he whispered against your skin, punctuating each sentence with a kiss on different parts of your neck. his hands made their way up your top, making direct contact with your skin. the warmth radiating off of his hands made you melt under his touch. 

his hands came up to grasp the hook of your bra as his mouth worked wonders on your sensitive spot. “can i? please?” he asked before unclasping the hooks and discarding the small material of clothing into a small corner of your room. his hands snaked further up your body as he guided your top over your head. he had your tits right in his face now. “fuck… so pretty.  shit, all for me?” he asked as he latched onto your right nipple, sucking and licking at the sensitive bud while his hand worked wonders on the left one, pinching at it, making you squirm. “yes.. gyu please. need more. need you.” 

“patience baby. been wanting this for so long. gonna make it worth it.” he said as he took his shirt off. god, it was a sight to see. he was gorgeous. the toned abs, the huge biceps, and not to mention, that beautiful face, he was going to be the death of you. “like what you see?” he questioned teasingly, but your brain was too focused on the way his hands were squeezing your tits while he used his mouth to suck and nibble at your collarbones. he stopped all of it to grab your attention, and you whined at the loss of contact. “gonna need answers baby. be a good girl and use your words, hmm?” you moaned out a weak ‘yes’ as a response, but he accepted it out of mercy.

“lie down for me, pretty girl. on your back, thats it” he said as he helped you get off his lap and onto the mattress. his lips travelled all the way from your neck to your breasts, down to your tummy. he placed several wet, sloppy kisses all over your tummy, making sure to mark you as his on any part of your skin that was visible. your neck had already served its purpose as his canvas, his art on full display for any man who’d even dare to look at you. he wouldn’t admit it, but he was completely obsessed with the idea of making you his. god, he wanted you so bad. 

his hands found their way to the waistband of your shorts, which he tugged at as a way of asking for your permission yet again. you pulled them off yourself making him let out a groan at your compliance. he was facing your clothed cunt, the wet spot on it embarrassingly evident. he kissed it once, looking up to see your reaction. “does that feel good, love?” he asked as his hand made its way to your core, rubbing light circles on it through your underwear. he was such a tease. 

you couldn’t find it in yourself so speak, so you just nodded. this made him stop again. “please baby, i’m gonna need you to use your words, yeah? tell me how good i’m making you feel.” he said as he spat on that damp spot on your underwear, teasing you even further. “mingyu… feels so good.” you managed to moan out, earning a chuckle from him. “see, it wasn’t that hard baby.” 

he pulled your panties off, spreading your legs even further and getting down on his knees on the floor as he pulled you towards the edge of the bed. “such a pretty pussy. can’t wait to taste you baby.” 

his fingers danced against your clit, tapping slightly in an attempt to tease you. this made you let out a whine. “shh baby. i’m gonna take my time with you.” he said, as he tapped his fingers against your lips, signalling you to take them in. you wasted no time in sucking on his fingers and coating them with your saliva. “such a good girl.” 

his hands slid against your folds, the coldness of your saliva mixed with your slick making you shiver. he rubbed on your clit while his other hand was busy playing with your tits. he inserted one finger into your hole, making you gasp. 

“shit, you’re so fucking tight. need you wrapped around me.” you felt his tongue lapping against your cunt, the feeling sending you into overdrive. you had your hands in his air, tugging at it for some sort of control. “ah- gyu, please. fuck.” he groaned against your pussy, the vibrations reaching straight to your core. just as you felt your high approaching, he gave your clit one last kiss before pulling away. you felt tears well up in your eyes as you let out a whine at the loss of contact.

“aww baby. ‘m sorry. but if you’re gonna cum, it’ll be around my cock.” such a fucking tease.

he pulled his pants off, revealing his deliciously prominent bulge in his boxers. he was palming his cock while staring at your cunt. fuck. 

“shit baby. you’re so beautiful. you want me to fuck you?” he knew the answer. of course he did. he could see you how you clenched around the nothing at the sight of his cock being freed from his boxers. lord have mercy. “yes min. please fuck me.” you managed to choke out. that was all he needed.

he stood between your legs, teasing your entrance with his cock. he slowly rubbed against it, gathering your wetness before slipping it in. the stretch you felt made you moan out loud. the sound was music to his ears. once he was buried inside fully, he waited for you to let him know it was okay to move. 

“shit, you feel so good baby.” he groaned, holding back the urge to thrust hard into you and absolutely ruin you for anyone else. but he knew it was too soon. he wanted to savour this moment, feeling your warmth surrounding his cock. he leaned down to kiss you as he began to move steadily, swallowing up all the sounds you were making. “f-fuck gyu, feels so good” you whined against his lips. his hips rocked into you, building up a rhythm. each powerful stroke made your breath hitch, as your nails were busy creating their own masterpiece on his back. he was proud of it too. 

his hands were on your waist, gripping it tightly as he thrust into you. he was picking up his pace. he pressed down on your abdomen, making you gasp loudly. “you feel that baby? feel my cock against your tummy? does that feel good?” he asked, his voice hoarse and laced with ecstasy. “y-yes min. i’m close, fuck.” he knew from the way your pussy clenched around his cock that you were close. his rhythm was starting to falter as he approached his own high.

“where’d you want it baby? want me to come on your pussy? gonna look so pretty.” you nodded, barely registering his words. you were so close. “please.” was all you could let out. your breathless plea was enough to convince him. 

your eyes squeezed shut as you felt yourself come undone around his cock. a few more thrusts and he pulled out, spilling his seed all over your pussy. he collapsed onto you, placing feather light kisses all over your neck and collarbones.

“i’m never letting you go again, you know?”

“i know.”

“i love you, y/n.” 

[soaps-mohawk]

The Beach

Kyletober Day 14: Teratophilia

Summary: The beach is well known among humans. Those brave enough to tread those shores know what they’re asking for, and the merfolk are more than willing to oblige.

Pairing: Merman!Kyle x reader

Word Count: 2,627 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, p in v sex, unprotected sex, monsters, monster fucking, merpeople, Kyle is a merman, merman anatomy, public sex, slight emotions at the end.

A/N: This one might be my second favorite of them all. I wish I could draw then I'd show you merman Kyle. Tempted to make this a series...

MASTERLIST

Your feet sink into the sand as you stroll leisurely along the beach. It’s warm, the sun high in the sky shining down on the crystal blue water of the vast ocean before you. There’s a slight breeze coming off the water, bringing with it the salty scent of the sea. It ruffles your skirt around your legs, goosebumps forming on your skin as it shoots up between your thighs, kissing your wet cunt. 

Moans sound up and down the beach, bodies writhing with the ebb and flow of every wave. Excitement stirs in your stomach as you near an empty spot, getting closer to the water. There’s no cover, no privacy as you tug your shirt over your head. There’s no need for it. People only come to this beach for one reason. You all know why you’re here. Shame gets left behind in the parking lot. 

You fold your shirt and skirt, setting them up higher on the sand before you approach the lapping waves, a knot of excitement and nerves coiling inside your stomach. It’s not the first time you’ve done this, nor will it be the last, yet every time you can’t avoid the nervous shake to your hands. 

You wade out into the water until it’s halfway up your calf before you sit, humming quietly as the warmth of it surrounds you. It’s a beautiful day today, which is why the beach is so full. 

You don’t have to sit there for very long, the water bulging with the oncoming waves. Something is speeding towards the beach, your body pulsing in excitement. Your breath catches in your throat as you suddenly find yourself face to face with a figure.  Big, dark eyes stare into yours, clawed hands sinking into the sand on either side of you. It always makes you jump, his body seeming to materialize out of the sea before you can even blink. 

“Hi.” You whisper, taking a moment to catch your breath as you stare at him. 

Amethyst skin glitters in the sunlight, beads of water sliding down his face. He’s leaner than he is bulky, but your eyes still trace the peaks and divots of his muscles. He’s beautiful, even if he is so different from you. 

He’s human-like at the top but then that amethyst skin disappears under darker purple scales at his waist. His tail is beautiful, swirling with hues of purple. His fins tickle your legs as he pulls himself closer, the spines on his back tucking down as he reaches up, one slippery, webbed hand cupping your cheek. There’s a bit of seaweed draped over his shoulder, your hand raising to pull it off of him. His head follows your movements, watching your hand as you drop the slimy weed back into the water. Your hand lifts again, your fingers softly touching his shoulder. His skin is thick and almost rubbery, much harder to break than your own delicate skin. An adaptation evolved to survive in the harsh world under the water, you suppose. 

Your fingers trail back up his arm, following the lines of his muscle before you reach his hand, pressing your palm against it. His skin is cool to the touch, but he’s not cold blooded, at least you don’t think so judging by the other parts of him that are warm. 

Your fingertips brush the delicate webs between his fingers, his hand flexing against your cheek. A small smile tugs at your lips. He may be tougher than you are, but he’s still sensitive. 

He doesn’t greet you back with words, instead leaning forward to press his lips against yours. He’s careful not to nick you with his sharp teeth as he kisses you, something you’re grateful for. He’s caught you a couple times by accident in the heat of passion. Just something to remember him by. 

He’s never spoken to you, at least not in the way humans speak. You’re not entirely sure he’s capable of speaking like a human. He’s never so much as made a single noise in the time you’ve been together. Maybe they communicate like whales and dolphins in the water. Or perhaps they communicate through body language like other mammals. 

You’re assuming he’s mammalian...then again you don’t really know all that much about merpeople outside of this aspect of them. 

He continues to kiss you, his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips. It’s warm as it presses into your mouth, flicking against your own. He tastes briney and salty like the water you’re sitting in. It’s not an unpleasant taste. In fact, you’ve grown to enjoy it.

His hand leaves your face, sinking into the sand by your side. Your hands fall back as he presses closer to you, keeping you from splashing back into the water. It’s deep enough you might run the risk of inhaling it. What would he do if you started drowning? Could he help you? Would he know how? 

You shake that thought from your mind. You like to think he wouldn’t let that happen. 

The top of his tail in the front between where his legs would be is beginning to bulge. He’s just as excited as you are about this, well accustomed to the dance the two of you often do. You’re here as much as you can be, and he’s always the one that comes to you, almost like he’s waiting for you.

You’re not sure how he knows, but he always does. 

His arms wrap around you, flipping the two of you over so he’s in the water, the waves lapping at the sides of his face. His gills move as he breathes in the water, those big eyes staring up at you unblinking. The first time you saw him, a shiver had run down your spine. He’s just human enough for your brain to see the similarities, but also so very much not human. That doesn’t make him any less beautiful, though. You’ve wandered this beach many times, catching glimpses when you dared to look at the merpeople that frequent here. They’re all so beautiful, yet all so different. 

It had taken a lot of time to work up the courage to stick your feet in the water. 

Now you can’t imagine having any hesitations. 

He’s beautiful to look at, something that would be sculpted out of marble and placed in a museum as a testament to the beauty of merpeople. If he were human, he’d be stunning, someone who would be on the cover of magazines, walking a runway. He’d be someone painted by an artist to be hung in a museum so humans could gaze upon his beauty for centuries. He deserves to be immortalized somehow, remembered for generations to come. A celebrity, someone who is worshiped for his beauty and splendor. 

He’d be so far out of your league if he was a human. 

He’s not though, yet you still feel blessed as you sit over him, watching as the slit at the top of his tail peels open. You run your fingers along the sensitive skin, his lips parting as you tease the slick folds. His own hand lifts, slipping between your thighs. He copies your movements, careful not to catch you with his claws as he strokes your folds. Your teeth sink into your lip at the feeling of those rough fingers against your sensitive skin. You’re already soaked at the idea of what’s going to transpire, of what you’re about to do. 

Your fingers on his slit begin to coax his cock out of its confines, the narrow tip beginning to peek out. You trail your fingers over it, gathering the slippery substance leaking out all over your fingers. You lift them to your mouth, tasting the viscous fluid. The salt from the water mixes with the naturally briney taste of him, the flavors dancing on your tongue. 

His back arches as his cock continues to slip out of his slit, growing and growing until the thick length presses against his stomach. Arousal pulses between your thighs, your own natural lubrication soaking his fingers. They press against your clit, a quiet moan leaving your lips as you reach for him. He’s slick and slippery as you wrap your fingers around his cock, dragging your hand along the ridges that line his length. He’s not like a human man, instead tapered from tip to base. His head is narrower while the base is so thick you can barely get your fingers fully around him. 

You nearly cum from the thoughts flashing through your head. You’ll never be able to be satisfied by a man again, but maybe that was the whole point. That was why this beach existed, that was why they were so willing to do this. 

They must like it as much as you humans do if they keep returning here. 

If they have their favorites. 

It’s not love, at least not to them. You don’t think so anyway. How many other women does he do this with? How many other women does he stare up at with those eyes? How many other women’s bodies has he touched? 

You try not to think about it too much. 

You pump his cock, dragging your fingers over the ridges and bumps. His lips part, no sound coming out but you can imagine how sweet he would sound. Breathy moans and groans, needy whines. Would he beg you to make him cum, or would he make you beg? Perhaps both. He always winds up taking control in the end, even if he lets you have control at first like he is now. 

His hand slips out from between your thighs, the other lifting so they’re gripping your hips. His claws dig just slightly into your skin, but he’s careful not to dig too deep and hurt you. It’s inevitable though, with his anatomy and your soft human skin. It never seems to give him pause if he hurts you on accident, perhaps because you never react. You don’t care about a little pain. What’s a little pain if this is what you get in return?

He pulls your hips forward, his own way of saying ‘hurry up.’ You can’t delay it anymore, eager to feel him again. You lift yourself up over his hips, your hand gripping the base of his cock. He’s hard and pulsing in your hand as you line him up, slipping the narrow tip inside of you. You never need much prep between your own arousal and the slippery substance that coats his cock. The excitement of getting to fuck a merman is more than enough for you, just as it seems the opportunity to fuck a human gets him just as excited. 

Maybe it’s you he’s excited about. 

No. You won’t entertain those thoughts. 

Your hands press against his stomach, feeling the muscle underneath his skin flexing as you sink lower and lower on his cock. Your head tilts back as you’re stretched open around him, the ridges on his cock dragging against your walls. They hit all of the right places inside of you, making you feel alive and electric. His cock is warm despite the cool touch of his skin, the contrasting temperatures paired with the warmth of the water splashing against your back has goosebumps forming on your skin. 

He’s deep inside of you once you’re fully seated on his cock, stretched open around his thick base. You could cum just like this, but you don’t want this to be over before you’re just getting started. His claws are pinching your skin but you pay him no mind as you stare down at him. Those wide, dark eyes stare up at you, his lips slightly parted. He’s clinging to whatever control he has. You can see it in his face. He’s trying not to flip you over and fuck you into the sand. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. You’d just prefer to be in shallower water if he’s going to do that. 

He wouldn’t let you drown...

You hope. 

You begin to rock your hips, drawing his cock out of your cunt before pressing it back in. His tip drags along your walls, almost as if he was made perfectly for your pleasure. You use your hands on his stomach for leverage as you bounce on his cock, the ridges catching on that spot deep inside of you with every drag of his cock inside of you. He’s so thick and warm and perfect. 

The idea of fucking a merman is enough to make your walls flutter, not to mention the ethereal look of him. His handsome face, his lean body, those big eyes staring up at you. There’s no emotion in them, but deep down you like to imagine there is something. If you stare at them long enough you can see into the depths of them like you’re staring into the depths of the ocean. 

You shift your position, grinding your hips against his as you lean back, resting your hands on his tail. It’s slippery and you almost slide right off of him, but you catch yourself, digging your nails into the smooth scales under your hands. He offers no complaint. You’re not capable of breaking his skin with just your nails, no matter how long they are. That doesn’t make him any less sensitive though. 

You push your hand against your stomach, feeling the deep press of him as you continue to circle your hips, trying to stave off your orgasm as long as you can. The quicker you cum, the quicker he’ll cum and then the quicker this is all over. 

You don’t want it to be over.

You push yourself back up, your thighs squeezing around his hips. You lean over him slightly, trailing your nails down his chest. He writhes under you, his hands sliding to your ass. He helps guide your movements, lifting you up and pushing you back down on his cock. 

“Yes, just like that.” You moan, pushing your hands against his stomach again as you continue to bounce on his cock. 

You’re close to your orgasm, your body starting to tremble. He’s close as well, his hips bucking up against you. Your walls are squeezing around him as you get closer and closer to the edge, your mind going numb as you try to hold back. You don’t want it to end. One orgasm is never enough. You’d fuck him all day if you could. 

If he’d let you. 

You can’t stop it though as those ridges push up against your walls, dragging over that spot inside of you. You cum with a loud cry, your back arching as your head falls back. His body writhes in the water tail splashing as he cums, the shockingly warm fluid spilling into you. You’re stretched open around his cock, hands falling against the sand beside his shoulders. 

You stare down at him, lips parted as you breathe. His own are still parted and you want to lean down and kiss him. He’ll flip you over soon, deposit you back into the water and sand before slipping back into the waves to disappear until you return to the beach again. You’ll have to put your clothes back on and head home with nothing but his cum sliding down the inside of your thighs to remind you that it really happened. 

His arms wrap around your back as you stare down into those eyes, your body pressed against his. You can see it, that...something in the depths of his eyes as you sink into them. 

It’s not love. 

It’s not. 

You just have to keep telling yourself that.

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[moeitsu]

heyyy, I absolutely love ur fics and hcs...I was wondering if u will be willing to write smth fluffy abt logan...

Like they have been good friends for awhile and both of them have been pinning for each other...but the reader thinks he still loves jean...

And they've an argument Abt smth before a mission and obv reader gets injured...but someone else saves her and he doesn't get to meet her and when she recovers she avoids him .....

Smth like thiss...plss....❤️✨

The miscommunication trope is a tough one for me, but I hope I did alright! Thanks for being my first request!

"You're the only one for me" Logan Howlett x Reader

wc: 1k warnings: none Lots of fluff and feels at the end :)

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

A jealous itch runs up your spine as you see Logan across the room, smiling at her the same way he smiles at you. Jean Grey. Everyone in the mansion knows about their history, about Logan’s long, unrequited love for her.

Despite her loyalty to Scott, Logan couldn’t help but fall for the beautiful, fiery redhead. But that was before you came along.

Logan and you have always had a deep, unspoken understanding. From the very first day you met, there was something electric between you, something unnameable but undeniably there.

A glance across the room was all it took to communicate. And yet, there was always something more, lingering beneath the surface, something neither of you were brave enough to say out loud.

Late nights under the stars became your shared solace. You’d sit side by side, talking about everything and nothing, as the night stretched on. Logan listened to every word you said like it was the most important thing in the world.

Those quiet moments, with the world asleep around you, were what he treasured most. But he never told you that.

He never told you how those talks meant more to him than any battle he’d ever won.

Logan isn’t one for grand gestures, but you noticed the small things. How his hand would linger when he handed you a cup of coffee, the way he instinctively stepped closer when the room got too crowded, or how his arm would sometimes brush against yours when you walked side by side.

These moments made your heart race, but just as you thought there might be something more, you’d catch him with Jean, and the doubts would creep in.

Oh, how he wished he had the courage to tell you how he felt. But the pain of rejection haunted him. The fear of opening his heart, only to have it shattered again, quieted him into submission.

So, he stayed silent, letting the tension build between you, even as he longed to close the gap.

But you were growing tired of the mind games. His feelings for you seemed as real as the ground beneath your feet, as the air in your lungs. He must feel the same way, you told yourself.

But then, there he was, spending time with Jean, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you had it all wrong.

The tension finally boiled over before a big mission. The argument was sharp, words cutting deeper than any blade.

“Just go back to Jean!” you snapped, frustration and hurt lacing your voice.

Logan’s eyes widened, his own frustration simmering beneath the surface. “You think I—” he started, but the words stumbled. He tried to deny it, but his voice failed him, the weight of unspoken truths holding him back.

You both stormed off, leaving the air between you crackling with unresolved tension.

The mission was a blur of chaos, and then—disaster.

You were injured, and it was serious. Logan’s heart stopped when he heard. He fought through enemies with a ferocity that terrified even his allies, desperate to reach you. But before he could get to you, someone else did, pulling you to safety.

The relief was brief, overshadowed by guilt and frustration. He should have been there. He should have protected you. As he watched you being carried away, unconscious and bleeding, he made a vow—he would never let that happen again.

When you recovered, the physical wounds healed faster than the emotional ones. You avoided Logan, convinced that his heart still belonged to someone else, that your feelings were nothing but wishful thinking.

Better to rip the band-aid off now, you thought, than suffer more heartbreak later.

Logan noticed the distance immediately. It gnawed at him, a constant ache in his chest. You had always come to him when there was trouble, when you needed a shoulder to cry on, when you just needed someone to sit with you in silence.

But now, you turned away, leaving him feeling helpless and lost.

He asked others about your condition, made sure you were okay in his own quiet way, even sat outside your room at night, listening to your breathing just to make sure you were sleeping. But the distance between you felt like an unbridgeable valley.

The tension finally became too much to bear. Logan couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

One night, he cornered you—gentle but firm, his voice low and rough. “Jean will always be a part of my past,” he said, his words heavy with truth, “but you… you’re my present, my future. I’ve been afraid of screwing this up, of losing what we have, but I can’t stay quiet anymore. You're the only one for me, and I’m not letting you slip away.”

You were stunned, tears welling up as you realized how wrong you’d been.

“I thought… I was so afraid that…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Logan stepped closer, his rough hand brushing against your cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice soft but certain.

The confession hung between you, fragile but true. And then, slowly, Logan leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was long overdue.

It was slow, tender, filled with all the emotions you’d both kept bottled up for too long. When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes soft and full of affection.

“You’re the only one for me,” he repeated with a whisper, his voice rough but sincere.

After that night, everything changed. The tension that had once thickened the air melted away, replaced by a quiet, comfortable closeness.

Logan became more open with his affection—small touches, lingering looks, and a new ease in your interactions. You both felt the relief of finally being on the same page, of knowing that the unspoken feelings were now shared and mutual.

Logan made sure you never doubted his feelings again. He talked more, shared more of himself, making it clear that you were the most important person in his life.

Jean was a part of his past, but you were his future, and he wasn’t going to let you forget it.

Thanks for requesting this!!

I hope I did it some justice. I love Jean Grey and I tried my best not to paint her in a bad light. But I know everyone's a sucker for a good love triangle hehe

[nowimjustastranger]

Omgg the dimension in the stcmo au where Stanley destroys his own dimension with Stanford and the dead twins in it is fkn killing me 😭 He was fully ready to die with the world, seeing that his world (the kids) had already ended anyway :(

How do you think Stanley died in the other dimension, where Stanford and the twins survived but he didn't? I also really wanna know what their reactions were to meeting each other again or if their memories were altered or not!

I love this AU to death and beyond, please never die 😔🙏

Honestly, the possibilities are endless in terms of how exactly Stan goes out (destroying Bill in the process).

And as for the relocated Stan...

Stan hit the ground and, for the first time in his life, he just stayed down. That tiny voice in the back of his head that had kept him going all these years had finally fallen silent, leaving him to drown in his overwhelming despair. He didn’t care to pick himself back up again. There was no point.

His kids were gone. Snuffed out before they could even live their lives. His brother, who he had just brought home, killed with the press of a button. He was pathetically thankful that he hadn’t been the one to activate the doomsday device, he didn’t think he could’ve lived with himself knowing that he had killed his big brother with his own hand.

Not that he had been planning to survive the explosion, which was another matter that he was just too worn down to address. Honestly, he didn’t really give a shit about the mystery man or his intentions. Even so, he should be furious that the mystery man kept him from joining his family, but he was hollowed out by the realization that he was the only one left.

Why was he always the last man standing?

He couldn’t bear to go another day without Mabel’s smile. The girl had bullied her way into his heart and carved out a space for herself, bringing enough love for the both of them with her. His sweet girl who loved glitter a little too much and drew trouble to her like a magnet, the girl who saw a sad old fuck and reminded him that life was worth living with every joke, every kind word, every laugh, every hug.

How could he possibly face another day without Dipper’s laugh? The boy had snuck into his heart not long after his sister had gotten comfortable, settling down like he had simply always been there. His brave boy who reminded Stan so much of his brother and himself, a strange amalgamation of both of them. Their best qualities put into one body.

Had he told them that he loved them? Even once? Had he ever uttered those words to his kids?

Did they die unsure of how much they meant to him? Did they die doubting that Stan loved them more than anything in the entire universe? Did they die quick or slow? Did they die scared, wanting their Grunkle to protect them from a cosmic bully? Did they die wishing that they’d never met him? Did they die cursing that they ever came to Gravity Falls–

His kids had to know that Stan would’ve given anything, struck any deal, endured any torment, killed anyone he had to so long as it meant that they got to be happy.

Stan didn't even realize he was crying until he pressed his forehead against the ground, shocked back into his own body by the soft rasp of greenery against his face. His shoulders heaved with the force of his sobs, hands fisted into the grass as he wailed his grief into the soil.

Grief for not telling Soos that he was like a son to him. Grief for not thanking Wendy for putting up with his shit. Grief for not telling Dipper that he was proud of him. Grief for not putting Mabel’s insecurities to rest before they could fester. Grief for waiting for a fucking ‘thank you’ instead of just hugging his damn brother like he had longed to do for the past forty years. Grief for not spending more time with all of them while he could.

As Stan’s pathetic tears finally dried up, a sound was carried on the breeze, every muscle in his body locking up as he raised his head. His brain stalled like an old engine, wide eyes staring off into the thick foliage. He was half convinced that his mind had finally fractured and he was hallucinating even as his body moved, scrambling to his feet to race through the forest.

Even if it was just a cruel trick of his mind, he couldn’t just ignore it. Not when it was his kids. And certainly not when his kids were crying. In no world could he ignore the sound of the niblings' distress. If they needed him, he’d be there. Easy as that. He would sooner light himself on fire than let them think that they couldn’t come to him with their problems, his discomfort with feelings and emotions could fuck right off.

As he got closer to the origin of the sound, he could actually make out words. His heart stuttered in his chest as he pushed himself faster and faster still because they were calling for him. They were wailing his name like two scared little kids lost in a big world that was too cruel for the likes of them. So, he answered their desperate call, just like he always would.

“Kids!”

Stan charged through the brush, erupting into a small clearing with three people standing in it. The first figure he recognized immediately as his brother, whose arm was raised to aim a triangular gun at Stan’s chest. The niblings were hidden behind him, clutching the fabric of his slacks as they peeked at Stan with huge wet eyes. Stan stumbled to a stop, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

Surprisingly, no one in the clearing broke the silence, a voice ringing out from a sturdy branch in a nearby tree.

“It’s not a trick, Stanford.” A heavily modulated voice spoke as a dude in flashy getup stared down at them from his perch. In the blink of an eye, another gun was drawn from Ford’s trench coat, pointed at the man that Stan had been manhandled by earlier. His face was set with grim determination, but there was a telling shake to the hand that aimed the gun at Stan.

“You better start talkin’ or I’ll come up there n’ beat some answers outta you.” Stan demanded, sparing a glare for the stranger. He must’ve followed Stan here, which meant that he had also seen Stan blubbering like a pansy earlier. Great.

“The Stan of dimension F9-2 took his own life to defeat Bill, leaving your dimension without a Stanley Pines. Stan from dimension C40”0 was the only one to survive Weirdmageddon, his world destroyed by his brother’s last-ditch effort to kill Bill, leaving him without his family.” The stranger explained, gesturing to each brother in turn as he addressed them.

“So, you… brought him here?” Mabel tentatively piped in with a sniffle, poking her head out more, and Stan had to swallow the urge to tell her to keep out of sight. Now that he was getting a good look at the trio, he was noticing the differences, like how Ford was wearing the same suit that Stan himself currently had on, except it was far less tattered.

“I did.” The stranger confirmed with a slow nod and the niblings shared a look, communicating with just their eyes. Stan remembered when he used to do that with Ford, way back when their only worry was if they could get one last game of pirates in before they were called home for dinner. Stan hadn’t been that close to Ford since middle school, back before a yawning chasm of distance opened between them.

“Who are you?” Ford growled, his eyes narrowed as he shifted most of his attention to the stranger, who tilted his head in a predatory manner that made the hair on the back of Stan’s neck stand on end. Stan let his arms slowly drop down to his sides since the gun that had been aimed at him had been lowered slightly, Ford clearly prioritizing the bigger threat.

“A concerned third party.” The stranger said, not missing a beat before he shifted his weight to fall backward. He disappeared in the blink of an eye only to reappear right behind Stan, who squawked in alarm and outrage as one hand seized the back of his neck while the other pointed a weird gun behind them to open another colorful gateway. Stan threw an elbow back at the stranger, who caught it with practiced ease after swiftly holstering the gun.

“But if you’re unwilling to house him in your dimension–” The stranger began, before being unceremoniously interrupted by two small bodies darting out from the safety that Ford's body provided and throwing themselves at Stan.

“No! You can’t have Grunkle Stan! Please don’t take him away!” Mabel wailed with no small amount of terror, her tiny arms struggling to fit around Stan’s waist, clutching fistfuls of his jacket. Dipper was no better, quite literally sitting on Stan’s shoe in order to cling to his right leg with all four of his limbs while he begged the stranger to let Stan stay with them.

“Hey, hey… I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Stan soothed, voice lowered to a low rasp as he abandoned his effort to get the bastard behind him to let go in favor of getting a hand on each of the kids. One of his hands went to Dipper’s head while the other pressed against Mabel’s hitching back, the two pressing into the contact like they were starving for it. Stan turned his head just enough to level the visor of the stranger’s helmet with a dark look, daring him to disagree. “Right, pal?”

“Depends on him.” The stranger retorted, pointedly nodding at Ford, who had taken to aiming the gun directly at the stranger’s helmet. Thankfully, the portal had closed on its own, shrinking out of existence, and as a result, Ford’s posture had visibly lost some tension. Stan figured that it was because the kids had been in danger of going through with him had the stranger followed through with his threat.

“My brother stays.” Ford bit out through clenched teeth, something bordering on manic in his eyes. Stan noticed that Ford’s hand wasn’t shaking this time, his aim perfectly steady. Stan wasn’t sure why this stood out to him until he recalled that Ford’s hand had been trembling earlier when he had the gun pointed at Stan, which was far more shocking than it should’ve been.

“If you ever hurt Stan… I’ll be back and you will never see him again.” The stranger warned, drawing the weird sci-fi gun in a dark blur and firing it off to the side, smoothly stepping into the swirl of colors before both the stranger and the portal were gone. Stan stood there dumbly, staring at the empty space where the portal used to be until his attention was redirected to the warm body that crashed into him.

Stan yelped as he went down in a heap of flailing limbs, instinctively struggling as strong arms wound around his body. However, Stan froze when he heard a choked sob, blankly staring up at the cloudless blue sky in utter disbelief as Ford broke down in tears. Ford’s face was buried in the crook of Stan’s neck, his glasses digging into skin, but Stan didn’t care because he was clinging to him and the kids just as tightly.

And if his eyes were wet and his cheeks damp, it was just allergies.

[scary-grace]

15; don’t know who I am anymore please!!!

Hi! I'm so sorry for how long it took me to answer this. I went through several drafts trying to get it right, and this is eventually what I settled on; that being said, if it's not your style, I can absolutely write you a new one! Just let me know, and thank you for the prompt! Necromancy AU, M+, Shigaraki x female reader, DARK, character death + resurrection, implications of violence and sexual assault (not by Shigaraki). Dead dove do not eat. dividers by @cafekitsune.

these things I've seen

As you lay dying in the aftermath of your hometown's destruction, a necromancer's path crosses yours.

You know about necromancers. You’re not an idiot. You know they’re rare, powerful, impossible to truly defeat and amoral as hell. You even know people who’ve had a relative brought back, good as new, a whole new span of life outstretched before them and no memories of what happened to them between the moment of their death and when they rose again. Necromancers charge through the nose for their services, and most of them are picky about who they’ll bring back – the young, the pretty, the unlucky. Those who died untimely deaths with so much left to live for.

That’s not going to be you.

You don’t even know what happened, really. Sure, your country’s been at war, dealing with a doomsday cult uprising that won’t die away, but it’s never touched you, not really. Not until tonight, when the insurgents crashed down on your sleepy little suburb and tore it apart. Nothing’s still standing. Not the homes and businesses. Not the trees and lightposts and telephone poles. Not the people.

You hid longer than most, almost long enough to hope that you could survive. But then they lit the shed you were hiding in on fire, and you decided to take your chances – burning alive being a sure thing, and escaping the hell your town’s become being possible. Now, at the end of it all, you wish you’d stayed put and burned. The smoke would have suffocated you first. It would have been better than what they did to you.

And even after that, they couldn’t kill you all the way. You’re still alive, everything you’ve seen and been through playing on an endless loop in your head, waiting for your heart to give out and praying for it to happen faster. The sky is beginning to lighten in the east, and for the first time in all your life, you don’t want to see what the next day could bring. All it will do is reveal the full scope of the horror, and you’ve seen enough. Screw being resilient, screw being brave, screw surviving. You’re done.

Some of your neighbors found religion in the last moments of their lives, clinging to hope that peace awaits them, that they’ll see those they love again. You don’t even want that. You’re irreparably broken, not just your body but your spirit, too. You want it to be over. If there is a god, if there are angels and saints and dead relatives watching over you, they owe you that much. If they were content to watch the show, they should have the courtesy to turn out the lights when they leave.

The whispers come as the first of the stars are beginning to fade, and at first you think that the insurgents have returned. If there was anything left that they could do to you, you’d be scared, but the worst they could do would only kill you faster. You breathe shallowly and listen for the dozens of footsteps that should accompany the sound of so many voices. But there’s only one set of footsteps. And the longer you listen to the voices, the more certain you are that you’re close to death. The voices of the unquiet dead can only be heard by those who are about to join them – or those who’ve summoned them into this world.

A necromancer. When you turn your head, you can see him walking through the wreckage of your world, a figure in a long coat with a black hood and tangled, messy hair spilling from beneath it. You can see the ghosts who serve him, too – their hands clasped around his wrists, his upper arms, his shoulders and his chest and his neck, supporting him and constraining him in the same moment. You wonder what he’s doing here, if he’s looking for slaves to raise from the dead. There have to be better places to look than this.

He turns his head, and you’re seconds too late to turn yours. You make eye contact. The necromancer’s eyes are bloodred, and when he looks at you, a spark of interest flares within them. Rather than continuing on his way through the ruins in search of the dead, he turns and moves with quick steps towards you, the whispering spirits drifting after him like a poisonous fog.

You’d say he moves like fog, too, his black coat flaring out around him, but the speed of his steps reminds you more of a striking snake, and as he closes in on you, he brings something with him that you thought you’d lost the ability to feel. “No,” you say, fear pulling your voice thin. “I don’t want –”

“To die? Nobody does. You’re lucky I’m here.” The necromancer crouches down beside you, and you cringe away from him. “I can bring you back. You just have to die first.”

You try to protest, but your breathing, dragging its feet on failing you all night, begins to give out at the worst possible moment. “It won’t be long,” the necromancer says, and you cling to that thought, to the faint measure of relief it gives you. “I know what I’m doing. I won’t even charge you anything. Just let go.”

What does he think you’ve been trying to do all night long? If this last night of your life has taught you anything, it’s that what you do or don’t do doesn’t matter. Things will happen to you, or be done to you, and you’ll be at their mercy, or lack thereof. And as if you’d needed any more proof, your vision begins to blur, turning the necromancer’s face from a collection of human features into a flesh-colored smear. A wave of bone-deep cold begins to crawl over you, suffocating every limb until you can’t feel any of them any longer. Your lips are tingling, going numb. You’d have taken a deeper breath, if you’d known it was the last one you’d ever get.

“Let go,” the necromancer says again. “I can’t do anything until you die.”

All you want is to let go. All you want is for the numbness to swallow you, never to let you go. But you fight through it one more time. Just long enough to force the words out of your mouth. “Don’t bring me back,” you say, and everything goes black and cold for what you desperately wish is the last time.

Tomura stares at your body, torn. You’re just barely dead. He watched you take your last breaths only seconds ago, and he knows even without touching you that your skin’s still warm, your blood still liquid, your brain still alight with electrical impulses. You’re the perfect candidate for a resurrection, and Tomura needs a perfect candidate, or it’s not going to work. Spirits of the restless dead might be drawn to Tomura like moths to a bug zapper, but the real money in necromancy comes through resurrections, and Tomura’s never done one successfully.

That was fine while Tomura’s master was still in charge, but when he was captured, his guild disbanded. Tomura and his friends had to find a new home, and their new guildmaster gives zero shits about potential and all the shits about results, which means that Tomura’s inability to manage a complete resurrection has gone from an awkward conversation to a significant problem. Tomura’s friends have made themselves useful to the Hassaikai guild already. If Tomura can’t, he’ll be out on his ear.

He needs to resurrect somebody, and he needs to do it fast. You’d be the ideal subject if your last words hadn’t been a demand to do the exact opposite.

Tomura scratches his neck and thinks things over. You told him not to bring you back, but you couldn’t have meant that, could you? You were dying. Most people’s minds go pretty fast once the dying process starts in earnest, and the first thing you told Tomura was that you didn’t want to die. He should go with the first thing you said, the one you said before your soul started to unstick itself from your body. He’s witnessed a lot of resurrections, and nobody’s ever bitched about being brought back from the dead.

So he’ll bring you back. You’ll be thankful. And Tomura’s bastard asshole of a guildmaster will finally quit threatening to kick him out. Everybody wins. Tomura calls on the spirits who cling to him the closest to lift your body clear of the wreckage, then reaches into his pocket and turns the portal stone that connects him to his workshop in the Hassaikai guild’s lair. The spirits carry your body through after him, and once the portal closes, they drop you into his arms.

Right. A resurrection’s a contract between the living and the dead. If the unquiet spirits Tomura uses for his light work get their hands on you once the process starts in earnest, the entire ritual will be doomed before it begins. Tomura’s been down that road before. He carries you the few steps to his altar and sets you down on it. Next he’s supposed to rearrange your body to a resting pose, but before he can do that, he has to brush a bunch of shit off his altar that’s not supposed to be there – empty drink cans, wrappers, used tissues, charger cables he burned through by touching them when he didn’t have his spirits under control. Tomura probably should have cleaned off his altar before he left, but it’s not his fault. He didn’t actually think he’d find anybody he could resurrect.

Once the altar’s sort of clean, Tomura arranges your arms and legs, moving you from the awkward, loose-limbed pose of the dead into something that resembles sleep a little better. The next part of the ritual feels awkward. He’s supposed to treat the subject’s body with reverence, to make it into something the subject will want to come back to – clean you up, repair any injuries, change you out of the clothes you died in. Tomura doesn’t have that kind of time. You just died. He’s not going to have to talk you back into your body.

Still, though. He should probably do something. Tomura douses a cloth in frigid water and starts wiping blood and soot off your face. Whatever injuries killed you, he can’t see them, so it wouldn’t be possible to clean them up anyway. It was probably smoke inhalation or something, and he got to you just as your lungs were shutting down. Your body will be healed when you come back to it, anyway. That’s how resurrection works. Tomura wipes away a trail of blood that’s run from your hairline down along your neck, drifting below the torn collar of your shirt, then stops where he is. He’s not taking your clothes off. This is good enough.

All of that was the easy part. Now the real work begins. Tomura turns his attention inwards, finding the part of him that draws unquiet spirits and closing his fist around it. There’s only one spirit he’s trying to call to right now. He gathers the supplies he’ll need, lays out the ritual as quickly as possible, aware that with every passing second your soul slips further from his reach. It’s not until Tomura’s lifting his knife to make the blood sacrifice that opens the ritual that a twinge of doubt comes to him. You told him as you were dying that you didn’t want him to bring you back. What if you meant it?

If you meant it, then nothing Tomura’s doing will matter. A necromancer can’t call back a soul who doesn’t want to be resurrected. Tomura angles the blade of his knife and opens the same wound in the heel of his hand as always, spilling one drop of blood onto each of the symbols on his altar. Then he holds out his hands over yours and begins to speak.

Sometimes he has to fight for the words of the invocation, but this time they tumble easily off his tongue, as natural to speak as his own native language. Necromantic speech can feel caustic, acidic, painful to those who aren’t meant to use it, and Tomura always feels like that – but not today. Everyone who’s ever successfully woken the dead has told Tomura what a rush it is. Maybe this is what they meant. Tomura usually keeps his eyes closed, but this time, he opens them, and he sees.

He sees the purple light that drips from his fingers, the same purple light rising from the symbols he painted with his blood, all of it forming a net over your body. He sees the way your form ripples where the light touches your skin, and he sees the way the world shifts, pulls and warps slightly at the edges, as he reaches out from this world into the next one. There’s something there, brushing at the tips of Tomura’s fingers. This is the part where he’d call to you by name, if he knew your name. Where he’d remind you of what you have to live for, if he knew that. The best necromancers are persuaders of the first order. Tomura watched his master talk dead people back to life a dozen times.

Tomura doesn’t have a way with words, but he doesn’t need that right now. He waits patiently for your soul to drift into his grasp, and when it’s close, he grabs it and pulls with all his strength. Probably too hard. When your soul breaks through the border into the world of the living, the recoil throws him backwards across his workshop hard enough to jar his teeth in his head. Tomura bites down hard on his cheek and barely manages to hold in a curse. The ritual’s not over yet. He can’t talk until you do.

The world shifts again, like a rubber band snapping back after being pulled tight and released. It feels like a slap across the face, and Tomura bites down on his cheek again. His eyes water as he stares at the altar, at your hand dangling over the edge of it. He remembers folding your hands across your abdomen at the start of the ritual, but they must have moved at some point. Failed resurrections can do a lot of weird things to a body. Tomura should know. Every resurrection he’s ever tried has –

Your fingers twitch, curl around the edge of the altar. It takes everything in Tomura’s power not to scream.

He can’t speak until you do, but that rule doesn’t extend to anyone else. Tomura can hear running feet in the corridor outside, and a moment later, Spinner bursts into his workshop. “Was that what I think it was?” he demands. “I felt the pop.”

“Me too!” Toga sings out, barreling in behind him. “That was definitely the pop, Tomura-kun! You did it!”

That didn’t feel like a pop. It was a slap. Is that what it’s supposed to feel like when a soul pulls free of death’s grip in one piece? Twice wedges his way into Tomura’s workshop after the others. “That was a hell of a pop! Where’s the lucky soul you saved from the land of the dead?”

Tomura’s still not convinced it worked. He points at his altar, where your fingers are still curling and uncurling at the edge, and Twice and Toga hurry over. Spinner comes over to Tomura to help him up. Tomura’s shakier on his feet than he wants to be, and his friends are taking advantage of his temporary incapacitation to go through his workshop like it’s theirs. “You need to clean up your altar, boss man!” Twice announces. “This sticky stuff better be energy drink spills.”

“You need to clean up your subject. You left her in her dead clothes, Tomura-kun,” Toga complains. She’s focused on you, and Tomura can see that she’s frowning. “That’s not very nice. There’s – ugh!”

She flinches back, eyes wide, then looks up at Tomura. Her stare is almost accusing, and it’s such a turnaround from where she was at even a few seconds ago that Tomura rocks back a step. “Where did you find her?”

Tomura can’t answer that. Not until you talk, and a moment later, you do. “Where am I?”

Your voice. Your voice sounds the same as it did when Tomura spoke to you before you died, when you were in the process of dying from smoke inhalation. A resurrection should heal your injuries, return your body to its natural state. Why do you still sound like that? When no one answers, you ask again. “Where am I?”

Twice grabs Tomura, yanks him forward until he’s staring down at you. “You’re in the Hassaikai Guild’s headquarters,” Tomura says to you. Your expression is blank, and it stays that way even after he’s answered. “You, uh –”

“You were dead,” Twice announces. “Shigaraki brought you back! Say thank you!”

Tomura elbows Twice, trying to get him to shut up. “Everything’s going to be okay now,” Toga says. “We’ll get you some clothes and some food – aren’t you hungry? Dead people are usually hungry when they come back. And then you can tell us what happened before Tomura found you.”

“I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t remember. You were dead already,” Spinner says to you, not unkindly. “Toga’s asking how you died.”

Your gaze is flat when you turn it on Spinner. “I don’t know how I died.”

Tomura feels a surge of foreboding. “What do you remember?”

“I don’t.”

That’s not supposed to happen. Tomura looks at his friends, who look back, equally puzzled. Even people who were unconscious when they died, people who died in their sleep, remember something about their lives. Tomura tries again. “What’s your name?”

You look blankly at him. Your eyes are dull. You don’t even shake your head, and you barely blink, and even though Tomura’s surrounded by friends and unquiet spirits who exist to work his will, he feels a chill go down his spine. “Do you remember anything?”

“No,” you say. You lie back down on the altar, shut your eyes, and that’s when Tomura knows he’s totally fucked.

“It’s unusual, but not unheard of,” Tomura’s guildmaster says, after looking you over and stepping back to a safe distance. “This is what happens when an unwilling soul is resurrected.”

“What?” Tomura didn’t want to call the guildmaster. Spinner’s the one who got freaked out and ran to get Overhaul, and now Overhaul’s looking around his workshop, grimacing like he’s staring into a dumpster. “Nobody can bring back a soul who doesn’t want to live again. That’s why we don’t bring back suicides.”

“That’s a myth,” Overhaul says. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and holds it over his mouth and nose, even though he’s already wearing a mask. “A necromancer of sufficient power can call back any soul, regardless of whether the soul wishes to return to life. You spoke to this soul before she died. What did she say?”

Don’t bring me back. “She didn’t want me to, but everybody –”

“In most cases you would have been right. In this case, it appears you were wrong, and that you have impressive strength.” Overhaul shrugs. “A soul who does not want to be resurrected fights hard. It leaves pieces of itself behind. What you have pulled back to this woman’s body is a soul, yes – but a soul stripped of what made it human in the first place. She does not remember who she was or how she came to be here. Essentially, she is a blank slate.”

Tomura has a couple problems with that. “Her body was supposed to heal. Whatever’s wrong with her, she’s still –”

“Yes, I would have Toga investigate that,” Overhaul says blandly. “That, too, is typical for an unwilling soul. It should be patched up before you attempt to market her.”

“What?” Tomura’s spirits wrap around him more closely, sensing unease. “Sell her?”

“Yes,” Overhaul says. “This is essentially a new soul, with the body, faculties, and capabilities of an adult. Her morality and behavior can be shaped in any way a potential purchaser sees fit. There is certainly a market for that. The pleasure industry, for instance –”

“No,” Toga says sharply. She didn’t wait for Tomura or Overhaul to tell her – she’s been examining you, and she looks up with narrowed eyes and bared teeth. “If you do that, Tomura-kun, I’ll cut you.”

Toga doesn’t joke around about cutting people. “I wasn’t going to,” Tomura says, stung. “Do I have to sell her?”

“No,” Overhaul says after a moment. “She is your resurrection. But I don’t understand why you wouldn’t, given the potential profit involved.”

Tomura knows why he wouldn’t. You didn’t want to be brought back. You told him so, and he did it anyway, and now you’re an empty shell, whoever you were in your first life sucked away into the beyond. He made you like this. That means he’s responsible for you, but what the hell is he supposed to do with you? He didn’t mean to make you. He doesn’t want you. But he can’t give you away.

“If you’d like, I’d be happy to broker a sale,” Overhaul says, and that’s what finally snaps Tomura out of his stupor. He shakes his head. “No? Then you must find a use for her. As a productive member of the guild, I’m happy to keep you – but if she serves no purpose, she cannot stay here.”

“If I’m going to be a productive member of the guild, my spirits can’t help me with my work,” Tomura says, thinking fast. “I need someone to prepare and arrange the bodies who can touch them without wrecking the ritual.”

“Hmm.” Overhaul crosses to you, ignoring Toga, and briefly lifts your hand away from your lap. You let him do it, and when he lets go, it falls back, limp. “The places where her soul was torn away now contain significant necromantic energy – but so do the bodies of all necromancers, yours included. She will be a suitable assistant.”

Tomura should feel relieved, but he doesn’t. He nods, and Overhaul glances around the room, his distaste visible even through his mask and the stupid handkerchief. “And have her clean this place up. No one will hire you if your workshop looks like a pigsty.”

He leaves, leaving Tomura standing in his workshop with you still sitting on the edge of his altar and Toga standing next to you, glaring at Tomura like she wants to murder him. “I sent Spinner to get clean clothes for her and then I’m taking her for a bath,” Toga says. “Can I talk to you outside?”

“You can talk in front of me,” you say, inflectionless. “I don’t care.”

Tomura goes outside anyway, just so you’ll stop staring at him, and Toga punches him in the arm the second he’s out of sight. “You asshole, Tomura-kun!”

“I didn’t do anything,” Tomura says. She punches him again. “What the fuck? Stop!”

“She smells like smoke and gunpowder. There are bruises on her face and blood all over her clothes, and –” Toga trails off, her mouth twisting with fury. “Those cult freaks attacked her town. Do you know what they do to people when they catch them alive?”

When Tomura runs across cultists, he usually just kills them. He ran across a handful on his way into your town, and his spirits took care of them on his word without him lifting a finger. He shakes his head, and Toga punches him a third time. “I know why. And I know why she’d rather stay dead.”

“Not anymore,” Tomura says. “She doesn’t remember anything.”

It’s a good thing Spinner arrives when he does, because otherwise Tomura’s pretty sure Toga was going to tear his entire face off. “I saw Overhaul on his way out. What happened?”

“She died in an awful way and Tomura-kun brought her back when she didn’t want to and now she’s got no memories and no personality,” Toga says without looking away from Tomura’s face. “So now she’s going to be Tomura-kun’s servant and pick up his garbage.”

Spinner frowns. “That sounds kind of –”

Bad. It sounds bad. “Thanks,” Tomura says. He snatches the clean clothes out of Spinner’s hands and ducks back into his workshop.

You’re still sitting on the table, staring at nothing. Your gaze transfers to Tomura when he steps back through, but you don’t say a word, and Tomura’s so uncomfortable with your endless, barely-blinking eye contact that he blurts something out just to make you stop. “Spinner brought you clothes. And Toga’s taking you for a bath.”

“I heard.”

Right. All your faculties and capabilities. You know things, still – you just don’t remember. “When you get back, we’ll – talk. About what you’re going to do now.”

You nod and get unsteadily to your feet. Even standing still, it’s clear that you’re going to walk with a limp. Toga can fix that, probably – the bodies she resurrects always come back pristine, not just healed but in perfect health. “My name is Tomura,” Tomura says. “You, uh –”

You had a name. He doesn’t know it. And neither of you will ever know what it is. “Pick something to call yourself,” he says. “Toga will help you.”

He drops the clothes next to you on the altar and ducks out of the room, mumbling a thank-you to Toga and ascending up through the levels of the Hassaikai lair until he’s under the open sky. It must be bad if he wants to be outside, breathing air scented with smoke and necromantic fallout, but anything is better than your blank stare. Your expressionless face, your flat voice, the way you barely seem to belong to your body. Necromancy is an assault against the laws of the world. Tomura’s known that all his life, and he’s been living alongside restless spirits for as long as he can remember. But this is the first time necromancy has ever felt disgustingly, despairingly wrong.

And like all Tomura’s mistakes, he has to live with it, for as long as you both shall live. Even if he lets Overhaul sell you and never sees you again, the memory of you will always be with him, crawling under his skin. Tomura stays outside as long as he can stand it, hoping you’ll be back, clean and healed, by the time he goes below again. And he hopes you’ve at least picked out a name.

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @lvtuss @dance-with-me-in-hell @deadhands69 @cheeseonatower @lacrimae-lotos @issaortiz @xeveryxstarfallx @f3r4lfr0gg3r @shikiblessed @stardustdreamersisi @warxhammer @handumb @koohiii @agente707 @minniessskii @baking-ghoul @boogiemansbitch @atspiss @evilcookie5 @aslutforfictionalmen

[kit-williams]

A thought occurred. A terrible premonition.

Admittedly I don't know much about 40k but I have heard about the Lamenters and their supernatural bad luck.

And I've had a tedius few days (my ride had to cancel so I had to walk around on a hot sunny afternoon, can't find the TV remote, tripped going up the stairs, lost three hairbands with ten minutes of trying to do my hair, and more) SO my thinking:

A squad of baselines who also just have... the worst luck. Their called Canary Squad on account of an old Terran story of a bird being used by miners to suss out dangers somehow. When they go, just about anything that can go wrong does. It's safer for those who go in afterwards... but let's just say the mortality rates for this particular squad is high.

You would think command would get rid of such an unlucky team, but no. Besides the nightmare of red tape, clerical errors, delays and scheduling that is the administrative powers if the Imperium, their higher ups have... mostly figured out how to use this for their benefit. Mostly.

These poor souls could, and have, gone on patrol in a peaceful sector where Nothing Was Wrong... and it ended with a lot of fire, explosions, a Cult getting into a fight with some rebellious locals, a small Ork Warband crashing near their location, and a Chaos Space Marine accidentally getting teleported in the middle of the mess.

They always have some kind of injury or bruise or story, no matter what they do or say.

And then they meet the Lamenters. Everyone expects for them ALL to meet some horribly unfortunate end. Canary Squad jokes their gonna accidentally kill off a bunch of Space Marines, the Lamenters are already mourning these brave men and women they will inevitably lead to their deaths.

Only... that doesn't happen.

Oh, things go wrong, sure. They get hurt, and things are very touch and go for most of the mission, but... the mission is a success?

What?

Nobody died (on their teams, at least), they completed the mission, and managed to get off planet (by launching an airtight tank into space for someone to pick up) and back onto their ship.

It turns out their individual teams/chapters bad luck just... cancelled each other's out.

When a Canary trips, their paired Lamenter pauses to help them up, which delays them just enough to not get crushed by a sudden collapse when the support beams in the building fails. A Lamenters foot goes through the floor, causing the Canary to stumble/fall, which saves them from a malfunctioning pressure gauge that explodes and would have put metal scrap through the baselines skull.

A Lamenter saves a Canary from a sudden drop, and because they had to bend/kneel to catch them they avoid the thing that would have hit him and sent him tumbling down that same drop.

A Canary accidentally activates a security alarm/trap/defense, but the Lamenters bolter misfires and causes a power outage, cancelling said alarm (and possibly causing the people there to think it was a malfunction due to the power outage).

They get surrounded, somebody drops a grenade, somebody else kicks it, and it lands near something explosive and/or flammable. The Lamenters cover their baseline buddies, and suddenly there are no enemies. The building/ground does begin to collapse tho.

Like a weird symbiosis. One sides bad luck counters the other, and they just keep cancelling each other out until they end up in a kinda-okay situation? By their standards at least.

Everyone is baffled, but none of them are gonna complain. If anything they think it's a gift/blessing from their genefather or them Emperor (or both). They all get very attached to each other.

All of this to say:

*Lamenter holding up his designated human* "this is my lucky charm."

I genuinely wish I could add more to this but like the idea is complete and wonderful and that the idea their combined bad luck is so bad that it cancels each other out because the bad luck is trying to get them killed and trying to get the others killed just this is peak

[iprefervillains]

book club hangster?! please share more

Book club Hangster entered my mind at the start of the new year and hasn't left it yet.

Basically they both like to read and somehow this escalates from them swapping books on a carrier once to sending all kinds of random books they pick up on employment halfway across the world for the other to read.

They leave annotations and reviews for the other and sometimes spent hours skyping or emailing about the books. They read, discuss and banter. It's their thing, their way of bonding and falling in love even though they don't like each other (lie!) and aren't even in the same part of the world most of the time.

It's mostly vibes right now but some ideas for this include:

Bradley hating thrillers and Jake picking up some weird Scandinavian psycho thriller when it is his turn some time before the mission just to be an ass. It's the real reason for the "early grave" comment, the book scared Bradley shitless.

Jake having a concussion after his air-to-air kill and Bradley calling him up to read him a new book over the phone. It helps with the boredom and the nightmares.

Bradley has a special bookshelf where he keeps all the books Jake send to him. They are scribbled full (Bradley adds his own comments even though Jake won't see them) to the point where he awkwardly purchases a second copy of a book he already owns because he doesn't want to lend Phoenix his copy.

They spent one Christmas when they are both temporarily stationed in San Diego quietly sitting on the couch in the Bradshaw bungalow, each in their own corner, silently reading a book and making notes and then swapping books the next day to do it again, before loudly discussing them on the second Christmas day.

They have soo many inside jokes, most importantly: "this could be us but you playing" noted to either the most hilariously bad romance scenes or totally unhinged conversations between characters or people killing their enemies.

Sometimes they challenge each other to only speak in quotes without anyone else noticing

Bradley ends up confessing his love for Jake by putting one of those romance novels that has a life shattering confession scenes and ends with either one or both characters dying on Jake's bed before he leaves for the mission with the confession highlighted and the words "I wish I would have been brave enough to tell you too instead of being a coward. I'm so sorry, Jake ♥". Needless to say Jake ends up totally pissed when he gets to the point in the book on the way back to shore because this is such a dick move and storms the medbay in the middle of the night to rip Bradley a new one.

Honestly I just love the idea of them having a share passion to bond over. A soft kind of love, you wouldn't expect at first, especially when you hear them loudly arguing about the right flight style.

There is more if you want @intrepidjourneys, it might take me some time to write though.

[spiderfunkz]

RED MEANS I LOVE YOU

pairings. cho hyun-ju x gn!reader

cw. canon violence, blood, hurt to comfort.

author's note: the hyun-ju hype can't die down guys!! please send some requests but i'm begging atp for u guys to read this beforehand.

if you could describe what you were seeing for the past few days, it would be that your vision was tainted in red. no matter how much you itch, scratch, wipe, or scrub off— you're bloodied in loss.

it didn't look pretty either. the person you were before is just a mere reflection in the mirror, you wanted to get off whatever island you were on. it's torture, that's for sure, you couldn't even imagine how stupid you were for accepting the concept in the first place. it was too good to be true and you knew it— maybe you did, you're not sure anymore.

although, amongst all the wreck and violence, you were able to find one highlight of the entire experience. no, it wasn't the relief after surviving a round, and it wasn't lunch breaks either.

it was cho hyun-ju.

the tall woman who almost peered over you by a bit. she found you after the break of the first game, she seemed tense— almost afraid, at first, you wondered why she was. it doesn't matter though, she embraced you with open arms and soon a bond began to blossom.

lights out would be spent with whispers about your past and laughs about jokes that lingered far behind your mind. hyun-ju shared stories and tales about her life, your heart beats with empathy and also admiration. she was so brave, kind, intelligent, strong, and trust-worthy. you hope to get through this game with the chances of you two meeting each other again.

"where are you from, hyun-ju?" her own name sent shivers down her skin, you said it with such sincerity. "i'm from gwangmyeong, i've since moved out." her face has a slight smile to it, it seems a bit bitter, "hey, i'm near gwangmyeong! we were long, longggg neighbors!" everything you said seems to lighten her mood even more.

you brought a sense of comfort to hyun-ju, especially in a place like this. you don't know how much she really needed it. she didn't feel the usual gut-wrenching, almost stomach inducing pain she usually does when she's with someone.

though, right now, you could barely think about any of those without panicking or losing your sanity. the games took a twist, another one, if you will. player 456's or gi-hun's plan was clear enough for you to understand, it played off well at first, but now, you were scared out of your head for hyun-ju.

it was impressive to see her lead and teach the others, her combat knowledge seemed incredible, must've been the army. you watched her explain in the comfort of your bed, she didn't take any other answer when she insisted that you stay in the safety of the games dormitories. you couldn't argue with her, it was the last thing you wanted.

you didn't doubt her abilities. she is well-skilled, yet there was an aching knaw that something is wrong. you didn't want to lose her.

but when hyun-ju and the others left the room, you just sat and begged that she would come back un-injured and alive. the group of people near you were supportive, including some other allies you managed to make during the six-legged pentathlon and mingle. without them, you wouldn't be able to be where you are now.

though a small portion of you wished you were somewhere else, you know, preferably your home, but this time; there were no more unexpected knocks, no more piles of letters reminding you of your nail-biting ending (a.k.a getting evicted), and no more stress about the things you could've gotten done earlier in your life— if only you had your path straight then.

your thoughts were snapped when a fellow player went into the room in a state you knew too well. he looked afraid, he was repeating a sentence you couldn't seem to make out, however, soon it became clear what it was. people tried to approach him but you knew better, he needed to calm down and do his part, and their scolding will not help.

your heart wanted to ease down but couldn't when you saw hyun-ju ran in. she wasn't supposed to come back so quickly, it made you sigh— maybe from relief, maybe from dread.

but oh, did the amount of blood on her make you want to puke.

it's sickening, to be surrounded by it too. there are stains of people's death all around the place, you can't even sleep. you haven't been sleeping. not even hyun-ju's touch could bring you back to the slumber you've grown to miss so much.

you stood up from the bed, she was facing player 388, or dae-ho. he was the one who went in, the one who looked absolutely terrified. he was trembling.

she hugged the magazines he collected earlier and she was about to run off again. but her eyes met your glossy and almost tear-filled ones.

"don't go, hyun-ju."

"i have to."

"you're gonna get hurt. you have so much blood on your face, oh gosh," your hand held up near her cheek, it's a hesitant move, but she leans into the touch. you wipe as much as you could off, "don't go, hyun."

she looks back and took a moment to think before looking at you again, she takes a deep breath. "okay, okay. don't get teary-eyed," she smiles, "i'm here, i'll keep you safe."

"okay, then." you were inhaling and exhaling as steady as you could. it still came out shaky, you were almost hyperventilating. "let me, just wipe this off." your hands gently trace the marks on her face, wiping away all the impurities and worries off of her.