#something normal. like crack or something

[snail-day]

Satoru doesn't do well with the idea of leaving you. Never has. Probably never will.

Even the short missions are enough to make him sulky, but the long ones? The ones where he’ll be away for days, maybe weeks? He turns into a whining mess. You wonder if he's always been like this, just never voiced it aloud to anyone before.

Packing takes three times longer than it should. Every time he tries to fold a shirt or zip his carry on, he ends up abandoning the task halfway through just to wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into the crook of your neck with a pitiful little whine.

"I don't wanna go," he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin, maybe saying it enough times might make the whole thing mission disappear. "You’re my little Pokémon, y'know? I should be able to just catch you in a ball and bring you with me."

You laugh, warm and breathless, reaching up behind you to card your fingers through his snowy hair. "You could try," you tease, and he groans dramatically, squeezing you tighter.

It’s not just joking, though. When you offer to come with him, he always gets a little quiet. A little stuck in his mind. Turning you around and pulling back just enough to look at you, and the way his bright blue eyes shimmer... God, it breaks your heart a little. He wants to say yes. You can see it in the way his hand trembles against your side. The way his pretty eyes scan your face. It's on the tip of his tongue.

But instead, he just shakes his head slowly, a wobbly little smile on his lips.

Because the thought of something happening to you, curse or no curse, makes his heart ache. Makes his mind wander a little too far for his liking.

What if he’s in the middle of a fight and someone targets you?

What if he’s too far away to reach you in time?

What if...?

"Can’t risk it," he finally says softly, thumb brushing back and forth against your hip, memorizing the feel of your soft skin. Maybe your scent will eventually be engrained in his mind. "You're... you’re everything, baby."

Already pulling you against his lean chest again, holding you so tightly you can barely breathe, mumbling "I love you" over and over against the crown of your head. His palm rubbing up and down your back in loose patterns. You almost think he's tearing up.

"I love you. I love you so much. Don’t forget, okay?" he murmurs between kisses to the top of your head. "Be safe. Call me if you even think something’s weird, kay? I’ll come running, promise."

You have to physically pry him off you just to get him to finish packing. And even then, he keeps glancing back at you every five seconds. Begging for one more hug. One more kiss. One more chance to touch you before he has to drag himself to the door.

By the time he actually gets to the door, he’s somehow hugging you again, despite your giggling protests, rocking you gently side to side in his arms, mumbling about how he’s going to miss you so bad he might just quit being a sorcerer and become your full-time house husband. (He’s only half joking.)

Finally, after a hundred kisses and whispered I love yous, he leans down one last time, nose brushing against yours, voice soft and almost trembling: "Be here when I get back, 'kay? I don’t wanna come home to a world without you."

But then, quieter, so quiet you nearly miss it he adds: "...And don’t... don’t forget about me either, yeah? Don’t find someone normal while I'm gone. Someone who doesn't leave. Someone who can give you the kind of life you deserve."

It’s said with a half-laugh, light and teasing, like he’s trying to play it off, but you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, the way his voice wavers. That tiny, hidden crack in the foundation of Satoru Gojo: The fear that being the strongest might mean ending up the loneliest too.

And even as he finally forces himself to step away, flashing you that big, blinding smile. You catch the flicker of sadness he tries so desperately to hide. Because no matter how strong he is, when it comes to you, Satoru’s always afraid that someday you’ll realize you deserve more than a man who keeps having to leave.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Ok, I need you to elaborate more about The Menace! Danny's Hero Persona cause I can understand if he's too nice (almost like Nightwing but more doting than funny) or if he's the "normal" one (he comes, beats you but hey! He isn't as violent like the rest so he's the best option)

I'm picturing him in his hero persona petting strays and openly talking about mental health

He's the kind of hero who stays behind after the fights, passing around assistance forms for insurance claims. He makes sure to get the information on the damaged properties so that he can later reimburse or fix them himself.

People took notice, and wherever there is a big fight, it's relatively common to see online postings of "Hey anyone that can help, Phantom is at Adress XXX trying to put in a roof! Gardeners too, for the lawns damage by car. I'll bring my grill and some stakes!" and people just....show up to help??? Turn it into a blog party???

Help each other??? Remember the good times.

Phantom always beams at them, which is just as rewarding. He also helps with several fundraisers. Like he'll stop his patrol to buy Girl Scout cookies, go to school bake sales, get involved in cleaning up parks, visit people in hospitals, and find warm shelter for anyone he comes across.

Phantom also never posts things himself. It's always one of his fans because he thinks that good things should be done without aiming for fame.

No one really knows when or where Phantom will pop up. After being Batman's star, since he glows and is a ray of hope, Phantom slowly developed his own time and rhythm, appeasing both Day and Night crimes.

He still beats the criminals up and cracks jokes as he does it. It's not like Flash, who can de-escalate situations, but more of mutual respect. He also teaches free self-defense classes and walks anyone who's scared at night home (Sometimes people try to trap him for this, but most of the time he has escorted young women and men home).

Phantom has also placed emergency buttons around the city, after clearing it with the mayor. People push them to let each other know that something is wrong, and to send an SOS to Phantom. He will pop in to check on you, even if it's just a street kid asking for homework help.

He's literally an angel without wings......and then there's Danny Fenton-Wayne, who's setting shit on fire while throwing in home-made dolls of his classmates and pointing at people to growl "The spirits want you".

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ rafe accidentally finds out about your praise kink.

warnings — none, really! praise + praise kink, sexual tension.

cherie's note — i was inspired by a tweet on twitter and i knew i had to write it for rafe omg... this is your sign to get your license if you don't have it yet ˵ •̀ᴗ•́˵

a perfect stop.

the infamous black truck idles in his driveway, your fingers gripping against the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, heart racing.

you glance over at rafe, the boy sat comfortably in the leather seat of his passenger side, waiting for the inevitable commentary. his leg bounces absentmindedly, giving you a small nod of approval — a job well done. not that you had gone far — riding down the dirt marsh roads out of sight from any other vehicle and back, but it was something.

"well?" you ask, a little too eager, a little too nervous.

he doesn't answer right away — lets the tension build between them in that egotistical way he always seemed to do. rafe had a way of making people uncomfortable, he knew that. he watches you for a second. you look flushed — focused and proud and still kind of buzzing from the adrenaline.

"you did good," he remarks, popping the seatbelt out of the lock, "proud of you, kid."

it lands in the silence like a dropped match.

your entire body reacts — shoulders stiffening, breath catching, and your eyes very pointedly avoid his. like if you stare straight ahead long enough, he won't notice how your cheeks had just gone pink — how the heat had crept up your neck, and tinted your ears a shade of red.

but rafe notices everything.

he tilts his head. "...what?"

"nothing."

his brows furrow, confused. just minutes ago, things had been good between you both — normal. but now, you shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze while sitting in his driver's seat, flustered and itching for relief from the mortification.

but you look almost... shy — bashful, like his comment had struck something deep inside of you, something not even you were certain about.

"you good?"

"i'm fine," you mutter, eyes darting out towards the window in a hopeful attempt at escape.

oh.

it clicks in his head, the silence between you cracking open just wide enough to let the truth push through. the conversation replays in his mind, each word now laced with meaning he'd missed before. his lips twitch — not with malice, but with something far more dangerous.

a knowing grin spreads across his face like wildfire. he shifts, slow and casual, slinging an arm over the back of your seat, fingers just brushing your shoulder. warmth trails where his skin almost meets yours. "no fucking way..." he breathes, eyes locked on you, "you like being praised."

the words hang in the air like smoke, thick and stifling.

you freeze. the heat rushes to your face, flooding down your neck, settling in your gut like liquid fire. his tone is cocky — but it lands like a challenge. you can't seem to meet his gaze.

"i do not!" you fire back, weakly, the protest wilting on your tongue even as it leaves your lips. you sound unconvincing — it sounds untrue to your own ears. because it is.

a low, triumphant laugh rumbles in his chest. he leans closer, "that's why you always get all weird when i say that shit — compliment you. i thought you were just shy." his voice dips, an octave above a purr, all too pleased with himself. "but — damn."

you cover your face with your hands, wishing you could melt into your seat to avoid the embarrassment brewing in your chest. "can we please talk about something else?"

but he's watching you too closely now — every twitch, every breath. his expression is unreadable, but the look in his eyes is anything but innocent.

and for a second, he looks like he had decided to drop it. finally.

"hey," he says, after a pause. his voice is quieter now, closer. there's something softer beneath the teasing edge.

"what?" you murmur, reluctantly glancing over at him. your eyes shine — with embarrassment, with frustration, with shame.

"you did good today, baby."

it hits harder than it should. like a punch to the stomach and a hand to the threat. you groan, half a protest, half a plea, and shove at his arm — weakly, pointlessly. his laugh fills the truck, deep and unfiltered, vibrating through the close air.

[ccazimi]

cw: crack, fluff, smut, dubcon, panty sniffing/stealing, scent kink, etc. (he's literally part animal what do you expect)

tiger hybrid!sukuna who's prissy and sassy, much like an actual housecat. picky about everything, from the temperature and consistency of his food to the way his water tastes to what a light sleeper he is. sometimes you talk to him, and if he doesn't feel like responding, he literally won't even turn his head to you - all you'll get is an annoyed flick of his ear to tell you that he does hear you, he's just actively choosing to ignore you.

tiger hybrid!sukuna who has a serious issue with boundaries. he's allowed to ignore you if he feels like it, but you dare try and do the same thing back? unacceptable. will be extremely miffed if your attention isn't on him at all times. yes, even when he actively acts like he doesn't want it.

not to mention you need to deal with him literally getting offended at the fact that you wear clothes around him even though "it's just you two in the house" and on more than one occasion will you be absolutely mortified when you find he’s been stealing your dirty panties- he, of course, doesn’t get the big deal.

oh, you thought that was bad? wait till you find that he insists that you sleep naked with him, and your nightly ritual includes him not only licking you clean (at least your face and neck) but sniffing down your entire body. yes, the entire thing. the part where he gets to your pussy is the worst for you, and the best for him. and whenever he gets down between your thighs to smell you, he makes this weird face almost automatically, with his lips pulled back to show off those fangs and mouth a bit open somewhere between a snarl and a smirk, like he’s trying to taste the scent

tiger hybrid!sukuna who has a special vomeronasal organ at the roof of his mouth that can pick up pheromones—and that weird thing he does, when he opens his mouth while sniffing your pussy? yeah, that’s him drawing the scent in deeper, some focused, instinctual decoding process of your sexual health

"you're ovulating, probably peaked this morning. also you're kinda stressed...maybe you need to sleep more," he graciously informs you of his findings between your spread thighs. "oh and your pH is a little off. maybe skip that stupid new soap you got next time."

he looks up at you expectantly—clearly waiting for your gratitude. and you know he won’t finish this whole ridiculous routine until you sigh and say, flat as ever, "thanks for that. can we sleep now?"

"you've got two days left if you're trying to get pregnant, by the way."

you shoot him something between a glare and a grimace.

tiger hybrid!sukuna can pick up everything, but there are two times of the month when he can pick up those smells even with just his normal nostrils. the first one -obviously- is when you’re ovulating. but the only thing worse than the scent of you ovulating, is the smell that envelops you right before you get your period. “worse” in the sense that it drives him completely insane. sweet, cloyingly thick, warm. in fact he blames you for tempting him. you'll be innocently doing the dishes or something when suddenly it's too much for him and he pounces on you from behind, wrapping his arms around you to keep you in place, claws instinctively pushing out to dig into your skin so tight it hurts.

of course you panic, squirming as he begins rutting into the curve of your ass, his cock quickly swelling up till it's very noticeable. and the scent of him that becomes so much stronger when he's...excited like this - warm, musky, all iron and spice, wrapping around you.

"sukuna- let me- go!" you try as you struggle in his grasp, but it's too late he's too far gone, just mindlessly grunting and growling as he chases his release, too desperate to even fuck you properly. "almost there, just a bit more," he pants, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply. "it's your fault anyway, walking around like -hah- i can't smell your pussy fucking begging for me." and right as you're about to splash some cold water on him, you hear him groan filthy, and guttural, as he finishes in his pants just from grinding against you.

and that's when he finally comes to his senses, trying to retract his claws to let go of you. unfortunately they get stuck in the fabric of your clothing, and he just panics making them get even more tangled while you yell at him to stop moving so that you can unhook his claws. finally you turn with your arms crossed, giving him the coldest, and most stern look of all time. he stares at you guiltily, a large wet patch forming on the crotch of his pants where his cum seeps through.

it's not his fault -not exactly- like any good hybrid he needs to be trained, and soon enough you've corrected that little problem of his (mostly)

tiger hybrid!sukuna is intensely territorial, especially when it comes to you. so when you come home smelling even faintly like another man? he’s agitated to no end — not even jealous, exactly, he just feels like it’s wrong. soon after come several arguments his way about “how he can’t piss around your house to mark his territory” or about how “it’s completely unacceptable to leave long clawed scratch marks on the walls or furniture”

tiger hybrid!sukuna who simply cannot keep his hands off you when you're on your period. this time he doesn't touch you (too much) without your permission, but he will beg you incessantly till you finally give in. and that's how you end up with your clothes shredded, and him biting and sucking every inch of your body hungrily as he makes his way down, tail wrapping possessively around you to keep you in place

tiger hybrid!sukuna with long sharp fangs that make his kisses hurt just a little, especially when gets too excited and nips your skin, drawing just a bit of blood that he happily licks up. he loves when they scar a bit too, just so that you’re marked as his.

tiger hybrid!sukuna with rough, spiked papillae on his tongue meant for cleaning raw flesh off bone that are now scraping against the bud of your stiff nipple. you gasp and writhe, and he knows he can't lick you nipples too much (as much he wants to) or it'll really start to hurt.

tiger hybrid!sukuna eats you out like he eats wild prey, teeth just shy of nipping your clit as he laps at your cunt. and of course the rough sandpaper texture of his tongue against your swollen nub feels like nothing else - a bit painful, borderline overstimulating, but so good at the same time. but just like with your nipples he has to be carefully so he doesn't seriously hurt you down there.

tiger hybrid!sukuna who just can't help himself from pinning your thighs open almost painfully as you cum, just to stick his tongue inside your hole and finally taste the leaking sweetness that's been teasing him for days. even when you're done, he continues to lick your pussy gently, almost affectionately. you squirm a little from the slight overstimulation but just let him do his thing as he laps your folds clean, deep purrs rumbling from inside his chest as he does so

[reidyourpalms]

on air

summary -> you’re a guest on the useless hotline podcast hosted by your secret boyfriend | george clarke x fem!reader

wc -> 1.2k

WARNINGS -> secret/private relationship, george is smitten

masterlist | main masterlist

george knew inviting you on the podcast was a bad idea.

not because you wouldn’t be great - quite the opposite, actually. you were quick, charming, dangerously funny. the kind of guest that made a podcast episode fly by and rack up views. but because george had a very hard time pretending you weren’t his girlfriend, and the useless hotline was filmed in 4K and recorded with high-grade microphones that picked up everything - including every slip-up, lingering stare, and voice crack.

and right now? he was seconds away from combusting on camera.

you were sitting across from him, legs crossed, mic in front of you, hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows, looking like you didn’t have a secret in the world.

meanwhile, george was sweating. literally and figuratively.

“right, welcome back to the useless hotline,” he said into the mic, trying to sound normal, casual, definitely not like a man who had been up until 2 a.m. last night with the very guest now smiling sweetly across from him. “the show where we help you with your problems, whether you want us to or not.”

“usually not,” max muttered next to him.

you laughed—a soft, familiar sound george had heard a thousand times before, but now it echoed in his headphones like a siren call.

max leaned forward, smirking. “and today we’ve got a very special guest... content creator, chaos gremlin, and george’s—what was it? longtime friend?”

george gave him a look. a subtle but deeply meaningful shut up look. you just smiled and said, “that’s what we’re calling it, yeah.”

you were good at this. at pretending. too good.

george could barely keep his eyes off you. the way your fingers tapped the mic stand absentmindedly, how your lips twitched whenever max made a joke, how you’d glance at george when you were holding back something private - something only the two of you knew. well not just you two but also not the rest of the world.

he was so screwed.

“so,” max said, reading the first listener submission. “this person says: ‘my situationship keeps liking my Instagram stories but never replies to my texts. what do I do?’ classic.”

you leaned in, “oof. see, that’s emotional terrorism.”

george barked a laugh - too loud, too sudden. you glanced at him, amused, and he felt his neck heat up. “sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “just - ‘emotional terrorism.’ that’s gold.”

“tell me I’m wrong, clarke,” you teased, tilting your head.

his full name. dangerous territory. it made his stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t while on camera. “nah, you’re spot on,” he said, but his voice cracked slightly at the end.

max turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “you good, george?”

“yep. yep. great.” you smirked. george wanted to crawl under the table.

the episode went on. more questions. more advice. more jokes. and the longer it went, the worse george got. because you were so effortlessly you. because every time you teased him, he had to stop himself from reaching across the table and grabbing your hand like he always did when you were off-camera. because every time you laughed, he remembered what it felt like to kiss you mid-laughter, tangled in sheets and sunlight.

you reached for your drink, eyes flicking to him mid-sip. that look. the look you gave him when you wanted to be alone. private. quiet. yours.

he nearly dropped his mic. max noticed—of course he did.

“george,” he said suddenly, interrupting whatever nonsense advice you were giving. “what’s going on with you today? you’re being weird.”

george flinched. “i’m not being weird.”

“you’re being super weird,” max insisted. “you’re staring at her like she’s about to float away.” you raised your eyebrows in mock surprise. “am i?”

george laughed nervously. “i’m just - she’s just funny. that’s why she’s here.” max narrowed his eyes. “uh-huh. not because you live together or anything.”

you coughed. george blinked, “we don’t live together.”

max smirked. “not technically. but didn’t you stay at her place last night?” george’s mouth opened. closed. you shot Max a look that could kill.

“wow, max,” you said slowly. “way to make it weird.”

george leaned back, palms up. “can we not do this on air?”

“oh my god,” Max gasped. “you two are actually—?”

“nope,” you cut in smoothly. “still besties. he just likes my cooking.”

“yeah,” George added, voice hoarse. “just... spaghetti and stuff.”

you knew he was remembering last night. the way you kissed him in the kitchen, salt still on your fingers, shirt half-unbuttoned from laughing too hard during dinner. the way he picked you up and laid you across the counter, like-

“george,” max said again. “dude. you’re gone.”

“okay, next question!” george blurted, slapping the desk. “this one says: ‘is it a red flag if my boyfriend won’t post me?’”

max raised an eyebrow. “a very fitting question for the current vibe.”

you looked at George. your voice was low, almost teasing. “well, it depends, right? some people just like privacy.”

“yeah,” george said, throat dry. “privacy’s important.”

max squinted. “sure, but like… if you’re dating someone and you’re never in their stories, never on their grid, don’t even get a soft launch - what’s that about?”

you shrugged. “maybe they’re just waiting for the right time.”

“or maybe they’re secretly dating their podcast guest,” max said under his breath. george choked.

you snorted. “i think we’ve veered off-topic.”

george could barely look at you for the rest of the episode. he was red, flustered, and so obviously not okay. the fans were going to eat this up. the clips alone were going to break tiktok. you were cool as ever - effortlessly gliding through the chaos.

but as the outro music played and the red light on the camera clicked off, you finally looked at him properly. the kind of look that said, you’re in so much trouble, but i kind of love you for it.

george leaned toward you, voice low, private, almost pleading.

“i was trying so hard to keep it together.”

you leaned closer, “you did terribly.”

he laughed, soft and warm, “i know.”

you looked over at max, who was pretending to check his phone but was definitely eavesdropping. then you reached over and squeezed george’s hand under the table, a quiet promise between the chaos.

“next time,” you whispered, “maybe we don’t pretend.”

george blinked. “yeah?”

you grinned,“yeah.”

TWITTER

@/uselesshotlinepod - Y’all… there’s NO WAY George and y/n are just “friends.” This episode is wild and you can go watch it now.

i’m on a role rn slayy. feel free to request i get to them within a week of when they are requested

[pukefactory]

︶꒦꒷ NOCTURNE COLLECTION ꒷꒦︶

ྐ✚ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Ken The Butcher X Reader

ྐ✚ Character(s): Ken The Butcher (The Gaslight District)

ྐ✚ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

ྐ✚ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

ྐ✚ Image Credits: @MemuroPage on Pinterest

꒷꒦ You met Ken the same way most people meet death—with a sharp hook around the ankle and the smell of blood in your throat. You weren’t supposed to be in the Whale Belly. You got lost. Or maybe something worse brought you there. But instead of slicing you open like a slab of meat, Ken squinted at your face, muttered something about “wrong time, wrong place,” and offered you a job as a server. With one condition: “You breathe a word to anyone, and I’ll use your ribs for soup stock.” You think that was his way of being sweet.

꒷꒦ Ken doesn’t do affection. He does inspection. He yells at you for not wearing gloves. Yells at you for talking to Mud. Yells at you when you slice onions wrong. “What’re you doin’, lettin’ yourself bleed like that? What if the virtues sniff it out, huh? You tryin’ to die?!” You never realized love could look like a hulking butcher shoving gauze against your palm with shaking hands. Like a man who screams because he doesn’t know how to cry.

꒷꒦ The moment he realizes he’s in love with you, he panics. He tears apart a whole freezer full of pork trying to cool down. What the hell is he supposed to do with this? You—this soft, living thing—liking him? Choosing him? That’s not normal. That’s not safe. So he does the only thing he knows how to: “Stay in the back. Don’t talk to nobody. Don’t look at Mud. Don’t breathe unless I say so.”…And when you do all that anyway, just to stay near him, he nearly bursts a vein.

꒷꒦ He takes “overprotective” to mythic levels. You tripped once and got scraped up. Within the hour, Ken had six gangsters lined up with broken kneecaps, screaming, “WHICH ONE OF YOU PUT A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK?!” It was a pebble. Doesn’t matter. They’re still cemented to this day.

꒷꒦ He can’t bear to let you out of his sight, so he makes you a butcher’s apprentice. Now you’re stuck in the Whale Belly, learning how to clean knives while Ken critiques your slicing technique with the intensity of a drill sergeant. “No, no, you’re butcherin’ the cut wrong! And not in the good way! Look—like this, you see? Precise. Surgical. Delicate, like open-heart murder.” You can’t tell if he’s flirting or teaching, but either way, you’re sweating.

꒷꒦ When he thinks about the future, he sees red. Not in the angry way. In the wedding veil soaked in blood kind of way. He doesn’t think he deserves a happy ending, but sometimes he imagines one: you in some nice white piece (with a Kevlar vest underneath), him walking you down the aisle (or slaughterhouse hallway), Breadhead officiating. “I’m just sayin’, … if this dump ever goes quiet, and Mel don’t hate my guts, and I ain’t dead yet… maybe we find a chapel. Or a ditch. You pick.”

꒷꒦ He makes you breakfast every morning: eggs (not human), toast (slightly charred), and coffee so bitter it feels like chewing sin. He won’t let anyone else near your food. “You want cyanide in your pancakes? No? Then you eat what I cook.” You tell him it’s perfect every time. He grumbles. But he starts setting the table for two anyway.

꒷꒦ Ken doesn’t trust easily, but he gives you the key to the back freezer. No one has that key. Not even Breadhead. It’s where he keeps the real things. The sacred things. The broken things that still hurt. You found an old photo once—of a baby with a familiar curl in her hair, held by someone Ken tore out of the frame. He saw you holding it and went silent for the whole night. Next morning, he gave you a necklace made from a butcher’s hook. “Wear it. If the virtues come for you… you’ll swing before they do.”

꒷꒦ He doesn’t say “I love you.” He says “Don’t die.” He says it a lot. After arguments. Before raids. When you go to sleep. “Don’t die on me. Not before I do. Not before I finish what I started.” You don’t say anything back. You just hold his hand—scarred, raw, shaking—and hope it says enough.

꒷꒦ If anyone ever hurt you, there wouldn’t be a second time. There wouldn’t be a first time, not really—just a blip before Ken’s rage blotted out the sun. He’s not subtle. He doesn’t bluff. If someone touched a hair on your head, he’d go full monologue: “You touched somethin’ that didn’t belong to you. And now, I’m gonna peel you like garlic and use your spine as a meat skewer.” You asked once if he’d really go that far. He didn’t answer. Just wiped his hands, kissed your knuckles, and muttered, “Only if I’m feelin’ merciful.”

[himasgod]

Some twisted wonderland character comforts us when we broke down because we want to go back to our home ( separated) but it was no way back home

( if so can you make one with Jamil? )

ACE AND DEUCE AND JAMIL X READER

Where they comfort you when you miss home

How would the boys act when they find you crying because you know there's probably no way home?

The stars in Twisted Wonderland weren’t the same.

They were too blue. Too distant. Too still.

Back home, you remembered lying on your roof during summer nights, watching airplanes blink past, hearing distant traffic and dogs barking in backyards.

Here… all you could hear was wind. A different wind. One that felt like it didn’t belong to your lungs, like it didn’t know you.

You were used to pretending, smiling like things were okay. You had magic to study, housewarden rules to follow, ghosts to wrangle. But tonight… it cracked.

You sat on the crumbling steps of Ramshackle, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists, knees drawn up to your chest. The sky blurred above you because of the tears you’d been holding back for months, now spilling down with no resistance.

You missed everything.

The feel of your own bed. Your mom’s voice. The dumb jingles from your favorite shows. The smell of your old laundry detergent. Even the mundane fights with classmates.

There was no way home.

Crowley said it over and over, he was trying to find it.

But now it felt real. You were trapped.

Like the story had been closed, and you were the only character left behind in the wrong book.

You didn’t notice when someone walked up the path to Ramshackle.

You didn’t hear the footsteps on the gravel.

“…Yo,” came a voice—too casual for the quiet night. “Did you forget what time it is? You’re gonna catch a cold out here like that.”

You blinked hard and looked up.

Ace stood a few steps away, jacket slung over one shoulder, a paper bag in his other hand.

Behind him was Deuce, fidgeting with something behind his back, expression hesitant but worried.

“…We brought you dinner. Er… late dinner,” Deuce said softly. “You weren’t in the cafeteria today.”

You tried to wipe your face quickly, but it was obvious.

“…Oh. I—I wasn’t really hungry,” you whispered, your voice cracking halfway through.

Ace dropped his bag next to you and sighed, crouching down to your level. He didn’t immediately say anything, just stared at your blotchy teary face

“Okay. Out with it. You’re too crap at hiding stuff.”

Deuce sat on the other side, carefully putting down a warm container of food next to you. It smelled like miso soup—maybe something Sam sold them.

You shook your head. “It’s dumb. I’m just… being stupid. Sorry.”

“Don't do that,” Deuce said, his tone suddenly firmer.

“You don’t have to say sorry. Not to us.”

Ace leaned his elbows on his knees, lips twitching.

“You seriously think we haven’t noticed you spacing out lately? Every time someone says something about ‘home’ or ‘parents’ you get that far-off look like someone hit you with a sad spell.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda,” Ace said.

“But we didn’t wanna push. Thought maybe you’d talk when you were ready.”

You swallowed hard.

“I just… I want to go back. To where I belong. I don’t want to stay here forever. I want to be home, and there's no mirror, no spell, no nothing that can fix that. Crowley keeps pretending he’s looking but we all know he’s not really doing anything. It feels like I’m slowly being erased from my own world…”

Your throat clenched as your voice wavered.

“And I’m scared I’ll forget what my mom’s laugh sounds like.”

That was when the silence fell heavy.

Deuce looked down, fists clenched. He finally said, quietly.

“I’d be scared too.”

Ace was still. His normal sarcasm was gone.

“…That sucks,” he muttered, honest for once. “That really, really sucks.”

You let out a sob you didn’t know you were holding.

Without a word, Ace scooted closer and dropped his head against your shoulder.

“I’m not gonna tell you everything’s gonna be okay, ‘cause that’d be a load of bull. But…”

He reached over and flicked your forehead—light, just enough to be annoying.

“If you cry without telling us, I’m gonna be mad. Seriously.”

“Same,” Deuce added, resting his head in your other shoulder, more gently.

“You’re not alone, okay? You’ve got us.”

You looked between them, sniffing.

“Why… why do you two care so much?”

“Because we’re friends, dummy,” Ace said immediately, almost insulted.

“You’re our weird, stubborn, always-in-danger-because-you-have-zero-self-preservation-and-you-need-to-help-every-fucking-body friend. What kind of guys would we be if we didn’t have your back?”

Deuce smiled a little.

“And because you’ve helped us a lot too. You were there when we messed up. It’s our turn now.”

You covered your eyes with your sleeves again.

“…Thanks. Both of you.”

They didn’t push more.

Ace leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, and started complaining about how cold the steps were and how he should have brought a chair.

Deuce stayed beside you, occasionally handing you tissues from his uniform pocket.

At some point, you ate the soup.

It wasn’t your mom’s cooking, but it was warm, and it tasted like comfort.

And when you finally stood up, heart heavy but a little less cracked, Ace grinned and nudged your shoulder.

“Still stuck here with us losers, huh? Guess that means we better keep you around.”

Deuce laughed.

“And maybe… someday, there’ll be a way back. But until then… we’ll make this place feel a little more like home.”

And for the first time in a long while, you believed them.

You weren't supposed to be here.

The lounge of Scarabia in night wasn't exactly forbidden, but it was hardly a place students went after hours.

It was quiet. Isolated. Uncomfortable, even, with the cold stone beneath you and the wind tugging at your sleeves. But maybe that discomfort was comforting in its own way. Tangible. Something you could feel while everything else felt so...

Detached.

The sky above was foreign—unfamiliar stars scattered in constellations you didn't recognize, a moon that looked the same but felt completely different.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, pulling your knees to your chest, and stared into the distance.

"I want to go home," you murmured. The words felt like a betrayal.

Saying them out loud made them heavier.

You hadn’t heard the voice behind you.

"Then why are you here, instead of asking Crowley for the thousandth time to send you back?"

The voice was dry, even. Unmistakable.

You turned slowly. Jamil, arms crossed. His gaze was sharp as always, but there was no mockery in his expression.

Only... observation. Careful, measured.

"I didn't think anyone would notice I was gone," you said, managing a weak smile. "Let alone come looking."

Jamil stepped into. He didn't respond right away. Instead, he glanced up at the sky.

"Grim noticed. You left your bag behind, and he was tearing apart the hallway like you'd disappeared into thin air."

You huffed a bitter laugh. "Well, that would be on-brand for this world, wouldn't it?"

He didn’t laugh.

He just moved to stand beside you, the silence stretching long. The wind tugged at his braids.

"You want to go home," he said again, quieter this time.

You didn't answer.

"You're not the first person who wanted to leave this place," he continued. "And you won't be the last."

"You sound like you know what it feels like," you said.

Jamil sat down beside you, back straight even as he lowered himself. He rested his arms loosely on his knees, his fingers laced together. Always in control. Always composed.

"I used to think I could escape too. That one day, I'd walk away from Scarabia. From Kalim. From... all of it."

You glanced sideways. "What stopped you?"

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Reality."

That one word hit harder than anything else had.

He continued, gaze fixed on the sky.

"No one ever asked me if I wanted to serve the Al-Asim family. No one ever asked me what I wanted. They just assumed. And when you're trained your whole life to be useful, your desires become irrelevant."

His words should have sounded bitter. But they didn’t. They were too matter-of-fact for that.

"And now?" you asked.

"Now? I play the part. Because if I don’t, someone else will write the ending for me."

Your throat tightened.

"I'm sorry."

Jamil looked at you finally, and for a moment, his eyes softened.

"You don’t need to be. You’re not the reason things are the way they are."

The silence returned. But this time, it was gentler. Less suffocating.

"I miss them," you whispered.

"My family. My friends. I miss the smell of my house. The taste of my grandma's food. I miss sunsets I recognize. I miss waking up and knowing where I am."

Jamil didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer empty reassurances. He let you speak.

"And sometimes I feel like... if I let myself forget even one thing, it means I'm giving up. That I'm letting this place win."

Your voice cracked.

"I forgot the password on my old phone. I forgot the tune my sister always sang when she came home from school. I briefly forgot my dog's birthday."

"I'm tired, Jamil. I'm so tired."

He didn’t reach for you. That wasn’t his way

He leaned a little closer. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Just barely.

"Then rest. Just for tonight."

You looked at him, eyes stinging. "I don’t know how."

His expression didn’t change. But he said, softly:

"Then let me keep watch while you figure it out."

A lump formed in your throat. You turned your head away, but not before he saw it.

"You don’t have to be strong every second of every day," he continued. "I know what it’s like to keep everything inside until it eats you alive. I won’t let that happen to you."

He said it like a promise. Quiet. Fierce.

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve and leaned into him a little more. He didn’t move away.

"We’re both trapped, aren’t we?"

"Maybe," he murmured. "But under the same sky. Under the same stars."

You sat there together, under constellations neither of you recognized, listening to the wind.

And when your head gradually rested against his shoulder, and his warmth settled around you like a shield, you felt him shift just enough to let it happen.

He didn’t speak again, but you felt the faintest brush of his fingers as they hovered near yours doing constellation figures—hesitating, uncertain.

And then, softly, he intertwined them with yours.

The night didn't feel quite so cold.

[i2rizz]

Ngl im CRAVING dante content from the netflix adaptation and its not even funny anymore...

Trust im boutta BUST

Steamin Hot!

The door shut with a familiar thunk—heavy, careless, like the man himself. You didn’t even flinch.

You’d grown used to it: the clink of his weapons, the way he dropped his coat on your chair like it wasn’t your favorite, how his boots always left demon gunk on the rug you’d begged him not to ruin.

And still, your stomach fluttered.

He was already halfway to the bathroom, shirt hanging from his shoulder, the slice of pizza you’d made him take on the way up still dangling from his mouth like an afterthought.

"Long day?" you asked without looking up from your spot on the couch, cross-legged and wrapped in one of his shirts—oversized, a little torn, and still warm from the dryer.

Dante grunted. "Demons don’t take weekends. Apparently" He bit the slice, chewed, and finally turned to look at you. "You wearing my shirt again?"

You smirked, flipping the page of your book. "You left it here. Possession’s nine-tenths of the law"

"Is that so?" he muttered, already tugging off his belt. "Guess I should start leaving more stuff around, then"

You didn’t look—but you felt it. The weight of his stare. That flicker of something heavier behind the teasing. He was tired. You could see it in the way his shoulders slumped just before he disappeared into the bathroom, muttering something about "needing to boil off the stink"

The sound of the shower filled the apartment a moment later—hot, hissing steam bleeding into the hallway like smoke curling off a cigarette. You let out a slow breath and stared at your book without reading.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

You heard the water stop.

He didn’t come out right away.

Eventually, the door cracked open.

You didn’t look at first. You were trying to be normal. Chill. Unbothered.

But then you caught the sound of his bare feet padding across your wooden floor—and the scent hit you. Clean skin. Soap. A little sweat, still. All him.

He appeared beside the couch like a ghost: towel low on his hips, hair wet and slicked back except for the few silver strands that clung rebelliously to his forehead. Drops of water rolled down the carved lines of his torso, trailing down into the soft dip of his abs. His necklace—the one he never took off—glinted against his chest.

"Shower’s all yours" he said lazily.

You finally looked up, slowly, your eyes trailing from his face to the rest of him with zero shame. "Did you even dry off or did you just steamroll out to flex?"

He smirked, one corner of his mouth tugging up. "Can’t help it if you’re the one staring, sweetheart"

You tossed a pillow at him. He caught it effortlessly, didn’t even flinch.

"Cocky bastard"

"Your cocky bastard" he said, dropping the pillow and then—uninvited—dropping himself onto the couch next to you, his skin still warm and damp. "Unless that changed while I was gone"

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t move. His thigh pressed against yours. You could feel every heartbeat in that contact.

"I don’t know," you murmured, "depends. You planning on stealing all my hot water every time you crash here?"

He leaned in, slow, so close his breath brushed your cheek. "Maybe"

You swallowed. Your brain short-circuited for a second.

Dante noticed.

His grin deepened, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached behind you—his arm brushing your back—and grabbed a piece of cold pizza from the coffee table, taking a bite with zero shame.

"I hate you" you said softly.

"No, you don’t"

"No, I don’t" you agreed, even softer.

He leaned back, stretching with a low groan, his head tipping back against the cushion. The tension in his body—always there, even when he laughed—slowly melted out of him. His chest reflecting the light. His jaw relaxed.

You tilted your head, watching him.

He looked… younger like this. Almost soft.

"You okay?" you asked, nudging his knee with yours.

He cracked one eye open. "Took a demon’s blade through the ribs. You tell me"

You frowned instantly. "Dante—"

"Relax" he said, waving you off, but his hand found your thigh, grounding himself. "Didn’t hit anything vital. You’d be crying over my corpse if it did"

"I wouldn’t cry"

He looked over at you, serious for a flicker of a second. "Yeah, you would"

That shut you up. His hand stayed on your thigh.

You leaned into him, shoulder to bare chest. He didn’t move away.

Minutes passed like that. Just the two of you, half-dressed and quiet in your cluttered little apartment. The night hummed around you. Steam still curled in the hallway. The city beyond your window was loud and filthy and alive.

You turned your head slightly. "Hey"

He looked down.

You pressed your lips to his—quick, soft, but enough to remind him.

I’m here. You’re not alone.

When you pulled back, Dante blinked once.

Then he leaned in and kissed you again—slower. Thicker with something unspoken. His hand gripped your thigh tighter.

"You’re damn dangerous" he murmured against your lips.

You smirked. “hilarious coming from you"

[cameronsbabydoll]

Ex husband rafe where you are both at the park with your son and he falls. Maybe he needs stitches or something not too intense. Reader is freaking out in the moment and rafe calms her down. Later in the night the rolls kinda reverse and rafe admits to you he scared he was and its readers turn to calm him down. Maybe he even cry’s or is trembling…🙈I tried to send this before but I don’t think it went through ❤️

cw: medical talk and injuries and blood!!

you were at the park with your son, the afternoon sun still warm and soft over everything. rafe had met you there halfway through — unannounced, of course — just acting like it was normal to show up without warning, like he hadn't done it a hundred times before.

but your son was thrilled. and you were tired. so you didn’t argue.

everything was fine until it wasn’t.

one second he was running full speed toward the slide, and the next, he was tumbling. a bad fall — loud, fast, face-first onto the wood chips.

you completely froze, “o-oh oh my god — sweetheart—!”

you were already halfway across the park before he started wailing. you dropped to your knees, heart thundering, arms shaking as you tried to inspect the scrape across his brow, the blood trickling too close to his eye.

and then rafe was there. steady hands. calm voice.

“hey—hey. let me see him. breathe, mama.”

he was pulling his shirt off, folding it fast to press to the cut. “it’s not deep. i’ve got him. you hear me? i’ve got him.”

you were crying. embarrassed. he was the calm one — rafe. the same man who used to lose it over a dent in his car.

you rode together to urgent care, your son sniffly in raafe’s lap in the backseat while you drove like your life depended on it.

he only needed a few stitches. he was brave — brave in a way only little boys with both parents in the room can be. rafe cracked jokes. called him “tough guy.” never let him see him flinch.

but that night, after he was asleep and the adrenaline had finally worn off, you found rafe on your back porch with a beer in hand and a far-off look in his eyes.

you were the one who sat beside him now. quietly. no fight left in you.

“i didn’t like it,” he murmured, voice tight. “seeing him like that. bleeding.”

you glanced over at him, the moonlight catching on his sharp jaw and clenched teeth.

“i know,” you said softly.

he swallowed. didn’t look at you. “felt like... i don’t know. like i couldn’t do anything. and i always can, y'know? fix things. control shit. but that?” He exhaled, hard. “that wrecked me.”

you rested your hand gently over his.

“he’s okay,” you whispered. “you did everything right.”

a long pause.

“i didn’t think i’d lose it like that,” he admitted. “not after all the crap we’ve dealt with. but that scared me.”

you turned his hand over and laced your fingers through his, the way you hadn’t done in years.

and for a moment, there was no bitterness. no games. no broken marriage between you.

just the two of you — two scared parents, soft in the quiet, holding each other together.

[ryoflix]

sukuna as that dad who buys a whole stock of things just because his kids mentioned in passing that they like it | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ

the supermarket trip starts off normal — which, in sukuna terms, means a near military operation. he’s pushing the cart with one hand, the other cradling your son like a sack of potatoes while your daughter sits daintily on the cart’s front like a tiny queen surveying her kingdom.

you’re busy comparing cereal labels when the twins spot it.

that thing. some brightly colored, sugar-loaded, probably-no-real-fruit gummy snack hanging near the checkout aisle, designed purely to ambush tired parents and gullible children. your son immediately points. “daddy, look. worms. but with rainbow.” your daughter clasps her hands like she’s about to faint. “it’s sparkly. it’s calling to me.”

sukuna doesn’t even flinch. “keep walking.”

“but—”

“walk.”

“but it’s glowing—”

“it’s plastic,” he barks, wheeling them past the stand like a man dragging his family from the jaws of death. “you think that’s food? that’s chemicals. sugar and glue. probably made in a damn basement.”

the twins pout, your son slumping dramatically across the cart handle, your daughter sighing like she’s just been banished from joy itself. they grumble a little. for about twenty seconds. then they see the bakery section and instantly forget, distracted by the smell of butter and warm bread.

but sukuna... does not forget.

he’s unusually quiet all through checkout. eyes twitching just once toward that stand. you’re too busy unloading the cart to notice, but there’s a new tightness in his jaw. by the time you're all home, he’s already making excuses.

“forgot somethin’,” he mutters, shoving his feet back into his shoes like he's off to duel the void.

you glance up. “what could you possibly—”

but he’s gone.

cut to fifteen minutes later. the front door swings open with enough force to shake the floor. sukuna’s standing there, arms overflowing with about eleven packs of those same rainbow gummy worms, a few extra bags hanging from his fingers, one clenched between his teeth for good measure. “got the damn things,” he grunts triumphantly, hauling them in like contraband.

you raise a brow. “i thought they were sugar glue made in a basement.”

he drops them all on the table. “they are. but they’re happy-shaped sugar glue. and what if you liked them? huh? what if their friends came over and wanted one? you want my kids looking poor in front of guests?”

you glance at the twins, still in the living room, now playing a quiet game of “guess that cloud shape” by the window.

“guys,” you call, “your dad brought you something.”

they both scamper over, faces lighting up as they peek at the stash.

your daughter tilts her head. “...what’s this?”

“the worms,” sukuna says, expectant.

your son scratches his cheek. “...what worms?”

sukuna blinks. “the ones you saw earlier. the rainbow ones. with sparkles.”

your daughter frowns. “we did?”

“you begged for them!”

they look at each other. your son shrugs. your daughter shakes her head. “don’t remember.”

sukuna stares. you’re trying not to laugh.

“you little—i just raided a store for this!”

your daughter picks one up delicately, sniffs it. “can we eat it now?”

“obviously.”

your son tears his open and starts chomping with glee. “it tastes like glue!”

sukuna huffs, collapsing into a chair. “if i ever give you children a kidney, you better remember it.”

your daughter offers him a worm. he takes it without looking at her. you pat his shoulder, grinning. “they won’t remember. but i will.”

he snorts. “good. someone needs to witness my suffering.”

then he promptly steals a gummy. because glue or not, it does taste kinda good.

[xmpsrrr]

After the blowout

(bakugo x reader)

The training room still stank of burnt ozone and scorched rubber—your boots sliding slightly on the blackened floor as you leaned over, hands braced on your knees, lungs screaming. Your pulse thrummed at your temples, and your limbs felt like molten lead. Across the room, Bakugo stood, arms crossed, chest heaving under the weight of exertion and fury.

You barely looked up before you felt it coming.

“What the fuck was that?” he snapped, voice razor-sharp.

You straightened, slowly, sweat trailing down the side of your neck. “It was called strategy.”

“It was called stupid.” He stalked toward you, boots thudding like warning shots. “You left your back open. You let me get behind you—if I’d used even half the blast I normally would, you’d be laid out on that mat.”

You didn’t flinch. You were used to his yelling. His anger. But today, there was something else. Something unsettled. It sat in your gut like static.

“And yet here I am,” you said, shrugging.

His nostrils flared. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” you said evenly. “I think this is training. And last I checked, I’m allowed to adapt mid-fight. Maybe if you’d adjusted instead of exploding first and thinking later—”

His hand hit the wall beside your head, hard. Not touching you. But close enough that the crack of it made your breath hitch.

“You’re reckless,” he growled, leaning in. “And you piss me off. You pull these stunts like your life doesn’t mean shit—”

“I know what I’m doing,” you said sharply, heart hammering in your chest now for a very different reason.

His face was inches from yours. His breath was hot and uneven, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. But his eyes—those furious, wildfire eyes—were searching yours like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t say out loud.

“I don’t care if you know what you’re doing,” he said, quieter now. “You don’t get to put yourself in the line like that when I’m out there with you.”

The silence hit heavy. Your lips parted slightly, and you weren’t sure if you were going to fire back or breathe him in.

“Why?” you asked, throat dry.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to your mouth.

“You really don’t get it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was hoarse now, lower, like he was finally letting it crack. “I see you throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t mean anything, and I can’t fucking think. All I can picture is your body hitting the ground and me not being fast enough.”

The admission lodged itself in your chest like shrapnel.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Because suddenly you were aware of every inch of space between you—and the way it felt like his body was magnetized to yours. Like some invisible thread had pulled too tight to ignore anymore.

“You don’t get to do that,” he said again, softer. His hand came up, hesitant—hesitant, from him—and brushed the side of your jaw, thumb grazing over the sweat-slick skin just below your ear. “Not when I—”

He stopped himself.

You stepped into his space anyway.

“You what?” you whispered.

His eyes locked with yours. Fire and hesitation battled in them, but when his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you forward, the hesitation lost.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was Bakugo—all raw want and too much pressure and not enough air. You kissed him back with every frustrated breath you’d ever wasted on him, every sleepless night replaying your fights in your head, every almost-touch, every unsaid thing.

His other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him like he couldn’t stand the space. He kissed like he fought—dominant, intense, like he needed you to feel him in your bones.

You didn’t just feel him.

You melted into him.

When you finally broke for air, your hands were in his hair, fingers curled tight. His mouth brushed your cheek, your jaw, your neck like he didn’t know how to stop. His breath was hot, shaky.

“You’re always pushing me,” he said into your skin. “Driving me crazy. And I hate how much I fucking care.”

“You’re not supposed to,” you whispered.

“Too late.”

He leaned back, just enough to look you in the eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his lips bruised and parted. “You wanna do that again?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Or are you gonna run like you always do?”

You stared at him.

Then you pulled him back in, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m not running,” you said against his lips. “But you’re not dragging me anywhere unless I let you.”

A slow, predatory smirk curled his mouth. “Then give me permission.”

Your answer was another kiss—harder, deeper—and the promise that this time, you weren’t going to pretend there was nothing between you.

Because something had broken.

Or maybe finally clicked into place.

hope u guys enjoyed!

[kxsagi]

Sae headcanon: This man's to-go breakfast when he's in Spain is this: https://cakewhiz.com/easy-yogurt-parfait-recipe/ Not only is it easy yo make, he can also customize it however he wants.

“𝐲𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐬"

a/n: BRO YOGURT PARFAITS ARE LIFE

i totally agree with this headcanon, but really think at the end of the day that sae just customizes his as the normal yogurt parfait since he’s so boring like that

kinda just wrote this one out but i am not too sure what reader is to sae, they definitely know each other/are best friends, but you’re staying at his house because your apartment is getting repainted. leaving it up to interpretation! 

(don't know art credits sorry)

you wake up to the sound of the window cracking open. 

the madrid sun is nosy, peeking in without an invitation, but sae’s already moving around the kitchen in that slow, deliberate way he does when he thinks no one’s watching. you squint from the couch bed, technically a temporary setup while your apartment gets painted, but mostly an excuse to sprawl near sae’s outrageously nice kitchen. 

he doesn’t notice you’re awake. or maybe he does and is pretending. hard to tell with him. 

he’s in a plain white tee and gray sweats, focus sharp like he’s about to perform surgery. but really, he’s just making… yogurt? 

you blink. yep. yogurt. with fruit. and granola from a jar that looks like it came with its own adobe light filter. 

you watch him scoop greek yogurt into a glass like it’s a science experiment. strawberries next. then blueberries. and the granola gets this dramatic slow-motion sprinkle like he’s in a cereal commercial. 

“is that breakfast or performance art?” you finally mumble, voice hoarse. 

he doesn’t even flinch. “you’re up.” 

“and you’re… parfaiting.” 

he slides the spoon into the glass and leans against the counter, taking a bite like he’s got all the time in the world. “do you want some or are you just going to narrate my meal?” 

you sit up, blanket falling off your shoulder. “depends. is that the good granola or the weird one you got by accident?” 

he sighs, the way he does when he’s pretending to be annoyed but is actually entertained. “i threw the weird one out. this has chocolate chunks.” 

you blink again, dramatically. “sae itoshi? sharing chocolate chunk granola? are we in an alternate timeline?” 

he grabs another glass from the cabinet. 

you shuffle over, still wrapped in the blanket like a cocoon, and plop onto one of the bar stools. “you know, most guys would make pancakes to impress their guest.” 

���i’m not most guys,” he says, not missing a beat. 

“you’re not even a pancake guy,” you mutter as he layers yours. “you’re a yogurt snob. a parfait elitist.” 

he raises an eyebrow as he spoons in the final layer. “say one more word and i’ll give you the off-brand berries.” 

you gasp. “you wouldn’t.” 

“watch me.” 

but instead of following through on his threat, he slides the glass over to you. perfect layers. strawberries on top. it looks like something you’d pay €14 for at a café with mediocre wifi. 

you try a bite. 

it’s annoyingly good. 

“i hate how this actually slaps,” you grumble, and he smirks into his glass like he already knew. 

you eat in silence for a while, just the sound of spoons clinking and birds gossiping outside the window. 

then you glance over. “hey.” 

he hums, not looking up. 

“next time you make this,” you say around a spoonful, “can you add honey?” 

he finally looks at you. “do you want me to ruin it?” 

“it’s not ruining, it’s flavor layering.” 

sae rolls his eyes, but he’s already calculating how much honey to drizzle next time. you can tell. 

you take another bite and smile at him, your parfait prince, yogurt snob of madrid, quietly sweet in his own way. 

you think you might like mornings like this. 

and maybe, just maybe, he does, too. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[mysteriousxgirls]

Luna stirred the moment she felt Azriel shift beside her, his warmth pulling away. Her cheek, no longer resting on his chest, met the cool sheet, and without thinking, she instinctively pulled Henry closer. The little boy snuggled into her with a soft sigh, his tiny hand fisting the fabric of her—Azriel’s—shirt. Her ribs protested the movement, a dull throb reminding her they hadn’t healed, but she ignored it. Just like she ignored everything else. Her eyes remained closed, too heavy to open, sleep still thick in her limbs. She felt like she hadn't truly slept in days. But despite it all, something in her chest had gone still. Peaceful. Waking up beside Azriel felt like stepping into a dream she didn’t want to leave. Like she'd been given a glimpse of a life she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want.

Then it hit her—the scent. Sweet. Warm. Familiar. Pancakes. A small smile curved her lips as her chest rose and fell gently. She didn’t move, not yet. Just listened. The quiet hum of the skillet, the soft shuffle of movement in the kitchen. It was so domestic. So normal. And so heartbreakingly rare. Henry stirred in her arms, a soft puff of air brushing her collarbone. She felt his little lashes flutter against her neck, and then he shifted, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “Mama Luna…” he yawned, his voice still thick with dreams. She cracked her eyes open, just barely, and smiled. “Good morning, Henry,” she whispered, reaching up to gently ruffle his sleep-tousled curls. Slowly, carefully, she sat up. Pain lanced through her ribs and she groaned quietly, forgetting just for a moment that her body was still broken. “Ugh… seriously,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Henry blinked up at her, concern flashing in his soft features. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” she replied with a small smile, swallowing the pain and brushing it aside like she always did. She leaned in and kissed the top of his head before shifting toward the edge of the bed. She was still in Azriel’s shirt, oversized and falling low on her thighs. The rest—her joggers, her underwear—were long gone. She didn’t even bother being embarrassed.

Gently, she picked Henry up and stood, moving slowly, her body stiff and aching. She carried him into the hallway, her bare feet quiet against the floor, and followed the scent that was pulling them both toward the warmth. And there he was. Azriel, standing in the kitchen, his back to them as he moved with silent precision—his shadows oddly still, as if even they were watching in quiet reverence. The skillet sizzled gently as he flipped a pancake, steam curling upward like a ribbon. Her heart skipped. Just once. But hard enough to steal her breath. “Good morning, Angeeeel!” Henry chirped suddenly, voice breaking the silence with that innocent joy only children could summon. Luna let out a soft, breathy laugh, resting her cheek against the boy’s head. And in that moment, with the smell of pancakes in the air and Henry tucked in her arms, and Azriel cooking breakfast like it was something he’d always done— She forgot the bruises. The broken ribs. The things unsaid. She just felt home.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered open, the faint morning light seeping through the cracks in the curtains, casting soft shadows against the walls. The warmth of Luna's breath on his chest, slow and steady, anchored him in a moment of quiet peace. He remained still, the weight of Henry’s small body pressed against his side. The sensation was unfamiliar, yet oddly comforting—the fragile sense of peace that only children could bring. Luna's hair, a dark cascade of waves, spilled across his chest, brushing lightly against his arm. The stillness of the room wrapped around them like a protective cocoon, as if the outside world had ceased to exist for the moment. But the stillness, as beautiful as it was, couldn’t last forever. Rising from the bed, a quiet sigh leaving his lips, Azriel padded lightly toward the hallway door. His eyes darted briefly toward the door of the other bedroom, and without a second thought, he moved toward it. The little boy was sprawled across his bed in a tangle of limbs. A blanket was half-kicked off, but he remained deep in sleep, his lips parted slightly as he murmured softly in his dreams. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and then, with a final glance at the boy, quietly closed the door.

In the kitchen, he moved with a calculated ease, the sound of the refrigerator door swinging open breaking the silence of the bunker. The shelves were sparse, but there were enough ingredients to make something simple. Flour. Eggs. Milk. A jar of honey. Pancakes, something warm and comforting. The skillet warmed under his touch, the smooth cast iron creaking slightly as it adjusted to the heat. A small bowl clinked softly on the counter as he cracked the eggs, the yolks bright against the pale backdrop of the flour. The hum of the pan as he poured the batter was low, almost rhythmic. The scent of the pancakes began to rise, sweet and buttery, filling the space with a warmth that seemed to wrap around him like a familiar embrace. As the first batch began to brown, the sound of the pancakes softly sizzling against the skillet was the only noise in the bunker. Each flip of the spatula was careful, precise. The golden edges of the pancakes were perfect, a subtle crispness that contrasted with their soft, airy insides. Careful not to disturb the stillness that enveloped the house, Azriel moved silently, stacking the pancakes with an almost reverent touch.

[galactic-rhea]

Do you have any prequel-era star wars fanfiction recommends? Love your comics!

Ayy, thank you, anon!! Okay, sounds funny but I actually tend to read much more about the OT era, but! -cracks knuckles- Here we go:

Cytokinesis and Star Birth by @tranakin-skywalker They're so good that I haven't progressed on reading them just because I need to nom them slowly and savour every single paragraph, top tier stuff for real.

A Rush of Blood to the Head , Antediluvian , Do not Stand at my grave and weep by asparagus writes angsty and very good, particularly love Padmé's characterization there!!

A vile hunger for your hammering heart by @wlwanakin because I swear this is the only acceptable 'Padmé with a knife on Mustafar' take ever and is also so sad it made me cry, good stuff goood stuff!

Now I want my letters white again, by @ozvezdja Masterclass writing right here and yet another case of 'I need to nom on this so slowly to taste it because that's how good it is' , Padmé and Anakin being...Well, them, in a world where Sheev actually died and now they have to live a much more normal life and all through the eyes of Sola Naberrie, who's a bit too normal for general SW crazyness.

Dust to dust by straight_up_gay I dunno if you have seen my ramblings and ideas for a daemon/familiars AU, but when I did moot charlie sent me this fic and oh boy is good.

The Top Left Drawer (linking specifically chapter 58 since is a collection of oneshots and drabbles, but I suggest checking they all because the writing is funny and really nice! Chapter 58 is a timetravel vaderdala AU and is wonderful ahaha) and Enemy Brothers by @batrachised

It's quickier and easier to eat your young by orojiratsu (timetravel AU where Vader's conscience returns to inhabit Little Ani's body and oh man)

Programed to dream by ghostwriterofthemachine (This one is SO VERY ANGSTY and messed up and good and sad and UHuhuhhhhhh i want to bite the walls. Anakin's suffering and dehumanization has me <3333)

A trick of the light by @jewishpadmenaberrie Vader managed to raise Padme from the dead, yayyy!! And now she wants to eat brains, he still loves her dearly, huh.

If you fancy rexanidala or more funky rarepairs and big canon divergences, I suggest to check @phoenixyfriend 's AO3 because she has SO MANY stories, for days.

Also if you like Sabé, you should absolutely check @bettyxrosex 's fics, Sabé and Anakin are so unwell lmao, is like the scary dog privilege, but both are the dogs, dog x dog dynamic or something

And for really, reaally heavy angst (and do mind the tigger warnings on this one because is really messed up) Five Peggats Each by @kenobster !! Anakin and Obi-Wan are trapped by slavers. Nothing good happens except that they -gasps- TALK. TO EACH OTHER.

[bjlipss]

— a cruel god’s memory;

sukuna ryomen x reader, reincarnation au.

cw: angst, blood, mild descriptions of gore, mentions of masturbation, mentions of character death, nothing explicit yet i guess, not sure if there will be part 2 this was very random. art in the header belongs to @/kcokaine here on tumblr tho i found it on pinterest and yes, i know it’s from a sukugo art, i don’t care.

sukuna was ten years old the first time he dreamed of blood.

not just any blood. not the kind that comes with scraped knees or nosebleeds on the playground. no—this was thick, dark, slow. the kind that soaked through silk robes and marble cracks alike, that oozed instead of dripped. he was standing barefoot in it, feeling it stick between his toes. he could smell it, metallic and old, like rusted coins and sacrifice. there were sounds, too.

voices. not in a language he recognized—gutteral, layered, echoing through him like the rumble of something divine buried in the dirt. they were screaming a name. his name. not “sukuna,” though. not the one his mother called him in the morning or the one written neatly on school forms. no, this name was ancient. heavy. it reverberated in his chest like a war drum. it made the inside of his bones ache.

he woke up screaming.

his mother sat with him on the edge of his bed, rubbing his back, whispering reassurances as if that could banish something so old and crawling. she told him it was just a dream. just a nightmare. normal for little boys. but it didn’t feel normal. and it didn’t fade.

because the thing was—he knew that place. not in a way he could explain, but in the way you recognize the taste of your own blood when you bite your tongue. it was his. the cracked marble. the crimson pools. the people kneeling, weeping, bowing. it wasn’t his imagination. it was his memory.

and it kept happening.

year after year, the dreams returned, each time sharper. more detailed. more real. they unfolded like history, like scripture carved into his skull. temples with columns that reached toward fire-colored skies. men in robes with mouths stitched shut in reverence. monsters that bowed when he raised one of his four hands. because in those dreams, he was not just a man. he was a god. or something close. with a crown of flame and a laugh like thunder. feared. worshipped. untouchable.

and yet, in the middle of all the blood and chaos, there was softness. there was silk-draped darkness and the scent of myrrh. a woman. faceless at first, always kneeling beside him, hands tracing prayers over the planes of his chest, her voice a hush against the storm that raged outside their chamber. she touched him like he wasn’t a monster. like he wasn’t divine. she touched him like he was hers. like she’d known him before the world did.

he didn’t see her face clearly—until the day he met you.

it was stupid, how anticlimactic it was. a random tuesday. a shitty café. you weren’t glowing. there was no divine chorus. you were just… there. hair in your face, shoulders hunched in a hoodie too big, earbuds shoved in as you bumped into him with a distracted murmur of apology. you didn’t look twice. but he did. and the second he did, everything split open.

the air around him went thin. his head rang like a struck bell. because suddenly, all those half-formed dreams—all those blurred, hazy figures—clicked into clarity. the woman in his bedchamber, in his arms, on his throne. the one who whispered his name like it was a secret. it was you.

after that, the dreams changed. sharpened.

you were in all of them. no longer a blur. you wore the same face you did now. same voice, too. he heard it echo through golden halls, calling to him, comforting him, scolding him for coming home bloodied again. he saw you wrapped in crimson silk, lying across his lap as he fed you pomegranate seeds with ink-stained fingers. saw you kneel before him, not in worship, but in intimacy. hands curled around his thighs. lips parting. eyes meeting his in challenge and adoration.

he tried to avoid you after that. convinced himself it was coincidence. obsession. maybe he’d seen you before—on a train, in a dream—and his brain filled in the rest. that was more logical. more human.

but logic didn’t hold for long.

because the world kept pushing you into his path like some cosmic joke. he saw you again the next week—at some library, sliding into a seat across from him by accident. then again at a gallery exhibit, surrounded by statues of forgotten gods and broken idols. he saw you stop in front of a replica of a throne—somehow resembling his hrone—and rest your fingers on the armrest like it belonged to you. like he belonged to you.

he left that day early. ran home. came in his hand in the dark to the sound of your voice in his head, a phantom echo. your name seared into the hollow of his throat.

and the dreams didn’t stop. they worsened.

they showed him the throne room where you first knelt. the blood-wet altar where you swore yourself to him. the garden where he kissed your wrists under starlight. and the battlefield where he held your cooling body and screamed until the heavens cracked. he remembered it all now. not just the love. not just the lust. but the loss.

and you? you walked past him in the bookstore without a second glance.

until one day, you didn’t.

it was a chance meeting. another coincidence. the universe’s cruel humor. you were stepping out into the sun, squinting against the glare, arms full of books. he was passing by, heart in his throat. and you looked up.

your eyes met.

and for one breathless second—just one—something shuddered in your expression. confusion. shock. recognition.

he saw your lips part. your brows furrow. your eyes go wide, like some lost part of you stirred.

but then it dissolved and you looked at him like he was nobody. like he wasn’t yours.

and that was the worst part. not the past. not the death. but this. being forgotten. being reborn into a world where you didn’t wake from dreams of him.

sukuna—human, mortal, aching sukuna—didn’t sleep that night.

he lay in bed and fucked his fist raw to the memory of your tears, your moans, your hands on his face in a past life. he cursed your name and wept for you in the same breath. and still, it wasn’t enough.

he lay in bed with your name on his tongue, and hatred in his bones. hatred for fate. for time. for the gods that had made him mortal again. hatred for how much he missed you, even as you stood alive in this world, only a few subway stops away, utterly unaware that you had once been the only thing that kept him tethered to sanity. hatred for remembering something that was his but also wasn’t.

he dreamed that night of your nails clawing down his back, of your voice trembling as you called him “my king,” of your arms clutching him in the dark. and he woke with sweat on his skin, tears in his eyes, and nothing in his arms.

he told himself he wouldn’t follow you. that he wasn’t insane. that it was bad enough that he saw the things he did, things that were supposed to perish under the cruel hands of universe and the circle of life. he told himself that he didn’t need you to remember. but he did. oh, god, he did.

and still, the dreams grew darker.

they showed him the night you died.

it came in pieces—first, your tears as he left for war, your fingers curled in the hem of his robes, begging him to stay. then, the shadow of a blade. the flash of your body stepping in front of him. the sound of you choking. gurgling. reaching for him even as you bled out.

he remembered what he did afterward. how the earth cracked beneath his roar. how cities burned. how rivers ran red. how he tore the sky apart in his grief and still could not bring you back.

and now here you were.

breathing. laughing. buying overpriced tea and highlighting textbooks with that same thoughtful pout you used to wear while pouring him wine as your eyes skimmed over ancient scriptures.

because now that he remembered—now that the truth had wrapped around his spine and sunk its teeth in—he couldn’t live in a world where you didn’t know.

because he remembered.

and now, he needed you to remember too.

[theresatzu]

Blue Lock characters and going to the beach

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Featuring. Isagi, Bachira, Sae, Rin, Reo & Nagi

Tags. crack, beach

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Isagi Yoichi

-> Isagi will definitely be that one person on the beach who makes this huge sandcastle. He'll literally scour the beach for a whole hour to gather materials and come up with ways how to exactly make it as sturdy as possible.

-> When he's done, Isagi will tug your arm and proudly show you the construction, a childlike smile on his face.

-> Isagi also likes to swim or go snorkeling, exploring the wildlife in the ocean.

-> Getting ice cream with Isagi is definitely a must, considering the sweet tooth he has. But as the average human, he'll probably choose like vanilla or chocolate ice cream.

Bachira Meguru

-> This man cannot act normal on the beach.

-> Bachira will most certainly try to scare little kids by wearing a shark costume and chasing them in the water, all while gleefully laughing his ass off.

-> Bachira is also the kind of person who will collect things on the beach. But not the normal shells. No, he'll come back with a bucket filled with crabs or cuttlefish bones, dumping the contents on your blanket with a proud smile.

-> Bachira is the kind of person who would get this huge ice cream. He'll definitely choose to get at least five scoops, and all of them being wildly varied in flavour. Like peppermint with lobster ice cream coupled with pistachio. And he'll like it.

Itoshi Sae

-> He naps on the beach.

-> Sae wouldn't even bother bringing a swimsuit, he'll just beeline straight for the blanket laid out on the sand, put his sunglasses on and promptly fall asleep. He isn't really one for beach activities, and also because football is the only thing he really excels at, so doing something else is ruled out.

-> If Sae gets an ice cream, he'll probably won't even bother with a cone, just a small cup with raspberry and mint chocolate chip flavoured scoops.

Itoshi Rin

-> He does not like the beach.

-> The sand makes Rin's skin crawl, the joy on the kids faces makes his crunch in revolt, and the taste of salt in the air will be the death cause number one for him.

-> Rin will just sit on the blanket, scowl fixed on his face, looking like he wants to be anywhere else.

-> Rin will probably read or go on his phone, but if its really peaceful and not too crowded, maybe he'll try his hand at yoga.

-> If he gets ice cream, because he doesn't like the sticky sensation in his mouth, he'll probably get, similar to Sae, just a cup with two scoops like vanilla and butter pecan.

Reo Mikage

-> Reo is good at everything, naturally, he'll also dominate every sport played on the beach, too. Swimming? He's already swum at least five kilometres. Beach volleyball? He's the renounced champion on the beach. Kite flying? You'll see his dragon themed kite soaring high above all the others.

-> The sky's blue, the air consists of 21% oxygen, and Reo is loaded. So why not spend money on good equipment? Ba-ya will literally lug a whole ass tent, a wind shield, and all sorts of inflatables with, all to properly cater to Reo's needs. It's safe to say that you can never forget anything with Reo.

-> The ice cream flavours Reo will get will probably be black raspberry and butter scotch. In any case, Reo will get something that tastes rich.

Nagi Seishirou

-> Going to the beach is a bit of a hassle for Nagi. Bringing sun lotion, setting up your blankets, and getting sand between your toes, are not things Nagi finds enjoyable in the very least.

-> But it's also the optimal place for Nagi to nap and play video games while being nicely warmed up by the sun, without being nagged to get moving. So that's a pluspoint for him.

-> If Nagi gets in the water, he'll prefer to stay dry, so he'll probably lie on an inflatable, floating on the water, closing his eyes and not even noticing he's drifting off.

-> Nagi wouldn't really like ice cream because it melts fast and it's sticky when it gets on your clothes or fingers, so he'll either get a cup with vanilla flavoured ice cream, or just a nice milkshake.

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