#they don't blink with their eyes but the whites of their eyes blink. they blink on their wings too. but otherwise they always stare

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ virgin!reader who's concocted this whole narrative about fratboy!satoru taking some bizarre vow of celibacy. ridiculous, maybe – but honestly, his pre-you life felt like a completely different era. no hookups. no casual encounters. didn't that violate some unspoken rule in the frat bible?

"where are your notes?" he asks, the mattress dipping as he sprawls out.

you swivel from your spot at the desk, a genuine "huh?" escaping.

"your notes, cherry," he repeats, a teasing lift to his eyebrow. "you said you needed study help."

a slow blink. you pretend to search your memory. "oh. right. notes. actually… i think i'm good."

satoru's brow furrows. "then why the invite?"

"what? a girlfriend can't just want her boyfriend over?"

"cherry," he corrects, a pointed look in his eyes, "i'm not your boyfriend."

"yet," you hum, amending his correction with a sly smile. "either way, my roommate's out."

he blows out a breath, a slow nod. "perfect. peaceful study session. never did like her anyway."

"please tell me you weren't actually expecting only studying," you say, a playful challenge in your tone. "empty dorm. just us. alone."

satoru's frown deepens, and you deploy your most pathetic puppy-dog eyes. his don't even flicker.

"we're not having sex," he states flatly, crossing his impressive arms. big, strong, very noticeable arms.

"yet," you echo, a hopeful lilt in your voice.

"right," he sighs, a hint of amusement in his exasperation, "yet." satoru had this thing about taking it slow, like a time-traveling puritan.

"we aren't there yet, though," he adds, a subtle shift in his gaze. no intercourse, he'd declared. but he'd conveniently omitted any mention of what didn't count as intercourse. a loophole you were currently exploiting, straddling his lap, your lips throbbing from his kisses, your teeth nipping and tangling.

your skirt has crept far, far up, panties a damp second skin plastered against his boxers, the evidence of your arousal mingling with his pre-cum in the increasingly sodden fabric between you.

satoru's hands are firm on your hips, anchoring you. you already feel the telltale spasms against your core twice, milking his thick length through the barrier of his jeans just by the friction of your slick heat against his bulge. a low groan rumbles in his chest, his head falling back, eyes momentarily glazed.

you have to give him credit; amish commitment or not, he's putting up one hell of a fight against actual penetration. you almost admire his self-control. almost. except for the fact that it's really eating at yours.

his hips buck against yours, a desperate, involuntary movement that draws a moan from your throat. "god, cherry," he mumbles into the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. you press down, your knees digging into the mattress on either side of his thighs, effectively pinning him. if he won't fuck you, you'll damn well make the most of what he will do.

the waves of your own pleasure blur together, a relentless tide washing over you. nonetheless, that insistent heat low in your belly coils tighter, one again, every rigid inch of him a focused pressure against your clit through the layers of fabric, a desperate ache building. when the next shared orgasm rips through you both, a strangled whine escapes your lips against his soft, white hair.

yeah. turns out, "taking it slow" has a very different meaning in practice.

[torlibram]

We had put everything we had into this assault. The last chance of stopping the armies of Darkness. They had a single-axis failure condition, of course: destroy the Archnasty and his legions crumble and decay without his will to animate them. The problems were two: how to get to him through said legions and how to actually defeat him.

We had done our best. Done all the research. Quested after artifacts to prise open his defenses, everything. And still it hadn't been enough. My brain ached with the effort of separating power to heal my comrades. It still hadn't been enough. Touman and his thrice-blessed sword had cut him once, twice and was shredded to ashes before his third blow and it hadn't been enough. Calloway had sliced away defensive spells with thin red lines of raw fire and it hadn't been enough. Jaratha's whirlwind of attacks with her enchanted sickles had been flicked aside like so much chaff. She landed at my feet with a sickening thud.

His Arch-Darkness, Lord Karathor the Grim loomed over me. His dead voice husked from the ornate mask. "Any final words, little priest?"

I blinked away tears. One splashed on my hand and fizzed gently as it touched the plain ring on my index finger. Then I knew. I knew what it would take, what I would have to do. This had damn well better be enough.

"Funny thing, being a healer," I said, more to Jaratha than to him. "You have to split the magic as it goes through you: use the Light part to heal, disperse the Dark part into your surroundings so that nothing gets a dose strong enough to affect them." I gently closed Jaratha's eyes, I didn't want her to see this next bit.

"Except, I didn't do that. I didn't like the idea of polluting the area where I healed someone, so when I parted the magic, I started storing the Dark, holding it until I could find somewhere to properly discharge it. Only I never did. Every old mineshaft had a daemon lurking at the bottom that would have gulped the Dark down and gone on a rampage. Couldn't fire it into the sea, we would be up to our ears in kraken. I just held on to it. Poured it all into this ring." I held it up to show him the plain golden band. "Decades of healing people and storing up the proportional Dark energy in here." I began to unfold the enchantments on the ring, runes began to glow around its circumference. "I don't know quite how much there is in here, but I'm out of options and I'm betting that all your fancy spellwork won't protect you against pure Darkness."

Karathor actually took a step backwards. His gaze was fixed on the ring and its runes that were blazing now.

"Why bother with Dark defenses when you are battling the forces of Light?" I asked, getting to my feet. "Now, in years to come, there will probably be a monument or something with a pithy sermon about hubris. Maybe once the ground stops glowing. Because I have no idea what this is about to do, but if you're backing off, it's going to be worth doing."

I unbound the last of the wards on the ring and in my last action, pointed at him. A roaring vortex of sheer darkness shrieked forth, enveloping Karathor with a thousand demented screams, tearing at him and knocking him down. He tried to absorb the power, but there was too much. It overwhelmed him the way a flash flood rips a waterwheel from its axle. It melted my arm clean off as well, but I didn't mind much, stopping Karathor was the important point. I held the mental focus of the blast on him for as long as I could, until all that was left was a bubbling patch of tar and the ghost of a scream.

In the sudden silence that followed, someone began to clap. I looked up to see Jaratha, wreathed in wisps of Light floating in the air and applauding. Beside her, Touman and Calloway drifted gently, as pale as she. I raised my hand in farewell to them - wait, didn't I just melt that arm? - and realised mine was as white and ethereal as theirs.

"You've been carrying that all this time?" asked Calloway with a grin. "Really could have used some of that mojo on the southern giants, you know."

"Is that why I could never get my sensory enchantment to work?" exclaimed Touman. "I always thought I had cast it properly, but I could never pick up evil in our vicinity. You were drowning it out!"

I shrugged. "Better than wilting all the plants around you every time I had to put you back together after you failed to dodge a club."

"That was one time," Touman began, and the others laughed.

"Do you think there will be statues?" asked Jaratha, as we faded from the material plane.

"Probably." I said. "But not there. That was not a place of honour."

You were the healer—the last light of your party. But now your final ally dies in your arms, and there’s no one left to save. The enemy jeers, calling you useless. You look up, eyes hollow and black. The light is gone. The Void answers. You're no longer a cleric. You're something far worse.

[thestarsaboveme]

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: angst with comfort, reader and lads men having a misunderstanding because reader is overthinking that they’re cheating on her with the mc since they always spend time with the mc and spending less time with the reader.

xavier ver. | rafayel ver. | sylus ver. | caleb ver.

zayne x reader | angst/comfort

It started with unanswered messages.

Then missed calls.

Then the quiet shift in your routines. Zayne showing up later, leaving earlier, his brow constantly furrowed voice always tired.

You told yourself it was just the workload. He was a doctor, after all. A man carrying the weight of every life that depended on his hands.

But lately…he'd been carrying that weight with someone else at his side.

MC.

And you couldn't stop the spiral that followed.

-

''Patient priority,'' he'd said the last time you made dinner. ''MC and I are working together all week. Critical cases.''

He barely touched the plate you'd made him.

You nodded and smiled, like you always did, telling yourself not to be petty.

But how could you ignore the fact that she was always there? That they moved like two parts of the same instinct in the hospital? That when he finally did respond to your texts, he'd said things like ''MC just understands.''

As if you didn't.

As if you weren't enough anymore.

The worst part? Zayne wasn't the type to flirt. He didn't slip up. So if he were developing feelings for MC, it wouldn't be obvious. He'd just���pill away.

Like now.

Like this.

Your hand hovered over your phone as you sat curled up on the edge of your bed, cold dinner on the nightstand beside you.

You typed the message three time before finally sending it.

I need to see you tonight. Please. It's important.

His reply came twenty minutes later.

I'll be there in an hour.

You weren't sure whether the ache in your chest was relief or dread.

When he arrived, the weight of his presence filled the room the way it always did. Like quiet thunder wrapped in a white coat and tired eyes.

He removed his glasses silently, posture taut. ''You sounded upset.''

You nodded, swallowing the knot in your throat. ''I am.''

He studied your face for a moment, sharp eyes scanning like they always did in the emergency room. Searching for signs, symptoms, the source of pain. You wondered if he'd even recognize that the wound this time was him.

''I need to ask you something,'' you said, barely above a whisper. ''And I need you to be honest.''

''I always am.''

''Are you cheating on me…with MC?''

The words fell like stones into a bottomless well. Heavy. Final. Loud in their simplicity.

Zayne froze.

Not visibly. But you knew him too well. It was in the slightest shift in his breathing, the way his shoulders straightened a fraction too sharply.

''No,'' he said, voice even.

''Then why does it feel like I'm losing you?'' you whispered.

His jaw clenched. ''You're not.''

You stood up, heart pounding. ''Then explain why you're always with her. Why your attention's always on her. Why when we do speak, all you talk about is MC. Her instincts, her decisions in the field. It's like you admire her more than me. Like I've become…invisible.''

Zayne looked at you like your words had struck deeper than any scalpel ever could.

''I didn't realize you felt that way,'' he said.

''That's because you've been somewhere else, Zayne. You've been hers. Emotionally, mentally. And I'm here, sitting with every meal you missed, every plan you forgot, wondering what I did wrong.''

''You did nothing wrong,'' he said. Sharper now, not with anger, but something more desperate. Urgent.

You looked away, blinking against the sting behind your eyes, ''Then why does it feel like you don't want me anymore?''

A long silence followed.

Then.

''Because I'm afraid I'm going to lose you.''

Your gaze snapped back to him. ''What?''

Zayne stepped forward, closing the distance with the same quiet certainty he used in the OR when time was running out.

''I've seen what happens when someone becomes your everything,'' he said. ''When you stop thinking clinically. When fear clouds your judgment. When love makes you hesitate. And that hesitation costs lives.''

You blinked, stunned.

''I thought if I kept things efficient,'' he continued, ''if I buried myself in work and leaned on MC for tactical decisions, maybe I could keep you at a safe distance. Protect you from this life. From me.''

You stared. ''You were pushing me away on purpose?''

''Not to hurt you,'' he said, softer now. ''To protect you. But I see now I've only hurt you more.''

You shook your head, stepping back. ''You don't get to make that choice for me. You don't get to decide I'm better off without the truth.''

Zayne's voice cracked, barely, but enough.

''I didn't mean to make you feel like you weren't enough. You are. Every time I see you, it's like the noise in my head quiets. And that terrifies me, because if I lose that…''

He couldn't finish.

''You thought loving me made you weaker,'' you whispered.

''I thought loving you made you a liability,' he said quietly.'' he said quietly, ''Not because you are. But because I am. Because I'd choose you over protocol in a heartbeat. And people get hurt when you put your heart before your duty.''

You let out a shaky breath. ''MC isn't the one I'm jealous of because she's special to you. I'm jealous because she gets the part of you that I'm supposed to have. The honest part. The present part.''

Zayne stepped closer again, his hand rising, but stopping just short of your face. Hesitant. As if he thought he'd already lost the right.

''You're right to be angry,'' he said. ''And you have every right to walk away.''

You searched his eyes. The same eyes that used to make you feel safe. Now, they look tired. Scared.

''Is that what you want?'' you asked. ''For me to leave?''

''No,'' he said immediately. ''But I'll accept it if it's what you need.''

The silence stretched between you.

''I don't want to leave,'' you said at last. ''I want you back. The man who used to stay up with me after long shifts, who whispered about what constellations mean in ancient texts. The man who looked at me like I was worth fighting for, even when he had nothing left.''

Zayne closed his eyes for a moment, like your words were a wound he'd been waiting to feel.

Then he reached for you. Slow, reverent.

You didn't move away.

You leaned into his touch, letting the warmth of his skin soothe the cold that had been in your chest for days.

His fingers brushed your jaw, then settled there gently.

''He's still here,'' he said, voice thick with emotion. ''No more protecting you by erasing us.''

''I don't need you to be invincible, Zayne,'' you murmured. ''I just need you to be you. With me.''

''I can do that,'' he whispered.

And when he held you this time, it wasn't as a doctor shielding someone from pain.

It was a man choosing to stay.

To feel.

To love.

[grain-of-sando]

i don't believe this (i'm in love again!)

cm punk x reader

You don't watch wrestling. You don't know why you even agreed to go to this wrestling show. However, you DO know that whoever the cutie that's in the ring right now seems to be looking directly at you.

OR

CM Punk sees you in the crowd and falls in love.

WORD COUNT: 3007 TAGS: gender neutral reader, meet-cute, ecw/roh punk, punk is in luvvvv TITLE INSPO: hit by the sugarcubes

(cross-posted to ao3, read here !!)

You don’t really watch wrestling. Like, at all.

On a Saturday night, you normally would be staying inside and watching a crappy movie while barely awake, but instead, you’re sitting inside of a venue watching a match all because your friend begged you to go with her. She promised she’d pay for a meal afterwards, and it’s not like you have anything to do, so you begrudgingly went.

Despite your hesitance, you were having a good time watching, even though you didn’t have a clue what was happening. Maybe the Ancient Greeks were onto something with Gladiators, because every single move that happened in the ring made the whole crowd erupt like animals.

As you asked something to your friend about how much longer this is gonna be on for, the entrance music of a new wrestler suddenly filled the room, making some of the more dedicated wrestling fans start cheering. You looked around to see who was entering until you saw him.

Oh my god, he’s cute.

While you watched this wrestler you had no clue about sauntering out into the ring, you shamelessly ogled at him. He came out in a black zip-up jacket with a white stripe across the chest, along with some red shorts and some generic black boots. As he combed his taped-up hands through his bleached hair, you could make out a piercing on his lip with the silvery metal glimmering from the light upstage. Despite his more alternative look, his face looked full of energy, which says a lot considering you weren’t sitting close to him in the slightest.

Not to mention he had a great build… You probably had no chance, but it doesn’t hurt to stare.

“Who is that?” you yelled while leaning over to your friend. The room was so loud that your yell was equivalent to a whisper. Your friend looked over at you and shouted back, “CM Punk!”

You were about to ask her what the hell CM meant, but as you were glancing back at this CM Punk guy, you noticed it felt like he was looking at you.

Okay, don’t be delusional.

You blinked a couple of times to make sure you weren’t being crazy, but the more you looked at him, the more it felt like he was truly staring at you. You gave a smile in case he truly was looking, and maybe you’re truly insane, but you could’ve sworn he smiled back.

-

“Okay, okay, maybe you were right,” you started, walking out of the arena with your friend. “Wrestling is fun to watch. I was wrong. Happy now?”

“Now I am!” your friend replied, snickering. You were about to ask her where she parked, but suddenly your friend stopped walking and said, “Oh, shoot, would you mind if I run to the bathroom really quickly before we go?”

“Go do your thing, I’ll wait here,” you assured, waving her off. She gave you a little “I’ll be quick” before she scurried back into the arena, leaving you standing in the cold outside. The parking lot was full of people shuffling into their cars and talking amongst themselves about the different matches.

As you looked around and fiddled with the hem of your shirt, you heard a voice behind you.

“Uhm, hi, hey,” the voice started. You turned around, shocked when you realized the voice was CM Punk. He looked tired and less… well, half naked, with him sporting a grey shirt under his jacket and some regular blue jeans.

Was he really looking at you during the match after all?

“I, um.. I saw you in the audience,” CM Punk started, fidgeting with his hands as he spoke. “I knew I'd be mad at myself if I didn’t try and talk to you.”

He seemed to be nervous, but his eyes remained fixed on you, which gave you the opportunity to admire their hazel-green color. God, he looked even cuter when face-to-face with you. You must’ve been a saint in a past life because karma had to be the only reason he would even notice you.

As you guys exchanged your hellos and formalities, he asked, “Do you, umm… have any plans right now?” You might’ve accidentally given him a funny look at his question, because he immediately started to backtrack and say, “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a creep, I just… would you maybe wanna go grab a bite with me?”

You were about to say yes in a heartbeat before you remembered your friend. Crap, she was your ride home…

“Um.. I’d love to, can I just call my friend super quickly?” you say, trying to smoothly pull your phone out from your pocket. CM Punk nodded and said, “Sure, sure, take your time.” If you didn’t end up going out to eat with him, at least you know he’s nice.

You stepped away and quickly sped through your contacts to find your friend, silently pleading for her to pick up for every ring. The second you heard her voice, you immediately started speaking.

“Hey, sorry this is sudden, but you know that CM Punk guy that just wrestled, like, 20 minutes ago?” you said quietly, trying to seem casual about how excited you are over this.

Your friend said on the other line, “Uhm, yeah, duh, what about him?”

You paused. “Okay, so… He may have just asked me out.”

“…Lying is a sin, you know that, righ-”

“I’m not lying!” you argue. “He just asked me if I wanna go get food with him, but I didn’t want to abandon you since that’s kind of a crappy move-”

“If you’re telling the truth and he seriously just asked you out, I’d be pissed if you didn’t go!” your friend interrupted you. “Go get that man!” You gave a sigh of relief and said, “Okay, okay, see you tomorrow then!”

With that, you hung up and turned back to CM Punk. “Well, where to?”

“I know there’s a diner nearby,” he said, seeming way more relieved at you officially accepting his offer. “My car’s somewhere in this area, except I can't see shit in the dark…” He muttered that last part, but you still caught it and giggled at his annoyance.

The two of you walked around the parking lot until he pointed to a grey car in the distance, picking up his pace. When the two of you reached the car, he quickly unlocked the car and hopped into the driver’s seat while you opened the passenger side door. His car wasn’t anything fancy, and honestly, the inside was pretty cluttered, but you didn’t care in the slightest. He could’ve had Fred Flintstone’s car, and you would still be gushing.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said, picking up some of the random receipts and junk lying on the passenger seat.

“Don’t worry, my car’s not any better,” you assured knowing damn well you clean your car regularly, sitting down and closing the car door. He grabbed the steering wheel, tapping on it with his fingers before saying, “Um… I don’t do this often. I don’t, y’know, normally ask out people after matches.”

He looked over at you. “..and I wasn’t even expecting you to not reject me from the get-go. You’re really gorgeous. Out of my league by a mile,” he said earnestly, gazing at you in a way that made you know he wasn’t just trying to flatter you.

You gave him a bashful smile and said, “You’re not giving yourself nearly enough credit.” You couldn’t see his face very clearly in the dark, but you could’ve sworn you saw his cheeks turn ever-so-slightly redder.

Punk turned his key on the ignition and started slowly pulling out of the parking space, scanning around for the exit in the dark lot.

-

You and Punk arrived at a small diner near the area that seemed to be aiming for a 50s vibe, but then again, all diners have that “sort-of-vintage-sort-of-given-up” decor. He pulled into the parking lot and rummaged through his center console until he pulled a beat-up leather wallet.

Taking the key out of the ignition, he turned to look at you again and said, “Okay, ready to go?” You nodded and opened the door, moving over to his side and walking into the diner together.

After sitting down and ordering your meals from the waitress, you turned your attention back to your date. In the diner’s artificial light, you could see him way clearer compared to in the dark outside. His eyes looked more visibly tired, probably because he just got pummelled by a grown man not even an hour ago. As he shrugged off his jacket, you noticed his tattoos more clearly. Sure, you saw he was tattooed when he was out in the ring, but it’s hard to pick up detail when you aren’t face-to-face with the guy. As his hand pulled on the sleeves of his jacket while taking it off, you noticed the tattoo on his hand that said ‘NO GIMMICKS NEEDED’, not to mention his knuckle tattoos that spelled out ‘DRUG FREE’… You barely had a conversation with him so far, but his tattoos seemed to tell a story in themselves.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Punk jokes, grinning at your obvious staring. You yanked your gaze back to his eyes, slightly embarrassed, saying, “Sorry! I just – I really like your tattoos.” “Oh? Thank you,” Punk looked down at his arms as if he forgot he had ink on him. “You got any yourself?”

You shook your head. “I wish. I just don’t have any good ideas for what I’d wanna put on my body, like, permanently.” As you spoke, you aimlessly admired the heart tattoo he had near the inside of his arm. “Trust me, if I had a good idea, it’d be on me already.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” Punk lifted the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing to reveal his large Pepsi tattoo resting atop his shoulder. “I don’t have the most meaningful tattoos ever.” As he let go of his sleeve, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned closer to you. “I think you’d look great both with and without tattoos, though.”

Just as you were about to compliment him back, the waiter came strolling over with your guys' drinks and plates of food. After taking a bite from your surprisingly good burger, you looked back up at Punk, who must have been starving after his match because a good third of his burger had already been scarfed down.

“So, how’s it like being a wrestler?” you asked, making him perk up. “Sorry, that’s probably a lame question,” you backtracked, taking a sip of whatever soda you ordered. Punk shook his head and replied, “No, no, it’s not lame, wrestling’s… a very weird career, to say the least.”

“Weird?”

“Well, for starters, I get paid to get beat up and beat up other guys,” Punk jokes, making you stifle a laugh. “It’s definitely fun, though. Not for everybody, but I’m not everybody,” Punk quipped while stuffing his face with the fries he ordered.

“Do you only do wrestling?” you followed up. “Like, for work, I mean.” Punk nodded, swallowing before continuing, “I used to work at a comic book store, but once my wrestling career took off, I just stuck to this.”

“That’s enough about me, though… what do you do for work?” Punk asked, sipping his drink. You still feel like you don’t know nearly enough about this guy, but if he’s asking you questions, who are you to not like the attention?

“I’m in school right now,” you say, “I’m getting my bachelor’s, but I work as a receptionist part-time.” You pause, trying to get through your words without seeming like such a bore. “It is not as cool as wrestling, that’s for sure.”

Punk chuckled at your own self-deprecation before adding, “–way less injuries, though.”

“If injuries are your dealbreaker, I think you might be in the wrong line of work,” you jokingly counter.

Punk laughed at that, sipping his drink before saying, “You think?”

“Wait, wait, wait.. now I need to ask,” you start, “What is the worst injury you’ve ever gotten?”

Punk thought to himself for a moment – okay, if he’s thinking, then at least he didn’t get something crazy – before answering, “I once fractured my skull.”

Wow, nevermind.

“Okay, I was gonna explain, you can pick up your jaw,” Punk chastised, smiling at your shock. “It was… I wanna say it was near the beginning of my career. I tried to do a neckbreaker move, and I thought I broke my neck while the match was going on, which, y’know, that’s still–” Punk furrowed his brow and winced, “– but whatever. Anyways, once the match was over, it felt like the biggest challenge just walking from the ring to backstage.”

“Other than that… maybe a broken nose,” Punk finished, acting like he just told you a mildly infuriating anecdote, meanwhile you were still trying to envision how the hell a fractured skull probably feels like. You shook your head and commented, “I don’t know if I’ve ever even gotten, like, a fraction of that level of pain.”

“Trust me, you’re not missing out,” Punk noted, stuffing his face with some of his fries.

The two of you talked casually about your guys’ lives and interests as you ate – or, in the case of Punk, inhaled – your meals. When the waiter came back to ask about dessert, Punk raised an eyebrow at you as if to silently ask if you were still hungry, but it was getting late, and you unfortunately had work the next morning. Once Punk – who insisted on paying for your food despite you telling him you were definitely capable enough to pay for your own $8 meal – covered the bill, the two of you walked back out into the cold and into his car.

While Punk turned the car on and adjusted the heating, you looked over at him. A nearby light pole was casting a halo around his silhouette, making him look otherworldly despite his unassuming look. The light against his jet-black hair made him look like a solar eclipse you can’t seem to look away from.

“What?” Punk asked you, noticing you staring. “Do I got somethin’ on me?” He brought his hands up to half-hazardly wipe whatever he assumed was the reason for your gawking. Instead, you just shook your head and said, “You just look really good right now.”

“You know, it’s unfair how nervous you make me,” Punk teased while starting his attempt to pull out of the parking lot.

As Punk merged onto the nearby road, he glanced over at you and asked, “Where do I turn?”

“Keep going down this road,” you signaled, all while digging in your pocket for your phone. All your most recent messages have been your friend begging for details on your date, so you sent a quick ‘on my way home’ text to hopefully satisfy at least her craving for how long the date was.

As Punk drove, the two of you mostly sat in silence, only broken up by your directions. The lack of conversation wasn’t awkward; if anything, it felt comforting being able to sit in each other's presence without feeling an obligation to keep speaking. As the two of you reached closer and closer to your house, you told him to make a turn at the Circle K nearby.

“Just drop me off here,” you said, pointing to the convenience store’s neon sign. Punk turned into the lot, but he furrowed his brow and asked, “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I wanted to pick up a few things anyway.” Punk parked at the front of the lot before proceeding to rummage through the center console of his car for a pen and an old receipt for CVS.

“I have another show here tomorrow,” he started, flipping the receipt over to the back while scrawling something on it, “but in case you can’t make it…”

After he finished writing, he held out the receipt with his phone number on the back. “Give me a call sometime. I really enjoyed hanging out with you.”

You grabbed the receipt from his hands, giving him a bashful smile. “I enjoyed it too.”

You held the receipt, but your hand didn’t move away from his. Instead, the two of you just held onto it while staring at each other. He had a soft expression, but the fiery glint he always seemed to have in his eyes made you feel like you were all he was focused on right now. You noticed his eyes seemed to be bouncing from your eyes to your lips.

“Can.. can I ki–”

You cut him off by answering his question before he could even get all the words out, closing the distance between you two with a soft kiss. His lips felt soft against yours, and although you could’ve stayed in his car and kissed him senseless for eternity, your body was aching to go back home as fast as possible.

You pulled away and looked at his astonished expression. His hazel eyes looked so blown out you would’ve assumed they were black if you didn’t know their true tone, slightly widened just looking at you like you’re an angel descended from the heavens. You tried not to giggle at his expression, instead moving some of the stray hairs out of his face before grabbing the receipt.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you say. Punk nodded, seemingly still starstruck and saying “yeah, yeah” while you opened the door and stepped out. You waved goodbye at him before closing the door and scurried over to the front of the Circle K. You watched him reverse out of the lot and drive off as the wind blew against you.

You just met him, but somehow it felt like you’ve been wanting to know him your whole life.

(let me know if you enjoyed reading!!! im new to posting on tumblr so lord knows i need all the interaction i can get LOL)

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@waynes-multiverse

Wayne, as soon as I saw the title I knew I was in for a ride 🤣

Mostly because Florida is my home state and the "florida man" stereotype is not an exaggeration. Let me tell you. The things I have witnessed as someone who worked in retail and the service industry- just ugh.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed. It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

Yep, you literally got it down in two sentences 🤣

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water. Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be. Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House. Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

GIRL I'M DYING 🤣🤣🤣 THIS IS SO REAL and you are so real for this

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

I'm also dying at Dean trying to keep it together. Literally the idea of him sitting there all tense, sweating, maybe his eye twitching a little from too much concentration on anything else. It's so funny to think about- especially with the reader just being completely oblivious to the whole situation, made me cackle.

The reader to Dean the whole time:

Dean literally trying to think of anything else:

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Also I don't know if I've ever told you this, but the way you write is just so pretty and I am in love!!! 😍 I honestly think I did when I read Time after Time, BUT I'M going to say it again (and scream it from the rooftops).T his little bit of text was just so beautifully put and descriptive as was the entire fic. It was very immersive and from the moment I started reading the first sentence I was completely enthralled. 💚

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

The image of Dean wearing his usually outfit in a recliner next to some one who is completely full Florida Beach ready is just the funniest thing 🤣 I can so see him giving other men the stink eye as they walk by staring at the reader LOL.

But honestly this entire fic is so SO beautifully written and I LOVED every torturous moment for Dean. That poor (hot) man sitting in FULL flannel sweating, suffering...

Me the whole time:

I'm a terrible person probably, but I don't care, Wayne I absolutely loved this! If you ever decide to write more between this reader and Dean I would be so excited to read it (no pressure at all) 💚

Florida!!!

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Florida can eat his ass.

Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.

Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.

Which is impossible.

Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.

Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.

Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.

His vision whites out at the edges.

You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”

Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.

You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”

“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”

You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you–

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.

This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.

You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.

And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.

But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.

He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–

Stop it!

You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.

But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:

You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.

He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.

His dick twitches miserably.

He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.

“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.

Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.

You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”

Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.

You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You just–

Did you–

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.

You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.

Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.

His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Dean’s mind drifts again.

He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.

He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.

He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.

He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.

“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”

Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”

You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”

Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”

You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”

“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.

Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.

Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Yeah. Pretty.

Pretty much the goddamn end of him.

“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”

Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.

And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.

“Dean?”

He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.

You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”

Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”

But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.

You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.

He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.

He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–

Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.

But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.

At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.

He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.

Florida is hell.

You are hell.

And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.

Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.

Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.

“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.

Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”

“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”

Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.

“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.

You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.

You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.

“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”

“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.

Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”

As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.

He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️

Hope you enjoyed this one! 🩵

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

[jks1uv]

𝐹𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝐹𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦 ; bob reynolds | one-shot |

summary: y/n, meet bob. bob, meet y/n.

pairing: platonic fem!reader x bob + avenger!reader x bob + asgardian!reader x bob.

trope: found family (duh) + strangers to friends.

genre: fluff + slight angst + comedy.

warnings‼️: crude language + tall!reader (a little over 5’8) + spoilers!

word count: 1,748.

random disclaimerrr: reader is 19 & thor’s daughter. watched this masterpiece of a film 2 days ago & holy peak. truly peak. absolute cinema. *martin scorsese meme* marvel’s been on a generational run since gotg3 & i’m praying they keep ts up 🙏🏽 happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

“Oh, hey! You’re here.” Bucky says as he watches you fly through the open balcony.

“Perfect timing.” Ava comments as your armor melts back into your skin, revealing your original outfit.

“So fucking cool.” She softly says in awe.

“Right? It’s also super convenient.” John crosses his arms, watching you switch back into civilian mode so languidly.

You lay your sword on the side of the coffee table in front of the couch, plopping down on it with a heavy sigh.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Bob asks, confused by the random spark of commotion.

“Y/n is here?” Yelena pokes her head out of the pantry, eyeing your exhausted head tipped back on the headrest with your eyes closed.

Bucky hands you a water bottle and smiles when you sense him.

You open your eyes to look up at him.

“Good to see you, kid.” His voice smooth and steely blue eyes kind.

“Thanks, you too.” You say as you accept the cool drink.

You, Thor, Scott, Hope, Cassie, Valkyrie, and Carol were off-world, fighting an intergalactic enemy when The Void took almost all of New York into the shadow realm.

You just got back from the grueling trip a day ago.

“Well, well, well. It is the younger Asgardian.” Alexie affectionately pats your head.

You chuckle softly at the old santa’s loving actions.

“Where’s your dad?” Bucky’s eyes wander out the balcony when he hears silent noise following you.

“He’s getting beers with Valkyrie, he’ll join us later.”

You give a quick side-hug to Yelena and a crisp high-five to Ava when John straightens his back, expecting a welcome as well.

You walk straight ahead, not meaning to ignore him but step back and look to the side in surprise.

Your head snaps from him to Bucky, from Bucky to him and back. You blink rapidly, pointing a finger up at him and say, “What's he doing here?”.

You can’t help how you sound.

“Oh. He's uhh, part of the team now.” Bucky shrugs.

You don't say anything but your face does. Bruh y'all couldn't find anyone else?

“He'll catch on fire if you stare at him any longer.” Ava says behind an amused smile.

“No, wait! Keep staring! I am recording just in case.” Alexie gives you a big thumbs up and is recording on an older version of the iPhone that’s not surprisingly cracked.

How he got ahold of technology before Steve is beyond you.

“I'm literally standing right here." John says in disbelief.

“Almost as if that is the whole fucking point, genius.” Yelena rolls her eyes and scoffs as she goes back into the pantry.

Bob is still confused but he has to admit, it's entertaining seeing everyone vouch for you.

He senses a great power in you, one that may very well rival his own.

You look oddly familiar but he can't place his finger on it. Where have I seen you before?

“Oh, before I forget.” Bucky moves aside so you can meet the new guy.

“Y/n, this is Bob.”

He extends his metal arm out to the fresh set of new eyes and they're wide in curiosity.

You put your hand up and wave, giving the new addition to the team your best welcome. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

He now has a full view of you.

You're nice, he thinks.

Bob doesn’t takes first impressions lightly and since yours is a good one, that counts for everything.

You're tall, he estimates your original height to be a little over 5'8 since your heeled boots add quite a few inches to you.

He believes you'd be the same height as him with them on.

Your shiny hair and bright eyes contrast nicely with your smooth skin. Your youthful appearance is refreshing to see and invokes an almost familial feeling in him.

Your smile is warm, comforting.

You don't seem to have anything to hide, it's like you're letting him see you for who you are on the first meeting .

It intimidates him, your confidence in yourself.

He wishes to learn that one day.

Your features resemble someone he's seen before, he knows it.

It's getting kind of frustrating trying to remember something he can't.

“Bob, meet Y/n.”

You assess the added member; hair is medium length, dark brown and wavy. He seems pretty tall, your guess is 6 feet. He's also timid. His body language is reserved and calm.

Bob smiles shyly, showing his top set of perfectly straight and white teeth. He does a little wave, eliciting a small laugh at his actions.

“Hi. I-It's nice to see you, too.” He repeats your sentiment and you can't help but smile.

He reminds you of a little boy on his first day of school.

Cute.

“Well, I’m gonna go sleep forever now so I’ll see y’all later.” You announce before shortly departing.

You set a mental reminder about texting Peter to meet up after you wake up to go do something.

Everyone goes their separate ways.

John goes out for an interview rehearsal (that’s a thing??). Bucky is joining Sam, Clint, and Bruce to train the younger avengers. Ava phases through the walls, you assume she’s going to her room. Yelena takes her snacks and father to the theater room upstairs for a movie.

Bob stands in the common room, studying your sword.

“Wow.” He whispers.

Bob marvels at the sight of your beautiful sword.

The grip seems about 3 inches wide and thick. It’s made of pure gold along with the guards. The grip and guards have intricate designs drawn on them.

The blade is a long and thick slab of metallic steel, seemingly heavy to hold.

He spots a design on the blade. The design is gold and creates an illusion of glass, a very clean mirror that can be used as a prism.

Bob can tell the designs were made by hand, impressive craftsmanship in detail.

He looks closely, a particular detail catching his eye.

There’s a small symbol in the middle of the guards, an emblem of some sort.

Bob squints his eyes as he tries to understand what it could be, decipher its meaning.

“It’s a rune of my realm.”

Bob immediately jumps up and yelp, his palm clamps over his mouth, muffling it a bit.

His breathing is as erratic as his heartbeat and you feel guilty.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you, I thought you heard me come back.”

You weren’t stealthy but you weren’t noticeable, either. Still, you feel as though you should’ve made your presence known.

“I’m truly, very sorry.” You apologize again as you nervously peer at him.

He gulps and blinks. “It’s okay, I’m okay. It’s fine.” Bob nods to himself, a tightlipped smile on his face.

You lick your lips and purse them, nodding slightly to yourself.

“Okay.” You say softly.

It’s awkward for a beat before you two speak up again.

“I-”

“You-”

You both close your lips and stare at one another before laughing in embarrassment.

“You can go first.” You offer.

You’re sweet, he decides.

“No, no. I-I think you were saying something first.” He insists.

You smile and go ahead. “I was just saying that I’m gonna take that and go back, for real this time.”

You hold out your arm and open palm, calling your sword to you.

She listens and is compelled by your hand like a magnet.

“Woahhh.” He breathes.

You laugh, successful in the art of showing off.

It’s all about subtlety.

“That’s so cool, how-how did you do that?” He tilts his head quizzically.

“Where I’m from, magic is in everything. My grandfather had this sword forged long before I was born but it’s embedded with magic.”

You trace the blade with your free hand, remembering the hard work you toiled to be worthy of carrying the responsibility of the blade.

“Where are you from?” He wonders out loud.

“Asgard.”

Bob gasps and snaps his fingers like he just figured out the missing piece of a puzzle (he did).

“That’s it! That-That’s where I know you from! You’re Thor’s daughter!”

You chuckle softly at his excitement, his bubbly demeanor melting away your tiredness.

“The one and only.” You joke as you raise your hands and shrug nonchalantly.

“Wow, man. I gotta tell you, you’re awesome.” He guffaws.

You feel warm at the praise, not really expecting anything from this guy you just met.

“Oh, wow… um, thank you. That’s nice of you to say that.” You say shyly as you scratch your arm.

He nods. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

“You’re great, too.” You blurt out.

He looks at you and you see an insecure look on his face.

“Your powers are really cool, a thousand exploding suns and all that.”

His eyes shine with an unspoken curiosity. One that says You really think so?

“R-Really?” A silent laugh escapes him and his adam’s apple reverberates.

“Yeah! You’re super fast and strong. You’re even bullet and knife proof.” You beam. “Like me.”

Ever since The Thunderbolts* weakened The Void with the power of friendship, Bob has never felt more connected.

There’s an entire group of people who welcome him and treat him with the care and respect he deserves.

Your statement was clear and concise, you’re not trying to imply anything. There’s no hidden agenda with you.

You were simply making an observation and connecting it with yourself, a well-respected, renowned hero.

Bob’s no hero, he’s still trying to find things that make him feel like himself.

You’re young, so young and filled with such an encouraging spirit that makes him feel willing.

“Yeah.” He softly agrees. “I guess I am like you.”

You sense a deep sadness in him, something that troubles him and obstructs him from speaking freely.

You don’t want to force him out but you also don’t want to come across as overly sensitive.

“I’m not sleepy anymore. Do you wanna… maybe go do something?”

Peter can wait, you think. You also think he and Bob would get along well.

He thinks about it for a moment.

He doesn’t have training anytime soon and has read up all his books. Some new scenery would do him good and this way, he’d get to know you better.

He wants to be your friend and hopes you share the same sentiment.

Little does he know, you’re almost there.

“Yeah, sure. Why not.” He smiles once more and this time, it reaches his eyes.

[neeeooon]

shut me up ;

25 | y/n protection squad

ft. fem!reader & shidou, bachira, sae, rin, isagi, nagi, chigiri, kunigami, reo, kaiser and ness (mentioned)

cw. cussing, subtly implied suggestive content

“hey, y/n?” bachira asked from his comfortable spot between your legs. you hummed in reply, twisting his growing two-toned hair as you pulled the hair tie from between your teeth. you were having a sleepover since he was on "y/n watch," which was an excuse to sleep in your room and eat your food. “do you like kaiser?”

you choked. “like kaiser? what’s there to like?”

bachira’s back shifted as he shrugged. he was wearing an oversized metal tee that you were 90% sure he stole from shidou. “he’s not bad looking. plus, he’s pretty talented. has a nice voice and can play guitar. i don’t know, he just has a way with women.”

"well, that's..." you didn't mean to trail off, thinking about kaiser's pretty eyes and his smooth singing voice. when you blinked back, bachira was smirking up at you. "shut up," you said as you smacked his shoulder. "now, let me do your nails. you need to stop peeling the polish off!"

"i can't help it! it's fun."

the two of you decided to play some games after his nails dried, which turned into a full-on wrestling match when bachira stole your gaming console. you chased him around your room, jumping from your floor to the bed, breathing heavily with exhaustion. "slow down, damn!"

"you need the exercise!" he shot back before sticking his tongue out to tease you.

falling dramatically against the wall, you sighed and grabbed a white blanket to wave above your head. "i'm gonna make you cry next time," you promised.

bachira hauled you to your feet and handed the controller back. "so competitive! don't let shidou or isagi hear, they won't be as nice as i am."

with one last playful shove, you followed bachira back to the living room to finish your race and call it a night.

masterlist // previous (ch 24) // next (ch 26)

notes -> :)

tags -> @x3nafix @n0tbelle @nensi @ohagiyoo @tired-child00 @melinana @chaoslibra @kaidostwin @bubybubsters @miss-aesthetic-13 @ihsoti @arwawawa2 @lonigiri @realrintaro @mivqko @sorasushik1 @pookalicious-hq @higuchislut @tofumiarchives @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 @rainychi2 @ch4rstxr @sapph1r3x @sagging-saging @5-laska @tuna-toes @seinuis @sindulgent666 @evilari111 @newinhalerpls @kisses2kanao @sugacor3 @meizumi @90s-belladonna @meowstertruck420 @kyutiipie @ranzess @cookiesandcreammy @nevvynev @stwberri @mikeymyfav @dontmindtheevie @kaikaidenkai @mizukiblogs @ravenbc @yvanllie @cyberasterrr @lily-isalittlegirl @yourlocaleffy @hanamatopoeia

© neeeooon, 2025

[thecheshireprincess]

The Little Things

Shuntarō Chishiya x GN!Reader (no pronouns mentioned)

Summary: Maybe the little things are the most important of all 🫶🏻

Content Warning: Mentions of blood, canon-typical violence (not explicit, just the aftermath), probably curse words bc I have no chill, little bit angsty but happy ending

A/N: Just a quick little Chishiya drabble; super short, kind of angsty, kind of fluffy (like me rn)

I hope you enjoy 🫶🏻✨️

Your relationship was built on a foundation of simple little things - small actions intended to evoke a smile, to make your life better. There was nothing grandiose or romantic about it, or so you'd always told yourself.

It was the coffee made just right, a wisp of steam billowing in the air as it waits on your desk before your overnight shift at the hospital. It was his steady, comforting presence at your side when you lost a patient or needed to find a way to deliver difficult news to a family. It was the way he always swooped in with takeout and the promise of companionship just when you were about to let yourself succumb to the familiar abyss of loneliness. The man was a steadfast presence over the years, his blonde hair casting light even in the darkest corners of your life.

But the Shuntarō Chishiya you knew would never say the three words most people yearn to hear, and you would never be caught begging to hear them from him. Doing so would implicate him in deeper feelings for you, would mean that there was something more significant than friendship between the two of you. And wouldn't that just ruin everything? Somehow, deep down, both of you know; though it's kept locked away like an inside joke that only you can understand. That his actions have spoken louder than words ever could, that he has been silently telling you all these years with every lunch together, every time he's shared his umbrella with you, every squeeze of your shoulder in encouragement.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

And now in this moment - after weeks - months? - of fighting for your lives together in a ruthless world and the lines of your friendship softly blurring, you feel the tug of desperation sinking in your stomach like a brick. Your heart cries out a silent plea as you sink to your knees on the warm, cracked asphalt beside him.

Please don't leave me here. I need you. I love you.

Fading chestnut eyes blink up at you, a crimson stain pooling slowly but distinctly on the ground; the consequence of a violent blend of pride, hatred, and similarity. Your shaking hands flit over his abdomen, a little pressure here, more pressure there. Blood soaks quickly through his signature white jacket, and before you know it, your hands are coated in the shiny slick too. Your eyes widen in true terror - there was nothing you could do in a place like this, any and all medical supplies in the area long gone. Chishiya knew it too, his cold, steady fingers gently finding yours instead, rubbing soothing patterns across your trembling skin.

"I do, you know. Always have," his voice rattles out with a wheeze, his death bed speech short but not surprising. He says just enough to make you let out a choked sob, your heart shattering like delicate glass in your chest. The memories of your time together both here and in the old world flicker through your mind on rapid fire, simultaneously breaking you further while also breathing new resolve into you - he has to live.

You nod emphatically, joyous and terrified tears mixing at your waterline. "I know, me too," you sniffle, stray tears cascading down your adrenaline-colored cheeks, "Tell me when we get home, okay? Consider it motivation to stay alive." The look on his face as he studies you, as if trying to memorize exactly what you look like in this moment - the moment you've essentially confessed your silent love for one another - knocks the wind out of your lungs in devastation. He brushes a hand over the wet path your tears took, cooing unintelligible words of comfort as he attempts to guide you to lay against him with a wince.

"Chishiya! What are you doing?" you ask in alarm, awkwardly maneuvering your body to avoid falling against his bloodied injuries. He huffs a slight laugh through his nose at the way you contort yourself as if trying to avoid something scary. "Lay with me, please? It might even help stop the bleeding," he jokes, his characteristic smirk stretching on his lips.

After a moment of anxious contemplation, teeth grating at your bottom lip, you gingerly allow yourself to curl against his less injured side. Any nervous tension left in your body melts away as he tilts your chin up to look at him. His shining eyes are filled with more emotion than you'd have thought he was capable of, somehow knowing they were a perfect mirror of your own. "You have no idea how much you mean to me, do you?" he whispers, searching your soul for the answer he wasn't really expecting from your mouth. Tears blur your vision again, threatening to ruin your tender moment. Chishiya doesn't mind, doesn't hesitate any further.

With a genuine smile, he pulls your rosy lips to meet his in the middle, soft skin meeting soft skin for the first time as your eyes flutter shut. Finally. His kiss is gentle but full of unplaced emotion; full of words you may never hear spoken outloud. None of that matters, now. Chishiya pours every ounce of love he has for you into your lips as you move softly against each other, hands gently exploring uncovered skin. This would be enough for you, it might have to be.

Breathless and looking a little paler, Chishiya lets go of your swollen lips, gently guiding your head to the place where his neck and shoulder meet. "Let's rest and wait for Arisu and Usagi to do their job, hm?" he asks, his arm wrapping around your shoulders like it belonged there, fingers stroking your bare arm. You snuggle into him further, pressing your hand carefully to the wound that was bleeding faster and situating yourself where you could hear the still steady thump of his heart. You focus in on the way it sounds, making each beat your mantra. Stay alive. The beautiful symphony of his proof of life lulls you into a light slumber as the sun sets in the sky, casting twilight shadows around Shibuya.

You shoot up in surprise as you're startled awake by hundreds of fireworks lighting up the starry sky above you. Your heart leaps with joy in your chest - Arisu and Usagi had actually done it. You don't realize that tears of relief are streaking warmly down your cheeks until the pad of Chishiya's thumb swipes them gently away. You hurriedly turn to kiss him again, a wave of calm surging through your body knowing he had made it. Your kiss now is a stark contrast to earlier; deeper, more passionate. All teeth and tongue as you express your excitement. You'd won.

When the cheerful robotic voice gives you your final choice, having interrupted your moment of passion, you look up at Chishiya for an answer. You want whatever he wants, and up until now he has been pretty on the fence about that. His tired eyes, framed by darkened circles look down to study you. "I don't want it," he mumbles with a strained cough, "I think." You grin dazzlingly up at him, his fingers stroking through your hair while you contemplate what you're going to say. "I want to go home," you murmur confidently, "With you." You lay your head back against him, nuzzling into his neck as your body grows heavy. The last thing you remember before the world you'd come to know fades to black was a warm kiss pressed to the crown of your head, and the comforting sound of Chishiya's voice.

I love you.

What you'd once considered the little things, well, maybe they weren't so little after all.You wouldn't be taking those for granted anymore.

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

Masterlist

Everything Tag List: @potato-vagina @28361573 @maxinehufflepuffprincess @mocchii-writes @monkey4lifer @trinibadgyal @izzybizzyk

Chishiya Tag List: @kimsrie @jjkxxy

Please don't hesitate to let me know if you want to be added to (or removed from) any of my tag lists! You can specify if there's a character you like or if you want to see everything. Also, my asks and messages are open, PLEASE reach out, I would literally die to interact with you; ily guys endlessly 💕✨️

[bisayawa]

grocery runs & taking out the trash

✎___ lin lie × fem!reader

✎___ a/n: domestic fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, not proofread, possible ooc lin because i don't read the comics & i don't play the game. i don't even know if the iron fist is supposed to be outside of k'un-lun. i just think he's hot as fuck in marvel rivals. 1,400~ words. enjoy ♡

"did you really have to drag me all the way out here for some stupid grocery run?"

he's been whining about it all morning, from the apartment to the walk, from the entrance to inside, from aisle one to thirty three. he was like a toddler. he could light up a whole city with all the consistent energy he had for complaining… but you had to give him credit. despite all the eye rolling and huffing, he helped. he'd write down something new into the grocery list if you forgot. he'd remember the brand name and colors as if it were just fresh from his memory. he even remembered the specific aisles an item was in, no matter how niche. with some backtracking, wincing of prices and a bit of fun, this grocery run could be the most successful one yet. this part of the adulting shit might actually be an easy one.

"uuughhh…”

you sigh out as you check the price of a can opener, looking over your shoulder to find lin hunched over the cart. his face looks like it's melting off his head, sad and droopy and with a pout to boot.

"if i didn't know any better," you start, "i'd say you look like you prefer the life-threatening monsters instead of boring old civilian life."

you compare and contrast the prices of two can openers again… hm. one is all metal and lasts longer… but one is partly plastic but very cheap. you look up when you don't hear a reply.

lin is still hunched over, mouthing out your words and miming a flapping effect with his right hand, a caricature of your chastising. you swat him in the arm.

"hey! ow,"

"we are going to be in here for 3 more hours if you keep doing that, lin."

he huffs in answer, driving the cart forwards in an effort to appease. his eyes lazily glide about the store and its fluorescent lights. he checks the shelves and he remembers that you're already in the boring seasoning aisle.

“we don't even have to replace these yet!!” he hollers.

“yeah!! but you broke the can opener yesterday.” you holler back, gesturing to the rack of kitchen tools near the side.

he gets petulant again, resting his hand on his palm as he prods the cart to follow you. you end up putting the metal can opener in. the package thuds against the metal bars of the cart.

you check the list again on your phone, and everything is struck out. eggs, meat, vegetables, fruit, broth, snacks, chips…

“lin? can you check the list again?” you bring the phone closer, and he leans in. “it's all in the cart… can you think of anything we missed?”

he takes a moment, a long moment, quiet in his stance and blinking at the list. alas, it is fruitless, only confirming that you had everything you needed. you and he push the cart together to the checkout station; and just like last week, you check out the items, he bags them.

it's a soft monotonous hum for a few minutes, the clinical beep of the machine, the sterile music from the ceiling speakers, the harsh bright white of the lights. maybe this is what lin complains about. it's enough to give you hives with too much exposure.

you reach for another item only to remember you've finished scanning them all. you blink a little to get your bearings before taking out your card, swiping it in and paying for everything. turning your head, you'd see lin putting the items in the bags and hauling them into his arms. for once, he's not complaining. maybe he just needs something to do, keep him moving. he, a martial artist. perhaps he just craves activity, movement, get his blood pumping and all that.

you take the receipt, and he puts it in the bag, falling into step with you as you leave the grocery store.

the walk back home is quiet. fridays through sundays are always hectic. what takes you an hour to do ends up taking three or four, and so you had decided to go grocery shopping on a tuesday.

“hey?”

“yeah, lin?”

“did you buy those chocolate eggs i like?”

“yep, i did.”

“and the fancy instant ramen? the imported one?”

“yeah… but only one pack though. the shelf was empty and it was the only one there.”

“... maaa, that's okay. we can share it when we want a late night snack that isn't pizza.”

“will you finally top it with mushrooms, like i said?”

“fuck no.”

you swat him but it's gentler this time. it's a laugh in the form of a strike. he reciprocates in his own way, ruffling your hair until the fringe is undone. you laugh, and he laughs, too.

but even through the laughter, you see a familiar face at the end of the sidewalk, and it's not a happy reunion. the man is gaunt, old, balding and surly with wrinkles striped about his face. he has a coat on with his hands in the pocket. the panic sets in quietly and you cling to lin by the arm, trying not to look too hard at the man. it was probably just a blurry doppelganger, yeah? you don't even have your glasses on.

“hey… you okay?”

“lin, “ you say, already half hoarse from emotion. “hold me closer,” is what comes to mind.

his hand goes around your waist but still, he is unsure, looking to you for confirmation, for clues, for a sign that you're okay.

“please,” you tack on. he isn't holding you close enough.

the man brushes past and it's like a boa constrictor relaxes at your throat. you still cling to lin as he looks over his shoulder, his line of sight following the man before connecting two and two together. he hastens the pace.

"hey, come on, look at me.”

he's sat you down on the sofa. the groceries are on the counter in the kitchen… the world comes into focus, bit by bit.

“there you are. there's my girl.” he's cradling your cheek in his palm, big and calloused and warm to the touch. “come on, tell me what happened. what was that?”

his opposite hand is holding yours, kneading your knuckles softly.

“tell me what's wrong… please?" he pleads. "you were shaking back there.”

“it was the… guy.”

“yeah… i know but… i know there's more to it than that.”

“he uh,“ you pick your head up infinitesimally and lin is staring at you with every shade of brown in his irises. there's a wrinkle above his forehead. the living room feels like it's breathing with him.

“i went out to find a midnight snack last week… at the convenience store.”

“you… by yourself-?! you…” lin is seething out the words but he knows it's not what you need right now. he lets it go.

“he saw me… he wanted my number. he grabbed- ”

lin slams a glowing hand on the coffee table, breaking it in half, and stomps to the front door, and all you can do is pull on his hand as hard as you can. his breathing is heavy. his shoulders are squared. his hands are balled.

the tears start before you can say anything. a deep voice in your heart tells you his anger is your fault.

there's a huff from lin, a beat passes and his relents, going back to the sofa and enveloping you in his arms. his hand cards through knotted hair. he sighs into the crook of your neck.

“he grabbed you…?” it doesn't sound like he wants an answer.

“on the arm… only there. i promise.”

the breath of relief has him feeling dizzy. he squeezes you to him like you're his lifesaver. he peppers kisses into your pulse. when his lips brush over your heartbeat, it reminds him that you're here, alive and well and safe.

“don't ever go to the fucking store in the middle of the night again. you hear me?”

the nod into his shoulder is small, but he accepts it nonetheless.

the groceries are still on the counter ― the tub of ice cream is probably melting. the coffee table is still broken, but the priority is you. it will always be you, and he tells you so, with kisses to your pulse, with words of love into your throat, with gentle sighs into your neck.

when he's sure you're asleep, he kisses your hair and jumps out through the window to start his mission of finding the man that did you wrong.

[snow-blower]

angsty robb drabble pls pls pls like hmm the first time you see the king in the north behead a man or smth? and you start avoiding him cs all you can think about is the coldness in his eyes when he 🗡️↘️

Absolutely!! 🫶🫶

Flinch - Robb Stark

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

The snow was falling when it had happened.

You were stood at the edge of the camp, donned in a fur cloak and thick wool dress. You had wrapped your arms tightly around yourself as you watched.

Your breath caught when Robb lifted his sword, standing tall and sharp, darkened by the weight of command even as he brought it down again.

Red covered white.

You flinched. Not from the act. No. From him. The look in his eyes, colder than the deepest depths of the North. It was the way he didn't hesitate. Didn't blink.

The head rolled. Bile rose in your throat.

Robb gave his men a nod, turned on his heel, and walked away as though his sword wasn't stained red. It was as if he wasn't the man who passed the sentence or the man who swung the sword.

You didn't follow him when he called for you.

You didn't share his bed that night. Feigned sleep when he found you asleep in your old tent the morning after. The tent you slept in before you married.

Your stomach twisted with guilt and your heart felt heavy.

You heard him shuffle back out of your tent, a wave of frustration following him through the flap.

Three days later he cornered you. You had managed to sneak off, away from the guards, and found yourself at a little stream. You tucked yourself against a nearby tree, slumped against it as you listened to the sounds of the forest around you.

You heard the footsteps and before you knew it he was stood before you. You didn't try to escape. You knew you wouldn't be able to pull it off. So, you shifted. You stood up, brushed the dirt from your skirts, and chewed your bottom lip nervously.

Robb watches you, blue eyes clouded with a storm. It was much alike the one he wore before battle, or when he's about to say something that will tear himself about.

"You've been avoiding me." He states, quiet but firm.

You nod, twisting your fingers nervously into your skirts. There's no point denying it.

"I frightened you." He continues.

Your throat closes. You nod again. "Yes."

You say it so quietly. It nearly gets carried away in the wind.

For a moment it looks like he's about to step forward, reach a hand for your hip or pull you in for a hug. He seems to second guess himself and instead clenches his hands in his leather gloves.

Your gaze drifts over his shoulder. You can see the glint of the stream. But you can barely hear the sound of the running water over your beating heart.

"Gods," he swallows, gaze flicking to the ground almost shamefully. "You cannot even look me in the eye."

You force your gaze back on him then. You look up at him. Really look.

His eyes weren't cold anymore. They didn't have the same hardness in them as they did that day.

No. Now they're filled with pleading. Exhausted. Red-rimmed from the sleepless nights he didn't have you in his arms for.

When you don't speak up, he does.

"You know I had to do it."

"I know that." You snap through gritted teeth. Of course, you knew he had no choice in the matter.

"I know it needed to be done. I know that there was no choice in the matter." You pause and glance at him again, searching for any hint of the man you saw that night.

Robb's gaze meets yours.

He's not there.

"It was the way you did it. Like it didn't affect you at all," you breathe out shakily. "You didn't look the same."

His whole body tenses at that and his jaw clenches. But, it's not anger that causes it. It's hurt. Pure, aching hurt.

"I couldn't. I was supposed to be strong." His voice is hoarse, cracking at the seams.

"If I had let it show — if I had flinched or hesitated — what would that say to the men who trusted me to lead them? To protect them?"

He swallows like the words tasted sour on his tongue.

You see him then. The boy playing dress up as king. The boy who was never truly prepared to play the game of wars.

"It did. Gods, it did affect me, love. I think about it every time my eyes shut. I keep seeing the way you looked at me after."

His gaze is still locked on yours. His lips trembles, and the tears in his eyes match yours.

"I don't want you to ever look at me like that." He steps forward, reaching out to hover a hand over your hip. When you don't flinch, he settles his hand there, pulling you into his arms with a desperation you've never seen on him.

"Don't ever look at me like that. Please." His voice cracks and his shoulders shake with a weak sob.

Your arms wrap around his midsection, tugging him closer as though you were trying to absorb the pain that had been festering beneath the surface for so long.

You don't speak. Not yet. You just curl your fingers into the leather of his armour and hold him close like he needs it. He does need it. He still smells like war when you bury your face into the crook of his neck. Leather, smoke and snow. Yet, for the first time it near grounds you.

"I'm still me." It's whispered once against your hair. Then twice. And then a few more times. Over and over like he's repeating a prayer that he needs the gods to answer. "I promise.

"I know." You finally managed to whisper back. It's all you can manage. But it's enough for now.

[probably-flowers-and-cats]

//something something about unexplored Hiiragi and Sakura's friendship, relapses, the irony, hands, words, and talks.

Sakura glares. stubbornly. and glares. and glares. thinks somewhere in-between his blinks. and glares.

he reckons all the times when one of the four kings and him were alone, one on one. despite the fact that Hiiragi is basically one of the first Furin representatives Sakura had met before the school year even started, they hadn't have much of a chance to get to know each other a little bit more than bits and pieces.

until today.

Sakura hums and frowns, his eyes watching Hiiragi's hands. he doesn't really listen to what the upperclassmen says, still alerted and tense, unfamiliar with the feeling of being protected once more and afterwards taken care of.

"...and that damn Umemiya kicked the bastard again," Hiiragi's voice seeps in like sunshine seeps into cracks on the walls, and Sakura nods instinctively. "he is annoyin', but reliable. and annoyin'. I cannot stomach 'im most of the time."

the voice is suddenly soft. Sakura thinks that with such a voice people don't talk about those who they don't appreciate and respect. he tilts his head and listens, ignoring the pinpricks of pain here and there.

"but he's strong," there's a sigh — a regret? a tiredness? a fatigue creeping under the skin? — and chuckle. Sakura squints his eyes. sharp throb travels back and forth from his ankle to his knee. it makes him exhale, and Hiiragi's hands ground him, their warmth spotting his skin in an unfamiliar pattern of care and reassurance. "sorry, kid. didn't mean to babble that much."

Sakura shakes his head. words are lead bullets and he's nothing but fists and kicks and teeth, deepening into the other's skin, sharper when he was smaller, nails digging and scratching cat's alike. he never knew words. he knew touches, bruises, shouts, and yells. never words — and never questions to ask.

"talk," he throws the word. Hiiragi's hands are anything but soft, grazing against his bare skin, but hot and steady, and — covered in his blood, red on beige; under nails, impossible to get rid of. somewhat it calms him down: he's not that easily riddable off. ridable off? rid of? whatever.

oh. he's not that easy to get rid of.

he's a sharpened harpoon. a dried agrimony in someone's hair. blood under the nails. bite marks, turned into scars. ugly, angry, and nothing else but an aggravation, a black-white plop of mud on a picture.

Sakura blinks slowly.

"talk?" Hiiragi echoes him. "usually I'm the one who listens. talk... that'll do. y'know, that's nice to have you here." his hands carefully return to tending to Sakura's wound. "you did hella brave today, I'm not sure I'd handle that alone."

Sakura shrugs. thugs were annoying, numerous, and quite tiring. and stupid enough to bring knives. Hiiragi was handling them all alone, his vices attending other places, stakes higher than usual due to new gangs, aiming for the resources Makochi accumulated over the years of Umemiya's reforms. Suo and Nirei also had been hurried away to help townspeople, and Sakura followed the noise alongside Anzai.

Anzai already contacted the class, and was chatting with those who started gathering on the roof for the meeting. Hiiragi dragged him away to bandage the wound on his ankle, sliced by one of the knife. Sakura thinks of the irony.

"you'll be better than 'im," Hiiragi speaks again. "you are already." bullshit, but Sakura doesn't utter a word. nope. he curves his lips, frowns, the silent reply. Hiiragi's hands are once more being placed on his ankle, bandage finely wrapped. "look up."

he doesn't follow Hiiragi's words.

the hands leave his eyesight.

the very next moment he feels the touch — he's about to flinch away, but the touch is nowhere to be harming. it's brushing through his hair, ruffling them, making them a mess, and tugging him slightly back, which makes him face Hiiragi.

who smiles — eyes so soft it makes him shiver, and behind Hiiragi — the class 1-1, talking and chatting, and looking at him with nothing but sweetness in their gazes.

"I'm so damn proud of ya already," Hiiragi says, and Sakura furiously blushes, and the class bursts into hearty laugh, and things are scary, future is not foreseeable, relapses are quite a thing, circling back and forth is maddening, — and he's in the place where he wants to be more than scars, kicks, teeth, and an invasive weed.

he wants to be words, gentle touches, and right questions to ask.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 54 Chapter 54 | the shape of his grief⌟

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Your boots tapped lightly over the cobbled path, each step familiar now. It didn't take long to retrace your way back. Everything on the island was walking distance—tight and crooked, half-stacked atop itself like someone had built the town out of clay and too many dreams.

The streets curved more than they straightened, each one layered with flowerpots, drying laundry, and the smell of old lemon soap or frying oil depending on which bend you took.

You turned a corner near the old olive press—just past the rusted bell where some child had tied a ribbon to the clapper—and that's when you saw her.

Eione.

Standing in the middle of the street like she'd been waiting there all along.

You stopped. Full stop. No breath, no blink. Just... stopped.

The moon hung low behind her—thin, curled like a hook, but bright. It casted her in a soft glow, wrapping her white shawl in silver, turning her hair to seafoam light. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look lost. She just stood there, calm as tidewater, as if she belonged to this hour.

Your throat bobbed. "...Eione?"

She smiled at the sound of her name. Soft. Almost warm. "I heard you've been looking for me."

Your breath hitched. "I—" You stuttered, words falling out clumsily. "I mean—yes. Kind of. I wasn't sure—didn't know if you'd still be here."

She took a few slow steps forward, her sandals barely making a sound on the stone. "Then I suppose I ought to answer, don't you think?"

You blinked. Confused. "Answer?"

"It's only right," she said simply. "You asked. The sea heard. The stars watched. So I came."

You stared at her, heart tripping. "I... don't understand," you finally whispered. "What do you mean?"

Eione tilted her head, the moonlight flickering in her eyes. "I'm a devotee of Apollo," she said. "Blessed with vision. Some say seer, others say nuisance. I say I serve."

Your pulse skipped.

"You serve him," you repeated, slow. "You serve Apollo."

"I do," she nodded. "And you... are his favorite."

The word hit harder than expected. Not boastful. Not even complimentary. Just... factual. Weighted.

You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your fingers curled lightly at your sides. "That's—" You huffed out something between a laugh and a breath. "That's kind of a lot, isn't it?"

Eione's smile didn't fade. "It should be."

Because gods, it was. It really was.

You weren't just a favored mortal now. You weren't just a servant or a student or a girl on a ship with a dream tucked under her ribs. You were someone that oracles bowed toward. Someone whose decisions could shape visions.

The thought made your stomach twist. You weren't sure if it was pride or panic.

You looked at her again—this woman, this vision, this quiet answer you'd asked the wind for weeks ago. And now here she stood, looking at you like you'd summoned her by name.

And maybe you had.

Maybe this was the moment where things started shifting again.

Just not how you expected.

Eione's gaze stayed on you. "There'll be no interruptions this time," she said softly. "No tournament bells. No soldiers calling you away. Just truth."

She paused, then held out her hands.

"Do you wish to see your prophecy?"

Your heart thudded once. Then again. Harder.

You didn't answer right away. Your mouth parted slightly, then closed. It wasn't fear that kept you still.

Not exactly.

It was knowing. Knowing this would change something. Knowing you couldn't unsee whatever she was about to give you.

But your hands moved anyway.

Slowly, you reached out and placed your palms against hers.

They were warm. Calloused at the edges. Steady.

You nodded once. "Alright," you whispered.

Eione gave the smallest smile, then turned, and you followed her.

She didn't say where she was leading you. She didn't have to. You walked behind her in silence, the night folding tighter with each step.

The air shifted.

The breeze picked up—gentle at first, brushing your cheek like a sigh. Then again, sharper this time. The kind of wind that carried warnings. It tugged at your cloak, made the hairs on your arms rise. You glanced around.

The street began to... flicker.

Not visibly at first. Just the edges. The cobblestones looked less solid. The walls shimmered faintly, like heat rising off pavement. The lamps above you swayed without wind.

Your steps slowed. "Eione?"

She didn't answer.

The world around you darkened—not black, but... colorless. Faded. Like all the pigment had been drained. The buildings grew hazy, edges softening into charcoal smudges. The trees looked like someone had drawn them in ash.

You opened your mouth to ask again—

And that's when her voice filled your ears.

But it wasn't the same.

It didn't come from her mouth.

It came from everywhere.

A soft, echoing murmur, like breath caught in a shell. Detached. Distant. Yet unmistakable.

You turned to look at her and froze.

She wasn't walking anymore.

She was standing still. Perfectly still.

Her eyes were glowing white.

Not bright. Not radiant.

Just... lit. Quietly. Steadily.

A faint, curling wisp of smoke drifted from the corner of her mouth as she exhaled—slow, even, like she wasn't breathing air anymore. The wind circled her ankles like it knew something you didn't. The hem of her robe fluttered without sound.

Your feet stayed rooted, heart thudding in your chest as her voice filled your head again—detached now, layered, like someone speaking both through time and behind it.

"Look."

And then the world bent.

Not violently.

Not with a snap or a shatter.

But with a hush.

A slow tilt, like everything around you had been waiting for permission to fall apart.

You didn't scream, but gods—you felt like you should've because the street was gone.

And something else was beginning.

It wasn't sound.

It wasn't movement.

It was knowing.

Your vision flickered—not shut, not open, just... pulled.

You felt your body tilt but never fall, like the street beneath your feet had turned to smoke and decided not to tell you.

The air wasn't cold or warm anymore—it was thin. Like the world around you had stretched, the same way a thread does before it snaps.

And then—you saw it.

Not your own memory. Not your own time.

But his.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

Centuries before the child. Before the flower. Before the prophecy whispered its name into the smoke of Delphi—there was Hyacinthus.

And there was loss.

At first, it was only light.

No shape. No form. Just rays.

But they weren't golden like the sun. They were dim. Burnt amber. Like candlelight seen through grief. Like a torch too tired to fight the wind.

You saw a figure then—tall, still, drenched in that exhausted light.

Apollo.

He sat alone in the great hall of music, and everything around him was wrong.

The walls were too quiet.

The wind didn't carry sound anymore—it only scraped. Like bone dragged over strings. Like grief trying to hum a tune it had forgotten halfway through.

His fingers hovered over the strings of his lyre, and still... he didn't play.

Because what was the point?

What was the point of light if Hyacinthus couldn't see it?

What was the point of song if he couldn't press his ear to Apollo's chest and murmur, "Sing it again. Just for me."

He had meant to stop time.

He had meant to shield him.

And instead, he had killed him.

The wind had turned the discus, yes. Jealous Zephyrus, sulking from the edges of the grove. But Apollo had thrown it.

He had made the disc.

He had called Hyacinthus over.

He had smiled when the boy stepped forward, hair tangled in sun, and said, "Catch me."

Apollo did.

Just not the way he wanted to.

And now, he sat, alone—drenched in that exhausted light.

He stared off his palace's balconey, staring down into nothing. His hair was loose, tangled. His skin held the glow of divinity—but it was dimmed.

The ocean roared below him, waves crashing without rhythm.

The gods around him didn't speak. Didn't dare.

Because Apollo—the sun itself—was grieving.

The breeze carried it like a secret. The petals on the wind remembered. Even the stars had dimmed just a little, holding their breath with him.

Hyacinthus was gone.

And Apollo... Apollo had unraveled.

He hadn't turned the boy into a flower yet. Not yet. That would come later. After the rage. After the despair.

But now?

Now he sat in silence.

Unmoving. Unburning.

His light pulsed weakly against the sea.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

Years passed. Then centuries.

You watched them in fast blur. The world moved. The mortals moved.

But Apollo was never the same.

He wrote songs no one heard. Hymns too sad for mortals. Sonatas without resolution. A quiet rebellion against his own domain.

He stopped attending festivals, but he still kept the sun moving—though it stuttered. Sometimes it rose late, others, it set early. The seasons bent under the weight of his sorrow.

Olympus whispered.

They said he was fading.

That Apollo—radiant, golden Apollo—had gone gray at the edges.

That his laughter no longer warmed the groves.

That his temples stood colder than they used to.

Even the Muses avoided him. Clio cried once when she found him crouched on the temple steps, staring at his own hands like he didn't remember what they were for.

"Leave me," he'd said. "Please, just—leave me."

And so they did.

Until—Delphi.

A whisper.

A vision.

He hadn't gone himself. He rarely did anymore. But when the priestess slipped into trance that day—when her mouth opened and smoke filled her lungs—her voice was his.

"One shall come, born of light delayed. A death too soon, spun by mischief. You will know them by what was taken— And by what your heart creates in its absence."

Apollo said nothing at first. But something in his posture shifted.

A thread pulled taut.

He left before she finished.

Didn't even wait for the ceremonial offerings.

He returned to his chambers, pulled every unfinished scroll he'd ever written about grief, and started something new.

A Muse.

He didn't know what they would look like. Or when they'd come. Only that they would. That Delphi had spoken it. That the ache in his chest had shape again. A shape that hadn't formed since—

"Hyacinthus," he whispered one night, forehead pressed to his lyre. "I wasn't ready to stop loving you. So I didn't."

And so, he began to wait.

For centuries, he waited.

But not idly.

He wrote.

Oh gods, he wrote.

You saw the scrolls. The fragments. The symphonies only he could hear. Each one about someone he hadn't met yet. Someone who would arrive late, but mean everything.

He composed for you before you existed.

He dreamed you out of grief.

And in doing so—he made you real.

You weren't fate.

You weren't born chosen.

You were born because he needed you to be.

Because his sorrow had nowhere left to go. Because Hyacinthus' death cracked something inside him, and the only way he could fill that break was by turning it into longing.

Into prophecy.

Into a you who hadn't even drawn breath yet.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

Apollo sat perched atop the outer wall of his temple, his golden cloak draped lazily across one shoulder, his fingers plucking absentmindedly at the strings of his lyre.

The melody was half-finished—just like all the others.

It was a quiet tune tonight. Softer than usual. Sweet, maybe, but hollow at the edges.

He'd been writing it for centuries. Shaping it. Reworking verses in his mind. But no matter how many times he rewrote the middle, the ending never came.

How could it?

The Muse he was writing for didn't exist.

Not yet.

But they would.

He believed that.

He had to.

And so, Apollo played. Each note a prayer to a person who had no face. No name. Only a place in his heart he couldn't explain to anyone. Not even himself.

He didn't notice the shouting at first. Not really.

Just a flicker. A distant noise.

But it grew louder. Louder still. Echoing up the marble steps, cutting through the warm air, tugging at the edges of his focus like a stubborn child.

Apollo's eyes narrowed. His fingers froze on the strings. A discordant note hung in the air, unresolved and unwanted.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Callianeira," he called without turning.

One of the nearby nymphs—resting in a bed of thyme blossoms near the fountain—lifted her head. She blinked, sleep-stunned, and scurried upright. "Yes, my lord?"

Apollo tilted his head toward the noise. "Go see what that is. It's disrupting my music."

The nymph nodded and darted off, curls bouncing, skirts fluttering.

He went back to tuning. Back to remembering. Back to not remembering.

The prophecy had come so long ago.

And yet, he hadn't forgotten a word.

A child, born too early.

A death not meant to happen.

And in the wake of it—a presence. A muse.

Someone who would change him.

He'd believed in it with a quiet, patient ache. And when the ache grew too big, he'd turned it into sound.

Always sound.

Always song.

He didn't write for mortals anymore. Not like he used to. The muses danced for others now—poets, priests, kings. Let them have them. Let them scribble verses in dirt and paint hymns on wet clay.

Apollo's muse would be different.

Sacred.

His.

And then, Callianeira returned out of breath, voice shaky. "It's Eileithyia," she said quickly. "She's late."

Apollo looked up slowly. "She's what?"

"She was summoned for a birth—important, apparently—but she hasn't arrived. Ate's been meddling again."

Apollo's eyes flickered gold.

His breath caught.

Not just a birth.

A delayed one.

A child robbed of timing.

A death pushed forward.

His heart stuttered. "Where?" he asked.

The nymph hesitated. "Earth. A place called Lyraethos. Small island. Not far from Ithaca."

That was all he needed.

He stood, light flaring beneath his heels. A new melody bloomed in his chest—louder, clearer, tinged with something like hope for the first time in centuries. He didn't pause. "Hermes!" he shouted, his voice ringing like sunlight against the stones. "Get down here!"

There was a flutter of air, a flash of winged sandals, and then the god of messengers appeared mid-hover, biting into a pomegranate.

"You rang, big brother?" Hermes mumbled through a mouthful.

Apollo turned to him with a look that bordered on divine impatience. "There's a birth. A soul. I need it saved."

Hermes blinked. "Do you know how many births happen every second? You're gonna have to narrow that down."

"Lyraethos. The goddess of childbirth was delayed. A child died before their time. It's them." His voice softened, filled with an emotion Hermes didn't quite recognize. "It's the one I've been waiting for."

Hermes raised a brow, now mildly curious. "The muse thing again?"

Apollo nodded once, slowly. "It's real. I feel it. This is it."

Hermes took another bite. "You're really going all in on this prophecy, huh?"

"You don't understand," Apollo said, voice sharpening. "This isn't just prophecy. This is... correction. A course set wrong by Ate's meddling. The child wasn't meant to die, anyways. I'm fixing it."

"Riiiggghhht," Hermes drawled, flicking a pomegranate seed off his robe. "So what do you want me to do? Zap the baby back to life with divine jazz hands?"

Apollo ignored the sarcasm. "There's a flower. From my grove. The golden one that glows at night."

Hermes frowned. "The Hyacinth-rooted ones? The cursed blooms?"

Apollo didn't flinch. "They're not cursed."

Hermes lifted a brow. "They grow from the ground where Hyacinthus died. That's not exactly neutral soil."

"It's powerful," Apollo snapped. "Sacred. I've spent years cultivating the strain—infusing it with sun and song and silence. It can reverse death, but only if it's applied fast enough. Before the soul crosses."

Hermes whistled low. "That's big magic, sun-boy. Hades know about it?"

Apollo's face didn't soften. "I don't care if he does. I'm not letting this one go."

There was a pause. Hermes' gaze turned thoughtful. "And you want me to deliver it?"

Apollo nodded. "You're the fastest."

Hermes smirked as he turned to go. "That's not up for debate."

Apollo stepped forward, and this time, there was something strangely vulnerable in his tone. "Don't tell them what it means."

Hermes blinked, stopping. "Excuse me?"

"Don't tell the parents what it costs," Apollo said. "Don't tell them about the prophecy. About what it means."

"Bit of a bait-and-switch, don't you think?"

"They don't need to know," Apollo said quietly. "Let them think it's luck. Let them believe it's just mercy."

Hermes tilted his head, chewing slowly. "So, you want me to lie?"

"I'm asking you not to ruin it."

A pause.

Then Hermes grinned. "Alright," he said, wings twitching behind him. "But I get to have a little fun."

Apollo narrowed his eyes. "Hermes—"

"I won't say everything," Hermes assured, already vanishing in a blur of wind and citrus. "Just enough to keep the father sweating."

"Hermes—!"

But he was already gone.

Apollo stood alone again.

The sun dipped lower, brushing the edge of the world in sleepy gold.

He turned back to his lyre, lifting it slowly, fingers curling over the strings.

And for the first time in a long, long while—

He played.

Not in mourning.

Not in longing.

But in hope.

And somewhere, far below, a baby's cry cracked through the veil.

          .☆.      .✩. .☆.

And the vision shattered.

.☆.       .✩.            .☆.

You gasped—choking on breath that tasted too old, too thin, like it had been waiting in your throat for centuries.

The world spun.

Your eyes snapped open and you staggered back, blinking hard as colors returned—too fast, too bright. The air was sharp with woodsmoke and salt, the stones beneath your sandals real and uneven. You reached for the wall behind you, steadied yourself and found nothing.

The alley was empty.

You were standing outside the inn.

Where you were initally headed.

Except you weren't.

Not really.

Because Eione was gone.

No trace of her voice. No trail of her robes. No whisper of incense or divinity or smoke.

Just silence, just you, and just the weight of what you now carried pressing sharp and terrible beneath your ribs.

You swallowed, but it didn't help.

Your throat felt bruised, like the truth had been poured down it all at once and left your skin scorched from the inside out.

Your name hadn't always been written in stars... it had been carved into the soft clay of Apollo's pain.

It hadn't been fate.

Not really.

Not the way you thought.

Not the way the bards sing about.

Apollo hadn't seen you and chosen you because you were bright. Or strong. Or worth something more.

He had written about you before you existed.

Wished for you.

Wove you from the same thread he used to stitch his sadness into songs.

You fit a shape he'd been dreaming of for centuries.

And when Ate tripped the goddess of childbirth—when your soul hovered in that blur between not-quite-here and already-gone—he didn't pause.

He reached.

Because the story he told himself—the one where he got a second chance, where someone stayed, where the ending was different—needed a body.

And yours... just happened to be there.

You weren't born divine.

You were rewritten that way.

A prophecy bent into you.

Your life spun on the tip of a god's loneliness.

You were his mourning in disguise.

A self-fulfilling thing.

There had never been anything special about you—not at first.

Not until he made it so.

Not until he poured centuries of unfinished songs into a fate no one asked for.

Not until he turned you into a balm for a wound that still bled every time the sun set.

And now... now, you stood on a quiet street corner, heart pounding like it didn't belong to you, and finally understood—

The gods don't wait for destiny.

They write it.

And sometimes...

They write it wrong.

You stumbled back a step, then another—until the door of the inn was behind you no more, until the faint comfort of its light was swallowed by the crooked shapes of the alley. Your hand flew to your forehead, pressing hard like you could squeeze the thought out of your skull before it settled.

No. That couldn't be right.

It couldn't be true.

You gripped your temples, fingers trembling as you turned sharply and started walking. Fast. Anywhere. Somewhere. Nowhere. The streets blurred around the edges, the orange glow of torchlight stretching too far, too thin.

Your breath picked up. Too loud. Too rough. Like you couldn't pull in enough air no matter how wide your mouth opened.

He made me.

He made me.

He made me.

He made me.

You gasped—short, shallow bursts. The kind of breathing that made your chest burn, not ease.

You tripped.

It was stupid, how simple it was. Your boot caught on a raised stone in the path, and suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet you. You hit the cobblestones hard—knees first. Your palms scraped against the rough stone, and a dull sting lit across your skin.

But it didn't matter.

Not really.

You stared down at your hands—scraped, red, dirty—but the pain barely registered. It wasn't sharp enough. Wasn't deep enough. Nothing could cut as deep as what you already carried.

Cleo had been right.

Gods, Cleo had been right.

It was supposed to be you.

Not her. Not anyone else. You were the one meant for death. For nothingness. For the dirt. But then a god—a sad god—looked down and said, "No. I want that one."

And so, the story shifted.

Not for justice. Not for goodness. Not because you deserved saving.

But because he couldn't stand being alone anymore.

And if Apollo hadn't been grieving? If he hadn't been staring at his empty temples, whispering songs to the air and calling out to a muse that didn't exist yet?

Then you wouldn't exist.

You would've never been born.

You never would've known the smell of the palace kitchens, or the warmth of Penelope's hand smoothing your hair.

You never would've seen the cliffs of Ithaca under the morning sun.

You never would've heard Callias' laugh echo through the halls, or touched Lady's fur, or run your fingers across the strings of a golden lyre and felt something answer back.

And worst of all—your heart seized—you never would've met him.

Telemachus.

Your lips parted, a dry, broken sound escaping as you crumpled forward, your elbows resting on your thighs, your head hanging low. You gripped your sides like you could hold your ribs together if you just clenched hard enough.

Telemachus wouldn't even know you.

No laughter shared in the courtyard. No sleepless nights passing bread across the table. No worried glances. No half-smiles. No almost-confessions passed through wine and starlight.

He would have grown. Yes.

But without you, who would he have become?

Would he still lie awake wondering where you were? Would he still watch your face from across the room like you were the only thing that steadied him?

Or would he be lighter?

Would he be better, without the gods tangling his fate with someone who was never meant to be here?

You pressed your forehead to the cobblestone, cold and gritty against your skin.

And then—you broke.

It started as a hiccup. Just one. Small and sharp, like it had caught you off guard. But then another followed. Then another. And suddenly you were sobbing—no, screaming into the street in a voice no one would answer.

"Why?" you choked out, fingers curling into fists against the stone. "Why me?"

Your voice cracked.

"Why—why did you do this?"

You screamed it again, louder this time, until your throat stung and your chest caved in and your body felt like it was folding into itself. Your knees ached on the ground, and still you didn't move. Didn't care.

You didn't know who you were screaming at—Cleo, fate, the stars.

Or him.

Especially him.

Your vision blurred, tears streaming so hard they soaked your lashes. You rocked forward again, pressing your palms to your eyes like that might stop it. Like you could cry the wrongness out.

But it didn't go away.

Because even in your grief—even in the storm of your unraveling—you still loved the life he gave you.

And that made it worse.

Because your voice cracked again. You weren't sobbing for yourself anymore.

You were sobbing for him.

The one who built you out of grief and prayer and a hundred unfinished songs.

The one who wrote you into being, not because he wanted to love you, but because he couldn't stop.

"Why..." Your voice broke, barely a whisper.

You curled in tighter.

Alone in the street. Shoulders shaking. Heart shattered into too many pieces for your hands to hold.

You didn't know how long you sat there. You just knew the street never answered back.

But then—warmth.

Soft at first.

So gentle you almost didn't notice it.

A golden warmth brushing along your spine, curling beneath your knees. Like the sun had decided to rise early—just for you.

It wrapped around you slow, spreading down your arms, through your ribs, into the hollow where your voice used to live.

You gasped—shuddered—as it got heavier. And heavier. And heavier.

Until suddenly, something touched you.

A hand. Gentle. Steady. Smoothing down your hair like it had done it a thousand times before.

You froze.

Your breath hitched, your body stiffened, and then you heard it.

Soft. Barely a breath.

"My muse."

Your entire chest caved. A sound left your mouth—wrecked and torn and so full of confusion it barely counted as human.

You should've pushed him away.

You should've.

Should've screamed. Fought. Bitten. Told him to leave you alone.

But instead—

Instead, you reached for him blindly. Like a child lost in the dark.

You buried your face in his chest—shaking, sobbing, hating how familiar it felt. How solid. How warm. How much you wanted this, even when you didn't want him.

His arms curled around you tight. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just sure.

Like he'd always meant to hold you like this.

Like this was how the story ended.

The glow of his divinity folded around you, layers and layers of light wrapping over your shoulders, up your back, under your ribs, until you didn't know where your grief ended and his love began.

He held you tighter.

And in that moment, with your face buried in the chest of the god who rewrote your fate—

You weren't sure if you hated him, or if you were just too tired to remember how.

Your breath hitched—once, then again. Then a sob clawed its way up your throat before you could stop it.

You pulled back. Just barely.

Enough to look up at him, your face streaked with tears, your body trembling beneath the weight of it all.

"Why?"

He blinked, golden lashes catching the low glow of his aura.

Your fists curled against his chest. Tight. Shaking. "Why did you choose me?"

Apollo's lips parted—but you didn't let him speak.

"Why me?" you cried, louder now, the question cracking wide open inside you. "None of it makes sense—nothing makes sense!"

Your voice broke. The words spilled out like they'd been waiting too long, bottled up and begging to shatter.

"You could've chosen anyone—anyone! Someone already alive! Someone stronger! Someone who wanted it! I wasn't even supposed to be here!"

You hit his chest once with your fist. Not hard. Not cruel. Just helpless.

"...I was supposed to be dead."

Another sob tore through you, raw and breathless.

You shook your head, trembling under the weight of it all, your knees tucked against yourself like they were the only things keeping you from breaking open again.

"I'm not special," you wept. "I'm not—I'm not anything. I'm just what you needed. That's all. That's all I ever was... That's all I'll ever be."

Your voice cracked again, thinner this time. Frailer. "You were hurting... and I was convenient. That's it, isn't it?"

He hadn't summoned a ghost. He hadn't rewritten Hyacinthus. He'd just... made you. Because wanting wasn't enough anymore. He needed to hold it.

And you meant it.

You meant every word. You meant this was never yours to begin with.

That you were pulled into the world because a god couldn't stand to be alone. That your body was a replacement. That your soul was borrowed. That the you you knew—every laugh, every wound, every thread of affection—was a ripple in someone else's grief.

But Apollo? Apollo heard something else entirely.

His expression didn't twist in guilt. Didn't dim with regret. No realization bloomed behind those burning gold eyes.

Instead, his brows pinched—softly, like a man hurt.

Not for you.

But for himself.

"Oh," he whispered, brushing a knuckle along your cheekbone like he was handling something glass-thin. "You still don't see it."

You flinched.

He didn't let you pull away.

His hands came up to cradle your face—thumbs brushing through the tears like they didn't belong, like he could simply shush them away the same way you might comfort a frightened child. "I hate this part," he murmured. "The part where you look at yourself and still can't understand what I see."

His forehead dipped until it touched yours, breath warm against your lips.

You tried to speak—to say no, that's not what I meant—but your breath just shuddered instead. A sob lodged in your throat like a stone.

Apollo's eyes fluttered closed. He leaned in further, nudging the tip of his nose against your cheek. It was gentle. Almost clumsy. Like he thought closeness was the cure. Like this was intimacy, not avoidance.

"You're not convenient," he whispered, and his voice was so low it barely stirred the air between you. "You're divine."

You tried to shake your head.

He hushed you instantly. "Don't," he breathed, his hands tightening on your jaw just slightly, enough to still you. "Don't do that. Don't doubt. I hate when you doubt."

He never mentioned what you said.

Not about being born from grief. Not about how it could've been anyone. Not about the pieces of you that were stolen from fate and rewritten by hands too bright to fight.

He didn't hear it.

Or he did—and didn't care.

To him, your sobs weren't proof of something wrong. They were just more proof you didn't love yourself enough.

And that broke something deeper.

He leaned down again, kissing the tears from your cheeks one by one, as if that would fix it. As if your pain wasn't truth, but confusion—something he just needed to love you out of.

"Shh," he murmured, voice soft and aching. "You don't need to understand. That's not your burden. That's mine. You just need to be. To shine. Like you always do."

Your hands trembled. Your mouth parted. You wanted to scream you're not listening. But it didn't matter.

Because he was already pulling you in.

His arms wrapped around you like they'd done this a hundred times before. One beneath your knees. One behind your back. He gathered you like a prayer someone had tried to toss into the sea—and he couldn't bear to let you sink.

You didn't fight.

You couldn't.

Your face pressed into his shoulder as your body shook—too tired, too broken, too far past the point of sorting out comfort from control.

And then—

The wind shifted.

The sky peeled open.

And in a breath, he lifted you from the earth.

You didn't know what waited for you, but you knew one thing as your tears soaked into his tunic:

You were leaving the world behind cradled in the arms of the god who made you, and somewhere in the stars, a prophecy sighed in satisfaction.

And above, Olympus opened its gates.

A/N: y'all don't know how proud i am of myself for finally reaching the very first daydream that started this book 😭literally was chilling with my sis and was like: oh shii, what if the god of prophecies was so stuck on hyacinthus that he made a self-fuffling prophedcy??? but yeah...SUPRISE YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD... lolol i hope i did good sprinkoign throughout hahahah. but yeah i know it was kinda drawn out but like i said before, this fic is the foundation of my isekai fic so i just had to make it like a real fic hahahah but yeah ahhhhh im so proud of myselffrfr like ack! also, sorry for faslely making yall think things were good lolol but hey... WE GOING TO OLYMPUS 🎇🧨👩🏾‍🚒🎇 p.s. sry for being gone so long, things have gotten pretty hectic irl, so i'll be updating the divine whispers in a sec because im not sure when i'll get the next chance, so next update may take a minute (i'm making sure i keep up with all fanart being sent in and they each get the praise they deserve ❤️❤️)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Honey Sunlight Vanished in Darkened Mist

So, a long long time ago I saw something @quarterlifekitty posted about König and I got so excited by the idea. I just had to write something. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to write anything until just now (life is dumb and stupid and mean and ugly and I hate it). So, after months of waiting, I present a story about Giant Squid!König and Dumbo Octopus!Reader. Namely, how they met. I hope you all enjoy.

TWs: Reader is a lil bit manipulative, but in all honesty she has very good reason to be

Wordcount: 4.2K

Art from This Post

Story Below the Cut

Honey Sunlight Vanished in Darkened Mist

He found you when he was hunting one day. Immediately, he knew that you needed him. He didn't know how or why he knew such a thing, but he knew he couldn't leave you alone. And so, he swam closer.

He shadowed you as you floated above the ocean floor. You obviously were hunting for crabs. Unfortunately for you, he knew any crab you came across here would be far too large for you. In truth, most prey in these parts would be too large for a little thing like you. You, from the tops of your dumbo ears to the tips of your orange arms, couldn’t have been longer than one of his eight arms. You were absolutely miniscule compared to him. He could’ve eaten you, but he was just so curious about what sort of cephalopod mer would try to pass into his territory.

Most of your kind were well aware of König’s claims on this stretch of sea bed. It wasn’t the greatest territory, but he didn’t need the best. He just needed enough to provide for himself, and that was all. It wasn’t like any other of his kind would be his mate. He was well known to be despised among his kin.

Cephalopod merfolk were notably reclusive by nature, but he had been cursed with social anxiety that made him worse off than the others around him. While normally he would’ve been an attractive mate for his size and hunting prowess, he had been so awkward and anxious during mating gatherings that not a single mermaid would even entertain a dance. He wasn’t even asking for a courting dance. Just a dance itself was too much to ask for. Ultimately, the last migration he’d been to had been utterly humiliating.

But because no mermaid would take his hand, most merfolk left him alone to guard his territory. As such, seeing such a tiny mermaid in his land made him confused. A part of him was hungry, a bigger part was curious.

He watched as you found a little shell on the ground. You picked it up and examined it curiously before slipping it into a bag at your hip. You must’ve been to the surface recently if you had one of those. You were just more and more curious with each passing moment.

However, he couldn’t watch from afar forever. He needed to intervene before you actually found a crab and got hurt.

With a burst of speed, he was in front of you and splaying his massive body to block your path..

“Who are you?" he asked carefully, his voice strangely high with a strange accent.

You looked up at the giant squid mer and blinked, “Who am I? Who are you?" 

He puffed up proudly, displaying his broad chest, “I’m König. This is my territory you're on here." 

Immediately your eyes went wide and you began to tremble, “Oh my gosh I'm so sorry! I can go right now! I promise I haven't eaten much around here-" 

“Don't worry about that," he soothed you and curled his two scarred tentacles around you, “I’m not here to chase you off. I’m… I’m worried about you actually.”

“Worried about me?” you relaxed slightly, “why?”

He hesitated.

While he did, you got a chance to really look at who you were dealing with. This was obviously a giant squid mer, there was no way he could be anything else. He had two big red ears and arms at least ten feet long, the two tentacles a good five feet longer than that. Covered in white scars from head to toe, this mer had obviously fought hard to keep this territory and won. He had to be a good hunter too if he was able to sustain this size.

König cut through your thoughts in an instant.

“You're just… You're so tiny!” he threw his hands up at you in disbelief, “how have you managed to survive into adulthood? And what are you doing around here? There’s no chance of you being able to find suitable prey. You’re just too small to hunt around here!" 

You felt yourself puff up, “I'm doing just fine! I'm… I'm looking for a territory of my own. I got kicked out of my old nest by some stupid dumb shark and I’ve been trying to find a place to build one since." 

Ah. That explains why you're here.

“But since you've claimed this place, I can move on! You don’t have to worry about me, I promise!” you insisted but he wasn't having it.

“You are too small and cute to defend your own territory,” he observed.

“What!” you curled your tentacles to make yourself bigger, “I'm big enough! And I'm not cute!”

He sighed. You were going to be a feisty little thing, weren't you? A right thorn in his side. It was a good thing he liked a challenge.

“Look,” he sighed, “what even are you? The only creatures that live in this part of the ocean are kraken-sized merfolk or large prey. You’re lucky I found you and not another merfolk. Most of our kind that reach my size are cruel creatures by nature. Mercy does not come naturally to us,” he curled himself around you as he spoke, “but you’re far too cute to eat. For now.”

“Can’t we share this place? It’s not like I’ll get in your way. I don’t want to have to find a new place,” your ear flaps pressed to the sides of your head in distress.

König hummed and curled a giant red tentacle around your face, “Well, maybe you can stay here. Conditionally.”

Your eyes practically sparkled in the deep, “Are you sure? Can I actually stay here!?”

“Of course,” König pet your hair, “you are far too small to be safe anywhere else. I’d be killing you if I chased you off.”

You sighed in relief, “Thank you so so much! Is there anything I can do to thank you? Maybe catch you some fish?”

König pet your dumb little head, “My dear,” he told you gently, “are you even capable of catching prey around here? The crabs have pincers as long as your forearms.”

You thought for a moment.

“I can get some of the snailfish,” you offered.

“You're…” König sighed again. He didn't want to do this, not really, but he didn't think he had a choice. Leaving you alone was a death sentence.

“Look,” he tried to explain, “you are… You are very little, do you understand?”

“I'm not that small,” you pouted.

“You are small enough,” König grumbled, “small enough to be a good snack to larger predators here. I’m betting you barely escaped that shark, hm?”

You crossed your arms and huffed.

“I want to make you an offer. Are you listening?”

You nodded quickly.

“You can stay with me in my nest,” König said, “all I ask is that you don’t bother me. If you stay out of my way, I’ll take care of you here.”

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. That sounded too good to be true. A giant squid offering you their home?

You thought for a moment. If you played your cards right, you might be able to do something here. 

It was only a matter of time before a mer like this got a mate, and who knew what would happen to you after that. At best you’d be driven off, at worst you’d be fed to their children. However, if you really tried, you might be able to secure this territory completely. You’d never have to worry about him finding a mate if you were his mate. If you made him a mate, then you could get free food and treasures until the end of your days. He could be a good mate.

He was big, he was strong, and he at least seemed to think you were cute. He also thought you were small, which was rather insulting (you were actually rather large for a dumbo octopus mermaid), but you could deal with that. Finding a way to mate with him would be a struggle, but you’d come to that point at a later date.

Yes, you could do this. You could make this man your mate.

If you had to be good, you could be perfect.

“Do I have to hunt for my own food?” you checked.

Kônig shook his head, “No. I'll provide for you.”

You hummed. It was tempting, but you didn’t want to just be a pretty little mate. You wanted to have a bit of fun too. You supposed there was no harm in asking.

“What will I do all day?”

König thought carefully. He glanced around, then up to the surface. He patted your head with his tentacle and rubbed his chin with his hand. He snapped.

“You can come out of the nest with me when I hunt,’ he said, “but I don't want you straying too far. Stay close enough to hide in my arms if something tries to hurt you. I'll show you all the parts of my territory, and all I ask is that when we get back to my nest, you help keep it clean.”

“That's…” you took a moment to compose yourself, “that's it? Seriously?”

“That is all I ask of you,” König confirmed.

Your eyes sparkled, “So, I’ll basically be your mate, right?”

König looked down at you and let an arm drift along your neck and back, “Little one, I do not need a mate.”

"Then why are you helping me?” you couldn’t hide your disappointment if you tried.

"Simple,” König replied (very easily hiding his sudden interest in your behaviour), " because you are small and cute. I worry that if I leave you, you'll be gobbled up by something bigger than you. If I send you to another merfolk’s territory, they might try to take advantage of you. At least like this I can make sure you're alright." 

“So you're doing this why?" you tilted your head to the side.

König patted you in the head with his hand, “As I said, you are very small and very cute. I want to protect you." 

You put a finger to your chin in thought, “And… and that's it? That's all there is to it?”

König nodded silently.

You looked König up and down. He really was the biggest mer you'd ever seen. You’d been to a few migrations since maturity, but nobody had ever even come close to this. He was so long that he could easily wrap his arms around you about half a dozen times if he wanted to. He had a hood hiding his face, not uncommon among mers, but instead of a normal half-mask it looked like a full black shroud. He had a broad chest, bigger arms and looked like he could fend off against even a whale, if such a thing were possible.

Really, if you actually managed to convince this mer to be your mate, you’d have won the migration lottery.

“I'm not going to wait all day for an answer,’ König drawled.

You squeaked and hurried to his side, "I'll come with you!”

He was already regretting this, but he'd made up his mind, " Then let's go. I was going back to my nest anyways.”

"How come?” you asked as you turned and swam underneath his chest.

"Because I wanted a nap,” he said simply.

Honestly, a nap sounded nice.

“Okay!" you said, “how long will it take to get there?" 

“About an hour," König replied

You swam closer to his chest, “That long?" 

König slowed slightly and glanced down at you. He needed to be a meaner mer. If not for his sake, then for yours. He couldn't bring himself to do it though.

“Come closer,” he sighed wearily, “I'll carry you and wake you up once we get there.”

You eagerly let yourself be tucked into his broad chest. A part of you was sorry that König had essentially adopted you out of pity, another part couldn't be more thrilled. After all, this was step one of the plan. 

You felt König hold you tight to his chest as he swam through the water, going deeper and deeper until you came across what looked like an underwater cliff. Under the ridge, you saw a hole surrounded by carefully placed stones, jagged and threatening even to a merfolk of your tiny stature. And yet, König swam through them easily before ducking down into the hole.

König’s nest was cozy, more so than any you’d ever managed to scrap together. In fact, you completely forgot about the cold hole you dug into the seabed last week. This here was heaven.

König fluffed up a bed of black algae for you and searched through the caverns. Seeing as König was so big already, his cozy lair was absolutely massive for you. You’d never have been able to build something like this for yourself, nevermind defend it against others. His nest was coated in bioluminescent plants, glowing algae and smooth stones. Spots of white and blue lights sparkled all around you. The bedding underneath couldn’t be softer to the touch.

You were just settling in when you saw something scuttle across the floor. You looked closer, and sure enough, there was a little cluster of hermit crabs and shrimp clattering across the algae. Little shells of ivory and gold contrasted against the red and white of the shrimps dancing in the dark. Now that you were looking for little creatures, you looked around yourself to see little shoals of tiny glowing fish swimming through the kelp above you. Larger fish that looked like little moons flitted about the entrance.

You pointed at them, “Do you keep those around for snacks?”

König whirled around and puffed up, “Snacks? They’re my clean up crew!” he narrowed his eyes, “don’t you go eating my pets.”

You had never heard of any sort of cephalopod merfolk keeping pets.

“Wait, why are you keeping pets? Only sunlight level merfolk keep pets, right?” you hovered over a team of hermit crabs scuttling across the floor.

“That’s why I keep them,” König explained, “I realized that they’re better used as cleaners than as prey. That, and they make the place a bit more lively. I mean, just look at them go!”

A little hermit crab scuttled forth to grab a crumb of food before ducking back into the algae carpet.

“They don’t steal food?” you asked curiously.

“Not at all. They only eat what I drop. But, sometimes, they like to try and carry away what I’ve found,” König reached down and plucked a shrimp off the wall. He gently took a rusted coin from its claws. “They like to move things around,” he put the shrimp down and petted it, “I imagine most of are kind would find it annoying, but I find it fun to try and track down where they’ve put my things. It feels like I’m finding my treasures all over again.”

Your ears perked up when you heard ‘treasures’.

“You have treasures?” you asked eagerly, “real treasures?”

“You don’t?” König looked concerned.

“Whenever I tried to keep them, somebody else would take them when I left,” your ears drooped.

König hummed. He didn’t like the idea of sharing, but he’d already brought you into his home. He supposed it wasn’t a far leap to let you share his treasures.

“Stay here,” he muttered and crawled into a dark crevice in the back.

You happily fluttered about the whole room while he was gone. You admired the corals he’d used to decorate the walls, but you preferred the hanging seaweed coming down from the ceiling. The feeling of the plants was foreign to you entirely. Plants like these rarely grew this deep down, and the few that did were always hoarded by more powerful merfolk to decorate their homes, uch like König had done for his nest. Evidently, he’d either grown this collection for quite some for quite some time or he’d fought others for the myriad of fronds. The thought of König fighting worried you. He was heavily scarred, so it was obvious he’d been through his battles. You just hoped he didn’t go through too many. If you lost him, your luck here ran out.

“Here,” König returned with a couple of little trinkets hidden in his large hands, “I have some things for you.”

You dropped what you were doing and swam over immediately. König found your enthusiasm amusing, if nothing else.

He passed you a piece of curved bone, “I got this from my first whale fall. I had to fight some hagfish for it, but I managed to bring it back.”

You gasped, “You’ve been to a whale fall!?”

König nodded and took the bone back and brought it up to the light to admire it, “I have. I’ve been to many, but this one was special. But it was nowhere near as special as this,” he passed you a long hooked tooth, “that’s from when I killed my first whale.”

“What!?” you swam in circles around him, “that’s impossible! Whales are huge!”

“It was kill or be killed,” König puffed his chest proudly as his colours flashed bright, “she tried to get me from behind, but I was quicker. I’ve fought others too. They think that because I’m a squid I’m easy prey. Of course, I’m far too big for them, and they usually learn that the hard way.”

“I can’t believe you actually fought a whale and survived,” you said in awe as you took the tooth.

It felt heavy in your hands, almost as though it carried the weight of König’s life with it.

“Whale meat is not very good,” König admitted, “but it tastes good when you’ve fought them for your life.”

You stilled at the thought.

König watched you stop your excited circling and look at him strangely. He worried you might have thought he was boasting, but he couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Do you fight a lot?” you asked nervously.

König looked down at the myriad of white scars hatched across his body.

“I have a large territory to uphold,” he said slowly, “and most merfolk I come across around here are… They don’t really understand what sort of mer it takes to defend a territory like this. They don’t understand their place. Why? Is there a problem with me fighting?”

“I’m just worried about you getting hurt,” you fretted.

König smiled behind his mask. You truly were the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

“I don’t lose,” he assured you, “and if I think I might, I’m smart enough to make sure I always have a way to get out. You don’t have to worry about me.”

You wiggled anxiously, “You’re sure?”

He laughed, “Of course. You can trust me to keep this territory safe for you. Don’t worry about me getting hurt.”

You smiled brightly. König felt his heart melt. You were absolutely precious. Maybe he could call you one of his little treasures? Maybe. He’d have to see how you felt about that.

Little did he know you were just making sure you wouldn’t have to search for new territory again soon. You’d spent enough time being chased out of nests by fish and merfolk alike. You were keen on making sure you could lock him down and make him yours, and in turn make all he had yours as well.

You focussed back on the treasures.

“Do you have any others?” you chirped.

König thought for a moment. He had many, but most of them were back deeper in his nest, and he was tired. But how could he deny you?

“I have another, and then I’m going to sleep for a bit,” König said and pulled out a small shiny stone. You looked closer, marvelling over the iridescent white gem.

“What is this?” you asked and crept closer.

König glanced down at you and held it out to you. You tentatively took it from him. It was small in his hands, but it filled both your palms. It looked so beautiful in the blue and yellow lights of König’s nest.

“It’s called a pearl,” König whispered, “I found it in a giant clam.”

You admired it once more and handed it back, “Do all animals make these?”

König shook his head and tucked it away on a bed of coral, “Fish can’t. Only molluscs can, but some pearls are more beautiful than others. I have found a few types that I keep. This is just the most beautiful one.”

“You have more?” your eyes sparkled.

“I fought others for more,” König admitted.

That made you frown, “Are they really worth fighting for?”

König hummed. He supposed you had a point. If he was going to be keeping this territory for you, he might have to be more careful with which battles he picked.

You were still just worried about how long you’d be able to stay in this nest.

“I will be more careful for you,” he conceded.

You looked at the pearl again and a smile crept back onto your face. You held it up to the light to admire it for a moment, then passed it back to him.

“Can you show me some more of these?” you asked.

König sighed and took the pearl from your hands with one arm and used another to pat your head as he put the pearl away.

“Later,” he said, “I’m tired.”

Your ears drooped sadly.

“If you want, you can rest here too,” he offered, “there’s plenty of places around here to curl up.”

The algae looked tempting, but you’d liked curling into his chest when he brought you here.

“Can I nap with you?” you asked hopefully as your ears perked up.

König narrowed his eyes and hovered over his den protectively, “I’ve already brought you into my nest. Are you really asking to go into my den now?”

You nodded eagerly.

König sighed. You were such a small and innocent little creature. You were going to be the death of him.

“I have a little nook you might fit into,” he let himself sink into the depth of his den, “just follow me.”

You swam behind him into the darkness. Here, the water was warmer. You could just make out the shapes around you, your eyes still adjusting from the light. You felt an arm wrap its suckers around your waist and tug you in. Once inside, you could see the soft glow of König’s blue eyes.

“Sleep here,” he put you in what looked like an impossibly large clam shell, “this will be your bed.”

You peeked over the sides to see König curling himself into a tight ball beside you. It was warm in here, but you knew it would be better if you could get to König’s side. You just needed to be patient.

There was no way you could just cozy up right away. There was no doubt that König would just boot you out of his den if you tried to cuddle while he was still awake. You needed to wait a bit. Only a little bit. Then you could attack.

Soon enough, König’s chest slowed between rises and falls. You could see his mask had risen just a bit on his neck, enough to see the gills along the sides slowly pushing water through. His arms and tentacles went slack on the floor. Surely he was asleep by now.

You debated swimming over for a moment. The risk of König ousting you from his nest entirely was high, but the possibility of being wrapped up in König’s arms was too enticing to pass on.

You slipped out of the shell and quietly swam over to König. You were just a couple of feet away when König stirred.

“What are you doing?” he sounded positively peeved as he slowly opened his glowing eyes.

“It’s not comfy in the shell,” you said and slowly swam closer.

He blinked slowly. Slowly, he unfurled his arms and tentacles blearily. He’d just managed to feel himself dozing off when you’d rudely awoken him. He looked down at you incredulously. 

“You’re not seriously…”

You saw an opening through his arms and dived into his chest, hitting him with a solid thump. He grunted and tried to pull you off him, but you attached your suckers to his chest and stuck fast.

“Get off me you little imp!” he snapped and tried to wrench free.

“Let me stay!” you fought back.

“This is my den!” he snarled and thrashed, knocking around the walls of the tight cavern, “if you don’t get off me right now-”

“But you’re so warm!” you whined.

“I could kill you with one bite you stupid little inker!” he accidentally smacked his head into the ceiling and groaned.

You wrapped your upper arms around him and dug your fingers into the part of his back you could reach. He tried to weakly pry you off with one of his tentacles before sighing. He slumped down to the ground in a sulk.

“I’m banning you from my den from now on,” he muttered.

“But you’re not banning me from your nest?” you checked.

“No,” he sighed, “but don’t think I’ll just let you get away with this. As soon as I’m done napping…” he yawned, “I’ll figure something out.”

You nuzzled into his chest.

Tentatively, he put his hand on your head and rubbed your ears. You purred and he grumbled to himself, but he at least stopped trying to pry you off of him.

“Fine,” he conceded, “but just this once.”

You couldn’t be happier.

Konig Dump

Konig AUs

[hermusicpersona]

She lights a cigarette, the small lighter clicking and brightening up Shoko's tired face only for a second. The small flame went out before she could see through the cloud of her own tears, diving into a sea of bittersweet memories.

---

"-What flavour do you want, Shoko ? I really like the strawberry ! And the chocolate, jeez, i think i ll take them both ! Satoru rambled excitedly, staring at the ice cream parlor over Suguru's shoulder, almost taking off his sunglasses to see better.

-Be more quiet, Satoru, her ear probably broke from your voice, Suguru hushed him down gently, both of them looking at Shoko smiling, waiting for her answer. They said the ice cream was on them, they were thanking her for healing their wounds earlier.

Smiling brightly, Shoko rolled her eyes and answered simply, I like mint. Thank you, you guys."

---

A small set of tears ran down her face at this memory, the smoke she blew from her mouth gathering around her in small waves. They knew each other so well. When did she lose them ? When did they lose her ?

---

"-Don't worry, Shoko, Suguru's kind eyes stared into hers, it will be alright. We know you can handle it, he said, gently encouraging her, even though she didn't tell him she was worried about their mission. She never did. She always acted like she doesn't care, like everything will play out alright, but they always knew. Popping his head behind Suguru, Satoru's bright blue eyes stared at her smiling cheerfully.

-Yeah, listen to what he says ! He s always right, you know. Grinning wider, Satoru took off his sunglasses, that Shoko loved so much, and put them over her eyes, trying to make her feel better. Finding herself smiling, Shoko looked at them, adjusting the sunglasses that Satoru put on her face,

-You two always read my mind, huh ? You re too much trouble.

But she loved them with her whole heart, and they did too. And they knew it, so they gently patted her on her head and went about their mission."

---

A sob escaped her mouth, and she lit another cigarette, drowning in her tears and smoke. This was so unlike her. But she couldn't take it anymore. How did they leave me here ? she thought, why didn't they take me with them ?

---

"She remembered Satoru's laugh clearly, which almost always was followed by a chuckle from Suguru. They were always together, and most often than not next to her.

-And then you should've seen Nanami's face ! Hahaha, I can't breathe anymore ! Satoru spoke inbetween wheezes, gripping his stomach. Next to him, Suguru was covering his mouth, laughing too, the two of them holding Shoko by her shoulders as they told the story of how they pranked their junior.

-What Satoru is trying to say-.. hahah, is that-.. is that Nanami almost dropped all of his books when he figured it out ! Hahahah, i-.. it shouldn't be this funny-

Shoko was chuckling only seeing them drown with laughter, both of them trying to complete each other's sentences while leaning on her as they walked to the dorms. They were so happy, and their laughter really made Shoko smile, always. And the day seemed brighter, and her body felt more relaxed as she felt their warm, reassuring hold on her as they laughed."

---

Blinking the wave of tears that formed at the memory, she smashed the bottle of cheap alcohol against the wall, making the glass shards rip her white coat and papers. Then, letting out another sob, she slumped against the wall, dragging another smoke from her cigarette and feeling her chest constrict at the contrast between her happy memory, full of Satoru and Suguru's laughing, and how it was now - perfectly quiet and dark. The bottle breaking only filled the silence for a second, after which she was left alone once again, trembling hand taking the cigarette up to her mouth, the other wiping at the tears that won't stop coming, like every other night since Gojo left her too.

[literary-lesbo]

A Cold Fire

MedWhump May Day 5: Fever (Alt prompt) Summary: Emily's sick at work, JJ takes her home. set in CME Word Count: ~800 A/N: I'm disappointed in this one tbh but I got out of work too late to rewrite so here we are. I might redo it someday when I have more time

AO3

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Emily was cold. Not ‘add an extra layer cold’, the kind of cold that made your veins run with ice. No mug of warm tea or hot shower could fix the cold burrowing deep into Emily’s body, settling rather uncomfortably into her bones. She ached, everything ached. Every blink was agony, the click of her keyboard tore knives into her brain. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this awful, long before Hotch had gone into hiding leaving her in charge of the BAU. Long before BAU Gate had plagued her life, forcing her to work at all hours of the night to figure out how to get it taken down. 

The woman reached for her now cold mug of coffee, taking a few swigs of the bitter liquid. On other days she would’ve added a bit of splenda, maybe some milk, but she wasn’t drinking the coffee to enjoy it right now. She needed to stay awake and there was not a whole lot else she could do. She also had this fleeting hope that the caffeine would help her headache, it didn’t seem to be touching it yet. Nevertheless, she continued to drink it. 

Time was typically something that Emily had time tracking, she had several alarms set on her phone just to keep track of her days off, but in her current state she was a mess. Before long the sun had slipped behind the DC skyline, leaving her office lit only by the small lamp on her desk. She had considered getting up to turn it on, but she was fairly confident that if she stood she would collapse. If she could even make it to her feet. She hadn’t even begun to consider how she would get herself home, maybe just sleep in her office for the night? It wouldn’t be the first time. 

The woman was still debating when a familiar figure with blonde hair darkened her doorway. 

“Hey Em, everybody’s going out for drinks. You want to come?” JJ asked, offering her boss a practiced smile. Their relationship had been strained as of late, but she was trying. In truth, she missed her friend. She missed what their relationship used to be. 

Emily looked up from her computer, blinking a few times as she tried to process the words. Her head felt fuzzy, she could take JJ’s words and understand them individually but for some reason put them together in that order wasn’t making sense. The silver haired woman shook herself slightly, trying to force herself to answer. Her thoughts were moving sluggishly, she couldn’t manage to form an answer. 

“Emily? You okay?” JJ’s voice poked at the fog in her head, forcing her back into the present. She blinked up at JJ, squinting as she tried to remember what she had been asked. “Prentiss, are you in there?” The blonde tried again, taking a few steps into the office. Before lockdown, waltzing into Emily’s office wouldn’t have been a problem for JJ. Now though, it felt like she was breaking some unspoken rule. 

What Emily meant to say was: 

“I appreciate your concern but I'm fine JJ, don't worry about me. Go have fun with the team, you guys deserve a break.”

What she actually managed to get out was far less eloquent. 

“Uh…’mfine, go drink,” she croaked out, rubbing a hand across her sweat beaded forehead. Her hair had started to stick to her skin, probably the fever that had been slowly getting higher. Emily knew that she was sick, but there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about that. 

“Woah, you sound like shit,” JJ remarked, previous concerns about invading Emily’s space abandoned. She walked over to her boss’s desk, tilting the lamp slightly so that she could see her better. The sight that she was met with left JJ amused and concerned. 

Emily’s cheeks were flushed red, the rest of her face a ghostly white. Her eyes looked sunken and glossy, dark circles making it appear that she hadn’t slept in days. JJ frowned, reaching over to press her palm to Emily’s forehead. 

“Oh Em,” she moved her hand from the BAU Chiefs forehead to her cheek, trying to understand why Emily would even come to work today. JJ couldn’t help the sad smile that crossed her face when Emily leaned into her touch, pushing her fevered cheek into the soft palm of her coworker. 

“Pack up your stuff, I'm going to take you home.” 

“Hm? No, you…you’re goin’ out. ‘Mworking.” She couldn't deny that home sounded nice. The idea of not having to drive sounded even nicer. What she wouldn’t give to be curled up in her bed right now, tv on and mug of tea on her bedside table. 

JJ shook her head slightly, beginning to gather Emily’s stuff for her. It wasn’t a surprise that she was resisting, JJ was still having a hard time believing that she was conscious right now. 

“You’re done honey.” There was just not much arguing with that. JJ’s authoritative tone, coupled with just how terrible Emily was feeling, was enough to tip her towards agreement. She was too tired to fight with JJ and she was so cold. At least if she were home she could add a few more layers. That sounded nice. 

@medwhumpmay

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star Masterlist // Pornstar Satoru headcanons

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream.

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation, mentions of drug use, weed smoking, Gojo has an OF hehe, lots of longing, pining, Satoru can't get hard if it's not you, whipped ass Satoru, explicit sexual content, angst - WC 32k 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 Playlist -Ao3 link-Headcanons below!

Pornstar Satoru is one of the most famous pornstars there are, hence him constantly wearing jet black shades and hoodies at times, he never knew just who he'd run into that would recognize him. Whether it's his flicks or his OF - he's the top .01 % - he gets a lot of notice, especially in bustling LA. But, he loves what he does, he especially loves watching his abs flex in the camera as he hits one of his lovely costars from the back.

Pornstar Satoru loves making the costars and girls he collabs with actually cum, where they're shaking and squirting all over his latex covered cock. Not that fake shit like he watches them do with other men- no Satoru makes sure to slam that curved tip against their cervix, to roll his thumb right on their clit with the perfect amount of pressure. Perhaps that's the secret to how famous he really is, along with his good looks.

Pornstar Satoru makes so much money from each shoot and is in high demand, so he can have whoever he wants as a co star. They line up to have a chance at him, watching his videos and aching for a chance to feel his cock hitting them deeper than damn near anyone could hit, to say they got to shoot with the Satoru Gojo. This just makes Satoru fuck them harder, smiling right at that camera, as women dream it's really them that have captured his pretty blue eyed gaze.

Pornstar Satoru thinks it's a pretty damn good life, being rich for fucking beautiful women on camera, as he's inhaling a blunt after a threesome shoot with his best friend - and often costar- Pornstar Suguru, as they talk about who got the girl to squirt more, right in the middle of a bouguie party in East LA. Suguru let's out a throaty laugh, while Satoru narrows his blue eyes. 'I had her cumming so hard she was shaking' he says, taking a hit and handing it back to Suguru. 'Nah, that was all for me, did you see...'

Pornstar Satoru stops listening when he sees you enter the room, completely out of place at the coke filled, booze filled party, wearing a pair of black glasses that cover half of your pretty face, and a little nervous look as you stand there, in a cute white pleated skirt and a big oversized sweater. Satoru smacks Suguru on the shoulder then and he coughs up smoke. 'Shit what is it?' Satoru looks back at you, when you're handed a drink, some guy flirting as you look down shyly. 'Who's she?' Suguru blinks a bit curiously. 'I don't know, she's pretty though'

Pornstar Satoru scowls at Suguru who snorts in laughter then. 'Satoru we don't have 'girlfriends' and she... looks like a good girl' your eyes catch his then, across the room, like something shifts as you smile sweetly, before peering at your phone, biting your lip in concentration. 'I'm talking to her' Suguru chuckles as he watches his friend, and Satoru feels his heart race when he comes too close to you, something he can't say he's felt, even pleasing countless beauties, nothing has quite altered him as your sweet turn of lips, as you look down at your converse, so out of place you're fucking adorable. 'Hey sweetheart... Satoru Gojo' he says, introducing himself with ease, expecting you to maybe notice him, get starstruck, fuck women get wet just near him, but you simply grin, and your name whispers through his mind when it spills from your lips.

Pornstar Satoru has you sitting with him later, you fall into easy conversation, you're a little gamer nerd, you love science and the environment, he just bets you were head of your ecology club in college, which you quickly confirm, all while you're in awe of just how beautiful this man is. He's sweet, he's sexy... you feel he shouldn't even be talking to you. You're pretty but... he's experienced so clearly, by every way he moves, he's worldly, so confident, and you've never really left this little part of LA, but the two of you can't stop talking, to the point you forget what brought you here.

Pornstar Satoru laughs with you, as you're sitting side by side, and he lights up a blunt, leaning back on the burgundy couch on the outskirts of the party, inhaling it deep into his lungs. 'Want a hit, sweets?' he murmurs, you take it nervously, putting it to your lips and inhaling a bit, before coughing, covering your mouth. Satoru chuckles, 'you're cute' earning your cheeks heating up. 'Can you tell I don't do this?' you're nervously tapping your leg now. 'Yeah, what does bring you here, doesn't seem your...' 'my scene?' he nods then. 'yeah, that.'

Pornstar Satoru watches avidly as you sip on your drink, wincing at the strong liquor. 'Well, my friend invited me over, but she's running late' Satoru grins now. 'Party time is different, everyone comes late, that's on time. About fifteen minutes late' 'oh no I came early!' you smack your own forehead, giggling along with him. 'Are you like... a model, or an actor?' you ask, eyeing him and his baby blues, the cheekbones so perfect, those lips that wrap the blunt again. 'You could say I'm a bit of both,' he muses, then spits out his drink when you ask 'what are you in!?'

Pornstar Satoru coughs just a bit, he's never been ashamed of what he does, but he's nervous for some reason to tell you. Why, he doesn't know. 'I'm... into some indie flicks' you brighten up then. 'Oh, let me know, I love lowkey films! I bet you're great' Satoru sighs, gulping down the rest of his drink and eyeing your cup. 'Want more?' you frown now, maybe you're asking too much, or offending this actor that you don't recognize him!? You nod, the amount of people around you making you press against this friendly, pretty white haired stranger just a little more.

Pornstar Satoru has another drink, eyeing the sea of bodies undulating in the extravagant mansion, and soon the two of you are dancing together you're cute and so awkward, Satoru's enjoying this far, far too much. He has plenty of costars and fans come up to the two of you, but he's too interested in showing you how to move your hips to pay them any mind, when finally your friend comes. Satoru instantly recognizes her, she's a pretty famous co star he's collabed with on her Onlyfans not long ago. When she sees you giggling and enjoying yourself so much, she damn near drags you away, making Satoru curse.

Pornstar Satoru eyes you when your friend whispers in your ear- 'you really don't recognize him!?' you blink curiously, looking at him more closely. 'Should I?' she sighs then, eyeing Satoru up and down. 'He was in my OF videos, we collabed' you heat up furiously then. 'I never watched your videos! I just subbed to be supportive!' she giggles. 'You're so cute, I thought you at least watched some?' you shake your head nervously. 'I don't really watch, is he... like an OnlyFans guy?' Satoru is back over with Suguru now, while you sip your drink, feeling your body warm up. 'He's the top pornstar there is, the collab was like a dream. He's really sweet but you should know is all, you're kinda...' you glare. 'kinda what?' she giggles again. 'you're just... sweet, emotional, is all'

Pornstar Satoru expects you to be done with him once you find out, after all you just seem innocent, uncorrupted for this city, not the kind of girl to be at this party where lines are being snorted off bodies, and people are naked and jumping in the pools, a heady, wild atmosphere. But you smile at him, as you murmur - 'he's sweet?' to your friend. She nods then. 'He is, but just know... he doesn't date so, it'd only be physical' you frown at that now, that's not something you think you can do, you're about as demisexual as it gets, hence your very limited experience. 'He doesn't date at all?' Your friend gently touches your shoulder. 'No, love, I'd hate to see you hurt'

Pornstar Satoru catches you before you leave later that night, when you are just feeling too out of place, his big hand wrapped around your delicate wrist, earning you looking up at him. He can't stop thinking how pretty your eyes would look rolled back, how good your lips would feel wrapped around his cock, as you relax a bit, turning and looking up. 'Headed out already?' he asks softly, you flush as you remember just what he does for a living, your friend had just described his cock in far too vivid detail. 'It's not really my thing, but I'm glad we met, Gojo' you smile so cute then, leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, his arm wraps your waist as he leans down, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent cloying to your skin.

Pornstar Satoru pulls you in closer, blue eyes staring under snowy lashes. 'Can I... get your number?' Satoru has never asked for a number a day in his life, but he delights in watching you shift nervously, nodding as you tuck your hair behind your ear. 'Yeah, I'd like that' he exchanges numbers, tilting your chin up then, watching the way your eyes dilate, the color spread on your pretty cheeks. 'She told you?' you clear your throat, nodding a bit, still being captured by his fingers. 'I don't judge at all, Gojo, I'd still like to be... friends...' your whisper is met with the most subtle kiss on your lips, shooting desire hot and heavy until Satoru releases you, plump lips smirking- 'sure, sweets, we can be friends'

Pornstar Satoru can't get you off his mind, the feel of your skin on his, the sweet sigh against his lips. He is on a big shoot and - the Satoru Gojo that never gets soft - is having trouble keeping it up, to the amusement of his costar Pornstar Sukuna. Satoru scowls at his comments, just picturing your sweet lips against his for that brief moment. A man who just fucks and fucks, and doesn't feel, is hung up just on some fucking kiss. He has to take a break after pleasing his costar with his fingers, she's cumming so much she doesn't notice, but the directors wonder why he's off. He's in his own dressing room, eyeing the phone, hands shaking as he decides to type a message - 'could you give me a picture, sweets, to save as your caller id?'

Pornstar Satoru finds his cock is right back on hard when you send one quickly, just a cute selfie with a little peace sign, but he sees your glossy fucking lips, the teeth indentations he aches to rub the tip of his cock on, along with just a hint of your breasts. Your nipples press against the thin material of your little tee shirt- Pokemon, he notices, smiling- his cock throbbing. 'Can I get one too?' you're biting that lower lip nervously as you ask, getting a picture of him shirtless then, doing nothing to stifle the curiosity in your mind, your heart racing as you seee his body. 'You at a shoot?' you ask in the messages, he hesitates before answering - 'yes' - and somehow you feel jealous of whoever his costar is. You message a - kill it, Gojo! - despite the feeling in your tummy, little do you know you're drowning his fucking mind when he performs later, feeling the star squirting all over his latex covered cock.

Pornstar Satoru can't stop texting you that week, he can't even get hard if he doesn't look at that picture, and you can't stop your curiosity, when you friend mentions he's doing a live stream. Since Satoru can hardly perform, he's decided to masturbate on live cam, in minutes making more than he'd make in a shoot, all while having your picture propped up. People are chatting, watching, dollars by the hundreds being tipped every moment, fuck he's making way more than he usually would, and he can think of you. He laughs softly, abs flexing as he hits the right angle, reading the comments, making you dripping wet, this isn't what you do!?

Pornstar Satoru is stroking his wet, slick cock that's glistening, up and down with his huge hand, and you feel your pussy clench, breath coming faster, unsure whether to look away or keep staring, meanwhile he's picturing you in all sorts of positions, on your knees, a fucking mating press. He's shutting his eyes for a moment, grinning as the viewers go crazy. 'I know, it's pretty, huh?' he spits right on that long, veiny cock of his, pinching his pink tip and whining, white lashes fluttering open right when he sees a familiar name enter the chat.

Your name.

hehe it'll be a FULL FIC not a drabble/oneshot - link above