#x. strength is carrying a burden and not letting anyone know how heavy it is ( brianna. )

[solxamber]

Burn Wild — Leona Kingscholar x reader

Always so close, yet so far away. Leona pushes it down—he keeps pushing and pushing, until one day, he lets it break.

(it's a happy ending, i swear)

Leona Kingscholar has always known his place in the world. From the moment he learned to walk, to stand tall under the endless, unforgiving sun of the Sunset Savanna, he has been acutely aware of how people see him. They don’t need to say a word—he feels it in the heavy silence that follows him into a room, in the guarded glances cast his way.

Most are terrified of what he represents: the second prince, a shadow of the royal bloodline, someone who could inherit a kingdom but never will.

Others fear him for his strength, the quiet, coiled power beneath his lazy exterior, or for his sharp tongue that cuts deeper than any blade, cleaving through pretense and weakness alike.

“Lazy,” they whisper behind his back, as if the word can sum up the depth of his disdain for this farcical game of status and power. “Unmotivated,” they say, because they can’t understand why someone with the world laid at his feet doesn’t fight harder to claim the throne, to claw his way up and tear it from his brother’s grasp.

They’ll never understand. They’ve never felt the weight of a crown that will never be theirs, the hollowness of a title that means nothing but second best. Let them carry that burden for just a day, and see how long they last.

He could laugh at how little they know.

If he could trade this title, this empty prestige, for even a sliver of genuine acknowledgment, he would. To be seen—not as a prince, not as some spare destined to live in the shadow of his older brother—but as Leona, the man. The individual.

The soul that yearns for more than the scraps of attention thrown his way, like bones to a dog. But life, he knows, isn’t fair. It wasn’t made to be. And for someone like him, it never will be.

So he doesn’t hope for fairness. He doesn’t look for understanding. Instead, he pushes it all inward, presses it deep into the corners of his heart where no one can touch it.

When people try to get close, when they think they can soften his edges or pry into the depths of his guarded soul, he meets them with sharp words and a glare that freezes them in place.

They’ll never know how much easier it is to be feared than to be seen, how much safer it feels to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He is second in line, but he’ll never be second to anyone. He’ll make sure of that. He’ll keep himself locked away, out of reach, untouchable.

If they can’t see past the crown, past the sharpness in his words or the laziness they accuse him of, then they don’t deserve to know him. Let them think he’s content in the shadows, in his naps and biting remarks, in the mask he wears so well.

There’s no use wishing for something different. He’ll never be number one, and that’s a truth he’s long since swallowed. But even so, a part of him, buried deep where even he rarely dares to look, still longs for more.

For a world where he isn’t just the spare, where he isn’t second to anyone. A world where someone might see him—not the prince, not the title—but just him.

But that world doesn’t exist, and it never will. So he keeps it all buried, locks it all behind a wall of indifference, letting the bitterness settle in his bones. Maybe, in the end, it’s enough to live in a world that has no place for him.

At least that way, no one can ever mistake him for someone else’s second choice.

Leona doesn’t actually nap. He just lies there, eyes half-lidded, watching the sky or the flicker of light on the walls. Sleep doesn’t always come; it’s not that he needs it.

No, it’s the weight of disinterest, the apathy that’s soaked deep into his marrow, making it seem pointless to do anything else. Why bother? When every glance cast in his direction is the same hollow reverence for a title, a prince without a crown.

When no one bothers to look past that thin veil, why should he try to show them anything more?

There’s a strange kind of comfort in that inertia, a quiet understanding that nothing will change. People like things easy, predictable.

They would rather see the lazy, unmotivated prince who naps through life than ask why. It’s easier for them, and maybe even for him.

But then, there are those like Ruggie. Leona likes people like him. At least Ruggie’s honest. The kid wants what he wants, makes no illusions about it. There's a rawness to his hustle, the clarity of someone who doesn’t pretend to care about who Leona is beyond his utility.

But you? He never bothered to learn your name, never even gave you a second thought. You would be like the others, surely. Just another face in the crowd. Another person who would pretend to care, only to be drawn by the allure of who he was supposed to be.

So when he overhears your voice one lazy afternoon, chatting with Ruggie like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he almost doesn’t bother to look. Almost. Boredom, though, is a dangerous thing, so he tilts his head just slightly, his gaze barely cracking open to take you in.

There you are, talking, smiling with Ruggie like you’ve never had a care in the world. He watches the way you casually hand over your lunch, like it’s the most effortless gesture. Not out of obligation, not for any hidden motive. Just... because.

It grates on him. That smile of yours, that careless generosity. It makes something bitter stir in his chest, gnawing at the edges of his quiet disdain.

You have no idea, do you? That simple act, that thoughtless kindness—it’s not going to change anything.

It won’t make the world any softer for you, won’t stop it from grinding you down until you feel as jaded as he does.

He closes his eyes, shutting you out, trying to shake off the irritation curling around his ribs. Maybe that’s the thing that gets under his skin the most—that privilege of yours, of someone who hasn’t been broken yet.

Of course, life never lets Leona catch a break. He’s dealt with enough by now to know that any moment of quiet is always followed by something—someone—determined to disturb his carefully cultivated indifference.

This time, it’s you. Paired with him for some group project. The usual routine would be simple: the others would either be too intimidated to approach him, or they’d accept a bribe, a few coins to make it easier on both sides. But you? No, you seem hellbent on dragging him into this.

He still remembers the first time you approached him after class, all bright-eyed and earnest, asking for his number like you had no idea who he was. No idea what kind of reputation he held.

He stared you down, letting his eyes narrow into the glare he knows works every time—cold, dismissive, enough to make anyone with half a brain turn and scurry away. But you didn’t.

You tilted your head, smiled at him, as if the weight of his stare didn’t bother you in the slightest. That moment felt like a spark catching in the dark, a flicker of something unfamiliar in his chest.

But Leona, who has long since mastered the art of burying unwanted feelings, shoved it down without a second thought. That’s how it’s always been. If something gets too close, too real, he locks it away, deep beneath layers of practiced indifference. He’s never let anyone chip away at that wall, and he’s not about to start now.

Yet, you’re relentless. No matter where he goes to escape, you somehow find him. He’s sure Ruggie’s been eating like a king for weeks, considering how often you bribe him for information.

You show up in the strangest places, dragging your backpack along, always with that same smile. And, slowly, Leona starts to let you in—not that he’d ever admit it. Not out loud, not even to himself. But for the first time, he lets someone work with him, just to get you off his back.

But there’s something else too. Leona struggles with control. His whole life has been shaped by what’s been taken from him, what’s been denied. Every opportunity to exert control, to hold power, he seizes it, because it’s the one thing that can’t be stripped away.

So when he gruffly barks orders at you, expecting a flash of resistance, a bite back, he waits. And again, there’s that smile. That stupid, persistent smile. You don’t challenge him; instead, you calmly suggest changes, as if negotiating with a lion was just another part of your day.

And for the first time, Leona feels that flicker in his chest burning a little brighter. He doesn’t like it. It’s unfamiliar, and everything unfamiliar is dangerous. That’s the mistake he made before—letting himself believe that anything good could come from letting his guard down. He locks it down again, hard, throwing the key to the furthest corner of his mind.

He won’t make that mistake again. He’s too old, too wise for that now. But the flame, small and stubborn, remains.

Leona Kingscholar knows exactly what he's capable of. Spelldrive isn’t just a game for him—it’s an arena where his talent roars, where his strength becomes undeniable. He knows he's good. Better than most, and yet… not better than him.

Malleus Draconia—towering, unbeatable, and utterly maddening in his ease. The prince of the fae seems to glide through every match, effortless, as if strength itself bends to his will.

And it gnaws at Leona, festers in a corner of his mind that he tries to forget. Malleus has everything Leona could want—power, status, recognition. And the worst part? It’s never enough for Leona to just be good, not when he knows that the world will never see him as anything other than second best.

Another match, another loss to Diasomnia. Another bitter reminder that no matter how hard he fights, talent doesn’t always win. It’s routine now, this pattern of disappointment, of watching the scoreboard flash their defeat while pretending it doesn’t matter.

His teammates look to him with expectation, but Leona only feels the dull weight of inevitability. It’s almost boring how predictable it all feels.

So he does what he always does—retreats to a corner, far from the chaos and the murmurs of his dorm. If the world insists on making him second, he’s learned how to disappear from it.

Leona stretches out, the familiar lethargy settling in like an old friend. His mind tells him to sleep, to let the world fade for a while, but it’s not sleep that drives him here.

It’s the apathy, the exhaustion that sinks deeper than bone. It’s the bitter taste of realizing that no matter how sharp his claws, no matter how strong he is, there’s always someone stronger.

He doesn’t expect anyone to follow him. But the soft rustle of footsteps makes his ear twitch, and he cracks an eye open, irritation already curling in his gut. It’s you. And for a brief moment, he waits for that stupid smile—the one you’ve been plastering across his path ever since you barged into his life. But today, there’s no grin, no lighthearted quip. You look at him with something else. Concern.

Leona stiffens. He knows the look of pity well enough to recognize it, but this isn’t pity. No, this is something far more dangerous—concern. For him. You sit beside him in silence, no words, just the quiet presence of someone who isn’t there to challenge or undermine, but simply to be there. And then you hand him a bottle of electrolyte water, no fanfare, no explanation. Just a gesture, simple and clear.

It feels like a sudden shift in the air. Like a trap laid bare, exposing parts of him he thought he’d buried beneath layers of resentment and indifference. Leona feels naked under your gaze, like you can see past the layers of arrogance and self-assurance, straight into the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone see.

He can’t decide if he wants to snap at you, tell you to leave him the hell alone, or if he wants to let himself drown in the unfamiliar warmth of your presence.

He knows you’re friends with them—Diasomnia, Malleus, all of them. You’re in their orbit, always close enough to the winning side. You could be anywhere right now, basking in the afterglow of another victory, but you’re not.

You’re here. Sitting beside him, looking at him as though he isn’t second. As though he’s worth more than what everyone else sees.

So he asks you, with a low growl edging his words, why the hell you’re here. And your answer is so simple it almost infuriates him. You wanted to be here with him. No pretense, no hidden motives. Just that.

Leona should push you away, should throw up every wall and bury whatever strange warmth is trying to flicker to life in his chest. But instead, he does what he’s good at—he pretends none of it matters.

He settles down again, using you as a pillow, as if this were nothing more than another nap, another way to escape.

But when your fingers brush through his hair, slow and gentle, something inside him stirs. The flames he’s kept buried for so long, the ones he’s always tried to suffocate, flicker just a little brighter. For the first time in a long time, Leona lets them. Just this once. Just for a moment.

Leona doesn’t waste his time on other people’s messes. Why should he? If someone gets tangled up in their own poor decisions, they ought to figure it out themselves. No one ever held his hand, no one pulled him from the darkness when it crept too close.

So he’s learned to stay indifferent, aloof—disconnected from the endless chaos that surrounds him.

So when he sees you in the middle of a heated argument, your back up against the metaphorical wall, three people towering over you, he tries—he really tries—to let it slide. It’s none of his business.

You can figure it out. Why wouldn’t you? You’re always smiling like the world bends for you anyway, always so… relentless. But there’s something about the way those three loom over you, the sharp glint in their eyes, that makes it hard for him to settle back into the lazy apathy that clings to him. He closes his eyes, feigning disinterest, willing himself to ignore the situation.

But then, he hears something that makes his ears twitch, something that slices through his indifference like a blade. You're defending him.

Defending him as though it’s second nature to you, like it’s not even a question. He strains to hear the words, letting them wash over him like a foreign melody—merits he didn’t even know he possessed, traits you speak of like they’re so obvious, like you’ve been holding them in your heart all this time.

It’s the strangest thing. The tension in the air thickens, the argument escalating, voices growing sharper. And before he can even think about why he’s doing it, Leona Kingscholar stands.

He pushes off from his nap spot, his movements slow but deliberate, each step carrying the weight of something he doesn’t quite want to acknowledge yet.

When he gets close, the three people glance at him, and his glare alone is enough to send them scattering, as if the storm that rumbles within him could tear them apart with just a look.

And then there’s you. Standing there, looking at him with that same damn smile, as if the danger you were just in doesn’t bother you at all.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice is low, rough, the edges of frustration still clinging to it. He grabs your wrist, dragging you to a secluded corner, out of the public eye, his grip firm but not harsh.

You blink up at him, unbothered by the ferocity in his eyes, and answer with a simple shrug. "I was just telling the truth."

"It doesn't matter if it's the truth," he snaps, the words leaving him more sharply than he intended. "You could’ve gotten hurt, idiot. You don’t need to get involved in something like that. Especially for someone like me."

For a moment, he expects you to falter, to back down like everyone else always does when they realize the danger. But you don’t.

You stand your ground, and that damn stubbornness that seems to be the core of your being lights up in your eyes. "Leona, I’m not gonna stand there and listen to them trash you. You’re more than they’ll ever understand, and I won’t pretend otherwise. I’m not afraid of them, or anyone."

He stares at you, something twisting deep inside his chest. In the middle of this argument, he realizes something he’s never let himself believe before: you chose him. Not out of fear, not out of obligation, but because you genuinely see something in him worth defending. You chose him, even when it meant putting yourself at risk.

Before he can stop himself, before his mind can catch up to what his heart is screaming, he pulls you close, crashing his lips against yours. The world seems to tilt, everything else fading as your hands reach up, steady and sure, pulling him closer. You kiss him back without hesitation, and when you finally break apart, you press your face into his neck, shy but somehow still so sure.

When you whisper softly, your breath warm against his skin, “I chose you, Leona,” the words settle into him like a promise. His chest tightens, the flame that’s been smoldering for so long finally breaking free, burning brighter and wilder than he ever thought possible.

He lets it. He lets the fire consume him, for once not pushing it down, not pretending it doesn’t exist. Because for the first time in his life, Leona Kingscholar is someone’s first choice.

And he lets the flames burn wild.

I'm not even kidding I made myself tear up while writing this because he's so special to me.

Masterlist

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Hɑll Of Fɑme || Nɑɾuto Uzumɑki ||

A/n: My baby boy deserved so much better, this isn't a relationship fic. It's more of a Parent!Reader x Naruto.

The streets of Konoha were bathed in golden hues as the sun dipped behind the Hokage Monument, painting the village in warm tones. You sat on the roof of your home, the cool tiles beneath you grounding your thoughts as a familiar voice called out from below.

“Hey, (Y/N)-nee!”

Naruto’s voice was unmistakable—bright, full of energy, but today, there was a heaviness in it, one you knew all too well.

You turned just in time to see him jump up beside you, plopping down with a sigh that seemed too heavy for someone so young. His usual grin was missing, replaced by a tight frown, brows furrowed in frustration.

You didn’t press him right away. Instead, you both sat in silence, watching the village below, the people moving about their lives. Then, softly, you spoke.

“Rough day, huh?”

Naruto huffed, arms crossed over his chest. “Tch. You could say that. Stupid Sasuke. Stupid Kakashi-sensei. Stupid villagers…” He hesitated before muttering, “Stupid me.”

Your heart clenched at his words. “Naruto…”

“It’s just—” he kicked at the tiles. “No matter what I do, it’s never enough! Sasuke always seems ahead, and Kakashi-sensei barely looks at me. And the villagers still—” He stopped, balling his fists. “They still look at me like I’m nothing. Like I’m just that stupid fox.”

His voice cracked, and you could see the way his body tensed, like he was bracing himself for rejection, for scolding—for the words he’d heard his whole life.

But you wouldn’t give him that. You never had and you couldn't help but feel your heart break knowing that so many people still looked at him with so much distain.

Shaking your head, you reached out and pulled him close, his spiky hair pressing against your shoulder as you rested your chin atop his head. He stiffened at first, but then—slowly—he melted into the warmth.

“Naruto,” you murmured, “do you know what I see when I look at you?”

He shook his head, fingers clutching your shirt tight in his grasp.

“I see someone who’s going to be great.”

He let out a dry laugh. “Pft, yeah right—”

“I’m serious,” you cut him off gently, holding his shoulders so he could look into your eyes. “I see a boy who refuses to give up, no matter how many times the world tries to push him down. I see someone with a heart big enough to carry everyone’s burdens, even when no one sees his own pain. And I see—” You poked his forehead lightly. “—someone who’s going to be Hokage one day, no matter what anyone else says.”

His blue eyes widened, searching your face for any sign of a lie, but he only found sincerity. You smiled.

“Do you know why?”

Naruto gulped, shaking his head. His eyes were already misting with tears.

“Because you’re a fighter. Because you’re the kind of person who doesn’t back down, who stands up even when no one else will. And one day, Naruto—you’re going to be up there, on that mountain, with your face carved next to the others.”

His lower lip trembled, and for a second, he looked like the little boy who had clung to you when the loneliness became too much. Then, slowly, the smallest smile broke through, hesitant but real.

“You really think so?” he whispered.

You ruffled his hair with a chuckle. “I know so.”

Naruto inhaled deeply, then exhaled, sitting up straighter. “Yeah. Yeah! You’re right! I’m not gonna let this stop me! Dattebayo!”

You laughed, watching as that fiery determination sparked back to life in his eyes. Standing up you then gave him a wink holding out your hand. "Now how about I cook you one your favorite dishes. You gotta get your strength."

"Haha yea! You're the best!"

As the stars blinked into existence above,Naruto jumped to his feet taking your hand for help, the two of you slipping into your home. While people may have questioned your actions it didn't matter because you'll be the parent Naruto deserved and Naruto, he'll be the future Hokage already who's shining bright—even if he didn’t see it yet.

And in your mind, you knew one thing for certain:

One day, the world would know the name Naruto Uzumaki.

And it would never forget it.

⸻

“And the world's gonna know your name,'Cause you burn with the brightest flame.And the world's gonna know your name.And you'll be on the walls of the Hall of Fame…”

[worlds-we-write]

Beneath The Ashen Sky

Chapter 1: A Place to Call Home

pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: In the ruin of old world, Jackson, Wyoming offers a fragile sense of peace, but you've never been one to trust safety - not when survival has been your only constant. Then there's Joel Miller - gruff, guarded, and impossible to ignore, a man who carries his past like a burden and watches you with an intensity you don't dare name. What starts as quiet understanding turns into something deeper, a slow-burning desire neither of you are ready for, but danger is never far behind. When a new threat puts you in harm's way, Joel is willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe - even if it means tearing the world apart.

⚠️ Series Warnings: This fanfic contains violence, gore, and canon-typical bloodshed, as well as age gap romance between reader and Joel. Expect slow burn tension, unresolved feelings, and protective/possessive behavior as Joel navigates his growing attachment. There will be hurt/comfort, emotional angst, power dynamics, and dominant tendencies as Joel takes on a caretaking role. Survival themes, PTSD, past trauma, and loss will be present, alongside jealousy, miscommunication, and strong language. NSFW/smut content (eventually) will be explicitly marked and include rough, passionate, and intense scenes with Dom!Joel. This is a mature, emotionally heavy story—please proceed with caution if any of these themes are uncomfortable!

Word count for Chapter 1 - 2.4 K

Hey everyone! 😊 This is my first ever writing piece, and I’m both excited and nervous to share it with you all! I’ve been wanting to write a Joel Miller fic for a while now, and I finally decided to just go for it. 🖤 This is the first part of at least 8 chapters right now!

I really hope you guys enjoy it! Please let me know what you think—feedback, comments, and even just reactions mean the world to me. Thanks for reading! 💕✨

Series Masterlist

Jackson wasn’t what you expected.

The town sat nestled in the valley, a relic of the old world, untouched by time in ways that felt unnatural. In years since the outbreak, you had seen cities fall, highways turn to graveyards, and entire communities torn apart by desperation.

But Jackson stood.

Jackson was one of the last places on earth that felt like home. It wasn’t perfect, but in a world where perfection had died decades ago, it was the closest thing to peace anyone could find. A town with running water, warm bed, and people who still remembered what it meant to be human.

Maria had been the one to bring you in, after she and a few others found you out on patrol. You’d barely had the strength to lift your gun when they surrounded you. Hunger had worn you down, exhaustion gnawed at your bones, and truthfully? You were just too tired to fight.

So, you surrendered.

And for the first time in a long time, it worked out in your favor.

Jackson took you in. You were given a small cabin on the outskirts of town – a single-room space with a wood stove and a bed that didn’t smell like rot. In exchange, you worked. You helped clean, assisted in the kitchen, learned how to tend to the horses at the stables.

It was a good deal. A fair one.

And yet, you still struggled to sleep at night.

Even in safety, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t last. That something, someone, would take it away. That was the thing about surviving for so long – you never really stopped looking over your shoulder.

And neither did Joel Miller.

-

-

You saw him for the first time on your second night in Jackson.

It was late. The town had long since gone quiet, save for the rustling of wind through the trees and the distant sound of horses shifting in their stalls.

You had stepped outside your cabin to fetch more firewood when you felt it – a presence.

At first, you thought it was just your paranoia, the instinct to be wary of open spaces, of empty streets. But then you saw him.

Joel Miller.

He was standing on the porch of the house next to yours, half-hidden in the shadow, a rifle slung over one shoulder. He wasn’t looking at you, not directly, but there was a weight to his posture, an awareness that made it clear he had been watching you.

Everyone knew Joel.  He wasn’t the kind of man you easily overlooked. Grizzled, built like a brick wall, with a face carved from stone and eyes that had seen too much. He didn’t talk much, and when he did, it was in short, clipped sentences that made it clear he had no time for nonsense. You had heard stories – how he and his adopted daughter, Ellie, had made it across the country, surviving horrors most wouldn’t dare to speak of.

You weren’t sure if the stories were exaggerated, but after watching him from a distance—watching the way people gave him space, the way Maria treated him with quiet respect—you had little doubt that he was dangerous.

And yet, as you stood there, meeting his gaze across the cold winter air, you didn’t feel afraid.

He was older than you – by at least a decade, maybe more. His face was weathered, lined with years of hardship, his salt-and-pepper beard barley concealing the hard set of his jaw.

But it was his eyes that held you still.

Dark. Unforgiving. A storm behind them that hadn’t yet settled.

Joel looked at you like a man who had seen too much, lost too much.

And before you could say anything, he turned and went back inside.

-

-

It took another week before you spoke to him.

Winter was settling in, and you had been trying to repair the wooden posts in your yard before the frost made the job impossible. You weren’t particularly skilled at manual labor, and after an hour of struggling, you heard the unmistakable sound of boots crunching against the frostbitten ground behind you.

“You’re makin’ a mess of that,” a gruff voice drawled.

The voice startled you – not because it was unexpected, but because of how close it was.

You turned to find Joel standing behind you, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was wearing a thick flannel, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal forearms scarred from years of survival.

You wiped your forehead with the back of your sleeve. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve had much practice.”

Joel sighed through his nose, stepping forward. “You got a hammer?”

You blinked. “What?”

“A hammer,” he repeated, nodding toward the mess you had made. “If you’re fixin’ this, you need the right tools.”

A part of you bristled at his tone – like you were a kid who didn’t now what the hell she was doing. But another part of you, the one that had spent time watching him from afar, felt a strange sort of warmth at his offer.

Wordlessly, you handed him the hammer.

Joel took it without another word, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel before getting to work. You stood there, watching as he pulled out nails with ease, his large hands working with quiet efficiency. It shouldn’t have been mesmerizing, but it was.

You stood beside him, watching in silence.

After a few minutes, he finally spoke. “You new to this kinda thing?”

“Building fences?”

Joel huffed. “Survivin’ in a place like this.”

You frowned, shifting your weight. “I’ve been on my own a long time.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

You exhaled, arms crossing over your chest. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I’m still figuring it out.”

Joel glanced up at you then, his gaze unreadable.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I get that.”

And for some reason, you believed him.

It was the first time you saw Joel as more than just an untouchable presence in town. The first time you saw him as a man.

-

-

In the weeks that followed your first conversation by the fence, Joel’s presence began to weave itself into the fabric of your days in Jackson. There was no grand declaration or dramatic turning point – just the small, nearly imperceptible moments that hinted at something deeper.

You’d catch him watching you from across the town square, his eye quiet and observant, as if he were studying every nuance of your movements without judgment. When you passed by the stables on your way to tend to the horse, he’d give a slight nod – a gesture so subtle it might have been mistaken for a mere habit, but which, in its silence, spoke volumes about his unspoken interest.

One afternoon, as you struggled with a heavy bag of supplies that threatened to tip over with every step, Joel appeared almost silently at your side. Without a word, he took the bag from your arms, his strong hands steadying the load as he carried it into your cabin. There was a brief moment when your eyes met—a spark of acknowledgment passing between you both. It wasn’t an act of overt kindness; it was more like a wordless agreement that in this harsh world, you were both trying to find fragments of compassion. Joel Miller wasn’t a man known for gentle gestures, yet that day he offered you something akin to solace, and it left you both a little less alone.

Later, as you sat on your porch watching the sunset paint the sky in muted hues of orange and purple, you realized that his actions were not isolated incidents. Each time he crossed your path, there was a quiet attentiveness about him: the way his eyes would soften ever so slightly when he thought you weren’t looking, the careful way he maintained his distance yet seemed to be always nearby. There was a delicate balance in his presence—an understanding that neither of you needed to rush into anything overt, yet both of you were undeniably aware of the growing connection.

Inside, you wrestled with conflicting emotions. The world had taught you that reliance was a luxury, a weakness that could be exploited in a time of chaos. Yet here, in the midst of ruins and loss, this quiet understanding offered a glimmer of hope. It was as if, in the unspoken exchanges—a shared look at the market, a momentary brush of hands over a doorframe—both of you were rewriting the rules of survival. Perhaps, you thought, there was more to life than just fighting to stay alive; maybe there was room for care, for protection, and for the slow, cautious bloom of trust.

For his part, Joel’s actions were measured and deliberate. He didn’t offer empty platitudes or unearned compliments. Instead, his care was pragmatic: ensuring you had enough firewood when the nights turned bitterly cold, discreetly checking that your cabin’s door was locked after the town’s occasional rowdy gatherings, and even leaving a small package of food on your doorstep when you had been too tired to venture into town. Each gesture was a piece of a silent dialogue – language spoken without words, in which both of you communicated a shared resilience and a budding tenderness.

In those quiet moments, the barriers that had once defined your existence began to soften. You understood that Joel’s protectiveness wasn’t about control or ownership; it was a cautious offering of solidarity in a world where such bonds were rare and precious. And even as you remained guarded, your heart couldn’t help but lean into the comfort of his steady presence. The understanding between you wasn’t loud or flashy—it was the unremarkable beauty of everyday survival, of two wounded souls finding a semblance of peace in each other’s company.

This silent communion, built on small acts and measured glances, became a lifeline. It was a reminder that even amidst the chaos of a shattered world, connections could be forged—not through dramatic declarations or grand sacrifices, but through the quiet, persistent reassurance that you were not alone.

-

-

“You should stay away from him.”

Maria’s voice was steady, but there was something in her tone – something bordering on a warning rather than simple advice.

It was late, the Tipsy Bison quiet except for the soft murmur of voices in the background. Most of the town had already turned in for the night, leaving only a few stragglers nursing weak drinks, their laughter subdued beneath the weight of the world outside Jackson’s walls.

You sat at the counter beside Maria, fingers wrapped around the rim of your glass, the cheap whiskey doing little to ease the tension in your chest. The warmth of the fire crackled behind you, casting soft shadows against the walls, but nothing could drown out the way her words settled like a stone in your gut.

“Joel?” you asked, as if you didn’t already now who she meant.

Maria gave you a look – one that reminded you that she wasn’t the kind of woman who played games. She was sharp, perceptive, and fiercely perceptive of the people in Jackson. And right now? She was trying to protect you.

“You’re new here,” she said carefully. “Maybe you don’t know how things work yet, but trust me when I say that Joel Miller is not the kind of man you want to get close to.”

You turned your glass slowly between your fingers, considering her words. “And why is that?”

Maria exhaled, her expression softening just slightly. “Because he’s dangerous.”

The word hung between you, heavy with meaning.

Dangerous.

You knew what she meant – everyone in Jackson had heard stories. The things Joel had done to get here. The men he had killed. The blood on his hands.

You’d seen glimpses of it yourself, in the sharpness of his gaze, in the way he moved – always aware, always ready. Even in safety, he carried himself like a man who didn’t trust peace.

And yet…

You glanced across the bar, where Joel sat alone in the farthest corner, his back to the wall, nursing his drink in silence. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were always moving, scanning the room with quiet vigilance.

“You afraid of him?” you asked, turning back to Maria.

She hesitated. “No,” she admitted. “Not for me. But for you? Yeah.”

A flicker of something uneasy crawled up your spine.

“I can take care of myself,” you said.

Maria sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m sure you can. But that’s not the point.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to something more personal. “Joel’s been through hell. And he’s not the kind of man who just … lets people in. Not without a cost.”

You frowned. “A cost?”

Maria’s lips pressed together like she was choosing her words carefully. “Look,” she said after a moment. “I know you’ve had a rough time before getting here. I don’t know all the details, and I won’t ask. But I do know that people like you – people like Joel – carry a lot of weight on their backs. And sometimes when two people with that much baggage collide… things don’t end well.”

Her words sat heavy in your chest.

She wasn’t wrong. You had lived long enough to know that some people weren’t meant to hold onto things. That some people weren’t built for softness, or love, or anything more than survival.

And yet, the idea of pulling away from Joel now felt impossible.

You thought of the way he looked at you – like he was trying not to, like he was fighting something within himself every time your paths crossed. You thought of the way he had helped you, in small, unspoken ways. The way his presence made you feel steadier, even when the rest of the world still felt unstable.

Maria sighed again softer this time. “I’m not saying he’s a bad man,” she admitted. “But he’s not an easy man. And if you get close to him… you need to be sure that’s something that you’re ready for.”

You swallowed, staring down at your drink, the amber liquid swirling beneath the dim light.

Were you ready for that?

Were you ready for him?

You weren’t sure.

But as your gaze flickered back toward the man in the corner, his fingers resting idly against the rim of his glass, you knew one thing for certain.

It was already too late to turn back.

[ponderingmoonlight]

I already submitted a request, so I don't know if I can do it again. If not, then sorry, and ignore my message.

You wrote that we can request something of our own. How about any of these options?

1.Gojo loves his wife very much. And when the Elders send her 24/7 without rest on dangerous missions. Gojo becomes very angry with the elders.

2.Gojo again boasts to the reader that he is the strongest. But she answers him that he does not have to be the strongest with her, he can just be Satoru.

I just had to write that first idea down, thank you so much <3 Hope you enjoy!

A word of power

Pairing: husband!Gojo x reader

Word Count: 1,8k

Synopsis: When his wife is sent to missions over and over until it visibly gets to her, Gojo decides to do something against it.

Warnings: lanugage, mentions of injury, not proofread

„Hey darling.“

Your heavy footsteps echo through the dark hallways of your apartment, eyelids hanging heavy in your face. That was a rough mission. The how many? You lost count at 20. It seems like all you do is exorcise, eat, sleep a few hours and repeat everything. You loved being a jujutsu sorcerer by heart, it is a great honor for you to be able to help people this way. But nights like this, when you don’t get to enjoy the warmth of your own home until well after midnight, it really gets to you.

“There you are honey, what took you so long?”

But no matter how rough the mission was, no matter how late you come back, this one person is always there to greet you with a cup of hot tea and a shoulder to cry on. After all, your husband knows well enough how it feels to carry the burden of being a strong jujutsu sorcerer. With the slight difference that he is in fact the strongest.

“Oh, y’know…Things got a little heated, had some new students by my side to watch. One of them got injured so I stayed with him and Shoko until he was well enough to survive the night. Tomorrow I’ll have to leave pretty early in the morning”, you explain briefly, barely able to formulate a straight sentence.

Satoru’s eyes scan over your bruised and feeble looking body. How many missions in a row do you have to endure until these old farts decide to give you a break? You are an outstanding jujutsu sorcerer, probably better than anyone else at Jujutsu High apart from himself. And you have a heart of gold – too good for these people. They use you and you don’t seem to mind as long as you help the weaker and your students out. Normally Gojo admires you for composure, endurance and strength. But haven’t you given enough? Even the strongest need rest from time to time.

“I don’t like the way they are treating you. You are pushed from mission to mission, (y/n). This can’t go on like this, I haven’t really seen you for days. You’re only home to sleep and eat something from time to time.”

You let yourself fall in his lap, instantly greeted by his strong arms. Oh, it feels so good to be back where you belong – in the embrace of your beloved husband.

“You know it yourself: the worst part about being strong is that no one ever asks if you’re okay”, you sign.

He presses a gentle kiss on your forehead, but his body tenses under you. Satoru already told you multiple times that it can’t go on like this. And even though you secretly agree with him, you see no other way. The people need you, as well as your students. Maybe it just isn’t part of the job to have many breaks.

“But I do. And I care about my wife’s wellbeing more than about Jujutsu High itself. I will talk to them. I can’t watch anymore.”

“Satoru.”

Your tired eyes lock with his. You had this talk over and over. Even though you really appreciate his concern, you don’t want him to use the power he has for you.

“You know what I think about that, please don’t.”

“But baby, I really miss you! You lost a fair amount of weight, you sleep maybe 8 hours a week and are constantly worn out. It can’t go on like this. I know that this isn’t a job but your passion and that you refuse to let anyone down, but at the moment, you neglect yourself the most. You need to be your own priority. And if you don’t want to stand up for yourself, be sure that I will. Because I love you with all my heart and I promised to be there for you.”

You really don’t deserve him. Satoru looks after you like no other, his six eyes always set upon you. How can a woman be so lucky and call him her wife? To be honest, you still have no clue why he chose you. Was is because you are strong? Or because you’re smart? Maybe it was for your looks, but there are tons of beautiful women on this earth. You hug him a little tighter.

“I love you, Satoru”, you breathe out, small smile hanging on your lips while your mind slowly drifts away.

Sleep. Sleep sounds good at the moment. Maybe you can rest your eyes for a few seconds…

“(y/n), are you still with me?”

No reaction. The air is only filled by your soft and monotone breathing. He smiles at you tenderly, hands wrapped around your knees and back in order to carry you into the bedroom where you belong. He knows you hate it when he stands up for you, stating that he shouldn’t use the power he holds as the strongest to send you into vacation. Although being married to him, you want to stay independent in your job. Oh, what a great catch you are. But this can’t go on like this.

He lays your passed out body gently on the bed and tucks you in, thumb gently caressing your cheek. How is it possible that even after 2 years of marriage, he still admires your beauty like on the first day he met you at Jujutsu High? No matter how tired and worn out you are, no matter that your body is marked by your work. You must be the most beautiful woman in this world – externally and internally.

Satoru’s hands ball into fists. And that is exactly why he has to do something against this madness. You might be tender, sacrificing selfless, but he is certainly not when it comes to you. They won’t get away with this.

_____________________________________________________________

“Don’t do anything stupid, darling”, you warn him, eyes still glistering from lack of sleep.

You know that look on his face all too well. It doesn’t sit right with him that you leave, especially this early. But you have no other choice. These people need you, as well as your students. When you became a jujutsu sorcerer, you knew it would be hard work and that you have to put your own needs on the back burner. Oh, how much you’d love to spend a day with your husband at Jujutsu High, finally teaching the young how to use their abilities again.

But this is your destiny now. And if you can make your contribution with that, you will simply endure it.

“Don’t know when I’ll come home. I text you when it’s over. Love you”, you place a small kiss on his cheek and take in his scent one last time before you leave again.

Satoru puts on his uniform and makes his way to Jujutsu High. Fuck your determination and prohibitions. He doesn’t care about those anyway. The only thing that’s important to him at the moment is your well-being.

“You’ve got some nerve”, he starts, bursting into the room where Yoshinobu Gakuganji, Masamichi Yaga and some other old farts are gathered on the floor, gazing at him with nothing but annoyance in their eyes.

“You can’t just barge in here like that”, Gakuganji comments.

“I really don’t give a fuck. How is it that my wife has been sent on missions without a break for months? Find someone else to do your dirty work”, Satoru hisses, face visibly irritated even though he’s wearing his blindfold.

“She never complained though. You know yourself that jujutsu sorcerers don’t grow like grass in a meadow. She’s efficient, sturdy and straightforward. She’s old enough to take care of her own, Satoru”, Yaga replies dryly.

Is this for real? Again, Satoru’s hands ball into fists, whole body on fire. Are they actually listening to themselves?

“Yeah, she never complained because she literally never does, boneheads. That was her last mission for time being, otherwise I’ll torch the whole place here. Never forget that it’s my wife we’re talking about.”

“You would never do that”, Utahime remarks.

“Don’t. Test. Me.”

“This is my last warning. Put her back as a teacher, which is actually her main job in this rat hole. If something like that happens again, I’ll make your life living hell. Mark my words.”

And with that, Gojo storms out of the room, leaving everyone in awe. They have never seen him this serious and angry. Maybe you really do need a break.

“I have to say…(y/n) worked her ass off over the last few weeks, more than any other jujutsu sorcerer…”, Gakuganji throws into the room.

“You can’t imagine what happened!”, you yell through the whole apartment, a smile creeping up Satoru’s face.

“I bet you’ll tell my in just a second”, he replies.

“I’ve got some time off, no mission in sight! And I will get to finally teach again. God, I really miss the students”, you groan, letting yourself fall into Satoru’s arms.

“What a lucky coincidence. They must have finally realized that you are working yourself up.”

“Don’t fool me, I know exactly that you have something to do with this. Even though I told you not to.”

“(y/n), I would never do that! As a good husband, I would never in a million years even think about doing something you told me not to do!”, he dramatically announces.

“You threatened them, didn’t you?”

“Well, y’know. I told them a few things”, he admits with a sly smile

You want to be mad at him for disregarding you, but you simply can’t. Deep within, you are way too relieved over a good amount of sleep that you can even think about lashing out on him for helping you.

“Please tell me you weren’t mean.”

You wrap your arms around his large frame and kiss him passionately. God, how much you missed this. Finally you are able to enjoy time with your husband again, to wake up next to him in the morning and snuggle up to him, no following mission lingering through your mind. Only now you realize how tired and worn out you actually are. If it wasn’t for Satoru you’d probably break down rather sooner than later. Maybe you really need to stand up for yourself more…

“Oh, I was. But I don’t want to think about these old farts right now. Let’s go to bed instead.”

“Nothing better than that”, you mumble against his chest while sleep consumes you all over again.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Harmony of Hearts || Bucky Barnes

Character: Bucky x SHIELD!Reader

Summary: A new SHIELD agent with a troubled past struggles to escape the shadows that haunt her. Understanding her pain, Bucky becomes a steadfast companion, offering support and encouragement.

Theme: Fluff, Slice of Life, Heart-Warming.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my follower @winterwitch-trash. Life's journey often takes us through challenging times. You are stronger than you know, and I believe in your ability to overcome. Keep moving forward, and know that brighter days are ahead. To all my followers and readers, Happy New Year 2024! Wishing you a year filled with joy, success, and beautiful moments. Here's to new beginnings, shared stories, and the coming year's endless possibilities. Cheers to growth, laughter, and the adventures that await. 🎉��

Within the bustling corridors of SHIELD, Y/N navigated the ebb and flow of her new life. The camaraderie among her colleagues provided a sense of belonging, yet there were moments when the shadows of her past cast a subtle veil over her determination.

One evening, after a demanding mission, Bucky approached her with a reassuring smile. "You held your ground out there, Y/N. Impressive."

A grateful smile graced her lips. "Thanks, Bucky. But sometimes, it feels like my past is a shadow I can't escape."

Understanding flickered in Bucky's eyes. "I've been down that road. You're not alone now. We're a team."

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N faced challenges that tested her resilience. Bucky, a steadfast presence, offered encouragement and shared his own experiences of triumph over inner demons. He reminded her that strength flourished in vulnerability.

Strolling through the helicarrier's corridors one day, Y/N confessed, "Finding someone who gets it is rare."

Bucky chuckled warmly. "Life surprises you, and you're one of the good surprises, Y/N."

Rooftop conversations became a haven where words flowed freely, carried away by the night breeze. It was during one of these moments that Y/N, vulnerability in her gaze, expressed gratitude.

"You make the load feel lighter," she admitted.

Bucky's response was a reassuring smile. "We're in this together, Y/N."

Struggles persisted, and Y/N found herself wrestling with the demons of her past in moments of solitude. Despite her efforts, the haunting echoes threatened to undermine her progress. Bucky, keenly observant, noticed the subtle changes in her demeanor.

In the helicarrier's kitchen, shared meals became a ritual of companionship. Bucky, sensing her struggles, became an unwavering pillar of support.

However, the weight of her past sometimes proved too heavy, and Y/N's attempts to articulate her pain often ended in frustrated silences.

"You're trying too hard to carry it all alone," Bucky gently remarked one evening, his eyes reflecting concern.

Y/N sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I just don't want to burden anyone."

Bucky shook his head, "We're a team, remember? You're not a burden, Y/N. Let us help carry the load."

Despite her efforts to make it work, Y/N found herself grappling with feelings of inadequacy. In the face of mission failures or personal setbacks, she retreated into a self-imposed isolation, convinced that her struggles were a testament to her perceived shortcomings.

One day, as they walked through the helicarrier's corridors, Bucky gently nudged her shoulder. "You're not defined by your mistakes, Y/N. You're defined by how you rise from them."

His words lingered, sinking into the recesses of her heart. Y/N realized that her journey toward healing wasn't a straight path. It was a maze of ups and downs, and Bucky was there, a guiding presence in the labyrinth of her uncertainties.

As they faced new challenges, Y/N's struggles persisted, but so did Bucky's unwavering support. In moments of doubt, he became the anchor that steadied her, the voice of reason that countered the whispers of self-criticism.

One evening, after a particularly trying mission, Y/N again found herself on the rooftop. Instead of bearing the weight alone this time, she turned to Bucky with a vulnerability that transcended words.

He listened, not with judgment but with a genuine understanding that only someone who had walked a similar path could provide.

"You don't have to have it all figured out, Y/N," Bucky reassured her. "We're all works in progress. And you're doing better than you think."

As the helicarrier hummed with activity around them, Y/N felt a shift within herself. Bucky's support, coupled with the realization that she didn't have to navigate the journey alone, infused her with a renewed sense of resilience.

Their friendship, born amidst struggles, became a testament to the transformative power of genuine connection. Y/N's path, once marked by solitary footsteps, now had the imprint of a companion who shared both the highs and lows.

In their shared moments, amidst laughter and shared vulnerabilities, Y/N discovered that the journey toward healing wasn't a destination to reach but a continual growth process.

With Bucky by her side, the echoes of her past became softer, replaced by the harmonious notes of a friendship that thrived in the face of adversity.

And so, within the heart of SHIELD, where the complexities of duty met the warmth of camaraderie, Y/N and Bucky continued navigating life's intricacies.

Their friendship, a symphony of shared struggles and unwavering support, played on a melody that resonated with the promise of brighter tomorrows.

-end-

Author Note :

Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account. Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating. Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

I'm now offering faster release and bonus chapters for Ko-fi members. If you enjoy my content and want early access, consider supporting me on Ko-fi!

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

I'm open for business! What should I create next? Share your prompts in the Ask Box!

[aurorasgate]

hellooo :)))

i love your writing so much and i don't know if requests are open but if they aren't ignore this please :>

i literally would DIE for diluc hurt/comfort anyday i love him so much ☹️💞💞

can i please request diluc x fem reader who is suffering with depression but hides it from diluc because he already has a traumatic background and she doesn't wanna be a burden, and he finds out about her depression when she is having one of her episodes and he just goes all fluffy 🤭 💕

you don't have to write this if you're uncomfortable but have a nice day/night anyways :)) and lola is so cute btw :3

diluc ragnvindr x reader

warnings: no pronouns used, hurt/comfort, mentions of depression but i tried to make it pretty generalized! what i did write was based on my own experience with depression so im sorry if it’s wrong compared to anyone else’s

authors note: thank you so much for your kind words & for requesting! i hope this was okay 🥺🩷 hehe lola is such a lil baby thank you🩷💕

diluc had always told you that you could rely on him whenever you needed, for anything you needed, and when he said those words you had agreed with a smile when you knew just how little you wanted to burden him with anything at all. let alone these emotions you had dealt with for so long, that still seemed to get the better of you from time to time, that could consume you and make the world feel as dark and heavy as the deepest parts of the sea.

so you never reached out, never told him about the emotions crashing into you like a rocky tide  even when you felt like you might break under his tender gaze and his worried tone as he asks if you’re alright when you weren’t doing the best of jobs at holding it together. seeing the stoic diluc worry for you, offer you himself just to be sure you were alright.. a part of you felt as though you didn’t deserve it, but he was always so kind, and he needn't worry about you. he already had so much on his mind and that weighed down his own heart..

this was something you could and would keep to yourself, something you had to fight all by yourself, and you did your damndest to hide it from him. even as you fell for him, wanting to give him your heart and soul, including the broken pieces you were trying so hard to put back together, you chose to keep it close to your chest and not let him be burdened by your depression.

but what were you to do when he caught you drowning in the middle of that vast, depthless, ocean and offered you himself to hold onto?

his voice was wrought with emotion as he called your name and caught your attention through your teary eyes. you thought you had been avoiding him successfully, seeing him enough to where he wouldn’t suspect you but with enough distance that he wouldn’t see just how okay you were not the past weeks, but now that he was in front of you, kneeling to meet your body that felt too heavy to carry as you cried, you realize maybe he had known all along and waited patiently for you to tell him or show him. 

you saw the black leather of his gloves hovering over you, hesitant to touch you but his ruby eyes told you of how badly he wished to hold you, to comfort you. he was so close you could smell the lingering fragrance of wine and oak on his skin, felt the heat of his body even if he wasn’t touching you at this moment. 

“please.. talk to me,” he pleads, his voice cracking at his own emotions becoming too much for him to hold back.

of course he had noticed the signs of your sadness, not knowing the entire depths of it all but nonetheless wanting to help you carry it, remind you that you were never alone and that his strength, no matter the form you needed it in, would always be yours to rely upon. when he came to check up on you, his heart yearning to see you, he hadn’t expected to find you in the quietness of your living room, clinging to a pillow as if it might help stop your sobbing the tighter you held it. 

he was quick on his feet to make his way to your side, forgetting about anything other than you and the deep desire to do anything to bring back your smile, but startling you in the process when his fingers touch your shoulder and you jump back in surprise, not having heard him knock at the door or call your name before entering after your sad sounds muffled through the door had him thinking the worst. 

“diluc..” you choke out, not knowing what to do other than succumb to how badly you need him right now. in the suffocating ice depths he was the blazing fire that promised to keep you safe, keep you warm, until you could go on; the steadiness of it, of him, a silent vow to never leave your side.

the moment your hands touch his arms, trembling fingers clinging to his coat sleeves with a tighter grip than you intended, he finally lets himself touch you again. his touch is much softer than your own, as if you were made of the finest glass and he was the sworn keeper and protector of such a precious object. warm leather catches your endless tears, strokes your cheeks to try to wipe them away and when he learns it will be to no avail, at least not yet, his gentle hands tangle into your hair and around your middle, pulling you against his chest.

his touch grows more intense then, nearly matching your own that holds onto the back of his coat and some of his hair. it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t bother him, hold on as tightly as you need for he would not waver. 

you can hear the beating of his heart in your ears, each thump quieting the thoughts you couldn’t get to stop before. the warmth that surrounds you seeps into your bones and thaws every bit of cold that held you, the softness of his shirt collecting your tears, his quiet ‘i’m here’ and ‘i’ve got you’ wrapping around your heart and encasing it in protective flames.

after a while, never once parting from each other's embrace, your body grows weak, your hold softening while his remained comforting and steady. your eyes no longer weep so unwillfully but your sorrow is replaced with shame and worry. you hadn’t meant for him to see.. wanted to be stronger than this for him and for yourself-

your thoughts are cut off by the hand once lost in your hair now gently pulling up your chin to meet his gaze, nothing but earnest worry and love swirling in his scarlet eyes. for the first time since you grabbed ahold of him, he finally lets go of your middle, long and steady fingers coming to move the hair sticking to your wet cheeks. your eyes flutter closed as his movements and you keep your arms around him, not ready to let go but he doesn’t have any intention of moving away from you. 

he whispers your name, his own emotions still at the back of his throat, and your eyes open slowly in response, even if at times under his undivided attention you couldn’t look for long before bursting with warmth and embarrassment. you think perhaps you should be embarrassed now, puffy eyes with wet lashes and your running nose, the mess you’ve made of his shirt, the truth of what you’ve been hiding from him finally coming to light, leaving you vulnerable but you find yourself unable to look away despite it all and your heart beating with hope when he speaks again.

“whatever ails you, no matter what it is, i will always be beside you to help you through it. in any way i can,” his fingers caress your cheek with one hand and along your jaw with the other. you swear you could cry all over again but for happier reasons this time. “i will hold you. i will give you my strength, anything you could ask for. and when you’re ready to share with me, i will listen.”

“‘luc..” your eyes drop, your fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his coat. you don’t want to keep it from him any longer.. not when he looks at you like this, like you were his whole world. but your worries hold you back.. “how could i possibly burden you with this?” you mumble, like a child not wanting to admit that had done something bad. “after everything..”

before you can say more, compare your sorrows to his own when that was the very last thing he wanted, he pulls you against his chest. the past haunted him, kept a dark cloud over his world, blocking out the sun and moon, but you were his future, his light in that darkness and there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you. there was nothing he would let you go through alone.

neither of you would ever have to go through anything alone again, not now that you had each other.

“you are never a burden to me,” he says it like it was so matter of fact but still like it pained him that you thought anything different. “please share your happiness and sorrows with me,” his grip tightens around you, his face now buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot on your skin, soft red locks tickling your jaw and neck. “through it all i swear i’ll be here.”

genshin impact masterlist | main masterlist

[missy4176]

-Facing Regret-

Kim Dokja x Reader

Kim Dokja's POV

The world is quieter tonight. The stars, faint and sparse, hang in the sky like distant memories, barely visible through the ever-present clouds. It’s a night like any other in this ruined world—cold, unforgiving, and heavy with the weight of what’s been lost. We sit on the rooftop of an abandoned building, the concrete beneath us rough and cold. You’re beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch, but neither of us speaks.

I’ve never been good with words. Not the spoken kind, anyway. Written words are different—they’re distant, safe, something I can hide behind. But here, with you, there’s no hiding. I feel your gaze on me, curious and concerned, and I know that you’ve sensed something amiss. You always do.

“Kim Dokja,” you finally say, your voice gentle but firm. “What’s on your mind?”

I glance at you, the dim light casting soft shadows on your face. You’ve always been able to read me too well, even when I try to keep everything locked away. Maybe it’s because you’ve seen me at my worst—when I’ve been nothing more than a frightened, lonely child trapped in a man’s body, fighting desperately to survive. Or maybe it’s because you’ve been with me through all of this, never once faltering, no matter how much I’ve tried to push you away.

I hesitate, the words caught in my throat. There’s so much I want to say, but where do I even begin? How do I explain the regrets that haunt me, the memories that refuse to fade no matter how hard I try to bury them?

“I... I’ve made mistakes,” I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “So many mistakes.”

You don’t interrupt or try to reassure me right away. You just listen, giving me the space I need to find the words.

“I thought... I thought I could control everything,” I continue, my hands clenching into fists. “I thought that if I just followed the story, if I did everything right, then maybe... maybe things wouldn’t have to end the way they did. But it didn’t matter. People still got hurt. People still died. And now, all I have are these regrets, these ghosts that won’t leave me alone.”

I close my eyes, trying to block out the images that flood my mind. The faces of those I’ve lost, the people I couldn’t save, the times I hesitated when I should have acted. It all weighs on me, a burden that I can never seem to escape.

But then I feel your hand on mine, warm and steady. I open my eyes to find you looking at me, your expression soft but resolute.

“Kim Dokja,” you say, your voice carrying a quiet strength that cuts through the darkness. “You’re not alone in this. You’ve made mistakes, yes, but so have I. So has everyone. But that doesn’t mean you’re defined by them. You’re more than just your regrets.”

I want to believe you. I want to let go of the guilt that’s been gnawing at me for so long. But it’s hard—so damn hard. I’ve spent my entire life thinking that I’m nothing, that I don’t deserve happiness or forgiveness. How can I just... let that go?

You seem to sense my turmoil because you tighten your grip on my hand, anchoring me in the present.

“I know it’s not easy,” you continue, your voice unwavering. “But you’ve come this far, haven’t you? You’ve survived things that would have broken anyone else. And you did it not just because of your knowledge of the story, but because of who you are. You’re stronger than you think, Kim Dokja. And you don’t have to face this alone.”

Your words stir something within me, a fragile hope that I’ve been too afraid to acknowledge. Could it really be that simple? Could I truly move past the mistakes I’ve made and find something resembling peace?

But before I can say anything, you shift the focus back to yourself, as if sensing that I need a moment to process.

“And it’s not just you,” you admit, your voice growing softer. “I have regrets too. Things I wish I could change, moments I wish I could go back to and do differently.”

I look at you, surprised. You’ve always seemed so... composed, so sure of yourself. It’s hard to imagine you struggling with the same doubts and regrets that plague me.

“What kind of regrets?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

You smile, but there’s a sadness in it that tugs at something deep within me.

“I regret not trusting myself more,” you say quietly. “I regret the times I let fear hold me back, the times I didn’t say what I really felt because I was too afraid of what might happen. And... I regret not being able to save everyone. No matter how hard I tried, there were still people I couldn’t protect.”

Your words resonate with me more than I expected. For so long, I’ve seen you as someone who’s always been there for me, someone who’s always known what to do. But hearing you speak of your own regrets, I realize that you’re just as human as I am, just as flawed and uncertain.

“Then... we’ll face them together,” I say, surprising even myself with the resolve in my voice. “Your regrets, my regrets... we’ll deal with them, one step at a time. And we won’t let them define us.”

You smile again, this time more genuinely, and there’s a warmth in your eyes that makes something in my chest loosen. For the first time in a long while, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I can do this. We can do this.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice filled with quiet gratitude. “For being here with me.”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Thank you... for everything.”

We sit in silence for a while, the weight of our conversation settling over us. But it’s not an uncomfortable silence—if anything, it’s comforting. It’s a reminder that we’re not alone in this world, that we have each other to lean on when the past threatens to drag us down.

As the night stretches on, the cold seeping into our bones, I find myself reaching out to you, pulling you closer. You don’t resist, letting me hold you as if you’re the only thing keeping me grounded in this chaotic world. And maybe you are.

In the end, it’s not the words that bring us comfort, but the simple act of being there for each other. The knowledge that, no matter how heavy our regrets, we don’t have to carry them alone.

And for now, that’s enough.

[magical-reid]

Let Me Walk You Home

Paring: Lip Gallagher x GN!Reader (No use of Y/n)

Word Count: 1.2 K

Prompt: 8: “I’d feel much better if you’d let me walk you home.”

Summary: Late at night in Chicago, feeling overwhelmed and alone, you slip away from your friends, only to be followed by Lip Gallagher, who insists on walking you home despite your resistance. His quiet concern and refusal to let you be alone bring a rare sense of relief, reminding you that even in your brokenness, you're not entirely alone.

It was late, and the neon lights of the bar cast a hazy glow over the streets of Chicago. You’d spent the evening trying to forget about the overwhelming weight that seemed to be pressing down on you. Your friends were still laughing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to join in. Your thoughts were spiraling again, the same old worries, the same old loneliness. The things you’d been pushing away for so long were starting to push back harder, and you couldn’t keep pretending like everything was fine.

You’d managed to slip away from the group unnoticed, hoping no one would ask too many questions. You didn’t have the energy for small talk, and certainly not the strength to explain how suffocating it all felt right now. Your feet carried you out into the cold night, hands shoved deep into the pockets of your jacket. The city was quieter than usual at this hour, but the emptiness only made everything feel worse.

As you walked, you tried to steady your breath, telling yourself that you’d be fine. The apartment wasn’t far from the bar, and you were used to walking home alone. The streets were familiar. Safe. But tonight, something felt off. Maybe it was the way your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t catch your breath. Maybe it was the shadows that seemed to stretch too far under the dim streetlights, your mind playing tricks on you. Whatever it was, you didn’t want to be alone in your thoughts, but you didn’t want to burden anyone with your mess either.

Before you could get too far, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you. You glanced over your shoulder, and there he was—Lip Gallagher, his familiar smirk on his face, hands shoved into his pockets just like yours. You knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t the type to follow someone around unless he was damn sure something was up.

“You good?” he called, his voice a mix of curiosity and caution.

You didn’t feel like talking, so you just nodded, keeping your head down as you quickened your pace.

Lip wasn’t having it. “You sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to fall apart at the seams.” His tone was blunt, but there was a quiet edge to it, a sharpness that came from years of knowing when people were lying to him.

"I'm fine, Lip," you muttered, trying to sound more convincing than you felt. You were always fine, even when you weren't.

He didn’t buy it for a second. With a couple long strides, he was by your side, his eyes scanning your face with that intense look he always wore when he was paying attention to someone—not in the way people usually looked at others, but the way people looked at something they wanted to fix.

"You know, you’re not fooling anyone with that ‘I’m fine’ bullshit." His voice softened a little, but the edge of concern was still there. "If you need to talk, you can—"

“I don’t need to talk,” you interrupted, a little too sharply. You wanted to shake him off, to get away from the weird vulnerability his presence was pulling from you. You didn’t want anyone to see this side of you.

Lip raised an eyebrow, unfazed by your response. “Sure you don’t. But it sure as hell doesn’t look like it.”

You kept walking, refusing to meet his gaze. The streetlights flickered as you passed under them, but it wasn’t the shadows you were avoiding. It was him. Lip Gallagher, who never took the easy route, who never let anyone get away with hiding.

You both fell into silence again, but it wasn’t comfortable. It was heavy. His presence was like a magnet pulling at your tension, and you couldn’t escape it. He was still walking beside you, close enough that you could feel his eyes on you.

When you finally reached an intersection, Lip stopped abruptly, grabbing your arm to gently pull you to a stop. “I’d feel much better if you’d let me walk you home,” he said, his voice lower now, more serious than it had been before.

You stared at him, fighting the heat that rushed to your cheeks. There was no way you could let him walk you home. It would make everything real—your cracks, your brokenness, the fact that you couldn’t handle being alone tonight. It would mean opening up, even if just a little, and you weren’t ready for that.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Lip,” you said, your voice a little too defensive. You tried to shake off his hand, but he held it there, firm but not forceful.

“I’m not babysitting you,” he shot back, a slight sneer in his voice. “But I’m not letting you walk around out here by yourself either. It’s late, and you look like you’re one step away from losing it.” His eyes were intense now, and for a split second, you could see that familiar Gallagher fire beneath them—the one that made people stop and listen.

You shook your head. “I’m fine,” you said again, but this time your voice wavered. Damn it. He was right. You weren’t fine.

"Yeah? Then what’s this?" Lip gestured vaguely at your face, your clenched jaw, your stiff posture. “You think I don’t notice when people are falling apart? I’m not stupid. You don’t have to act like everything’s okay when it’s not.”

You felt your stomach twist. The last thing you wanted was to let him see this side of you.

“Just let me walk you home,” he repeated, softer this time, but there was no mistaking the urgency in his words.

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. You knew Lip—he didn’t do things out of some misplaced sense of duty. If he was offering, it was because he cared. And the thought of someone caring about you—hell, noticing you—made your insides twist even more.

Finally, you let out a shaky breath. “Fine,” you muttered, the words tasting like defeat on your tongue. “But just for a little while. I don’t want to—”

“I know,” Lip interrupted, his tone more gentle than you expected. “I’m not asking for a damn thing. Just don’t want you out here by yourself.”

He fell into step beside you, but this time, the silence felt different. It wasn’t filled with tension or discomfort; it was… more like a quiet understanding. Neither of you had to say anything more, and you didn’t feel the need to pretend anymore.

For the first time that night, you let yourself breathe.

As you walked in step with Lip, his presence was like a weight lifted from your shoulders, and you found yourself grateful for the quiet, subtle way he stood by you. Even when you didn’t deserve it. Even when you didn’t want it.

And for a few minutes, as you walked through the quiet streets with the lights flickering above, you let yourself feel the smallest sense of relief. You weren’t alone. And maybe that was all you needed for now.

[jiyascepter]

Embracing Radiance

Masterlist

Want to be added to my taglist? Here!

Pairing: Loki x gn! reader

Words: 1.1k +

Warning/Content: slight angst but mostly fluff, insecure reader, the reader undresses in front of Loki (but nothing really explicit activity happening), established relationship, no use of y/n | lmk if there is more

Synopsis: Loki becomes a source of strength and love for the reader who faces body-shaming at work. Through tender affirmations and intimate kisses, Loki proves that beauty is all about embracing their unique radiance.

A/N: Sooooo my first ever fanfiction! Please note that english isn't my first language so there is a possibility of some errors. Hope you all like this!

The evening sun cast a warm glow across the city, painting the buildings in hues of orange and pink. As the day came to a close, Loki lounged in the living room of the apartment he shared with you, awaiting your return. The door creaked open, and he looked up to see you enter, a weariness etched across your face.

"Darling, you're home," Loki greeted, rising from his seat with a gentle smile. He could sense something was amiss as he observed the way you carried yourself. Your shoulders slumped, and your eyes, once filled with spark, now seemed clouded with a burden. You offered a weak smile in return, kicking off your shoes and making your way towards the living room. Loki walked over to you, concern evident in his emerald eyes. "What troubles you, my love? You don't seem okay."

You sighed, a heavy exhale escaping your lips as you sank into the plush couch. Loki took a seat beside you, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's just been one of those days, Loki," you confessed, avoiding his gaze. Loki tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "Tell me, my sweet, what has transpired to cast this shadow upon your radiant countenance?"

You hesitated for a moment before deciding to confide in him. "I overheard some hurtful comments at work today. People were talking about my body, making me feel like I'm not good enough, like I should change the way I look."

Loki's expression shifted from curiosity to indignation. "They dare to criticize you? By the Nine Realms, such insolence!" He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace, placing a comforting kiss on your forehead. "You are perfect just the way you are, and anyone who says otherwise knows not the true essence of beauty." You nestled into his embrace, finding solace in his words. "I know I shouldn't let their words affect me, but it's hard, Loki. It's hard not to internalize their negativity."

Loki lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Listen to me, my love. Their words hold no weight. You are exquisite, a marvel crafted by the gods themselves. Your spirit, your mind, and yes, your body—all are divine. Do not let the shallow opinions of mortals lose your perception of self."

A small smile played on your lips, appreciating Loki's unwavering support. "Thank you, Loki. Your words mean more to me than you can imagine." Loki's eyes softened as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. "You are my heart, and I will not allow anyone to dim your light. Now, let me show you just how breathtaking you are."

With that, Loki stood, offering his hand to lead you to the bedroom. Intrigued by his proposal, you followed him, the warmth of his hand comforting. As you entered the dimly lit room, candles flickered, casting a soft glow that danced upon the walls.

Loki turned to you, his gaze filled with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. "Undress for me, my love, and let me unveil the beauty that is rightfully mine to adore."

A hint of blush colored your cheeks, but there was a magnetic pull in Loki's gaze that made you feel desired rather than self-conscious. You slowly removed your clothes, each garment falling away as Loki watched with a hunger that wasn't merely physical but emotional—a yearning to connect with the vulnerability you shared.

Once you stood before him, exposed in more ways than one, Loki's eyes roamed your form, appreciating every curve and contour. He stepped closer, tracing his fingers delicately along the lines of your body.

"You are a masterpiece." he whispered, his breath sending shivers across your skin. "From the curve of your neck to the gentle slope of your shoulders, every inch of you is a testament to the divine artistry of creation."

Loki dropped to his knees, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the top of your foot. "This, my love, is a symbol of your journey—the paths you've walked and the steps you've taken. It is beautiful."

He continued his trail of kisses, looking up from time to time stealing glances of your reaction, moving upwards with each gentle caress. "Your knees, strong and resilient, have carried you through the storms of life. They are a testament to your strength."

His lips lingered on your thighs, and he spoke with reverence, "These, the canvas upon which life's tales are written. Every scar, every mark, tells a story of battles fought and victories won. They are a testament to your courage."

Loki stood, his eyes locking onto yours. "Your hips, a gateway to passion and pleasure. They are a celebration of desire and a testament to the allure that lies within you."

He circled his arms around your waist, pulling you close. A shiver runs across your body as his cold fingertips touch you. "Your abdomen, the core of your being. It houses the fire that fuels your spirit."

Loki pressed a gentle kiss to your collarbone. "Your chest, the home to your heart. It beats with a rhythm that is uniquely yours, and it is a testament to the love that defines you."

He looked deep into your eyes, his voice softening. "Your arms, the embodiment of your embrace. They offer comfort, strength, and support. They are a testament to the love you share."

Loki brought his lips to yours in a passionate kiss, the intensity of his emotions conveyed through the connection of your mouths. "And your lips, my love, are the seal of our love—a testament to the union of our souls."

As he spoke, Loki's words became a soothing balm, healing the wounds inflicted by the world outside. With each kiss, he unraveled the layers of insecurity, leaving behind a trail of affirmation and adoration.

"You are magnificent." Loki says, his eyes locking onto yours. "Do not let the opinions of others taint the truth of your worth. You are a celestial being, and in my eyes, you will forever shine for me."

Loki's words and soft kisses ended you flustered, and your body as always, asking for more. It was an intoxicating blend of mischief in his eyes along with his tender touch. The weight that had burdened your spirit began to lift, replaced by a newfound sense of confidence and self-love. Loki's words had the power to transform, to elevate, and you found yourself grateful for the depth of his understanding and the sincerity of his love.

In the arms of Loki, you found not just a lover but a partner who saw beyond the surface and cherished the essence of who you truly were—a radiant soul worthy of love and admiration.

[spnwin-reader]

When going up against Mars Neto—John overdid it, displaying the "overkill" signature of a disrupted psyche.

But his anger saved Carlos. Carlos knows this, and thanks him, but he's unsettled. Perhaps he senses that this experience... injured John terribly.

Carlos just doesn't want to see it... or his part in it.

He tentatively offers this:

CARLOS: Thank you for what you did back there. JOHN: You're welcome. CARLOS: If you ever... want to talk. You let me know, okay? JOHN (an uncomfortable smile): Yeah. I wi—I will.

///

What a difference from the flippant pressure Carlos put on John to talk earlier in the episode—the very thing that triggered John and left him feeling cornered!

After delivering a somewhat more philosophical take—not a specific personal trauma—Carlos bailed to do the investigation. He spoke about how they’re all the same, but it wasn’t rooted in an intensely personal grief or loss.

It was about the shape of his life, mostly.

And then he left John to sit in the fallout zone.

Anyway, I’m just saying that why on earth would John want to talk to Carlos now? Carlos accidentally made himself an unsafe figure in John's world of emotional vulnerabilities:

CARLOS: My friend would actually love to go next, right John?

spnwin 1x04

(This is... a little analogous to how Sam Winchester operates with respect to talking it out with his own loved ones.)

///

With respect to John's overkill, I can't help but be reminded of Mary seeing Jack's overkill signature in Game Night.

Both Carlos and Mary are "big heart" characters, who sometimes unintentionally lean on others too hard in service of The Cause and The Need to Protect—until those they lean on break wide open.

(NOTE: We see Mary also do this with Cas in First Blood.)

There’s just something so crunchy about circumstances where someone’s so useful, so powerful that you never bench them—because you just need them too damn much. (But well…that kind of weight is way too heavy for anyone to carry.)

14x17

BONUS:

“You left them!” she shouts. John’s not around for her to be mad at, so she takes it out on Cas. (But also, she realizes that she left them too. Sees the error of her ways and apologizes.)

///

Sam does this on occasion:

DEAN: Oh, what? You think he's ready? He's had a pretty rough go of it lately. SAM: Which one of us hasn't? Seems insane to leave our one and only angel friend on the bench. DEAN (resigned): I'll call him. SAM: Thank you.

11x06

///

So, ofc, does Dean.

(x) (x) (x) (x)

Dean wants Cas to be invincible to both keep them safe as a family... and also to be strong enough to take care of himself.

Jack-Dean-Mary all tend to trade in having great expectations for Cas in particular.

When Dean marshals the forces, Cas often ends up with the heavy burdens—partly because of tragic circumstances of the narrative, and partly because he’s so often physically the strongest.

//

And so. The "courage" characters often get revved into overdrive:

//

Even Cas has an "overkill" signature on occasion

Godstiel is the obvious example, but the moments in 15x03 and 15x06 often go unnoticed. Respectively, they’re signs of Cas rising to the occasion—but also, like Jack and John, of a worsening psyche. We’ll see how his resilience sometimes slips into something else: the dreaded “destiny.”

Above: Cas overkills Belphegor, destroying Lilith’s Crook and Jack’s vessel in the process—cutting off any chance of getting Jack back, at least for the time being. It’s a decisive move, yes, but also a glimpse of his fraying resilience.

&

How Cas kills the sheriff in 15x05 is also... disturbing. Angry. "Savage."

And the “Take who you want, when you want”shows us Cas’s anger at Chuck. It connects to his later words to Dean: "When God took [Jack] from us…"

We get so locked in and amazed by the strength of certain characters that sometimes we miss these signs.

///

No one is unbreakable.

Sometimes, with certain people... we just forget.

///

Like:

BELPHAGOR: Funny— they didn't seem to think twice about it—

//

Just like The Cause keeps winning out over care in SPN prime, the truth is that the Core Four in SPNwin don’t really hesitate to send John into danger—whether it’s taking on a monster in episode one or facing off against a god:

MILLIE: You sent John into battle against a god who's immortal?

(She didn’t know that, Millie. But it’s true that she sent him into that minefield. That's how soldiers operate... and it's tragic.)

Above: Like Dean, Mary can at times be prone to a mission-oriented (or safety-oriented) insensitivity. She runs hot and cold—tender one moment, tough the next.

..

Mary's hypocrisy and immaturity is every bit as delicious as John's grief- and fear- induced anger:

Later in 1x06, Mary will accuse John of throwing himself into danger, and it never occurs to her that her own hypocrisy might be what chafes. "Everyone's worried about you!" she says.

Then she accuses him of "running towards danger." She says, "this isn't a game; this is life or death." But is he the one who doesn't know that... or is SHE? (See above.)

The bottom line is this: she feels that she can put him in danger, no problems. Because she trusts her own judgment. Her own judgment gives her the illusion of control.

As for John, she wants him to be strong and to be resilient and take on what she determines to be the acceptable level of danger. He should slow down when she says slow down, and most importantly... he should make sure not to actually be in danger, even when and especially when she's sending him into that danger.

//

In 1x06, she asks to be let into his head, but she turns cold the minute he does. "I don't need you using me as an excuse to avoid your issues," she says, even as she verbally minimizes his anger and fear, and sidesteps that the root of his running is loss. (Loss of his father and the terrible fear of losing her too.) That's an approach that shuts down conversation, even if she is right.

Best part? She's doing all this while avoiding her own hypocrisy re: John's safety and her role as his battle commander.

Far from a warning sign, this is actually a sign of the maturing love between John and Mary: namely, that it's scary to care about each other. They want to be stronger for and more cautious with each other’s safety.

(SEE: Dean and Cas in Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets: -> "Wow, this Benjamin seems like he's pretty cool, you know. Like he wouldn't make any half-cocked, knee-jerk choices.")

It's an impossible tightrope. The pot and the kettle!

It's the duality of being a comrade-in-arms with him and the burgeoning desire to be his lover. She wants to be protected by him and protect him from harm.

///

John the weapon

Eventually, in SPNwin, they’ll have to reckon with how they use John (and they will, in 1x06 The Art of Dying). It's about the fact that they know John’s struggling, but they lean on him anyway because he's strong and they need him. (Ironically, they do this even though John's the newest to the hunting world!)

It's so interesting to me that in SPN prime, John starts out as an innocent civilian—lied to, unarmed, and unprepared to protect himself or his family. Afterwards, he overcorrects, becoming the hardened, cruel father we know so well.

But in SPNwin, he steps into the life and becomes John the weapon almost immediately. And right away, Mary starts to lean on him in ways that echo how her Season 12 prime counterpart instinctively tried to lean on Cas.

Like Henry before him, John seems unbreakable—like "nothing can kill the guy" (SEE: Larry in 8x12: "So, Henry is dead. I was so sure that—that he had survived.")

In SPN, characters like John—and especially Cas and Jack, sometimes Dean—are often lost to that same sense of duty. Not because they aren’t loved, but because they were so often needed too much to be protected. It's an agony, really.

DEAN: So you're always thinking to yourself, he's indestructible. He'll always be around, nothing can kill [him]. (2x03)

///

JACK: Since I've been alive, everyone assumed I would be this special person who goes on forever. (14x07)

[stardustlin]

Hello lovely! If you're comfortable, are you able to write a Miguel x f!reader where the reader is being sexually harassed (or verbally abused) by her boss but doesn't want to burden miguel with it? He's busy saving the multiverse and she doesn't believe she's worth the trouble. She thinks that if she ignores it and just smiles through the pain it'll eventually get easier but the actions are getting worse to the point where she's having trouble hiding it? Angst/hurt/comfort?

miguel o’hara x fem! reader

warning: sensitive content related to sexual harassment and abuse. reader discretion is advised. don’t say i didn’t warn you, read or skip it’s up to you. angst/hurt/comfort…

a/n: if you have ever experienced S/A from the bottom of my heart, i am truly sorry. as a S/A survivor i know what it feels like and how complex the severity of the situation can be, and wishing you had someone to be there for you…remember you’re not alone, you have me and others who will be there for you. my inbox and messages are open to anyone who wants to just talk to me or vent, i welcome you with open arms. much, love! —lin 🧞‍♀️

miguel could sense a shift in your demeanor, a heaviness that settled upon you like a dark cloud. despite his hectic life as Spider-Man, he never failed to notice the subtle changes in your behavior. lately, you seemed more withdrawn and distant, and it worried him. one evening, as you sat together on the couch, he gently took your hand in his, his voice filled with concern. "my love, something's been bothering you. i can see it in your eyes. you know you can tell me anything, right?"

you looked down, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on the fabric of your skirt. the weight of your secret became even heavier, guilt and fear mingling within you. you had kept the burden of your boss's harassment to yourself, not wanting to burden miguel with your troubles.

“i…i don't want to trouble you, miguel," you whispered, your voice laced with vulnerability. "you’re out there, saving the world, and I don't want to add to your worries." he squeezed your hand gently, his touch offering a small semblance of comfort. "cariño, don't you know that you're worth every ounce of my worry? your happiness and well-being mean everything to me. whatever you're going through, i want to be there for you."

tears welled up in your eyes as you finally let the walls around you crumble. the weight you had been carrying suddenly became too much to bear alone. with a trembling voice, you poured out the truth—the verbal abuse, the harassment, and the pain you had been enduring. miguel listened attentively, his anger and protectiveness boiling up inside him. as your words trailed off, miguel wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly as if trying to shield you from the pain. "i’m so sorry you had to go through this, mi amor," he whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of fury and empathy. "you never have to face it alone again. we will face this together."

from that moment forward, miguel became your unwavering pillar of support. he encouraged you to report the abuse, offering his reassurance and standing by your side throughout the process. his mere presence brought you a sense of safety and strength, allowing you to reclaim your voice and stand up against the injustices you had endured for far too long. the road to healing was not easy, but with miguel by your side, you began to rebuild your confidence and reclaim your worth. together, you navigated the often-painful journey of recovery, embracing both the hurt and the comfort that came with it. miguel’s love and determination to protect you became a beacon of hope, reminding you that you were never alone and that your well-being mattered—the love and support you shared became your source of strength in overcoming the pain.

tags 🏷️!! not tagging anyone because i know this topic can triggering :)

[aquietlifesblog]

Ravening Wolves (Dio x F!Reader) 13/?

"When it's all over," he breathes, "when I stand supreme, and am no longer a slave to fate... I shall show you heaven..."

OR

At long last, the time has come to set your grand scheme in motion: the elimination of Jotaro Kujo and Dio's glorious resurrection. The Age of Heaven is near, and you won't let the Joestars stop you—no matter how hard they fight. You've defied fate and death for Dio. Perhaps one day you'll tell him how you feel. A sequel to 'Hungry Eyes.'

Read on AO3 Note: This chapter includes explicit content

First Chapter | Masterlist |

Chapter 13: Lovefool

Giorno's demands hang heavy in the air, his gaze unwavering as he awaits an answer. Josuke, however, shifts uneasily, his suspicion of Giorno evident from the furrow of his brow.

"Look, kid, you don't need to get mixed up in this," he finally responds, his tone cautious yet firm. "If you don't know who your father is, it's probably better that way." But Giorno refuses to back down, his determination evident from the set of his jaw.

"Tell me," Giorno insists, stepping closer to Josuke, blocking his path. Giorno wants answers, and Josuke understands that desire all too well. In Giorno, he sees the same yearning he once harbored—a thirst for truth, for understanding. He sees his determination etched into every line of his face, the resolve that burns bright in his eyes, and he can't deny the earnestness of Giorno's plea.

But he knows the truth about the boy's father, he knows the dark legacy he carries and he knows the danger that lurks within the shadows of Dio's influence, the peril that awaits anyone who dares to entangle themselves in his web. So, in the end, Josuke makes a decision—a decision born out of a desire to protect Giorno from the darkness that would consume him otherwise.

The distant hum of airport activity feels completely at odds with the intensity of the moment.

"I'm sorry, Giorno," Josuke says softly, his voice heavy with the weight of his words. “You’re better off not knowing." 

And with that, Josuke turns away, his heart heavy with the burden of the secret he carries. He knows he has disappointed the younger boy, but in doing so, he hopes to spare him from the same fate that befell his own family. But as he takes that first step, he feels a nudge from Hol Horse and sees the silent question in the cowboy's eyes. 

‘Are you sure?’ 

And, for a moment, Josuke does waver—uncertainty flickers behind his eyes. But his own resolve wins in the end and Josuke nods.

He trusts his instincts, and his gut tells him that this is the right path to take. 

“At least tell me if he’s alive,” Giorno demands. 

“He’s dead,” Josuke tells him because it will be true soon enough, he thinks. 

Giorno's eyes narrow slightly at Josuke's response. He knows Josuke is lying, and can sense the deception woven into his words like a thread of silk, but he chooses not to press the issue further.

“Listen…Dio may be your father but he’s not someone you should look up to. He doesn't deserve your admiration."

So, with a heavy heart, Josuke turns to leave, his footsteps mixing in with that of the crowd. Hol Horse follows close behind, his expression unreadable as they make their way.  Neither seems to notice the tiny ladybug that lands on Josuke's shoulder, its delicate wings fluttering in the wind. 

And as Josuke and Hol Horse depart, Giorno's mind drifts back to his childhood, to the streets teeming with danger and desperation. He recalls the gangster he rescued, a man whose name he never learned but whose presence loomed large within his memories.

Though the gangster was undoubtedly a product of the criminal underworld, Giorno couldn't help but admire his strength and resilience. In a city where survival often meant embracing the darkness within, the gangster served as a silent guardian, offering Giorno a semblance of protection in a world where he had none. 

‘He doesn't deserve your admiration.’ 

Josuke's words echo in Giorno's mind, a reminder of the harsh reality of his upbringing. In a place like Napoli, where corruption and violence reign supreme, bad men are often the only ones with any semblance of power or influence. And while Giorno understands the inherent danger of idolizing such figures, he can't deny the allure of their strength and authority. Who else had the power to change things? Who else could make the world a better place? 

Having a powerful ally like Dio could prove invaluable.

Thus, through a combination of luck, sticky fingers, sheer force of will, and the power of internal biases, Giorno manages to convince the workers he has been separated from his brother just ahead. 

“The one with the hair,” he makes a forward motion just over his head, mimicking the shape of Josuke’s pompadour.

He shows a different set of workers the plane ticket he lifted from some unsuspecting couple, is declared an unaccompanied minor, and is ushered into a first-class seat soon after.

It takes a moment, but Giorno settles into his lofty surroundings, taking in the scent of expensive perfume and freshly brewed coffee that lingers in the air. He marvels at the polished wood accents and the gentle glow of the overhead lights, feeling a sense of displacement amid such luxury. But Giorno slips into the role of a confident traveler with ease, exchanging polite nods and casual smiles with his fellow passengers. He keeps his demeanor calm and collected, concealing the nervous energy that churns within him. As the flight attendants bustle about, attending to the needs of the other passengers, Giorno leans back in his seat, his mind racing with thoughts of the journey ahead. He knows the decision to follow Josuke is the right one, a gut instinct drives him forward despite the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

His mother and stepfather won't notice he's gone, or rather, they won't care that he's boarded an international flight to Florida.

So, as the plane taxis down the runway and lifts into the air, Giorno closes his eyes, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing. With each passing mile, he feels the weight of his decision begin to slip away, and as he looks out the window, out toward the vast expanse of sky stretching out before him, he feels a grand sense of purpose.

For better or for worse, he's committed to seeing this through, to uncovering the truth behind his father's identity and forging his own path in the world.

He wonders what sort of man Dio truly is. 

“Vanilla Ice,” Dio stands before the mirror in his opulent chambers, the soft glow of candlelight casting a warm hue across his skin. The scent of sandalwood incense hangs thick in the air as he turns to face his loyal servant.  "Assist me.” 

With practiced precision, Vanilla Ice helps Dio don his jewelry, relishing the opportunity to be so close to his lord. Each piece—earrings, bracelets, and so many rings—is carefully placed with meticulous care.

Vanilla Ice takes this opportunity to let his touch linger a moment longer than necessary, savoring his contact with Dio's smooth skin. Each brush of his hand against Dio sends shivers down his spine, fueling a longing for something more.

He yearns to kiss Dio’s hand, to show his reverence and devotion. But just as Vanilla Ice begins to lose himself in his fantasies, Dio's voice interrupts his solemn reverie.

"It seems I have a 'date' tonight," Dio announces with a sly expression, his eyes sparkling with mischievous glee.

Vanilla Ice tears himself away from his fantasies and his heart skips a beat at the revelation. A mix of emotions begins to flood through him: longing, envy, concern. He also wonders about you, and how poorly you would take such news.

He would help you, he thinks, hunt down this person and end their life—so long as Dio did not forbid him. 

But Dio's laughter fills the room then, a melodious sound that echoes off the walls. There's a playful edge to Dio's demeanor, a blend of mockery and affection.

"There’s no need for you to worry yourself, Ice. It would appear as though your friend has arranged this ‘date’ as a reward for me," Dio remarks, his tone dripping with amusement. "She is indeed quite grateful that Midler is no longer sulking around the estate by daylight. I am to meet her after midnight." Though Dio, ever the egotist, pays little heed to time's constraints. He knows that when he arrives, you will welcome him with open arms regardless of the hour.

With those words, Vanilla Ice's initial tension ebbs away; he knows your presence brings his Lord joy, and he knows that your happiness is intricately tied to Dio's as well, and he would do anything to ensure both of you remain happy.

So he nods in response, a serene expression settling over his features.

"I am glad to hear it, my Lord," Vanilla Ice says, his voice steady and composed. 

“You’ll ensure we aren’t disturbed tonight won’t you?” 

"Yes, you won't be disturbed."

“Good,” Dio praises, his voice smooth as velvet.

The sensation of Dio's closeness will linger in Ice's his memories, the feeling of his breath ghosting over his skin as he leaned in close.

"I trust only you to ensure the privacy of our affair." Vanilla Ice's chest swells with pride at the compliment.  And Dio's keen gaze lingers upon him, his sharp amber eyes searching, assessing. And then, with a delicate touch, he twirls a strand of Ice's hair between his fingers, a gesture that feels intimate and electrifying all at once.

“I know you won’t fail me, Ice.” Dio's gaze lingers upon him his sharp eyes piercing through the darkness to lock onto the figure before him. "You never do." There's a hunger in those eyes, a primal longing that resonates deep within his soul. He knows that tonight could be the night, the night he finally gets what he desires from both Vanilla Ice and you. 

As the seconds slip away, Dio finds himself unable to ignore the desperation emanating from his favorite servant. The tension between them crackles in the air, palpable and electric.

Vanilla Ice looks so helpless, he thinks, so utterly at Dio's mercy, and yet there's a fierce determination burning within him that Dio finds intoxicating.

“Though it still strikes me as...unfair. I’ve yet to reward you for the part you played in this.” 

“I do not need any reward,” he reiterates his words from the previous night. “But I will be glad to accept anything you wish to bestow upon me.” 

“Ah, Vanilla Ice, always so dutiful.” Dio’s lips curl into a wicked gleam, one that fails to reach his beautiful amber eyes. With a graceful twist of his fingers, Dio releases his hair, allowing it to fall back into place behind his shoulder. 

“I’m certain you’ll be pleased with what I plan to arrange." 

You wait. The air is heavy with the fragrance of roses, and a bottle of vintage red wine glistens in the soft candlelight, nestled between two crystal glasses, their delicate stems catching the flicker of the flames. Anticipation mounts as time ticks by, and you find yourself lost in a whirlwind of thought. Will Dio appreciate the effort you've put into this? Will he be pleased with the romantic gesture you've arranged? Or would he laugh and call you sentimental? 

Despite the uncertainty, you remain composed, your demeanor serene as you await his arrival. You knew he’d be late.

When he does arrive, he does so with a flourish—having traveled through stopped time to appear beside you in his dramatic way. 

"You’re late-” But before you can finish your playful remark, Dio's lips are upon yours. He kisses you with a hunger that sends shivers down your spine, igniting a fire that burns with desire and silences your words. 

Suddenly, your senses are overwhelmed by the taste of him, the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his touch. You like to think he appreciated the romantic atmosphere. Because, as the night unfolds, the air between you crackles with an undeniable tension, thick with desire and anticipation. 

Patience, you remind yourself as heated glances and tender touches fill the space between you. Patience, you remind yourself as you settle on the chaise, where Dio's fingers trail along the curve of your jaw and your hand traces the contours of his chest.

“Thank you, for keeping your promise to me.” The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning and emotion as you gaze into Dio's eyes, sharing a moment of quiet understanding. 

“Had I known you were so generous, I would have considered kindness much sooner,” he jokes. 

“I suggest, then, you be kind to me now.” You kiss him, and the luxurious silks of your gown are soon lifted above your thighs, and his clothes are forgotten in a golden pool beside the chaise, left to shimmer beside a now half-empty bottle of wine. 

The outside world fades away, leaving only the scent of the candles and the rich taste of wine that passes between your lips. 

You lay back against the cushions and Dio leans forward, his eyes sharp and dark with desire. His fingers trail down your body, teasing and tantalizing as they move closer and closer to the places that beg for his touch. You arch into him, and he leans in, his lips trailing fire along your skin as they move down your neck and collarbone. 

You can feel his hardness against you, and your heart races as you imagine him inside of you, imagine everything you planned for this night to be. 

So it’s with reluctance that you urge your body away. 

“Running away, are you?” Dio protests, drawing you close so his lips move against yours as he whispers, “After what you started?" Dio likes you like this, half-clothed and pressed against him, his name drawn from your lips like a prayer. His hands skim over your hips, teasing you with every passing moment.

“I simply want to do this right,” you tell him, voice breathless and low. 

“I wasn't aware we were doing it wrong," he scoffs, his typical arrogance resurfacing. But you see longing in his eyes, a need that has consumed him since the night began.

“Hush,” you tell him, “no more words.” You don't expect him to comply as you lead him from the chaise and seat him back against the bed, your fingers tangled with his as you climb on top, straddling his hips on the bed. 

“This isn't how our relationship works,” he speaks in a voice rough with desire. But you know he doesn't want to stop, not when he can feel your heat against him, not when he can smell your arousal in the air. 

“Perhaps that's what you believe, but this is how I want it to work tonight.” 

Dio's lips twitch into a smirk at your declaration. 

"Such bold words from the woman I taught," he retorts, hands gripping your hips as you glide back and forth along his cock, teasing him as he so often teases you. The pleasure builds like ripples in water, passing back and forth between you, growing. “Very bold indeed.” His fingers dig into your skin, leaving marks that would have stayed with you for days had you been human. 

“Yes, you taught me many things," you concede, a wry smile gracing your lips. "But that doesn't mean I have to follow your every command. This is my reward to you, after all. We shall do this my way or not at all.”

"I preferred you as a virgin," he scoffs. "So docile, a bud in need of my touch to bloom." 

You roll your eyes but take his words for what they are: a petty need to assert some semblance of control. Yet still,  you can't help but feel a rush of heat at the memory of the first night you shared together, recalling how he touched you, how you explored each other's bodies for the first time. You remember how it felt to lose yourself in his arms, to give yourself to his passion and desire. 

It's been over 100 years, and you feel that same desire now. Despite the countless times you’ve been together since, your body still aches for his touch.

“I would think you’d prefer me well blossomed,” you remark.

“Perhaps…” Dio's smirk only widens. “We shall do this ‘your way,' but I expect that you will pay me ‘kindness’ in return.” Dio decides and aligns the head of his cock to your dripping cunt, impatient to begin again in earnest. 

“I intend to be very ‘kind’ to you tonight, Dio.” You promise, lowering yourself onto him.

You release a shuttered breath and shut your eyes as you take every inch of him inside you. Your muscles squeeze around him, the slick flesh gripping him tight. He doesn't care to give you time to adjust to the sensation. 

"You wanted this...now move." 

You do. You move slowly at first, gliding up and down his length, using his shoulders as leverage.

"That's it...good girl," Dio groans and squeezes your ass, squeezing you closer to him, guiding your movements to his liking as he demands you, "move faster" and thrusts his hips to meet your quickened pace.

Dio's voice is like heaven to you, a low, husky tone that fills the room with grunts and groans of pleasure that mingle with your own.

"Dio," you moan his name. "Dio, please." 

"Please what?"

"Touch me."

And just like that, Dio's hands are everywhere once again: caressing your skin, teasing your nipples, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You let everything else fade away, feeling lost in sensations of ecstasy and bliss as the bed groans and moves beneath you. You want to scream his name again and again, the name of the man who damned you to hell and promised you heaven. 

"Dio!"

“You take me so well…as if you were made for me,” you can feel his breath quickening against your neck. “You were made for me, weren't you?” he whispers, “you need me, don’t you? Like a flower needs rain.” 

There was a certain familiarity to his words, words you shared in confidence, words you knew meant something far deeper than his usual prattling. 

'I love Dio as a flower loves the rain.'

Yet, caught in the throes of pleasure, your sex-addled mind fails to make a reasonable connection. Instead, all you do is agree. 

“Yes…yes…yes!” You moan as you continue to move together. You would agree with anything at that moment, so long as he doesn’t stop fucking you. And he doesn't, of course. Not until you reach the height of your pleasure and his body tightens beneath you.

"I want to feel you," he grunts, "will you come for me?" His voice, soft and low and goading, sends your body over the edge. 

"Good girl," he continues, "my beautiful flower."

Trembling, you let a stream of gasps and moans as you tumble over the edge, into a pool of dreamy bliss. Your whole body feels alive now as if brought to life by electric kisses. 

You fall forward but Dio's grip on you tightens, holding you close until his hips shudder, and he joins you in your ecstasy.  

“Dio I…” you whisper, your voice breathless as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

You know this is love because this is what love feels like.

You look up at him, his eyes meet yours, and a small smile graces his lips—a smile, not his typical smirk, but something softer.

 "I suppose you were right," he says, lifting your chin to meet his gaze. "I do prefer you like this." And you can't help but smile back at him, feeling a warmth in your heart only he can bring forward.

You reach up, your fingers tracing the lines of his face.

"I…I prefer this too," you reply, leaning in to kiss him. 

Dio's arms wrap around you, guiding you back against the mattress, reclaiming his position on top. He isn't finished yet. He's isn't satisfied (he's never satisfied). There are many hours in the day, after all, and you’ve yet to repay his ‘kindness’ in full. 

It doesn’t take long for him to grow hard again, his cock still nestled in the tight heat of your dripping cunt. 

Because as much as he enjoys this, as much as he loves you, there is something else he wants now—something he refuses to wait for any longer.

Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting soft golden hues across the estate.

The servants quietly rise to begin their work, all knowing it was best not to disturb the Lady, the Lord, or Master Vanilla Ice—who, some whisper, was last seen outside the Lady’s chambers late the previous night. 

‘Was she not with the Lord?’ 

‘Perhaps he was safeguarding their privacy.’ 

‘He joined them, no doubt!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ 

‘It isn’t outside the realm of possibility.’ 

‘There’s no way.’

‘We’ve seen how the Lord and Lady are with him. Oh, if only that could be me.’ 

'No, me!' 

“Get back to work!” The idle gossip of the staff is cut short by Layla’s command. “It is not your place to speculate.” 

The workers fall silent and that silence only grows as Father Pucci makes his rounds. An early riser, despite the late hours he sometimes keeps, Pucci’s mere presence keeps things running smoothly. He’s a friend and confidant of Lord DIO, after all, a figure of authority. 

That is why, sometime after 2 PM he descends into the basement, where a sense of unease permeates the air. 

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Pucci greets the stand users under Dio’s control — Jotaro Kujo, Okuyasu Nijimura, and Koichi Hirose — his voice echoing in the confined space. "I trust you've been attending to your tasks diligently."

Koichi’s eyes are worried as Okuyasu makes clumsy mistakes and petty arguments occasionally stir between the two. Jotaro, however, exhibits a quiet rage, one hidden by his stoic facade. 

It seems the Flesh Buds only marginally suppress the host's personality. 

“Uh, I think this is right,” Okuyasu speaks up, lifting a bundle of white cloth. 

Pucci offers a tight-lipped smile and begins to inspect their work, offering the occasional word of encouragement as he assesses the progress they make with their menial chores:

Using Star Platinum's acute senses, Jotaro sifts through countless diamonds with unmatched precision, discarding those with even the slightest flaw. The intensity of Jotaro's concentration is truly a wonder, as his fingers bear deep imprints from the relentless task.

Meanwhile, Okuyasu and Koichi diligently wash bundles of white fabric by hand, their movements methodical and precise.

Okuyasu had been overzealous, quite liberal with the bleach that now wrinkles his fingers. Pucci then assigned him to a different duty, the simple task of carrying heavy bundles of silk and lace up the stairs. 

At Dio’s behest, the raw materials would be given to a man Pucci selected as a vessel for the stand ‘Vercace Vercace,’ which he retrieved two years prior from a dying man in Italy. 

“All should be done within the next four days,” he informs them and ascends the old wooden stairs. 

Pucci shuts the basement door behind him and, just as he intends to return to his chambers for quiet prayer, notices a group of servants gathered in hushed conversation near the bottom of the primary stairwell. Their murmurs and whispers drift up to him, mingling with the ambient sounds of the estate. Pucci raises a brow at their apparent lack of diligence, silently admonishing them for indulging in idle chatter while their duties await.

Ignoring the servants, Pucci's attention is drawn to a figure stationed like a sentinel near the door. Cool J, Pucci knows him as, the man you trust to uphold security since you left 'Mirror Mirror's' user to protect your English home.  

“Father Pucci,” Cool J's tentative voice calls out,  seeking permission to speak.

“Yes?”  Cool J is a formidable presence, with a height and build that could nearly match that of Vanilla Ice, yet his demeanor betrays a hint of apprehension. As he steps forward, Pucci can sense his unease, a subtle tension that hangs in the air like a heavy shroud.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but an intruder is lingering outside the estate—a young lady, it seems, with blond hair." 

Pucci’s brows furrow slightly at the mention of the intruder, his mind immediately racing to assess the situation. This wasn't the first time the estate had seen an unwelcome guest — he was told of the woman who lingered before—but the appearance of a new interloper piqued his curiosity.

“The same woman as before?” 

“No. It seems to be a young lady.” Cool J clarifies unhelpfully. 

“'Seems' to be?” 

“Yes.” He nods. “The mistress should be alerted but…” He did not think it wise to disturb your rest. “We are prepared to strike if necessary. However, I would rather not harm a civilian. How shall we proceed?” 

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention,"  Pucci replies, his tone composed yet firm. "I'll handle it from here."

Cool J nods in acknowledgment. 

“I will have Johngalli A stand down for the time being.” 

"Yes, leave it to me.” A faint smile tugs at the corners of Pucci's lips. He appreciated diligence, but this young lady may not be a threat. And besides, he thinks, he would hate to cause a scene and invite unwelcome attention.

Giorno weaved through the crowd of sleepy travelers. Though the clock read 1:29 PM, his body felt as though it were night and no amount of sleep could correct that. Nevertheless, his senses attuned to the faint presence of the ladybug he placed on Josuke. It was a subtle connection, a thread of energy that tugged at his consciousness, guiding him through the corridors of the Orlando International Airport, a truly bustling place. T

The atmosphere was loud, the crowd dense and the air was thick with the scent of coffee, oranges, and hot food wafting from nearby restaurants and vendors. 

Moving discreetly through the crowd, his fingers deftly plucked the money from unsuspecting purses and wallets. He would need it more than them, he reasons. Though, as he searched for the correct gate, his attention was drawn to a woman with blond hair accompanied by a girl, no older than 6 or 7 years old. 

The child's pigtails, butterfly hair clips, and vibrant green hair stood out amidst the sea of travelers, her innocent curiosity on full display as she chattered excitedly with her mother.

“Will Daddy be home soon?”

"I'm sure he'll be back before we know it, Jolyne. Did you enjoy your visit with Grandma Holly?" 

"Yes! When can we go back to Japan?" 

Giorno's gaze lingered on them for a moment.

The woman would be an easy mark, too distracted by her daughter to notice him brush by her purse. And yet...he couldn't bring himself to target the two of them. Instead, he melted back into the crowd, following close behind another group of Italian tourists as they marched by a lone airport security officer. 

With each step, the pull toward Josuke grew stronger, like an invisible magnetic force. But there was something else too, another presence. This force was a subtle undercurrent, one that whispered promises of purpose and destiny. That, he thought, was the path he needed to take. 

So he turned away from Josuke, who searched the crowd again and again, convinced someone was watching him, and deliberately merged with the flow of passengers moving toward the eastern gate. Josuke and his companion moved west, toward the exit with travelers bound for Disney World.  And, eventually, Giorno stepped out into the balmy Florida air. The humidity was awful. 

Nevertheless, he scanned the bustling streets. His careful gaze flitted from one passerby to another, searching for any sign of Josuke.

He felt like the protagonist of a movie, torn between two callings. There was still time to catch up with Josuke, but whatever else called out to him felt stronger, closer to him yet somehow far away. It was a sensation unlike anything he experienced before, a pulsating rhythm that echoed the cadence of his own heartbeat. That is the call that led him onward.

He grabbed a map from a stand just outside the exit and traced a path toward the eastern horizon, the direction he was sure the pull was coming from. Then, he hailed a passing taxi and climbed into the back seat.

The driver glanced at him curiously, no doubt wondering why a child was traveling alone. 

"Toward John F. Kennedy Space Center, please," he requested, naming the most notable landmark in that particular direction.  “I can tell you the way when we get closer.” 

“You planning on going to space?” The driver jokes, noting his young age and thick Italian accent. 

“Not exactly.” Giorno shakes his head, “I’ll be meeting my father.” 

The taxi pulled away from the curb, the rhythmic hum of the engine providing a soothing backdrop to Giorno's thoughts.

And as the taxi sped toward its destination, his resolve only strengthened, his determination unwavering in the face of the unknown.

[masked-watcher]

Ghost x Soap mission aftermath. Confessions ensue. 1.3k of idiots in love. Fluff, no smut.

The room was only dimly lit. Soap sat side by side with Ghost. Too close into the bigger mans personal space, as always. Their fatigue and battle worn faces illuminated by the soft glow of the last rays of sunshine peering through the blinds. The tension in the air was palpable.

Soap sighed, rubbing his temples. "That was a close one, eh? I thought we were done for back there." Ghost nodded slowly, his mask hiding any hint of emotion. "Yeah." It was a simple answer. What Johnny didn't know though was how much he actually beat himself up for what happened. It would have been his fault if anything happened to his sergeant. Just because his mind was occupied with other thoughts than the mission. With him.

Soap turned to face him, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Y'know you can talk to me, aye? We've been through hell together, and I can see something's eating at ye. And it's not just the mission."

Ghosts gaze shifted, his masked face giving away nothing. "Soap, you don't understand. There are things... I can't share. Burdens I have to carry alone."

The younger mans energetic demeanor faded, replaced by a seriousness that surprised even him. "You don't have to carry them alone, LT. We're a team. I thought we were past keeping secrets from each other."

A heavy silence hung in the air before Ghost finally sighed, his broad shoulders slumping ever so slightly. With a slow and deliberate movement, he reached up and pulled at his mask. As it fell away together with the balaclava, revealing his features and scars decorating them, Soaps breath got caught in his throat.

"Simon…" Soap whispered, his voice barely audible. He couldn't tear his gaze away from his face, awestruck by the vulnerability he saw for the first time.

Ghosts voice was low and rough, tinged with a mix of anxiety and relief. "I've worn this mask for so long, Johnny. It's become a part of me, a shield against the world. But you... you've always managed to slip past it."

Soaps heart raced as he met the tired gaze, his own feelings laid bare. "Simon, I… Never realized how much I've wanted to see yer face, to know the real you. I-I mean…" He stumbled a little over his words. "I accept you with every part and side you have! I am happy about every new piece you let me discover. 's just…"

The tall mans lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "You've always seen through me, haven't you?"

Johnny reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against Simons cheek. Over one of the many scars. "Yeah, and what I see is someone incredibly strong, someone who's been there for me in ways I can't even describe."

Simons hand covered Soaps. His touch surprisingly gentle. "Johnny, there's something else I need to tell you. Something I've been afraid to admit. But after today I'm not sure how much time we still have left like this."

Johnnys eyes searched Ghosts. Simons. His heart pounding in anticipation. "What is it?"

Ghost took a deep breath, his voice steady despite the vulnerability he was revealing. "I care about you more than I should. More than I thought I could. More than a lieutenant is supposed to about a sergeant."

Soaps gaze softened, his own hand squeezing Ghosts. "I care about you too, Simon."

"Johnny," His voice was barely above a whisper, "there's something you need to understand. I've spent years building walls, keeping people at arm's length, because I didn't want anyone to see my weaknesses. I couldn't let anyone in because they're all leaving. I've lost them all before and I can't do it again. I can't."

The younger mans heart ached at the fear he saw in those deep, dark eyes. "Simon, you don't have to be strong all the time. I've seen your strength and I've seen you being hurt too. You're allowed to lean on someone. If anyone then it should be you who's being taken care of for once."

Ghosts jaw tightened, a battle waging within him. "It's not that simple, Johnny. What if I let you in, let myself be vulnerable and then I can't protect you when you need me most?"

Soaps voice was gentle yet determined. "Protecting me doesn't mean you have to hide who you are. I want to know you, all of you, even the parts you consider ugly or being weaknesses."

"And what if I can't give you what you deserve? What if I'm not enough for you?"

Slowly but surely the scots voice was laced with frustration. "Do you think so little of me that you believe I'd walk away just because things get tough? I want you. All of you. Flaws and everything."

A tense silence followed, each word echoing in the small room. Brown eyes searched Soaps face, his defenses slowly crumbling. "You have no idea how much I've wanted to hear you say that." His voice had a rasp to it. Keeping it low.

Soap reached out, his fingers tracing Simons jawline with a tenderness that sent shivers down his spine. "Then let me say it again. I want you. Ghost or Simon. I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't know if I can be what you deserve. I'm scared I'll let you down. I'm not good with feelings. I'm not a good person. I'm difficult."

"Love isn't about being perfect. 's about being there for each other, even when things get messy. And I'm pretty sure we've proven countless times that we got each others back on and off the field."

The older mans heart felt like it was on the edge of a precipice, the ground shifting beneath him. Slowly, he reached out, his hand finding Soaps. "I want to be with you, Johnny. I'm just... terrified."

The smile he received was tender, the grip on his hand reassuring. "We'll be terrified together then."

As their eyes locked, a tension that had been building for years finally snapped. In that charged moment, Simons hand moved, his fingers gentle yet deliberate as they cupped Soaps cheek. It was a touch that held years of suppressed feelings, a touch that shattered the walls Ghost had built around himself. Johnny leaned into the touch, his eyes closing as he savored the warmth of the hand against his skin.

Their foreheads touched, the space between them filled with an electric energy that defied words. A rough thumb brushed against the corner of Soaps lips, a tender gesture that spoke volumes. And then their lips met.

The kiss started hesitantly, a delicate exploration of the unknown. The bigger mans lips were soft against Soaps, a stark contrast to the hardened exterior he had always projected. It was a kiss that held layers of meaning. A silent confession of the love they had both denied and unspoken feelings that had simmered beneath the surface for far too long.

As the kiss deepened, the world around them faded into insignificance. Simons other hand found its place on Johnnys waist, pulling him closer as their bodies moved in sync with the rhythm of their heartbeats. Careful fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Ghosts neck, his touch sending shivers down his spine.

The kiss was a dance of emotions. A mixture of longing, fear, and a burning desire to bridge the gap that had kept them apart. Ghosts walls crumbled, his vulnerability laid bare as he poured his feelings into the kiss. Letting Simon have this moment. The scots heart raced. Every touch, every sigh was a testament to the unspoken connection they had shared for so long.

When they finally pulled away, their breaths were ragged, their eyes locked in a gaze that held a newfound depth. Both men wore shy smiles, a new understanding passing between them. "I'm scared, Johnny. Scared of losing you, scared of what this could mean."

Soaps fingers intertwined with Ghosts. "We'll face whatever comes together, just like we always have. And when it's just us… No more masks, no more secrets."

[peppymintdreams]

Forever and Always

Andrew x Darling

The night was still, the kind of quiet that invited thoughts you weren’t ready to face. The rain had just begun, its soft rhythm tapping against the windows of Andrew’s modest home. He sat in his favorite armchair, fingers steepled as his eyes fixed on the dying embers of the fire. The air was heavy with unspoken words, the kind that lingered in the space between two people who knew each other too well.

Darling sat on the settee, knees pulled to their chest, a blanket draped loosely around their shoulders. They had barely touched the tea Andrew had made for them, the steam now faint and fading into the cool air.

“Darling,” Andrew finally said, his voice low but steady.

They looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a sadness in their eyes that made his chest tighten.

“Why do you keep everything locked away?” he asked gently, leaning forward. “You’ve carried so much on your shoulders, yet you refuse to let me help you. I want to help. Please.”

Darling hesitated, their fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Andrew,” they murmured. “It’s just... I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes, it feels easier to bear it alone.”

Andrew’s jaw clenched, though his expression remained tender. He rose from his chair and knelt before them, his hands finding theirs. His touch was firm, grounding. “I know what it’s like to carry a weight you think no one else can bear. I’ve spent years convincing myself I didn’t need anyone, that I could manage on my own. But then you came into my life, Darling.” His voice wavered, just slightly. “You taught me that strength doesn’t mean solitude. It means letting someone in, even when it’s terrifying.”

Tears welled in their eyes as they looked down at him, their resolve breaking like glass. “Andrew... I don’t want to lose you. I’m scared that if I show you everything—if you see the mess inside me—you’ll leave.”

Andrew shook his head immediately, his grip on their hands tightening. “No,” he said firmly, the intensity of his tone catching them off guard. “Darling, listen to me. You are not a burden. Do you hear me? You are the light in my life, the one thing that makes this world feel less cruel, less empty. I don’t love you in spite of your flaws; I love you because of them. Because they’re yours.”

Tears spilled over as Darling pressed a trembling hand to their mouth. Andrew reached up, brushing their tears away with a tenderness that made their heart ache.

“I need you to understand something,” he continued, his voice softening. “You have given me a purpose I never thought I’d find. Loving you—it’s the only thing I know for certain. So whatever you’re carrying, whatever shadows haunt you, let me share the weight. Let me be the one you lean on, because I promise you, Darling, I’m not going anywhere.”

Their resolve crumbled completely, and they fell into his arms, clutching him as if he might disappear. Andrew held them tightly, his chin resting atop their head.

“I’m sorry,” they whispered into his chest. “I’m so sorry for keeping you at a distance.”

He pulled back just enough to tilt their chin up, his eyes searching theirs. “You don’t have to apologize. Just promise me you’ll let me in. That you’ll trust me to stand beside you, no matter what comes.”

“I promise,” they whispered, their voice thick with emotion.

Andrew smiled, the relief evident in his eyes. He pressed a lingering kiss to their forehead, then rested his own against theirs.

“I love you, Darling. Always.”

Their arms tightened around him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, they allowed themselves to believe in his words. The rain outside continued its steady rhythm, but inside, in the safety of Andrew’s arms, the storm had passed.

[kingofbodyrolls]

Songs of the Heart (m) | pjm | the second note

*this is a re-upload since I deleted my old account 🫣

notes about therapy.

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: musician!au (not completely idol!au), single dad!au, slice of life!au → Trope: established relationship → Genres: romance / fluff / healing → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 1k → Warnings + triggers: mention of past character death (Jiwoo). → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: this one is a bit more sad—it’s a little insight into Jimin’s mind and one of his therapy sessions 🥹

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It has been years since Jimin last stepped into a therapy office, years since he allowed himself to untangle the web of emotions he’s kept buried deep inside. When Jiwoo died, his heart became a locked room, silent and shadowed, refusing entry to anyone—even himself. For so long, he told himself he didn’t need to talk. But now, he knows better. Silence isn’t strength. Some burdens need the light of words to lift them.

Today feels different. Today, he chooses to confront himself again. Therapy isn’t an easy road, but it’s one he walks willingly because he knows—truly knows—it helps.

Dr. Jung’s office greets him like an old friend; colorful and a little mismatched, with plushies scattered across the room and eclectic art pieces adorning the walls. It’s not a sterile, cold space—it’s alive, warm, infused with the kindness of the man who works here.

“Come in, Park,” Dr. Jung calls, gesturing toward the couch opposite him. His casual outfit—a loose white shirt with a bold graphic, grey sweatpants, and a cheerful yellow beanie perched crookedly on his head—is exactly the way Jimin remembers him. He’s always been amused by how someone so grounded and wise could dress like an artist on a lazy Sunday.

Jimin takes a seat, exhaling softly. His fingers fidget against the seams of his pants, searching for something to anchor him. The words he’s come to say press heavily against his chest, but speaking them out loud feels impossibly hard.

Dr. Jung smiles, his teeth bright and unguarded, as he reaches for his notebook. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Park. How’ve you been?”

Jimin lets out a small smile, his hands curling into light fists. “I’ve been doing good… and you can just call me Jimin. I’ve told you that so many times.”

Dr. Jung laughs softly, his voice warm and easy. “Then call me Hoseok. So, what brings you here today?” His gaze is steady, and for a moment, Jimin feels utterly exposed, as though Hoseok can see every unspoken word trembling on his lips.

Jimin’s eyes dart away, searching the room for refuge. “It’s not easy to explain,” he mutters. Hoseok leans back, his posture open and encouraging.

“You might as well spill it. Your money, your time—and I know you’ve got plenty of both.”

The playful jab makes Jimin flinch, not because it isn’t true—he has more money than he knows what to do with—but because the idea of wasting it unsettles him. Straightening his spine, he draws in a deep breath.

“Fine,” he says, the word heavy with resignation. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of Jiwoo’s death.”

The confession hangs in the air between them, raw and trembling. Jimin feels his chest tighten, just as it always does when he speaks of her. Time hasn’t dulled the ache—it has simply taught him how to carry it.

“I think I want Y/N to come with me when we visit her grave, but…” His voice trails off as his gaze drops to his lap.

Hoseok chuckles softly, breaking the silence with an ease that only he seems to possess. “You think, or you know?”

Jimin frowns, puzzled. “Aren’t they the same?”

Hoseok places his notebook on the table and leans forward slightly. “Not at all.”

Jimin tilts his head, unsure of what Hoseok is getting at.

“Do you want Y/N to come because you think it’ll be good for her—or because you know it’ll be good for you?” Hoseok’s question cuts through Jimin’s uncertainty like a blade, sharp but not unkind.

Jimin stills, his mind grappling with the weight of the distinction.

“Close your eyes,” Hoseok suggests gently, “and focus. Imagine tomorrow. Imagine what it feels like with her there—and without her. What do you see? What do you feel?”

Jimin obeys, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he closes his eyes. His mind paints the scene: the quiet walk to Jiwoo’s grave, the flowers he and Hwa-Young will lay on the tombstone. The small tradition of waffles and ice cream afterward, in honor of Jiwoo’s favorite treat. He imagines you there, your presence warm and steady, your understanding an unspoken comfort.

And then he imagines your absence, the space beside him empty. It’s not that he thinks you’d be upset or offended if he didn’t ask you—you’re not that kind of person. No, it’s his own heart that aches at the thought.

“I see yellow,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

“Yellow,” Hoseok repeats, scribbling in his notebook. “Interesting. And now—do you think or do you know?”

Jimin opens his eyes, clarity washing over him. “I know. I know I need her there.”

Hoseok nods, his smile small but approving. “Good. And why does that scare you?”

Jimin hesitates, his confidence flickering. “Because… I don’t want her to feel like I’m still too caught up in the past. Or like I don’t love her as much as she deserves.”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow, his expression both amused and serious. “You don’t think she knows how much you love her?”

Jimin groans, running a hand through his hair. “I know she knows. I just… I worry she’ll feel insecure about Jiwoo.”

“And has she ever said or done anything to suggest that she is?”

Jimin thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

Hoseok’s grin widens. “So, you’re projecting your own insecurities onto her.”

Jimin’s mouth falls open, indignation mingling with reluctant admiration. How does Hoseok always manage to peel back the layers so effortlessly?

“Just talk to her,” Hoseok says, his tone softening. “From what you’ve told me, you two communicate well. Trust that. Trust her.”

And in that moment, Jimin feels something shift—a quiet but powerful certainty blooming within him. He can already picture tomorrow. Your hand in his, your presence grounding him as you honor Jiwoo’s memory together. He knows he needs you there, and he knows you aren’t insecure about the friendship he had with Jiwoo. 

You’re in this together. Yes. You’re a team, and deep in his heart, he knows that this is the right thing for him to do.

→ Requested series taglist: @13-manggaetteok, @mima795, @hnnnjm, @flaneuseonthestreets,  @miniesjams32, @graydolan12, @rinkud, @allie-in-the-moon, @pjmxxjmdipity,

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379, @jeonsbabygirlsworld, @fancypeacepersona, @ktownshizzle, @pjmxxjm, @ajoonniice, @kookiewithluv, @mikrokookiex, @rapmonjoon94, @parkitrighthere,

→ Author’s endnote: Hoseok’s dialogue is 100% inspired by my own therapist 😭 *sniffling* I don’t have much else to say 🥹

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2025 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[daxambcrn]