#this instinctive way of being around each other???

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Punishment”

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

part three of Camden’s sin but can be read as a stand alone

part 1 here and part 2 here Masterlist here

Summary: Alfie finished too fast—and you made the mistake of laughing. He makes sure you regret it, thoroughly.

WC: 3,5k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, oral(f!receiving), fingering, overstimulation, light bondage, filthy language, rough sex, cumplay dom!alfie, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister

Two weeks and a half. That’s how long it had been since you’d last seen Alfie Solomons. The longest you’d ever gone without him since this whole secret affair between you two began.

It wasn’t your choice, of course. Tommy had sent you off on some godforsaken business trip to the other side of the country, and you couldn’t refuse, couldn’t afford to raise suspicions.

“It’s only gonna be two weeks. What’s the problem with that, eh?” Tommy said with that tone.

You twisted a piece of hair around your finger, trying to play it cool and sound casual. “You know I hate being away from home. Besides, I’ve got meetings scheduled with Solomons and—”

“Meetings with Alfie?” he interrupted sharply. “I’ll handle them. Don’t worry.”

And that was that. With Tommy, it was always final.

But being away from Alfie was pure maddening torture. You craved him like air. Every single night you were away you burned for him, remembering the way his hands roamed your body, setting it on fire. The thought of him, the feel of his rough hands on your skin, made your pulse race and your body ache with an emptiness that only he could fill.

Now, finally, you were back. And you knew exactly what kind of welcome Alfie would have in mind, how he’d want to make up for lost time.

You could hear him pacing from the hallway outside his office, the heavy sound of his boots, like a caged beast. His frustration was palpable, each step a silent promise of what was to come. He was waiting for you.

The moment you pushed the door open, he was on you. No time for greetings. No words. No sweet kiss or pleasantries of any sort.

Nothing but desperation as he slammed you against the wall, his hands all over your body like he’d gone half-mad. The force of his touch was like a jolt of electricity to your body, and it felt as though the weight of your separation melted away in an instant.

“Four ‘undred an’ seventeen hours, right, an’ thirty-four fuckin’ minutes.” His voice was low, rough. “That’s how long it’s been since I last had you.”

You gasped out a breathless laugh. “You counted the minutes?”

“I counted the fuckin’ seconds, darlin’. I did. Pathetic, innit? Absolutely fuckin’ pathetic.”

His mouth crashed onto yours with no finesse, just hunger, a type of hunger you haven’t seen before, not even in him. His kiss was feral, consuming, and you could taste the desperation in every frantic movement of his lips, as though he couldn’t get enough of you, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your mouth on his.

“Treacle… my fuckin’ girl, yeah? My gorgeous little shiksa, come back to drive me up the bloody wall.” he murmured against your mouth.

His kiss turned even more heated, all tongue and teeth, he was so lost, going so fast he didn’t even notice how he bit your lip until he tasted the blood, but still, he didn’t mind. It was rough, wild, a reminder of how much he needed you, how much he’d missed you. His hands were everywhere—pulling at your hair, grasping at your waist—and your body responded instinctively, aching for his touch.

“Alfie… fuck… slow down,” you gasped between kisses.

“No. No, I’m not fuckin’ slowing down, alright? I’m fuckin’ dying here, woman,” his voice was raspy, breaking like a man on the edge. “It’s been weeks. You understand that? Left me starvin’ like some poor sod left out in the cold, yeah? While you were off playin’ secretary for your brother.

“I know, I missed this too but—”

“I don’t care for bloody excuses, yeah?” he spat. “Fuckin’ Tommy sending you away, blah, blah. Well while you were on your little vacation I almost gave me cock a fuckin’ third-degree burn wankin’ myself raw thinkin’ about that tight little cunt of yours.” He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye. “Suddenly I’m a fuckin’ fourteen-year-old boy again behind the synagogue, pants ‘round me ankles and fucking my fist.”

You looked at him then, he was a wreck. More disheveled than his usual self, beard grown out, eyes hollowed with exhaustion as if the last time he had slept was right before you left. His rugged appearance—eyes heavy, body tense—only made the need for him feel more urgent, more raw. He looked like he had been existing in some kind of torturous limbo without you.

“I even thought of shaggin’ some whore while you were gone, get a tart to come and please me, but they’re not my treacle. Do you think I want anyone else? I’d rather rot, yeah? I’d rather go insane than stick me cock in someone who ain’t you, than live without this.”

“You look like a mess,” you whispered.

“Yeah? well that’s cause I am a fuckin’ mess for you,” he muttered darkly, fingers fumbling with his belt. “And you’re gonna pay for leavin’ me alone for weeks, yeah? That’s called fuckin’ retribution.”

In one swift move, he lifted you, with your legs wrapped around his waist, and he began yanking up your dress—

“No fuckin’ knickers again,” he growled, half laughing like a man unhinged. “Bloody menace you are.”

Two fingers ran through your slick heat, Alfie groaned like a dying man when he felt how wet your already were for him.

He pulled his fingers out and shoved them into your mouth.

“Taste yourself,” he growled. “You fuckin’ taste how desperate you are for me too?”

You sucked on his fingers, moaning around them, eyes wild.

He nearly came in his trousers.

“God damn,” he muttered, dragging his fingers free. “You’re gonna kill me, woman.”

Before you could even say something back, he slammed into you with one brutal thrust that had your back arching hard against the wall.

“Oh God—you’re tighter than I remembered, like a fuckin’ vice,” he hissed. The intensity of his thrust rocked you, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body, making you gasp for air. You could feel every inch of him as he filled you, like nothing else in the world mattered but him inside you.

And just like that, he came.

A single groan ripped from his throat, long and raw. He buried his face in your shoulder, rutting helplessly into you, already spent, already getting soft. His entire body shuddered against you, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. You could feel his heart thumping wildly beneath your skin, his desperation burning through you as he clung to you, unwilling to let go.

You blinked. One minute. Maybe. If you were being generous.

He stayed there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your skin like he’d just been shot. Avoiding your gaze.

“Fuck…fuck—oh you little—” He pulled out with another groan, shaking and panting against your shoulder like a man that had been defeated.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh—but it slipped out anyway. It wasn’t cruel, just an amused little chuckle.

“That’s it?” you teased softly, knowing exactly how dangerous this game was.

“Don’t fuckin’—don’t fuckin’ start,” he groaned, hiding his face in your neck like a wounded animal. “Don’t even look at me, I swear to God—“

He stepped back, murmuring incomprehensible words, adjusting himself, glaring like he could burn a hole through the floor.

“Don’t you dare… Don’t you fuckin’ dare look smug about this,” he growled. “That fuckin’ mouth… that’s why I lasted sixty seconds.”

You grinned, teeth biting into your lower lip. “Think it was more like thirty.”

He groaned again. “Right, well now I’m insulted and limp—cheers, love.”

⸻

You didn’t hear from him for a week.

There were no sweets. No flowers delivered by one of his men when your family wasn’t home. No filthy telegrams full of his usual depraved words.

Nothing. Because Alfie Solomons had never been so embarrassed in his life. The way he’d lost control and came way too fast—like some bloody virgin teenager who’d never touched a woman before. It was simply unacceptable.

Now it was a new week. Another scheduled meeting, and you were back in Camden. Only this time, he didn’t look happy to see you, he wasn’t smirking like he always did whenever he saw you.

No. He was just staring, reclined in his chair with his arms crossed over his stomach.

“You humiliated me, yeah? You know that, don’t you?” He said as soon as you stepped inside his office.

You blinked. Here we go.

“Alfie—”

“No. Shut your gob and let me fuckin’ talk,” His voice was calm. “It is a fact. You shamed me. Laughed. Mocked a man in his moment of weakness, in his darkest hour, right? and that is a vile, a very evil thing to do, treacle, a very unkind thing.”

“I didn’t mock you,” you tried. “I—”

“You laughed, woman. You know what that does to a man’s ego? to a man’s pride?” his voice still calm but harsh. “Now I have a very big ego, probably not as big as what’s between my legs, right? But it still hurts, treacle.”

He stood slowly, and for some reason he looked bigger, broader, dangerous.

He walked to the door and flicked the key, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Alfie,” you said, heart starting to pound. “What are you—”

“You ain’t leavin’ this room,” he said, walking toward you with such calm that it was terrifying in a way. “Not ‘til I prove myself that you’ll never laugh again, is that clear?”

You swallowed hard.

“Oh yes, treacle. You won’t be laughing tonight,” he muttered. “You’re gonna cry. You’re gonna cry and you’re gonna be begging me to have some mercy on you. But I won’t.”

What happened next was so fast, your mind barely had time to register it. One second you were standing in front of him, and next—Alfie had ripped your dress open, buttons flying everywhere across the room as his big, greedy hands claimed every inch of your body as his. He touched and kneaded every ounce of your soft flesh. Every touch of his hands was an insistent claim, possessive and almost brutal, making your skin burn beneath his fingertips.

The next second he shoved you back onto his desk, flat on your back, completely naked and sprawled across a mess of his paperwork.

“Now you…” he panted, eyes dark as sin. “You’re gonna be a good girl and you’re gonna lie there looking pretty for me, yeah?”

You nodded, breath getting heavy as he pulled off his belt.

“Give me your fuckin’ hands,” he ordered, voice rough, commanding—and you had no choice but to obey instantly.

He tied your wrists together with the leather, tight but not so much that it’d hurt. And then he dropped to his knees on the floor like a man in prayer. He gripped your thighs, dragged you to the edge of the desk, and spread you open—so your soaked, pulsing center was right in front of his face.

He let out a dark chuckle. “Well, would ya look at that? Eh? Fuckin’ soaked.”

He slapped your pussy once—softly, playfully—but it was enough to make you whimper and squirm beneath him.

“I’d call a photographer in here—proper one, yeah? Ask him to take a picture of it…Immortalize this perfect fuckin’ cunt forever. But I’d have to shoot the bastard in the ‘ead. No one sees this an’ lives to tell the tale.”

He slapped your wet heat again with his fingers, his touch drove you crazy with need, instantly jerking your hips against his hand, desperate to feel more of him.

“Please, Alfie—” you whimpered, the ache between your legs becoming unbearable. You wanted to reach out to him, grab his hair and pull him until his face was buried in your cunt, but the belt around your wrists made it impossible.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll start in a moment, treacle, alright?” He muttered, eyes fixed on you. “Don’t rush me. Let a man admire somethin’ so divine, yeah? You’re a proper masterpiece down ‘ere.”

And then he began. Slow. Purposeful. Teasing you like he always did. His thick fingers slid along your folds, slick with arousal, brushing over your entrance again and again—but he didn’t touch your clit.

He avoided it with expert cruelty, knowing exactly how to drive you mad.

“You look so pretty squirming like that,” he murmured, voice dangerously low. “Enough to make a sane man go fuckin’ feral. And I was never sane to begin with.”

Finally, his thumb pressed down on your clit, in firm, relentless circles, and you cried out, your head dropping back with a gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, making every nerve in your body ignite with pleasure, and you couldn’t help the little whimper that escaped your lips.

He already knew exactly how to undo you. He always had the right pressure and pace that shattered your control in minutes.

“I’m close—Alfie—I’m gonna—” you tried to warn him, but the orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. Your legs jerked and your whole body clenched tight. The sheer intensity of it made your vision blur, your back arching off the desk as you lost all control, the world shrinking down to nothing but the pleasure that he had built inside you.

Alfie groaned, relishing in the way your body trembled because of him. “Beautiful. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful cumming for me, treacle.” His voice was thick with pride, like he was savoring every drop of the pleasure he was giving you.

“Tell me—what other man can make you cum like that, eh?” He waited. “Go on then, tell me, what other fuckin’ geezer’s ever made you cum like that, yeah? I’ll wait.”

“No one,” you sobbed breathlessly. “No one, Alfie.”

But he wasn’t done with you. Not even close. He didn’t offer you even a second of mercy before pushing two fingers into your soaked cunt, knuckles-deep, fucking you fast and hard with them. Each thrust of his fingers was a ruthless reminder of just how little he cared for your exhaustion. His pace was brutal, relentless, and you could feel the heat of his body burning into yours with every movement.

“You’re gonna take it,” he growled, an evil smirk on his face, “gonna take everything I give you tonight.” His words were more like a command than a question, and you had no choice but to obey, your body moving to his rhythm without thought.

Your second orgasm slammed into you before you even had time to prepare for it, and by the time he started working toward the third, your legs were trembling, you felt overstimulated, and your tears were pooling at the corners of your eyes. The world spun, and you could feel every nerve on edge, your body gasping for air, trying to recover, but Alfie refused to let you—he was pushing you past your limits, over and over again.

“Oi, you alright, love? You still with me? There we go… That’s my good girl. Cryin’ and takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ.” His voice sounded tender but at the same time you could notice the mocking undertone in it. The tenderness only made the harshness of his touch more pronounced, like he was playing with your body as if it were a toy he could control.

He slid a third finger back inside you, curling it to hit your g-spot, while his mouth feasted on your clit—sucking, swirling, biting, making obscene sounds against your wet heat. His lips and tongue worked you with cruel precision, his fingers curling to drive you even closer to the edge, while his groans against your clit made your body tremble even more.

“Missed the way your cunt tastes,” he grunted. “Like syrup. Could bottle it. Sell it next to my rum.”

His groans mixed with the sounds of your slickness, your whimpers, your hoarse cries. Each sound seemed to fuel him more, pushing him to devour you completely, to take what he wanted without any mercy. Your pussy was overstimulated to the point of pain—it was almost torturous, you wanted to scream at him, asking him to stop, but you were still begging him for more.

His fingers inside your hole pumped in and out, fast, deep, unrelenting. The pressure was building so intensely that it felt like every cell in your body was firing off, and yet you couldn’t pull away. His grip on you was too strong, too perfect, keeping you right there at the edge of oblivion.

And when your third orgasm hit, it damn near knocked you out, your vision blurred for a second, feeling lightheaded. Your whole body seized up, unable to control the overwhelming wave of ecstasy that took over, and you cried out his name, unable to form anything coherent as you gave in completely.

You cried out his name, hips bucking. He pulled away and stood up, licking his fingers clean as he looked down at you—completely ruined.

“You gonna laugh now? Still got a joke in ya, do ya? Gonna laugh now, eh?”

“No… Alfie, I won’t, I promise,” you choked out through a moan, your whole body trembling. You could barely catch your breath, feeling like you’d been torn apart and put back together in the most brutal way possible.

“I’m not convinced, you see?” He said darkly. “Think I gotta make the point a bit clearer, don’t I? Think you still got a lesson to learn.” His words sent a shiver down your spine, and though you were exhausted, you couldn’t help but want to see just how far he would push you.

He shoved down his pants, and you saw just how hard he was—like a rock, dripping precum. The sight of him, so desperate and thick with need, made your heart race again, despite the overwhelming sensation of your body already having given so much.

“You ever laugh at me again,” he warned, “I’ll tie you down to this desk and keep you here for a fuckin’ week.”

He pushed into you—slow, deliberate—and every inch of him burned like fire inside you. You gasped, your walls stretching to accommodate him, feeling every inch as he filled you completely, slowly, almost torturously, until there was nothing left but the raw sensation of him inside you.

“Jesus Christ,” he gritted out. “I’m never getting used to you. Tight little thing… so soft…”

Then he began to thrust, setting his pace hard, fast, brutal—and your body practically lifted from the desk with every stroke. It was so deep, so relentless, that you felt like you might shatter at any second, your body giving itself to him in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

“You feel that?” he groaned, slamming into you harder. “You feel how deep I am? That’s me in your guts. Rearranging fuckin’ furniture. Writing my fuckin’ name on your insides.”

You could only sob, eyes fluttering back as he took you over the edge once more. Every thrust felt like it was taking you apart, and you were powerless to do anything but feel it, over and over again, until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but give yourself to him completely.

“You were so smug, laughin’ at me the other day, but look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock… That’s poetic justice, that is.”

He snapped his hips harder, faster, until your thighs shook and you screamed his name, feeling another climax approaching.

“Come on, treacle,” he panted, “give me another one. Last one. Around my cock.” He said, breathless, pounding into you with ferocity. His voice was a mix of desperation and satisfaction, as though he couldn’t get enough of the sound of you breaking, of you being his in every possible way.

You fumbled with the belt, moving your wrists and trying to break free from the tight grip of it. You wanted to push him away, you felt like your tight hole couldn’t take it any more—too sore, too overstimulated. The belt bit into your wrists each time you struggled, leather creaking, and still—he didn’t let up.

“Nuh-uh, treacle,” he said with a wicked smile, “the belt stays where it is. Don’t fight it. Just take it.” He owned every part of you, your body, your cries, the very air in your lungs. Your struggle only made him hungrier.

God, you wanted it so much. Even in the pain—even in the overwhelming stretch of it all—there was something about the way he held you as he pounded into you, that made you feel worshipped in the filthiest way.

He snapped his hips harder and your final orgasm tore through you, whimpers hoarse, crying out his name. He felt the delicious pressure of your cunt squeezing him, and already knew that was his undoing.

“Fuck— Oh darlin’, I’m right there” He muttered through his teeth.

His own orgasm followed quickly after yours, he pulled his cock out of you, cum shooting out of him and getting all over your thighs and stomach in warm, pearly white streaks. The heat of it spread across your skin, marking you as his in the most primal way.

He grabbed his shaft, letting the tip of his now half-hard cock smear his cum all over you, as if he was painting you with it. The head of his cock dragged across your belly, your thighs, messy and unapologetic. His gaze never leaving you, eyes dark with something animal. There was reverence in it, too. Like you were a canvas and he’d just finished a masterpiece. Like the mess he made of you was art.

“I swear, so help me god,” he growled through a grin, “one day I’m just gonna fuckin’ die on top of you—big stupid grin on my face, cock still inside you, ‘cause there’s no better way to go. And even dead, I wouldn’t stop thinkin’ about it.”

“You’re insane,” you breathed, body limp.

“You made me insane. You did this to me”

He untied your wrists gently, rubbing the marks on your skin to ease the discomfort, then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You did proper fuckin’ good, love. Amazing. Treacle, you’re bloody magnificent, you know that?” he murmured, arms wrapping around you as he let you rest against his chest. His fingers traced slow circles on your arm.

His eyes dropped to your stomach, staring at the mess he’d made.

“I’m gonna buy one of those…” he muttered, breath still ragged, “one of those bloody Kodaks or summat. Take a picture of this right here, and then I’m gettin’ it tattooed on me chest.”

You let out a laugh, amused and wrecked. “Is that your version of being romantic?”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “It’s the most romantic I’ve ever fuckin’ been, innit? Don’t get used to it.”

You tried to shift, to pull your legs together and sit up, but they wouldn’t cooperate. They felt like jelly, trembling, completely boneless after all he put you through.

“You can’t walk, can you?”

“Barely.”

“Good,” he said smugly. “That’s how it should be.”

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this part (many more coming) thank you so much for your support and nice words!! it makes me so happy🫶🫶

[astrologydray]

When Your Moon Sign Matches Their Rising Sign: part 1

♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️

Aries Moon + Aries Rising

♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️

This connection is high-energy, fiery, and often volatile — but magnetic nonetheless. Aries Moon people feel their emotions with urgency: when they’re angry, it shows; when they’re in love, it’s intense. Pair that with someone whose Aries Rising naturally shows up as bold, competitive, and assertive, and you’ve got fireworks.

They mirror each other’s impulsiveness — emotionally and behaviorally — and while this can lead to passionate bonding, it can also cause frequent head-butting. There’s not a lot of emotional delay or subtlety in this match. What you see is what you get.

Synastry vibe: Quick to fall, quicker to fight, and possibly even quicker to forgive (if pride doesn’t get in the way). They often challenge each other to level up — emotionally and energetically.

Potential dynamic: You might find yourselves playing out arguments where both partners feel like they’re the one being misunderstood, because you’re emotionally raw (Moon) and reactive (Rising) in very similar ways. If both people lack emotional maturity, this can spiral into a competitive, ego-driven connection. But if handled with care? You’re both each other’s ride-or-die.

♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️

Taurus Moon + Taurus Rising

♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️

This connection is rooted in physical presence, loyalty, and consistency. A Taurus Moon person processes their emotions through comfort — food, touch, environment — and wants their inner world to feel peaceful and secure. A Taurus Rising comes off as composed, sensual, and grounded — they project the exact vibe that puts a Taurus Moon at ease.

This pairing thrives on routine, rituals, and deep trust. Even if things move slowly, they build something that lasts. Emotions are shown through actions: cooking for each other, massages, slow mornings in bed, running errands as a love language.

Synastry vibe: These two often experience emotional recognition instantly. The Moon person feels seen, while the Rising person feels instinctively accepted. It’s very “my home is your home” energy — even if you’ve just met.

Potential dynamic: This could become a beautifully slow-burn connection where you both feel more peaceful together than apart. You speak the same love language without needing to explain it.

If either of you resists change or growth, this match can stagnate. Both can get too comfortable or possessive.

♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️

Gemini Moon + Gemini Rising

♊️��️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️

This is a match made in chaotic, curious heaven. Gemini Moon needs mental stimulation to feel emotionally alive — boredom is death. Meanwhile, Gemini Rising comes off as witty, chatty, and restless. These two naturally feed off each other’s banter and curiosity. You might start talking and forget to sleep. Gemini Moons can be moody but mask it with humor, and Gemini Risings often perform emotions before processing them. Together, they make excellent travel partners, meme senders, and spontaneous decision-makers.

Synastry vibe: Endless conversation, matching humor, shared mental stimulation. You feel like you’ve known each other in every alternate timeline.

Potential dynamic: You may feel emotionally safe around them because their presence is light and clever, not overwhelming. You vent through conversation, and they mirror it back with similar words or gestures — almost like they’re reading your mind.

Emotional depth can be a challenge. There’s a risk of skating over big emotional truths because it feels easier to joke, deflect, or intellectualize.

♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️

Cancer Moon + Cancer Rising

♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️

This is a deeply emotional, spiritual, and soul-recognizing match. The Cancer Moon is highly sensitive, intuitive, and nurturing — they often feel like they carry the emotional temperature of the room. Cancer Rising appears warm, shy, motherly or protective, and even a bit guarded. But that’s the thing — you both see through each other instantly. The Moon person’s emotional rhythms match what the Rising person naturally presents to the world. You “just know” how to care for each other without speaking. There’s an undercurrent of safety, psychic connection, and softness.

Synastry vibe: Healing. You may cry together easily, or feel like childhood wounds are being re-opened and re-loved. You feel emotionally held just by being in their presence.

Potential dynamic: The Moon person feels emotionally cradled, while the Rising person feels understood and accepted for their gentle nature. There’s a quiet devotion that builds without needing dramatic displays.

If either person is still operating from emotional reactivity or unresolved family dynamics, this match can become codependent or smothering. But if there’s growth? It’s a soulmate frequency.

♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️

[aurorasgate]

Long time no see love! Hope you've been keeping well! 💕

I have the antique anatomy skeletal set too! Now I'm curious to see what you can pull from there to make a story. Could you do a 3 card full deck pull from there for Sylus? Thanks! 💕

sylus x reader

love written in the cards event

cards pulled:

the world ✵ key words: wisdom, ending, achievement, success, completion, freedom

2 of rods ✵ key words: instinct, action, balance

4 of blades ✵ key words: rest, recovery, healing

[mission successful]

closing the notification on your watch, a wave carrying everything you had pushed aside up until now crashes against you in full force, reminding you just how much work you had put into this past week. tense muscles you think were running on pure adrenaline for at least the last two days thrum with more than a dull ache, the bruises and scrapes along your body making themselves reknown in a tingling burn and in some places you swear it hurts down to your bones. 

it's not just the physical discomforts that floods back into you. the remembrance of every moment you’ve found yourself missing the one man who is always on the forefront of your mind and the longing to be with him that’s grown rapidly each day you’ve apart now fills you so intensely you don’t think you could make it another day without hearing his voice and seeing his handsome face. right now you do think you’d consider that physical all the same with the way it wraps around and clenches your heart. 

right now, it’s more apparent than anything else you’re feeling. 

with the critical state of the small town outside of linkon that you’d been sent to for your mission you’ve hardly had time to sleep, let alone look at your phone but with the communication system down for the last 4 days it hadn’t really made a difference except for the fact that it only made you miss sylus more. it would likely be a while before the comms came back up but you weren’t planning to stick around for when that happens because all that was left to do, all you needed to do, is return home. 

though it’s not your apartment in linkon as the picture of home in mind as you attempt to forget your tiredness one last time, for just a little longer, and make your way from the battlefield to the place you and the other hunters had been staying in order to pack your things. it’s only the thought of being in sylus’s arms as soon as possible that allows the very last of your strength to push all the discomfort and tiredness aside as you hop onto the back of your bike.

maybe you should have waited, tried to sleep, had sylus come visit you when you made your way back with everyone else but the thought of putting this off any longer was so quickly thrown out of your mind. you aren’t sure when it started, or if maybe it had always been this way, but you hate being away from sylus, always wanting more of him and his time, his love, and right now you wouldn’t make either of you wait a second longer. 

every move you make to the n109 zone is controlled and safe, your heart's desire willing your body to hold out until you reach your destination. the red string tying your two hearts together tugs you straight towards him, going taught the closer you are and when you enter the n109 zone, inside your chest you can feel it being plucked, humming with a vibration of impatience and longing that you wonder if he can feel too.

you’d like to believe that he does and that he’s waiting for you too, having missed you as much as you did him during your time apart.

finally, with onychinus’s base comes into view, you can’t help but go just a little faster, feeling your strength ready to slip any minute with the place holding your home almost within reach. and slip it does the moment you kick down the stand to your bike and slide off of it, though with every passing second you think maybe ‘disappearing completely’ would be a better description for your strength leaving you and the way exhausted hits you like a train.

every step you take is heavy, pressure on bones and muscles that are now screaming at you to let them rest. the bag on your back feels like it’s holding bars of lead rather than your gun and the few changes of clothes you had with you. you half debate ditching it just a few steps from your destination. 

by the time you’ve made it to the door, lifting your arms to push it open feels like a feat in and of itself but it’s one you’d conquer so long as the holder of your heart was on the other side. before your hand can wrap around the handle however, the door is pulled back so quickly the rush of it, along with the picking of your heart rate, has you fighting to stay upright and it’s something you give into completely at a flash of ruby red eyes and a soft call of your name.

you feel as limp as a wet noodle falling face first into sylus’s chest, letting your bag fall to your feet in your descent. so quickly, so easily, he catches you in his strong arms and sweeps you off your feet, your body beyond thankful to not have to stand a moment longer.

“are you hurt?” he asks, an urgent graveness to his tone.

you shake your heart against him. “no, just very very tired.” ‘tired’ feels like an understatement of the year but it’s easy to forget with the way your heart soars as you bask in the rumble of his deep chuckle vibrating against your body that he holds so close, with such gentle power. 

“you’re tired enough you can’t even stand and yet you found the energy to come see as soon as your mission was finished. you must have been very determined,” his voice is soft and warm and laced with a teasing lilt, a stark contrast to the worry you heard in it only moments ago and at the sound of it you can feel tears pricking at the corner of your eyes.

you’ve missed him so unbelievably much and now that you’re with him, in his embrace, your happiness and relief takes on multiple forms that you don’t have any means to control. letting your head fall limp on his chest, your ear pressed close to his heart, all you can do is agree with him as you listen to his steady heart beat. 

“i was because i knew i wouldn’t be able to rest peacefully without being with you again.”

“is that so?”

your arm aches in your attempt to reach for him but you don’t care, you need to feel more of him, and ignore your fingers protests when they curl into the softness of his dark shirt weakly. “yeah, and i was right. i already feel better.” as the quiet words leave your lips, you can feel the tears clinging to your lashes falling, making their way down to the corners of your tired but genuine smile. from the moment they leave your eyes, you can feel his own on you and when you look up at him, there’s no hiding the worried crease of his brow. all you want to do is sooth it away. “i’m sorry, i don’t mean to cry. i just.. can’t help it.”

“you never need to be sorry, especially when it comes to showing your emotions,” he says the words like there’s nothing more true he’s ever said and you believe him. you’d always believe anything he said. “cry all you need sweetie. i’m not going anywhere.”

“then i guess i’ll be making a full recovery, huh?”

he chuckles, gentle and warm and the remnants of it linger on his lips that brush against the crown of your head. “of course sweetheart. you’re fierce kitten but i will always be here to ensure you do too.”

hi my lovely! thank you, i hope you've been too! i LOVE this deck so much, it's beyond gorgeous and i like the twist on the normal suits and love that you have it too hehe i was so excited to write this for you, i really hope you like it<3 thank you for joining in on my event and helping me get out of my little writing slump

[jiuwaves]

Burnt Out.

❦ pairing ; kwon jiyong x reader.

❦ warnings ; body dysmorphia, reader has an ed, manipulation.

ACT 2: The Cracks in the Mirror

The days blurred together now, one long, breathless run toward your tour. Just a few weeks left.

You were seated at a round table in the production office, surrounded by stylists, managers, and creatives. Papers cluttered the surface, setlists, costume mockups, lighting cues. Everyone spoke over each other, energy buzzing. Another meeting. Another checklist. Another version of you being built.

Jiyong sat next to you, calm as ever, leaning lazily against your shoulder with his phone in hand. While the others debated encore numbers, he scrolled. You barely noticed what he was doing, you were too tired to notice anything anyway.

Until—

“Jagi, look.”

His voice slid through the hum of conversation, soft, personal. You turned, instinctively obedient, and glanced at his phone.

A photo of you.

Candid. From a few months back. You didn’t even remember the moment.

“You already look so perfect here,” he said with a smile, brushing your arm lightly. “But imagine if you were just a bit skinnier, it would top your looks.”

The words hit like a slap dressed as silk.

He was still hooked to his phone, to the same picture of you as if he was examining more things ot fix about you.

Despite how his words stung you, you nodded anyway because disagreeing felt dangerous and this was love, wasn’t it?

Love that pointed out your flaws. Love that knew how to fix you. Love that came in the shape of impossible standards whispered so sweetly you almost believed they were your own.

“Hey, look at this one,” he nudged you again, grinning.

You glanced down. Another photo, this time from your rookie days. Big eyes, rounder cheeks, that kind of naive glow no amount of effort could recreate.

“That’s an old picture,” you muttered, keeping your voice low. “It doesn’t really matter now.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound defensive but it did and somehow Jiyong didn’t notice or maybe he did, and ignored it.

“No, but seriously,” he whispered, still scrolling, eyes fixed on the screen. “You look so much better now.”

You looked at him, startled for a second.

Was that… a compliment?

But his tone wasn’t settled, it hovered somewhere between admiration and critique, like he was still deciding what version of you he preferred. His thumb paused over the photo again. That old, wide-eyed you. Untouched. Unfiltered. Before the pressure, before the constant comparisons, before him.

“Thanks,” you said, too quiet for the others to hear.

But inside, your thoughts were tangled. If you looked better now, why did he suggest you needed to be skinnier just a moment ago? Why did he keep pointing out the past? Was this his way of encouraging you? Was he trying to help or trying to mold you?

Around you, voices filled the room fast, sharp, focused. Discussions about setlists, backup dancers, wardrobe changes, sound checks. Every detail of the tour dissected and rebuilt.

This was supposed to be about the music and here he was, sitting right beside you, phone still lit, scrolling through images of you like a critic flipping through a catalog. Talking about you. Your body. Your face.

“Ji,” you whispered, eyes fixed on the tour notes in front of you, voice barely audible, “can you keep that down?”

There was a tremble in your words, not anger, not even annoyance. Just quiet pleading. Almost like you were asking for permission to be seen as something more than skin and bone.

Then, with a soft sigh, he tucked his phone away and leaned in closer.

“I’m helping you, love,” he said, almost tenderly.

Helping.

It echoed in your head even as someone across the table handed you the final stage mockups. You took them mechanically, pen in hand, but your mind had already drifted.

If this was help… why did it feel like drowning?

The meeting went on for over twenty more minutes.

Except this time, Jiyong actually started contributing, speaking up about lighting transitions, suggesting which songs should open and close the set, even offering styling tips that made the team nod in agreement.

He was charming, focused, confident. The room shifted with him.

You sat still beside him, listening, watching as he blended into your world like he belonged in it. Like he’d always been there. Like he knew exactly what you needed, onstage and off.

You folded your hands together beneath the table, squeezing them tightly to stay present. To keep your face still. To remind yourself that you, too, were still in the room, even though no one had noticed that you’d gone quiet.

The meeting wrapped up slowly. People trickled out with binders, coffee cups, polite goodnights. The room quieted, the buzz fading into a heavy hush. You stood, stretching slightly, the fatigue settling deeper into your body now that the adrenaline was gone.

Jiyong lingered behind, packing up slowly, too casually. Like he was waiting for this moment.

You glanced over at him, then finally said, voice low but steady,

“Ji… can we talk about what happened earlier?”

He looked up, eyebrows raised in that way he did when he wanted to look surprised but not guilty. 

“What do you mean?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the table. 

“The photos. The comments. I know you think you’re helping, but sometimes… it doesn’t feel that way.”

Jiyong straightened slightly. “You’re being too sensitive again,” he said gently, stepping toward you. 

“I wasn’t criticizing you, jagi. I’m just trying to help you stay sharp. Keep your edge.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t let you speak.

“You’re about to be on the biggest tour of your career,” he continued, smiling like he was soothing a child. “People are watching. You need to be… untouchable.”

His voice lowered, almost affectionate. “That version of you, the one in those old pictures, people fell in love with her. I just want the world to like a better version of you.”

There it was.

Wrapped in care.

Tied with love.

And laced with doubt.

You nodded slowly, the words lodged in your throat. Maybe he was helping. Maybe this was what it took. Perfection didn’t come easy.

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” he said, kissing your forehead lightly. “You know I only want what’s best for you.”

He was probably right.

He was just trying to help.

And maybe… maybe you were the one not putting in enough effort.

That thought settled deep in your chest, heavier than hunger.

So you started fixing it quietly, obediently.

You skipped meals without a single protest.

No hunger complaints. No subtle hints. Just quiet compliance.

Some days, you only let yourself have a single bite, something small, controlled followed by water to stretch it further. Just enough to keep you upright. Just enough to keep you functioning.

You even started working more. Staying later at rehearsals. Volunteering for interviews you normally avoided. It didn’t matter if you were exhausted but tiredness became background noise.

You were learning how to disappear in plain sight and no one, not even you seemed to notice how easy it was becoming.

-

You’d been quiet for weeks. Obedient. Careful. Smiling when you needed to, working when you were told. Shrinking yourself into whatever shape was expected but the silence started to ache.

So late at night, in the stillness after everyone else had stopped watching, you wrote just a few lines at first, then a melody. 

It was a song, a song that felt real about your feelings.

You thought maybe…maybe this could be a start. A piece of yourself you could still keep.

So you brought it to Jiyong the next day.

It was after a long day of rehearsals. The others had cleared out, their voices echoing faintly down the hallway. Jiyong was still in the studio, lounging in his chair, phone in hand.

“I want to play you something,” you said, sliding your phone across the table.

He tapped the screen and listened. The song was unpolished with just your voice and the piano but it was honest. It meant something but when it ended, he didn’t look up right away.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, still hooked to his phone.

“But it’s not your image.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“It doesn’t fit you, jagiya,” he said gently, as if he was comforting you. “You’re a star. Powerful and composed. This song... it’s emotional. It makes you look small. Unsure.”

“I’m allowed to feel,” you said, trying to hold your voice steady. “It’s still me.”

He looked at you with a faint smile, like he was speaking to a child. 

“That’s the thing. It’s not just about you. People come to see the version they adore. The version we’ve worked so hard to build.”

Silence settled between you. Heavy. Airless.

“Including you?” you asked, your voice cracking.

Jiyong finally looked up, the light from his phone fading as he set it down and stood.

“No, jagi,” he said softly. “I love you. A lot.”

You looked away, blinking fast as tears welled in your eyes. “You’re lying…”

“I love you the way you are,” he insisted, stepping forward, arms out like he could hold the truth together just by touching you.

“But I’m not her,” you whispered, backing away before his hands could reach you.

“That’s not true!” he shouted after you, his voice echoing across the studio walls.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept walking, wiping at your tears with the sleeve of your hoodie, swallowing the ache rising in your throat. The door shut behind you, muffling everything, his voice, his excuses, the version of love he kept offering like it wasn’t breaking you.

For the first time in a long time, the silence felt like your own.

Your phone buzzed like hell, call after call, message after message.

Jiyong.

You didn’t have to check to know.

You sat at the edge of the rocks, the sea stretching endlessly before you, grey, restless, alive in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks.

Your phone buzzed relentlessly in your lap, screen lighting up with a flood of notifications. Calls. Messages. His name again and again but didn’t open a single one.

Instead, you kept your eyes on the waves crashing below, each one louder than the last, like they were trying to drown out everything that had been said in that room.

Every “you’re perfect” that never meant what it should’ve. Every suggestion wrapped in concern. Every “I love you” that felt more like control than care.

The wind tangled through your hair, cold and biting against your skin but you stayed still, grounded by the jagged stone beneath you, by the ache in your chest that finally had room to breathe.

Even the sea itself was calmer than everyone surrounding you. It didn’t ask you to change. Didn’t speak in half-truths or measured compliments.

It simply existed wild, relentless and honest.

[colleybri]

A few thoughts on Bix’s arc so far in Andor season 2

(Spoilers up to Season 2 Ep 6)

Since her torture in Season 1 (and the attempted rape in S2 Ep 3) I knew that Bix would be carrying a lot of cumulative trauma in this season, but I was totally unprepared for how realistically this is being handled. The aspect that really shocked me is that the show unflinchingly shows the longer-term PTSD taking full effect many months later in the form of depression - and addiction.

Most obviously, Bix has terrible nightmares that reflect the different ways in which she is haunted. In the first arc nightmare, Gorst pulled the blanket off her as she lay alone in bed on Mina Rau - visually foreshadowing her vulnerability to the predatory Imperial Krole. It was implied then that the nightmares are worse when Cassian isn’t there, but in the first nightmare of the second arc he is literally right next to her and it makes no difference. He does say, on waking her from the sleep walking episode, that “It’s been a while” since she last had one, so the suggestion is that the nightmares are back because of their most recent mission. Bix struggling to process the death of this young soldier has clearly brought all her demons back in force, all symbolised by demonic Gorst. She has killed men herself by now, but says “I can’t stop seeing [the soldier’s] face”. According to the dialogue in the Gorst torture nightmare, an aspect that particularly haunts Bix is that the young man’s family will never know what happened to him. For a woman from such a tight-knit community as Ferrix this troubles her deeply. She is also, canonically, an orphan and presumably has had to mourn and process the death of each of her parents. Brasso is also a fresh bereavement. Family is important to her even though she has almost none left. …

She at least has Cassian, and their relationship - one that started as a childhood friendship over twenty years before and has had romantic interludes since - is probably the main thing sustaining her. “She’s the most Ferrixian woman there is and she can’t go home. But she and Cassian have made a home in each other” says Adria Arjona. The beautiful ‘hand dance’ scene in Ep 4 seems designed to re-centre her a little as he leaves her for the solo mission to Ghorman. A little shared moment of intimacy that takes them back and grounds them.

But it’s a realistically flawed relationship too. Trauma-bonding can lead to co-dependence but the other major contributing factor is the nature of their role as rebel operatives in the ‘insanity’ of the city. They can’t relax. They can’t shop without worrying about being recognised. In one really poignant little exchange Bix asks if they can go for a walk in the “big park” as she’s clearly yearning for some natural scenery. But Cassian says no, there are cameras.

This makes their safehouse, dingy and grey and overlooked by a never-ending rainy city, feel like a prison and the sense of smothering claustrophobia clearly haunts Bix while they’re here. She prefers activity, doing something, being on missions… it’s the sitting around waiting that allows the dark thoughts to come. Cassian and Luthen both acknowledge this too.

Socially, Bix is completely isolated. She has no friends; it’s not safe. There’s no sense of community here. Her world has shrunk to the ‘home’ she has with Cassian - their relationship is her home but she’s frustrated that she’s otherwise homeless. She hesitates to call the safe-house ‘home’…. “This place. Whatever it is.” She contemplates buying towels and decent plates, wants to clean the windows… if they are staying there longer term. She has an instinct to make a home but the place just doesn’t feel like one. She’s disturbed by the idea of other people using it while they’re not there. Since losing her home in Ferrix she has lived in a ‘Mobil-Haus’ on Mina Rau (even Krole pointed out that it didn’t look ‘permanent’) and now their base is this ‘safe house’ which might be safe but certainly isn’t somewhere she can feel is ‘permanent’ either.

She is also trying to be strong. She’s rightly resentful of Cassian’s desire to protect her. That in itself is complicated because he’s also a victim of trauma. Bix highlights this in that little flare-up argument in Ep 4 - “I’m not Maarva, I’m not your sister!!”. Cassian having what Tony Gilroy recently called ‘a problematic saviour complex’ derives from his very early guilt about not being there for his sister. He wants to save those he loves, he wants to go back for them - metaphorically or literally. But Bix tells him that ‘It’s not up to us, what we save or what we lose’. Cassian is really struggling with this concept at this point in his life when he’s torn between what Luthen sees as full commitment to the cause and his love for Bix. Bix herself wants an existence for herself outside of this perspective. She wants to fight. “If I’m giving up everything, I want to win. We have to.”

But the contributing factors to her state now are trapping her in a vicious circle of nightmares. She would be a danger to herself and others on a mission. The sleeping drug doesn’t seem to be working. She takes it regardless of whether Cassian is there or not. The depression is taking over; she’s trapped. Cassian asks her if she wants to talk about it but she doesn’t. He doesn’t want to push it. I think he absolutely knows that she is in a very bad way. He probably knows also, at least on some level, that she is self-medicating. There comes a point when an addict finds this extremely difficult to cover up - especially from someone who loves you and knows you extremely well. For these reasons he is not only hesitant to leave her to go to Ghorman at all but is also especially furious at Luthen.

Realistically, Bix isn’t observably in a bad way all time. She can still appear her old self sometimes, as glimpsed with the banter with the shop-keeper. Even after her worst episode, Bix eventually clears away the mess of takeaway cartons and cleans herself and the safehouse up a bit for Cassian’s return. She even buys flowers - an attempt to ‘make a home’ of the place. They express their love easily when he comes back; the gentle flirting about Varian Skye is particularly cute. But even there, in the suggestion that they might be into bedroom roleplay, there’s a sort of poignancy… it’s the kind of taste that might develop in a couple who are literally using different identities all the time as spies and who are also unable to bring any real people ‘home one time’.

The irony of all this is that it’s Luthen ‘not a friend to romantic relationships’ Rael who helps - ‘sending them on couples therapy to kill Gorst and blow stuff up’ as one meme put it. Bix gets the catharsis that she desperately needed. Realistically, it’s not going to be a cure-all and I think it’s a safe bet to say that any improvement in Bix is not going to be presented as something that happens overnight either. But I think there’s hope where there was none before. Her ongoing-therapy now? It’s just as Cassian told young mechanic Niya at the start of the season. “You’ll never feel right unless you’re doing what you can to stop them”. In having a new sense of purpose and working alongside the man she loves and trusts the most - a partner in both senses - there’s an indication that there is hope ahead for Bix.

Even if she dies after all this suffering … a ‘blaze of glory’ death feels a lot more likely and a lot more earned. Personally, I hope Bix lives. I feel a bit more confident in the writers finding a way to allow that. But either way, I’m sure her overall arc will be incredibly powerful.

[sknyuz]

weak hero class headcanons — showing intimacy with the boys of whc

synopsis — how the boys of whc show intimacy

pairing/s — sieun x reader, suho x reader, baku x reader, gotak x reader, juntae x reader, baekjin x reader, seongje x reader, beomseok x reader

a/n — another headcanon post !! thank u for requesting, anon !! working on a more angst-y headcanon post on how they handle breakups next <3

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

⤷ yeon sieun

sieun’s intimacy comes in the small moments—like when he opens a door for you, but always steps aside to let you go first, a quiet sign of respect. he’ll adjust your coat collar without a word, smoothing it down before moving on, as if making sure you’re comfortable. when you’re bent over, looking for something under a table, he’ll instinctively cover your head with his hand—just a small, protective gesture. it’s never grand, but it’s always thoughtful.

he’s the kind of person who notices when you're cold and is already taking off his jacket “it’s cold,” and draping it over you without a second thought, though he won’t make a big deal of it. when you’re sitting together, his arm will hover just a little too close to yours, as if he's quietly reassuring himself that you're there. he’ll never make a show of it, but you’ll always know he’s watching over you, in his quiet, reserved way. everything with sieun feels intentional, even the simplest things.

⤷ ahn suho

suho’s intimacy is about making you feel seen in the simplest ways. when you’re cooking or working on something, he’ll lean against the doorframe or sit beside you, offering small compliments about how you’re doing, and always with that mischievous grin. “you’re doing great,” he’ll say with a smirk, watching you from the corner of his eye. his hand often brushes yours when passing something or reaching for the same thing, a lingering touch that makes your heart race. when you’re resting, he’ll plop down next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulder, sometimes pulling you in close just to kiss the top of your head. it’s spontaneous, but comforting, like he wants you to know he’s always close by.

⤷ park humin (baku)

baku’s intimacy is energetic, playful, and full of affection. if you’re sitting next to him, he might casually drape his arm across your shoulders, pulling you closer just because he wants to be near you. “you’re so slow,’’ he’ll tease as he kneels in front of you, tying your shoes, eyes dancing with amusement. “you can’t even tie your shoes without me, huh?’’ he’d joke, leaning in to kiss the tip of your nose, a light laugh escaping him when you protest.

he’ll sneak in little kisses when you’re least expecting it—like when you’re reading or just chilling, he'll kiss your cheek and then immediately crack a joke to make you laugh. when you’re both walking, he’ll occasionally grab your hand, squeezing it firmly as if to remind you he’s there, even in the midst of everything else going on.

⤷ go hyuntak (gotak)

gotak’s casual intimacy is grounded in reliability and comfort. he’s the type to pull a blanket over your lap when you're sitting together, even if you never asked for one. “i got you,” he’ll say with a simple smile, adjusting the blanket around you. when you're working on something at the table, he might sneak up behind you, brushing your hair aside to make sure it’s not in your face, his hands moving with care. when you’re carrying something heavy, he’ll insist on taking it from you, his hands gentle but firm as he lifts it effortlessly.

while you’re sitting together, he’ll keep his hand on your knee or gently rub the back of your hand, a quiet sign of affection that doesn’t need to be said. when you’re sharing a meal, he’ll subtly pick at your plate, offering you bites of what he thinks you’ll like. it’s the quiet intimacy that comes with being so comfortable around each other—no need for words, just the simple act of being there. (PLEEAAASEEE someone request a fic for gotak i need him SO BADDD)

⤷ seo juntae

juntae’s intimacy is shy but heartfelt. when you’re walking together, he’ll subtly brush your hand, his fingers just grazing yours, as if he’s unsure but can’t help himself. “s-sorry,” he’ll stutter, his face turning pink, but his hand stays just close enough. if you’re sitting at a table or working on something, he’ll offer you a piece of candy or a drink, his eyes always flicking away as if embarrassed, but the sweetness of his actions speaks volumes. when you’re talking, he’s always leaning in just a little closer, showing you that he’s really paying attention, even if his face is flushed. when you’re resting, he might cover your shoulders with a blanket without you asking, his gaze lingering on you in a quiet, soft moment.

⤷ na baekjin

baekjin’s intimacy is intense, but it’s also about subtle control. when you’re walking or standing together, he’ll always position himself just a little closer than you expect, his arm around your waist or his fingers brushing against yours in a possessive but quiet way. “stay close,” he’ll say lowly, his voice firm but not harsh. his hand will often find the small of your back as he guides you, leading you with a certain quiet confidence—like he’s claiming the space around you while keeping you close without needing to say anything.

when you’re studying or working, he won’t interrupt, but occasionally, you’ll feel his presence in the smallest gestures—his hand quietly finding its way to the top of your head, fingers brushing your hair as if to say he’s there. sometimes, he’ll have one of his goons order your favorite drink, all without saying much, just showing that he’s thinking about you. his love is in the details, in the way he silently supports you through the little things, making sure you always feel cared for, even when he's not directly in the spotlight.

⤷ geum seongje

seongje’s intimacy is impulsive and possessive, driven by his need to dominate, but there’s an underlying current of obsession when it comes to you. with him, affection is not something soft or gentle—it’s sharp and possessive, in a way that makes it clear you belong to him, and he enjoys reminding you of that. “you’re mine,” he’ll say sharply, his grip tightening when he pulls you in. he’s the kind of person to hold your wrist tightly when he wants to get your attention, or pull you by the arm just a little too firmly when he’s ready to take you somewhere.

when you’re alone, his hand finds his way to the back of your neck, keeping you close, or he’ll press his forehead to yours in a rare moment of calm. he likes keeping you near, close enough to feel the heat of his body and remind everyone around that you’re his. “everyone should know,” he’ll growl quietly, as if making sure you both understand.

⤷ oh beomseok

beomseok’s intimacy is thoughtful, like everything he does is carefully planned but done with so much heart. when you’re busy with something, he’ll quietly move to help you, adjusting things around you, almost like he’s aware of every little thing you might need. he might hand you a pen without asking, or pass you your cup of coffee with a small smile, his voice soft when he says, “here, thought you might need this.”

he moves with purpose, as if savoring the moment. his touches are always deliberate but tender, like he’s afraid of being too forward, but he wants to be close to you, seeking your warmth. when you’re caught up in something, he might gently rest his head on your shoulder, leaning in just close enough to say, “don’t stress too much. you’re doing great,” his tone calm and reassuring. everything he does feels like it’s meant to take care of you in a way that makes you feel seen.

notes: ugh im so sorry i feel like i kinda lacked with beomseok or didn’t quite catch his vibe(?) it’s just been a while since we’ve last seen him yk? ㅠㅠ hopefully this turned out alright ~

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[frownyalfred]

hi there long time listener, first time caller. big fan of your writing and blog!! Not sure if you’ve already spoken on this so apologies if so but I was wondering if you had any more thoughts on Roy and intra-pack alpha dynamics more generally in your coral verse? Do you think Roy will settle into a more confident instinctual alpha under the influence of Clark and Dan? Do older alphas provide explicit mentorship in pack or is Roy too old and already developed for that?

Absolutely! Clark and Dan have already taken one look at Roy and were like “hmmm, kid needs help.” Just like Lex and Bruce helped Jason, they’re gonna help Roy. Because it’s 1) the right thing to do and 2) fixing Oliver’s mistakes isn’t just as easy as giving Roy a new pack and a loving partner. Sadly. Because Oliver’s misguided attempts to teach Roy just ended up with him cramming a very strong personality into a very meek container.

Dan and Clark know a little about that kind of thing. They’re both deeply instinctual alphas, but unlike Oliver, they’re not intimidated by those around them. Dan doesn’t get huffy around Clark because he’s stronger, Clark doesn’t get huffy if Dan is pretty intense either. But Oliver viewed Roy as a threat, deep down. So he was constantly oscillating between teaching him things and forcing him to shove those new alpha instincts down.

The interesting thing is that this mirrors Bruce and Jason a little bit, with some key differences. Jason being clearly about to present omega when he was Robin changed how Bruce thought about himself. It planted a seed of doubt. I think given the right timeline, he and Jason could’ve tackled being omega together.

Oliver became less sure of himself too when Roy presented. But not in a good way. He started viewing Roy as a potential threat, as someone to keep contained and collared (figuratively). He became a worse alpha, essentially. Whereas Bruce was — possibly — on the road to becoming a better omega because of Jason.

Clark and Dan treating Roy with respect even if he’s too “instinct driven” is key to him gaining that confidence back. Jason also doesn’t want an alpha who says yes to everything and keeps his head down 24/7. He wants Roy to say what he’s really thinking and feeling! They might snap at each other but it’s so important. Because neither of them got here the orthodox way, but that’s okay. Because the other one gets it, deep down.

[shallowseeker]

WHAT DID I SAY THOUGH

Under the guise of talking about Michael, Dean is trying to figure out... what he actually SAID to Cas while under duress

DEAN: "What's HE doing now?" (i.e., “he” is me; how do you see me and my current state right now?)

Ss Cas says that he has no idea how "he"/Dean is, and that Dean was very distraught. Dean even nods a little bit in agreement. (Yes, I was distraught.)

THEN WE GET THE FLASH OF VULNERABILITY AND FRUSTRATION:

But what exactly did "he" say? And Cas answers:

And Dean is over there like:

oh come on i didn't say THAT (LEAVE???? I NEVER WANT YOU TO LEAVE and i never want you dead)

...did I?????

"We didn't bond" is when Dean starts to legit look like he's gonna cry tho because he and cas DID bond, right from the beginning.

Cas has lost hope in that bond for the time being (a normal response to the -everything- and -the chuck of it all-)

And now all this TERRIBLE stuff has happened and it's got a LOT. OF. COMPLICATING. COSMIC. ELEMENTS.

(Cas holds back for many reasons, and most recently, the Empty deal DOES emotionally handcuff him in a new and more lethal way, and it exacerbates ALL the stuff... and Dean... isn't often allowed to speak, especially about THIS IN PARTICULAR. He's put under so much duress about it, too...)

*dean swallows and swallows and swallows, eyes flicking around in a panic and trying his darnedest NOT to cry*

we didn't bond

we didn't

we

Dean is swallowing WORDS here.

and when Cas looks down, lips twitching, and we see that he's holding back words too, almost forming a "y—" before pivoting to safer ground, to ask about Sam. After all, saying YOU would break the illusion Dean's illusion of the "HE."

So Cas brings them BOTH to safer "work talk"

Dean with the thousand yard stare:

and then

Interesting that his body language does this chin tuck again here:

it's the hiding of emotions, the defensiveness, the hiding of the throat of it all

He also did this at the beginning of the convo when he started the coded communications in EARNEST. They're bookends, almost, in terms of Dean's acting/headspace.

This signals the end of "he" as being about Dean himself and shifts back to "he" being used normally, about another person (Sam).

//

I do love how that conversation is a small step toward mending their bond. They broached the painful wounds of lone-wolfing, Mary’s death, Jack’s death, siding with Chuck, and losing Rowena..

Now, when trouble shakes out, and Michael starts doing his earthquake thing, they look to one another, and this time, they go together to face him.

*looking to one another*

When Michael stands up and moves towards them, we see Dean's natural needs to shrink away.

Dean barely shifts his weight, like his instinct is to get behind Cas (I mean, hello—AU Michael was a huge trauma for him), but he straightens up again almost immediately.

And when Michael asks to be freed for giving them the spell and the door, they still check in w/each other:

[jude457]

I haven't been able to get "between the ash and the sea" out of my head these past days, so I thought I'd pop in and share my little headcanon I got based on your fic where the glimpse of In-ho's relationship and the pink soldiers was shown, especially him and that young Manager.

In your fic, In-ho tells the Manager to leave the island and save his own life as well as the others, and yeah Something has awaken in me when the Manager asks if In-ho's coming too. Another brotherly angst between In-ho and the young Manager who reminds him of Jun-ho? I mean, of course, In-ho's not going to replace Jun-ho, but in my humble opinions, I can see him developing a soft spot for the young soldier who reminds him of his own brother, and I can also see the young Manager looking up to the Front Man and seeing him as his role model.

I think there're at least some of the pink soldiers who are loyal to In-ho, whether or not they've ever seen him without his mask. Since In-ho's all about fairness and equality. Maybe the previous Frontman's treated them terribly, and when In-ho stepped in, things changed for the better. Yes, there are rules and breaking the rules means death, but In-ho is fair and In-ho has principle. In-ho doesn't punish them unless they break the rules, and In-ho doesn't tolerate bullshit.

So this sparked me into having this headcanon that the young Manager, whom In-ho told to leave the island, is loyal to In-ho / Front Man.

Also another headcanon I think of is this; Jun-ho and Gi-hun are struggling trying to save In-ho's life, but the problem is that they don't have the right tool / right equipment to save his life. And In-ho is dying. Until, just before it's too late, the young Manager shows up, still in the pink jumpsuit. Jun-ho and Gi-hun are about to shoot him on the spot when the young Manager says he's here to help "his Captain" (aka In-ho).

And he (the young Manager) is no longer loyal to the game. But instead he's loyal to In-ho, his Captain, doesn't matter if In-ho's still the Front Man.

AAAAAAAA YOU HAVE PLANTED THESE THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD AND NOW I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT THEM

And also, thank you for feeding us with the best In-ho whump!

YES!!!—thank you for saying this because I’ve been thinking about it so much. I really think it’s possible for Inho to end up quietly looking out for the guards because so many of them are so young. A lot of them are probably barely out of high school, maybe even the same age Junho was when they were still close, and whether he wants to admit it or not, that does something to him. It’s like seeing little echoes of his brother everywhere—kids who got swept up in something they probably didn’t even fully understand, wearing masks and holding guns like it’s a game. It hits him hard. And I think that guilt he carries over Junho—everything he lost, everything he did—starts to shift into this almost paternal, protective instinct toward the ones who remind him of who his brother used to be.

Inho never shows it, not openly. He stays cold, keeps the mask on—he has to maintain control—but there are these little things. Like, I have this headcanon that sometimes the guards find something sweet with their meals. Just a small square of chocolate, or a piece of fruit, nothing major. But it’s weirdly specific and always happens on days when tensions have been high or someone’s been punished publicly. Like he knows morale is low, and this is his way of softening the edges just a little.

And when one of them gets sick—not badly, just a cold or a fever—they’ll sometimes find medicine in their locker the next day. No one says a word, there’s no big announcement. Just… it’s there.

I also really love the idea that sometimes when the guards are messing around—laughing, poking fun at each other, being kids—Inho sees it and looks the other way. Not because he’s being lax, but because something in him can’t bring himself to shut that part of them down. That playfulness, that dumb harmless joy—it’s the one shred of humanity they get to keep in a place designed to erase it. And he can’t bear to take that away from them.

I fully believe some of the guards have picked up on this—not in a direct “oh the Front Man cares about us” kind of way, but like… they sense it. That he’s not like the ones who came before. That he’s strict, yes, and he will not tolerate disobedience—but he’s fair. And if you stay in line, there’s a strange kind of safety under his rule. A silent understanding. Maybe even respect.

AND YOUR HEADCANON FOR BETWEEN THE ASHES AND THE SEA .

AHHH I love this idea so much—it’s exactly the kind of emotionally loaded dynamic I’m obsessed with. I’m honestly so bummed I’m in the editing phase right now because if I were still drafting, I would’ve absolutely found a way to work that scene in—like the young Manager helping Junho and Gihun move Inho, visibly shaken, trying to comfort him, and Junho really seeing that this kid cares. That it wasn’t all fear or control—some of the guards genuinely respected him, maybe even loved him in some twisted, complicated way. It would’ve hit so hard.

I actually have a little one-shot in the works that plays with something similar. It’s set right after the cliff standoff between the two brothers. Inho is back in his quarters, bleeding badly from the shoulder, refusing help, absolutely falling apart in private. He’s trying to stitch himself up or just letting the blood pool around him, refusing to show weakness. And then a guard who witnessed the whole thing does the unthinkable: enters his quarters without permission. With real medical supplies. He knows he’s breaking every rule—he knows he could be executed for seeing the Frontman unmasked. And Inho does momentarily snap. He moves immediately to discipline him, to deal out punishment for both trespassing and seeing his face—because that’s a line no one is allowed to cross.

But then he hesitates. He tells the guard to take off his mask. And when he sees the face—it’s his brother’s. Not literally, but close enough. Close enough to completely break him.

The anger drops. The instinct to punish slips away. All that’s left is this raw, ruined man pretending—just for a moment—that it’s Junho standing there. That he’s being taken care of by him. The guard, terrified but steady, doesn’t say anything. He just quietly tends to the wound. And Inho lets him.

Honestly if you have any more Inho Whump head canons, 457 , or Hwang Brothers angst my DMs are open. Your ideas are my bread and butter.

[coffee-in-rain]

@asadstatue your post about Hannibal experiencing a caring and sensitive version of Will post-fall has been weighing on my mind and this came about <3

cw: explicit

combining more of my favorite vulnerable Hannibal tropes once again: Hannibal's overactive cowper's glands being a source of insecurity (he's never had a proper handjob because all the few partners he's had were disgusted by how wet / messy he would get) and post-fall Hannibal becoming unconsciously needy while having a wet dream.

Hannibal is asleep, subconsciously thrusting against Will's hip and whimpering out breathless little noises. He eventually wakes up with a gasp, body still moving on its own. Hannibal's reddening cheek is resting on Will's chest. He struggles to reign in another instinctual thrust because it feels too good to stop after being deprived of human contact for so long. He should stop. He knows. There is a palm smoothing over Hannibal's back, gentle circular motions. He can feel how wet he's become; how much his cock is leaking and throbbing; stiff and straining against the front of his soaking wet, light-gray sleep pants. He doesn't have time to feel embarrassed; not when there is a strong palm pressing against his lower spine, encouraging (deliberately forcing) another thrust.

He keens and stiffens out of instinct; no one's ever done this for him. He wants it; needs it; but is feeling uncertain about making a mess; about coming undone in front of Will; about whether this is being offered out of pity or amusement. He is frozen. Hands clutching fistfuls of Will's shirt. Cock pulsing and aching. Tears weighing down eyelashes. Thighs straining. Then, it happens again, Will coaxing Hannibal's body into another thrust. He cannot stop it; the little wail that rushes out; the way he arches and sinks nails into Will's side, clinging on, trembling like he's forgotten what it feels like to be touched; like he's an inexperienced virgin. The motion keeps happening, again and again. Will's voice is sleep-rough and soft, offering praise, calling him "sugar," "good boy," and "darlin."

Hannibal's sleepy mind is spinning. His cock is sticky and steeping in overflowing arousal, every thrust smearing more wetness against his crotch and pubic hair and lower belly, reminding him of how messy and wet he's become—it's dripping down his scrotum and inner thighs, warm and ceaseless. He wishes wanting wasn't so messy; disgusting most partners he's had in the past. He wonders about Will's reaction. He expects to not be touched because no one's wanted to after seeing what arousal does to him; how much he leaks and cannot stop it; even through clothing, partners have been reluctant; unwilling because it's an oddity to become so wet; to soak through two layers of clothing. He expects a wave of disgust to wash over Will at some point. He expects nothing more than this blessing, being guided through each desperate thrust; but soon enough, hands are peeling away his sleep pants, and soon enough there is a palm curling around his slick cock.

There is a gasp. There is a sob of pure relief and overwhelm. Hannibal's vocal cords strain and crackle through a whimper—pitching high and thin. His mind blanks. He cannot muster a single thought. He expects Will's touch to retreat, like every other partner who's ever touched him, and become disgusted by the wetness, by the sticky and warm, overflowing mess. He tenses, stuttering into Will's grasp; bracing for disgust; for momentary pleasure to once again abandon him. He doesn't expect Will's fingers to slide upwards, a slow and snug stroke that makes his toes curl. He doesn't expect to hear those murmurs of praise nor those endearments again; sugar, darlin, along with new additions, "needy boy" and "sweetheart." He doesn't last long at all, trembling and gasping and sobbing out a breathless wail right against Will's neck because it feels so good; being accepted; being touched; being loved by Will, even when he's messy and sleepy.

[moonkissed-reverence]

Religiously: Chapter 6

Do you trust me?

Azriel took her chin softly between his thumb and forefinger, meeting her gaze. “You, my love, are a rare and precious gem, Kingslayer—he gave her a soft smile—and I will do everything in my power to protect you. Always. Even if you’re more than capable of protecting yourself.” He would. He vowed it to himself over and over again and now to her. Not only would he protect her with every fiber of his being but he would teach her how to protect herself as well.

Azriel found her hands once again and pulled her with him to stand. “We will figure this out. We have awareness and somewhat of a direction. But first things first, you need to train.”

~~~

Hand in hand, they made their way deeper through the half dozen gardens that sprawled the vast land. As they neared the edge of the ancient forest that sat at the northern edge of the property, the gardens became a bit more wild and untamed. They passed a small pond leading to a stream which they followed to a clearing. Lush trees stood scattered about and a hedgerow of unruly lilac sat along the eastern edge. The manor sat behind them now in the distance.

“It’s so spacious out here. These trees are enormous!” Elain said as she looked around wide eyed. Massive sycamores and maples, willows and various fruit trees.

“This is the edge of the property. I quite enjoy it out here, I thought you might too.”

Azriel pulled her into his embrace and wrapped his arms around her in a cocoon of warmth. She tightened her hold on him and rested her cheek upon his chest. They stood that way for a few sacred moments, a promise of safety and love and trust.

They found each other's lips for a long overdue passionate kiss before Azriel twirled Elain from his arms. “Manifest your vines, love.”

Elain flustered, straightening. “I—I don’t know how. I’ve never done it intentionally,” she said, knitting her brows and biting her lip.

“What do you do when you summon a vision or when you tracked the Suriel?” Azriel asked curiously.

Elain cleared her throat. “I, um…I haven’t done that in a long time...” She fidgeted with her dress but continued slowly, “I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it…I guess it just came naturally…” She chewed her lip in contemplation.

“Sweetheart, just relax. There’s no pressure. I’m right here with you. Clear your mind, trust yourself and your instincts. Focus on your intention and let go.” His words a soft breeze of encouragement.

Elain shook out her hands, squared her shoulders, sucked a deep breath in, then out and closed her eyes, pulling her focus inward…towards—towards that soft shimmering light glowing beneath the surface. Her magic. Her power. “Oh, gods…” She breathed softly to herself, eyes still shut as she felt her power thrum gently through her.

A few moments passed in silence as nothing happened.

But then slowly, a single tendril of ivy crept along the ground towards him, slowly snaking its way up his boot and began winding around his leg. “Well done, my love.”

Elain blinked open her eyes—as they widened a smile lit up her face. She then wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips in concentration as another, slightly thicker vine made its way up Azriel’s other leg nearing his waist.

“If you keep it up, I’ll be completely tangled in ivy soon…and at your very mercy, Elain.” He gave her a roguish grin as Elain closed the space between them. She placed her hands on his chest, “Is that right my fearsome spymaster? Would you like to be at my mercy?” She smiled sweetly up at him.

He pulled her in closer, gripping her chin gently between his fingers with a soft stroke of his thumb, “I—Elain, my love, my eternal sunshine—am already and always, completely and unequivocally at your mercy.”

He kissed her softly, gently, tenderly at first until she ran her hand up his neck, gripping his hair at the nape, deepening the kiss. Elain nipped at his bottom lip before sucking it between her lips, running her tongue over its plushness. Azriel groaned upon her lips then caressed a breast a bit roughly as they began devouring each other alone at the edge of wood.

Read the rest here / Catch up here ✨

[alltimecharlo]

Oh, what about an age swap au? Rookie Toff and vets Will and Mack! Supporting and teasing him, the world's most annoying and fun mentors.

anon... YOUR BRAIN!!!!!!!🤯 this idea is amazing, i'm soooo tempted by a full fic for it but for now... :) fic under the cut!🩵

Toff gets it. He really does.

He’s the youngest on the team this season—fresh out of juniors, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, everyone keeps saying like it’s a compliment. The locker room smells like stale sweat and muscle rub, and he’s pretty sure one of the stalls has been broken since the eighties. But it’s still the big leagues. The team. His dream.

And part of that dream, apparently, comes with the added bonus of being taken under the wing of the two most chaotic veterans in the league.

“Hey, Rook,” Mack says as he slings an arm around Toff’s shoulders before morning skate. He’s big and warm and always grinning like he’s about to start trouble. “You ever figure out what the hell you were doing with your stick last night? Looked like you were jousting out there.”

Will strolls up behind them, sipping a smoothie and looking about three percent less feral than usual. He eyes Toff up and down, slow and deliberate. "I thought it was cute. Like a baby deer on ice."

Toff rolls his eyes but doesn't shake off Mack's arm. "Glad to know you were both watching my every move. Real supportive."

“That’s our job,” Will says, and there’s a smirk on his mouth as he steals a sip of Mack’s coffee on the way past. Mack doesn’t complain. Doesn’t even blink.

Toff notices.

He notices a lot of things.

Like how they always end up next to each other on the bench. How Mack leans in close to say something dumb just to make Will laugh during warmups. How Will’s hand rests on Mack’s thigh for exactly three seconds after a goal before he remembers they’re in public and snatches it back.

Or how they think they're being subtle.

They’re so not.

Toff brings it up once in the most passive-aggressive way he can.

“So,” he says after a win, peeling tape off his shin pads. “You two live together or what?”

Mack grins like he knows exactly what Toff’s fishing for. “Nah. Just carpool. Easier that way."

Will doesn’t even look up. “And because you get sad when I’m not around to make your eggs in the morning.”

“You make eggs for him?” Toff asks, trying not to sound like he’s compiling evidence.

Will shrugs. "He's useless without me."

Toff makes eye contact with one of the other rookies across the room and mouths, They're so married.

The worst part is, they’re amazing mentors. Like, frustratingly good. Will sharpens Toff’s skating instincts until he doesn’t overthink transitions anymore. Mack makes him take extra shots after practice until his wristers go exactly where he wants them to. They chirp him relentlessly but also always make sure he’s fed, rested, and doesn’t get steamrolled by veterans from other teams.

And okay. Fine. Maybe Toff finds it kind of adorable when he catches Will in Mack’s hoodie at team brunch. Or when Mack shows up to practice with the exact protein bar Will likes and pretends it’s for himself.

They’re terrible at hiding it. But Toff’s not about to call them out.

Not officially, anyway.

“You know,” he says casually one day as they’re walking out of the rink. “It must be nice. Having someone who’s always got your back. Makes all this easier.”

Will looks over at Mack. Mack looks back.

Something passes between them.

Then Mack throws an arm around Toff’s neck, ruffles his hair, and says, “You’re getting sentimental, rookie. That means we’re doing our job right."

Toff doesn’t say anything.

He just smiles and lets himself be squished between them the whole walk to the lot.

♡

[satanslovergirl]

°^° Death Wish °^°

“You asked me how I was doing. And I told you the truth. But I guess you’re not really supposed to do that.”

—Dean Winchester, S5E3 “Free to Be You and Me”

Pairing: Dean Winchester x she/her!Reader

Tone: Angst, Romance, Light Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Hunter x Hunter, Protective!Dean, Stubborn!Y/N

Rating: M (language, canon-typical violence, emotional tension, intimacy)

Word Count: ~6,800

Written By: Little Devil ♡

Based On: Season 4–5, canon-adjacent

---

SYNOPSIS:

She’s good at what she does—deadly, clever, and used to cleaning her own wounds. Dean respects that. Loves that. But when she goes rogue on a hunt and comes back half-broken, what starts as a cold shoulder becomes a storm of fear, guilt, and desire. It’s not just the danger that terrifies him—it’s the thought of losing her. And when their bottled-up emotions finally explode behind motel doors, the truth comes out in bruises and kisses both.

---

=°•°= STORY =°•°=

The sky was cotton-colored by the time the Impala hit the edge of town, clouds like wool stuffed against the rim of the horizon. Dean’s hands choked the steering wheel like it owed him something. He hadn’t said a word since they passed the county line.

Sam, riding shotgun, kept refreshing his phone with quiet desperation.

“Still nothing.”

Dean’s jaw twitched. “Yeah. Figured.”

It was supposed to be a simple job. Something small. An old construction site getting turned into a parking lot again—except people kept disappearing behind the high school. Wendigo, maybe. Skinwalker if they were unlucky. But they were always unlucky.

She was supposed to wait. They had a plan. But she didn’t answer her phone that morning, and Dean knew. Deep in that hunter’s sixth sense place—where instinct felt a lot like fear—he knew.

She’d gone in without them. Alone.

Sam cleared his throat. “You think she found it already?”

“If she did,” Dean muttered, “and it laid one finger on her, I swear to God—”

A ping interrupted him. Sam glanced down. “Traffic cam. Her car’s still parked near the school lot. Timestamp says twenty minutes ago.”

Dean didn’t wait. The Impala roared forward, engine howling like it felt the same burn in his chest.

---

°••••••~•°

The lot was quiet. Not the peaceful kind—just empty, sterile, like the world had pressed mute.

Dean was out of the car before it stopped rolling, boots slamming pavement as he scanned the darkened field behind the gym. Floodlights flickered overhead.

Then he saw her.

Half-limping, blood on her jeans and cheek, a machete dragging behind her like dead weight.

“Y/N!”

She turned slowly, and the look on her face—bruised, exhausted, flickering with guilt—lit something volatile in his chest.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he barked, marching toward her. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Dean—”

“No! Don’t ‘Dean’ me right now. You went in alone! After I told you to wait for backup!”

She flinched—not at the volume, but at the way he grabbed her arms like he needed proof she was solid.

“I had it handled,” she said, voice taut.

He glanced at her torn sleeve, the sluggish drip of blood from her temple. “Yeah, you look great.”

“I killed it, didn’t I?”

“Barely! And what if there’d been more? What if we showed up too late?”

Her eyes sparked. “But you didn’t.”

“That’s not the point!” he exploded, dropping her arms like they burned him. “You think being strong means being stupid?”

“I think being strong means not waiting around for permission!” she snapped back. “I saw an opening and I took it!”

Dean stepped back, pacing now. “You think I’m mad because you took initiative? I’m mad because you scared the hell out of me!”

They stared each other down, breathless. No one moved.

Then Sam cleared his throat softly. “We, uh… we should head back. Before someone calls the cops.”

Dean nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Fine.”

She didn’t say another word as she limped toward her car.

---

°••••••~•°

The motel was a worn-down place with floral curtains and flickering neon outside. One room, two beds, three exhausted hunters.

Dean held open the door without looking at her. She walked past him in silence.

Sam, ever the buffer, did his best to bridge the tension with quiet efficiency. First aid. Cold pizza. A few updates on possible lore. She answered with clipped words and half-shrugs. Dean barely looked at her.

The air felt pressurized. Like if someone coughed wrong, the room might detonate.

Eventually, Sam yawned. “I’m gonna hit the gas station. Grab coffee for tomorrow. You guys need anything?”

Dean shook his head. She didn’t answer. Sam frowned, then grabbed his coat and quietly left.

The door clicked shut.

Then it was just them. And the silence. And all the things they hadn’t said yet.

---

°••••••~•°

She broke it first, because someone had to.

“You’re not even gonna ask what happened in there?”

Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows on knees. He didn’t look up.

“I already know what happened.”

She crossed her arms. “Oh, you know?”

“You almost died. Again. And you didn’t think to loop in your team before playing hero.”

Her laugh was bitter. “Right. Because you’ve never done anything reckless.”

“That’s different!” he snapped, finally standing. “I’ve been doing this longer. I know the risks.”

“So do I!” she yelled. “I’m not some rookie! I saw an opening. I took it. And yeah, it got messy, but I made it out. Isn’t that what matters?”

Dean looked at her like she’d just punched him.

“No,” he said softly. “What matters is that for three hours I didn’t know if you were alive or dead.”

She swallowed. “You were worried.”

“I was terrified.”

Something cracked then. In his voice. In her chest.

“You think I’m mad because you’re strong?” Dean stepped closer. “I’m mad because I care about you. And if something happened to you, I wouldn’t just lose a hunter. I’d lose…”

His words stalled.

She blinked. “Say it.”

Dean looked at her—eyes rimmed with that bone-deep kind of pain. “I’d lose the person I—”

She grabbed his collar.

The kiss was a fuse catching flame.

Hot. Bruised. Furious. She shoved him back against the wall, and he let her, hands on her hips, pulling her in like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Her mouth tasted like adrenaline and apology. His hands trembled like he didn’t know if she’d disappear.

When they finally broke apart, they were both gasping. Her forehead leaned into his.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, real this time. Raw.

Dean’s thumb brushed the cut on her cheek. “Just… don’t do that to me again. Please.”

“I won’t.” Her voice cracked. “Not like that.”

He pulled her in again, slower this time. A kiss that was less fire, more gravity. She melted against him.

---

°••••••~•°

Later, she lay curled against him in bed, her head on his chest, his arm curled tight around her shoulder. Like he was still afraid to let go.

“I’m still mad,” he murmured.

“Good,” she whispered. “I am too.”

“But I’m not letting you go.”

“You better not.”

His hand found hers in the dark.

Maybe they’d fight again. They were stubborn, sharp, built of bruises and baggage. But they’d fight their way through it. Together.

And for now—this quiet moment between the battles—that was enough.

---

=°•°= END =°•°=

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me, Sam. I really don’t. And if this is my last day on Earth, I do not want it to be socially awkward.”

—Dean Winchester, S4E17 “It’s a Terrible Life”

---

Author’s Note:

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little story and the angst-filled rollercoaster of emotions. If you liked this, be sure to check out my other fics. Feel free to leave a comment or follow for more updates! Thanks again for your support—stay safe out there, hunters! ♡

[wafflexdguy]

i just had a funny thought what would be the twisted mains reaction to the reader just getting snatched by twisted goob in a blackout or with the lights on

This is kind of hard for me to put into long form content, so a couple of sentences each for each main Twisted. This is going into the wafflerant category because it's not really a massive headcanon thing.

AHEM... -alphabetical order- COUGH

Astro would likely panic in some way shape or form. He's not particularly fast in terms of grabbing you before you're out of reach, so assuming you're still -somewhat- fine after getting bitten, he would snatch you with one set of arms and likely beat the shit out of Goob with the others. Reminder that they're still twisted, and they were attacking provoked.

Dandy unsurprisingly isn't thrilled about it. Goob in this case would either be too braindead to comprehend that grabbing the literal strongest twisteds partner wasn't a great idea, or Goob just wasn't thinking about it. You can probably guess how it would end, but in case you don't; Goob gets thrown around like a ragdoll.

Shelly immediately goes into full on feral due to dinosaur instincts. She doesn't immediately tear into Goob, but as soon as he lets go she's immediately curling her tail around you. Well, tail bone. Like a cat protecting their young. He would be smart to leave after that.

Sprout... honestly, I'd be surprised if Goob wasn't already hanging by a tendril -by the leg- by the time you even reached biting distance. Would Sprout attack? Depends if Goob keeps reaching for you, in that case yes, he would attack.

Vee. Uhhhh.... She doesn't have a lot going for her in this kind of situation other than being pissed. Being caught off guard is bad enough, but now you getting hurt? She goes faster than she normally would grabbing you out of Goob's grasp and promptly kicking him away as she's more worried about you than him. Again, it would be wise to leave after that.

[sturnluv-2003]

Fuck you

WARNINGS: hate fucking, unprotected sex (keep it wrapped hun), rough sex, slight choking, fingers in mouth, p in v, nipple play, spanking, smut with a little plot, car sex, breeding kink if you squint

Word count: 577

Me and Matt had been playful bullies, always picking on each other, messing with each other's friends, sweatily fucking in the back of his car, etc.

Like how I was right now. His hips rutting aggressively against mine, skin slapping, moans reverberating off the walls of the car.

“Oh fuck matt!” I moan loudly. “You like that baby? being a fucking slut and letting me fuck you dumb?” He groans in my ear. His hands grasping my hips like that was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Oh my god!” I nearly scream burying my face into the leather of the backseat, “fuck you feel so good” he moans. I suddenly felt a sharp sting on my ass, his hand gently massaging the flesh as it was already turning red.

His hand came down leaving another spank on my ass, making the mark redder. I whine softly as his hips slowly down right when I was on the edge.

“Uh uh your only cumming when I say so” he says grabbing my hips and flipping me over so I'm now laying on my back looking up at him.

My hair is messy and there's a little bit of drool at the corner of my mouth. A soft moan escapes my lips, my hips grinding up slightly desperate for any form of friction.

“desperate fucking slut” he says his hands trailing up my body groping my breasts, thumbs running over my nipples. “Mmm” I whimper, my thighs pressing together.

One of his hands trails higher, slipping his pointer and middle finger into my mouth. I greedily suck on his fingers “good whore, sucking my fingers so well” he groans.

“Please-” I gurgle out. “Please what baby?” He says retracting his fingers from my mouth just enough for me to speak. “I need to cum so bad” I say around his fingers.

He smirks slightly “you have been very good, taking everything I give you, you think you deserve to cum?” I nod rapidly. He chuckles slightly “alright baby”.

He removes his fingers from my mouth, grabbing his cock and aligning it with my entrance. He immediately thrusts his hips forward giving me no time to adjust. A small yelp escapes my lips slowly turning into a moan.

He thrusts into me quickly, his tip kissing my cervix. “Fuck! Oh my god!” I nearly scream. His hand wraps around my neck keeping me in place as his pace increases, his other hand moving down to rub quick circles on my clit.

“Cum for me pretty girl” he groans into my ear. “Oh my god Matt!” I moan loudly, the high hitting me quickly, my legs trembling and my walls contracting around him.

The sight of me cumming was enough to set him off, with a groan he spills his load into me. His head rests against my shoulder, both of us panting and catching our breath.

He pulls out, his cum spilling out of me dripping down to the seat below me. He smirks slightly, pushing it back in with his fingers. A small gasp escapes my lips, my legs closing instinctively.

He pries my legs back open “keep ‘em open pretty, wanna make you into a mama” he says thrusting his fingers into me.

This took way too long to get out I'm so sorry y'all 😭

[aquinnix]

Hermit-a-Day May Day 3 - Tango

There were many things Tango had come to love about the Overworld. How open and free the sky seemed. The feeling of wind lapping at his fire. All the plants and smells. A wide variety of animals that didn’t want him dead. 

The rain was not one of those things. 

After the first few scares, Tango had become hyper vigilant about when it was going to rain. He learned all about what the different clouds and colours meant and how the air shifted just before those horrid drops came pouring down. 

Who ever thought that rain would be a good idea? Lava didn’t gush down from the roof in the Nether. The things that needed water to survive could surely get it from somewhere else. 

No use complaining about it. Just one of the many trade offs of making the move. 

So when Tango was wandering around looking for flowers to make some dye, he kept half of his focus on the sky. The clouds were beginning to darken, he probably had about ten more minutes before he needed to head back to safety. Pick, check, pick, check. 

A pinprick burn sizzled on his arm. Tango jumped back slightly, looking back up at the sky. How had it moved so fast? Tango was being careful! He always was! 

There was no way he was making it all the way home before the storm set in. 

Tango shook out his arm, wincing as more drops fell on his skin. He ducked under the nearest tree, hoping the leaves were dense enough. 

Thunder cracked above. 

Tango folded in on himself, bracing. As long as it didn’t get too windy… 

Oh who was he kidding? Of course it was going to be windy! Stupid stupid wind. 

The pain spattered and sprayed, still burning as the next drop hit. Tango pressed himself harder against the tree trunk, tucking his face into his shirt, his hands into his pockets. 

Still, the rain managed to hit any and every bit of exposed skin. It was coming down harder now, drops bigger, more frequent. The sound alone was enough to quicken his breath. 

Tango needed to get somewhere safer. A cave maybe, even just a bigger tree. But just the thought of facing the brunt of the storm made his skin sting. 

It all happened so fast. 

Tango took off his vest, using it as a makeshift umbrella as he ran out before he had time to convince himself otherwise. It was immediate, his whole body erupting in a frozen, burning pain. 

He let out a scream, then another. The sound of his own voice was better than the sound of the thunder above. 

It was so dark. He couldn’t see. No, his eyes were still closed. He forced himself to open them, eyes stinging, vision blurry. 

No other options, he continued running, half blind. There had to be something close by. Anything with a somewhat solid roof. 

Oh what he would give to have that sprawling roof above him now. 

It didn’t take long for him to trip, foot caught on a rock or a stone. On instinct, to catch himself, he brought his hands forward, his vest falling to the wayside. 

His shirt was not waterproof. 

Why couldn’t things that were warm and comfy also be waterproof? 

Tango’s throat was raw from screaming. 

He couldn’t think beyond the pain, the constant, pummeling pain. It consumed him, his fire now gone, nothing left to combat the cold as it sunk into each and every part of him. 

It took everything Tango had to keep breathing. 

And there was nothing else he could do but lay there. 

How careful was careful enough?