#that i needed to add two and a half years to the final line

[thevioletcaptain]

the day he died, john who was both a father and a god to the boy he'd raised in his image, told dean he might have to kill the brother he'd raised as his own son, who he'd protected his whole life, whose health and wellbeing he'd placed above his own since he was barely old enough to reach the kitchen counters.

and for the next fifteen years dean went to such extremes to avoid ever having to see sam die at his own hand or someone else's that he sold his own soul and helped an angel trick sam into saying yes to possession and killed death itself.

and then.

and then.

dean faced god.

and he told god, "the whole cain-and-abel thing. us dead. whatever. i'll kill sam. sam will kill me. we'll kill each other. okay? you pick. but, first, you got to put everything back the way it was. the people, the birds. cas. you've gotta bring him back."

and honestly i still feel very calm and normal about that after thinking about it for the past three and a half years

[goldfades]

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 ☆ BUECKERS⁵ (ev's 6k celly!)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

CELLY MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.6k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | dating paige means learning to share her — with fans, cameras, the league. you’re used to being in the background: her pregame text, her airport pickup, the face she looks for in the crowd. but when she finally has a bad game — one that leaves her jaw tight and chest guarded, you’re the one she lets fall apart.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst!! hurt to comfort, paige being a little mean, kinda stay at home vibe for reader but not really?? HAPPY ENDING!!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya!! day 3 of celly, i hope yall are enjoying so far. here's the angsty, hurt to comfort paige fic yall were promised. also i feel like i needed to add that im not trying to hate on the wings at all, this fic is more about the emotional side of things than any real commentary on the team.

also obviously i have no idea what paige is actually feeling or going through (obviously LOL), this is all just fictional and for fun. just wanted to explore a softer, more personal side of what that transition might feel like for someone carrying that much pressure. no harm intended, just feelings & vibes & sapphic yearning <3

You meet her in a grocery store just off of campus, which feels fake even as it’s happening.

She’s in a hoodie too big for her, hood up, cart half-full of protein bars and Smartwater, reading the back of a box like it's a scouting report. You’re standing in front of the oat milk. That’s it. That’s the origin story.

She asks if the oat milk is good. You say it depends on what she’s doing with it. She raises an eyebrow and says, drinking it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world . You tell her it’s fine but the vanilla one is better. And when she reaches for it, your fingers graze. You don’t look away first.

It starts there — two people in the milk aisle, pretending they don’t know who the other is or maybe pretending it doesn’t matter.

It matters.

Now it’s almost two years later. You know which pair of socks she has to wear on game days, how she retapes her fingers during halftime even if the wrap is fine, the way she likes her smoothies: blended twice, don’t ask why and that when she’s tired she gets clingy but insists she’s not.

You also know how to stay out of the frame.

You're the person who picks up her dry cleaning, triple checks her call sheet, drives her to the airport at 5AM with a thermos of coffee you’ll never get thanked for. Not because she’s ungrateful, but because she doesn’t realize she needs to. She’s Paige Bueckers. She gives pieces of herself away all day — photos, autographs, interviews, sideline hugs for kids she’s never met and by the time she gets to you, there’s not always much left.

But she always finds your hand. That counts for something.

You get used to watching her light up arenas from the shadows. You like it, actually. The background is quiet. Safe. You can watch her without worrying about being watched back.

You know she’s yours even if everyone else thinks she belongs to the world. And lately, the world’s been getting greedy.

The apartment still smells like new paint.

Not strong, not offensive, just that faint, chalky scent that clings to the corners of the rooms, reminding you that the place isn’t quite lived-in yet. Boxes line the hallway in uneven stacks, some open, some sealed, all of them with your handwriting scrawled across the sides. Kitchen stuff. Shoes, maybe?? PAIGE DON’T TOUCH.

She did, obviously.

You find the proof in the form of an empty protein bar wrapper tucked into the top of a box marked winter clothes and you roll your eyes as you toss it in the trash.

It’s quiet in the apartment, which is rare lately. For the past few months, everything’s been loud. Not just the literal noise, although there’s been plenty of that: roaring student sections, confetti cannons, draft night applause that rang in your chest like a second heartbeat but the kind of loud that lives under your skin. Constant motion. Constant attention. Eyes on her, hands on her, reporters leaning too close with too many questions, and her answering all of it with that same polished smile that means I’m good, I’m fine, keep moving.

You know what it costs.

Winning the natty should’ve felt like a finish line but it only cracked open another beginning. Draft week came less than a week later. There was barely time to breathe, let alone plan a move to a new city, a new team, a new life. You booked the flights. You signed the lease. You made sure the sheets were washed before she got here.

You haven’t unpacked fully. Neither of you has had time.

Right now, she’s at shootaround — early preseason workouts, a light day, though deemed light by Paige Bueckers standards still means running through plays like it’s the Final Four. You’re not there. She asked if you wanted to come and you said no. She didn’t push. She never does.

You like seeing her on the court but today you needed the silence. Needed to breathe in a room that didn’t buzz with her future. Needed to sit in the kitchen she hasn’t cooked in yet and just be.

You wash two mugs, even though you only used one. You start putting away silverware and get distracted organizing the drawer — forks facing one way, spoons the other, knives stacked like soldiers. You don’t know how long you’re standing there when you hear the door unlock.

“Babe?”

Her voice is hoarse. You glance up, startled by the way your heart still flinches at the sound.

“In the kitchen,” you call back.

She appears a second later, already halfway out of her sneakers, gym bag sliding off her shoulder. Her hair’s tied up in a bun, messy, a few strands stuck to her forehead. She looks tired, which means she probably went too hard, again.

She smiles when she sees you. It’s not a big smile, barely there, really but it’s the one she only gives you. The one that softens all the edges.

“Hey,” she says.

You lift an eyebrow. “Don’t ‘hey’ me. You went for an hour and a half.”

“Sixty-five minutes,” she corrects, coming over to press a kiss to your cheek. Her hand finds your waist without thinking. “I’m being good.”

“You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being prepared.” She grins like she knows you’re already over it and you are. Mostly.

You turn into her, letting her rest her forehead against yours. Her skin is damp. You don’t mind. For a second, neither of you says anything.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

You hum. “You saw me this morning.”

“Still.”

This is how it’s always been. Paige flies too close to the sun, and you make sure there’s a place for her to land. You’ve never tried to stop her. You just make sure the lights are on when she comes home.

She pulls away slowly, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to memorize it, even though she’s already got it memorized a hundred times over.

“I know I haven’t been around much lately,” she says, quieter.

You could say I know, or It’s okay, or You don’t have to explain.

But you don’t.

Instead, you say, “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

She blinks, then smiles again — wider this time. “You love bossing me around.”

You shrug, moving toward the fridge. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

She sits. Watches you. You can feel her eyes on your back while you crack eggs into a pan and mumble about how she better not leave her sweaty socks on the kitchen chair again. She laughs.

For a second, the rest of it fades. The expectations, the cameras, the pressure. The whole world outside this apartment.

She’s here. And she’s yours.

The season starts badly.

Not technically — their opener is a loss, narrow but clean. The kind of win that looks okay in a box score even if you know, just by watching, that something’s off. Like the rhythm is a beat behind. Like Paige’s shot is just a little too flat. Like the whole team is waiting for someone else to wake them up.

After that, it’s four straight losses. One at home, three on the road. All of them ugly.

The headlines stay polite at first. Young team still finding chemistry. Bueckers adjusting to WNBA pace. But the subtext is everywhere. In the photos they run — Paige midair, Paige scowling, Paige with her hands on her knees. In the clips they replay: missed threes, turnovers, turnovers, turnovers. Even in the way the commentators say her name, like it used to mean something magical and now they’re not sure what it means anymore.

You try not to read the comments. You still do.

At home, she says she’s fine.

Fine when she’s up at 1:30 in the morning watching film with the volume so low you can barely hear it. Fine when she forgets to eat until noon. Fine when she gets back from practice with red-rimmed eyes and blames it on the wind even though it hasn’t been breezy in days.

You don’t press. Not directly.

You just hover. The way you always do. Fold her laundry. Wrap her knee even when she says it doesn’t hurt. Order in from her favorite Thai place and pretend you were craving it too. Make sure the lamp by her side of the bed is always turned on when she walks in.

You wait for her to let you in.

She doesn’t.

The apartment feels different now.

You don’t realize it until you’re halfway through cleaning out the fridge one day and it hits you: this is what distance feels like. Not loud. Not obvious. Just space. Gaps where the closeness used to live. Little things.

She doesn’t hum when she showers anymore. She texts you from the gym less. She doesn’t ask you to braid her hair before games. She doesn’t lose her phone and call out for you in a half-panic only to find it under a throw pillow. She just… moves quieter.

Sometimes she looks at you like she wants to say something. Like it’s sitting on her tongue, one syllable away from shattering the whole dam. But then she blinks and it’s gone, and she says something like “Did we run out of toothpaste?”

And you nod, and say “Yeah, I’ll grab some tomorrow” and pretend you weren’t holding your breath.

They lose again. Badly.

You watch from the tunnel, same place you always stand. You’ve watched her from this spot more times than you can count but this feels different. Wrong.

The buzzer sounds. 78–61. Another loss. Fifth in a row. You stand in the tunnel like always, heart clenched in that familiar way that used to mean nerves but now mostly means dread.

You watch her shake hands, high-five a couple fans who lean over the railing. The towel around her neck looks like a surrender flag. Her face is set, eyes sharp and far away. You recognize that look - it’s the one she wears when she’s trying not to feel anything. When the disappointment is too deep and too sharp to acknowledge in public.

She doesn’t look up at you.

Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say your name like she usually does, even in passing maybe half a smile, quick reach for your hand if you’re close enough.

She walks straight past.

You wait for her anyway. You text her: I’m in the tunnel, I’ll be at the car.

No response.

She gets home almost an hour later. Drops her bag by the door and kicks her shoes off with more force than necessary. You’re curled up on the couch, pretending to watch a rerun of something, volume too low to actually follow.

You glance over. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter like she’s trying to miss on purpose. “God, what a night. I mean at least I only turned it over, what, six times? That’s practically an improvement.”

You pause. “Seven.”

“Oof.” She winces, exaggerated. “Even better.”

You don’t laugh.

She notices. She walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, stands there like it's a portal to another dimension.

“You hungry?” she asks. “I could burn some toast or reheat something and pretend I made it from scratch.”

“Paige.”

She doesn’t look over. “Or we could do popcorn and call it dinner. Real athlete shit.”

“Paige.”

That lands. She shuts the fridge, too loud and finally turns to face you.

“What?” she says. Light, teasing. Like she already knows what you’re about to say and wants to joke her way out of it. “Don’t tell me you’re mad at me for that disaster.”

You sit up. “I’m not mad at you for losing. I’m upset that you won’t talk to me.”

She blinks. “I am talking to you.”

“No, you’re deflecting. You’ve been doing it for days. You came home last night and made a joke about retiring to become a barista.”

“Hey, that’s a solid fallback plan.”

“Paige.”

She lifts her hands. “Okay. What do you want me to say? That I suck right now? That I’m letting everybody down? That I feel like I made a huge mistake coming here? Would that make you feel better?”

The words cut sharper than they should. Not because she means to hurt you -- Paige never means to hurt you but because you recognize the panic underneath them. The way her voice spikes, too high, too fast. The way she’s trying to outrun the truth before it catches up.

You step into the kitchen, across from her now. Arms folded. Quiet.

“I want you to be honest with me,” you say, low and even. “Not perfect. Not funny. Not brave. Just… honest.”

She leans back against the counter like it might hold her up better than you can. Her arms cross over her chest.

“I can’t do that right now,” she says.

You nod but it’s not agreement. More like acknowledgment.

“Okay.” You back away slowly. “Then I’m gonna go for a drive.”

She frowns. “What? Why?”

“Because if I stay, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”

She doesn’t try to stop you. That hurts more than it should.

The silence stretches.

A day passes. Then another. The fight doesn’t explode: it simmers. You still talk, technically. You ask if she wants anything when you go to the store. She tells you she refilled your prescription when she picked up her own. You switch the laundry she started. She rewinds the show you missed.

But you don’t touch. You don’t look too long. And she doesn’t say your name like it’s a question anymore.

It feels like standing on a frozen lake, the ice too thin and the water too black and freezing underneath. And you're the only one hearing the cracks.

You find yourself spiraling in stupid ways.

You start overthinking texts that don’t need to be overthought. You stare at her Instagram comments longer than you should. You don’t mean to but you do. All the hearts, all the compliments, all the people who don’t know her but think they do. Who think they love her.

And maybe they do, in that empty, worshipful, social-media way.

But they don’t fold her socks. They don’t know how her voice sounds when she’s half-asleep. They don’t press a cold washcloth to her forehead when she’s sick. They don’t know she triple-knots her laces and tucks the ends in because she’s paranoid about tripping. They don’t know she cries at commercials but hides it by blaming dust.

You do.

And it’s not jealousy, not really. It’s more like… fear. Like maybe all this silence is the beginning of her forgetting that she needs you.

And the worst part? You get it.

You know what she’s feeling even if she won’t say it. You know she’s disappointed, overwhelmed. You know she thinks showing you that will make her seem weak. You know it’s not about you.

But it still feels like it is.

You lie awake beside her that night, staring at the ceiling. You can hear her breathing, slow and even. Either asleep or pretending to be. You don't reach for her. Not this time.

And she doesn't reach for you.

The arena feels different tonight. Not louder. Not quieter. Just heavier. Like even the air is bracing for something it can’t name.

You’re in the tunnel again, where you always are. That same spot, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves, the lanyard around your neck sticking to your skin with the sweat you won’t admit to. You watch the players file in, coaches in tow, heads bowed slightly in that ritual of unspoken hope.

Paige doesn’t look at you when she runs out for warmups. Hasn’t, not since the fight.

Her face is unreadable under the lights, jaw set and mouth tight in that way that means she’s focused, or maybe pretending to be. You’ve seen that look a hundred times before. In college stadiums, back at UConn. But never like this. Never this brittle.

You watch her miss three shots in a row during shootaround. Not by much but by enough. No one else seems to notice or maybe they’ve gotten used to it. You haven’t.

When the game starts, you try to focus on it like you usually do. Not in a fan way but in a quiet way. You keep your eyes on her. Always on her. Not the scoreboard. Not the other players. Just Paige.

She’s off. Again. And this time it’s not the usual, not just missed shots or a slow start or teammates who don’t read her cuts. It’s everything. Her rhythm is gone. Her body’s tight. Her passes are rushed. Her confidence, usually such a steady undercurrent in the way she moves is nowhere to be found.

She fouls early. A dumb reach-in that she wouldn’t normally commit. Then another, chasing a fast break she had no hope of catching. By halftime, she’s on the bench, staring at the floor with a towel over her head and a stat line you know she won’t be able to look at later.

2 points. 1 assist. 4 turnovers.

The team is down by 15.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You keep rubbing your thumb over your ring finger, a nervous habit you picked up somewhere along the way and never broke. You watch her jog into the tunnel at the half, shoulders tense, mouth pressed into a thin line.

She doesn’t look up.

The second half is worse.

The game slips away before the fourth quarter even starts. Paige goes scoreless the entire third then gets pulled halfway through the fourth when it becomes clear the coaches are calling it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks to the bench, plops down, elbows on her knees, eyes ahead like she’s watching something only she can see.

By the time the buzzer sounds, the final score doesn’t matter.

They lose by 22.

You wait for her in the same spot you always do. Tunnel. Left side. Just past the security guard who now knows your name.

The team walks by slowly. A few nods, a couple brief waves from familiar faces. But Paige isn’t with them.

She comes last.

No towel. No eye contact. Just her, walking like every step hurts.

She sees you — she has to, you’re right in her line of sight but she walks past without a word.

You follow.

The car ride is silent.

She doesn’t play music. Doesn’t reach for your hand at the red light like she usually does. Just keeps her eyes on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. She’s still in her jersey, sweats pulled over her shorts, hair damp from the shower and curled behind her ears.

You want to say something. Anything. But you’ve learned not to touch the wound while it’s still bleeding.

She unlocks the apartment, tosses her keys on the counter and moves straight to the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Closes it. Opens it again. Then just stands there with her hand on the handle, breathing like she’s trying to remember how.

You step inside, gently, quietly like someone trying not to startle a cornered animal.

“Paige,” you say.

She doesn’t move.

“Hey.” You reach out, touch her back lightly, right between the shoulder blades.

She flinches. Not from pain. From everything else.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

You don’t ask what she means.

Instead, you guide her hand off the fridge door and turn her to face you.

Her face crumples.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like a wall finally giving way after weeks of rain. Her mouth twitches. Her eyes glass over. Her breath catches in her throat.

“I’m trying so hard,” she says, barely audible. “I’m doing everything I can and it’s still not enough.”

You move closer, carefully, and she doesn’t pull away this time.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you are.”

She shakes her head, eyes rimmed red. “I’m not who they thought I’d be.”

You feel that like a knife. Because you know what she means. Not just the media. Not just the fans. She means everyone. The people who waited for her. The ones who wanted her to be a savior.

“They all thought I’d come in and just… fix it. Like I was some kind of answer.”

You reach up, thumb brushing under her eye. “You were never supposed to fix it all, P.”

She exhales and it sounds like a sob even though there are no tears yet.

“You don’t get it,” she says. “I used to love this. I used to be good at this. And now all I do is mess up and get benched and watch them lose and try not to cry in front of the cameras. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I don’t even feel like me anymore.”

That last part cracks something in you. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? She’s not afraid of losing. She’s afraid of losing herself.

You don’t say anything right away. You just take her face in your hands and hold her like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“I miss you,” you say.

She blinks. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been somewhere else for weeks and I didn’t know how to reach you.” Your voice shakes a little. “But I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. You can fall apart with me. You have to fall apart with me. That’s the deal.”

And finally, finally, she breaks.

The tears come fast and silent, her body folding into yours like she’s collapsing under her own weight. You hold her through it, arms around her waist, her forehead pressed into your shoulder. You feel every tremble. Every shudder. Every breath she takes like she’s trying to relearn how.

“I don’t want to be strong right now,” she mumbles against your collarbone. “I’m so tired of being strong.”

“You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

So she lets go. And for the first time in weeks, so do you.

Later, when the storm inside her has quieted, when her eyes are puffy and red and her breathing has slowed to something human again, you lead her to the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before. Like it’s ritual.

She lets you.

Still silent. Still raw. But softer now, like the sharp edges have dulled. Her hand lingers in yours longer than it has in weeks. She curls into you without asking, tucks her knees up under her and presses her cheek to your chest like she did during last year at UConn, after that Final Four game where she swore she’d never play that badly again.

You’d found her in her dorm that night, still in her travel sweats, hoodie pulled up like armor. She hadn’t said anything, just climbed into your lap, quiet and bruised and seventeen kinds of exhausted.

You held her then like you’re holding her now. Careful, steady, for as long as she needed.

You grab the fuzzy blanket from the arm of the couch, the one she pretends she hates because it’s “obnoxiously pink” but always ends up buried under after tough nights. You drape it over the two of you, then kiss her hair once, gently, where it parts at her crown.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs after a long stretch of silence.

You shake your head. “Don’t be.”

“I’ve been such a dick.”

You smile faintly into her hair. “Maybe. But you’re my dick.”

That gets the tiniest huff of a laugh out of her, muffled against your collarbone. It’s the first real sound of her in days.

You reach for the remote and scroll mindlessly until you land on the dumb baking show you always used to put on after her bad games. She pretends to hate it: “They’re just cakes, babe, why are they all crying?” but you know it makes her feel safe. Like the world is a little slower and a little sweeter.

You set the volume low, just enough to fill the room with chatter and clinking bowls and the gentle pressure of lives that have nothing to do with yours.

“I forgot how good this show is,” she mumbles after a few minutes.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers drift through her hair, light and rhythmic. Her breathing evens out, one hand fisting lightly in your hoodie.

This is the version of her you’ve missed. Not perfect. Not polished. Just herself. Soft, sleepy, safe.

“You remember that night in Hartford,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “when you missed that game-winner and locked yourself in the locker room for an hour?”

She groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“You wouldn’t come out. I had to sneak in with that nasty gas station hot chocolate.”

She shifts a little, her smile pressing into your skin. “You bribed me.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

She hums. “Barely. I only opened the door ‘cause I thought you were gonna start sobbing outside it.”

You feign offense. “I was being dramatic for effect.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You let the silence settle again. It’s warm this time. Companionable.

“I used to think you only loved me when I was winning,” she says quietly, like it’s something she’s only just realized she believed.

You tilt your head down. “Do you still think that?”

She shrugs against you. “I don’t know. I think I forgot how to be loved when I wasn’t.”

You exhale slowly and tip her chin up with two fingers, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are tired, but clear.

“Paige,” you say, soft but sure, “you are loved when you lose. When you miss. When you fall apart. When you’re stubborn and snappy and full of doubt. There is no version of you I wouldn’t love.”

Her throat works around the lump there, eyes glistening again, but the tears don’t fall this time. She just nods.

Then she pulls you in and kisses you.

Not desperate. Not needy. Just real. Quiet and slow and full of apology and promise.

When she pulls back, she leans her forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not walking away.”

You shake your head. “I’ll always be here. Even when you’re not ready. Even when you push. I’ll wait. That’s the job.”

She smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes. It’s not big. Not flashy. But it’s real.

“You’re too good to me,” she says.

“Mm. Probably,” you tease, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “But I like the work.”

She laughs, and it bubbles out of her like it’s the first time she’s remembered how. The tension breaks. The ache loosens.

The couch holds you both.

Outside, Dallas hums on — noisier than it should be, traffic always loud and lights always spilling in through the windows. But the room you’re in is soft. Dim. Full of the kind of peace that only comes after a storm.

She nestles back into your chest, tugs the blanket up to her chin.

And you think; this is enough.

Not the win streak. Not the headlines. Not the perfect stat lines.

Just this.

Her body folded into yours. Her heart safe in your hands. Her breath warm on your neck. The worst of it behind you.

Finally, finally — home.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[w2soneshots]

harry smau or one shot or anyyythiinggg

i don’t know if you’ve written anything similar to this so i’m sorry if you have )’:

you and harry are going through a rough patch while he’s become super busy with filming across europe & you’ve been stuck at home

Miles apart -W2S

words: 0.9k+

warnings: angst, unplanned pregnancy, mentions of loneliness.

summary: while Harry’s away for a sidemen video -once again- you find something out that will change your lives forever, but with how busy he’s been you worry about how much he will be there for you.

notes: hi! Angst is genuinely one of my favourite things to write… there’s just something about it🙈. Also added some spice (a whole ass baby) to add to the angstyness, tehehe. Anyways, enjoy lovely and thank you for requesting!!💝🫶🏼

Liked by wroetoshaw, tobjizzle and others

y/username: home💐🛁✨

-comments-

calfreezy: sandwich looks delish, bog is a lucky man

-> y/username: haha it was unbelievably good

taliamar: obsessed with you💓

-> y/username: I'm flattered T🤭

y/nfanpage21: cutie!!🫶

user: where's Harry?🤨

-> user: he's away for a sidemen Sunday

A few days ago your boyfriend, Harry, left on a trip for a new video that the boys are filming. Lately he's been gone what seems like a lot, for days at a time or on a shoot from early morning to late at night, meaning by the time he gets home you're already fast asleep.

"Hi, how was filming?" You asked Harry on facetime, while he sat in his hotel room. "Pretty shit to be honest. Boring," he replied before yawning. You signed then spoke again after a moment, "you look tired. I'll let you sleep." "Alright, love you," he smiled softly into the camera. "Love you, sweet dreams."

You put the phone down and got comfortable in your bed, since you felt unusually tired you fell straight asleep, completely unaware that the next day your whole world would change forever and Harry wasn't going to be there.

"I'm fucked," you whispered as you stared at the positive pregnancy test in your hands, the obvious pink lines glaring at you. You weren't sure how to react, meaning you just stood there contemplating your life choices.

You and Harry had only been together for two and a half years, which felt like absolutely no time at all. You'd spoken briefly about kids but it definitely wasn't something you were planning in the near future, but now it was happening and honestly, you were concerned he wasn't going to react well.

"What am I going to do?" You asked yourself quietly as you sat down abruptly on the toilet seat. Then the tears started to flow and they didn't stop until your phone rang, breaking the rush of thoughts whirling around your mind.

Quickly, you got up, wiped your tears on your -Harry's- jumper sleeve and reached for your phone. Harry... fuck, act natural.

"Hi," your voice was slightly horse as you answered, thankfully it wasn't a video call. "Hello darling, you okay?" He asked cheerfully. "Mhm, you?" He paused for a moment before speaking again, "sure you're alright? You sound a little... weird."

You took a deep breath and tried to control yourself. "I'm fine, just woke up from a nap," you lied. "Okay... call me if you need anything. I'll be home tomorrow, around eight o'clock," He told you, leading you to feel a mix of relief and worry at telling him about your predicament.

The next day you woke to the same feeling you did the morning prior, nausea. The sickness you felt was what made you go and buy a test in the first place, along with the fact your period was late.

You spent the day going over how on earth you were going to tell Harry that your going to have a whole ass baby, that you'll be fully responsible for and will have to keep healthy and happy for eighteen years... jeez.

You'd felt like shit all day so by the time your boyfriend finally arrived home you were exhausted. You were sat on the couch when he came in. As usual, he immediately dropped his bags and all of his focus turned to you.

"Hey-" "Harry," you stood and interrupted him, you needed to just get it out, "I'm... pregnant." He turned pale and his mouth dropped open. "You're- I- what?" He stumbled on his words, his hand moving up to rub the back of his neck.

You both sat down on the couch and remained in complete silence for a good ten minutes, while Harry processed the news. Anxiously, you twiddled your thumbs while you awaited his response.

"When did you find out?" He eventually asked, breaking the silence and slightly startling you. You cleared your throat. "Yesterday. Yesterday morning," you answered, the both of you still looking ahead at the empty, black tv screen.

"So you've had time to think?" "I guess so... I mean, all I've really been thinking about is how you were gonna react and that you've been so busy- I don't want to be alone," you said quietly before finally looking at him, the tears in your waterline threatening to spill.

In an instant he moved closer to you and wrapped his arms around your body. Relief filled your senses as you felt slightly reassured by his actions. "I've always wanted a family with you... maybe not so soon but we'll figure it out. I know you're gonna be an amazing mum y/n and hopefully I'll be half decent, but I'll always be there," he whispered into your hair.

You smiled as you let out a sob. "Soppy twat," you chocked out. He chuckled, the air in the room now considerably lighter. "So, in nine months we'll have a kid then yeah?" You cleared your throat and sat up. "Technically seven months, since I'm already eight weeks." "Even better."

Two months later...

Liked by sidemen, mollymae and others

y/username: We've been keeping a secret...

-comments-

wroetoshaw: b- b- b- buzzin

-> y/username: Harry's new favourite word ladies and gents⬆️

faithlousiak: ahhhhhh!!! Adorable😊

y/nfanpage21: WHAT?! I was not expecting to see this today... sooo happy for you though😭💝

-> y/username: haha thank you hun

user: this is insane omfg yall

[romanceclubofficial]

In the May update, one of the most profound and emotionally rich stories of Romance Club came to its conclusion. Dracula: A Love Story led us through fear and awe, choices and doubts, sacrifices and trembling confessions. Today, we’ll take a peek behind the scenes and speak with the person who breathed life into this dark, passionate, and beautiful world.

Facts from Veronica, the writer of Dracula: A Love Story:

The finale was written in three cities alternatingly: Istanbul, Rome, and Chișinău. It happened unintentionally, but each of these cities is built on seven hills and played a symbolic role in the fate of the historical Dracula. My arrival in Istanbul coincided with a 6.2 magnitude earthquake, which resonates strongly with the plot. And my stay in the Vatican coincided with the death of the Pope, the Conclave, and the appointment of a new one—also symbolic, though in a different sense. Of course, these are just coincidences, but maybe don’t invite me over for now.

Instead of two final episodes, we had to write four to fit everything in. The total number of lines in the finale surpassed 10,000, while a standard episode is usually no more than 1,500 lines. My laptop keys gave out and flew off, and I had to finish writing on an old keyboard I dug out of storage, which I didn’t even have time to wipe down. It stayed perfectly on theme for Dracula—with its cobwebs and ghostly creaking.

The hardest part was triple the volume within the same deadlines, plus the realization that the finale wraps everything up: there would be no chance to go back, clarify something, or add anything. It was like sprinting a marathon.

Thankfully, just like Councilor Septentrion, I had a wonderful assistant, Anna. She joined the Dracula: A Love Story team in autumn 2024, taking on a portion of the detailed scene writing and technical aspects—codes, spreadsheets, art coordination, which allowed me to focus on the creative and strategic side of the novel. We’ve never met in person, but we clicked quickly, and by the time we reached the finale, the story had a reliable second pilot who understood me with half a word, and so the flight landed safely. Anna also loves cats, and she’s a deeply sensitive author and human being, which was the main reason I chose her for the role of my assistant (the sensitivity, not the cats—although...).

Once the text was submitted, the tech team, editors, translators, artists, and the composer began their titanic work on the finale... Everyone cared deeply and gave it their all and a little bit more, and I’m incredibly grateful to each of them.

This story’s path was long and far from straight, but I’m glad it all turned out exactly as it did. A year or two ago, I wouldn’t have been able to write the finale I created now. It took inner growth. Perhaps some readers won’t see anything particularly special in it, because the definition of special is different for everyone. But to me, this finale is exactly what it needed to be. I am endlessly grateful to everyone who helped make it happen: to the Romance Club management for their trust and support during the hardest times. To the team, for their efforts and constant creativity. And, of course, to the readers, for your patience, your loyalty to the story despite the pauses, for all your love and the light you’ve given in return.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 1

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 1.5K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in the last chapter)

Notes: Prompt suggested by a lovely anon ask and that I absolutely ran away with 💞. I hope you enjoy🌻!!

(Chapter 2) (Chapter 3) (Chapter 4/End)

“And another thing-!” you yell through the phone mic.

Viktor does not want to know the other thing.

For the first time in his life, he really wishes you would stop talking right now.

After months of a tumultuous relationship with a guy Viktor didn't believe was worthy of licking the sole of your boots, you had finally chosen to break it off tonight. Part of him (a large part of him if he's being honest with himself) is absolutely delighted at the news. Not only do you deserve so much better than the kind of scumbag who cheats on their partner, he can't help but think, selfishly, that there's a small chance for him to make his way into your heart. A chance to confess how he's felt for years now, how he's felt since the first time you smiled at him, and for you to see him in a new light. Not as a friend, but as a man, deeply, stupidly in love with you.

It's currently very hard to bask in the joy of all that potential because you've been talking over the phone for over two hours about every single thing your now ex-boyfriend had ever done to you.

“-and it's like, I should have known, you should never trust a guy who refuses go down a woman-“

Or hadn't done, in that case.

“Sweetheart, I don't want to say I told you so,” Mel speaks up at the other end of the line, voice firm but comforting, “but I did tell you so.”

“She did tell you,” Jayce pipes up, elbowing him in the arm. Viktor winces quietly and shoots his beaming friend a deadly glare. “Right Viktor?”

He lets out a non-committal mumble.

You've already moved on though, rambling about something else your Romeo had done. It's not like he was going to add anything helpful, anyway.

As soon as you had called him earlier that night, Viktor could tell something was wrong. The slight tremor in your voice, the lightest slurring of your words; you had been crying. He can read you like an open book, and you always come to him for advice whenever you need someone's help. No one else. That trust is something that means the world to him.

A second after he had asked what was wrong, you broke into tears and sobbed your way through a half-inaudible story about someone cheating and a breakup over text. And Viktor, like a coward, had panicked at the idea of discussing your romantic life with his very bothersome feelings getting in the way.

So he went to see his roommate for help, breaking the intimate bond of confidence you usually share together in the hopes of finding someone better qualified at handling the situation.

Which turned out to be an even bigger mistake.

Jayce isn't bad at discussing emotions per se; in fact, he's leagues above Viktor in that department. Where he tends to bottle up his thoughts and stew in them for hours on his own, Jayce will always be up for a talk, no matter the time or topic, that shining smile on his lips.

However, despite this, Jayce is a very poor listener.

His leg has been bouncing up and down for the last hour, like a puppy that needs to go pee outside. He's barely listening, only commenting every now and then, in favour of grinning at him and whispering embarrassing words of what he thinks is encouragement.

“Tell her you'll be there for her!”

“C'mon, say you'll go over to see her!”

“Vik, this is your moment!”

And then, there's Mel.

Because somewhere in the middle of this living nightmare, he thought perhaps a feminine, calm and composed presence like Mel would help you relax. Mel is the perfect listener, always striking that perfect balance between lending an ear and giving solid guidance. Viktor often finds himself wishing he could learn from how well she seems to understand everyone around her.

And yet her addition to the phone call seemingly just made everything worse.

You were definitely already a few drinks in by the time you called him, and now with her there as empathic support, you've lost absolutely all sense of self-restraint.

“And he was so bad with his tongue, did I say that before, Mel? He had no idea what to do with it, just shoving it in my mouth like a worm-”

Viktor is going insane. Hell is really just a never-ending phone call, with the girl you like telling you about sex with her ex.

“Yeah, honey, you did,” Mel sighs, even her otherworldly patience starting to wear thin. He can hear the fatigue in her voice; its close to one AM on a week day. “Maybe you should go to bed for the night, and rest up a little?”

Her extremely wise suggestion falls on deaf ears once again. He's not sure anything could stop your monologue now.

He's usually always so enamoured when you talk about anything. You're always so passionate, full of fire, ready to challenge the status quo and refusing to let anyone's opinion get in your way. It's captivating.

Now, he's mentally arguing the ethics of just pressing the ‘end call’ button to end his suffering.

“I just want someone who'll love me you know?” you drunkenly whine. “Someone who's gonna want to listen to me rant about stupid things. Who's gonna kiss me like it means something. Someone who's actually going to eat me out,” you spit out, clearly still bitter on the topic, “and who's gonna think of me as the only one for them.”

There's a pause, the first one in what feels like hours. You breathe slowly into the mic, only interrupted by a small hiccup. The next words come out quieter, defeated.

“And I don't know anybody who would ever be that person for me.”

Someone speaks up right after that.

“I would.”

And for a second, Viktor really wonders who said that.

Then it registers that that was his voice.

And then the math all adds up in his head, and he realizes it was him.

There's an odd, deafening silence in the room. It's like the pause button on a video has been pressed. For a second, he thinks maybe he's just hallucinated the whole thing.

But then, Jayce smiles at him with one of those handsome, enormous grins of his, and the dread of knowing this is very real sinks in.

“…Sorry, Viktor, what did you say?” you ask, voice no longer shaky.

There are three possible routes to take from here.

He could A., lie and hope you think you misheard him. Not a very likely scenario, because Viktor heard himself say the two cursed words crystal clear. You would call him out instantly.

B., he could hang up, and never talk to you again. Drastic, but a necessary evil. At least he would avoid the embarrassment of ever having to talk to you again. Knowing you, you wouldn't let him off so easily, though.

C., he could be honest. He could tell you he wants to hear you talk about anything and everything, except perhaps your shitty exes. He could tell you he's looked your way for a very, very long time, and that he'd never found the right moment, the right words, to tell you. He could tell you he loves you.

Unfortunately, before he has time to consider his choices and weigh the various pros and cons, Jayce starts answering for him with triumphant laughter:

“Oh my god, Viktor finally said he would-”

“-Would call you back later, yes, goodnight!” he quickly yelps, almost throwing the phone down as he presses the button to end the call. The black screen stares back at him tauntingly.

Meanwhile, Jayce looks at him like he's grown a second head:

“Why did you hang up?!” he protests, picking up the phone and wagging it over Viktor's nose, “This is it! You did it! It's your moment!”

Viktor snatches the phone back, shoving it into his back pocket. Out of sight, out of mind.

“My moment is absolutely not going to happen on the phone, with two other people listening in, while she's ranting about an ex-lover!” he hisses out.

Jayce's expression softens, like he's just now realizing these might not be ideal circumstances. The smartest man Viktor has ever known is somehow also the most dense.

“Maybe she didn't hear,” he adds in a tone that unsuccesfuly tries to be comforting”, “Maybe she heard ‘high wood’, like a… forest of pines?”

Before Viktor can ask how, exactly, a forest of pines of all things would have fit into their conversation, something against his hip vibrates in an awfully familiar pattern.

It's his phone.

“…or maybe not,” Jayce concludes.

[seokjinsonlyone]

this how i think bts would be if they was your husband

namjoon:

you’d have your own rooftop garden together; like he’d get someone to get it setup architecturally the way he has it envisioned in his head and to give like advice on the types of plants that are good for this set up but y’all would do all the seeding and watering and weed pulling yourselves

evening walks together around sunset through the park or around the river hand in hand where you just soak up nature and talk about any and everything

you both like the idea of having a pet but know that you're too busy to keep one regularly so you end up getting fish; he gets a cute little 20 gallon tank and like five fish but he actually does a lot of research on which fish live the best together, which food and treats they like best, the best plants and knick knacks to put inside, how to clean it, etc.; all in all takes the whole situation way more seriously than you'd thought he would; it was supposed to be sumn light for the summer time but you'd think he's filming an episode of tanked for all the time and effort he pours into it

sits side by side with you rubbing circles into your lower back whenever you need to rant about something

loves it when you get desperate for him so sometimes around the time you're ovulating he teases you; will walk around the house in nothing but his briefs with his glasses on talking in his deep voice; will invade your space like if you're in the kitchen making food or something he's gonna come up behind you and wrap that strong arm around your middle kissing up on you asking meaningless questions about what you're doing until you finally snap and drag him to the bedroom

consistently opens every door for you and pulls out your chair at restaurants even if it's five, ten years down the line

the type to never know where anything is; it's not even that you switch things up a lot it's just that he never forgot the muscle memory of where things were when he lived alone; so he's constantly calling out to you asking where something is; half the time what he looking for be in very obvious locations but his mind is just so all over the place that he overlooks it

uses you as his sounding board when he has a situation he needs handled; will just sit there and think out loud to you for minutes and hours; you don't even be saying that much really like occasionally he'll ask what you think but he appreciates having a listening ear more than anything and you're happy to be there for him even if his incessant rambling makes you wanna strangle yourself sometimes

would learn to help you take out your box braids; it makes you nervous when he first offers to help because he can be a bit rough sometimes but he's oddly gentle and diligent with the task; once he's gotten good with that you convince him to wash your hair too; and take down/wash day is less dreadful because of it

you two become a package deal; like it could be a boys night or a girl's night and you're always gonna try to bring the other with and most of the time y'alls friends don't mind like you're one of the boys and he's one of the girls so it's fine; even if he like invites some friends over the house and you stay in the room to give them some space at some point he's gonna go and check up on you; you'll just be laying in bed on your laptop or phone, watching tv or something and he's gonna lay beside you and ask what you doing make sure you're okay next thing you know 30 minutes gon go by and you'll have to remind him that he has guests over; then he's gonna convince you to come out with him and stay tucked up under his arm until his friends leave or pass out

seokjin:

draws you a bath when he knows you’ve had a long day; it’d be really nice too; he'd light your favorite candle and set it on the counter; add a fragrant moisturizing bath bomb and sprinkle in some flower petals; once you settle in he'll put down one of them over the tub trays and hand you a glass of wine and your laptop so you can watch whatever you want or stream music while you’re in the tub

loves referring to you as 'his wife'; like y'all will be with a group of your friends that knew you from the get go and they'll ask him where he got his jacket from and he'll be like "oh my wife bought it for me" and they'll be like "🥴 boi we knew her long before she was ever worried about you just say her name" aksksksk

every couple months y’all will go on cooking dates with his celebrity chef friends and their wives; which is basically them in the kitchen being loud cooking a meal he specifically chose for you and you and the wife not too far away watching them while being wined and dined

not particularly handy but he feels like as a man there’s just certain things he should be able to do; so if your sink is leaking or there’s a problem with your car battery or something he’s gonna hop on youtube and figure out how to solve it first; calls an actual repairman to deal with it if he can’t fix it without being moderately inconvenienced

insists on getting a pool installed even tho you tell him you would barely use it bc you hate having to redo your hair more than you like to swim; you actually do end up using it all the time bc he orders one of those giant canopy floats and y'all just lay up there and take naps or talk; the whole outdoor area is actually bomb tbh like there's an entire sheltered outdoor kitchen and grill patio area with fans on the ceiling for when it gets hot and a fully loaded bar; y'all honestly spend more time outside during the summer than inside and get scolded for not entertaining people more often

if you reeeaaalllyyy want him to go shopping with you he will but he’d rather just give you his card and you gather up some of your girls and y’all can go nuts together

tries to butter you up when he knows he's in trouble but it's never with anything good like he'll stop at the convenience store on the way home and pick up some things to try to sway you; he get home and you're waiting for him slightly ticked off and he's like "i know you're mad but look at what i got you and it's a cosmic brownie, sour gummy worms (his favorite candy mind you), some wet wipes, and an arizona tea

official driver of the relationship; lets you be the passenger princess of your dreams like whenever you need to get from point a to point b he’s getting you there all you gotta do is sit down and look pretty (and play decent music while he’s driving)

even if you’re not a certified Gamer Girl™️ when there’s like a new mario game or something along those lines that doesn’t require a ton of skill and know how to play you’ll no life it together; like will straight up play for like 16 hours a day until you beat it; you still force him to eat and shower however but you’re not allowed to touch the controller until he returns bc he’d be afraid you’ll lose all your lives

the type to get super close with your family; like you look over one day and see yo mama calling him and you listen to him and they're literally just catching up???; he goes out on bros days with your dad and brothers; all your cousins follow him on instagram and be sending him memes; and you just sit there tryna figure out how he singlehandedly replaced you in your family bc they be treating him better than they treat you

yoongi:

after hearing you talk about wanting a detached claw foot jacuzzi tub for the 1000th time he decides to just go ahead and get your dream house built from the ground up; gives his input in every step of the process since he has so many opinions on architecture, furniture, finishes, and overall aesthetics; sometimes there’s little disagreements when your design styles clash but in the end he makes sure that you definitely get everything you’ve ever wanted included

warms your car up for you in the morning during winter months; unimportant but i just know he would go out in a sweatshirt and some slides like barefoot toes out in 20° weather shuffling out to make sure your car is nice and cozy and the frost is off the windshield

every now and again you’ll just be chilling at home and then he’ll be like “yah go get dressed we’re going out” and then he’ll genuinely take you on one of the best dates ever; it may not be over the top every time but somehow it’s always exactly what you needed; acts nonchalant about it when you’re gushing over how great of a time you’re having; “ah it’s nothing” but he’s secretly super self satisfied bc he knows he’s killing it

sometimes he’ll be sprawled out on the couch watching basketball and you’ll be tryna tell him something but he’s so engrossed that he won’t hear a word you say so you gotta throw a pillow at him to get his attention

untangles your necklaces for you; sweeps the hair from the back of your neck and clasps it together once he's got it free

likes leaning on your shoulder when you’re in bed on the computer; not really nosy about what it is that you’re doing whether it’s work or whatever but just likes to listen to the sound of your typing as his own personal asmr; also loves it when you get your nails done like will happily pay for a new set every other week because of the tippity tapping that accompanies everything you do

sets up a joint bank account for you two like immediately bc he doesn't have anything to hide and what's his is yours; but also sets you up a separate savings account that he funnels money into biweekly bc he wants you to be okay always even if one day it has to be without him

if you're both up late and you're feeling peckish he'll whip up a quick late night snack for y'all to munch on

never really comments when your hormones throw your body system out of wack; like if you randomly had night sweats for a couple days and sweat through your clothes and blanket he'd just nudge you awake so you can dry off and turn the ac on

is extra physically affectionate whenever you start getting irritated even if he’s the source of your irritation; will grab your hand and pull you into him planting kisses on top of your head and rubbing up and down your back until you’re sufficiently pacified

hoseok:

all his numeric passcodes are related to you; like it’s either your birthday or your anniversary, the day y’all met, first date, etc.

sometimes he likes to sit on the toilet when you're in the shower and talk to you; will periodically poke his head in to check your progress depending on how long you're in there; ooos and aahs and waggles his eyebrows every time he does so

some people think you’re some kind of dictator bc his response to every proposal he receives is “let me check with my wife first”; you’re not tho he just likes running things by you bc he’s only ever okay if y’all are on the same page; sometimes you really are his scapegoat if he doesn’t wanna do something tho and you’re fine with being his excuse! you love spending time with your man!!

y’all draw lots over who has to kill the bugs in the house; he tries his best to overcome his fear for you he really does but sometimes he look at the bug and the bug look at him and his heart can’t take it; generally tho there’s less fear of y’all conquer it together

at least once a month he books a couples spa day appointment for you two; deep tissue massages, facials, manicures, pedicures, the works like you just get absolutely spoiled; his motto is that if you feel good and look good then you can be good and be good to each other; unrelated but he get a kick out of eating the cucumbers that are supposed to help soothe around your eyes

you get so used to the sound effects he makes all the time that when he’s not around you have to have some kind of background sounds whether it’s music or white noise just something to fill the air.

you both like plushies, funko pops, action figures and all that so there's a dedicated toy room in your home; all the toys that you actually care about are placed higher up and in cases to keep in good condition but things that you don't mind having some use are accessible; the whole room is carpeted and there are some fluffy rugs too; there's a 65 inch tv on one wall and a computer area for gaming as well; the whole room is illuminated via led lights; needless to say all the kids you know love when y'all babysit them; they stay in that one room the entire time except when they want a snack bc there's no eating in the toy room; jungkook also loves to randomly come and hangout in the toy room by himself

wouldn't tolerate any kind of disrespect toward you; say you went out to a restaurant and the server was being rude to you, he'd clock it so fast he'd be talking to a manager having your server swapped out and dessert on the house before you even realized what they said

y'all try new hobbies together; it's never anything you have experience or are good at which makes it even more fun as you're doing it; like you'll get one of those woobles crochet kits and spend like a month trying to figure it out in your free time and make whatever little creature you bought

never actually stops dating you; will still have an active folder with activities and restaurants he wants the both of you to go to; even if you both lack the time and energy to actually go out on a date he's lighting a candle and pulling out the fine china for you it doesn't matter that you're wearing loungewear and sitting on the floor in front of the tv; he wants you to feel special always

jimin:

intimacy between you two go crazy; you’re as close as close can be like if there were such a thing as soulmates you two would be it; you’re consistently trapped within your own bubble and even if you’re out and about it’s still almost as if no one else existed; like say y’all went out to a club music is thumping people are everywhere it’s a generally Loud environment if you softly called his name from beside him he would turn to you immediately; or someone could brush past him and it’d be whatever but if you ghosted your hand up his arm he would get goosebumps; you’re just insanely in tuned to each other

would love if you had a softer build bc he likes the way you feel like heaven when he lays on you; also he just likes squeezing at your squishy bits; he finds it equal parts amusing and satisfying; like he'll squeeze at your boob when you're half asleep in bed just to annoy you; you'll be turned on your side and his arm will be slung across your waist and he'll just inch his hand up until he reaches your boob and squeezes; giggles evilly every time you smack his hand away and won't stop until you're whining and kicking at him to leave you alone and let you sleep

sometimes you’ll build a giant fort in the living room when he’s getting overwhelmed by life complete with fairy lights strung up overhead and pillows and more blankets covering the floor to make it extra comfy; you spend all day together in there playing games and talking nonsense and eating snacks and end the night cuddled up his arm wrapped around your shoulders, your head tucked into his neck watching movies until you’re sure his head is free from all his worries

loves to be fed, literally; like when dinner time comes he will make one big plate and pull up with a fork and a knife and a waiting attitude; if you don't play along immediately he's gonna put his hands over yours and make you feed him bites until you take over; likes to feed you as well; just always sharing his food with you and expects you to do the same

he gets obsessive when you don't answer his calls; like if he knows you're not busy and he calls you and you don't answer it drives him up a wall and he will spam you with texts and at least a dozen more calls until you pick up; not even because he has anything urgent to tell you he just always craves your attention; bonus: ends every conversation by saying i love you like you could be on the phone for 15 seconds just confirming something really quickly and he's gonna make sure he's told you he loves you before you click end call

doesn’t say anything when he finds you crying just pulls you into him and lets you get it all out; once you start calming down a bit he’ll pull back slightly, gently cupping your face in his hands and swipe away all your tears; only when he’s sure the tears have come to a complete stop does he softly ask “what’s going on?”

still gets shy and flustered around you; it doesn’t stop him from being himself around you whatsoever but it’s very obvious when you have the upper hand in a situation

you can't just tell him you need an item from the store bc half the time he'll go and come back with the wrong thing; you gotta send him a picture of it and that don't even work all the time; most of his solo ventures to the store at your request end in him facetimeing you bc he swears up and down they don't have what you asked for but then you end up finding it for him and you not even there

knows you admire his art skills so he leaves little doodles on post it notes around the house; is really proud when you display the ones you find really cute in your phone case

the type to put his life in your hands; when y'all go out to eat he tells you to order for him bc "you know what i like"; will let you dress him/style his hair however bc "you know what looks good on me"; he just literally trusts and defers to your judgement as much as possible

taehyung:

the type to tighten all the jars when you’re upset with him so you’re forced to ask him for help and talk to him anyway

would try to set up a really romantic dinner for you complete with rose petals and candles and champagne on ice but he'd be so focused on creating the right ambience that he forgets to order the food and one thing bout tae is he ain't a chef and even if he was he wouldn't have enough time before you showed up so you'd end up having a pb&j and cup noodles

sometimes if he has a lot of energy but you’re asleep he’ll poke at you until you’re awake and then he’ll ask if you’re asleep and when you say yes he’ll keep messing with you until he’s able to drag you out to play with him

knows how to tie a tie but claims it looks better when you tie it so whenever he wears a suit he gets you to finish off his look; really he just likes to be manhandled by you and the grip you have around his neck does something for him

if you get him riled up in the morning he just lives there all day; partially aware of what's going on around him but undoubtedly distracted, thinking about you, wanting you; hands and eyes are glued to the phone at all times hoping you'll message him or something even if it is just you teasing him some more; he's putty in your hands and he knows it but when the day is over and y'all are both home you're his

you have to come to major compromises when it comes to decorations; like you let him have his accent wall that he puts his paintings of his basquiat-esque faces but the weird cyber bug and person shark statues and the butt chair have to go

you do majority of the cooking so he takes dish duty very seriously; will swat you away if you try to help most times; however there’s a special place in his heart for the times you ignore him and help anyway by drying the dishes and it’s you him and some music playing and you’re singing and dancing around the kitchen together

there's a legitimate argument about your use of a body pillow; he genuinely gets offended bc is he not enough for you? why can't you just cuddle him? why would you go and put the great wall of china in between you two? what's with the distance? was he too much for you? like the situation blows completely out of proportion for no reason skslklsks the argument ends when you force him to cuddle it and he instantly understands the hype behind it; that doesn't curb his jealousy towards the object however and you're only allowed to use it when he's not in bed with you

a whiny baby when he's sick; you'd think he had tuberculosis in the 12th century instead of a common cold the way he be acting; a piece of tissue stuck in his nose, piled under three blankets, shivering every five minutes on cue; you give him a good day of dealing with the dramatics after that you leave him in the room with a bottle of dayquil and a packet of vitamin c until he decides to get on with his life like a normal human being

loves planning weekend getaways for the two of you; like every other month you guys are out of town for like 3-4 days in the spirit of “rekindling”; he always rents a really nice and cozy cabin type joint and most of the trips are spent just enjoying each others company and the scenery, walking around the town latched onto his arm and eating good food; you come back from each outing refreshed and more in love than you already were

jungkook:

every sunday he checks your car to make sure it has a full tank and if it doesn’t he fills it up for you

you two have separate rooms bc you both like to have space to just exist as an individual from time to time (also it’s really nice to have a place to storm away to when you’re in a fight) but you end up cuddled up next to each other every night anyway

has a very strict laundry schedule and routine; gets annoyed if you don't do it how he likes when he's unable to

watches you while you’re getting ready; he’ll be sitting at the edge of the bed while you walk around from your closet to the dressers circling the room trying to find something to wear; you’ll be having a conversation with him the whole time and after you walk past him for the 4th time his clinginess gets the best of him and he catches you by the waist before you can fully bypass him; he pulls you in between his legs and just hugs you to him for a few moments while you run your hands through his hair

follows you around the house with his mic serenading you like three times a week

comes behind you when you’re cooking or washing dishes or something and just pats at your butt for a while and by a while i mean he won’t stop until you elbow him and threaten to cut his hands off; he just laughs and gets one more grope in before backing off

traces the contours of your face and murmurs all kinds of cute and lovely and cheesy stuff about you when you’re both in bed and he thinks you’re sleep

if you made him a good meal you’d hear about it constantly for the next week; like every other sentence is a “seriously, it was so good” and he won’t stop until you make it again; sometimes he’ll try making it himself to see if he could do better but it always tastes best coming from you

an absolute menace in the grocery store; will spend the first 15-20 minutes behaving as he grabs whatever he needs personally and once that's done he's acting a fool; doing that thing that kids do when they use the cart as a skateboard like push off on it and then hop on to ride out the wave; grabbing all kinds of junk that neither of you need; touching everything even when he has no intention of buying it; you have to grab his ear and threaten him with celibacy to get him to calm down

whenever you’re sitting next to each other could be on the couch out at dinner in bed etc he likes to play with your hand and fiddle with your ring; will often slide it off and try to fit the ring on his fingers; then he’ll put it back on and kiss your fingertips for safekeeping

a/n: i worked on this for months and months and now it’s finally here lemme know what u thought 😩🙏

[reissancesstuff]

"all the ways i tried not to love you"

Oikawa Tooru x fem!reader | Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Second Chances

Six years later.

You never thought you'd see him again—not really.

Sure, his name still lit up stadiums. His face still smiled from volleyball ads and magazine spreads. But the Oikawa Tooru you once knew—the one who kissed your forehead after study sessions and whispered dreams of going pro into your neck late at night—he was long gone.

Or so you told yourself.

You adjust the strap of your press badge and step into the locker hallway of the stadium in Buenos Aires. The warm, dry air clings to your skin. You’re here on assignment, not a mission. And definitely not to reopen wounds.

Just one interview.

One.

---

He looks exactly the same.

That’s your first thought when he steps into the media room post-match, towel around his neck, sweat damp in his hair.

He spots you immediately. His steps falter.

“(Y/N)...?”

God. His voice.

You inhale through your nose and force a professional smile. “Oikawa-san. Congratulations on the win.”

He laughs once, quiet and unsure. “We’re back to last names, huh?”

You gesture to the recorder on the table between you. “Off the record,” you say carefully, “we don’t have to talk at all. I’ll write around the interview.”

He sits down across from you anyway.

“No,” he says, gaze steady. “Ask me whatever you want.”

---

“What changed for you after coming to Argentina?”

"Everything," he says. “The culture. The pace. The silence.”

You blink. “The silence?”

He exhales, gaze dropping to his hands. “No one here knew me when I was eighteen. No expectations. No constant measuring stick against Kageyama or Japan. Just… volleyball.”

You nod, pen frozen above your notebook.

He adds, quieter, “But sometimes I missed being seen.”

The silence between you tightens.

He doesn’t clarify whether he means you or the fame. You don’t ask.

“Do you have any regrets about the path you chose?”

He pauses.

Then: “Yes. And no.”

You wait. He doesn’t elaborate.

But his gaze lingers on you for just a second too long.

---

The interview ends. He walks you to the hallway in silence. It's too quiet between you, and you're too proud to say you're still angry. That it still hurt—how he ended things with one half-hearted excuse about “needing space to focus” and never called again.

But then, just before you step outside, he speaks.

“You remember that poem we read together?” he asks suddenly. “In senior year. The one with the line, ‘I have measured out my life with coffee spoons’?”

You blink. “T.S. Eliot?”

“Yeah.” He smiles faintly. “I used to think it meant wasting time. But now I think… maybe it’s about the small things. The seconds. The people you loved quietly.”

You stare at him.

He finally meets your gaze.

“I measured too much, didn’t I?”

And there it is—his voice cracks around the edges, like he's saying sorry without the word.

You swallow hard. “I would’ve waited for you, Tooru. If you had just asked.”

His breath catches.

“I know,” he whispers. “That’s why I didn’t.”

---

Two months later.

You find an envelope at your desk.

Inside: an Argentinian postcard with a scrawled note.

“I’m coming back to Japan for off-season. Can we have coffee?”

“No press. No pretending. Just you.”

—T.

[dduane]

Process for the new DEEP WIZARDRY International Edition cover

(rolls up sleeves) Right. Writing work (and recurring health issues) have repeatedly pushed these pieces of work to one side for the last year and a half. Time to take a brief break from ongoing work in other universes to rectify that.

Here's the template that I'm building on: the international edition cover for So You Want To Be A Wizard. (Available only outside North America, if you're wondering what makes it international. These paperbacks use the New Millennium Edition texts—except for the international edition of Games Wizards Play [when it comes out later this year], which was written to fit into the NME timeline to begin with, and will go into its international editions with that text.)

The cover concept's straightforward. Relatively dark, desaturated backgrounds: one glowy (or somewhat glowy) thing in the foreground, in a color that pops, or in lighting that makes it stand out.

For Deep Wizardry, things get slightly complicated by the fact that so much business happens underwater. But there are some things we can work with there. A scene in which two pivotal characters square off seems like a fair bet.

So: background first. Underwater lighting...

The sea floor: sand.

Sunlight from above the water.

But naturally that's not how the bottom would look, because there are ripples on the surface...

And naturally the sea bottom isn't going to be featureless, so we need some weeds and rocks.

The distribution's not ideal on these, but that comes under "fine tuning." That can happen over the weekend.

Now for the main attractions. Nita...

...and Ed. (ETA: There are some scale issues here. Properly speaking, Ed'rashtekaresket is significantly bigger, in comparison with Nita, than he's being framed in this shot. But Nita had to be big enough to actually show on the cover... So some liberties inevitably get taken.)

Now, while this is all promising enough so far, there's a bit of a problem. Nita's not terribly visible at this point. So, time to engage in some visual jiggerypokery that will both help with that problem and do something to hint at the connection between these two.

IIRC, Nita was wearing a wizardly forcefield in this scene to provide her with air and other necessities. So let's exploit that.

In the render, I can apply to her figure what in Daz Studio parlance is called a "geoshell": a kind of skintight digital overskin to which special effects can be applied: such as light emission. (And Nita's hair will get one too.) Since everything else in the scene is cool-colored, this light is going to need to be warmer, in (at the very least) a golden range. (Or rosy. May be playing with that for a bit.)

...But obviously we can't leave her looking like that. So what I get to do now is lose the rest of the scene and render Nita separately, in the same position but with different, less blued-out lighting...

...then add her figure back into the scene, over the geoshelled version (which can be clone-brushed out later).

...So when we slot that imagery into the paperback cover template, after some tweaking, this is what we get.

...Still some things to correct or refine here. (Such as the main body of back cover text, as I haven't written the new copy yet. And the quotes may want tweaking: the NYTimes review [which the WaPo picked up] had some lines that might work better.) Colors, composition, etc etc, can all use some final touches. But I think we're most of the way there.

With any kind of luck, this edition will be available online in paperback and ebook formats for the non-North American audience this time next week. (I'm still considering whether I want to offer hardcovers on these as well.)

(sigh) Now I want some tea. And then, tomorrow maybe, on to the int'l edition of High Wizardry...

ETA 2: off @softness-and-shattering's question:

If I may ask, is it not your publishers job to do this work? Is this a continuation of the thing where authors now seem to be expected to do their own marketing too, or are you doing the new millenium editions 'on your own' or similar?

I'm doing them on my own. While there are numerous foreign-language editions of the original YW books, the only publisher to use the NME texts so far (for books 1-3) has been Lumen éditions in France, and I'm not clear whether those editions are still in print.

Whatever their status, that still leaves me with a lot of countries where I can publish. And if that job's going to get done—lacking other publishers' interest, which my agents would handle—It falls to me to take the work forward. Such are the wonders of our age that I no longer have to wait for a publisher to turn up. And should something suddenly happen for publishers to get interested (like a TV series or whatever) then i can easily withdraw my own editions and let my agents do deals with them.

Meanwhile, why (as we say) leave money on the table? There are other English-speaking countries on the planet where the YW books can be marketed (and more countries still where—when there's cash to spare to hire the necessary creative talent—translations might not do too badly). So I might as well get on with it! I've got groceries to buy and bills to pay like everybody else... :)

(And just pausing here to point at the page pinned to the top of my feed. If you want to help with those groceries, there's a good place to start: the ebook bundles are still at their pre-holiday sale prices! ...Unless you're in the UK. [I'm so sorry about Brexit, folks, but there's nothing I can do about that...])

[cal-coathanger]

could I ask for a George Weasley x reader where she's a Malfoy and they are dating in secret and her parents arrange a marriage for her after she finishes Hogwarts so she runs off with George?

Here we are, I hope you enjoy it 🫶

I have NOT proofread this so I'm sorry for mistakes, I tried my best:)

Please send in any hp requests omg I'm loving them🫶

"You're malfoy's sister, huh?" An unfamiliar voice piped up from behind you, you turn to be met with two tall identical boys. They had the trademark weasley ginger hair, various small scars across their bodies from pranks gone wrong, which you would eventually use to tell them apart before you knew them better, you could immediately tell that these were the trouble making weasley twins. Your brother, Draco, had complained about them for ages even before attending the school. You had just transferred in from ilvermorny, where your parents had sent you for the first 3 years so Draco could be the star at hogwarts. You and Draco were close in age, Draco only being 10 months older than you. Eventually your father had gotten tired of your complaining of ilvermorny, and allowed you to go to hogwarts.

"What do you need?" you ask them in a flat tone. All you had heard about them was that they were foolish and annoying, causing trouble everywhere they went.

"Calm down sweetheart" one says as the other adds on "we were just checking out the new malfoy," "hopefully she's not a wretched as her brother," "I sure hope not," "we don't need another entitled malfoy"

They go back and forth, talking as if you weren't even there. Maybe Draco was right, they are quite annoying, and rude.

You scoff and walk away, still hearing their banter from behind you.

Your second interaction with george was when you were unfortunately paired with him in potions class. You groaned as you heard both your names called out. You thought for sure you were going to fail the project, but surprisingly he worked well in class. And when you arrived at the library later that night to finish up the project, he was actually really sweet, and easy to talk to. Time flew by as the two of you chatted, laughing and talking about anything you could think of. He showed you his scars and explained each one, you listened intently. Your father would have never let you have even half as much fun as George did. That was when you started to grow fond of him, and when he realized that not all malfoys are jerks. And now at least you could tell him apart from fred, George has a small scar on his neck from fireworks gone wrong that fred didn't have. You talked until you realized that it was much past curfew, and you'd be in so much trouble with your father if you got caught and they contacted home. George helped you calm down after you freaked out and showed you a secret passageway that led you almost straight to your house tower, and you got in without getting caught. The project wasn't even finished, but you were still happy with how the night went.

Eventually, sneaking around with him became a regular thing, staying out late every night just to spend time with the sweet ginger boy. And when the yule ball was coming up, he finally asked you to be his girlfriend. You happily accepted, and instead of going to the ball you danced with him in his dorm. You wish that you could've been seen with him at the ball, but Draco would've snitched immediately and you would be sent straight back to ilvermorny.

You kept your relationship secret for years, only Fred knew, and Ron who had accidentally walked in on the two of you snogging once, but he kept his word and never told anyone.

And then hogwarts ended, you graduated 2 years after George did. (Although he still snuck in just to see you, and you spent weekends at his shop)

2 weeks after graduation you got the worst news of your life. You were being married off into another rich pureblood family. Your parents cared about nothing more than keeping the family line wealthy and pure, no matter how much you cried and begged. They were marrying you off into the flint family. To Marcus flint. Who was an undeniably ugly man, inside and out.

You cried for weeks, sending endless letters to your devastated boyfriend, who tried his best to comfort you despite his own sorrows.

And now was the night before the wedding, you laid in your bed, sulking. Your eyes were already completely cried out, you had absolutely nothing left to cry even if you had the energy to. You didn't want to do anything, you couldn't eat or sleep or shower and take care of yourself. You truly looked a mess and your parents screamed at you until their voices went hoarse. But you didn't care. You knew the house elves would clean you up tomorrow anyways, but it's not like you wouldn't show up to the wedding looking as if you had lived in the woods for the past month if you could. The only thing that brought you any joy was rereading letters from George, luckily you had kept them well hidden so no one had found them.

Suddenly you hear tapping on the window, and you look up to see am owl there, holding a letter. You immediately jump up to open the window and recognize the weasley's owl, letting it in and petting it before taking the letter. It stood on your desk as you read.

"Pack your things, take everything you will need. I love you sweetheart, I'll see you soon. -yours truly"

You had little to no idea what this meant, but you sent off the owl with a few treats and immediately locked your door to get to packing. Luckily your parents and your brother were off having dinner with another rich snobby family, but you couldn't risk it. You packed your hygiene products, perfumes, jewelry, important items, and clothes, leaving behind the wedding dress in the closet and hiding the packed trunks underneath your bed. You cleaned up your room the best you could, leaving it as close to how it looked before as you could.

When your parents finally arrived home late, they didn't even bother to check on you, they went straight to bed along with your brother.

You waited for hours until you couldn't help drifting off to sleep, awoken later with sharp knocks on your window. You jumped up in shock, glancing at the window to find.. George? He was in the passenger seat of the weasley family's flying blue car. You room was 3 stories off the ground, and it made you slightly nervous.

You open the window and speak in a hushed whisper, "what are you doing here?"

"Coming to save you, get your things" he whispers back, giving a small smile.

You hesitate before grabbing 2 packed trunks and hauling them over to the window. Fred, who was driving the car moved it around and popped the trunk, allowing you to lug your belongings in before turning the car again to the door of the backseat. Ron, who was in the back, opened the door for you. You hesitate, looking at the long distance between your window and the ground. If you didn't make this jump you'd be seriously injured, or dead. Ron leaned out and held out his hands to help you, and you took them, holding on tightly as you stepped up onto the window sill. Taking a deep breath, you jump, barely making it, and he pulls you into the car and shutting the door swiftly. And just like that fred hit the gas, speeding off before any of your family could notice the blue car outside of their mansion, or that you were gone.

Eventually they arrive at the weasley's home. You were nervous and you'd never actually met any of George's other family. But as George led you into the house while fred and Ron grabbed your trunks, molly was waiting at the door with open arms, pulling you into a hug.

"OH my sweet George has told me all about you!! You're just as beautiful as he described. You poor soul, I'm just so glad my boys could get you!" She exclaims.

The hug felt weird, but not in a bad way. You've never really been hugged before, but it felt,, comforting. After a moment you hug back.

"Thank you Mrs weasley, George is just amazing. You clearly raised him so well"

She pulls away with a huge smile on her face.

"Come! Come inside! Let me show you to your room" she urges you, leading you into the house.

It was beautiful, it wasn't as big as the mansion you had previously lived in, but you liked that. It was warm and smelled of cinnamon and caramel.

Molly leads you up some stairs, bringing you to a decently sized bedroom with the 3 boys following close behind. Fred and Ron drop off your trunks and rush off to the kitchen as they had missed dinner. George leaned against the doorframe, watching as his mother showed his girlfriend around the room she had worked so hard to set up. Molly eventually left, allowing them to get settled in as she prepared more food.

You sit down on the bed, it was amazingly soft, unlike anything you had ever felt. George sat next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

"So? What do you think?" He asks gently, "I know it's a lot and this is all going really fast but I just couldn't let you get married to that jerk, not when you belong with me"

You smile at him, this was all so new to you, and yes it was overwhelming, but you loved it.

"George, this is the most amazing thing you could have ever done for me" you whisper, your emotions already taking control of you. You could feel tears forming in your eyes, happy tears.

He leans in to kiss you gently, cupping his hands to your face and gently rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs.

"You better get used to it, I'm never letting you be away from me again." He whispers softly. Molly calls the two of you down for food, and you realize how much you were starving.

George smiles at you, "are you ready to start your new life here?

You smile and nod in response, "I've been ready"

**bonus**

After around a year, George had found a house for the two of you, and had recently proposed. You don't know what your parents were up to now, or if they even knew where you had gone, all you knew is that they had publicly disowned you, and you were fine with that. You had george's family who were a thousand times better anyways. You were at home doing dishes when you heard a knock at the door. When you go to open it, there is no one there, just a letter. It was addressed to you, written in green ink.

You open it and read it slowly.

"I hope this finds you well. I've missed you since you left, but I understand why. I hope you know that I never hated you, and I support you relationship with the weasley. As much as I hated them during school, George is good for you, and I'm glad you have him. I won't tell mum or dad about where you are, or who you're with. I've known for a while now, I just couldn't bring myself to write until now. If you're up for it, maybe we could meet and catch up. And if that goes well, hopefully we can finally have a good sibling bond. Love you Lil sis."

- draco

You smile and immediately start a letter back, excited to tell your soon to be husband of the letter you recieved when he returns from work.

This is the happy ending you'd always dreamed of, and you are more than grateful to finally be living in it.

[hederasgarden]

Series: Bound - Part 1

Summary: When a dangerous situation pushes you out of the only home you've never known, you take refuge with an unruly pack of wolves. Tyler Owens might not be the alpha you think you want, but he’s the one you need. [Werewolf!Tyler Owens x Human!F!Reader | 2.3K]

Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Magical realism, supernatural themes, violence, and angst. Future chapters will include explicit sexual content  This series will include untagged themes and elements. 

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who patiently helped me write this including @mermaidxatxheart @a-reader-and-a-writer @blue-aconite and @clairewritesandrambles. The beautiful banner was created by @writercole.

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day. 

Masterlist

The rain comes in droves, the wipers on your car barely able to keep up with the deluge. Anxiety grows with every passing second, fear blooming in your chest when you glance in the rearview mirror. You half expect to see lights from another car but the road remains empty. You should be relieved but all you feel is mounting unease as you navigate the winding gravel path. The lack of moonlight makes it hard to see much of anything.

Your hands tremble on the steering wheel, and you grip it tighter, leaning forward to navigate a sharp turn. It's difficult to see beyond the narrow beam of your headlights, and despite the growing sense of panic, you’re forced to follow the winding path slowly. Suddenly, the dense thicket of trees gives way to a large clearing, where a massive wooden cabin stands in the center. Warm light spills through the bay windows onto a wrap-around porch, illuminating a line of rocking chairs.

You cut the engine, but pause with your hand on the door. Coming here seemed like the best option earlier, but now in the moment, your courage flags. You know from experience that lingering too long on that doubt will consume you, and the truth is, there are no other choices. You push the door open and sprint for the porch, the cold rain soaking through your clothes. There hadn’t been time to grab a raincoat when you left home in a hurry. Besides the car and the hastily packed duffle bag in the backseat, you have nothing—no personal belongings, not even the necklace with your mother’s wedding ring.

As soon as your boots hit the bottom step, the front door swings open. A young wolf with shoulder-length brown hair stands there, a bag of chips in hand. He tilts his head, taking in your disheveled and drenched appearance while he pops another chip into his mouth. You can only imagine how you must look to him, a half-drowned human seeking refuge on his porch.

"Hey," he greets. "Can I help you?”

You climb the final two steps and straighten your shoulders, trying to muster some courage. “I need to see Alpha Owens.” You pause and then add, "Please.”

The young man leans in, his nose twitching as he not-so-subtly takes in your scent. "Yeah, sure. Wait here," he instructs, closing the door.

You wrap your arms around yourself, seeking some warmth and comfort. It’s hard not to think about the last time you were here over four years ago with your father when the cabin was still under construction. Back then no one thought much of Tyler Owens and his small, ragtag pack of lone wolves. The Alphas’ council had dismissed them as insignificant and unworthy of attention. In your father’s world, those bitten and not born held little power, and the idea of Tyler becoming an Alpha of a pack seemed improbable at best. 

Despite this, your father kept a semi-friendly relationship with Tyler over the years, mostly because their lands bordered each other. No one, certainly not even your father, could have predicted how Tyler’s pack would grow the way it had or how he’d become a formidable Alpha with exactly the kind of strength you needed now. 

When the door opens again, Tyler stands in the entryway. His honey-blonde hair has grown longer, nearly touching the collar of his shirt, and his sharp jawline is obscured by a light beard. He's dressed casually in a pair of jeans, feet bare. You stare until he clears his throat.

"I’m not sure if you remember me..." you begin, but he interrupts with a smile. 

"I remember you," he says kindly. "I was sorry to hear about your father's passing. He was a good man and a great Alpha."

His words stir up the familiar ache of grief in your chest, threatening to choke off your response. It’s only been four months since you lost your father and you feel adrift without him. A nod is all you can manage for a long moment before you’re able to speak again. “I'm here because I need your help. I need sanctuary."

Tyler’s expression shifts to one of surprise, his brows drawing together in confusion. When he doesn’t speak for a long moment, you hurry to add, “It’s just for the night. I promise I’ll leave in the morning.”

"You need sanctuary from your father's pack?" He questions. 

You shake your head. "It's not his anymore."

Without thinking, you touch the unmarked skin of your throat, and Tyler’s gaze follows the movement. 

“What about Daniel?” Tyler questions. 

"He’s dead.”

Tyler's brow wrinkles, his sharp little "What?" nearly lost as the wind picks up.

Although you were never in love with your father’s chosen heir, Daniel was good and kind. You liked to think those feelings might have come with enough time but that’s impossible now. You should be grieving him too but it's hard to feel much more than numbness and horror when you think of what happened to him. 

“Let’s talk inside," Tyler urges, cupping your elbow to draw you closer as he surveys the darkness behind you, his green eyes flashing golden. Relief washes over you at the invitation.

Inside the foyer you’re overly aware of the wet squelch of your shoes against the hardwood floors and the water dripping from your clothes. The young wolf who greeted you earlier observes from a doorway to your left, exchanging a meaningful look with Tyler that you’re all too familiar with. The nonverbal communication an Alpha could share with their pack was something your father often utilized to dole out commands.

A light touch on your elbow draws your attention back to Tyler, who guides you into a spacious living room filled with couches and mismatched throw rugs. He urges you closer to the fireplace until its comforting warmth reaches you. You stay like that, staring into the flames until Tyler speaks again but when you turn to face him, you realize he’s addressing the young wolf who hands him a towel and steaming mug.

“Thanks, Boone.” 

“Aye, aye captain,” Boone replies, giving his Alpha a sloppy salute before leaving. 

You stare at Tyler, shocked by the casual way the other wolf addressed him. His only response is a raised brow as he offers you the towel. You take it, drying your face and hands. There’s nothing to be done for your clothes. 

“Here,” he directs, hooking his leg around a chair to pull it closer. “Sit.” 

“I’m drenched.”

He quirks a brow. “Sweetheart, it’s a chair, not my grandmother’s hope chest.”

You lower yourself gingerly and accept the mug of tea Tyler presses into your hands. Though you’re not especially thirsty, you take it, finding the warmth that seeps through the ceramic soothing. 

“Tell me what happened,” he encourages.  

“Daniel died three days ago. Sheriff Riggs—” you falter, your eyes darting nervously behind Tyler as if mentioning the man's name might summon him. Your voice trembles as you continue, now barely more than a whisper. “The sheriff says it was a car accident, but h-he—” your voice fizzles out, your throat tightening around the words you want to say.

“You can tell me. Whatever it is.”

You shake your head and look up at the ceiling, fighting to keep the tears at bay. The lump in your throat that’s been there since Daniel died feels like it's choking you. Telling the truth would be a relief but it’s dangerous. To accuse another Alpha without proof….

“I can’t.”

Tyler says your name softly, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. Everything about him, from his tone to the expression on his face is gentle and encouraging. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I think… I think Scott had him killed.” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and as soon as they’re spoken, you wish you could take them back.

“Scott?” He repeats, his brows knitting together as he tries to place the name.

"Scott was expected to be my father's heir, until, out of the blue, he chose Daniel a few months ago.”

You never liked Scott, always wary of his ambitious and calculating nature. While most wolves were feared for the beast within, Scott’s human side set him apart. He was cunning and careful. Every move he made seemed designed to advance his own interests, often at the expense of others. You had half-expected him to leave the pack and start his own after being passed over for the coveted position of your father’s second. Instead, he stayed, and now you realize he was biding his time.

“That’s a serious accusation,” Tyler says, his tone guarded.

You shrink back as if trying to distance yourself from the weight of your words. Tyler’s nostrils flare, and you wonder if it’s the acrid tang of your anxiety or the sourness of your fear he smells on you.

“It’s not that I doubt you,” he adds quickly, “but I need to know what makes you think Scott is responsible.”

"Scott was careful not to show it but he was angry my dad chose Daniel.” You take a deep breath, summoning the courage to reveal what you’ve kept to yourself since Sheriff Riggs delivered the news to your pack three days ago. “The official report said Daniel was drunk, but I saw him earlier that night. He was sober.” 

Thinking about the last time you saw Daniel brings a sharp, painful sting to your chest. You didn’t see it at first, too caught up in your grief, but Daniel was the right choice to replace your father, handling things with the same calm confidence as his predecessor. It’s still hard to believe that the man who looked at you with those sweet, hopeful eyes, that promised he would be everything your father envisioned, is dead.

“It’s possible he went out after you saw him,” Tyler suggests. 

You breathe out sharply, shaking your head. “He wouldn’t, not with so much going on. He was a good Alpha. He was focused on the pack."

Tyler seems on the verge of saying something more but then he nods and gives you a soft, “Okay.”

You look away from him, trying to gather your thoughts. You need him to understand, to believe what you’re about to say.

“Scott’s uncle is the sheriff,” you continue. “He was the first to arrive at the scene of the accident. He and Scott have always been close.”

Tyler’s brow furrows as he processes your words. “So you’re saying Riggs might have altered the report?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “All I know is that with Daniel gone, Scott finally has what he’s always wanted—what he believed he was owed.”

“Do you think Scott would hurt you?”

“I don’t think so. He needs me to win over the rest of the pack.”  Scott certainly had his supporters, his uncle chief among them, but your father’s influence ran deep. The pack would expect to see you at the side of the next alpha. “But,” you continue, thinking of what drove you to run tonight, “I don’t think he plans on waiting to make me his mate.”

Tyler’s lip curls in disgust at your unspoken meaning. “You mean he intends to force you.”

“Yes,” you whisper, stomach churning at the idea of being bonded to a man like Scott. Someone who saw you as a means to an end to solidify his own power. Daniel was so different, allowing you time to grieve and adjust after your father’s passing before even broaching the subject. Part of you wonders if he would still be alive if you hadn’t waited to establish your bond— or if he would have just died sooner.

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Tyler assures you, tilting his head to catch your eye and hold your gaze. “As long as you’re here, you’re safe.”

“You’ll let me stay?” 

You didn’t really think he’d turn you away—after all, that’s why you came to him. Still, there was always a chance. Wolves were loyal to one another. You were painfully human. 

“I’d never turn away a lady in need,” Tyler says with a grin, that easy confidence you remember surfacing before his expression turns serious again. “Will Scott know to look for you here?”

“No. He probably expects me to seek out another Alpha on the council.”

“That’s good,” Tyler says. “But I gotta ask, why did you come to me? Your father has many friends you could have turned to.” 

"They would have sent me back," you explain simply. “Scott’s the new Alpha. In their eyes, I belong with him."

“Well,” Tyler begins, a small grin on his face, “I’m flattered you chose the charming but rogue Alpha over the law-abiding ones.”

His response startles a watery laugh out of you, a foreign feeling after all the grief and fear that’s kept you company these last few months. “I also chose you because my father always respected you.”

“Even when the others didn’t,” Tyler agrees. “I’ll always be thankful for that.”

You share a small, bittersweet smile with him and exhale, your shoulders slumping. Suddenly, you feel exhausted. 

“Now come on, let’s get you out of your wet clothes. In the morning we can figure out what to do.”

“We?” you ask, surprised.

Tyler flashes you a brilliant smile, leaning in close as if sharing a secret. “Didn’t you hear? Our pack is fond of strays. You’re one of us now, sweetheart.”

[matts-girlfriend]

ʜɪɢʜꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ - ᴄʜʀɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴜʀɴɪᴏʟᴏ

word count: 2.6k summary - Chris meets Y/N during his golden boy years in high school. He was fighting to maintain his grades, and the only way for him to continue playing was to pass finals. Y/N was the student tutor and was assigned Chris. After a few months of teaching, Chris develops feelings for Y/N and asks her out. But now that they're seven years into their relationship, Chris is beginning to understand that something is most definitely wrong.

warnings - swearing, angst, substance abuse, drinking, fighting, screaming, mentions of grabbing and bruising (no actual abuse), emotional distress, gaslighting, heavy manipulating, death.

a/n: Hey, pretties. Despite the warning, I'd like to add another major disclaimer: everything in this story is fictional. None of this is based on real events. FAKE SITUATION! FAKE PLOT!

They met when they were sixteen.

It was fall. The kind of October that felt more like a heartbreak than a season — wet leaves sticking to pavement, skies grey with grief, and classrooms smelling faintly of sweat and dry erase markers. Y/N sat three rows from the front in Honors Algebra II, always two steps ahead of the teacher, always scribbling notes in perfectly organized columns. She didn’t talk to anyone. She didn’t need to. The teachers adored her. The students ignored her. She was invisible and invincible all at once.

"Step one / You must accept that I'm a little out my mind""Step two / This is a waste if you can't walk me down the finish line"

Chris Sturniolo was a walking contrast. Loud, golden, careless. He strolled the halls like he owned them, lacrosse stick slung over his shoulder, jersey half tucked into his jeans like he couldn’t bother. He had the kind of smile that made girls giggle and boys want to punch something. His brothers, Nick and Matt, by him constantly — triplets who somehow managed to be entirely different from each other. Nick, the loud, proud, chaotic one. Matt, the quiet observer with eyes too tired for seventeen. And Chris? Chris was the golden boy.

Until he started failing every class but gym.

Lacrosse was his life. Without it, he was nothing. And the coach made it clear — get your grades up, or get off the team. His guidance counselor suggested a tutor. The library. Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. The name was written on a yellow sticky note in barely legible scrawl: Y/N Martinez.

The first time he saw her up close, he was twenty minutes late.

"You’re late," she said flatly, without looking up.

Chris laughed like it was funny. "Traffic."

She glanced up. Her eyes were sharp, unamused. "You walk here."

He sat down, slouched low in the chair. "Whatever. Let’s just get this over with."

Y/N tutored him twice a week for the rest of the semester. At first, he didn’t take it seriously. She barely spoke unless it was about math. She hated small talk. She hated being late. She hated when he chewed gum. But she was brilliant. And slowly, painfully, he started to improve.

"Step three / Give me passion, don't make fun of my fashion"

Then, somewhere between a Wednesday quiz and a Friday makeup test, Chris started to notice things.

The way her fingers trembled slightly when she solved equations in front of him. The way she always wore long sleeves, even when it was warm. The way her voice went quiet whenever anyone walked past their table, like she was bracing for something.

She was strange. But he liked it.

They started dating two weeks before junior prom.

He asked her at the tutoring table.

"Go to prom with me."

She stared. "Is this a joke?"

"No. I mean it."

"Why?"

He smiled. "Because you make me smarter. And I think I like you."

She said yes. They kissed in the parking lot that night, awkward and too fast, but she smiled after. That smile would haunt him later. It was the last time it looked innocent.

"High school sweethearts, line up / Not trying to waste my time""High school sweethearts, shut up / If you're not my type"

Dating Y/N started as an adrenaline rush.

She was intense. Passionate. She loved hard and fast, like she had no other speed. At first, it felt like devotion. Like being wanted, needed. Chris had never felt so seen. She wrote him letters. She made playlists. She touched him like he was fragile glass and then yelled at him like he was the fucking problem.

It crept in slowly.

The arguments started small — he forgot to text her goodnight, and she cried for two hours. He laughed at a text another girl sent, and she went cold for a week. He missed one of their study dates to practice with his team, and she accused him of choosing lacrosse over her.

She started keeping track.

Things he said wrong.

Things he did without her.

People he smiled at.

She never said they were rules. But Chris started to feel like he was in a game he didn’t know how to play. Like she had a manual and he was just trying to stay afloat.

"If you can't handle a heart like mine / Don't waste your time with me""If you're not down to bleed, no, oh / If you can't handle the choking, the biting / The loving, the smothering / 'Til you can't handle it no more, no more / Go home"

She never hit him.

But she knew how to wound.

Chris graduated high school with her name carved into every inch of his soul. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped talking to most of his friends. Didn’t notice how much quieter he’d become.

Y/N was all he had.

They moved in together at twenty.

Chris quit lacrosse. Not because he wanted to, but because the team didn’t want him anymore. He’d missed too many practices. Too many deadlines. He spent more time keeping her calm than he did training.

Y/N said it was better this way. "Sports are childish," she whispered one night as she curled against his side. "You don’t need them. You have me."

He nodded.

He always nodded.

By twenty-one, Chris was a ghost of himself.

No more cleats. No more noise. Just long hours at a grocery store job that barely paid rent, and nights spent arguing about things he didn’t remember doing.

He broke rules he didn’t know existed.

Showed up ten minutes late. Looked too long at the waitress. Laughed too loud. Slept too much. Slept too little.

Every fight started with silence. Then the door slammed. Then the venom poured.

"Do you even give a shit about me? Huh? Or am I just some background character in your fucked-up little story?"

"I didn’t do anything—"

"Exactly. You never do anything. Never defend me. Never show me off. Never put in the fucking work."

"Step five / You can't be scared to show me off and hold my hand""Step six / If you can't put in work, I don't know what you think this fucking is"

He stood in the kitchen once, hands shaking, trying to remember what he’d done wrong. The pasta was cold. That’s all. She’d asked him to cook at six. He started at six-thirty.

"You don’t listen, Chris. You don’t fucking care."

He stared at the wall.

Nick and Matt saw it unravel in real time.

They stopped by unannounced once. Chris had a bruise on his wrist from where Y/N grabbed him too hard. He said he bumped into a cabinet.

Nick didn’t buy it.

Matt said nothing at first. Then, quietly, "You can stay with us. Any time."

Chris snapped. "I’m not leaving her. You don’t understand. She needs me."

"No, bro. You need help."

Chris left angry. Every time.

The drinking started slowly.

A glass after work.

A bottle when she screamed.

Y/N didn’t stop him. She’d just watch. Sometimes, she even poured.

He asked her once, in a drunken haze, what would happen if he ever cheated.

She turned her head, smile soft, eyes glassy.

"I’d kill you."

He laughed nervously.

She didn’t.

Chris never forgot that moment.

It haunted every glance. Every smile. Every moment of hesitation.

"Step seven, this one goes to eleven / If you cheat, you will die, die""Can we just be honest? These are the requirements / If you think you can be my one and only true love / You must promise to love me / And damn it, if you fuck me over / I will rip your fucking face apart"

He never meant to break that rule.

But by twenty-two, he was barely holding on. His body ached. His soul was hollow. He walked through life in a fog.

And one night, he just... gave in.

A bar. A stranger. A kiss.

Her apartment.

No love. Just exhaustion.

He left before sunrise.

When he came home, she was asleep. Or pretending.

She didn’t speak the next morning. Just kissed him on the cheek and made coffee. Hummed softly while folding laundry.

He knew.

She knew.

Chris planned his escape like a criminal.

Waited until her eyes closed at night.

Bag under the bed. Phone charged. Keys in pocket.

He opened the door slowly.

Bang.

A gunshot hit the wall inches from his head.

He jumped, looked back, hands raised.

She stood in the hallway. Crying. Shaking. Gun in her hands.

"You lied to me. After everything."

"Y/N, please—"

"I gave you everything. Every fucking piece of me. And you threw it away."

He inched forward. Careful. Desperate.

"Let’s run away. Just you and me. New start. We can fix this. I swear."

She sobbed. Lowered the gun slightly.

He kissed her. Soft. Terrified.

She kissed back. Holding him tight.

Then pulled the trigger.

His body hit the floor with a thud.

She stood over him, shaking, whispering through tears,

"You broke step seven. You cheat... you die."

His eyes closed. He didn’t speak.

She sat beside him.

Held his hand for a moment.

Then raised the gun to her own head.

Pulled the trigger.

Nick and Matt found them the next day. They had came over when they had realized Chris never ended up falling through with his plan on coming to their house last night.

The apartment was silent.

Matt dropped to his knees. Nick froze. Cried until he couldn’t breathe.

Chris’s phone was on the counter.

Last message never sent.

"I need out. Please. I don’t know who I am anymore."

Too late.

a/n: Got this idea when I fell asleep to this song last night and felt the urge to write it out.

taglist:

@courta13 @m4gz-png @lezleeferguson-120

@h3arts4nat @izzylovesmatt @sturnioliolo @hsemeria @sturniqloo

@venusbabysblog @chrisslut04 @crazy4weeed @chriscokewhore @chrisswaffles @urfavvvnyasee @sturnzluv @freshluvr @mattthemunchh @poolover123 @pleasantdelusionbear @carpentersturns @emosexyvirgin @emillionaireee @shamelessmilkshakefest @xoxochrissgf @sturniolodollx @joyfulheartwhispers @cutseylady @oopsiedaisydeer @steph1106

@laylaluvsu2000 @lvrsturniolo @chloe444 @yamommmasman @55sturn @whenlovesaround @luvs-booksss @vampyyluv @moth-feeet @mx7ka @amb-3-r @ncm9696 @alinagrace11 @cherryystemm @bblbilly @d3vwrlds @chrismybouncyhouse @mattslvrxo @iluvchr1s @slutforchrissturniolo2 @mattsdemi @beardedbernard @cutseylady @kn3xtdoor @2prettyysturniolo @nicks-bubbles @bearnelli4life @sneezytime @skye-butterfly

[thesovereignsring-if]

Major Update: To move forward is to take a step back.

Hello everyone, it's been a while. I hope you're all doing well. I'd ask that you read this to the end because some major changes will be in the upcoming update.

TLDR: You will need to start a new save file for new update (this weekend) otherwise there will be very noticable issues down the line.

I can't recall the last time I made a post or an update like this and frankly i'm scared to check . I've been struggling with writers block with the end of Chapter 1 and my small bouts of depression did not help one bit, so I had to take a step back and re-examine the narrative. If you ask me what the problem was, i'd say that perhaps I rushed too quickly into the main story, when I needed a little more foundation to stand on. After a few months of deliberation, a solution has been found. And I think everyone will like it. There will be no major rewrite of any sort, I think I would cry if that were the case.

Instead we going going to have a second prologue. This means that Chapter 1 will be inaccessible until the second prologue is complete. I'm very sorry that things have to be this way, but I do no see any other option for the story to continue forward in a satisfying way.

The second prologue will take place a few months after the first prologue during the Grand Festival of Eostre. This will be the first year you'll celebrate without your mother, at the very least you will have your friends and family with you at the time.

What to expect in the first half of Prologue 2:

Up to 13k words of new content.

Spend some time with your family.

Looooreeee & tea.

Meet Lior the Grand Cardinal of the Church of Eostre. The leading religion in Nibelheim.

Choose how to spend your free time at the festival in 2/4 possible routes. Route A: Alberich & Finny, Route B: Sieghardt & Thea.

(The last two routes will be added in the next update: Route C: Lynnette, Erik & Daria/Darius, and Route D: The Empress, King Lugh & Duchess Neaera)

Erik has a younger bastard half-sibling named Daria(f)/Darius(m). ( I will address them as Dara for short.) The final romantic interest, gender selectable. Even if you do not choose Route C, you will meet them later on in the second half of the update.

Fixes + Updates:

Character Creation has been updated and streamlined. (Gender/Pronouns and Sex are separate categories for both adult and child character creations. Attributes chosen during Child Character Creation will be stored as different variables in the event I choose to do anymore flashbacks later on in the story.)

Please note, that choosing after your sex (as an adult) I will assume your character will have the corresponding equipment down there.

Music Credits have been updated.

Minor adjustments to the colour of the UI, if people have any sort of colour theme they wish to see, I'll be more than happy to add them.

That is all for now. I hope the year has been kind to everyone so far. I haven't gone through my inbox yet, but I've seen glimpse of people's support it goes a long way. I sincerely do no think I'd come back if it weren't for the fact that I'd feel like I'd let everyone down. I will be making a patreon post after the first update goes live to talk about the new update and exclusives later.

Thank you for reading and enjoying TSR over the past year. It's means a lot to me and let's hope things will be better moving forward.

See you <3

Lili

[rotthepoet]

Lorenzo berkshire arranged marriage 😝

YES YES YES YES YES OMG YES 100x

Okay okay so like??? How did we end up in this situation??? Because you knew Lorenzo in school but that man was a BITCHHHHHHH okay? Like he was a DICK and not someone you ever wanted to spend time around. I mean, yeah, he was hot, but that personality was simply distasteful, you arent even sure he knew you existed the 7 years you were in school together

So surprise surprise, when you graduated, (and im gonna be real with you this would only happen if youre a pureblood OR MAYBE HARD MAYBE a half-blood with two very powerful and influential magic parents) dearest mummy and daddy decided;

“Hm! More power and influence?? Good idea!”

And with that, you were arranged to marry into the Berkshire family! How clever! How smart! How lucky for you!

Except, when you’re finally alone with Lorenzo for the first time, he doesnt even bother looking at you as he says “You’re married to me only for show. I will not be your doting husband, but if you want to live a good, long life, you’ll be the perfect wife for me.”

And you’re like. Wtf? Because? This is not how marriage works?

Alas, the ceremony goes on. His lips are addictively soft as you kiss at the alter, and after that? Gone from your line of sight. No where to be found. Actually- you do find him in a study with all his friends, drinking fire whiskey around the fire place. They laugh about the situation, one of them speaking up to say “hey, could be worse. At least she’s hot.”

And you’re like. Wow. Really classy. Very funny. (It hurt your feelings quite a bit)

And trust, you do not see Lorenzo for a very long time. Like. You’re in separate bedrooms, on separate sides of his large estate, with purposely different schedules.

You’ll see him in a corridor occasionally and its like seeing a ghost fr

Regardless, youre expected to attend formal things with him, and you’re expected to stand by his side. And this is really the first time you two get along. Cuz y’see? Lorenzo loves to gossip. A real manwhore for it. So whenever he sees a woman sneaking away from her husband to see another man?? Oh boy he needs to tell someone and you are the physically closest person to him.

And Lorenzo is… aghast really to learn how… witty you are. He was ultimately flabbergasted. He found you… pleasant to talk to.

So he begins joining you at dinner, spouting off drama between his co-workers, updating you on his friends, on himself.

It actually is quite a relaxing way to decompress at the end of the day. And, to add to all of that, you start to see your husband around more often. He actually seeks out your company at the end of a long work day, sitting next to you in the library while you read. Just to be around you.

Then the gifts start.

Showering you in gifts- new clothes, jewelry, flowers, this and that, gives you his card and takes you out for an evening of shopping. Bonus if he gets ro help you choose what dress you like more.

Then he gets touchy, absentmindedly grabbing your hand in a crowd, letting your legs drape across his lap while you sit together, an arm around your shoulders if youre close enough.

He kisses you for the first time on your anniversary, and asks you out on a date. A real date. That should have happened long before the wedding.

And life is good after that <3

[class1akids]

I struggle to convey to people just how toxic Iron Might was for the series. It was NOT cool and it was NOT hype. It was a straight up betrayal of the themes of the old generation stepping down to light the torch for the next. All Might did the equivalent of taking food out of Class A's mouths so that HE could get personal glory. HE gets to fight his nemesis, while using a setting breaking armor that he shouldn't have that logically should have taken years to produce. It also provided confirmation that apparently All Might doesn't teach or care about Class B and neither does the author, because none of All Might's moves referenced people from the other class. Before it was highly ambiguous. We see Izuku's POV mostly and he doesn't hang out with Class B, so maybe All Might trains them when we're not looking. Monoma never complained about Class A getting special treatment, right? Well, actually, they do. He was right. Class A is the favored class. Why couldn't we have just had all of Class A lined up to throw some hands and duel AFO? We get to the same end place with Stain showing up for the assist and Bakugo getting the final blow if we must, because Bakugo blowing up a baby was certainly a choice! They had a built in excuse to let Class A stand a chance here. If AFO is being rewinded in time, why wouldn't his stolen quirk factors also be rewound? Those aren't a natural part of him. If the dude actively was losing powers and techniques as he got rewound, he'd get progressively weaker. Your post about Momo and Tsuyu being left off the thing reminded me of this. Why aren't these two more popular? Because they don't get to DO ANYTHING. The fights in this series aren't anything to write home about already, but the series didn't even want to give them anything. A "big moment" in this series is something like Kaminari being used to block a lightning attack from a guy and display the ability to absorb electricity when he couldn't do that before. Okay, and? Does he get to go on a rampage with this absorbed power? Do we see him demolish a battalion of guys with a mega charged indiscriminate shock, perhaps having something like 4.4 million volts? No, the story just moves on to the more important people. This story catfished us. The school setting would make you think you were watching something like Assassination Classroom, but actually it was just Naruto but the side characters get treated even worse.

Yeah, I have a lot of problems with Iron Might, and I think it took away more from the endgame than added to it:

the suit broke the world-building and previous power scaling

AM comboing all of Class A quirks of kids he never interacted with for several chapters overshadowed the class A combos in Ch 322 (which lasted for like half a chapter)

The themes were just backtracked from AM who learnt to move on without a quirk and wanting to live to becoming suicidal again and only seeing his own value if he can fight (and sadly that came back again with Izuku's flip-flop ending)

I really hated everything about IronMight and I think the armored suit should have first appeared in the epilogue as Izuku's earned ending - all the quirks he studied, the Class A bonds, the relationships he built with Melissa and Mei etc. In my mind, the suit would have been awesome and more fitting for Deku than for All Might.

I also agree that the balance of focus in the end between the adults and kids were absolutely horrible. Not only All Might, but Endeavor and Hawks also didn't need to hog so many chapters, especially because they didn't add that much new explorations to the characters, while the kids desperately needed highlight moment and awesome fights.

I think what he did to fans of popular characters like Kirishima, Momo or Kaminari who stuck around for 10 years waiting for their fave to get a nice highlight or heartfelt moment in the end was really a letdown. I understand if he's personally more invested in some characters than others, but this is basic respect to his fans to show that he knows that there is someone out there who is most excited to see what Ojirou gets to do in the end and he gives them something.

For how much they marketed Class A and sold those characters, and are still trying to make money off of them and off of people's love for them and longing for content is really disgusting. Hori knows what his fans wanted, but in the end, he just focused on what he personally enjoyed. And it did a lot of harm to the franchise and left a lot of fans with a bad taste. And it's really sad.

[leashybebes]

queer feelings - 6

one | two | three | four | five

(most of this got posted as a make me write snippet, so if it's familiar, that's why. i thought about looping this into part 7, but it felt like it needed to stand alone. more coming in a moment.)

Buck hasn't used dating apps in a long time. He decides to start fresh. Firehose doesn't really feel like him anymore. And besides, he's not looking for a hookup. He is, as he realizes he probably always has been (and isn't that a depressing thought) looking for love. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to set up what he's trying not to think of as a grown up dating profile. (God, is he turning into Bobby? He's absolutely turning into Bobby.)

He goes with his name, his age, his profession, a bio that he thinks sounds approachable but still interesting. He spends a full two hours agonizing over the line between a thirst trap and a nice photo. Then he briefly doom-spirals over the fact that the best photo (happiest, hottest, nicest) that's been taken of him in a solid year is one that would require cropping out Tommy if he wanted to use it. He gives himself a firm telling off and uploads a selection of outdoorsy, smiling photos. And a black and white number that's definitely heading into thirst trap territory but what, is he supposed to go looking for people who don't wanna fuck him?

Finally, without letting himself think about it, he ticks the boxes for interested in men and women, adds the word bisexual to his profile, and just fucking goes for it.

He scrolls through the app, feels a weird pressure to look equally at men and women for a bit before he just lets himself look. Lets himself pay attention to people's bios, lets himself check out the photos on a guy's profile in the same way he does a girl's. Do I think they're hot? Do they look kind? Do they look like they laugh a lot?

He tries not to feel embarrassed about how revolutionary it feels. 

(There's a brief, terrifying second where he has to scroll back up to examine a profile more closely because it says pilot, and the picture of a guy half turned away from the camera briefly looks like - but it's not. It's not.)

You belong here, he tells himself.

This is okay, he tells himself.

This is a thing that's for you, he tells himself.

[jerzwriter]

Day 16's prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting's 30-Day Writing Challenge is to write about a thank you. I decided to go with Ethan and Kaycee during Open Heart Book 1 - Intern Year, and lean into that never-ending pining. I hope you enjoy it!

Book: Open Heart (Book 1) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Kaycee MacClennan (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: ~1,600 Summary: The normally unflappable Dr. Ramsey stumbles during a presentation, and when Kaycee realizes the issue, she goes in for the save. But will Ethan appreciate her effort, or will she live to regret it?

A/N: Also participating in @choicesmonthlychallenge Pop Prompt Palooza, prompt: "You remembered?"

30-Day Challenge Masterlist | Full Masterlist

The room went quiet. Too quiet. If not for the hum of the projector swirling in the background and interns shifting uncomfortably in their seats, there would have been silence.

A half-finished slide flickered on the wall: liver enzymes, fluid retention, the beginning of a case that should’ve been routine. But Dr. Ethan Ramsey – the unflappable Dr. Ramsey– had turned to stone mid-sentence. It was as if the man had seen Medusa herself, and he showed no signs of recovery.

In the middle of the awkward glances and furtive whispers, Kaycee MacClennan was growing worried. While her peers were curious, even amused, as their sometimes scary attending physician stumbled, she was genuinely concerned. She hadn’t known Ethan for long, but she knew him well enough to see something was amiss: his clenched jaw, the way his arms went rigid at his sides, and his blue eyes glazed over—something wasn’t right.

So she did what she did best – she went into doctor mode - trying to diagnose what had just taken place, and it didn’t take long for her to spot it. The print was tiny, so small, most wouldn’t have noticed it, but to Kaycee and Ethan before her, it may have well been written in bold, crimson letters. Suddenly, it all made sense.   

Hudson. Dolores Hudson.

Her heart sank. It had to be a clerical error – but a cruel one, nevertheless. Kaycee could picture it – Ethan instructing his assistant to create a template meant to walk the interns through preeclampsia complications, and damn it if she hadn’t picked Dolores’s file and forgot to remove her name. She knew the poor assistant would have hell to pay for this later, but for now, Ethan was sinking, and she needed to throw him a line.

Seconds passed, and the silence stretched. As the nervous chatter picked up and a hand or two began to raise, Kaycee sprang into action.

“Dr. Ramsey - should we be discussing magnesium sulfate administration?” she asked, her voice so loud, so confident that no one would have guessed the way her stomach was churning. Her intentions were good, but jumping in on Dr. Ramsey’s presentation? It could be professional suicide, and she knew it. Still, she wasn't prepared to let him falter, not like this. “With severe preeclampsia, it’s used for seizure prophylaxis. Am I right?”

That snapped Ethan back into the present, and within seconds, he was the picture of the composed physician they all knew him to be.

“That’s correct, Dr. MacClennan,” he said without missing a beat. “And what would happen next? Dr. Carter – I heard you chatting with your neighbor, so I assume you have suggestions to add?”

And... he was back, and Kaycee had saved him, but he didn’t say another word to her, not during the session, nor when it ended. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge her at all for hours to come, and that made Kaycee sicker by the minute.

She only wanted to help; that’s how her brain – and her heart - were wired. But Ethan, he was a different animal, and his wiring wasn’t easy to untangle. So, the silence stretched, the more she anticipated being called to his office for a lecture about overstepping and why she should begin considering another career.

But it was now well after 8 PM, and the call never came. She was finally heading to her locker after a grueling shift - her stomach growling and her feet aching. Her mind was on two things: her fuzzy pajamas and the leftover spaghetti waiting for her at home, when she heard her name.

“MacClennan!”

It was loud, clear, and distinct, leaving no question of who it was. Kaycee swore her hair stood on end at the sound of it.

She turned to find Ethan standing halfway down the hall. Here it was, she thought, just when she thought she had made it through the day. Dread washed over her, but like a good soldier, she marched his way, prepared to accept whatever he was about to dole out.

He was standing outside his office, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looked exhausted – human, for once. Then she noticed his expression, softer than it usually was. In fact, she had only seen him look like that once before – on the night Dolores died. He didn’t speak right away, and Kaycee waited patiently.

“I picked up the wrong slide,” he said without lead-in. “It was completely my fault. As you know, a patient’s name should never be on a presentation. I should have caught that before presenting.”

Kaycee shrugged, a tired smile on her lips. “You’re human, too, Dr. Ramsey. We all make mistakes.”

He laughed faintly, shaking his head. “That’s not something I like to be reminded of in front of a room full of interns.”

“Of course not,” she smirked. “You need to keep that demi-god thing going. But, don’t worry – you’re still the infallible Dr. Ramsey around here. Everyone's still terrified of you – your reputation is intact.”

He looked at her, his eyes narrowing as he quietly assessed.

“But you’re not,” he observed.

“I’m not what?”

“Terrified of me.”

Kaycee barked out a laugh. “That all depends on what time of day you’re asking. You still hold my career in your hands, Dr. Ramsey. That alone instills fear .”

Ethan didn’t say a word, but she saw a flicker of something foreign spread across his face – something he didn’t show often – something he never showed to an intern. Gratitude.

“Thank you,” he said so softly she was sure she had misheard. “I mean it,” he added. “Thank you for covering me, but also for not making a big deal out of it.”

Kaycee’s heart clenched. For a moment, she was back in the NICU, sitting beside him as they watched over a newborn boy who would never know his mother’s touch. She met a different version of the celebrated physician that night, and no matter how hard he tried to hide that side, she couldn't forget it.

Seeing Ethan's grief over being unable to save his friend, that’s when she first began to understand him. And - maybe – just maybe – it’s when he first started to trust her.

“Anytime,” she nodded, her tone gentle now. “But, if you don’t mind... I’ve been on my feet for over twelve hours, and there is a pair of pajamas and a couch calling my name from home, so...”

“Get going,” he grinned. “You’ve earned it.”

She earned it? From Dr. Ramsey? That was high praise. She decided to walk away while the getting was good, but he snapped his fingers when he remembered something.

“Rookie!” he hollered.

She barely turned before he tossed something her way. Moving fast, her hands caught it in midair.

“Geysers?” She asked, her lips tugged upward despite herself. “You remembered?”

“How could I forget? It’s not often I meet full-fledged adults who enjoy candy and jokes marketed at tweenaged boys.”

“Hey!” she scolded. “Tweenaged girls like Geysers, too!”

“I stand corrected,” he replied, his voice dryer – much more like his usual self. “Regardless,  I thought you could use the sugar...or the sophomoric jokes on the wrappers. Hopefully, there’s one in there about a pain-in-the-ass rookie.”

She opened the bag of colorful candy and took out a piece, peeling back the wrapper with a grin. “Nope,” she deadpanned. “But there is one about a cocky attending with a God complex who likes to hide the fact that he has a human heart beating under his perfectly pressed lab coat.”

“Sounds inaccurate,” he muttered. “And now, I’m considering suing the manufacturer for defamation.”

“Pfft,” she smirked. “I may not have attended law school, but I know that case is a loser. Especially after I show up as a witness for the defense. I have no problem outing you in a public court, Dr. Ramsey!”

Ethan opened his mouth to retort but shut it just as fast. One look at her eyes – sparkling with something bright, something he couldn't name, despite her exhaustion – and something inside of him told him to get away - quickly – even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Well, go home to that couch, MacClennan. You need to rest for tomorrow if you’re going to impress me again – otherwise, you may want to keep law school in mind as a backup.”

“You’d miss me,” she said with a smirk, turning on her heel. The elevator dinged at the end of the hallway, but before she stepped in, she turned back.

“Dr. Ramsey?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion playing tricks on her, but she could’ve sworn there was the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No,” he replied, his voice low. “Thank you. Now, get the hell out of here before my goodwill melts away.”

Kaycee snapped her heels together and gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir!” she grinned as the elevator door closed between them.

He stood staring at the doors for a moment longer than necessary, his mind drifting to thoughts he wasn’t ready to entertain—thoughts that felt dangerous. That’s when he heard his name.

“Dr. Ramsey! I’m glad I caught you. I was wondering if you could—”

Ethan turned, already steeling himself. “If I could what, Carter? Prevent you from embarrassing yourself at my next seminar?”

“No, I just—”

He sighed and waved Carter forward with a curt nod. “Let’s hear it.”

As the intern launched into a flurry of nervous questions, Ethan let the familiar rhythm of routine settle over him. It was easier this way. Safer. But even as he listened to Carter babble, part of him lingered at the other end of the hall with a rookie who saw more than she was supposed to see – and thanked him anyway.

He’d have to remind himself again tomorrow: Interns were off-limits.

Even the ones who made him feel like maybe - just maybe - he wasn't as untouchable as he pretended to be.

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