#though i was watching something while drawing this

[saltnsugarbear]

every place leads back to your place (18+)

summary: Despite what you both said, you and Carmy see each other twice after friends and family

title from: "Coffee" by Chappell Roan

word count: 3.8k

content warnings: smut MDNI!!! afab reader genitalia, handjob (carm and r!receiving), depictions of guilt, Claire (at this point she's a permanent content warning), public-ish handy, Carmy's a freak who said that,

side note: I want you guys to go into this part with context that Olive and I decided Carmy was four years older than reader and,,,,, reading the first half broke my brain a little (/pos) also the Chicago French Press is a real place and I did actually look at their menu for maximum accuracy thank you for asking

series masterlist!

You and Carmy agree not to see each other again. 

That agreement lasts for five days. Five long days before Carmy's texting you.

Unknown Number: Are you free tonight?

Unknown Number: It's Carmy, by the way.

Unknown Number: Sugar gave me your number, hope that's okay.

You blink at the messages for a moment before you respond.

You: That's fine! And I should be?

Your fingers put in his contact name several times as you think about it. You eventually come up with something that won't draw attention. 

C: Come over? Or I can come to yours.

You: Is this a come over as old family friends or a come over for a repeat of the other night? 

You: Can't be here.

You: Claire.

C: Shit.

C: Forgot about that.

You can pick up the unspoken "she told me about this." The unspoken fact that he and Claire were doing this same thing, only much more open about it. You probably wouldn't have minded seeing Carmy around the house. You would have definitely minded if they fucked in the apartment though. 

You know logically you should tell Claire. Not that you're seeing her ex, that you'll be out tonight. You probably won't come home until tomorrow. 

You don't.

You're at Carmy's earlier than you should be. He never clarified why he asked you to come over and you'd be lying if you said you weren't a little anxious.

So instead of going up at the time he said you can arrive, you wait in your car. You wait about five minutes before you enter the building, deciding that was enough time to reasonably be late by traffic. Not that there was much at 11 at night. The walk up to his floor is quiet and he opens the door within seconds of your knock.

"What took y'so long?" He asks breathlessly, dragging you into his apartment.

"Traffic." You tell him, watching as he shuts and locks the door behind you.

Carmy nods but he looks distracted. He's clenching his fists at his side as he watches you, following your movements when you slip off your shoes.

"Did you uh.. Did you already eat?" Carmy asks passively, watching when you nod. He nods in return.

"You didn't really say why you asked me over..." You trail off. You're just now noticing how he's dressed. A white t-shirt, must have bought those in bulk, and a pair of black sweatpants loose on his waist. His curls are a mess, either from the kitchen or his own hands you're not sure.

You open your mouth to say something. What, you're not sure. Maybe an offer to leave. Or maybe to ask him why you're here, again. Maybe to address the elephant in the room. To address what happened the last time you were in his apartment.

Whatever you were going to say, you forget. Because Carmy's on you in an instant. You can't help the noise of surprise you let out as he walks you a few steps back.

Carmy kisses you like he can't get enough of you. Both hands holding your face and bringing you close while his body presses you against the door. You struggle to find something to hold onto, tugging at his shirt and his hips. Carmy slips his thigh between your legs, pressing against your core firmly.

"Carm-" You pull yourself away from him enough to catch your breath, leaning your head against the door. Carmy takes the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, leaving soft bites as he works his way to your neck.

"Been thinkin' about you.." Carmy grunts softly, breathe hot against your ear. You whine in response, bumping your nose against his cheek.

"Been thinkin' about how tight y'are... Thought about stretchin' y'out... 'Bout keepin' ya full.." His words make you dizzy, gasping softly as he tugs you to rock against him.

"Y'gonna let me?" Carmy asks you gently, pulling away to study your face. You nod quickly, tugging his hips to you. "Words."

His voice is firm and it has you melting against the door, struggling to find your voice as you process him in front of you.

"Please, Carmy." You sigh softly, and that's all he needs to hear.

His fingers find the button of your jeans easily, undoing it and tugging down the zipper. Carmy hooks his thumbs in your pants and shoves them down as far as he can before his fingers are skimming over your underwear.

"Shit-" He mutters softly, eyes flickering to your face as his fingers dip lower. "Fuckin' soaked already.."

It's embarrassing, really. How worked up he's got you already. The wet patch that's already soaked your underwear from just kissing him.

"Makin' it easy for me.." He mutters, hooking his fingers in your underwear and tugging it to the side. You inhale sharply as he pushes two fingers into you, kissing you gently as you adapt to the intrusion.

You let Carmy kiss you until you're dizzy, melting into him as he tests your body. He's slow as he thrusts his fingers into you, rubbing slow circles to your clit with his thumb. The movements are enough to have you breathing heavily, breaking away from his mouth as your head falls back against the door.

Carmy's gentle as he prods a third finger at your entrance, kissing your neck sweetly as you whine. He's slow as he works you open, letting you adapt to the stretch. He's whispering soft things against your skin, "C'mon, sweetheart.. You can do it..."

You groan once he's to the knuckles, thumb back to rubbing slow circles to your clit. You're shaking your head mindlessly, whimpering as he gives a single thrust of his fingers. Testing you. Testing your body. See what you can take, how you'll react.

"Carm- Carmy-" You struggle to get out, hand coming to hold onto his forearm. You're shaking your head, but your body betrays you, hips rocking into his hand as he curls his fingers along your walls. Your voice is a high-pitched whine, "S'too much.."

Carmy tsks softly, giving you one more crook of his fingers before he's pulling them out. You keen out at the loss of his pointer finger, feeling somehow emptier with just two fingers. It's dizzying, the effect just his fingers have on your mind and body.

"Y'gotta make up your mind, sweetheart. 'S it too much or not?" Carmy says against your mouth. What he gets in response is an incoherent mess of whines and words. His fingers are curling perfectly against your walls, prodding at the spongy spot that makes you see stars.

You whine loudly as he prods a third finger at your entrance again. You bite back a groan as he adds it to the others, a choked sound as you rock your hips into his hand. Carmy sets a steady rhythm as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you. The sound is filthy as it fills the room, making you dizzy.

"Carmen-" You gasp out, holding on tight to his arm. He watches as your head falls back against the door, grip tight on his bicep as your orgasm washes over you. Carmy groans softly as your walls clamp around his fingers, planting kisses along your jaw.

You don't register any of what Carmy's muttering into your skin, hips rocking gently into his hand.

You start to whine, as Carmy starts slipping his fingers out of you. He pacifies you with a kiss, fixing your underwear before he tugs your jeans back up and buttoning them. Carmy's kisses stray from your mouth, trailing over your chin and jaw.

Standing against the door, your stomach drops. A wave of realization crushing you, making your eyes fly open. Carmy's a painting above you, something you should take in. Something you should cherish. You're gonna be sick.

"I have to go," You get out breathlessly. You push Carmy away hurriedly, turning around quickly as your hands fumble with the doorknob.

You forgot he locked it behind you. Of course he did. Your fingers are trembling as you undo the lock quickly. You need to get out of this apartment. You rush out the door before you do something you'll regret.

Again.

You feel like you're going to be sick the whole way home, letting your body do most of the work of navigating. 

Claire's car parked along the curb makes it worse. You park behind it and let your forehead rest against the top of your steering wheel. You make a silent wish that she's already in bed by the time you get back upstairs.

You adjust your jeans when you get out of your car, cringing at the dampness of your underwear. It sticks to your skin like an uncomfortable reminder. You ignore it as you make your way up to the apartment, you're the only one in the halls and you make it home without bother.

The apartment is dark. Quiet. You close the door behind you silently, turn the lock before you turn back to the apartment.

“Where were you?” Claire's voice makes you jump. There's another click and then the lamp next to her is on. You're regretting how the room is laid out now.  

“Fuck me-” You breathe out, bringing your hand up to rub at your chest. "Gonna kill me."

"You didn't tell me you'd be out late, and the location was spotty." Claire elaborates for you. Your stomach dips, busying yourself with toeing off your shoes. 

"Just uh.. Met this guy," You tell her, hanging your bag on the hook by the door. Claire opens her mouth but you beat her to it.

"Won't be seeing him again. Real perv." You dismiss it. "Thought you had an early shift?"

"Taylor took some of my morning if I stayed late for her tomorrow. He didn't-?"

"No, no. He was just.. Weird... I'm gonna get ready for bed.." You cut off her questioning. You don't think you'll be able to survive anymore questioning. "Night.."

Claire bids you good night just before you close your bedroom door. You change out of your clothes as quickly as you can, shoving them deep into your laundry basket. 

You crawl into bed that night trying to forget how Carmy's hands felt on your skin.

It's another four days before you reach out this time.

You: we should really talk

C: We should.

You watch as bubbles appear, disappear, reappear... This goes on for a while before they disappear again. You tap out a message before he can start the cycle again.

You: publicly

C: Definitely.

You meet Carmy at the Chicago French Press, meeting up with him in the parking lot when you spotted one another. You're embarrassed by the way your stomach flipped when you saw him, thankful you were both in public.

Carmy leads you to the building, opening the door for you before you even get the chance. He follows you in, standing beside you and looking at the menu. He looks at you when he's ready and you give him a nod before he steps up to the cashier. The cashier greets you both before asking for your orders.

"Just uh.. 14oz cold brew, black, thanks." He gives the cashier a quick nod before he turns to you. "And whatever they're gettin'."

You wait for her to be done writing on the cup before she turns to you.

"Oh... A 14oz peach blossom latte. Iced, please. Thank you."

"You don't want anything?" Carmy gestures to the pastry case on your right and you shake your head quickly.

"No, thank you." You tell him, watching while he nods and pulls his wallet from his pocket. You wait while he gives a name for the order and pays.

"Thank you," You tell him softly, watching while he nods, staring at the pastries.

"Marcus's are probably better," He tells you in a conspiratorial whisper. You snicker quietly, following his gaze.

"His one dessert was good. The one from-" You pause. You change direction. "He's a good baker."

"Yeah.." He nods. "Did you get to meet him during-?"

You shake your head quickly, looking at the plants they've placed around the café. "Sugar kept me mostly in the dining area. I was only helping clean the kitchen for a little before they opened the door.."

He makes a noise beside you. It's not much longer before Carmy's name is called and he collects your drinks, he hands you your drink before you both exit. You lead him to one of the tables set up in front of the building, sitting down in a sun spot.

"How's the um... The restaurant?" You ask before taking a drink from your cup.

"A fuckin' nightmare," Carmy huffs, fidgeting with his drink. You nod, not sure how to continue.

"How's your drink?" He asks, gaze flicking from your cup back to your face.

"Good, good." You nod, watching him drink from his cold brew. You both sit in silence for a moment, listening to the noise along the street.

"I don't think we should see each other again." You break first, saying the thing that's been clawing at your heart. Carmy looks startled, blue eyes wide from where he sits across from you.

"It's a bad idea and-" You swallow hard. "It's not right. We shouldn't- We can't do it again. That was the last time."

"Oh.." Carmy says softly before nodding absentmindedly. "Yeah, uh... Yeah, no."

You watch Carmy with wide eyes, holding on tight to your coffee cup.

"Yeah, it's uh- it's a bad idea. We shouldn't um, see each other again after this." He nods, pressing his lips together in a firm line. You sigh heavily, and Carmy watches as your shoulders relax. Did you expect a fight? Did you expect him to find a way to make it work? To disregard both your loyalties for this?

"How was New York?" You ask him. It's a surprising change in topic.

"New York?" He's baffled, brow furrowed and a slight frown pulling at his lips.

"We have to finish our drinks... And I haven't seen you since.. Well that Christmas a few years ago." You shrug. "And I mean it's been longer than that since we actually.. Caught up.. Or we can sit in silence."

You're offering him an out. Offering silence on a silver platter. He doesn't take it.

"New York was shit," He says frankly. It starts a laugh from you as you bring your cup to your lips.

"What about... What was it? Amsterdam?" You know the answer. You just don't want him to know you know.

"Copenhagan?" He offers.

"That's the one," you nod. "Was Copenhagan better?"

"Much better," he huffs and you nod.

"Tell me about it."

It takes you both thirty minutes to finish your drinks. In that time, you dig out what Carmy's been doing in the years you haven't seen him. He gets a few questions of his own. Asks about college, your family, why you haven't left Chicago yet.

You ask him why he didn't come back until now. That one gets him.

He asks you if your ready to go when both your cups are just ice. Offers to take yours from you and tosses them both in the trash can along the side walk. And you're both walking back to the parking garage in silence.

You spot Carmy's car quickly, having parked closer to the exit than you did. You follow him around to the drivers side, ready to part ways after you leave him there.

"Wait-" Carmy says softly. You hum before you face him. He gives you a soft "c'mere" before slipping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a hug.

The motion makes you freeze, brain catching up to the feeling of his body against yours again. It takes you a moment before wrapping your arms around him, breathing in deep. Carmy presses his nose to your hair, keeping you close for as long as possible.

You both sit there for what could be hours, could be days. In reality it's only a few minutes. A few minutes of holding each other close in the dingy light of a parking garage.

Carmy's hold on you loosens eventually, and you have to pull away from him. His hand cradles the back of your head, eyes tracing over your face. Trying to take in every detail.

This is another time you're not sure who moved first. But Carmy kisses you sweetly, hand moving to hold your cheek. He doesn't let you part for too long, chasing your lips quickly. You sigh against his mouth, placing your hands on his hips and pushing him softly. He grunts when his back hits his car, using his thumb to tug your mouth open.

You let Carmy deepen the kiss, his other hand coming to cradle the side of your neck. Carmy could change the position easily, but he lets you keep him flush against his car. You keep his hips in place with a firm grip and stand between his legs. You can feel his erection press against you and he groans softly when you move to palm him through his jeans.

"Shit-" He gasps, not hiding how his hips rut into your hand. "Are y'sure?"

You hum softly, pulling away to peak over his shoulder. When you don't see anyone in the parking garage you kiss him again before whispering, "No one around."

Carmy tries to stifle his groan but fails, pulling away from you to catch his breath. You shush him softly, catching how his cheeks flush a deep red in the garage lighting. You give him a small grin before you popping the button of his jeans and tugging down the zipper.

You grip him softly through his boxers, pulling a groan from deep in his chest. You hush him again softly, glancing quickly behind him.

"Need you to be quiet, Carm. Don't wanna get caught, right?"

Carmy's embarrassed by the way the words make his hips jerk. But the response is instantaneous, and his stomach churns at the teasing glint it gives you.

"Ohh," You hum. "You'd like that though, huh? She know you were into that? That the idea of getting off in public makes you so hard it hurts?"

"Fuck- No, no- Doesn't- Shit-" He's choking on his words, struggling to find a way out of your teasing and your hand inside of his boxers. He can't think past trying to keep his voice down and your palm rubbing against his cock.

"Thought Donna raised a good catholic boy," You muse, hand trailing up to where the head of his dick brushes the elastic waistband. Rubbing the fabric over where the slit is makes him whine and there's a dark patch forming in the fabric.

"Not even catholic like that-" He grunts, trying to compose himself.

"Obviously." You tease before your fingers finally sneak under his waistband. Carmy's hips twitch involuntarily when your fingers finally wrap around the base of his dick.

He swears under his breath, eyes falling shut as you give a few experimental tugs of your hand. The movements are restrained, given the limited space in his boxers in jeans. But you don't think Carmy minds.

You watch quietly as he chokes on a groan, mouth falling open slightly. He exhales heavily, hips twitching slightly.

"Little tighter, baby-" The response is instant. Carmy bucks into your fist, swearing softly. His eyes flutter open when you tug back his waistband. He watches through half lidded eyes as you open your mouth. And Carmy watches, enraptured, as you let spit fall from your mouth. He lets out a strangled noise when it lands, hips flexing as you use the saliva to coat his cock.

"Shit, sweetheart-" He struggles to get out. You hum, twisting your wrist as you stroke him. The slick sound is muffled slightly by the fabric, but it's still enough that you spot a flush working it's way up his neck.

"Fuck-" Carmy breathes out. He looks a little cross-eyed when you're this close to him. Something in your chest burns when you watch his gaze flick to your lips.

You put him out of his misery, pressing a kiss to his lips. He groans against your mouth, trailing after you when you pull away. It makes you sigh, like it's something that really bothers you. But you're kissing him again just to keep him quiet.

He sighs through his nose, whining when you tug just a little bit harder than you have been.

"Wait- Wait-" Carmy gets out, words trailing off with a pant. You can feel him twitching in your hand and you can't help but smile softly. You give him a prompting hum, twisting your wrist just slightly.

"'M gonna come- D- don't wanna come yet, please-" His hands grab for your hips, trying to find anything to ground him. Carmy swears under his breath, grip tightening on your waist.

"Fuck- Shit-" Carmy smothers his groan against your lips, knocking your teeth together as you feel him twitch in your hand. The attempt to stifle his whines is a poor one, breathing heavily against your lips.

"Oh fuck-" He gasps as he spills out against the fabric and onto your hand. His hips rut into your fist, fucking himself through his release. You keeping your hand there until he stops, cock still twitching in your palm.

You wipe your hand on the inside of his boxers before pulling it free. He's still catching his breathe as you fix his jeans, tugging up the zipper and buttoning them again. Carmy's head falls back, bearing his neck to you.

He inhales softly when you place a quick kiss to his neck. You give a soft nip to the skin, straightening out his t-shirt. Your hands rest gently against his stomach, pressing a few more soft kisses to his jaw and his neck before pulling away.

"Get home safe Carmen" you give him a quick kiss on the cheek, before slipping out of his grasp.

Carmy sighs as he watches you go, slumping farther against his car. He adjusts his jeans slightly, rise and fall of his chest slowing down as he catches his breathe.

You don't look back. Not that he expects you to. Something about watching you walk away makes his stomach dip, sets his teeth on edge.

The feelings slightly forgotten, covered by the uncomfortable feeling of his cum stained boxers.

"Shit.." He groans softly, turning to look behind him. Still no one in the parking lot. Carmy can feel blood working it's way up his neck and over his cheeks.

"Shit," he swears agains turning to rest his arms against the top of his car, head dipping between them. Carmy has to squeeze his eyes shut when he spots the dark stain against the seam of his jeans.

"Shit!" He smacks his palm against the frame, biting his tongue.

Despite all his swearing, Carmy knows he won't find a piece of him that regrets. Won't find a shred unease when he thinks about this again.

But in the moment?

Carmy regrets not having a spare pair of jeans in his car.

[loverboysturn]

⸝⸝ chris and birdie have a late night talk at the beach about the future ꒱

OR birdie tells chris everything she envisions in the future but most importantly, it all leads back to him.

warnings: none — just birdie & chris being sweethearts !

note: had this in a drafts for a while. can u guess what film i watched that inspired me to finish it.

the sand is still slightly warm beneath you, despite it being way past midnight.

you're lying between chris's legs, your back resting against his chest, head tilted back just enough for him to be able to keep placing soft, lazy kisses to your lips.

the beach is quiet tonight. the only sounds you can hear being of the waves gently coming in and out to shore every so often and the slow and steady rhythm of chris’s breathing from behind you.

he’d picked you up a few hours ago in his jeep. completely unannounced, no real plan in place, just the promise of some late night gelato from your favourite spot on the beach and his company. two things you can never say no to.

"you still think somethin' is going on with matt and lucky?" chris asks, his voice low against your ear.

“mhm,” you hum, fiddling with the links on his silver bracelet with one hand as he laces your other hand with his, resting it over your stomach. “something’s for sure going on between them, did you not see the way they were when we walked home from nate’s party on friday?”

“you think she likes him?”

“think she always has, you think he likes her?”

“think he always has.”

you shuffle yourself up so you’re a little closer to him, still tucked between his legs. you’re in a pair of shorts and one of chris's hoodies, the one he keeps in the backseat of his car for you. you'd “stolen” it while he paid for parking, and of course, he let you.

“matt’ll never admit it.” you murmur.

“he’s too fuckin’ stubborn,” chris laughs, “i hope it doesn’t take him anywhere near as long to tell her as it took you to admit you liked me.”

you scoff, turning your head slightly to catch eye contact with him. “you are joking, right? it was you who gave me mixed signals for years.”

“c’mon birdie, you knew i was in love with you,” he says, voice quieter but his tone full of certainty as he places a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you’ve always known that.”

you don’t argue that, because you know that he’s right.

you just let out a small giggle, leaning back into him as a comfortable silence settles between the two of you again, his thumb drawing slow patterns on your thigh as you both watch the waves roll in.

you’re the first to break the quiet.

“do you ever think about the future?”

“mhm.” he answers almost straight away, “do you?”

you sit up slowly, shifting your body around so you’re sitting up on your knees, still tucked between his legs as you face him now. “all the time”

“yeah?” he leans back on his hands, eyes on you. “tell me ‘bout it.”

“i want a big white house with a red door,” you start, and he’s already smiling, “and an open kitchen with big windows that look out onto the garden. i want to check on my hydrangeas while i make my iced matcha, and i’ll grow berries in the garden so i can put them on my yoghurt bowls every morning.”

he’s watching you but not saying a word, almost like he’s making a mental note to memorise every word that you’re saying right now.

“and i want a swing in the garden,” you continue, “but i want you to build it from scratch, i’ll help though. it can be like a little project for us, i want to sit on it with my matcha and my book in the mornings as the sun rises, and we can sit on it together in the evenings as the sun sets.”

he smirks, completely gone for you now, a familiar look of love on his face. “s’that right? keep goin’.”

“i want to throw dinner parties for our friends every weekend like our parents do, and drink wine with nick and lucky when we shouldn’t be, and i want to eat outside with you every night in the summer.”

“you’ll burn dinner,” he laughs, pulling you closer.

“you’ll eat it anyway.”

“i will,” he nods, “anythin’ else?”

“you,” you say simply, “because i know that even if none of that happens, as long as i have you. i’ll always be good.”

his eyes don’t leave yours, as he’s pulling you even closer now, moving your legs so they’re placed either side of his, settling you on his lap. “you’ve always got me, birdie girl.” he’s kissing you, soft and full of certainty. “you’ve always had me. every future i’ve ever imagined? you’re in it. no doubt about it.”

your heart is full, and you lean in to kiss him again but this time letting it linger before you shoot to your feet suddenly as you quickly start to shrug chris’s hoodie off.

“where are you goin’?” he laughs, looking up at you.

a grin creeps onto your face, already walking backwards to the sea as you pull your shorts off while you walk.

“for a swim, dream boy,” you shout, “you coming?”

[imsosoheee]

afk (away for kisses) - l.sh

wc: 1.6k | pairing: gamer bf!sohee x gf!reader | genre: fluff | warnings: reader is needy & kisses his neck, sohee is a simp, they're both very clingy and lovey dovey

a/n! i'm so sad 😭 i love sohee so much guys :P wrote this for myself (who's surprised) but pleasee tell me you guys get clingy pouty sohee... reader is obsessed with sohee because i would be too

sohee loved gaming. it wasn’t just a hobby— his setup reflected it. sleek, expensive, tailored exactly the way he liked. dual monitors, custom keyboard, headset that rarely left his desk. his room always had that low hum of his pc, the soft glow of rgb lights casting color across his walls.

when you started dating him, you thought it would be cute to join him in that little world of his. so you showed up one weekend with your own monitor—smaller, lighter, something easy for you to bring over and leave beside his. you had even picked out a case for your pc that matched his color scheme, just because you knew it’d make him smile.

sohee had laughed when you set it up. not in a mean way, but in that soft way he always did when you surprised him with how sweet you could be. he watched you plug in cables and arrange your things with a focused little pout on your lips. “you’re cute,” he’d said, shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe you’d done that just to be close to him.

you weren’t nearly as into it as he was. you were good—better than most at shooters, quick reflexes and sharp aim—but it wasn’t the same kind of love. you played because it made him happy. because you liked hearing him praise you when you pulled off a good shot. because sometimes his hand would find yours between rounds, fingers brushing yours as if to say thanks for playing with me.

you had played a few rounds with him earlier, your smaller monitor glowing beside his, the two of you side by side, shoulders brushing. but after a while, you gave up, slipping onto his bed, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes as he stayed locked in, focused on the game.

hours passed. at first, you just lay there, sprawled out on your stomach, cheek pressed against his pillow. you watched his back, the curve of it in his hoodie, the way his fingers moved over his keyboard, quick and practiced. sometimes he’d curse under his breath. sometimes he’d smirk, muttering something to his teammates.

“sohee…” you whined softly, drawing out his name. he didn’t look over, only raised his hand for a quick second to ruffle his hair before going right back to clicking away.

you huffed, sitting up. your legs swung off the bed as you padded over to him. the soft hum of his pc filled the room, mixed with the chatter from his headset.

you leaned down, arms wrapping around his neck from behind, your cheek pressing into the side of his head. “baby,” you murmured, lips brushing his temple.

he smirked—you felt it. but he didn’t glance your way. “hmm?”

you kissed his cheek, warm and insistent. “come cuddle.”

��almost done,” he said, voice teasing, like you both knew he wouldn’t be.

you pouted against his skin, tightening your hold around him, your hands sliding down to his chest. your fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, slipping just underneath to feel the warmth of him.

he shifted a little in his chair but didn’t push you away. “yn…” he warned lightly, but you heard the smile in it.

you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, nose brushing his skin, breathing him in. you kissed him behind his ear, slow and soft.

“sohee,” you whispered, voice turning sweet, too sweet. “don’t you want to?”

he grinned, eyes still glued to the screen, but his ears were turning pink.

“you’re distracting me,” he said, though he didn’t sound mad at all.

you only hummed, lips trailing down to his jaw, content to keep clinging to him until he finally gave in. with a quiet hum, he lifted one side of his headset, tilting his head just enough so you could speak.

“just wanna feel you,” you whispered, breath brushing his ear, voice small and pleading.

sohee went still for a second, like he was debating between the game and you—but there was no real choice.

he leaned back in his chair, head tipping up so the sharp line of his jaw caught the soft light of the room. his legs spread just slightly, enough to make space for you, and his hand lifted, fingers curling in a subtle gesture, inviting you closer.

“come here then,” he said, voice low, amused, fond—like he’d been waiting for you to break first.

you settled onto his lap, back to his monitor, legs tucked on either side of him. your arms wrapped around his waist, pulling yourself close, your face buried in the warm crook of his neck. he smelled so good—like his shampoo, faint cologne, and something sohee that you could never name but always recognized.

he kept playing, fingers moving fast over his keys, clicking frantically as the action on the screen picked up. you felt him tense slightly, the way he inhaled sharply when he or someone on his team took a hit, jaw clenching in concentration.

but you didn’t care about the game anymore.

your lips brushed his neck, soft at first, just small kisses pressed to his skin. you breathed him in, murmured against him, “you smell so good,” voice muffled and sweet.

but even then, he was still focused, fingers dancing over his keys, the sounds of his teammates filling the headset. your lips lingered near his neck, and you stayed there a moment, before slowly pulling back just enough to look up at him with big, watery eyes.

“sohee,” you said, your bottom lip jutting out, voice small. “is the game more important than me?”

his hands froze on the keyboard.

“i miss you,” you added, barely above a whisper, brows furrowing in the saddest little pout you could manage.

and that was all it took. his heart squeezed painfully in his chest, like you’d just reached in and grabbed it with both hands. “baby…” he breathed, already reaching up to take off his headset, not even bothering to exit the game. seunghan’s voice shouted something through the speakers, followed by soobin’s laugh, but he didn’t hear any of it—not really. all he could see was your face, pouty and hurt and too precious to ignore.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispered, cupping your cheeks with both hands. “my baby—i didn’t mean to ignore you. i’ll make it up to you, i promise.”

he started covering your face in soft, apologetic kisses—your nose, the corners of your mouth, the furrow between your brows. “this pout,” he murmured between pecks, “you’re gonna get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.” he kissed the spot again, smiling as you tried to keep up your sulky expression.

you rolled your eyes, a tiny laugh breaking through your pout.

he pulled back just slightly, eyes shining. “there she is.”

you stood up with a soft sigh, but before you could say anything, he gently grabbed your wrist, his fingers curling around it just enough to feel the beat of your pulse. his thumb brushed against your skin absentmindedly, and he pulled you toward the bed.

“come here,” he said softly. “you’re mine for the rest of the night.”

you let him pull you into his arms, and the moment you were close, he hugged you tight, arms wrapping fully around your waist as he buried his face into your shoulder.

and then the kisses started again—not frantic this time, just sweet, endless. your jaw, your ear, the side of your nose. your giggles bubbled up with every one, especially when he peppered your cheeks with exaggerated little mwah sounds.

“sohee—!” you squirmed, laughing now, eyes squeezed shut.

“what?” he said innocently, already sliding his hands to your sides and starting to tickle you. “you missed me, didn’t you?”

you tried to escape, but he pulled you right back in, both of you laughing, tangled together on his bed, the game already long forgotten.

you were still breathless from giggling, curled against him, your cheeks warm and your heart full from the way he’d smothered you in kisses. sohee had finally stopped tickling you, his chin now resting on your shoulder, arms looped loosely around your waist like he was afraid you’d get up and leave if he let go.

he nuzzled closer, humming. “can i have a kiss now?” he asked, voice soft, hopeful, almost boyish.

you blinked at him, lifting your chin slightly with an air of pretend defiance. “no,” you said, all pouty and stern. “you ignored me for hours. you don’t get a kiss.”

he gasped—full offense taken. “baby. i said i was sorry.”

you just looked at him. unmoved. “hmm.”

he pouted. actually pouted. “you’re being so mean to me right now.”

you turned away, nose in the air, biting back your grin. “good.”

he let out a dramatic sigh, flopping onto his back with his arms still wrapped around you, dragging you down with him. “you’re gonna break my heart,” he whined, hugging you even tighter. “just one kiss. please? just a little one. on the cheek. or the nose. or—no, i want a real one. a real kiss.”

“no,” you said again, but your voice cracked, because you were already melting. his voice was too soft. his pout was too cute. and he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the whole world that mattered.

“you’re so mean,” he whispered again, grinning now because he could feel you caving. “and i’m so in love with you. even though you’re evil.”

you burst into laughter, turning your face toward him, and his eyes lit up like he knew he’d won. and yeah—he had.

you leaned in, cupping his cheeks, kissing him full and warm and long like you’d never said no in the first place.

when you finally pulled back, he chased after your lips with a lazy smile. “see?” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “wasn’t that better than the game?”

you grinned. “infinitely.”

[cigsaftersuh]

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝓸𝓯𝓯 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓮𝓼 𓇼

⤷ when your teasing hands wander too far, park jongseong lets you get away with it — until he doesn’t.

part of the hand's on the wheel, heart in your mouth series .ᐟ

though part of an anthology series, it can be read as a standalone!

smut, minors dni ୧⋆ piv + car sex. he calls you baby. singular mention of daddy. word count is 1.4k

the road curves through trees and long golden grass, the morning sun warm against your window as jay drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on your thigh. your legs are tucked under you in your seat, clad in soft shorts and an oversized hoodie of his you’d thrown on after your shared shower, the fabric still holding onto the faint smell of his love.

your gaze drops to where his hand rests, ring clad fingers resting across your bare skin. you smile shyly to yourself before slipping your hand into his, letting your fingers lace through his without a word. he doesn't look at you, but you can see his smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and the way his thumb instinctively strokes along the side of your hand.

he squeezes your hand gently, like it's the most natural thing in the world. his grip warm and familiar, making your chest feel full in a way you didn’t have words for.

now, the air between you two is thick with something sweeter than silence, stretching like the golden road ahead of you. you sit there for a while, letting the rumble of the car and the softness of his thumb lull you into that tender little space only jay ever pulled you into.

"your hands are so pretty," you say quietly, thumb brushing over the silver ring he always wore, the one with your birthstone shining in all it’s glory underneath the sunshine peaking through.

he hums. "mm? you’ve told me that before."

"i mean it," you reply, drawing little circles over the inside of his wrist with your free hand. "i like when they’re on me."

his breath hitches just slightly, and you watch the way his fingers flex against the steering wheel. it's so obvious that he is trying to control himself but you knew your jay too well to miss the tension starting to coil in his forearm.

you lean in to kiss the back of his hand softly, your lips brushing the knuckles he'd so often dragged along your body.

"thank you for driving," you murmur, lips brushing over his skin again. your voice was sugar-sweet and too quiet to be innocent. "and for the shower, and for letting me wear this hoodie even though i know you wanted to wear it today."

he lets out a soft breath of a laugh, shaking his head shyly. "you're lucky you're cute."

"mm," you hum, finally letting his hand go. "i know."

he glances at you briefly, eyes flickering with fondness as you leaned over the center console without a word, brushing your lips over his cheek. his breath hitched as you pressed against him, just long enough for your lipstick to press a soft mark against him. his jaw clenched while your hand moved higher.

"baby." he said, breath catching, his hand twitching on the wheel.

"it looks good on you," you said sweetly, the words soft against his jaw as you pulled back away. only fot your hand to be trailed down over his thigh, with featherlight touches. just enough to make him flinch, eyes flickering down for half a second. you smiled, pretending not to notice, fingers drawing little circles over the denim.

he said your name from both his chest and his hardening length, warning tucked into the syllables. "not while i'm driving."

"i’m not doing anything," you said, clearly doing something.

your hand stayed there, curling over the inside of his thigh, pretending that you weren’t touching him on purpose.

he exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, shifting in his seat. your hand moved again — just slightly higher this time, pressing into the tension in his thigh like you were helping him relax. the fabric of his jeans were warm under your palm, the muscle underneath tight as a wire.

"baby," he warned again.

"what?" you said, head tilted toward him, eyes wide and sweet. "just trying to make you feel good. you do so much for me."

your hand drifted higher, palming him gently through the denim, leading him to curse under his breath and flick the turn signal on.

the road curved off into a little dirt path lined by trees, barely wide enough for the car, but jay didn’t care. he pulled in with a tight jaw and one hand gripping the wheel in an attempt to keep himself grounded.

"oh?" you said, tone carrying faux innocence as you kept your palm right where it was, pressing in a little firmer as the car slowed down.

he shifted in his seat and reached for the gearshift, killing the engine with a snap. he turned to face you, eyes dark and heavy, laced with something rougher than the golden morning light.

“you think that was smart?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, but his thumb was stroking your cheek — he couldn’t help it. “touching me like that when i couldn’t do anything about it?”

his voice dropped even lower as he dragged your body closer, eyes dark and so full of heat it made your stomach twist. “gonna make sure you remember what happens when you tease me like that.”

you opened your mouth to speak, but he was already leaning in, pressing his lips to yours roughly, teeth catching your bottom lip, wanting to mark you there too. the kiss was messy, heated, his other hand sliding under your hoodie and gripping your waist, dragging you toward him over the console.

he didn’t give you time to answer, hand already slipping beneath your hoodie, trailing over your bare skin, warm and possessive, reclaiming the territory that had always been his.

the car around you felt small, overheated from both the sun and him — his breath against your cheek, his thigh pressed to yours, his fingers curling just under the hem of your shorts.

“look at you,” he murmured, voice rough, the heel of his palm grazing between your legs. “so worked up from teasing me. is this what you wanted?”

you nodded, breath shaky, thighs clenching on instinct, but he clicked his tongue and shook his head, pulling back just enough to glare down at you.

“use your words.”

“yes daddy,” you whispered, cheeks flushed. “i wanted it.”

“you wanted to make me pull over. wanted me to lose my mind in the middle of nowhere because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself? hm, baby?”

you nodded again, trying your best to convince him to go easy, but the look in his eyes made it clear you wouldn't be off the hook so easily this time.

he tugged you more fully into his lap, your knees findinf home on either side of his thighs, your face only inches away from his.

you could feel him now, hard and aching beneath you, his hands strong on your hips as he rocked you down onto his bulge, making you whimper.

“you don’t get to play with me and walk away untouched, baby,” he said lowly, leaning in until his lips brushed your ear. “i’m gonna make sure you remember who you belong to.”

your breath hitched as you felt him undoing the button of his jeans with one hand, the other keeping you close, rubbing against your thighs wrapped around him.

“show me how sorry you are,” he murmured, dark eyes fixed on yours as he discarded his boxers. “right here. don’t look away now, pretty.”

and with that, he guided your hand down between you both, fingers curling over yours as he helped you wrap yourself around him — hot and hard, the weight of his length pulsing against the palm of your hand. he hissed at the contact, hips twitching up just slightly, not even bothering to pretend to be unaffected.

“that’s it,” he said, voice sharp but low, his thumb pressing into your wrist, guiding you. “just like that, baby. nice and slow. make it up to me.”

you moved your hand around him carefully, still caged in his lap, straddling him as the car rocked ever so slightly beneath your shared weight. your hoodie slid off one shoulder, the sun spilling in and catching the shine of sweat starting to form at his hairline, his eyes never leaving yours.

he looked beautiful like this. flushed, jaw tight, veins prominent in his forearms as he fought to keep still beneath your touch.

“keep going,” he growled softly. “don’t stop until i say.”

ﾒ𝟶 (only if you say yes), val . . .ᐟ a little on the fluffier side (¯ . ¯٥) but the next chaps are gonna make up for it, i promise!

tags ⋆˙⟡ @markkiatocafe @myarch @swetmeal @bamjjwi @rainyjeno @mey-archive @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @starl0ver4 @bambheee @invsomnixa1 @urmomdotcom5678 @miirtilosazuis @jenobubbles

[rafesfantasies]

tattooartist!rafe who… grew up country but moved to the city for “new canvas.”

never lost the accent. never lost the charm.

wears gold chains and jeans, gum tucked in his cheek, sleeves rolled to the elbow.

he always smells like mint, smoke, and cedarwood.

draws on girls at bars just for fun, he’ll say “lemme see your wrist” and pull a pen from his pocket. leans in too close.

always says, “you’re a good girl for sittin’ still.”

tattoos out of a shop that plays outlaw country or old school hip hop. never silence. never boring.

sits behind the front desk with his boots kicked up and gum snapping, sketching little devils, daggers, and girls with fangs.

doesn’t give a fuck about minimalism. his tattoos are heavy, dark, layered.

flirts while he inks you. “hurts, doesn’t it? you’re takin’ it so well though.”

touches your hip to steady you, your thigh to guide your angle.

way too handsy but somehow still gets away with it. because he looks at you just right.

bites the tip of his glove before snapping it on. “you nervous, sweetheart?”

hums while he tattoos. sometimes whistles.

calls you “doll,” “baby,” “trouble,” depending on how short your shorts are.

leans in and whispers, “y’know i could do this on your inner thigh. if you can handle me there.”

who has a soft spot for you the second you walk into his shop, little skirt, shy voice, asking for something small

who raises his brows and says “you sure, sugar? needle’s not as gentle as me.”

who makes you sit in his chair and adjusts your position like you’re breakable, palms warm on your skin, calloused but careful

who calls you baby more times than you can count during the session, so much so you forget your own name

who starts being professional with everyone else. gloves on, no flirting, no wandering hands. but turns to absolute mush when it’s you

who traces your skin with a sharpie before tattooing and whispers “this part’s gonna tickle, sugar” and watches you squirm

who’s fully aware he’s too old for you, but it doesn’t stop him from memorizing your laugh, or the way your lip gloss tastes when you kiss his cheek as a thank you

who pretends it’s no big deal, but turns red when you call him sir just to mess with him

who locks the shop early when you stop by after hours

who never charges you full price. “you pay me in sweetness, baby.”

who starts carrying red ink more just because he knows you like it

who always puts your tattoos somewhere hidden, inner thigh, hipbone, ribcage, so he’s the only one who really gets to see them

who says “hold my hand, baby. i got you.” every.single.time

who keeps the drawing he sketched of you tucked in his wallet, even though he’d never admit it

who kisses your wrist after every finished tattoo like he’s sealing it

who swears he’s not gonna fall for you but already has

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

SOON COME…

The Queen Remembers

A Sinners Story

Summary: In 1930s Mississippi, twin brothers Smoke and Stack Moore—war veterans turned treasure hunters—join forces with a brilliant scholar and a cunning hoodoo priestess to uncover the lost tomb of an ancient Nubian queen. But as secrets awaken and past lives resurface, they discover the queen isn’t just a legend—she remembers them. And she’s ready to rise.

Warnings: Slow Burn, eventual SMUT, action adventure, violence, romance, mystery, supernatural

Dr. Thalia Zahara Reed is a brilliant, no-nonsense historian from Charleston with a sharp mind and a quiet intensity. At 5’5”, she’s all grace and grit—mahogany skin, thoughtful eyes behind smudged glasses, and a wardrobe straight out of a 1920s expedition. Formerly a professor at Howard, she now chases buried truths across continents, specializing in lost Black matriarchal empires.

Guarded but deeply sensual, Thalia doesn’t believe in curses or ancient magic—until it starts believing in her. She came to uncover a queen’s forgotten story. What she finds is a dangerous past, a buried power, and a slow-burning tension with a man she swore she couldn’t stand.

Annie—A Southern hoodoo priestess with sharp instincts and a sharper tongue, Annie is earthy, intuitive, and unafraid to speak her mind. At the age of 33, she carries the weight of old wounds masked by fierce independence. Raised by a traveling conjure woman, Annie is deeply connected to ancestral magic, rootwork, and spirit lore. She’s sensual without trying, a natural beauty with curves, stormy eyes, and hands that smell faintly of herbs and smoke.

She doesn’t trust easily—especially not military men like Smoke—but she’s loyal to those who prove themselves. Her magic is grounded in ritual and protection, but her presence alone is enough to rattle even the most stoic soul. As the journey unfolds, she becomes an indispensable spiritual anchor for the group and the slow-burning match that tests Smoke’s control.

Elias “Stack” Moore is a 34-year-old, smooth-talking rogue born and raised in Clarksdale, Mississippi. A charming playboy with a silver tongue and a hunger for gold, Stack is a treasure hunter and thrill-seeker who thrives on risk, fast talk, and faster women. Beneath his cocky grin lies a sharp mind and a soldier’s edge—he served in the Great War alongside his twin brother, Smoke, and still bears the instincts of survival and cunning. Stack is driven by the promise of riches and the rush of discovery, but when he meets Thalia, his arrogance is met with resistance that cuts deeper than he expects.

Though flirtatious and light-hearted on the surface, Stack’s draw to the Queen’s tomb feels eerily personal, hinting at a past life that may bind him to the mystery in blood and soul.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore is a 34-year-old war-hardened explorer from Clarksdale, Mississippi. Silent, brooding, and fiercely capable, he’s the muscle and mind in the field—sharp-eyed, steady-handed, and deadly with a gun. A former soldier with a haunted past, Smoke carries the weight of unspoken things. He’s protective, authoritative, and stoic, with a quiet sensuality and a slow-burning temper.

While his twin brother Stack cracks jokes and chases gold, Smoke watches from the shadows—calculating, resisting temptation, but always drawn to danger. He wears his trauma in the set of his jaw and the tremble in his hands, but nothing shakes his resolve. Though he denies the pull of the supernatural, something ancient stirs in him—especially when it comes to the cursed tomb and the priestess, Annie, who gets under his skin.

In worn leather, linen shirts rolled at the forearms, and a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his eyes, Smoke is the kind of man who doesn’t need to speak to be feared—or desired.

If you’ve been following me for a while, I came up with a fic summary for an action adventure for Erik Killmonger, for Terry Richmond and I NEVER follow through! I always wanted to explore this because I am a BIG fan of action adventure and I’ve always been a bit miffed that there aren’t many representations if any at all of black people within this genre. So I’ve always wanted to bring this to life in my own special way!

Funny thing, the modern day idea that I had for Erik Killmonger was going to center around him having a twin that was separate at birth—one twin working for the bad side, and the other the good— and it was going to feature a woman that’s a mercenary and a woman that’s a reporter.

Now that I’ve flushed this idea out, I am going to stick to it and finally make it happen lol. I drew inspiration from The Mummy, Indiana Jones, Tomb Raider, Uncharted, and The Scorpion King. All of which I love by the way!

I can’t wait to write this, wont be any time soon though because I have other Sinners projects but I just wanted to share this with ya’ll to see if you like it!

[rinis-rift]

'Cause it's not Romantic, I Swear

ꕥ you weren't a lover, you're a source of their dread- at least, that's what they claim. Like an anchor, you drag their hearts and make them crawl across the ocean floor, stopping them from moving on- if thats even what they really want. basically, demons being bad with feelings they always considered "too human" <Fluff, denial, happy endings>

Inspo:

male!demon! reader x abby & mystery saja (separated)

wc: 1.9k (bullet points!)

extra: this is a part 2 to my og post, go to part 1 for baby & romance, + because this isn't my first time, it felt more fun and less restricting to write like this so thats why you might see some differences in how i write, I had so much fun writing like this so i hope you see it :)

part 3 with huntr/x!!!

not doing jinu cause yeah why would i

masterlist

Mystery

Despite his more animalistic side, you somehow managed to befriend this bed headed demon boy guy.

All you needed to do was continuously greet him for a few centuries, throw him souls and watch it go chase after it like a dog.

And boom! Besties for life.

That’s what it was to Mystery, at least, you were accepting of his non respondent behavior, while his larger tusks would drive other demons away, you compared it to yours.

Sneaking in some dick jokes every now and then, you stopped quickly when Mystery didn’t catch on. 

Anyway, after some time being friends, Mystery realized something horrifying.

Suddenly your touches felt too comforting, your jabs too personal, your smiles too bright, hair felt too much like home.

He started craving your presence rather than wanting it.

And you’d think this loser would be more upfront with his emotions the moment they started to develop.

You. Thought. Wrong.

As time strings along, his actions grow stiff around you.

Your casual huddles under big, overgrown plants become less frequent. He stopped huddling closer to you because he’s afraid that the jump in his pulse might give him away to you.

Whenever you tried to engulf him in your friendly arms he’d dodge, pull back and away, your expression would flicker. And so would his.

His insides would twist uncomfortably at your expression, how quickly it changes back to normal.

He’s unable to see you upset at the hands of him, his silence became uncomfortable.

Before, whenever he gave you that awkward smile you loved, his lips would brush against his tusks, now that friction dug at the remains of his soul.

That’s why he was quick to take up Jinu’s offer to visit and stay up at the surface world.

He spends time upstairs while you sit under the monstrous plants on your own, sitting under with an old blanket that couldn't compare to his company.

Up on Earth, Mystery serves face despite not showing his, busting out beautiful vocals to help grow the fanbase of Gwi-Ma’s greedy jaws.

And even though he and his group are basked in attention all the time, showered in praises and thirst traps, his ears, once filled with comfortable silence with you, are now filled to the brim of thoughts of you.

“Would he like soda pop?” “That character looks like him.” “I wonder what he’s doing.” “He’d look nice in those clothes.” “What would he look like as a human?” “Would I be his favorite?” 

And on and on the list goes, it’s like a CVS receipt, you buy not that much and yet, you get this absolute scroll of extra lines and words.

Mystery does return to the underworld when he can, but he’s quieter, he hides more, he avoids places he knows you frequent.

But he watches you from afar, like an edgy character standing on top of a distant hill, he’d use his better vision to watch you talk to stones propped up on one another, he thinks you’re replicating him.

You miss your beastly friend, his stupid bushy bangy hair, you learned that he was off on a mission by Jinu and Gwi-Ma, which yeah, made sense, but god did you swear that ominous shadow looked exactly like him!

As the performance of ‘Your Idol’ draws near, he picks up your habit of making objects stack up and pretend it's the other guy.

Mystery stops quickly as his cheeks warm up in embarrassment every time he finishes the product.

The feeling of boiling on the inside goes away when he’s away from you, but in place of it, there’s an ache.

“Did he find a new friend?” “Does he remember me?” “Does he hate me because I don’t see him often anymore?” “Has he changed at all?”

Worry, a sharp pain dug into his heart like a fucking spear, it made his dead body grow cold.

But he still falls silent, stands too still around you, even if you’re walking past him and don’t notice- Mystery notices the lack of air in his lungs.

Like every glance you did or didn’t give him single handedly sent him flying across Hell and back, it drove him crazy.

But he would rather be crazy than drive away the only person that approaches him first.

However, you’re much more eager to get your man back, you missed braiding his hair, playing with frogs under acid rain, stealing his garbs to mess with him, filing his nails.

You missed your friend, you started making handmade traps, digging holes and trapping critters, pouring cold tea on water demon’s heads to entertain yourself, forcing yourself to climb mountains to pass the time. You were miserable.

Until finally, just a few days before the last performance of the Saja Boys, Mystery was walking through the forest. He knew you both often spent time here, but this was something he’d like to do before going off to perform big.

He was walking peacefully until–

Suddenly the ground jumped away from his feet, being held up by a net made out of ancient, dirty clothes and vines that were notorious for having mouths, they hoisted Mystery off the ground.

And before the demon could bare his fangs and thrash around to break these restraints, he spots you. You had this furrow in your brows, tapping a stick against your palms like it was some threatening weapon.

You poke his covered forehead through his bangs with the stick, tilting your head.

“This is the first time I’m gonna force you to talk Myst.” You scoff, freeing him from the trap you set to catch him like another wild animal.

But he could barely let out a word before you wrap him into your arms, squeezing him so hard, but he only hugged back. It was a start to the better treatment that you deserved.

Abby 

This bumbling bozo is the biggest pain in your ass, your thirteenth reason, if you will.

You don’t even know where he came from, you feel like he just spawned into your life like an annoying update in a game you love. 

You never thought you would be turned off by abs or muscles in general, but this guy just surpasses all your expectations.

Your peaceful days now were buzzing with prideful comments about his own body, hymns of self love (though you argue it was his ego singing), head locks with your head crushed between his arms.

Your days of whimsy were now bombarded with the grating voice of Abby, when you didn’t have your hat on, he’d put his on yours like charity work.

If you did have your hat on, he’d stack it.

Then he’d make a “stacking donuts on it” joke.

You’d slap him.

He’d call you some stupid nickname that always had some romantic undertone.

You’d threaten his lifeline and lineage.

He’d flex.

It was a cycle, a fun cycle. To him at least.

You were entertaining to Abby, from the moment he saw you skipping stones on the balding spots of the water demon’s heads, with that look in your eyes, he knew he had found his new target.

With him, your pulse would dart up out of irritation, the urge to roll your eyes suddenly felt too powerful, to throw the nearest object straight at his head suddenly didn’t feel like a hassle.

With you, Abby got to talk till his head fell off. No one else really stayed around for his talking, they always stayed for a first class seat on his abs or lap. His alluring avatar made his fans annoying to no end.

One time he led them to where you stayed.

You screamed and basically summoned your own hellfire to make them all scatter, it was the first time Abby ever saw you act out of genuine agitation and frustration.

Not to say you weren’t annoyed with him, but he then knew, if you wanted him gone, you would’ve pulled that card. And yet.

Not once in your one sided history of reckless destruction and static noise of brags do you ever pull out that card. (The card being you basically becoming a love craftian entity.) 

And so, he stuck around. Whether you enjoyed it or not.

But everytime you both would part for whatever reason, you noticed: as more time with  each other is spent, the louder the silence gets.

You fill the silence with aggressive stone skipping. He doesn’t know how to replicate the sound of your voice.

The constant cursing and fiery tone you spoke to him with, that extra wrinkle in your brow that would contort your facial expression into one that he’d adored, he couldn’t–

Wait…

Adored? As in the word that meant to worship, love, and/or respect someone deeply?

Abby adoring anyone but his own meat of muscle is a bad joke that no one at the saturday barbeque would laugh at. In fact, Abby didn’t crack a grin at all actually.

See, all he was meant to do with you was fuck around and find out, maybe you’d open up, maybe he’d get bored, maybe you’d finally become that analog horror esque beast and make him leave.

What wasn’t on his long list was him catching feelings.

Excuse him, he needs to use the bathroom.

But you don’t know what's swirling around in his himbo, peanut sized brain, all you saw was him letting out a choked “Bye” and disappearing into a wisp of smoke.

It felt.. Strange to you, he didn’t even make his daily size difference joke yet.

But you being you, you never pressed or probed Abby in the same way he’d do to you.

But of course that doesn’t stop you from noticing his absence after that incident. You shrugged it off.

But then two weeks pass without a glimpse of Abby. You’re confused. But you just tell yourself that this was inevitable. That this was in character for him. Even if his fan club and the remnants of your soul screamed otherwise.

Then you saw him, standing at the hands of Gwi-Ma, talking to him as his magenta flames grew brighter and hotter. Your eyes flicker with emotion you refuse to talk about.

In the demon crowd, Abby searches for you, he finds you quickly. You're too distinct in his head to miss in a crowd of faces.

He sees a strange expression on your face, it prompts him to look away. It wasn’t anything too special, and yet he fights the not Gwi-Ma voices in his head- stopping them before anyone could even think that he thought your expressions were cute.

Who said that? Not me.

You also sit in your solitary confinement, growing insane at the deafening silence. Like life was on slow-mo, nothing felt significant or enjoyable in your day.

Did I mention that your patience was always low for Abby, so why would you approach this in any other way? 

One day, a couple of months later, on his day back in the demon world after spending all his time in the overworld because yes.

This man would rather hang with the humans than face the visage of his demon crush who’s not a crush but really just some guy he happens to know and poisons his nerves each time they interact.

So yes, of course you ambush him the moment he takes a deep breath back in the demon world.

And of course you do it in the most horrific form you possess, prompting him to scream at the top of his lungs. In the high pitched voice you’d make fun of him for.

But instead of attacking him and going feral, you both just laid there, embraced in his ego and both of your unspoken yet undeniable need for each other.

Oh and his jacked body too I guess.

@abby-himbo-truther <- im just gonna start tagging you on any work that include abby lol

UGH WRITING THESE TYPE OF THINGS ARE SO FUN!!

lmk if you guys have ideas :D

stop why did i write abby’s so well??? like it’s my favorite after romance… (in terms of how i wrote it ofc)

@tofumiarchives

[divine-misfortune]

if you are willing I am begging you to do the entire alphabet for Swiss (obviously feel free to Not do that and only pick the ones you feel like doing bcus I know its a lot of work)

Wrath has set a dangerous precedent….

Anyways nsfw swiss hcs below the cut cause i babble

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Dimming, Swiss is very attentive. Knows that Rain needs a little wave or two of quintessence to help relax his wound up nerves, that Cirrus needs to be wiped down immediately before he’s allowed to touch her again, that Phantom needs him to hold him suffocatingly tight till his brain reforms from the puddle he reduced it to. He’s learned his partners well. He plays a lot of roles but always turns into a softy when the games are said and done. Though after rougher scenes, he very much needs to hear that his partner knows he didn’t mean the things he did but he doesn’t know how to ask, it feels a little too vulnerable. Subbing? Oh, oh Swiss is a clingy mess. Needs his partner to straight up lay on top of him, let him bury his face in their neck or their hair and drink in their scent while he floats down back to earth. Either way, he’ll share a cigarette with his partner before they tuck in or part ways. His own little ritual, yknow?

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Loves his hands, they’re rough and dexterous and pretty damn talented. He likes seeing the tendons and veins shift when he flexes his fingers, knows a few ghouls feel very similar. And Swiss is fucking obsessed with his partner’s balls, loves to get his mouth on them, feel how heavy they are, watch them draw up when his partner spills their load.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He’s gross, and Dew knows it first fucking hand. Swiss will milk himself till he’s shooting blanks over Dew’s chest and his face. Wants to paint his partners in it. Will play with it his own load dribbled over his stomach, swirl his fingers in it, feed it to himself or whoever he’s got in his bed.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Swiss and his fucking shadow magic. Makes indulging in his voyueristic tendencies nice and easy. It also lets him haunt the halls all he likes, he’s earned a reputation for being the thing that goes bump in the night and some ghouls just don’t seem to heed the warnings not to leave the den past midnight, not his fault when something happens (me teasing a fic long sat in the drafts that I haven’t been brave enough to post yet).

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Swiss has done every ghoul in the god damn ministry at least once. He was summoned without much experience, he’s mated, sure, but it’s so different from seeking pleasure like he can here. He wasted no time in learning everything he could.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Prone bone. Without question.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Can absolutely play mean and scary but he’s a goof at heart. Has absolutely squeezed Cirrus’ ass and honked. She elbowed him in the ribs for it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Hairy. From his shoulders down to his fucking ankles. Dark and thick curly hair aaaall the way down.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Eye contact, pinning hands to the bed and lacing fingers together, lots of “my (insert endearment of choice)”

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Cannot stop edging himself, it just feels too good to keep riding that high and never quite reach his peak. Could spit in his hand and slowly jerk off for hours, milk out enough precum that it stays wet and sloppy, wants to be able to hear how obscene it is

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Voyuerism and sensory deprivation are high up that list, but nothing gets him off more than seeing his partner cry. Blissed out tears or sobs of agony, gets his cock literally aching

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Big fan of shower sex. His favorite place he’s ever managed it was in an actual church, some beautiful gothic Catholic Church in Europe. Sweet talking Rain into sucking him off in the pews was easier than it should have been.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Just getting a reaction from his partner, whatever it might be, he wants to know exactly what he does to his partner. The ego stroke never fails to bet him chubbing up.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Will not do wax play if he’s the one getting the wax, it never comes out of his body hair, and he doesnt like having to literally shave it off to free himself of it. Latex turns him off, the squeaking sound makes him want to rip his ears off.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Pussy eating champ, literally let him drown in it. Also well known for the roughest of face fuckings, Phantom can’t get enough of it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

If he’s feeling romantic you’re gonna know, it’s so fucking sensual, so intimate, but he always seems to bust much faster doing it like that than he would if it was hard and rough.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

A good closet quickie or handjob between sets are pretty common for Swiss, some of the most fun a ghoul can have while not technically breaking tour rules.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Risk is his middle name! So much as hint at maybe wanting something new and Swiss’ ears perk up like a dogs.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Swiss defies what should be possible, it’s like he can’t stop cumming, like he’s always got another load to pump into his partner even when they’re well past ruined. All the edging pays off.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Loves a good fleshlight or a cockring. Has a special little plug for when he’s in a special sort of mood but that’s usually just for him - he likes his partners working him open way more.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He needs to be put in jail with how he likes to tease. He puts everyone at their wits end on any given day. He’s keen on driving them all out of their mind before he even gets his hands on them.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Lots of low grunts and growls, rarely ever whiny. Curses up a storm.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He and Mountain spend far too many afternoons high as a kite dry humping or frotting till they make a mess of each other without a single hand being used.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Swummy…..Oh the beloved. Also fuck his cock is literally so thick, not like Aether’s is, but still nice and fat, Aurora can’t wrap her fingers around it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Horny with a stiff breeze, and is about to make it everyone’s problem.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

A bit too wired after sex for sleep, needs a shower and an episode of judge Judy all tangled up with his partner before he dozes off.

[john-get-the-salt]

Initials (w/Joel Miller)

Imagine: Joel didn’t think it was possible to love you even more than he already did….until he found the initials

Contains: cute mushy Joel in love, no gore or mentions of violence bc Joel deserves some softness

A/N: this is a short one I just adore Joel miller so much. so if y’all want more of him let me know

You are humming, lost in your own world as you hang laundry up on the clothesline. It was bright and warm out for once, allowing you to shed most of your layers and give your skin a chance to soak up some rays.

As distracted as you were, years of being on high alert had you zeroing in on the footsteps of someone walking up to you.

“You look content.”

You paused your task and turned to face Joel with a smile on your face. “It’s nice to pretend. Nice to play house for a bit and act like everything is normal.”

Joel scratched his scruff. “Not sure I would ever describe laundry as nice.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting considering last week when I washed all your favorite jeans you thanked me by-“

Joel strode forward, putting one of his hands up against your mouth to capture your next words.

“Alright alright!”

You laughed behind his hand, and then he was replacing the hand with his lips and giving you a soft kiss.

“You got me there,” he said after pulling away, looking at you with those soft eyes of his.

You just smiled at him, and then his eyes were lowering to your collar.

“What’s that around your neck?”

“Hm?”

“Your necklace,” Joel clarified. “I never noticed it before.“

You smile softened every more, something Joel hadn’t thought possible. You held up the end of the necklace, allowing him to get a better look. It was a silver chain with a small heart of the end that had an engraved S on it.

“I found it in a house a while back,” you explained. “It might sound silly but-it makes me think of Sarah. I like carrying around a piece of her, even if it’s just her initial. I want to make sure she’s always thought of.”

Joel’s mouth had gone dry, so incredibly dry, as he stared at the tiny piece of jewelry.

“If it makes you uncomfortable I could take it off.”

Joel shook his head, hands reaching out on their own accord as he was suddenly desperate to have you in his arms.

“Not at all, baby. I-I love it. I love how much you love Sarah….even though you never got to meet her.”

You accepted his tight hug, before pulling away just enough to give him a chaste kiss.

“She was an amazing girl who deserves to be remembered. And I like to think she would have liked me.”

“She woulda loved you.”

You smiled, eyes all soft and full of love. You kissed him again, for as long as you could go without air. When you pulled away, Joel set his forehead against yours.

“I love you more than anything sweetheart.”

“And I love you even more.”

“What do you say we ditch the laundry and go relax, hm? I can draw us up a nice bath and cook us something.”

“That sounds heavenly. Lead the way.”

And the two of you did just that. Joel made you an apocalypse version of your favorite meal and set up a hot bath with lots of epsom salts and yummy smelling bath wash.

After a wonderfully peaceful and satisfying night, you and Joel ended it curled up in bed together. Joel held you tightly in his arms, allowing you to fully relax in his safe little bubble. You talked softly about anything and everything, until sleep slowly pulled you under.

Joel didn’t let go even the slightest bit as he watched your body relax, breath steadying as you fell asleep. He just watched, studying your face and then down to that precious necklace around your neck.

With oh so delicate fingers he reached out and ran his thumb over the engraved S on the end. His heart warmed at the thought that Sarah was so important to you, even though you’d never had the honor of meeting her.

Joel felt something else on the necklace, and flipped the heart around. And if he thought his heart was full before, it was certainly going to burst now.

On the other side of the heart, a little J and E had been carved into the metal. They weren’t as neat as the S, and were obviously hand done. But it was there.

You kept a necklace with the initials of your family around your neck…..even the member you never got to meet. Joel got the sudden urge to cry. Out of love and joy and grief and loss and everything else a person was capable of feeling.

He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to find you in this fucked up world, but he was sure he was never going to let you go.

[mingoner]

a turn about the room ⋆⭒˚.⋆ c. jongho

jongho is your best friend's brother, and you have always known him to be indifferent to everyone and everything. year after year he has shown no interest in the marriage market; however, when you ask him to help you find your own match his interest just might, finally, be piqued. notes: reader wears skirts and dresses, but i do not believe there are any gendered pronouns for the reader! almost halfway through the series now! wc: 4.3k

jongho has a special talent of always just being there. in the corner of every room, arms crossed. in the farthest seat at every dinner table, brows furrowed. in the quietest way, he is there and he sees.

it feels as though you have known jongho all your life, for he is your best friend’s brother and has always been there sitting in the chair of the drawing room, near the window, or outside in their family's orchard as you and your friend ran about in the grass with your skirts gathered in your fists, breathless with laughter while jongho simply watched, unimpressed, arms folded, indifferent as the moon.

he is not cruel, he will ask you to dance at a ball if there is not a sufficent amount of names on your dance card for you to not be embarrased, and once he helped you down from a horse when your ankle twisted, but he has never smiled at you, never looked at you, not truly, not in the way that makes a person's breath catch, not in the way that your friend says a man ought to look at you if you are to find a good match this season.

jongho has no interest in the marriage market, that much is known to all of town. he attends the assemblies in the town hall only when his mother drags him there, and even then, he stands with a glass of punch, answering conversation with a single eyebrow raised, politely but with no warmth, no promise of more. mothers look upon him with a sigh, daughters with disappointment, sons with envy, because he is handsome and well-positioned, the heir to a fine estate, but he will not dance, will not flirt, will not be swayed by lace and ribbons.

you, however, are in need of a match. your family’s situation is not so dire as to force you to marry the first man who asks, but you are of an age now, and your mother’s sighs grow heavier each morning as she looks out at the fields and then at you, her hope. you wish to ease her mind, and truthfully, you wish for something of your own, a place to belong and someone to belong with, though you cannot admit this to anyone but yourself when you lie awake at night listening to the rain.

you do not know why you ask him, of all people, but one afternoon, while your best friend is upstairs searching for a ribbon she has misplaced, you find jongho in the library, standing by the window as he often does, arms folded, looking out at the gray sky.

“jongho,” you say, and the sound of his name feels strange on your tongue, for you rarely address him directly.

he looks at you, eyebrow lifted. “yes?”

you swallow, suddenly aware of your hands, your skirts, the way your corset feels too tight over your torso. “i require your help.”

“do you,” he says, voice flat but not unkind.

you nod. “you see, i am determined to find a match this season. a respectable match, if not one of affection, then one of kindness, at least. and you… you know the men of this county better than anyone. you see them as they truly are.”

he blinks once, slowly, as if absorbing this, and his eyes flick to your hands twisting in your skirts. “and you wish for me to . . . vet your suitors?”

“precisely,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, though your cheeks burn. “i wish for your honest opinion. you will not flatter me or give false hope. i know you will be truthful.”

there is a long pause, and the ticking of the clock on the wall is the only sound between you, steady and merciless.

finally, jongho says, “very well.”

and so it begins.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

at the next assembly, jongho stands near you, though not too near, watching from under lowered lashes as mr. linley, the vicar’s eldest, asks you to dance. he is kind, if a bit too pale, and he steps on your toe twice, apologizing profusely. when you return to jongho’s side, breathless, you ask, “well?”

“he sweats too much,” jongho replies.

you bite back a laugh, “that is not a crime.”

“it is when he has nothing of worth to say while doing it,” he says, and your laughter spills out before you can stop it, drawing curious glances from your friends across the room.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

the next week, you walk in the gardens with mr. hargrave, who is wealthy and well-read, but who cannot speak without quoting poetry, every other sentence a line from some verse you cannot recall. when you glance over your shoulder, you see jongho leaning against a tree, arms folded, simply watching.

“and what of him?” you ask later, cheeks pink from the cold.

“he would bore you within a fortnight,” jongho says, reaching out to pluck a leaf from your hair without thinking, letting it fall to the ground between you.

your heart beats too quickly, but you nod, looking away, pretending to consider his words.

and so the season continues like this, jongho always nearby, watching, commenting, never warm, never cold, just simply there. it becomes something you look for, the weight of his gaze across the room, the way he leans forward slightly when someone new approaches you, the way he frowns when a dance partner holds your hand too long, even the way he turns away abruptly when you catch him looking.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

the assembly rooms are warm and crowded, the glow of candles painting the walls golden as violins sing above the chatter, laughter curling in the corners where mothers gossip and young men stand in knots pretending not to watch the dance floor.

you are flushed with dancing, your gloved hand warm from where mr. hargrave held it too tightly, leading you through the steps of the set while he spoke of poetry and politics in the same breath, never pausing to let you answer. when the dance ends, you slip away, your heart thudding with exertion and something else you cannot name. your eyes search the room for a familiar dark head, for the one who does not dance, who stands near the columns with a glass in hand, simply watching.

you find jongho precisely where you expect him, standing against the far wall, arms folded, eyes dark, jaw tight. he looks at you when you approach, but he does not greet you, simply tips his head in that quiet way of his.

“you could at least pretend to enjoy yourself,” you say lightly, fanning your cheeks, your breath still short from dancing.

“and you seem to be enjoying yourself enough for us both,” he replies, and his tone is calm, but there is something under it, something sharp.

you blink, lowering your fan. “and what does that mean?”

jongho’s gaze flicks across the room to where mr. hargrave now stands, speaking to your mother, glancing back at you with an eager, hopeful look. “you seem to enjoy his company.”

“he is kind,” you say, a defensive edge creeping into your voice despite yourself. “and he dances well.”

jongho’s eyebrow lifts, and he glances back at you. “is that all you require? that a man be kind and dance well?”

you bristle, your gloved hands tightening around your fan. “must you be so disapproving of everyone? you have found fault with every man who has so much as looked at me, jongho.”

“because they are not good enough,” he says quietly, and the words fall heavy between you, lost in the hum of the room but sharp to your ears.

“and who are you to decide that?” you demand, your voice low, your cheeks burning now with anger, confusion, something else you will not name.

his jaw flexes, and he leans closer, his voice dropping so that only you can hear, “you asked me to help you, or have you forgotten that?”

“i have not forgotten,” you snap softly, “but you are not helping, jongho. you are simply—”

“simply what?” he says, his eyes burning into yours, the candlelight catching in them, making them darker, deeper.

you swallow, your breath catching, your chest rising with each sharp inhale. “you are simply pushing everyone away.”

the words hang there, and the music swells, couples sweeping past you in a blur of silk and laughter, your world narrowing to him, to the way his eyes flicker as if you have struck him, to the way his hand tightens around the glass before he sets it down on a nearby table.

“perhaps,” he says, and his voice is careful, controlled, “because none of them see you.”

“so who will?” you whisper, your heart stumbling painfully.

jongho says nothing, his gaze locked on yours, the answer in the silence, in the tension crackling in the small space between you.

you swallow hard, tearing your gaze away, stepping back, your skirts brushing his boots. “it is not your concern, jongho.”

“it is,” he says quietly, but when you look up again, he has stepped back, arms folding over his chest once more, the walls rebuilt around him, the soft hurt in his eyes gone, replaced with his usual calm indifference.

you feel it, the ache, the longing, the sharpness of what remains unspoken, and you turn away before he can see the way your lips tremble, before you can say something you are not ready to say, something that will change everything.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

the gardens are quiet, lanterns swaying in the breeze, their golden light glinting across the gravel paths and the dew on the grass. the music from the ballroom drifts faintly, violins weaving in and out of the night air, and you step carefully over the threshold, your skirts brushing the door as you close it softly behind you.

you see him near the hedges, half-hidden in the shadows, his coat off, waistcoat undone at the collar, head tilted back as if the stars might offer him something he cannot ask for.

“jongho,” you say, and your voice sounds too small in the night.

he stiffens, turning sharply, eyes widening before they shutter, his jaw tightening as he steps back.

“you should go inside,” he says, his voice even, careful, as if each word is weighed before it leaves his lips.

“why did you leave?” you ask, stepping closer, your shoes silent on the grass.

he looks away, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “it was too warm.”

“jongho,” you say again, the quiet pleading in your voice making him flinch, “please do not lie to me.”

he exhales, slow, controlled, looking past you toward the glowing windows of the assembly rooms. “you were enjoying yourself. i did not wish to ruin it.”

“ruin it?” you echo, your brows pulling together. “by standing against the wall and scowling as you always do?”

the corner of his mouth twitches, but it is not a smile. “perhaps.”

“jongho,” you press, your gloved hand tightening around your fan, “why do you do this? you promised to help me, and yet you glare at every man who speaks to me, you leave when i dance, you say nothing, and then you disappear -“

“because none of them deserve you,” he snaps, and the words are out before he can catch them, sharp and sudden in the quiet air.

your breath catches, hope flickering painfully in your chest, but before you can speak, jongho shakes his head, stepping back, hands raised as if to push the moment away.

“no,” he says, softer now, voice rough, “i did not mean— it is not my place to say.”

“jongho,” you whisper, reaching for him, but he steps back again, out of reach, into the shadow of the hedges.

“i am sorry,” he says, his eyes on the ground, unable to meet yours. “i have not done well by you. i promised to help you find a match, and instead i have only -“ his voice breaks, and he swallows hard, fists clenching. “i have only made it more difficult.”

you stand there, the lantern light catching on the tears brimming in your eyes, your heart pounding with something you cannot say aloud.

“jongho,” you say, your voice trembling, everything you want to say dwindled down to a quiet plea of his name.

he lifts his gaze, and you see it there, the quiet torment in the way he looks at you, the unspoken words caught behind his lips, the fear that holds him frozen.

“do you not wish for me to find someone?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

his eyes close, his jaw tightening, and for a moment you think he might speak, that the words might break free, that he might say what you have begun to hope -

but when he opens his eyes again, the moment is gone.

“i wish for you to be happy,” he says, and the words are soft, final, like the closing of a door.

you swallow, your hands trembling around your fan. “and you will help me?”

he nods once, sharply. “i will try harder.”

you feel something splinter quietly inside you, but you lift your chin, forcing your breath to steady.

“very well,” you say, and your voice is calm, careful, matching his. “i shall hold you to that, mr. choi.”

something flickers across his face, pain and something softer, before it is gone, replaced by the careful indifference he shows the world.

“you should return inside,” he says, stepping back, the shadows swallowing him as he reaches for his coat on the hedge.

you hesitate, your heart screaming, your lips parting as if to call him back, but you say nothing, turning instead toward the glow of the ballroom, your steps slow, the night air cool against the tears that slip quietly down your cheeks.

behind you, jongho watches, his hands clenched around his coat, his breath shaking as he presses his eyes shut, the words he is too afraid to speak burning on his tongue as you walk away.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

the next ball is held at the edge of town, in a grand house with high ceilings and chandeliers that shine too brightly over the polished floors. the air is thick with the scent of wax and flowers, laughter echoing between the columns, the music weaving through the crowd like a silken thread.

you arrive with your best friend, your gloved hand tight around your fan as you scan the room, heart stuttering when you see him across the floor. jongho, in a dark coat, waistcoat perfectly fitted, hair brushed back, standing near the refreshments table with a glass in hand, watching.

you remember the promise he made you under the lanterns, the way his voice broke when he said he would try harder, and you straighten your shoulders, reminding yourself of why you are here.

to find a match.

you are here to find a match and he is here to help you.

he approaches you near the edge of the dance floor, clearing his throat softly so only you can hear over the music. your friend has just stepped away to greet another acquaintance, leaving you with him in the soft glow of candlelight.

“mr. hargrave is in attendance tonight,” he says carefully, his eyes not quite meeting yours.

you press your lips together, adjusting your gloves. “he is.”

“he… seems to admire you greatly,” jongho says, and the words sound like they hurt him.

you look up at him, searching his face, but he keeps it carefully blank, eyes fixed on the dancers moving in gentle circles.

“do you think him suitable?” you ask, your voice soft.

jongho swallows. “he is respectable. well-read. from a good family.”

“and you think i should consider him?” you press, watching the way his jaw clenches.

he hesitates, and for a moment, you think he will look at you, truly look, but he glances away instead, nodding once. “yes.”

you breathe in, the music swelling around you, the scent of wax and flowers almost too much.

“very well,” you say, and the words taste like ash.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

you dance with mr. hargrave, his hand warm on yours, his steps practiced and polite. he smiles at you, quoting poetry, asking after your mother, complimenting your gown in a gentle, careful way. you should be pleased, should feel something warm in your chest, should feel your mother’s worries easing.

but then you glance over mr. hargrave’s shoulder, and there, standing near the wall, is jongho.

watching.

his hands are clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable, but you see it, the way his throat bobs when you laugh politely at mr. hargrave’s comment, the way his eyes darken when your dance partner’s hand lingers against your waist as you turn.

when the dance ends, you step away, curtsying to mr. hargrave, thanking him softly before slipping into the edge of the crowd, your breath uneven, your heart pounding.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

“you are being cruel to yourself, you know.”

you jump, turning to see your best friend standing there, her arms folded, a knowing look on her face.

“what do you mean?” you ask, forcing your voice to remain steady, your gloved hands twisting around your fan.

she glances across the room to where jongho stands, his gaze still fixed on you, though he quickly looks away when he sees you notice.

“you know precisely what i mean,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “he cannot take his eyes off you, and you cannot take your eyes off him, and yet here you are, dancing with men you do not wish for, pretending you do not see him.”

you swallow, your throat tight, glancing away. “he is helping me. that is all.”

she raises an eyebrow. “is that truly all you wish it to be?”

your breath catches, your heart aching with the memory of lantern light and the way his voice broke in the garden.

“it does not matter what i wish, if he does not wish the same,” you whisper.

she sighs, reaching out to take your hand, squeezing it gently. “he is a fool, and you are a fool, and i can only hope the two of you realize it before it is too late.”

you look back across the room, and for a moment, jongho’s eyes meet yours, dark and full of something unspoken, before he looks away, his jaw tightening, his hands clenching behind his back.

you feel it, the tether between you, fragile and trembling, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that she might be right, that someday you and jongho will no longer be fools.

but for now, you turn away, allowing mr. hargrave to lead you to the next dance, jongho’s gaze heavy on your back, your best friend watching the two of you with a quiet, knowing sadness.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

one afternoon, you’re in their orchard, your hands in your lap and the scent of apples hanging around you, when jongho approaches. you haven’t seen him all morning, and you realize you have been looking for him without admitting it to yourself.

“the maids said mr. hargrave has called at your house,” jongho says, stopping a few feet away, hands behind his back.

you look up, shielding your eyes. “yes, my mother is quite pleased.”

“he is not for you,” jongho says, his jaw tight.

you blink. “you have not even spoken to him.”

“i do not need to,” he replies, eyes sharp. “he is not for you.”

you stand, your skirts brushing the grass, bonnet forgotten on the bench. “you cannot simply dismiss every suitor, jongho. i asked for your help, but you have given me nothing but reasons to say no.”

he says nothing, his eyes on yours, and the orchard feels too quiet, too small, the birdsong above almost deafening.

“do you think i will never find a match?” you ask, your voice trembling before you can stop it. “am i so unworthy?”

jongho’s eyes widen, and he takes a step forward. “that is not -“

“then what is it?” you demand, the fear and the quiet longing of the past months breaking through your practiced calm. “what is it that you see in me that makes you keep me from everyone?”

there is silence, a breathless moment between you, the air thick with unspoken words.

“it is not what i see in you,” jongho says finally, his voice low, rough around the edges, “but what i see in them. they will never look at you as they should. they will never see you.”

“and you do?” you whisper, the words falling before you can catch them.

jongho swallows, and for the first time, he looks at you, truly looks, and it is as if the orchard holds its breath.

“i have always seen you,” he says.

your heart stumbles, and you step forward, so close now that you can see the way the sunlight catches in his dark eyes, the way his lashes tremble.

“then why -“

“because you deserve to choose,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “not to settle, not to marry because you must, but because you wish to. because you love. and if you cannot find a man worth your heart, then let it remain your own.”

your eyes sting, and you reach up without thinking, your fingers brushing his sleeve. “and if i have already found one worth it?” you ask, finally finding the confidence to end all of your suffering.

jongho’s breath catches, and he closes his eyes for a moment, as if in pain, before opening them to look at you, clear and unguarded for the first time.

“then,” he says, “i would beg you to tell him.”

you smile then, a trembling, relieved smile, and you step forward, closing the final distance, your forehead resting lightly against his chest as your hands find his.

“jongho,” you whisper, “it has always been you.”

you feel his breath hitch, feel the way his arms come up, hesitating before wrapping around you, carefully, reverently, as if you are something precious, something fragile, something he has waited for all his life without realizing it.

“then let it be me,” he says softly, his voice warm, a promise, the orchard alive with the gentle rustle of leaves, the waiting on the to sun break through the clouds finally over.

the orchard is quiet around you, but you can hear the faint call of birds in the far away trees, the distant sound of bees among the blossoms. and here, with jongho’s arms around you, everything else feels far away, like the hush before a hymn begins.

you pull back only slightly, just enough to see him, your forehead still close to his, your breath mingling in the space between you. his eyes are dark and wide, searching yours as if he is still unsure, still waiting for you to tell him that this is real, that you are not about to step away and call this a mistake.

“jongho,” you whisper, your hands twisting in the fabric of his coat, grounding yourself, “do you truly want this?”

he exhales, and you feel it against your lips, the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness that has always made you feel safe even when he said nothing at all.

“i have wanted nothing else,” he says softly, as if admitting a secret that has lived in the quiet spaces of him for longer than he knows.

your heart beats so loudly that you are sure he can hear it, and he leans in a fraction, hesitating, waiting, giving you the choice even now.

so you nod, once, trembling, your eyes closing as your lips part on a breath.

and then he kisses you.

his lips are warm and careful, pressing against yours with the gentleness of a promise, as if he is learning you, memorizing the softness of you, the way your breath catches, the way your hands curl tighter in his coat as you lean into him.

you can taste the faint sweetness of the apples on the breeze, feel the warmth of the sun across your shoulders, the way the world seems to tilt as jongho’s hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly across your skin as if to anchor himself.

it is not a rushed kiss, not a desperate claiming, but a quiet, reverent thing, the kind of kiss that feels like sunlight breaking through after a long gray dawn, like the hush of a church when you step into the aisle, like the feeling of finding a home in the shape of someone’s hands.

when he pulls back, he does so slowly, lingering as if he does not quite wish to leave the closeness, his forehead resting lightly against yours as your breaths mingle, shaky and sweet.

your eyes flutter open, and you find him looking at you with a softness you have never seen before, the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his lips, a promise unspoken.

“you are certain?” he asks again, voice low, cautious even now, and it breaks something warm in your chest.

“yes,” you whisper, your fingers brushing against his jaw, the roughness of it grounding you, “i am certain.”

jongho exhales a small, quiet laugh, his eyes closing as he presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering there, his lips warm against your skin, as if to seal it, as if to tell you that from this moment on, he will not let you go.

and in the orchard, with the sun dipping lower and the breeze shifting around you, jongho kisses you again, softly, patiently, as if you have all the time in the world, and you realize, as your hands slide up to rest against his shoulders, that you do.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

[lowkeyivory]

Since y'all wanted uncle five so bad, here are my headcanons of five being an uncle to his nieces and nephew. (Most of these are s4 or pre s4/s3)

Five lets Claire and Grace braid his hair/tie his hair up. He lets the girls put some clips or accessories to his hair. You'd think he'd hate it and get embarrassed by it, but his nieces are the only exception. And when the family comes and sees this, he glares at them and gives them a death stare saying, "one word to any of you, and I'm leaving."

He's mostly close with the twins, and the twins would always run up to him and beg him to carry them. Five doesn't know why they're so close/clingy to him, but he doesn't mind it and he likes it at the same time because they're his favorite. (Inserts a scenario I have played out in my head where the twins run up to him when he arrives at the birthday party)

Claire defo gives him dating advices even though Five doesn't need them.

Five is Claire's free tutor in math (having an uncle who's a genius in math and you suck at math??? Y'all can't convince me that Allison had Five to tutor claire about math)

Five was actually the first to want/agree to babysit Claire all the time when she was a kid (aka aftermath of s3) Since he wanted to spend more time and get to know his niece, he'd always look after Claire before Klaus. (Even though it's evident Claire and Klaus are close, meaning Klaus would've always looked after Claire, I think it'd make more sense if Five would be one of the first to be Claire's babysitter.)

Believe it or not, Five knows how to brush or do a hairstyle. Like if Grace wants to untie her braids and get her hair brushed, she'd go to Five because he knows how to do it. He learnt it while looking after Claire, Allison had to teach him because Claire's hair needed to get brushed all the time. So it took him a very very while to learn and do it right, but overtime he knows how to do it properly already.

Five gave his old toy train to Little Ben (Diego's son... just a fanon name I have for his little boy)

Five gets very overprotective when it comes to these kids. So, if you ever lay a single hand on them, you'll be dead for sure.

One time five tried letting Claire drive and taught her how to drive but Allison scolded him and now she never lets him alone with Claire when he's driving.

He's not the best at comforting but if one of them is upset, he'll always try his best to cheer them up. Claire is upset over something? He'll joke around and she always laughs at his jokes (just shows how close they are), Grace is sad? He buys ice cream for her. The twins are crying? He'll let them do whatever they want with him. (Because they always fight over him)

Five is the type of uncle to encourage/be proud of the kids if they did something violent to either defense themselves or to stand up to anybody. Claire gets detention because she hit a girl who was being a bitch to her? Five could never be prouder.

In s4, lila says "don't let the twins fight!" (When she leaves the train and her family in it). But five does the exact opposite and just let's them argue until they stop, but if they go too far and start hitting each other (or even biting each other), he draws the line and takes action to stop them. (A little reference in s1 where he just watches Hazel and Diego fight but when Diego bites Hazel, five immediately stops them and says "I draw the line at biting")

Grace is a sassy child because of Five.

When Grace was a toddler, she'd pinch Five's cheeks for no reason because she found it funny. If someone were to ever do this to him, five would be pissed. But, this time, Five just let's it slide and let's her do it because he likes to see his niece happy. (Someone draw this like I'm begging you)

Anddddd that's it! Hope you enjoy all this:)

[musubi05]

Can you write something about Jack staying in the bunker and Dean trying to keep the reader away from him because he doesn't like him? Sam stays with Jack in the bunker when Dean goes hunting or shopping, but Dean takes the reader with him. The reader is neither good nor bad towards Jake. One night in the bunker, the reader has a nightmare, and Jake senses it and goes to his room. The reader starts screaming while struggling in his sleep, so Jake approaches her to help. When Dean wakes up and returns, he is furious, thinking Jake has hurt the reader. The Protector, Dean Winchester!!

╰┈➤ Always The Protector

Dean Winchester x sister!reader

Jack Cline x reader (platonic)

Summary: Yeah sometimes Dean can be overprotective. But that's just Dean being Dean. This time he took it a bit too far when Jack was just trying to help you.

Warnings: Yelling / overprotective behavior

The bunker had become a battleground of unspoken tensions, with your oldest brother Dean Winchester drawing invisible lines that everyone pretended not to see. Jack—powerful, well-intentioned Jack—had somehow become the enemy in Dean's eyes, despite Sam's constant reassurances and your own neutral stance on the matter.

It had started three months ago, when Jack had accidentally shattered every glass in the kitchen during what Sam called "an emotional breakthrough." You had been standing right there, close enough that shards of glass had glittered in your hair like deadly confetti. You hadn't been hurt—Jack's grace had instinctively protected you even as it lashed out—but Dean had seen his little sister surrounded by the aftermath of supernatural power gone wrong, and something had shifted permanently in his mind.

"Come on, Y/n, we're heading out," Dean would say whenever he had errands to run, his green eyes finding yours with an intensity that said you couldn't argue. It didn't matter if it was a simple grocery run or a supply trip to the nearest town—you were expected to accompany him, leaving Sam to play babysitter to the Nephilim.

You had tried to protest once, suggesting that maybe Jack could come along, that fresh air might do him good. The look Dean had given you could have frozen hellfire itself.

"He stays here," Dean had said, his voice carrying that particular edge that meant the discussion was over. "With Sam."

"Dean, he's not dangerous—"

"The hell he isn't." Dean's voice had dropped to that dangerous quiet that made even Sam step back. "You didn't see what I saw in that alternate world, Y/n. You didn't see what he's capable of when he stops playing human."

You had wanted to argue, to point out that Jack had saved them more times than you could count, but you'd recognized the set of Dean's jaw, the way his shoulders had squared. This wasn't about logic or fairness—this was about fear, pure and simple. Fear for your safety, wrapped up in big brother protectiveness and trauma from battles you hadn't fought.

So the pattern continued. Dean would take you on these little excursions, making conversation about everything except the elephant in the room—or rather, the angel-human hybrid they'd left behind. You would sit in the passenger seat of the Impala, watching the landscape blur past, while Dean's knuckles stayed white on the steering wheel.

Meanwhile, Sam played mediator and guardian in equal measure. You would return to find him and Jack bent over books in the library, or Sam patiently explaining some aspect of human behavior that Jack was trying to understand. The kid—though calling him a kid felt strange given his power—was trying so hard to be good, to be human, to be accepted.

"Is Dean ever going to trust me?" Jack had asked one afternoon, his voice small and uncertain. You had been returning from a supply run with Dean, and you'd paused in the doorway of the library, unseen by either Sam or Jack.

Sam had looked up from the lore book he'd been reading, his expression carefully neutral. "Dean's... complicated. He's been through a lot, and he's protective of family."

"But Y/n is nice to me," Jack had continued, his brow furrowed in that way that made him look impossibly young. "She doesn't look at me like I'm going to explode. She brought me those candies I like from town last week, and she always asks how I'm doing. But Dean still won't let me near her."

You had felt your heart clench. You hadn't realized Jack had noticed your small kindnesses, the way you tried to include him in conversations, the way you'd started picking up his favorite snacks during your town runs. You'd thought you were being subtle.

"Y/n sees the good in everyone," Sam had said gently. "That's just who she is. But Dean... Dean's job has always been to protect her. From monsters, from demons, from anything that might hurt her. And right now, he sees you as a threat."

"I would never hurt her," Jack had said, and there had been something almost desperate in his voice. "I would never hurt any of you. Why can't he see that?"

You had slipped away before Sam could answer, but the conversation had haunted you. You'd started paying more attention to the dynamics in the bunker, to the way Jack's face would light up when you entered a room, only to dim when Dean appeared behind you. You'd noticed how Jack would start to speak to you, then stop himself when he caught sight of Dean's glare.

It broke your heart a little more each day.

But Dean's protectiveness over his little sister was a force of nature, and you'd learned not to fight hurricanes.

Two weeks later, you found yourself in the kitchen at 2 AM, unable to sleep and craving the hot chocolate that had been your comfort drink since childhood. You were stirring marshmallows into the steaming mug when you heard soft footsteps in the hallway.

Jack appeared in the doorway, his hair mussed from sleep, wearing the pajamas Sam had bought him—blue flannel that made him look even younger than usual.

"Oh," he said, stopping short when he saw you. "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was awake."

"It's fine," you said, offering him a small smile. "Couldn't sleep either?"

Jack shook his head, stepping cautiously into the kitchen. "Sometimes I don't need to sleep, but tonight... I kept thinking about things. About Dean, and about whether I'll ever belong here."

Your heart ached at the loneliness in his voice. You glanced toward the hallway, confirming that Dean was still in his room, then made a decision that felt both small and monumental.

"Want some hot chocolate?" you asked, already reaching for another mug. "It's my secret recipe. Well, it's not really secret—I just add way too many marshmallows."

Jack's face lit up like you'd offered him the secrets of the universe. "Really? You don't mind?"

"Of course not." You busied yourself with preparing his drink, hyperaware of how he watched your every movement with fascination. "You know, when I was little, Dean used to make hot chocolate for me whenever I had nightmares. He'd pretend it was this big production, like he was some kind of master chef, but really he just used the packet mix and added extra marshmallows."

"Dean took care of you when you were little?" Jack asked, settling onto one of the bar stools.

"Yeah." You smiled at the memory. "He was basically more of a parent than a brother, honestly. Dad was always gone, and Sam was just a kid himself. Dean made sure I had everything I needed—food, clothes, someone to check for monsters under the bed."

Jack was quiet for a moment, processing this. "That's why he's so protective of you now."

"That's part of it." You handed him the mug, watching as he took a tentative sip and then smiled at the sweetness. "But I think he's also scared. Dean's lost so many people he cares about. The idea of losing me too... it makes him paranoid."

"But I wouldn't hurt you," Jack said, his voice earnest. "I know I'm dangerous, I know I have this power that I don't always control, but I would never—"

"I know," you interrupted gently. "I've always known that. You're not the monster Dean thinks you are, Jack. You're just... trying to figure out how to be human in a world that's already decided what you are."

Jack stared at you for a long moment, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Thank you," he whispered. "For seeing me. For not being afraid."

You reached across the counter and squeezed his hand briefly. "We're family, Jack. Weird, dysfunctional, supernatural family, but family nonetheless."

The next morning, you woke to the sound of Dean's voice echoing through the bunker, sharp with anger.

"What the hell were you thinking, Sam?"

You pulled on a robe and hurried toward the kitchen, where you found Dean standing with his hands on his hips, glaring at Sam, who was calmly eating breakfast.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, not looking up from his cereal.

"Don't play dumb with me. The mugs in the sink. Two of them. Y/N's favorite mug and one of ours. She was in the kitchen last night, and so was someone else." Dean's voice was getting louder. "Where was Jack last night, Sam?"

"In his room, as far as I know," Sam said, but you caught the slight hesitation in his voice.

"Dean," you said, stepping into the kitchen. "What's going on?"

Dean spun around to face you, his eyes blazing. "Were you in the kitchen last night? With Jack?"

You felt your stomach drop, but you lifted your chin defiantly. "Yes. I was. We had hot chocolate and talked. That's all."

"That's all?" Dean's voice cracked like a whip. "Y/n, I've told you—"

"You've told me a lot of things, Dean, but you don't own me." The words came out sharper than you'd intended, but you were tired of walking on eggshells. "I'm not a child anymore. I can decide who I want to talk to."

"Not when it comes to him!" Dean pointed toward the hallway as if Jack might materialize. "He's dangerous, Y/n. He's killed people. He's—"

"He's trying!" you shouted, surprising yourself with your vehemence. "He's trying to be better, to be human, to be good, and all you do is treat him like he's some kind of monster waiting to snap."

"Because that's exactly what he is!" Dean roared back. "And when he does snap, when he loses control, you're going to be the one who pays for it!"

"Enough!" Sam's voice cut through the argument like a blade. He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "Both of you, stop. Dean, you're being unreasonable. And Y/n, you need to understand why Dean's scared."

"I'm not scared," Dean started, but Sam held up a hand.

"Yes, you are. You're terrified that something's going to happen to her, and you're taking it out on Jack because he's an easy target." Sam's voice was steady but firm. "But pushing Y/n away, treating her like she can't make her own decisions—that's not protecting her, Dean. That's controlling her."

The kitchen fell silent except for the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. Dean's face was flushed with anger and something that might have been shame.

"I just..." Dean's voice broke slightly. "I can't lose her, Sammy. I can't lose anyone else."

Your anger deflated like a punctured balloon. You stepped forward, placing a hand on Dean's arm. "You're not going to lose me, Dean. But you can't protect me from everything. And you can't protect me from Jack, because he's not a threat to me."

Dean looked at you for a long moment, then pulled you into a fierce hug. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm just... I'm scared all the time. Scared of losing you, scared of failing you like I failed everyone else."

"You haven't failed me," you whispered into his shoulder. "You've been the best big brother I could ask for. But you have to trust me to make my own choices."

Dean pulled back, studying your face. "Even if those choices include trusting a Nephilim?"

"Even then."

Three days later, Dean announced he was heading into town for supplies. Out of habit, he looked at you expectantly, but you shook your head.

"I think I'll stay here today. Help Sam with research."

Dean's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Fine. But you stay in the main areas, okay? Don't go wandering off."

"Dean," you said patiently, "I'm not going to get lost in my own home."

After Dean left, you found Sam in the library, surrounded by ancient texts and looking frustrated.

"No luck with the vampire nest?" you asked, settling into a chair across from him.

"Nothing. It's like they vanished into thin air." Sam rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I've been through every piece of lore we have about vampire behavior, and none of it explains how an entire nest just disappears."

"Maybe they moved territories?" you suggested. "Found better hunting grounds?"

"Maybe." Sam looked up as Jack entered the library, carrying a cup of tea and looking hesitant.

"Sorry," Jack said, already starting to back away. "I can come back later if you're busy."

"No, it's fine," Sam said quickly. "Actually, maybe you can help. You've dealt with vampires before, right? In the other world?"

Jack nodded, settling into a chair. "A few times. They were... different there. More organized."

As the three of you worked through the lore, you found yourself really watching Jack for the first time without Dean's presence coloring your perception. He was thoughtful, careful with the ancient books, and surprisingly insightful about vampire behavior.

"They're pack animals," he said at one point, looking up from a text about vampire migration patterns. "Even when they hunt alone, they need the security of the group. If they abandoned their territory, it wasn't by choice."

"You think something drove them out?" Sam asked.

"Or someone," Jack said quietly. "Something powerful enough to make them run instead of fight."

You felt a chill run down your spine. "What could scare an entire nest of vampires?"

Jack and Sam exchanged a look that you didn't like.

"We should call Dean," Sam said, reaching for his phone.

Dean returned to the bunker in a fury, but for once, his anger wasn't directed at Jack. The vampire situation had escalated—three more nests had been found abandoned, and there were reports of strange disappearances in the surrounding towns.

"Something big is coming," Dean said, pacing the length of the war room. "Something that's got the vampires running scared."

"Any idea what?" you asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to know the answer.

"Could be anything. Demon, angel, something from the other world." Dean's gaze flicked to Jack, but there was no accusation in it this time. "Jack, you sense anything? Any supernatural activity that might explain this?"

Jack closed his eyes, extending his senses. After a moment, he shook his head. "Nothing specific. But there's something... unsettling. Like a storm building on the horizon."

"Great," Dean muttered. "Y/n, I want you to stay close to the bunker. No more trips to town until we figure out what we're dealing with."

For once, you didn't argue. The thought of something powerful enough to terrorize vampires was enough to make you grateful for the bunker's protections.

The nightmare came on a Tuesday night, three weeks into this careful dance of avoidance and proximity. Dean had taken an unusual hunting trip—a simple salt-and-burn two towns over that should have been a one-day job but had stretched into an overnight stay due to complications with the local sheriff.

You had gone to bed with Sam's reassurance that everything was fine, that Dean would be back in the morning, that Jack was settled in his room with a book and wouldn't be any trouble.

The dream started harmless enough. You were in a field, sunshine warming your face, but then the sky began to darken. The warmth turned to cold, the field to a maze of corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly. You were running, but your legs felt like lead, and behind you, something was gaining ground—something with too many teeth and eyes like burning coals.

The thing in your nightmare wasn't just chasing you—it was hunting you, savoring your fear, feeding on your terror. You could hear its voice, a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere: "Little Winchester, little lamb, you can't run forever..."

You ran harder, your lungs burning, but the corridors kept changing, walls shifting and moving, trapping you in an endless maze. The thing was getting closer, its claws scraping against the walls, its breath hot on your neck.

"Dean!" you screamed, but your voice was swallowed by the darkness. "Sam! Help me!"

But no one came. You were alone with the monster, and it was going to catch you, and when it did—

In the bunker, Jack sat up in his bed, a sharp pain lancing through his skull. He pressed his palms against his temples, trying to understand what was happening. The sensation was foreign but urgent—like a radio signal cutting through static. Fear. Terror. Pain.

Y/n.

He was on his feet before conscious thought took over, moving through the bunker's corridors with purpose. The feeling grew stronger as he approached your room, and he could hear it now—soft whimpers that were escalating into something more desperate.

Jack hesitated outside your door. Dean's warnings echoed in his mind, all the times he'd been told to keep his distance, to stay away from his little sister. But the sounds coming from your room spoke of genuine distress, and every instinct he possessed—human and angel alike—told him to help.

The scream that tore from your throat made the decision for him.

He pushed open the door to find you thrashing in your bed, sheets tangled around your legs, your face contorted in terror even as you remained unconscious. Another scream built in your chest, and Jack felt it resonate in his own bones.

"Hey," he said softly, approaching the bed with careful steps. "It's okay. You're safe."

But you weren't hearing him. Your body arched off the mattress, hands clawing at invisible threats, and Jack realized that whatever you were fighting in your dream was winning.

"Dean!" you screamed again, and Jack's heart clenched. Even in your nightmare, you were calling for your big brother, the one person who made you feel safe.

Without thinking, he reached out, his hand hovering over your forehead. His grace stirred, responding to your distress, and he let just a whisper of his power flow outward—not to invade your mind, but to offer comfort, to chase away the shadows that were tormenting you.

The change was immediate. Your thrashing stilled, your breathing evened out, and the lines of terror smoothed from your face. Jack smiled, relief flooding through him as he watched you settle into what looked like genuine, peaceful sleep.

"It's okay," he whispered, his hand still hovering protectively over you. "You're safe now. I won't let anything hurt you."

He was so focused on monitoring your breathing that he didn't hear the door slam open. Didn't hear the heavy footsteps in the corridor. Didn't sense the approaching storm until it was too late.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!"

Jack spun around to find Dean Winchester in the doorway, his face a mask of fury and fear. The hunter's eyes took in the scene—Jack standing over his little sister's sleeping form, your peaceful expression, the faint afterglow of grace that still lingered in the air.

"Dean, I—"

"I said GET AWAY!" Dean's voice cracked like a whip, and Jack stumbled backward, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "What did you do to her? What did you DO?"

"She was having a nightmare," Jack said quickly, his voice shaking. "I heard her screaming, and I just—I wanted to help."

"Help?" Dean's laugh was bitter and sharp. "Right. Your kind of help." He moved to your bedside, his eyes never leaving Jack, and placed a protective hand on your shoulder. "You used your mojo on her. I can smell it in the air, the ozone, the—"

"Dean." Sam's voice cut through the tension as he appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene with weary eyes. "What's going on?"

"What's going on," Dean said, his voice deadly quiet, "is that I come home to find him in her room, standing over her while she's unconscious, and there's grace residue everywhere."

Sam's gaze flicked between Jack's stricken face and Dean's protective stance. "Jack, what happened?"

"I sensed her distress," Jack said, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to explain. "She was having a nightmare—a bad one. I could feel her fear, her terror, and I just... I wanted to help. I didn't hurt her, I swear. I would never hurt her."

"You don't get to decide what's helpful," Dean snarled, and Jack flinched as if he'd been struck. "You don't get to use your power on her. You don't get to go anywhere near her when she's vulnerable."

"Dean," Sam said again, his voice carrying a note of warning. "Look at her. Does she look hurt?"

For the first time since entering the room, Dean actually looked at you—really looked. Your face was peaceful, your breathing deep and even. There were no signs of distress, no indication that you'd been harmed in any way. If anything, you looked more relaxed than you had in weeks.

But Dean's protective instincts were in full force, and logic had little place in the storm of his emotions.

"That's not the point," he said, though his voice had lost some of its edge. "The point is that I told him to stay away from her. I told him—"

"You told him to avoid someone who was in genuine distress," Sam interrupted, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Someone who was screaming in fear, and he helped her. That's what humans do, Dean. That's what good people do."

"He's not people," Dean shot back, but even as he said it, he was looking at Jack's face—at the hurt and confusion written there, at the way the young man's shoulders had curved inward as if trying to make himself smaller.

"Neither are you, technically," Sam said quietly. "Neither am I. We've all got baggage, Dean. We've all got power that can be used for good or ill. But that doesn't mean we stop trying to help people."

Jack looked between the brothers, his hands still raised in that gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper. "I know you don't trust me. I know you think I'm dangerous. But I heard her screaming, and I couldn't just... I couldn't just ignore it."

Dean stared at Jack for a long moment, the tension in the room thick enough to cut. In the silence, you stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you settled deeper into peaceful sleep.

"She was calling for you," Jack said suddenly, his voice small but determined. "In her nightmare. She was calling for you and Sam, begging for help. I... I wanted to wake you, but I could feel how terrified she was, and I thought... I thought if I could just make the nightmare stop..."

Dean's expression flickered, something raw and vulnerable crossing his features. "She was calling for me?"

Jack nodded. "She always calls for you when she's scared. Even when you're not here, even when she's dreaming. You're her safe place, Dean. I would never try to take that away from her."

The fight seemed to drain out of Dean all at once. He sat heavily on the edge of your bed, his hand smoothing over your hair with practiced gentleness.

"I came back because I had a bad feeling," Dean said quietly. "Something told me I needed to get home. When I found you here, with her, I just... I saw red."

"I understand," Jack said, and surprisingly, his voice held no resentment. "If I had a little sister, I'd protect her too. I'd probably be just as paranoid as you are."

Dean looked up at him, something like surprise flickering in his eyes. "You would?"

"Family is everything," Jack said simply. "You taught me that, whether you meant to or not. The way you and Sam would do anything for each other, the way you both protect Y/N... it's what made me want to be part of this family so badly."

Sam cleared his throat softly. "Maybe we should let her sleep. We can talk about this in the morning."

But Dean was still staring at Jack, as if seeing him clearly for the first time. "You really weren't trying to hurt her."

"Never," Jack said firmly. "I'd die before I let anything hurt her. She's the first person besides Sam who looked at me and saw something worth saving."

"Next time," Dean said finally, his voice rough, "you wake me up. Or Sam. You don't handle it yourself, no matter how much you want to help. You wake one of us up, and you let us deal with it."

It wasn't forgiveness, but it wasn't criticism either. Jack nodded quickly, relief evident in every line of his body.

"I understand," he said. "I won't... I'll be more careful."

You woke to sunlight streaming through your window and the unusual sound of quiet conversation coming from the kitchen. For a moment, you couldn't remember why you felt so rested, so peaceful. Then fragments of the nightmare came back—the maze, the monster, the overwhelming fear.

But also warmth. Safety. The feeling of being protected.

You pulled on a robe and padded to the kitchen, where you found an unexpected sight: Dean and Jack sitting at the table together, nursing cups of coffee and talking in low voices. Sam was at the stove, making what smelled like pancakes.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Sam said, smiling at you over his shoulder. "Sleep well?"

"Actually, yeah." You looked between Dean and Jack, noting the lack of tension in the air. "Did I miss something?"

Dean and Jack exchanged a look—not hostile, but awkward, like two people trying to figure out how to navigate new territory.

"We had a talk," Dean said simply. "About boundaries. And... other things."

"Other things?" you asked, sliding into a chair.

"Like how Jack probably saved you from what sounds like a pretty nasty nightmare," Sam said, flipping a pancake. "And how Dean maybe overreacted to finding him in your room."

"Maybe?" Dean snorted, but there was no real heat in it. "I went full protective big brother mode. Wasn't my finest moment."

Jack looked up from his coffee. "How are you feeling? Any lingering effects from the nightmare?"

"No, actually. I feel great." You frowned, trying to remember. "Did you... did you do something? To help?"

Jack nodded hesitantly. "I used my grace to chase away the nightmare. I'm sorry if that was overstepping, but you were so scared, and I just—"

"Thank you," you said, interrupting him. "Whatever you did, it worked. I haven't slept that well in weeks."

Dean cleared his throat. "About that. Jack and I have reached an understanding. If something like this happens again, he's going to wake up me or Sam first. No more flying solo."

"That seems fair," you said, though you couldn't help but smile at the sight of Dean actually making an effort to include Jack in the conversation. "And thank you for protecting me, even if you were being a little overprotective."

"A little?" Sam laughed. "He burst in there like Jack was about to sacrifice you to some ancient demon."

"I was being appropriately cautious," Dean said defensively, but his lips twitched in what might have been a smile.

Over the following weeks, something shifted in the bunker's dynamic. Dean still watched Jack carefully, still tensed when the Nephilim got too close to you, but there was less hostility in his gaze. More assessment than assumption.

Jack, for his part, seemed to understand that trust was something that had to be earned in bits. He was careful to include Dean in conversations, to ask permission before using his powers, to prove over and over again that he was worthy of the faith you and Sam had placed in him.

The breakthrough came three weeks later, when a hunt went sideways and you found yourself trapped in a warehouse with a pack of werewolves. Dean and Sam were pinned down outside, unable to reach you, and your radio had been destroyed in the initial attack.

You were running out of ammunition and options when Jack appeared—literally materialized in front of you in a burst of golden light.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes glowing with power as he assessed the situation.

"No, but I will be soon," you said, reloading your pistol with silver bullets. "There are at least six of them, and they're—"

The werewolves chose that moment to charge. Jack stepped in front of you, his wings unfurling—not visible, but you could feel them, a barrier of pure energy between you and the monsters. The werewolves slammed into the barrier and were thrown back with enough force to crack the concrete walls.

"Stay behind me," Jack said, his voice carrying harmonics that made your bones vibrate. "I won't let them touch you."

The fight was over in seconds. Jack's grace lashed out like a golden whip, and the werewolves simply... stopped. Not dead, but unconscious, their wolf forms shifting back to human as they collapsed.

"They'll live," Jack said, his wings folding back into invisibility. "But they'll remember this. They'll know to stay away from innocent people."

When Dean and Sam finally broke through the warehouse defenses, they found you sitting calmly beside Jack, both of you watching over the unconscious werewolves.

"What happened?" Dean demanded, his eyes wild with worry as he checked you over for injuries.

"Jack saved me," you said simply. "They had me cornered, and he appeared and... handled it."

Dean looked at Jack, who was studiously avoiding eye contact. "You teleported into an active combat situation."

"Y/n was in danger," Jack said, as if that explained everything.

"You could have been hurt. You could have made the situation worse."

"But I didn't," Jack said, finally meeting Dean's eyes. "I saved her. Isn't that what matters?"

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then pulled Jack into a brief, awkward hug. "Yeah, kid. That's what matters."

[canacaeli]

friends

[soundleer]

OWAKXC, how are you doing? :3

whee he's doing just great! like REALLY great hehe :33

like, here's his imput incase you only wanna hear from him first-hand yee

movie date hyee

[lyxchen]

Okay I want to say something that is really important to me personally!!! If you make fanart, any kind of fanart that's about or related to a part of a show that has not come out yet (for example a new season)... Then that is still valid fanart once that part of the show is released. Even if the speculating fanart you made can not be canon anymore after the new season is released.

And just as importantly: if you have fanart planned concerning a part of a show that hasn't come out yet, but aren't able to finish that fanart before that part of the show is released, then you should still make that fanart after the new part of the show has come out!!!!

As an example I'll take Squid Game cause that is what I'm currently stressing myself about. I have a lot of fanart ideas that I want to draw or have already started that are speculation on what will happen in season 3. I won't be able to finish or even start most of them before season 3 comes out on friday. But that's okay!! It is totally okay for me to still make that fanart Even If my idea or speculation on season 3 will be proven to be wrong. And that goes for everyone in this fandom. If you have a really cool fanfic idea on how for example In-ho's identity reveal to Gi-hun will go and then the season comes out and it happens differently (which is very likely), then you should still write your fanfic about it!!!

The same goes for fanart that's based on lore that has been updated in the new season.

Also lastly: it's also very cool to make fanart of things that have happened in past seasons and topics that have already been resolved. Just because Gi-hun after season 3 will know that In-ho is the frontman doesn't mean you can't make fanart of him not knowing that anymore. Okay? Okay! Great <3

I love you, keep making great fanart and don't stress yourself because you feel like you need to get all your stuff out there before it can be "disproven". Fandom is about fun and creativity and there is never a point in time where your fanart is "wrong" or "too late" <3

[ganondoodle]

while i am procrastinating drawing in favor of staring blankly at the wall listening to my own tinnitus and heartbeat for some ungodly reason, i have decided to have the reworked sonau not include the barbarian set in any way (which has been freezing my progress of rewriting them to completion) bc it just doesnt fit them at all and explain it by implying that its a fake armor set with made up lore as essentially a piece of surviving propaganda made by the shiekah to make it seem more justified what they did to them-

(in my rewrite the sonau were an underground dwelling monkey-frog like creature feeding on nectar the nature of which made them turn into crystals of luminous stone upon death- which is also the energy source for the shiekah tech, additionally the sonau here were protecting ancient pieces of lost history of the past they were sure would lead to disaster if anyone of the surface would find them, and with believing the cycle of hyrules destructions is man made and self perpetuated at the center of their belief system it posed a danger to hyrules reputation- thus making them a target that ends in a double win for hyrule if eliminated)

-which would neatly also lead to perhaps a bit of tension with the existing shiekah, most of which of course dont know anything about any of it, but perhaps with impa being the only one to safeguard the only information left about it as a means of both preservation and to have it never be revealed :)