#the shadows. the stars. the fire. the storm.

[xmpsrrr]

Like sunshine in the storm

(bakugo x reader)

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

You weren’t sure when you’d first started seeing Bakugo Katsuki as more than just a classmate. Maybe it was the first time he glared at you for complimenting his explosion technique, calling you “annoying” with heat crawling up his ears. Or maybe it was later, when he stood in front of you during a villain ambush, teeth bared, blood on his lip, as if daring the world to try and touch you.

Either way, you couldn’t help the pull toward him. Like sunlight chasing the storm, you were drawn to the quiet fire beneath his growls and curses.

He, however, wasn’t making it easy.

“Oi,” Bakugo grumbled as you skipped beside him on the way back to the dorms. “Stop bouncing around like an idiot.”

You beamed at him, completely unbothered. “But it’s a beautiful day, Bakugo! The sky’s so blue!”

Bakugo glared at the sky as if it personally offended him. “Tch. Sky’s always blue. Big fuckin’ deal.”

“You’re in a mood,” you teased, nudging his arm. “Rough day in training?”

His jaw clenched. “Didn’t hit my target fast enough.”

“That’s still awesome, though! You’re amazing, Katsuki.”

His step faltered. You didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked to you, softening for a split second before hardening again. “Shut up. Don’t butter me up.”

But your grin only widened. You’d learned long ago that behind every harsh word, Bakugo hid a hundred unspoken things. He didn’t know how to say “thanks” without baring his teeth. Didn’t know how to show he cared without pushing you away first.

So you stayed.

When the others joked that you were fearless for hanging around “angry Bakugo,” you just smiled and said, “He’s not scary.”

And maybe that’s why, later that night, when you sat outside under the stars, Bakugo found you.

“Oi.”

You looked up, startled. He stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, scowl softer than usual in the moonlight.

“Katsuki?” you asked, tilting your head. “What’s up?”

He hesitated. “Why’re you always so damn… happy?”

The question made you blink. “I guess… because I want to be?”

“That’s dumb.”

You laughed. “Maybe. But I like making people smile. I like making you smile.”

He turned his head away sharply, but not before you saw the faintest twitch of his lips. “Don’t waste that shit on me.”

You stood, brushing grass from your legs, stepping closer until you could see the tired shadows under his eyes. “It’s not a waste.”

He didn’t move when you touched his arm gently. Didn’t flinch when your hand slipped down to his, fingers warm against his calloused palm.

“You’re worth it, Katsuki,” you said softly.

He sucked in a breath like you’d punched him in the gut. “You’re fuckin’ stupid.”

“Maybe,” you whispered. “But you still haven’t let go.”

His grip tightened instinctively. “Don’t want to.”

And that—

That was enough.

Because in that small moment, the sunshine had broken through his storm.

And for once, Bakugo didn’t try to fight it.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

this is super short but hope u guys enjoyed!

[aspenmissing]

omg idk what it is about you writing creatively inclined readers but i LOVE IT, and i’m not even musically inclined ;^; . i had an idea, what about silcoxreader where the reader is a relatively famous musician that jinx really LOVES, like her music really speaks to her and the loud sounds and stuff. soooo silco being the good father he is takes her to one of her gigs under his and sevika’s surveillance only to realize that they both know her and that he kinda had a thing with her in his youth, maybe they can go out for a drink after the show? reminiscing on the past, and questioning the present? idk feel free to change this to whatever fits your ✨creative self✨the best. love your work :333🫶

ᴄʜᴏʀᴅꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 3138 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

The bass was pounding through the old walls of the venue — a run-down warehouse tucked between layers of Zaun smog and forgotten alleyways. Once, it might’ve been a shipping depot, its bones made of rusted steel and reinforced concrete, the kind of place that saw too many hands and too little care. Now it pulsed with life. Fluorescent neon strips twisted like vines up the metal support beams, casting violet and crimson shadows over the sea of moving bodies. Smoke machines hissed in the corners, sending plumes into the rafters where old signage still clung, chipped and stained with time and ash.

The crowd was wild. Unapologetic. Youthful, furious, desperate. They danced like they were trying to shake the world loose from its hinges.

Jinx was already lost in it, her boots grinding into oil-stained floors as she bounced to the rhythm. Her manic laughter burst through the strobes like lightning. She swayed like a live wire, her blue hair whipping in time with the snare hits, arms thrown up like she was trying to catch the sound itself.

“Isn’t she amazing?” Jinx shouted, turning to Silco with wide, dilated pupils and a grin that carved straight through the noise. She clutched her face in mock-reverence. “Her tracks sound like a bomb going off in your soul, right?! Like—like everything's on fire and it’s beautiful! Gods, I think I’m in love.”

Silco said nothing.

He hadn’t said anything for the last two songs.

He stood rooted to the edge of the chaos, his black coat dragging like a pool of shadow, absorbing the flash and frenzy around him. The crowd flowed around him without touching him, like they could feel the gravity he carried—like something coiled inside him might snap if disturbed.

But he wasn’t looking at Jinx. Or the crowd.

His eyes were locked on the stage.

On you.

You emerged in a blaze of light and sound. Not as someone he recognized—not at first. No. You were a storm given flesh, backlit by crimson strobes and framed by digital flames. You hit the first notes like they owed you a debt, voice cracking through layers of distortion and synth like a war cry. Hair damp with sweat, eyeliner smudged into sharp wings, you gripped the microphone like a blade, like it was your only weapon in a world too cruel to yield.

Behind you, the projection screen exploded with your name in graffiti-style lettering—sharp, jagged lines that pulsed with every drop of bass. The visual shattered, rebuilt, morphed. The letters danced, burned, faded into cityscapes and glitching stars.

Your music was pure defiance. Anarchy and art stitched together with neon thread. You didn’t just perform—you claimed the stage. Claimed the room. Commanded every wandering eye like gravity incarnate.

And Silco… Silco had been staring for nearly three minutes before he realized he wasn’t breathing.

Not fully.

There was a tick in his jaw. A subtle tilt of the head. The slow narrowing of his eye as something clawed its way up from the depths of memory. Familiarity. Disbelief.

“No,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

He took a step closer to the edge of the crowd, ignoring how Jinx kept dancing, shouting her praises with abandon. Ignoring Sevika’s side-eye from where she leaned against a pillar, cigarillo glowing faintly in the gloom.

Another spotlight arced across the stage. You spun with it, caught in the light.

And then you smiled.

That crooked smile.

The same one you used to flash him across low-lit tables in bars that reeked of sweat and electricity. The one you wore when you sang him your unfinished songs, barefoot and drunk on possibility. The one you gave him the night before he walked away—for a cause he chose over you.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t hear the crowd anymore. Not the static of the speakers, or the thump of the bass, or Jinx yelling something about “murder-synth soulcore.” He didn’t hear Sevika stepping closer, or the hiss of smoke at his shoulder.

All he saw was you. You, alive. You, still burning. You, not a ghost like he’d convinced himself.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered beside him, exhaling slowly. “You didn’t know, did you?” Silco’s jaw clenched, the muscles twitching.

His voice was barely audible. “I thought she was dead.”

Sevika scoffed, dry and bitter. “You thought she would die quietly?”

The memory hit him like a punch.

You, throwing your boots up on his table, demanding he listen to your demo. You, shouting at him in the rain outside the Last Drop, tears mixing with stormwater. You, laughing in bed, half-naked and strumming your guitar with chipped black nails. You, gone before the war started in earnest—vanished without a goodbye.

He’d told himself you ran. Got out. Got lost. But part of him had mourned. Quietly. Privately. He’d never expected to see you again.

And now here you were, standing under a sky made of smoke and lasers, electric and untouchable, and singing like you had a score to settle with the gods.

Your last note rang out like a scream in the dark. The lights faded. The crowd erupted.

Jinx was still howling, now practically vibrating with excitement. “That was insane! I wanna die and come back as one of her guitar strings!”

She was halfway through tackling a merch girl for signed posters and a guitar pick when Silco turned away from the stage, his expression unreadable. He nodded once toward Sevika, who took the gesture without question.

“Deal with the crowd,” he said, his voice low and tight.

Sevika grunted. “You going to talk to her?” He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he could. Because there you were—his past, his what-if, his Y/N—very much alive.

And walking straight toward the green room at the back of the warehouse.

The corridors behind the stage were narrow and hot, the walls stained with decades of grime and layered graffiti. The air was a cocktail of ozone, sweat, and the tang of electrical burn. Overhead, exposed copper wiring pulsed like veins beneath flickering overhead fixtures, casting sickly light across the concrete floor. Every few feet, speakers mounted with duct tape and rusted brackets buzzed with residual feedback, a ghost of the music still echoing.

Silco walked slowly, footsteps silent on the worn metal grating. His presence made people part around him, even back here—stagehands, lighting techs, and a bassist vomiting into a bucket. None of them met his eye. None of them dared to.

He moved like a shadow, a storm wrapped in black wool and leather. His coat brushed the backs of his calves, weighted at the hem, and in his gloved hand he carried nothing but time—measured and heavy. He passed cases of battered equipment, tangled cords, a cracked amp with your name stenciled on it in peeling neon ink.

Your name.

He hadn’t seen it in years.

And he hadn’t known—not truly, not until the lights hit your face—that it was you.

His Y/N.

He had stood still in that pulsing warehouse, like someone sucker-punched him clean in the gut. Watching you—alive, electric, on fire beneath a sea of ultraviolet chaos—had made the rest of the world drop away. Gone was the thrum of bass. Gone was Jinx’s delighted shrieking. Gone was Sevika’s voice in his ear.

All that remained was you. Like you always had been, in the places that mattered. In the quiet corridors of his mind that shimmer hadn’t touched.

Now, as he approached the dressing room, the air thickened. The hallway narrowed like a throat. He could hear the gurgling pipes in the walls, the hiss of an ancient ventilation system wheezing above him, the buzz of a half-dead neon arrow pointing toward your room.

He stopped in front of the door. Chipped paint. A faded sign that once said “Talent Only” now read “Ta__nt O__y.” He didn’t knock.

He pushed it open.

Inside, the room was a cluttered shrine to noise and heat and memory. A cracked mirror stretched across one wall, its corners yellowed and rust-specked, ringed with old band stickers and torn setlists taped in crooked lines. A string of coloured bulbs hung haphazardly above it, only three of them still working. A vanity littered with makeup, empty bottles, guitar picks, cigarette butts.

And you.

You sat on a worn leather stool, elbows on your knees, head slightly bowed. A towel hung around your neck like a medal from battle, damp from the performance, curling at the edges. Your eyeliner was smeared down your cheekbones in the way Silco remembered—effortless chaos. A chipped ceramic mug steamed between your hands.

For a second, you didn’t see him. Then your eyes lifted—and found him. The tension hit the room like a dropped amp. Your whole frame stiffened, knuckles going white around the mug. The moment stretched like a guitar string pulled too tight.

“…Silco.”

The name escaped you like breath punched from lungs. Quiet. Staggered. But unmistakable.

And it did something to him.

His spine locked, his fingers curled slightly at his sides. You saying his name—it echoed in him. Like it always had. Not a greeting. Not yet. But recognition. Memory.

“You remember,” he said, and his voice was lower than the room, smoother than the ruin in his face would suggest.

You scoffed. One corner of your mouth quirked upward, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Hard to forget the man who gave my sound system its first explosion. Literally.”

That smile. Still dangerous. Still sharp enough to draw blood.

Silco huffed, just a shadow of a laugh. “You always said the acoustics in The Sump were shit.”

“They were,” you said, standing slowly, the towel slipping from your shoulders. “You didn’t have to detonate a bass amp to prove it.”

His eyes traveled over you with something like reverence—haunted, careful. You looked older. Hardened. But not broken. Never broken. Your boots were still scuffed, laces fraying. Your jacket was patched with mismatched fabrics, sleeves rolled to the elbow to reveal forearms inked with soundwaves and jagged lyrics. Your hair was wilder than he remembered—longer, streaked with fresh color—and your eyes had that same molten fire behind them.

“You’ve changed,” you said finally, voice softer, not accusing—just noting.

“So have you.”

“The world forced us to.”

You walked past him then, slow, deliberate, and tossed the towel over the back of a folding chair. The room felt too small for the two of you now. Too cramped with unsaid things, shared ghosts. You picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the edge of the vanity and lit it, exhaling toward the ceiling.

“It nearly killed me. Twice,” you said after a moment, voice bitter around the smoke. “But the music? Still mine. Still loud. Still me.”

Silco didn’t move. Just studied you in the mirror’s fractured reflection.

“I looked for you,” he said, eventually. Your gaze snapped to him. He continued, slow and honest. “After the Undercity burned. After the refinery riots. I searched for months. I asked everyone.”

“And when they told you I was dead?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw clenched. “I believed them.” You turned away, shoulders rising and falling with something held back. The smoke curled around your fingers. “That night,” he said, “the fire by the old rail yard—”

“I made it out. Barely,” you cut in, tone clipped. “No thanks to you.” Silco took the blow without flinching. He deserved it. You both knew it. “But I stayed gone,” you continued. “Let people think I didn’t make it. Easier that way. Cleaner. No attachments.” He let the silence settle.

Let you have your breath.

“There’s a bar not far from here,” Silco said finally, voice quiet. “Quiet. Safe. I’d like to talk. Just… talk.” You didn’t respond right away.

Instead, you looked at him—really looked. Your eyes moved over his face, the scars, the strange stillness in his frame, the ache in his expression he probably didn’t realize he wore so plainly. The silence stretched again, this time different. This time uncertain.

Then—your shoulders lowered. Just a fraction. The wall cracked, only slightly, but enough.

“…Ten minutes,” you said, reaching for your bag. “I pack fast.” Silco nodded once, turned to go—but your voice stopped him again. “Silco.” He glanced back. You met his gaze. “I thought you were dead too.” Then you turned away.

And Silco stood there a second longer, letting those words sink deep into the place in him that still burned, still bled, still remembered you.

The bar was nestled deep in the industrial underbelly of Zaun, tucked behind a set of rust-flaked freight containers and a chain-link gate no one bothered to lock anymore. It wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled into by accident. No neon sign blared its name; only a dangling green bulb buzzed above the door like a half-dead firefly. The door creaked on its hinges when you pushed it open, reluctant to welcome guests. The interior was a dim sprawl of shadows and amber light, with low ceilings and peeling wallpaper the color of dried rust.

The few patrons inside didn’t look up. Regulars, mostly—men with oil under their fingernails, women in soot-smeared coats, the occasional Shimmer-burnt junkie curled in a booth like a warning. Smoke hung in the air like old memories, clinging to the warped wooden beams overhead. A radio in the back crackled low, the signal warped and static-laced, playing some jazz tune that had no business surviving down here. It was a place for ghosts and those who hadn’t realized they were ghosts yet.

You slid into the cracked vinyl booth across from him without a word. The seat hissed beneath you. The table between you wobbled slightly when you leaned your elbow on it. Silco was already seated, his coat draped neatly beside him, shoulders tense beneath the clean lines of his black suit. He hadn’t touched his drink.

You glanced down at his glass—brown liquor, ice long since melted—and then to your own. Whiskey. Cheap, warm, but sharp enough to hold your attention. You took a sip and let it burn down your throat before you spoke.

“So,” you said, casually, as if the question didn’t ache behind your ribs. You tapped a slow rhythm against the side of your glass, just three knuckles brushing the rim. “Is this nostalgia… or guilt?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite denial.

In the amber light, Silco looked smaller somehow. Still sharp around the edges—those knife-like cheekbones, the molten scar that split his face like a broken seam—but the years hung on him now like extra weight. He looked tired. Older. Not just in the grey at his temples, but in his posture, his eyes. In the way he sat like the world still had teeth.

“Is it wrong to say I missed you?” he asked, voice low, barely rising above the hum of the bar.

You studied him for a long beat. Watched the way his fingers curled around the base of his untouched glass, the way his gaze stayed on the table like it might crumble if he looked up. You remembered that voice. That silence. The way he used to speak only when the words truly mattered.

“Not wrong,” you said softly, “just late.”

Your fingers never stopped moving. They traced a lazy beat on the rim of your glass, a sound only the two of you noticed. You always tapped when you were thinking. He’d once called it your metronome—your way of keeping time in a world that never stopped trying to take it from you.

“I waited for you once,” you said, the words heavier than the glass in your hand. “Back when you disappeared after the refinery raid. Everything went to hell, and you just… vanished. No note. No word. No body.”

He flinched, barely perceptible. But you saw it. Felt it like a drop in pitch.

“I thought you were dead,” you went on, quieter now. “Or worse—that you chose to walk away. To let go of everything we built.”

“I didn’t think I had a future to offer you,” he said, voice frayed at the edges.

You watched the shadows move across his face. His eyes flicked up, met yours. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

“And now?”

There was a pause. A beat in which the world seemed to lean in, listening.

“Now I have a kingdom of ash,” he murmured, “and a daughter who only smiles when she listens to you scream into a microphone.”

You blinked, startled. Not at the metaphor—Silco had always spoken in poetic ruin—but at the word.

“…Daughter?”

He gave a single nod. “In every way that matters.”

You sat back, brows furrowed. “The girl with the grenades and the warpaint?”

He exhaled, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “Jinx.”

You let out a low breath, almost a laugh. “She’s… electric. Beautiful, in a terrifying way. I didn’t know she was yours.”

“She isn’t,” he said. “Not by blood. But by choice. I took her in when the world abandoned her. Or maybe she found me. Hard to say anymore.”

“And my music?” you asked, softer now. “She listens to me?”

“She memorizes your lyrics. I hear her singing them in the dead hours of the night. When she thinks no one’s listening.” He paused. “It’s the only time she’s truly calm. Your music gives her something that isn’t rage. That isn’t pain.”

You stared down at your drink. Your hand had gone still.

“That means more than you know,” you whispered. And it did. More than applause, more than credits or fame. That it reached someone.

A silence settled then. Not the brittle kind that comes before a fight, or the aching kind that follows regret. This was heavier. Thicker. Full of things unspoken—of years lost and moments too fragile to touch.

Silco leaned forward. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Stay. Just for a while. Play more shows here. Let her have this. Let me have this. Even if it’s only a flicker of what we lost.”

You didn’t answer at first. You couldn’t. You looked at him—really looked—and saw not the man you’d once loved, but the remains of him. Scarred and shrouded, built of ash and fury and compromise. But somewhere under the soot… the ember still burned.

You slid your hand forward, fingertips grazing his.

“For one drink,” you whispered, “and one song.”

He didn’t smile. Not fully. But his eyes lit with something old. Something vulnerable. And you both knew.

There would be more.

[harriertail]

arc 9 title predictions. The Elders Quest. Shadow and Thunder. Lake of Secrets. Night of No Stars. Darkest Path. The Last Warrior.

[anxiously-sidequesting]

Hey so I'm curious, if y'all have ever thought about this reblog/tags/notes with your favorite spell casting sound (the little music notes/sounds that play as you cast a spell)

[sad-endings-suck]

same person different font

[beloveds-embrace]

(p3 fae poly 141 x cursed human reader) || Masterlist || cw: angst

When it came, it did so in layers; not all at once like fire razing down a forest, but like snowfall. Gentle and inevitable, each melting flake a small forgetting.

First, it was names.

You would look at Kyle, his familiar grin flashing like sunlight through trees, and call him by a title from a kingdom long swallowed by moss and time. You would laugh at his expression, uncertain why the sound tasted strange in your mouth, and the room would grow unbearably heavy, as if the walls themselves could sense the fracture forming inside you.

You’d ask Johnny to bring you tea, then wonder aloud- like a child startled awake- if you even liked tea anymore.

You stopped calling Simon by anything at all, not out of cruelty, but because your mind could no longer find the thread of him. As if the loom of your memories had begun unraveling, one golden thread at a time.

You even forgot Simon’s face one day.

He finds you curled in the hollow beside the singing well, where fae voices forever hummed through the mist. The stones were slick with memory, the air heavy with time and sorrow. You were wrapped around yourself, a trembling creature of light and loss.

“I didn’t know who you were.” You whispered when he sat down beside you.

He nodded, his eyes dark wells of unspoken grief. “That’s all right.”

“I thought you were going to take me.” You looked down at your trembling hands. “I thought… you were here to end it.”

“You’ve never been anything but safe with me.” He said. His voice was steady like old oaks, but he didn’t speak again for a long time, and neither did you.

The castle then watched it continue.

its stones bones shivered in mourning as it saw the way your footsteps faltered in the mornings now, how you stood at the edge of the corridor with your hand against the wall, trying to remember which direction leads to the garden and which leads to the throne room. It murmured gentle guidance beneath your feet, shifted the stones so you always turned the right way. But you still hesitates. Still frowned, still murmur apologies under your breath.

“Sorry, sorry… I knew this. I knew this.”

The will-o'-wisps that once flickered mischievous in the shadows now clustered around you like living stars, their tiny bodies pulsing gently as they guided you step by step, glowing a mournful silver instead of their usual playful blue.

You asked John one evening- while he read to you from a worn book in your shared chamber, his voice a steady beacon in your fogging world- if the stars had always looked like that. The question was so soft, so simple, and yet it cracked something in him, because you used to name the constellations like old friends.

You were afraid of shadows that weren’t there yesterday. Of reflections that looked a second too slow in catching up. Of voices you knew, but couldn’t name.

Next, it was time itself.

Not hours or days- years. You’d call for your parents in the twilight, confused and teary when they didn’t come, not remembering they’d passed so long ago not even the tree spirits remembered their faces. You'd clutch letters to your chest like they'd just arrived, unaware they'd been yellowing on your shelf for decades.

You’d forget your own mirror image.

You’d wake screaming from dreams you couldn’t describe. You’d shrink from your reflection, pressing trembling hands over your face and whispering, “That’s not me. That can’t be me. I was- I never- John, John? John, please-“

One night, you stood in the courtyard barefoot in the snow, robe fluttering like moonlight. You stared at the moon and asked no one in particular: “… Am I a prisoner here?”

Thrain was with you, as he always was. He nuzzled your shoulder in response, trying to soothe the fear rising within you. You gripped his fur and leaned against him like a child lost in a storm.

And gods, the way they ached.

Johnny laughed louder now, louder and wilder like the summer storms of the old world, trying to cover the shattering silence your confusion left behind. He called you "lass" in every sentence so you'd feel anchored to something. He walked a step behind you everywhere, pretending it wasn’t because he was worried you might forget where you were.

Ghost began carrying tokens- little things. Ribbons, dried flowers, silver buttons and tinkling bells. Each one had a story of you, and each time you forgot one, he’d hand it to you gently and say, “Yours, love. You gave it to me.” He’d say, like it was a cherished secret between the two of you.

Gaz took to humming your favorite tunes beneath his breath as he worked, even though you no longer sang with him. When you looked at him in confusion, he just smiled and said, “You always liked this one, remember?”

They stayed with you, every hour they could. But John- John suffered.

He sat with you for hours even when you didn’t speak- when words were too difficult and you forgot what clouds were called and what shapes they were. He kissed your hands when they trembled. When you woke in the night and begged to go home, not knowing what "home" meant anymore, he held you close and whispered: “You’re already there, darling. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

But, still you were slipping like mist through their fingers.

And the castle mourned with them. The walls dimmed, the corridors wept condensation like tears. Will-o-wisps flickered low and quiet, guiding you slowly even when you no longer asked. They stuck to your clothes and your palms, and did not have the heart to leave you alone.

And Thrain watched with the most solemn of gazes.

When you grew too afraid of your own chambers, he stood beneath your window all night. When you refused to eat because you thought the food was poisoned- memories of old war resurfacing from broken pathways- he let you feed him first, licking berries from your hand until you giggled faintly and took a bite yourself. He walked the castle grounds with you in silence, letting you lean against his massive shoulder when your steps faltered.

But none of it stopped the slow unraveling.

One morning, you looked into a mirror and didn’t recognize the face staring back. You reached out and touchd the glass, brows furrowed. “Who is she?”

Kyle was behind you, hands full of ribbons meant for your hair, and he hesitated. “That’s… you, love.”

You blinked, tilting your head. Slowly, a strange expression on your face, you pulled back. “She looks sad.”

He swallowed hard. “You’ve been hurting. But we’re going to fix it.”

“You promise?”

He knelt, took your hand, and kissed your knuckles. “All of us. Every damn one.”

Another day, you looked at John- his beard newly trimmed, his eyes soft and hopeful- and asked him quietly, your hands twisting the soft fabric of your dress. “Are you my husband?”

His face broke, the way cliffs crumble slowly into the sea.

You don’t remember the look he gave you. But you remember that night’s dream- a whisper of a man in a blue cloak with hands like warmth and a voice like thunder saying: “Yes, love. Always.”

And somewhere in your heart, you think you believed it. Even if you didn’t understand why, even if you didnt remember when.

“Will you still love me when I forget what love is?”

“Yes, love. Always.”

P4

[bookished]

( a collection of starters or dialogue prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse, but please don’t edit or add on to the original post <𝟑 if you like, please consider supporting me through tips

"You don’t get it, do you? Every time I walk away, the ground pulls me back toward you like I’m tethered to this place, to you!"

"I swear, even the rain mocks me, falling harder every time I try to forget you!"

"Why is it that every time I try to move on, the stars spell out your name like they’re taunting me?"

"I hate how every single flower blooms brighter when I think of you! It’s like even nature is against me!"

"I can’t stand it! Every time I get close to letting you go, the wind whispers your name, like it won’t let me forget!"

"Every time I try to bury these feelings, the earth shakes beneath my feet as if it knows what I’m doing!"

"I’ve tried to walk away a hundred times, but every shadow, every flicker of light reminds me of you. It’s like you haunt me!"

"Even the ocean keeps pulling me back to the shore where we stood. Do you know how infuriating that is? I’m drowning in memories of you!"

"Every time I close my eyes, the wind rushes in like it’s carrying your scent! I can’t escape you, even in my dreams!"

"I’ve screamed at the stars, demanded they stop reminding me of you, but they just burn brighter. They know, don’t they? They know!"

"You have no idea how much I’ve fought against this, how much I’ve tried to tear you out of my life, but even the trees whisper your name!"

"It’s like the moon itself mocks me, shining brighter whenever I think of you! It’s unbearable!"

"I hate how even the fire crackles louder when I’m angry with you, like it’s feeding on my frustration! But I can’t stop!"

"Do you know what it’s like to try and forget you, only for the rivers to murmur your name every time I pass by?"

"I curse your name every time I see the sun set, but it still paints the sky in colors that remind me of you!"

"I tried to burn the letters, the memories, but the fire wouldn’t take them! It’s like the universe won’t let me forget you!"

"Every time I get close to leaving, the stars realign, the air shifts, and it feels like the world won’t let me go!"

"You think I want to feel this way? Even the storms rise up when I try to let you go, like the sky is angry at me!"

"I’ve tried to bury it, to push you out, but even the ground beneath me trembles with your name!"

"Every time I get close to moving on, the world bends in your direction! Why can’t I escape this?"

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp prompt #13: Hell to Pay

They say there are only two things certain in life: death and taxes. That’s why even the Joker doesn’t fuck with the IRS.

However, unfortunately for the Joker the other certainty is death and he has yet to pay his dues. Just like how he could only get away with tax evasion for so long, there are only so many times the Joker can dodge death.

Death is coming to collect, with interest.

And the Joker will have hell to pay.

~ A dark green cloud swirls over the city. From it, emerge three oppressive figures:

The one on the far left with flowing hair like white-hot fire. His vambraces made of (what appeared to be) molten glass stopped under his fingers, which then extend into into claws that seemed to drip lava. He had spiked obsidian pauldrons on his shoulders, fastening a luminous, stark-white cape to his shoulders. He wore a coronet of lightning and wielded a flail that appeared to be made of coal chains and a shrunken Red Giant star.

The second on the far right had a helm of dark iron wreathed in a plume of purple flame. His gauntlets and sword flamed with green hellfire. A pure black sheath seemingly made of void and a silver hunting horn were tied to his waist. He wore an armor forged of shadows and proofed with fear. He rode atop a mighty stead. An inky dark stallion with a curved horn and bat-like wings. His form was constantly slightly shifting depending on the angle which you viewed him making him appear larger and more slippery than he was, enhancing his disquieting nature.

The third stood in the middle, smaller but no less terrifying than her companions. Her hair was wild with movement, only just visible because it appeared as if someone had bound the winds to her head. She wore a tiara made of storm clouds and pearls. She carried with her a spear, the shaft crafted of amazonite and the tip of a clear quartz, almost reminiscent of sea salt. At her hip lay a whip made of a restrained gale and a sea glass knife. She wore armor that appeared to be Greco-Roman in origin: a chest plate made of some sort of coral-like material and a battle skirt decorated with metallic bronze feathers.

They slowly descent on the city, bringing down a sense of power and dread. They paused at the top of Wayne Tower, where the city's vigilantes had all gathered in an attempt to create and feasible plan of action to discern what these beings want. The young woman in the middle speaks and the wind carries her voice. She is not loud but it the whole of Gotham hears her words.

"Greetings, Heroes of Gotham. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Spirit, Princess and Head Diplomat of the Infinite Realms. This is Samhain, the Fright Knight, loyal knight to the king,” she gestured to her right before switching to her left “and this is Prince Wraith, current General in Chief of the Realms. We come to you as the King’s Guard and entourage. We have official business in your city and wish to civilly notify you of our presence. The King will be arriving shortly and your cooperation would be great fully received.”

Batman moved forward to shake her hand and address the situation.

“I’m afraid that we prefer not to have unknowns operating within the city. Would you be able to tell us what business you have here? Perhaps we could reach an agreement?” Batman tried to negotiate as politely as he could. He did not want to risk offending the evidently powerful beings.

Princess Spirit’s smile sharpened as she thrummed her finger against her knife. She spoke again with an unnervingly pleasant tone.

“It appears you do not understand. We are not asking for your permission.” Her grip around his hand tightened. “ We are informing you.” She finished releasing his hand.

Batman withdrew his aching hand and regarded her with the beginnings of a protest on his lips. She didn’t allow him to speak.

“ This is out of your jurisdiction Batman. This is a matter of the Realms and the Afterlife. Whatever worldly rules or morals you wish to impose on those who enter this city do not apply to us. We will do our best to work within them, so as to appease you and to attempt to maintain a friendly relationship but in the macrocosm of the multiverse and afterlives you have no official power over us. Additionally, we have direct permission to operate here however we see fit from the City Spirit herself, Lady Gotham.”

Batman’s shadow seemed to fluctuated. His and his team's shadows moved from beneath them, closer to the Princess. Lady Gotham, though not manifesting, was making her presence and approval known. Batman could not deny what he was seeing. His team shifted uncomfortably behind him. He appealed to her once more.

“ I see that we can’t stop you. We don’t want to get in your way either. Could you at least tell us why you are here?”

She smiled as if telling a joke, “All will be revealed in time”

Suddenly, there was a loud noise that sounded like tearing fabric. The green clouds mixed with purples and blues and began to churn faster. The cyclone emitted a flashes of bright light. In unison all three of the King’s Guard lifted up from the roof and took place underneath the eye of the wind storm.

Spirit holds her spear aloft. With one swift, commanding move she slams the butt of her spear down, creating a platform out of solidified air.

Wraith bellows out smoke and ash onto the platform to discolor it. With ferocious and precise movements his claws to carve in a sigil, leaving a soft orange glow against the black and gray.

Samhain sheathes his sword and pulls his horn from his waist. He wills his dark stead to rear up as he blows the horn, letting out one loud prolonged cry.

The three warriors stand at attention and Princess Spirit calls the winds to project her voice once more.

“ Now introducing the Ruler of the Infinite Realms, High King of the In-Between, The Great One, The Benevolent King, The Peace Maker, The Guardian of Souls, The One with the Cloak of Stars and the Crown of Frozen Light, The Perfect Balance, Ancient of Space and Reality, The Infinite King: Phantom!”

With a flash of white light a figure appear in the center of the platform. Simultaneously, the three knights bow in reverence.

The King has arrived.

As the Heroes of Gotham regain clear vision they are met with a striking figure.

There stood a toned young man appearing both boyishly young, yet wisened and weathered. He had side swept hair the creeped to the bottom of his neck. His skin was pale with an icy blue tint. He opened his eyes to reveal they shone an electric green. Upon his head rest a crown made of a crystalline material, reminiscent of an aurora. He wore a navy blue cloak that had a rich purple hood lined with stark white fur. The underside displayed a shifting galaxy pattern. His under suit was the same midnight black as Samhain’s. He donned golden arm bands and a gold chest plate in style quite similar to Spirit’s. His hand were covered in snow white gauntlets that matched Wraith’s vambraces.

They all stood in awe, beholden to the almost divine figure.

The king sent them a gentle smile. It was warm and comforting yet sent a chill down their shoulders.

King Phantom began to fly down toward the center of the city, his entourage fell into step behind him. He hovered several hundred feet over Wayne tower and looked down at the city. He then spoke in a booming voice, his tone kind but commanding.

“ I humbly greet the Lady Gotham, her champions, and her citizens,” the shadows curled toward him appreciatively. “ I am grateful for your cooperation in our effort to rectify a great injustice. As High King of the Infinite Realms it is one of my duties to preside over the afterlife. To bring guidance, peace, and justice to the souls under my jurisdiction. Recently, it has been brought to my attention that there is a soul among you who has not only dodged death, but caused great strife to a vast number of souls who call for justice.”

On the roof of Wayne Enterprises Jason and Damian both stiffen, but remain firm in their gaze toward the king. The king looks out at the city and sparing them the quickest of glances. He continues onward.

“ The man formerly know as Jack Napier, now called The Joker. He has avoided death on many an occasion but his life should have ended moment he fell into a vat of chemicals. Since then he has sent hundreds more to the afterlife. He has long yet to pay his dues. That is why on the behalf of justice, restoring balance, and of my subjects I officially condemn Jack Napier.”

“Jack Napier, you have been allowed 24 hours turn yourself into our custody in order to be put on trial for your crimes in the Infinite Realms. Should you fail to turn youself in, we shall take that as an admission of guilt and acceptance to be punished for your actions. After the 24 hours are up, Samhain shall use his horn to summon The Hunt and we shall track you down.”

His gaze passed specifically over Red Hood, one of the Oracle’s drones, Nightwing, Signal, Red Robin, and Batman before he spoke his next words.

“All those souls who have been wronged by the Joker, both living and deceased, who wish to have a hand in their justice have been invited to join The Hunt if they so choose.”

The king lifted his hand, calling the swirling green clouds to his gather in his palm. The clouds swiftly rearranged themselves into a smokey timer hanging in the sky.

An impish smirk graced King Phantom’s face as he let out a malicious laugh and gave his final decree.

“ Your time begins now!”

[theskywithin]

What Your 12th House Whispers to You at Night

When the night feels heavy, return here. Your 12th house always has something to say, softly, between dreams.

Aries 12th House You have been the wild horse racing daylight, hooves striking sparks from the earth. But even the boldest steeds rest beneath the moon. Tonight, let the grass grow soft beneath you. There is no finish line here, only fields that stretch beyond fear, where you can breathe without running.

Taurus 12th House Like a garden in early spring, you cling to the soil, afraid of late frost. But trust the quiet bloom, the patient unfurling. Not every season comes to steal, some arrive only to kiss your roots and remind you: growth happens even when you close your eyes.

Gemini 12th House Your mind is a flock of birds that never quite lands at dusk. Let them settle on twilight branches tonight. Let the sky hold them for you, so you can rest beneath their wings and dream not of answers, but of peace.

Cancer 12th House You are a seashell listening to distant tides, carrying the ocean in your chest. Tonight, let the waves cradle you. They do not come to crash, but to remind you that home has always been the rhythm beneath your ribs.

Leo 12th House You are the hearth that burns bright for others, but tonight, let your fire be a lantern hung inside your own chest. Let it flicker softly for no one but yourself. Even the sun sets to rest, trusting that it will rise once more.

Virgo 12th House You are the weaver of invisible threads, mending what no one else sees. But tonight, lay down your needle and let the tapestry remain unfinished. The night sky never stitches its stars into patterns, yet we still call it beautiful.

Libra 12th House You have been the river bending for every stone, shaping yourself to soften the edges of others. But tonight, flow straight and true. Let the water carry your own reflection, undistorted and free, as it was always meant to be.

Scorpio 12th House You are the cave that holds forgotten treasures, hidden beneath echoes of storms. Tonight, light a lantern in your depths. Let its glow reveal not monsters, but marvels, the jewels you thought were shadows all along.

Sagittarius 12th House You are the arrow that dreams of flight, always aimed at distant skies. But tonight, rest in the bow’s quiet curve. The horizon will wait for you, and dreams that matter will not vanish in the pause.

Capricorn 12th House You have been the mountain, stone-faced against the weather, bearing silent witness to the weight of years. But tonight, let the clouds wrap around you like a shawl. Even mountains deserve to be kissed by mist, softened by time, cradled by the sky.

Aquarius 12th House You are the constellation dreaming of new shapes, threading stars into patterns unseen. Tonight, unfasten your maps. Let the cosmos rearrange itself without your guiding hand. Even in chaos, beauty is born.

Pisces 12th House You are the tide that forgets its own shore, drifting into the dreams of others. Tonight, let the moon pull you homeward. Let your waters gather in quiet bays, and remember: you are not just the ocean seeking land, you are the depth it surrenders to.

[hana-no-seiiki]

Hay sorry to bother you but could you please do another Gotham batfam and villains with a very powerful magical girl reader that is also shy and meek with OP power please

MOON PRISM POWER!

(romantic) yandere batfam x magical girl! reader

You never wanted this power. Nor the responsibility. Nor the the fame that came with

Unfortunately for you, the universe could be cruel at times.

It chose you—not out of kindness or fairness, but necessity. You were the only one who could bear the weight of its hopes and fears, the only one with a soul strong enough to wield such immense, unforgiving strength.

And now, as the stars burn brighter than ever before, as the shadows loom larger and darker, the choice has already been made.

You can run from it. Deny it. Curse the heavens for their indifference. But the power will remain, waiting for you to decide.

All it took was one night for the weight of it all to show

All it took was one night for the weight of it all to show. The burden you had ignored, the cracks you’d tried so desperately to hide—it all came crashing down like a tide you couldn’t hold back.

The first sign was the silence. Not the comforting kind, but a suffocating quiet that pressed against your chest, heavy and unrelenting. Then came the visions: fractured moments of a future you couldn’t understand but were certain you were meant to prevent.

And finally, the pain. Not physical, but deeper—an ache in your very soul, as if the universe itself was forcing you to feel its despair.

You tried to hold it together. Tried to tell yourself that it wasn’t your fight, that someone else—anyone else—could do it. But the truth is, no one else can.

The stars are watching. The shadows are stirring. And you… you’re caught in the center, whether you’re ready or not.

In any case! To the headcannons!

As a native Gothamite, you hated the fact that you got these flashy powers that stuck out like the sorest of thumbs amongst the dark knights and decrepit villains.

You’ve always wanted to blend in with your folks. To be a drop in the ocean. You were satisfied with that life but the ocean had other plans. It dragged you to its depths, revealing secrets you never asked for, truths you weren’t ready to face. You weren’t just a drop—you were the storm waiting to rise, the current that could change everything.

You fought against it, clinging to the life you knew. The quiet mornings. The laughter of your neighbors. The simple, mundane moments that once felt like all you’d ever need. But something inside you stirred, restless and relentless.

It whispered in your mind when you tried to sleep, tugged at your heart when you tried to forget. A pull toward something greater. Something terrifying.

You could pretend all you wanted, but deep down, you knew the truth: the life you wanted was already gone. And the one ahead? It was bigger, darker, and far more dangerous than you could ever imagine.

Damian Wayne, blood son and so called demonspawn, your opposite in all senses of the term was the first to fall into the depths of infatuation.

It wasn’t immediate, nor was it graceful. For someone raised in the shadow of assassins and forged in the fires of discipline, emotions like these were alien, unwelcome intrusions on a meticulously crafted persona. But you? You were chaos to his control, warmth to his cold calculation, and it unnerved him in ways even the deadliest adversaries couldn’t.

He hated it at first—the way his thoughts lingered on you, the way his pulse quickened when you spoke. He told himself it was a weakness, one he would crush the moment it surfaced. But no matter how hard he tried, the feelings only grew, taking root in the cracks of his ironclad walls.

Damian was no stranger to obsession, but this was different. You weren’t a target to conquer or a problem to solve. You were… light. Maddening, blinding, and completely beyond his control.

And for the first time in his life, he let himself fall. Not gracefully, not without resistance, but with the same intensity he brought to everything else—because Damian Wayne doesn’t do anything halfway.

Dick Grayson and Timothy Drake were next, both eager to find out the truth behind your identity and even more to be at your side. To bask in the light of your suffering so that they may ease their own.

For Dick, it was instinctual. He had always been drawn to broken things—not to fix them, but to share in their weight. Your quiet resilience, the way you carried your burdens without complaint (maybe because you were to meek, too weak willed to share in your thoughts and troubles), reminded him of himself in ways that frightened and intrigued him. To him, you were a mirror and a mystery, someone who made him feel seen even when you refused to be.

Tim, on the other hand, approached you like a puzzle, a thousand jagged pieces he couldn’t help but try to assemble. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was necessity. You challenged him in ways no one else did, unraveling the tightly coiled threads of his mind. He thought understanding you might help him understand himself, but somewhere along the way, it became something more. He admired the strength you tried to hide, and in his own quiet way, he wanted to protect it.

For both of them, you were a beacon—not of hope, but of something raw and unyielding, something they couldn’t turn away from. They didn’t know how to explain it, nor did they want to. All they knew was that being near you, even in your pain, made the world feel a little less cold.

Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne were the last, but certainly not the least in terms of infatuation.

For Jason, it was a storm. Fierce, chaotic, and impossible to ignore. He wasn’t one for subtleties, and his emotions had always been larger than life—rage, grief, guilt, and now this. He didn’t fall quietly; he crashed into you like a tidal wave, drawn to the fire in your eyes and the defiance in your every move. You reminded him of who he used to be, of the parts of himself he thought he’d lost in the Lazarus Pit.

But it wasn’t just admiration or connection—it was envy, too. He envied your ability to endure, to keep standing despite everything you carried. And somewhere in that envy was something tender, something he tried to deny but couldn’t help but nurture. Jason never did know how to love softly, and with you, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bruce, however, was a different story. For him, it was quiet. Subdued. A steady ache that he refused to acknowledge, even as it consumed him. You weren’t just another person in his orbit—you were a paradox, someone who challenged his worldview while also fitting seamlessly into it. You had your own darkness, your own scars, but instead of drowning in them, you wore them like armor. Girly, sparkly and bright.

You were proof that there was strength in vulnerability, and that terrified him. Bruce Wayne, the man who had built an empire on emotional walls and calculated distance, found himself drawn to the way you refused to let the world break you. He saw in you what he always wanted to believe about himself—that the past doesn’t have to define the future.

But Bruce, as always, kept his distance. He thought it was better that way, safer for both of you. What he didn’t realize was that the more he pulled away, the more you slipped into the cracks of his carefully constructed life.

Jason was the storm. Bruce was the quiet. And you? You were the bridge between them all, the thread that tied their disparate worlds together.

Eventually these men will band together to tie you down. Keep that light of yours in a gilded cage, only for them to gaze at and maybe share with the world if they so willed.

But for now you have your freedom

cling to it.

For it will be like the life you had before,

a fleeting, fragile thing, slipping through your fingers before you even realize it’s gone.

tldr: yeah you’re f u c k e d

[skyguytoast]

DARK SIDE, SOFT HEART: SUITLESS!VADER X YOU

SYNOPSIS: where suitless!Vader is the right arm of the emperor with anger issues and you are his soft-spoken girlfriend who knows exactly how to bring him to his knees—with nothing more than a look.

WORDS: 600+

WARNING: nothing just fluffy, just a tiny bit of angst

A/N: hiii, dear lovers, I wrote this while waiting for my class to start. It’s a bit small, like probably one of the smallest as I wrote. 😉😘 anyway, comments, reblogs are appreciated. kisses and good reading 🥰🤩 Dividers by @cafekitsune

Vader was possessed — not by the Force, not by vengeance, but by the failure of a mission that should have been flawless.

Everything had gone wrong.

He had led a squad of Inquisitors in pursuit of one of the last remaining Jedi, a mission that was supposed to be swift, surgical, and final. It wasn’t even a full Jedi — just a Padawan. And yet… somehow, they had failed. Miserably. Two Inquisitors dead, another maimed. The others had fled — fled — like frightened children, disgracing everything he had trained into them.

Vader had expected power, precision, dominance. What he had seen instead was weakness.

And weakness had no place in his world.

The survivors suffered for their cowardice — his wrath descended like a star collapsing. He punished them without hesitation, a lesson carved into their flesh and bone. There would be no tolerance for failure. Not again.

By the time he returned to Mustafar, the fire inside him had grown unchecked. Fury rolled off of him like heat waves. His crimson saber roared to life, cleaving through anything and anyone foolish enough to be in his path — droids, furniture, command consoles, even the occasional stormtrooper caught in the wake of his rampage. Walls cracked. Steel melted. The fortress trembled under his wrath.

And then, suddenly, he was in your doorway.

The doors slammed behind him like a final verdict. You flinched, eyes wide, caught mid-page in your book, silk nightgown flowing like soft petals around your legs as you sat on the bed. The light from the hallway was devoured by his presence, all shadow and fury. His shoulders heaved with ragged breath, and those burning yellow eyes — normally hidden beneath the cold, black mask — flickered with a murderous storm.

You didn’t speak. Not at first.

You simply set your book aside, your fingers steady even as your heart raced. There was blood on his hands. His jaw was clenched tight, his entire body wound like a drawn wire. He was still ready to strike — to kill.

“Anakin,” you said softly, and it struck him like lightning.

That name. The name buried beneath layers of darkness and armor. Only you called him that, only you dared. And right now, it felt like an anchor thrown into the storm raging inside him.

He turned his head, jaw twitching. “Don’t,” he growled, voice raw, trembling. “Don’t say that name right now.”

But you were already rising from the bed, bare feet touching the cold obsidian floor. You approached without fear. Your hands reached for him — not to pull him close, but to ground him.

“I know what happened,” you whispered. “You lost control. They failed you. But you are still here. Still standing. You don’t have to carry this rage into our space.”

His fists were clenched, saber still in hand, his breathing ragged. His eyes flicked to your face — so calm, so tender — and for a moment, he was still. Then, with a trembling exhale, his weapon fell to the floor with a heavy clang.

And then… he dropped to his knees.

Not in defeat.

In surrender.

To you.

His forehead pressed against your stomach, his hands clutching your thighs as if they were the last solid thing in his galaxy. You slid your fingers into his sandy hair, gently tugging him closer, cradling him like a wounded beast.

“I’m here,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his temple. “You don’t have to be a god or a monster with me. Just breathe.”

His breath hitched. His hands trembled.

You were the only force in the galaxy that could bring Darth Vader to his knees — not with power, but with gentle. With love.

And as the chaos of the galaxy raged on outside, you held him together piece by piece, reminding the broken soul within the armor that he was still human, still Anakin — and still yours.

TAG LIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld

[aphroditsdaughter]

KISS IT BETTER

kiss it, kiss it better, baby

paige bueckers x reader

fluff, sexual content, (rushed writing lol)

You barely make it to the hotel room in one piece.

Paige has been all over you from the moment you arrived hands brushing over your back, fingers dipping just beneath the hem of your dress, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear with whispers that melted like honey. Every glance she gave you tonight felt like a promise laced in fire. And you? You’ve been unraveling silently, letting it eat at you from the inside out. You couldn’t show it, not out there in the world, but your mind… your mind was wrecked the moment you laid eyes on her.

She’d walked into the room like a sin draped in satin wearing a black slip that clung to her every curve like it had been sewn onto her skin. The hem swayed with every calculated step. The bedazzled collar caught the dim club lights and refracted them like stars orbiting her throat. And beneath it? Nothing. bare, dangerous, and holy.

You wanted to fall to your knees before her, to surrender completely. You wanted to do the most sinful, blasphemous things to her devour her body in ways that would leave you both undone. But at the same time, you wanted to build an altar around her, to worship her as if she were a deity, sacred and untouchable. You wanted her all of her in ways that words couldn’t capture, couldn’t even begin to explain. It was something primal, something deep, a yearning that reached far beyond mere lust.

And now, finally, she’s here. In your hotel room. The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound, locking out the rest of the world, leaving only the two of you in this space where the tension crackles in the air like static.

The room glows in low amber hues. A tall brass floor lamp stands in the corner, casting golden shadows that dance lazily across the dark wood floors. Everything is quiet — muffled, intimate like the room itself is holding its breath. The king-sized bed sits beneath a canopy of heavy drapes and soft cream linens, scattered with dark gray accent pillows. The air carries the faint scent of sandalwood and something sweeter maybe the trace of her perfume lingering in the warmth of her skin. It feels like a sacred space. Like something is about to happen that will change you.

Shes in front of you now, close enough that you can feel the heat of her skin, radiating warmth like a temple's sacred fire. Her hand rises, fingertips gliding across your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw, dipping to your throat with a tenderness that aches, that trembles like a prayer whispered in the dark. She pauses, her touch hovering just above the zipper of your dress, an offering of unspoken desires.

“Paige…” you whisper, voice trembling, caught between the beat of your heart and the breath that stirs in your chest.

“Please,” she murmurs, her voice raw, frayed with longing, like a hymn sung with desperation. “I’ve been wanting this... wanting you... all day.”

Her hand rests at your waist, a soft and silent promise, and her gaze intense, molten burns into yours.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” she says, her words heavy, each syllable a prayer. “That dress. The way you wear it... the way you let everyone see you, showing yourself off. Do you know how hard it was for me, keeping my hands off you?” Her teeth graze her bottom lip, the slightest flash of a secret sin. “If only I didn’t have an image to protect…”

You place a finger gently against her lips, silencing her.

“Paige,” you breathe, voice low, almost reverent. “Less talking. More kissing.”

She pauses, studying you with eyes that darken like the sea before a storm. And then, she kisses you.

Hard.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that knocks the breath from your lungs and makes time slow. Her hands grip your hips like she’s anchoring herself to something real. You kiss her back with everything you’ve been holding in the tension, the ache, the reverence.

She walks you back toward the bed, never breaking contact, and gently pushes you down onto the mattress. She climbs over you like she owns you, her legs straddling your thighs, her palms braced on either side of your head. Her mouth finds your neck, your jaw, your collarbone — planting heat, claiming you. You arch beneath her as her fingers pull the zipper down inch by agonizing inch, revealing skin she’s been dying to touch.

And then you stop her.

She blinks. Confused. Breathless. Wanting.

“Now what?” she asks, her voice rough.

“Just… let me,” you say, sitting up slowly, hands brushing her waist.

There’s a moment of hesitation. She’s used to being the one in control. Used to taking what she wants, when she wants it. But this time… you want to give her everything. You want her to receive it all.

“It’s your night,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

She exhales, the tension melting from her shoulders like wax under flame. She lets you in.

She leans back, giving you room. You rise to your knees, facing her, hands slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. You lift it slowly, revealing the toned lines of her torso, the soft dip between her ribs, the curve of her breasts held in by the barest excuse of a sports bra. You slide your fingers under the elastic and peel it upward, baring her chest to the warm glow of the room.

You look at her, fully look at her and you swear you’ve never seen anything more beautiful. Her skin glows gold in the lamplight, goosebumps rising in your wake. Your fingertips graze her breasts, gentle as breath, circling her nipples until they pebble beneath your touch. She gasps a small sound, almost involuntary. You lean in, dragging your tongue lightly over one, then the other, while your hands hold her close.

She’s trembling now.

You kiss down her chest, your lips moving reverently over the space between her ribs, her stomach, her navel. You glance up at her. She looks like something out of scripture like a goddess half-undone, wild-haired and radiant, backlit by amber light. Her eyes meet yours, wide and hungry, and for a moment the world falls silent.

You take her nipple into your mouth, slowly, softly, and she moans your name like a prayer.

You release it, just to hear her gasp, and push her back against the pillows. She goes willingly, lips parted, hands tangled in the sheets. You kiss your way lower, leaving a path of fire down her belly, taking your time.

She whimpers. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to,” you say, voice thick with desire. “I’m right here.”

You reach her waistband, your fingers finding the edge of her boxers. She lifts her hips in silent permission. You pull them down slow, deliberate, peeling them away like a gift unwrapped and slide them off her legs along with her panties. They land somewhere on the floor, forgotten. All that matters is her bare and waiting.

You hook your arms beneath her thighs, placing them gently over your shoulders, and pull her closer until she’s exactly where you want her.

You pull her closer, her thighs resting gently against your shoulders, and the heat of her skin against your chest makes your pulse quicken. The soft scent of her of warm skin and that intoxicating perfume swirls around you, clouding your thoughts. You take a moment, just to breathe her in, just to appreciate the way her body trembles under your touch, as if she’s both terrified and excited by what’s about to happen.

Her hands grip the sheets beside her, fingers digging in, her knuckles white with anticipation. You can feel her pulse beating wildly beneath your fingertips as you slide them up her inner thighs, moving with excruciating slowness, savoring every inch of her.

She’s breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling with each heavy inhale. You kiss her inner thighs, tenderly, reverently, feeling the heat radiate off her. Her body tenses when your lips hover just above the sweet spot she’s been holding back, and you smile against her skin, savoring her vulnerability.

“Please,” she breathes, voice barely a whisper, but you hear it desperate, pleading. Her legs tighten around your shoulders, urging you closer, needing you, wanting you to push past her restraint.

You move slowly, deliberately, kissing your way up her body, trailing soft, wet kisses from the crease of her thigh up to the sensitive skin just beneath her navel. Every inch of her is so soft, so warm, it feels like the very air is laced with desire. You pause, looking up at her once more, your gaze locking with hers.

In that moment, she’s yours completely, utterly. But something shifts. Something in the way her eyes flash no longer full of longing, but of something else… of surrender.

You dive in.

The first touch of your tongue against her is slow, languid. Her breath hitches, a soft moan escaping her lips as your mouth moves with deliberate intention, teasing, exploring. You can’t get enough of her. Every touch, every sound she makes stirs something deeper inside you, something that has nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with devotion.

Her hands slide through your hair, her grip tightening as she pulls you closer, urging you on. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop.”

You smile against her, your fingers grazing the soft curve of her hips, pulling her closer, pushing deeper, if only to feel her melt beneath you. You keep going, slow, steady, each movement a worship, each touch an offering. Her body arches against you, her breath a symphony of soft gasps, her legs trembling around you as she’s lost in sensation. You can feel the tension building in her, the way she’s holding back, clenching everything as she fights for control but tonight, it’s all about letting go.

You push her to the edge, your tongue and lips tracing the sensitive folds of her body with an intensity that makes her cry out. Her back arches as she gasps for breath, her entire body taut like a bowstring pulled to its limit.

“Please…” she begs again, her voice raw with need.

And you can feel it the moment when everything shifts. When she lets go.

Her body trembles violently beneath your touch, and she comes undone, fingers tangling in your hair as she pulls you closer still, as though she wants you to be part of her — to consume her entirely. You hear the sound of her moans echoing in your ears, feel her hips buck against your mouth in rhythmic waves, and it’s enough to make your own heart race, a mixture of pride and deep, unspoken affection flooding you.

When she finally quiets, breathless and sated, you slowly pull away, trailing one final kiss along her inner thigh. She’s still trembling, her body slick with sweat, the glow of her skin in the dim light like a goddess fallen to earth.

You crawl back up her body, hovering above her, your hands cupping her face, gently guiding her into a kiss. It’s soft now not frantic, not hungry, but something deeper. A kiss that speaks of reverence, of care, of adoration. You pull her against you, feeling her heartbeat still unsteady beneath your touch.

“Thank you,” she whispers between kisses. Her hands glide along your back, tracing every curve, every line as though she’s memorizing the feel of you.

But you don’t answer. Instead, you kiss her again, your body pressing closer to hers, feeling her warmth radiate through every inch of your being. The sheets beneath you are forgotten now, a tangle of fabric and memories.

“I’m not done with you,” you whisper in her ear, your breath hot against her skin, your voice low and full of promise. “I’m just getting started.”

She smiles, her lips curving up in that way you know so well a smile that promises more.

[tigerpearlsworld]

Pick a card

What kind of power, influence, and lasting impact do you have on someone when you're in a relationship with them?

Before you choose a pile, take a moment to breathe deeply and connect with your intuition. This is a general pick-a-card reading, where the universe's infinite energies align with your path to bring you the guidance you need.

Know that you can only choose one pile. The message you receive is not just for you to resonate with, but for you to realize in time as the truth unfolds in your journey. To truly receive your message, you must follow your heart’s instinct, not your expectations. Look beyond the surface and see what your soul is trying to reveal to you.

How to Choose Your Card:

Breathe in deeply. Breathe out slowly.

Light a candle or incense, and clear your mind.

Meditate on the beating of your heart, allowing your thoughts to flow naturally.

Let go of doubts, and trust what your heart is guiding you towards.

Close your eyes, visualize a light forming in your heart, and feel its pull.

When you open your eyes, choose the image that your heart calls to the most.

For some of you maybe number, colour, or image will help.

A Final Message for You: Your heart is your guide, not your mind. Surrender to the wisdom that lies within you.

And for those who are seeking answers about love, fate, and destiny, I send my prayers to the stars to bless you with clarity, strength, and the energy to embrace your path.

May you receive what you are meant to know.

(Choose the pile:)

Pile 1: Hellhound

Pile 2: thunderbird

Pile 3: unicorn

Pile 4: Devil

The reading starts. . .

Pile 1:

Words which were coming for you as I start the reading:

(Intense, Destruction, Rebirth, Shadow, Depth,Passion, Truth, Raw,Fire, Darkness, Strength, Unforgettable,Haunting,Unshakable, Silent Storm, Reckoning,Depths of Love, Immovable Presence)

Vibes: You can't hide

Animal: panther

In the heart of your presence, there is a fire—one that does not simply burn for the sake of warmth, but for creation for something Deep for something more. You are not just a lover but....you are an initiator of change, a force that seeps into the marrow of the person you entwine your fate with. No wonder the panther came for you. There is something about you that does not just exist in their life—you carve yourself into the very fabric of their being, embedding your essence into their growth, their thoughts, their soul’s quiet corners where no one else has ever reached.

When you enter someone’s life, it is as if the water within them meets a great wave. They do not remain stagnant. You stir them, you awaken them. Your love has a purity that cleanses, but in its purity, it also carries the weight of depth. Though there is a softness in you, a nurturing spirit that gives without hesitation, yet within that giving, there is also a demand—a silent expectation that they rise to meet you in the same depth you offer. Not everyone can bear the weight of such love, for love with you is not simply about companionship; it is about transformation.

You walk with balance, with a knowing that love is not only passion but also patience.Yet in that balance there is also discipline your love does not coddle illusions. You push them to see themselves, to understand their own structure to stand firmly within their own power. You teach them responsibility both for themselves and for the connection they share with you.

With you anyone will face the echoes of their past, the unspoken truths they have long buried, and the unfinished stories they tried to escape from. Your love is a call to rise, to transform, to let go of what no longer serves them. Some may resist, some may struggle under the weight of the mirror you hold up to them, but none will leave unchanged.

I also feel you have a strong wall builded up around you like You do not give freely without expectation tbh....there is a quiet fear within you, a need to protect what is yours but also to hold tightly to what you cherish. And so, those who love you find themselves caught in this delicate balance between the openness of your giving and the quiet walls you build to shield your own heart. They will learn patience with you they will learn how to earn the trust that is not easily given and in that they will either find their own strength or crumble beneath the weight of what they cannot yet understand. You're passion is not for the faint of heart. As you're not for just anyone.

In matters of what power you hold in a relationship it's the fact that you have this unshakable presence....this unspoken but respected presence about yourself that lingers in their memories, in the lessons they carry, in the quiet moments where they realize that something within them has forever changed because of you. And that is something powerful and beautiful to have. And so.....when they think of you whether in the days of togetherness or in the years after your imprint remains. They will carry you in the way they love after you, in the standards they will never again lower in the strength they did not know they had until you showed them. You are not a passing presence but you are a catalyst a memory that breathes within them long after the last word is spoken.That is the power you hold. That is the influence you leave. That is the lasting impact of loving you.

Also as you have the animal panther it says that you do not love softly.....you love with depth, ferocity, and an unrelenting truth that strips away illusions. To be in a relationship with you is to face oneself raw, unfiltered, and exposed. There is no room for masks, no space for complacency. Your presence awakens something primal, something buried deep within the soul of the person you love. They may have spent their whole life hiding from parts of themselves, but with you, there is no escape.

In the end..... You are not a fleeting presence but you are the storm, the awakening, the quiet shadow that lingers in their soul long after they think they have forgotten. Loving you is not easy tbh. But it is unforgettable. And for those who survive the storm of your presence, they will emerge stronger, wiser, and forever changed.

A song which came for you

Pile 2:

Words which came for you as I start the reading:

(Unsettling, Haunting,Disruptive,Forbidden, Intoxicating, Reckoning, Depth, Chaos, Obsession,Fated, Undoing, Awakening, Introspection, Tragic Beauty)

Vibes: You belong to me

Animal: Moth

To love you is to step into a world of shadows where nothing hiddens for long. You do not simply touch someone’s life you pierce through it unraveling the quiet deceptions they tell themselves the illusions they have built and the truths they have long buried. There is a mystery to you a quiet depth that draws people in only for them to realize that being close to you means facing themselves in ways they never anticipated. But you're also a paradox that offers both chaos and clarity, both temptation and wisdom....like you are the whisper in the night that both soothes them but also the storm that both destroys.

Your love is not for the faint of hearts as because It demands balance but at times it tips the scales in ways that shake the foundation of the person you are with. You don't shy away from rocking the boat tbh I also see you may if need be flip the entire boat lol like......Some may resist, some may fight and some may struggle against the tide of your influence but they all in the end learn to surrender.

Though you yourself remain untamed independent not submitting to anything/anyone.....your independence both intrigues and unsettles the people who love you. You are not someone who loses yourself in a relationship but you make the other person lose themselve in the relationship while you remain whole, sovereign, untamed. You do not seek validation you embody it. You go at the beat of your drums.You don't ask for permission. But in your presence your partner finds themselves questioning their own stability....their own worth, their own significance like Do they have what it takes to stand beside you? Can they match your energy, your depth, your knowing? You do not tolerate mediocrity in love I see-you demand growth and ambition. Like you do not settle and you don't let the person who you're with settle either.

But there is also a battle war within you like you don't always find peace within yourself and this internal war may sometimes bleed into your relationships with its ugly head and claws. I also see there is a tendency for the lines between trust and doubt to blur for the weight of past wounds shape how you navigate intimacy. I also see you teaching your loved ones about discernment and illusion like how to be careful, how to be discerning, how to see through illusions-but in doing so you also teach them how it feels to be loved by someone who walks the line between trust and self-preservation.

As you have chosen the moth card it brings with itself the irresistible pull or tug. You cannot be ignore.... Although subtly but you influence the person in a consuming way... Making some even obsessed about the idea with you. But there again this thing comes the idea.... People fall for the idea of you for how they can mold you becoming molded in the process themselves as you remain burning and wild with your untamed energy. At first they may not even realize it tbh but you are the whisper in the dark, the thing they chase even when they don’t understand why. With you it's like a dream, a intoxication, a ultimate submission.... With you even if they got you close but for some reason you still feel far. Your love is like something they cannot hold but they never want to let go of either. Like I said before you're a paradox, a contrast.....You bring them both clarity and illusion, hope and recklessness. They learn through you the beauty of surrender of giving in to what they feel but they also learn the weight of chasing something they may never fully grasp.

In the end your love is a force that does not easily fade even if things fall apart even if the paths diverge....you are a wound and a revelation, a lesson and a longing. Things with you are always fated....they do not meet you by accident. You come into their world when something within the person must be shifted.....when something within them must be broken to be rebuilt, burned to be reborn. You are not just a chapter in their story but are the turning point, the plot twist, To be loved by you is to be rewritten.

A song which came for you

Pile 3:

Words which came for you as I start the reading:

(Phantom,Cosmic,Enigma, Awakening, Illusion,Sacred, Untamed, Ethereal,Mythical, Unseen, Unchained, Radiant, Elusive, Hidden, Oracle, Destiny,Everlasting,Eclipsed, Vanishing,Alchemy, witch craft)

Vibes : Known yet Unknown

Animal: Unicorn

To love you is to be at the crossroad, to hold air in cupped hands, to chase a shadow that moves just beyond reach, to follow a path that twists before it can be understood. You are Bipolar in a way....a contrast,an enigma a paradox with different extremes of your traits. You are not just a lover but a shifting force, something that refuses to be contained or fully known. Those who fall into your orbit quickly realize that you are not someone who can be claimed, not someone who surrenders easily to definitions, expectations, or permanence, hell even relationship. I don't know why I get this energy that you can friendzone a lot of people. Alot of people can be frustrated due to how complex and distant of a person you can be. There is just this frustration I feel from the people around you like..... You give them a hell of a ride lol that is for sure. Even deciphering your energy is so difficult because it's so layered and hidden and guarded. *sighhhh its gonna be a long read (ಥ_ಥ) with how difficult your energy is*

Coming back um....i feel there is this um...there is certain elusiveness to you. A feeling that you are here, but not quite here.....you feel me? Like um....Present, yet always slipping just beyond full grasp. Uhm.....those who love you often find themselves caught between longing and reality, between the idea of you and the truth of you. They may believe they have figured you out only to watch you change, evolve, take another form, leaving them to question if they ever truly knew you at all. Yet you're not heartless either tbh it's like.... There is depth in you a presence that makes people feel seen, understood, even adored.....but it is not always meant to be kept. Like you love freely, but carefully. You give but never in excess. You let people in just enough to make them feel something real, but not always enough to make them believe they can claim you as their own.

Also what I sense is that you as a person can be very restless, like a wind that cannot be bottled thats you....like a current that moves with its own rhythm, never settling for long. People who fall for you will feel this like.....like they will sense that you are someone who does not easily commit, who does not give love out of obligation, who cannot be tamed into something predictable. They may try to hold onto you, to anchor you, dictate you, try to make you submit but they will soon realize that you are not something to be captured-you are an experience, a moment, a storm that cannot be contained.

In the chaser and runner dynamic you are like a runner who runs away from relationship and people who wants to put you in a circle or in a type. Because I feel you don't want to be just seen in one light. You are infinite. You are more. You want so much for yourself. You have high expectations for yourself and you shine so bright that others try to catch you to feel that special feeling about themselves just for you to escape from their grasp.

Some people may call you cold but what I see is that you're not actually cold... You're just careful (which is fine which is good tbh) like.....You don't deny love, but you do not give it blindly either. Your impact is one of awakening, realization, and sometimes but most times of frustration. Those who love you may feel like they are in a constant state of reaching, always wanting more, always wondering if they are enough to make you stay. They may feel the weight of what they cannot control, the longing for something that refuses to be placed in a box. And that is your influence....you force people to question what love truly means like....is it about keeping, holding, caging, owning, securing? Or is it about presence, about understanding, about accepting that some connections are meant to be lived rather than owned?

I also see you challenging traditional love, disrupting the normal narratives people tell themselves about love and relationships. your love is not meant to be conventional like you are not here to fit into a mold, to follow a script, to settle into a space that does not fit you. You will make your own road and space for yourself.

As you got again even in the animal cards The unicorn it now becomes even special as it now whispers the messages of divine and things which are unseen can be seen... And things which are unheard could be heard. The unicorn card confirms what I was trying to convey no one can hold you, tame you or make you chain in one dimensional relation when you have rich wide view of the world and love. You don't belong to anyone.. There is a part of you that cannot be capture, cannot be owned, cannot be fully explained. Those who love you will try and try and try to define you, try to understand you, try to hold onto you but they will find that this love is something that moves like mist through fingers, something meant to be felt rather than possessed.

And in the end even when you are gone you remain. In the way they now question love as something eternal...in the way they now hesitate before assuming love must always mean control, in the way they search for a love that feels as alive, as electric, as fleetingly beautiful as you. You are the healer of the wounded, the solace of the lost, the unclaimed storm, the lover who cannot be held and the lesson they will never forget.

A song which was smacking me in the face before I even started the reading truly idk why maybe there is some message.... *Anyway this reading was something (╥﹏╥)*

Pile 4:

Words which were coming for you as I start the reading: (Unbound, Intense, Mystical, Unpredictable, Magnetic, Uncontrollable, Eclipsing, Wildfire, fetish, taboo)

Vibes: Power

Animal: Horse

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:Important:

Before I even begin to speak of your presence...i must first speak of the moment I reached out to touch your energy. It was unlike the others. Heavy. *sigh* i got a chill an almost intangible force pressing against my senses, as though the universe itself hesitated to part its lips and whisper your truth. The air was thick, the cold unrelenting, and even with the flickering of candlelight and the curling whispers of incense I felt the weight of something immense. I don't know what was that but it was so Cold and dark.Pure restlessness for some hate and for others even curses of some kind. Some of you may be going through the dark night of soul or shadow work or sadesati idk maybe even for some rahu/ketu dasha idk point is.... I don't know what that was. But I feel your energy is sensitive and I highly suggest you do something to protect it. As anything bad can penetrate it. You catch people's eye easily.... Jealousy and envy surrounds you. Ig that's all.

Anyway let's start the reading.

■□■□■□■□■■□■□■□■□■■□■□■□■□■

To love you is like two polar extremes people either adore you to the point of obsession or fear you to the point of exile. There is rarely an in-between. You hold this sort of forbidden allure, something taboo, dark, and uncontainable, something that draws people in like moths to a flame knowing they might burn but unable to resist. There is this um.... undeniable element of possession, consumption, and devouring. Lovers may feel like they are drowning in your presence, completely overtaken, either by lust, love, or raw emotional chaos.

Your presence is like the first flicker of dawn in a night that had long forgotten the taste of morning ((✿❛◡❛)*quiet poetic ik*)And yet.....you do not arrive softly. Hell tbh you bring a wildfire that dances between destruction and rebirth, a paradox of passion and transformation like you do not touch them.....you brand the people you're with.

with that I also want to address if you're a guy you can either be Or have the vibes of a ladykiller/ if you're a woman watching you can be Or have the vibes of a maneater just saying.... Point is. Yep. I made my point lol

Ahem.... I also see some of ya can have a lot of wild fetishes like idk breeding kink?choking? （￣△￣；）

Aaaaa yea so.... Also some of ya can have wild and crazy tattoos. Like there is something permanent about the effect you leave on the people you're with in the relationship....much like ink on skin-whether physical tattoos or metaphorical wounds.

I also feel some of you are obsessed with psychological thriller, crime, and shadows of the mind of what's hidden.... Yk and I see that you either study madness or unknowingly become the subject of it. People who enter your orbit may find themselves obsessed, fascinated, unable to look away even when they should. For some of y'all people who are in a relationship literally could want to commit with you like hell even if it's a married person they may want to do the nasty and get entangle with you. Just saying.

But I would also like to address that your presence is not easy. It is not the comfort of still waters but the roaring tides that pull one into depths unknown. You bring forth their inner conflicts, their untamed chaos, and force them to face the parts of themselves they have ignored. It is not always a gentle process tbh and its like fire meeting shadow, a collision that either forges something indestructible or crumbles what was never meant to stand.

Yet for all the intensity you are not without tenderness but you carry within you a deep well of emotion a river that runs silent yet deep. You're a sanctuary of safety and comfort for those who really open their hearts to you and show you their raw self. Your love is not merely felt but experienced in its entirety where one learns that to be vulnerable is not to be weak but to be seen in their most unguarded truth. But not all can handle the depth of you. Some will run. Some will resist. Some will try to cage you, thinking that if they can contain your wildness, they can keep you forever.... But you are not meant to shrink yourself to fit within the confines of another’s comfort. You are meant to burn and to leave your mark.

I see for when you leave...because at some point, you always do, whether by choice or by fate-you do not truly disappear. You remain as a reminder of what it means to truly be alive, to have been seen, touched, and moved in ways that words will never be enough to explain.

Your power is that you're unforgettable.

As you got in the animal card the horse it conveys how you arrive with your galloping hooves shaking the foundation of your partner’s world... Pushing them out of their four walls and comfort zone but also I see the paradox of you in relationship. Like you maybe fiercely loyal in your soul but your essence cannot be tethered because you belong to the wind, to the roads yet traveled, to the call of the unknown. A partner who tries to chain you, to hold you down, will only find themselves grappling with emptiness. You do not leave because you wish to; you leave because you must, because your nature demands constant movement, growth, and change. You cannot stand Stagnancy of any kind. Your energy won't allow it.

And in the end some will curse your name while others will worship your memory but none will ever forget you. You are the force that runs through their veins long after when you're gone. You give the kind of love that comes like a storm, destroys everything in its path, and then disappears......leaving people lost, addicted, and forever searching for another hit of what they once had.

Two songs came for you while doing your reading

[barrenclan]

Alone in the middle of a desolate wasteland, BarrenClan is a hardy and irritable group of cats. They have lived there for generations, and eke out survival in this unforgiving land. But one of their new apprentices, the bold and curious Pinepaw, is determined to discover the terrible truths buried under the sand, as well as rise to meet the changes coming to his Clan.

"Pinepaw and the Forgotten World" was a Warriors-inspired illustrated prose comic that ran on this blog from September 2022 - February 2025. As it is currently completed, this blog will contain MAJOR spoilers for the comic. If you are a new reader, please use the "Next" link below to be taken to the cover of this project. You can also read a mirror of the project on ComicFury, linked below. Navigational tags and other information are tagged below on this post as well.

Next >

ComicFury mirror

Yes, you have my permission to use a style and/or format inspired by this comic for your own projects. 

This comic is not based on the text-based game ClanGen/LifeGen. It was based off the Clan Generator challenge, which you can see in this video.

Helpful tags for navigating this blog (click on the search icon):

#issue: a list of all the completed issues. Use this tag to only see issues of the comic. 

#reference: reference sheets for the characters. 

#lore: background information about the world of the comic. 

#extra art: drawings I create outside of the comic itself. 

#fanart: drawings other people have made for the comic.

Allegiances: Family Tree (spoilers)

PATFW Discord: https://discord.gg/y3hAGVbfUK

PATFW Playlist: Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0GZWVmucv2DvA4H7uLwquk (Song Guide)

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLwTmUrr_9zUlCvQijucEkukNtiRpwktqs

Complete masterpost of issues, underneath Keep Reading link:

Issue 1 - Dry Heat and Cracked Earth

Issue 2 - I’ve Never Heard That Name Before

Issue 3 - Stupid Little Kit Daydreams

Issue 4 - It’s Just Like Falling Asleep 

Issue 5 - Smoke and Ash and Fire and Salt and Blood

Issue 6 - Healers Hear All The Secrets

Issue 7 - Foxholes Bite Back

Issue 8 - Do You Really Think That’s Your Destiny?

Issue 9 - It’s Only a Deer

Issue 10 - What Was That Now, Dear?

Issue 11 - We’re Held Together By Spiderweb

Issue 12 - The Shining Towns

Issue 13 - To Kill Is Right. To Kill Is Good. To Kill Is To Live.

Issue 14 - The Rotten Stench of Blood

Issue 15 - Was It Something I Did?

Issue 16 - I Bet You Can’t Catch Me

Issue 17 - You Are the Darkness Before the Storm

Issue 18 - I Met Him Under a Warm Dawn

Issue 19 - Kindness for the Dying Is Easy to Spare

Issue 20 - KITTENS! KITTENS! KITTENS!

Issue 21 - Lovebug

Issue 22 - A Favor for a Favor

Issue 23 - Your Voice Was So Soft

Issue 24 - Lost In a Haze

Issue 25 - You Don’t Speak to My Daughter That Way

Issue 26 - My Heart Is Too Heavy to Sleep

Issue 27 - Little Paws Take Little Steps

Issue 28 - Viscera, Shiny in the Light of Day

Issue 29 - We’re Not So Different, You and I

Issue 30 - Time Is a Circle

Issue 31 - Blood

Issue 32 - Cassandra

Issue 33 - Hurt Me! Beat Me! Just Please Don’t Leave Me!

Issue 34 - Sunset Days

Issue 35 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part One

Issue 36 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part Two

Issue 37 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part Three

Issue 38 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part Four

Issue 39 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part Five

Issue 40 - Aftermath

Issue 41 - Oracles

Issue 42 - Our Lasting Legacy

Issue 43 - Farewell, and I Love You

Epilogue 1 - The Last Ruby-Red Drop of Flame

Epilogue 2 - Moth-Soft Murmurings

Epilogue 3 - A Dream, A Nightmare

Epilogue 4 - Sunlight Here and Shadows There

Epilogue 5 - Gold Flowers

Epilogue 6 - Binary Star

Epilogue 7 - While You Were Dead

Epilogue 8 - The Ash of Memory

Epilogue 9 - A Rule of Fear

Epilogue 10 - The Vaster World

[strawberry-bubblef]

May I request some Malleus x Asian dragon reader? I just think the contrast between a western dragon and an asian dragon is neat

Asian dragon reader x Malleus

I’m not very familiar with Asian dragons, but I did my best to research about them them,sorry if I got anything wrong.Feel free to correct me!

Everyone knows who Malleus Draconia is.

A prince of thorns, shadowed by stormclouds and legacy, feared and revered in equal measure. The horned fae, the dragon of Diasomnia, heir to a kingdom most only speak of in hushed awe.

And you?

You are something older.

Not feared, not whispered of, revered. A whisper in the wind, a shimmer of scales gliding between the clouds. A celestial serpent, a creature of rain and sky, called by ancient temples and children’s prayers for rain.

You and Malleus are both dragons, yes. But you are night and dawn. Fire and river. Thunder and rain.

You meet at Night Raven College , you, summoned by strange magic you’ve never quite trusted, and Malleus, watching from the shadows with curious green eyes. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was the pull of your shared natures. But it doesn’t take long before you’re drawn to each other,not by the ferocity of your power, but by the loneliness beneath it.

And now?

Now, he rests his head on your shoulder as you both sit in the spires of Diasomnia’s tallest tower, silent save for the quiet wind brushing against your horns.

"You’re warm tonight," you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. "You always say that. You’re the one who's cold like cloudwater."

You turn your head to look at him, elegant, regal. His eyes glow faintly in the darkness, but they soften when he gazes at you.

“You burn like wildfire,” you say. “I glide like mist. You were raised to cast shadows. I was raised to clear skies.”

And he smiles at that, not the polite prince’s smile, but the one only you get to see. Soft. Secret. Full of something that borders reverence.

“Opposites,” he says. “Yet here we are.”

It’s not always easy.

There are moments when he rages,when centuries of solitude and misunderstanding claw at him like ghosts. When his temper crackles in the air and the world remembers why fae are feared.

But you, ancient and serene, don’t flinch.

Instead, you wrap yourself around him, coils and breath and calm. You press your forehead to his and whisper, “Storms pass. They always do.”

He clings to your voice like it’s a prayer.

And there are times you falter, too. When you’re lost in memories of temples long crumbled, of people who once knelt to offer offerings.You wonder if you’re still needed. Still wanted.

“Your divinity never needed belief,” Malleus says one night, when he finds you staring at the sky with distant eyes. “You shine, whether anyone is watching or not.”

He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, and you lean into it like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

“You found me,” you whisper. “When I thought I’d drift forever.”

In your dragon forms, the difference is even starker.

He is massive, winged and imposing, fire and smoke and ancient wrath.

You are long and serpentine, without wings, moving through air as if it’s water, trailing stars with every movement.

When you fly together, you are yin and yang,the sky splits with thunder and clears behind you with rainbows. Watching you together is like witnessing the balance of nature itself. Malleus, fierce and quiet. You, gentle and eternal.

He tells you stories of Briar Valley. You tell him tales from the clouds, of mountains that cry, of dragons who live in the rivers and whisper to fishermen. He listens as though hearing stories from another world.

And when you return home together,to your ancestral temple, deep in a bamboo forest few mortals find,he bows before the great stone gate. Not out of obligation, but because he knows what you are.

“I do not kneel easily,” he says, voice low, “but your roots demand reverence.”

You lead him inside, your form shimmering under moonlight, and the old spirits watch. They whisper of harmony. Of balance.

Of a future forged from thunder and mist.

In quiet moments, he holds your hand and traces the long curve of your claws.

“In another universe” he says, “we might have been enemies.”

You shake your head, resting your forehead against his. “In every universe, I would have found you.”

He believes you.

Because the contrast between you is not what divides, it’s what binds.

You are not two halves of a coin, nor two sides of a blade.

You are sky and earth. River and fire.

And where you meet, something holy grows.

English is not my first language !

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

malevolence

part I

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Bobby's!Niece!Reader

Summary: You've had a crush on Dean for longer than you even remember, but Uncle Bobby told you not to play with fire. When Dean returns home from a hunt, you knew something was off... you just didn't expect it to be this.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, corruption, pining, smut (kissing, spitting, marking, fingering, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, implied breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk, mildly dubious consent, cum-play), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 5,887

A/N: Oh my god. This has been in my drafts forever and I'm so happy I've finally put it out. I'm thinking... three parts? If I get all of the story down as it is in my head, then for sure... should be about three parts. It's set not long after John's death, so Dean is still a baby boy. <3 I found these gifs ages ago and I was like, "oh, I need to do a Demon!Dean fic where he's early seasons Dean." because ugh, the potential. You know the drill. If all the warnings listed above aren't evident yet? They will be. Oh, boy, will they be. I hope y'all like this. All the love.

You didn’t remember when it started. Maybe it had always been there, tucked beneath your ribs like a secret. Something soft and patient, biding its time in the dark. A seed waiting for heat and blood and something wicked to make it bloom.

Dean Winchester had been in your life for as long as you’d had a life worth remembering.

Not family, not really. But close. Tangled up in the same blood-and-oil world that raised you. The golden boy in your uncle’s long, strange shadow. Loud, sharp, sunburnt around the edges—he came and went like a storm, shaking dust off his boots and filling every room he entered with too much heat.

He was six years older, which had once felt like a canyon.

When you were ten and he was sixteen, he may as well have been a movie star. Too cool. Too fast. All swagger and sarcasm and smudged knuckles from a fight he didn’t bother to explain. You remembered the first time he called you sweetheart—just a tossed-off thing, barely looking at you as he handed you an ice pop in the middle of a sweltering July.

“Here ya go, sweetheart.”

And you remembered the way it made you freeze. How the word hung in the air like cigarette smoke, thick and confusing and too warm. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know why it mattered. You just knew that your name had never sounded like that before.

He’d swung you up onto his shoulders that same day—hands sure, grip steady, like he didn’t mind your weight. Like you belonged there. You’d clutched fistfuls of his hair and shrieked with laughter while Bobby hollered from the porch to “cut that damn foolin’ around before someone breaks a bone.” Dean had just grinned and jogged faster.

You were twelve when he taught you how to throw a punch. Fourteen when he handed you your first switchblade, silver and wicked and gleaming like a promise in your palm.

“Keep it in your back pocket. If a guy gets too close, don’t hesitate.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just handed you the sharpest thing you'd ever owned and trusted you not to flinch.

He always trusted you not to flinch.

That was the difference.

You knew what adoration felt like long before you understood it. You knew you liked his voice, liked his hands, liked the way he’d lean against the hood of the Impala and call you trouble when Bobby wasn’t looking. You hated the way your stomach twisted when he brought girls around. Hated the way you’d listen for laughter through the thin walls of Bobby’s house and feel sick when you heard it.

You were seventeen when it changed. When it stopped being something soft.

You’d grown into yourself by then. Still not tall, still not loud, but sharper in the eyes. More aware. And Dean—he’d started looking at you like he wasn’t supposed to.

It was in the way his gaze lingered a beat too long when you passed him in the hallway. The way his voice dropped when he asked you how your day had been. The way he smirked when you snapped back at him, low and dark, like he liked it. Like he was daring you to try again.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. But you started wearing tank tops when he was home. You started sitting a little closer on the couch. You let your fingers brush his when you passed him a drink.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Bobby, of course, saw it all.

“That boy’s got too much fire in him. You don’t go pokin’ it just to see if it burns.”

But by then, it already had.

You were twenty-one now. The canyon had closed.

That afternoon, like so many before it, you sat curled in your usual spot on the porch swing, the cushion beneath you faded from years of sun, the book in your lap more of a habit than a distraction. Your bare legs were pulled up under you, one foot tucked beside the other, your back pressed to the peeling white wood of the armrest. The breeze was warm, sticky with late-summer heaviness, and the cicadas sang like they didn’t know how to stop.

Out in the yard, Bobby cursed low under his breath as he wrestled with the rusted insides of a pickup that hadn’t run since the Reagan administration. His ball cap was pushed up on his forehead, sweat darkening the brim, grease streaking his arms all the way to the elbows. There was a glass of sweet tea beside you, sweating rings into the wood, forgotten in the quiet rhythm of turning pages.

The world hadn’t shifted yet. Not that you could tell. Everything was still where it belonged.

You’d been half-asleep in the sun, lulled by the rhythm of cicadas and the creak of the porch swing, when Bobby’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Son of a bitch!”

You blinked, looked up from your book. A moment later—

“Goddamn bastard bolt won’t budge—get in there, ya stubborn piece of shit—”

Yep. Classic Bobby.

You closed your book around one finger to mark your page and leaned forward, peering past the porch railing toward the truck hood and your uncle’s hunched figure.

“You need a hand, Uncle Bobby?” You called, voice lazy with the warmth of the afternoon. “Or want some tea?”

There was a pause. A soft clank of metal against metal. Then, gruff:

“Tea, girl. And ice this time—I ain’t drinkin’ lukewarm leaf water in this heat.”

You huffed a laugh and stood, arms stretching up overhead as your back arched, joints crackling from the hours spent curled on the swing. The hem of your tank top slid up your stomach, bare skin catching the last of the sun as you padded barefoot across the porch.

Your cutoffs were frayed at the bottom, threadbare in the way only your favourite ones could be. Your legs had picked up freckles over the summer. You felt them heat now under the open air as you reached for the screen door.

Inside, the house was cooler, dim and familiar. You moved on autopilot, pulling a glass from the cupboard, grabbing the pitcher from the fridge. The ice clinked softly as you poured. You lifted it, turned—

And froze.

That sound. That rumble. Low. Hungry. Home.

The Impala.

You nearly dropped the glass right there on the kitchen tile.

You turned so fast your bare feet squeaked against the floor. The screen door banged open behind you as you stepped out onto the porch, tea sloshing over the rim, eyes locked on the long black shape pulling into the drive like it owned the world.

She slid to a stop in a slow growl of gravel. The driver’s door creaked open.

And then—there he was.

Dean climbed out like a scene from a movie. One hand on the roof, the other shoving the door closed. His boots hit the dirt and your heart tripped over itself. He looked broader than you remembered. Taller somehow. His hair was longer than it had been last time—curling just slightly at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, and he moved like he hadn’t just been on the road for hours. Like his body didn’t get tired the way other people’s did.

Bobby looked up from under the hood.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, already wiping his hands on a rag. “Where the hell’s your brother?”

Dean just smiled, that lazy half-smirk you knew too well.

And then you called his name.

“Dean!”

His head snapped toward the porch so fast it almost startled you.

And when his eyes landed on you—barefoot, flushed from the sun, standing under the porch roof with your tank top clinging to your ribs and the glass of sweet tea still trembling faintly in your hand—he grinned.

Not like he used to. Not like the soft smirks he’d given you when you were younger, teasing and warm and safe.

No. This one was sharp. Wolfish. Like he’d been starving and just spotted his first meal in days.

“Well hey there, sweetheart.”

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

The second his voice hit your ears, smooth and warm and laced with something low and dangerous, your body moved before your brain caught up.

The glass of tea hit the porch rail with a clatter, sloshing again, forgotten as your bare feet left the wood and hit the gravel, sharp stones biting into your soles. You winced but didn’t slow, teeth catching your lip, eyes locked on him like nothing else in the world mattered.

“Girl!” Bobby hollered from the front of the truck, voice sharp as a whip. “You’re out here barefoot on the goddamn gravel again—what’re you, feral?”

You didn’t answer. Just ran faster.

Dean was already grinning by the time you reached him. One brow quirked, his whole face lit with smug delight like he’d known you’d come running. Like he wanted it.

You could see it in the way he stood, relaxed and ready, arms just starting to open. Like he was expecting to catch you.

And God help you, he did.

You threw yourself into him without grace—without shame—legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. His hands caught you under your thighs, rough palms settling against bare skin, fingers pressing. Harder than they needed to.

He smelled like heat. Like leather and road salt and motel soap and something darker curling beneath it. Something you couldn’t name.

Your voice came out soft, pressed close to his ear as you held onto him tighter than you meant to.

“We missed you.”

His hands flexed where they held you—gripping tight. You felt it. The possessiveness in his touch. The way his thumbs slid just slightly against the crease where your thighs met the curve of your ass. The quiet exhale that ghosted down your neck.

“Speak for yourself,” Bobby grunted from behind, but even that sounded weaker than usual. More bark than bite.

There was a pause. Then:

“Dean,” he said flatly. “Put my niece down. Don’t think I ain’t seen where your hands are, boy.”

Dean turned his head just slightly, that grin never leaving his face. Still holding you.

“Just catchin’ her, Bobby. Can’t help it if she’s a little…” His gaze dragged back to you. Slow. Heavy. “Squishy.”

Your breath hitched. You felt heat rise all the way up your neck.

Dean’s fingers squeezed again. Barely perceptible. Just enough for you to feel it. For Bobby to notice.

“Dean,” Bobby snapped, and this time there was steel under it.

With infuriating ease, Dean let you down. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. His hands slid down the backs of your thighs as he lowered you, only releasing when your feet touched dirt and your balance returned.

You took a half-step back, suddenly too aware of the heat between your legs. Of the gravel under your soles. Of the way he looked at you like you were his to pick up again whenever he pleased.

Bobby was already walking past, muttering to himself and wiping his hands again.

“Damn fool boy…”

Dean just chuckled, low and satisfied. His eyes never left you.

“Miss me, sweetheart?”

The house smelled like garlic and onions and whatever Bobby had pulled from the freezer that morning and declared dinner. The table was set with mismatched plates, forks with dull edges, and two sweating bottles of beer you’d pulled from the fridge yourself. One slid in front of your uncle with a thunk, the other nudged across the table toward Dean with just enough force to draw his eyes back to you.

He caught it easily, grinned like he knew the touch of your fingers on the bottle had been deliberate, and then tipped it in a mock toast before popping the cap with the edge of the table. You pretended not to watch the way his throat moved when he took the first sip.

You took your usual seat to Bobby’s left, legs tucked beneath you, sipping your water slow and quiet. The table was warm and familiar. A little too small for three grown bodies. A little too crowded in the heat.

Dean and Bobby talked like no time had passed at all.

“So where’s your brother?” Bobby asked around a mouthful of food, squinting at Dean like he expected bad news.

“Chasin’ some lead out in Idaho,” Dean replied, casual. “He’ll meet me back on the road. Said somethin’ about needing space.”

“From you or the case?”

Dean just smirked. Shrugged. “Probably both.”

You didn’t join in. Just twirled your fork in your noodles, dragging them across the plate like you were thinking hard about something. You weren’t. You were trying not to look at Dean. You were failing.

He looked good. Too good. Tanned and broad and infuriatingly comfortable, leaning back in his chair like it was his own damn kitchen. Like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You caught yourself staring and dropped your eyes back to your food.

Then something brushed your foot. Just a light nudge. The kind that might’ve been an accident. The kind that would’ve been nothing, if you weren’t barefoot and hyper-aware of every single thing about him.

You froze. Fork paused mid-twirl. Eyes still on your plate. The nudge came again—more deliberate this time. A soft push against your arch.

You looked up. Dean was still talking to Bobby. Still sipping his beer, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

But his eyes cut to you. And he grinned. Slow. Shit-eating. Wolfish.

Your stomach dropped straight to your knees. You cleared your throat and took a sip of water, suddenly warm all over. Bobby was still muttering about Sam, something about demon omens in Ohio, and you tried to focus. You really did.

Dean’s foot slid along the curve of your ankle. A slow, lazy stroke like he was petting a dog. You flinched. He didn’t.

You jabbed him back without looking, your toes kicking out under the table—more annoyed than anything else. But all it earned you was a harder nudge, right against your calf this time, like a shove disguised as affection.

You looked at him again. He didn’t break eye contact. He arched one brow, lips twitching around the mouth of his beer bottle.

What’re you gonna do about it, sweetheart?

You wanted to kick him. You wanted to crawl into his lap. You wanted to do something reckless. But you just stabbed a piece of meat with your fork and tried not to choke on your own pulse.

Bobby looked up, finally catching the flush on your cheeks.

“You alright there, girl?”

You smiled too quickly. “Just hot.”

Dean chuckled. Low and full of teeth. His foot bumped yours again under the table. You didn’t look at him this time. But you could still feel him.

You barely touched your dinner after that. Every bite tasted like heat. Every sip of water failed to cool you. You could still feel the press of his boot against your ankle long after he’d stopped. Like his touch had sunk straight through your skin.

You were the first one to stand when the plates were empty, scraping your chair back with a little too much force.

“I’ll get this cleaned up,” you said quickly, already stacking yours and Bobby's plates, trying to busy your hands so they didn’t shake.

Bobby looked up with a lazy arch of his brow.

“Someone’s in a damn hurry all of a sudden.”

You forced a small laugh, ducking your head. “Just trying to be useful.”

“Mhm.”

You were already halfway to the sink, rinsing plates under warm water, grateful for the hiss of the faucet and the hum of muscle memory. Plate, rinse, stack. Forks, soak, scrub. Your feet shifted over the cool tile, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders started to melt.

Behind you, a chair scraped back.

“I’ll help.”

Dean.

Bobby snorted from the table.

“You? Since when do you ever lift a damn finger after supper?”

“Feelin’ generous,” Dean said, all smooth edges. You could hear the grin in his voice. “Must be the company.”

Bobby huffed and pushed to his feet with a grunt, grabbing the last beer and heading toward the living room.

“Well, bless your heart. I’ll be in my chair, pretendin' not to hear whatever dumb shit you’re about to break in my kitchen.”

And just like that, you were alone.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept scrubbing the last plate, shoulders a little too stiff, breath caught somewhere too high in your chest. You heard him behind you—soft bootfalls, the clink of glass against glass as he gathered the empty bottles and his dish.

Then—

Heat. He was behind you. Close. Then closer.

The heat of his chest pressed flush to your back, hard muscle and worn cotton, and you froze. Completely. Your breath caught in your throat. The plate in your hand nearly slipped from your fingers.

Dean reached around you, casually, his forearm brushing the side of your breast as he slid his plate into the sink with a quiet clink.

He didn’t move. He lingered, then stepped back a beat too slow.

“Oops.”

Your whole body burned.

You turned your head, wide-eyed, and found him just watching you. That smile on his face wasn’t sheepish. It was smug. Knowing. Unholy.

You tried to say something—tried to form any kind of reply—but your tongue felt thick and your heart was pounding in your throat.

Dean leaned one arm against the counter beside you, his body angled lazily toward yours. He was close enough that you could see the faint pink line of a healing cut along his collarbone. Close enough that his scent wrapped around you again—leather, motel soap, motor oil, and something else. Something you couldn’t name. Something dark.

“You always clean up this fast, sweetheart? Or just when I’m watching?”

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging slow across your face, then down your neck, then back up.

“You've never been shy.”

You tried to laugh. It came out breathless.

“You’re messin' with me.”

Dean’s smile widened, teeth flashing.

“Am I?”

You shook your head—barely. “You don’t… You don’t look at me like that.”

“Don’t I?”

His voice was low. Deliberate.

You turned back to the sink, trying to hide your face, the blush crawling down your throat. Your hands moved automatically, scrubbing at a plate that was already clean.

Dean didn’t leave.

“Been gone a while,” he said, voice softer now. “Did you miss me?”

Your hand paused on the dish. Your voice was almost a whisper.

“Of course I did.”

He leaned in closer again, heat at your back, breath on your neck.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

And behind you, he chuckled. Low and dark and pleased.

“Good.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Dean was still behind you, heat pressed too close, breath ghosting somewhere near your ear—and for a second, it felt like he might lean in further. Might say something else. Might do something else.

But before anything could shatter, Bobby’s voice cut through the house like a crack of thunder:

“You two done makin’ out in there or can I start the damn show?”

You practically jumped.

Dean chuckled—soft, smug, low in his throat like he was deeply entertained by your reaction—and stepped back just far enough to let the heat leave your skin.

You scrambled into the living room a little too fast, like Bobby’s voice had tugged you from the edge of something you couldn’t name. Your skin was still warm, your breath still not quite steady, but you dropped down onto the couch with a half-hearted exhale, like you could shake it off with the right posture. You curled your legs up beside you, pulled a throw pillow into your lap, and clutched your glass of water like it was going to save you.

“Eastwood or MASH*?” You asked, too quick, too light.

Bobby looked up from the remote, squinting at the ancient television like it had personally offended him.

“Whichever channel works. If I get static again, I’m throwin’ the damn thing out the window.”

You smiled, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The house had settled into its familiar hum—floorboards creaking under the weight of time, cicadas still buzzing low through the open windows, the faint clatter of Dean moving around in the kitchen.

You heard him before you saw him.

He entered the room like a slow-moving shadow—easy, casual, like he belonged there more than the furniture. Your stomach twisted.

He didn’t say a word. Just met your gaze for a moment—sharp, amused—and then reached down, hooked his hands under your ankles, and lifted your legs without asking. You startled slightly, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. Because it felt so easy for him.

Then, with a slow exhale, he dropped onto the couch beside you, your legs falling across his lap like he’d planned it that way all along. One of his arms rested along the back of the couch, close enough for you to feel the heat of it at your shoulders. The other—casual, lazy—settled over your shin, fingers tracing an idle path along your skin.

You tried not to tense. You tried not to breathe. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.

And Bobby noticed. He turned his head slowly, one eye narrowing as it moved from the screen to your legs across Dean’s lap, then up to the hand that hadn’t stopped moving. His jaw clenched. His beer bottle landed on the side table with a quiet clunk.

“Touch her like that again,” he said, voice low and dry, “and I’ll break your fuckin’ hand.”

Dean didn’t flinch. He didn’t even stop. Just kept rubbing slow, maddening circles along your shin with the pad of his thumb. He still hadn’t looked at you.

“Aw, c’mon, Bobby,” he drawled, the smile curling across his lips like smoke. “Ain’t like I’m doin’ anything wrong.”

Bobby didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

“You think I don’t see it?” He asked, and his voice was sharper now, honed to an edge. “The way you been lookin’ at her since you pulled up? I ain’t blind, Dean. And I sure as hell ain’t stupid.”

There was a pause, a hitch you felt more than heard. Dean’s smile wavered for the barest second. Just long enough for you to wonder if Bobby had struck a nerve.

Then it returned, just as cocky, just as easy.

“She’s not a kid anymore,” he said, casual, like that settled something.

Bobby leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were cold. Steady.

“No, she ain't. Which is exactly why I’ll put you in the goddamn ground if you so much as look at her like she ain’t got a choice.”

Something shifted.

You didn’t understand it, not fully. But you felt it. Something sharp beneath the surface. Something not quite right. Like there was more to what Bobby said than what he said.

Dean’s silence stretched long enough to be dangerous. Then he tilted his head, eyes still on Bobby, and smiled.

“She looks like she can make her own choices to me.”

You tried to move your legs. Tried to pull away, just a little. Dean’s hand pressed down. Not painfully. Just firmly. Deliberately. Bobby was still watching. And so was Dean.

“You touch her like that again,” Bobby said, lower this time, the threat coiled beneath each syllable, “and I’ll remind you who the hell you’re talkin’ to.”

Dean didn’t answer.

The television filled the silence, tinny dialogue from a rerun you couldn’t focus on. And under the hum of it all, Dean’s thumb resumed its lazy stroke against your skin, like nothing had happened at all.

The house was silent, save for the low creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet.

The kind of silence that came only after the heat of the day had broken—after the static between bodies had faded into cool sheets and shallow sleep. Bobby had gone to bed not long before you had, muttering something about his bad knee and early mornings, casting one last look between you and Dean like he was waiting for something to ignite.

But nothing had.

Not then.

Now, it was past midnight. Maybe closer to two. You didn’t check the clock—just blinked awake with your throat dry and your skin too warm beneath the sheets. The house had cooled but your body hadn’t. Something restless sat in your chest like a live wire humming under your ribs.

The floor was cold beneath your feet, quiet in the way old houses only were when everyone else had gone to bed and the world had softened into stillness.

The air felt different after midnight—cooler, heavier somehow. The way it settled in your lungs felt like a warning, though you couldn’t say why. You moved without thinking, sleepy and restless, fingers trailing along the hallway walls as you padded toward the kitchen, drawn by nothing more than the dryness in your throat and the weight of something unnamed sitting beneath your skin.

Bobby’s old shirt hung off one shoulder, worn soft with age, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you walked. No panties. No bra. Just that and bare skin and the ghost of sleep still clinging to the corners of your vision.

The fridge opened with a low hum. You filled your glass slowly, letting the cool water slide over the ice and kiss the rim, the glow of the open door painting your skin in pale blue light. You lifted the glass to your lips and drank.

And that’s when you heard it.

The creak.

Not the house settling. Not the wind. Not the sound of an old man in the hallway. Boots. Slow, deliberate.

You turned just as the light from the fridge caught the edge of his silhouette, cutting him out from the dark like something carved from smoke and heat and half-formed sin.

Dean.

Leaning in the doorway like he hadn’t been asleep at all. Like he was waiting. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you. And when he did? Something in his expression made your stomach twist—not with fear, not yet, but something so thick and dark and electric it almost knocked the air out of you.

That grin.

It was the same one he’d worn when you were sixteen and he caught you staring at his mouth. The same one he used when he fixed cars with the sleeves of his flannel rolled high and the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Familiar. Easy. Pure Dean.

But something about it wasn’t right anymore. It was too still. Too slow. Too hungry.

“Well,” he said, and his voice was rough in that way it always got when it was late and he hadn’t talked in hours. “Aren’t you a sight.”

You swallowed hard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes dropped down your body. Then rose again. Like he had every right.

You didn’t move. Didn’t cover yourself. You should have.

“You always walk around like that?” He asked, stepping into the room. “Wearing nothin’ but some old shirt and a smile?”

You didn’t answer. The question didn’t feel like a question.

Dean smiled again, slower this time, head cocked to the side as he watched you over the rim of the glass in your hand.

“Bobby know his niece’s struttin’ around like a damn centrefold at two in the morning?”

You flushed hot. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly, stepping closer. “Yeah. I can see that.”

He was close now. Close enough to smell—leather and heat and that undertone you still couldn’t quite place. Something wrong. Something sour-sweet and unplaceable. It made your knees feel unsteady.

His hand lifted—not fast, just steady—and pushed the fridge door shut behind you. The kitchen plunged into shadows again, save for the faint light of the oven clock. He was still grinning.

“Didn’t think you’d grown up this much.”

You laughed, shaky and quiet, trying to ease the weight of his stare. “Been a year.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s showin’.”

Your breath caught.

He took another step. Close enough now that the fabric of his shirt brushed your arm. He tilted his head down, voice dropping just slightly.

“You used to look at me funny,” he said. “Back when you were younger. Always staring. Thought I was imaginin’ it.”

You blinked, pulse pounding. “You weren’t.”

“No,” he murmured, and his eyes flicked to your mouth. “Guess I wasn’t.”

You could feel his breath on your skin. The heat of him. His fingers brushed the side of your thigh—light, just once, and then gone. It burned like fire anyway.

“You’ve really come into yourself, sweetheart.”

He said it like a confession. Like a revelation. Like it was all finally clicking into place.

And you couldn’t breathe.

His voice went softer. Meaner.

“You want me to look at you like this, don’t you?”

You didn’t speak. He didn’t need you to. Because he already knew.

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was his hand on your hip or the tilt of your chin or the way the space between your bodies seemed to vanish all at once—like the air itself had given up pretending there was still a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

All you knew was that you were suddenly there. Back pressed to the counter. Dean’s body crowding yours like gravity had finally remembered what it owed you.

And then he kissed you.

Not softly. Not hesitantly. Not like a maybe. No, Dean Winchester kissed you like he was claiming you.

His hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressed against your cheek, fingers curling behind your neck as he pulled you in and kissed you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered. Like he’d been waiting too. Starving for it. For you.

You gasped into it, lips parting without thought, and he groaned—"fuckin’ finally"—and kissed you deeper, tongue slipping past your lips like he knew exactly how to take what he wanted. And he did.

You were drowning in him. Pressed between cool counter and burning heat, chest heaving, hands fisting into the hem of his t-shirt just to keep from sliding down the cabinets. Your knees had gone weak. Your body was molten.

When he pulled back, it was barely an inch. His breath hit your lips. His grin carved into you like a knife.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, voice thick and low and already wrecked. “I always knew you’d taste this fucking sweet.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand was already moving. Down your side. Over your hip. Between your thighs.

You gasped.

He grinned harder.

“No panties,” he murmured, dragging the hem of the shirt up your thigh with his knuckles. “You really were asking for it, huh?”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to deny, to confess every filthy thought you’d ever had about him—but then two of his fingers slid between your legs and found you already wet, and the words died on your tongue.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dark and hungry, lashes low. “You’re soaked for me. All this time, and you’ve been walking around just beggin’ for me to get my hands on you.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

He slipped one thick finger inside you, slow and deliberate, watching your face as your jaw dropped open around a gasp. Then another, stretching you perfectly. You choked on a sound, back arching, thighs trembling.

“Shhh,” he crooned, lips at your temple now, the hand at your jaw moving to cover your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, sweetheart. Bobby hears you moaning like a whore in his kitchen, he’s gonna come down here and shoot me.”

His fingers curled.

Your eyes rolled back.

You moaned—muffled, desperate—against his palm as he started to fuck you with those fingers like he meant it. Like he’d been thinking about it for years.

And maybe he had.

His hips were pressed against yours, his breath against your cheek, his mouth dragging along your jaw as he fucked you slow and filthy and completely possessed.

“You ever think about me, baby?” He whispered. “Late at night, all alone in your bed? Bet you used these pretty fingers trying to imagine mine, didn’t you?”

You whimpered under his hand, your body jerking with every pump of his fingers, slick and obscene.

“Bet you used to fuck that little pillow, huh? Crying into it thinkin’ about me pinning you down, stretching you open…”

You were going to come.

It was embarrassing how fast it was happening—how quick he’d found every nerve, every want, every buried need you’d never let yourself speak out loud. But now it was all on the surface, raw and exposed, dripping down his wrist.

He growled in your ear, soft and dark and lethal:

“Come for me, sweetheart. C’mon. Be a good girl and come all over my fuckin’ fingers.”

You did.

You shattered—silently, somehow—body writhing against his hand, nails digging into his shoulders, whole frame trembling with the force of it. His fingers didn’t stop, fucking you through it, dragging every last wave from your body until you were limp in his grip, gasping into his palm.

He finally pulled his hand from your mouth, cupping your jaw again, kissing you slow and deep, like the filth he’d just whispered into your skin meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

He pulled his hand away, brought it up to his lips, and licked his fingers. Then smiled.

“Told you,” he said. “Sweet as goddamn honey.” 

Then his lips were back on your neck.

You were still trembling, thighs slick and trembling where he held you, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other back between your legs, slick with everything he’d pulled from you. You were floating, dizzy, pressed between the cool of the counter and the heat of his body, his mouth trailing kisses up your throat like he was about to say something—

And then the kitchen door slammed open. You barely had time to register the heavy feet pounding across the floor before—

Splash.

Dean staggered back with a sharp, visceral hiss, smoke curling from his shoulder where the water hit, his skin bubbling in a flash of red.

You gasped, shoved back into the counter, heart leaping into your throat.

“What the fuck—!”

Dean growled—growled—low and guttural, his spine arching with the burn, lips curling back to reveal teeth that didn’t quite look like his own.

And Bobby was standing there. In boxers and a flannel and socks. Holding an empty mason jar in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Breathing hard. Rage in every line of his face.

“Get. The fuck. Outta my house,” Bobby said, each word like a shotgun blast. “Now.”

Dean turned his head slowly. Eyes flashing black for a moment before shifting back to the green you'd always known.

“Well, shit,” he rasped, voice raw. “Knew you were smart, old man. Didn’t think you’d catch on so fast.”

“Yeah, well,” Bobby snarled, stepping forward, “I’ve seen a lot of demons pretend to be worse things. You just happen to be wearin’ a face I liked.”

Dean smiled—teeth too sharp, too wide.

“I’ll be seeing her again.”

Bobby raised the shotgun in his hands.

“Not if I have anythin' to say about it.”

Dean looked at you once. Only once. That same smirk, but now you saw it—really saw it—for what it was. Too smooth. Too slow. Something evil wearing something you used to love. And then he vanished. Not in smoke, not in fire. Just… gone. The air thinned out. The heat left the room. And the absence of him was a screaming thing.

You were still shaking. Still pressed to the counter, shirt rumpled, legs slick, skin flushed. The high hadn’t even left your blood yet. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Bobby lowered the shotgun, then turned to you.

“It ain’t safe anymore.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He crossed to you slowly. Gently. Like approaching a spooked animal.

“That thing,” he said, voice quieter now. “That thing wearin’ Dean’s face? That’s a demon. And he’s been here all day.”

You stared at him. Everything in you recoiled. Denied. And yet—you knew.

Bobby exhaled hard. His hand came up to your arm, grounding you. Steady.

“I’m sendin’ you somewhere safe.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Somewhere he don’t know. Somewhere he can’t get to you. You’re leavin’ in the mornin’. No arguments.”

You were still in Bobby’s shirt. Still barefoot. Still breathless. And now the world had cracked open beneath you. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l <3