#Heres that promised little snippet >:3

[the-pobble-terrarium]

KING BRANCH AU DRABBLES “What… what was she like?”

Branch visibly tensed at the question. He wasn’t looking at Viva, but he could see the strained look on her face from his peripherals, could hear the plead behind her question. He turned away from it, from these.. intense emotions radiating from her. He knew it would be hard news for her, death is just… like that. It’s never easy. But seeing it in real time was different, it sort of reminded him of himself in a way, which put a curious knot in his stomach he’d much rather ignore.

“I’m sorry Viva. I can’t.” He fought to keep the waver out of his voice. It was supposed to show he was strong, that he wouldn’t let this years old death hurt him- but it only came off calloused and cold. He was never really good with tone like that, coming off rude when he meant to be sincere. It was something most of the village was used to, but Viva wasn’t really ‘most of the village.’

“Branch Please.” He could hear her encroaching on his space, inching forward in tandem with her desperate plea. “I’ve spent my whole life wondering if she was alive, wondering if I’d ever see her again. I’d at least like to know something about who she was, what she was like.” That hit home. In an uncomfortably close way honestly. Could he really deny her the solace of knowing at least a little bit about her sister? Could Branch really deny a sibling stories of their loved ones they never got to properly meet?

“…Fine.” He relented. “Poppy was… energetic, like you. She tried to see the good in everything, tried to put a smile on everyone’s face… even mine. She told me she believed ‘no one is incapable of happiness.” He paused and laughed softly at the memory, “I’m still skeptical.. She was a great person- she was brave, and funny, and she always knew just what to say to persuade you.” He was becoming shaky despite his attempts to keep still, hooking himself into the felt grass with his hands, like it would stop him from falling apart. “She loved scrap booking and giving gifts and singing and she-” His voice cracked horribly, and he had to stop for a moment. “She would have made a great leader,” he finished quietly, his waver gone but his eyes edged with water. He could feel Viva’s eyes boring into him, begging him to say more- but he wouldn’t. He had crossed a line he set years ago.

He simply got up and left, and Viva could not protest.

[yujeong]

Somehow, I now have 200 followers. I didn't expect this to make me emotional, but it does. Thank you to every single person who follows me. It means a lot ❤️

[withleeknow]

is wishful thinking discontinued ? it's been literal months

hi, it’s ongoing :) i just haven’t been in a writing mood in a while

[pretty-little-mind33]

Sergei Kravinoff x mutant fem!reader

Summary: Sergei is captured and his only source of salvation and light is the young woman who visits him every day to bring him food and heal his wounds.

Genre: hurt and comfort <3

Warnings: reader has healing abilities, kidnapping, torture, blood, violence, drugging, shitty men, protective!Sergei

~ thank you 💜anon for this idea! i didn't make it smut but i hope you like it anyways ~

SERGEI KRAVINOFF MASTERLIST

The Hunter. They'd captured The Hunter by. 

That was all you knew from the hushed whispers as they guarded your door. His name caused excitement around the compound and your curiosity was piqued. You stand from your small cot, limping over as the blood from your leg spills from the bandages. You press your palm against your door, catching snippets of the conversation in Russian, as you hold your breath. 

When you hear the latch to your door snap, you stumble back. The man with the scar enters, a smirk on his face. "Ah, you're up. Good. We have a new guest. You know what to do," he walks over and caresses your cheek, causing you to flinch, and he glances down at your leg. "And don't let him get close to you, not like the last one. Understand, pet? Cleaning you up was a fuckin' mess."

You nod, earning you a light tap on your cheek as he gestures for his men to come in with a tray of food.

The Hunter's cell is grim and dark, the drip of water from the ceiling is heard in the corner. Your eyes widen when you see him. He's suspended from his arms, rusty chains digging into his skin. He's shirtless, scratches and gashes of various stages litter his back and shoulders. He's breathing deeply as you walk in. He turns his head a little, catching your eyes and he lets out a sharp laugh, spitting out more blood.

"Is this some kind of joke?" He coughs up more blood, seeing the food on the tray. You circle to the front, resting the tray on the ground as you look up at him again. "They send you in to do the dirty work, принцесса (princess)?" 

You don't answer him, instead glancing at the security of the chains holding him. They're strong. Unbreakable you would guess and you look into his eyes again. You tear some of the bread and stand up, walking closer. Unlike many other prisoners, this one doesn't immediately lunge for you. He seems to be keeping his strength, simply observing your movements. You hold out the bread for him to bite out of your hand, but he spits blood at your shoes instead. 

"I don't need your food," he growls and tugs on the chains, turning his torso as he hisses in pain. You see a large gash on his side and your expression softens. You're here to heal him, at least so he doesn't die until he gives them the information they want.   

"I can help," you whisper, walking forward and reaching your hand to touch his side. The man inhales, readying himself to push you down—to do anything. He doesn't trust you. However, that plan falls through when he sees a glimpse of the bruising on your cheek. Someone has already hit you. He falters and then he gasps when your cold hand presses against the wound. 

"Shh," you soothe, bracing yourself, "this will only hurt for a moment. I promise."

"What are you—"

He grunts, feeling something sting and turns his head as best he can, twisting his torso. You pull your hand away, revealing the mostly healed wound. It's still badly bruised and you explain; "I can't heal the bruising. I c-can only help the process."

You sound scared of him and he looks back over to you, eyes dark. You just healed him. He looks at your hand and he sees that they're shaking. His eyebrows scrunch as he examines you. You're breathing heavily, looking exhausted. 

It drained you. 

Suddenly, there is a loud bang on the door, and a man's voice booms into the room and orders you back out in Russian. You catch your breath, holding out the bread for the man to take. You still want him to eat at least a little. Once he reluctantly eats the bread from your hand, you grab the tray and hurry out the door. 

The man hears the shout and he grimaces, pulling on his chains again. The wound doesn't hurt as much and his head is reeling from what had just happened. 

Who were you?

* * *

The next time Sergei sees you, he's chained to the wall, blood trickling down the side of his head. He hears the door enter and he smells you instantly. You smell sweet, not like the men who come in who stink of death and sweat. He turns his head, cracking a smile, as blood drips from his mouth. You set the tray down, kneeling in front of him on the dirty ground. Sergei's smile drops when he sees more bruising around your cheeks. They're hurting you too. His blood boils and he tries to fight against the chains once more, his body weak. 

He watches you silently as you take a syringe from the tray. Your hand is trembling and you look up at him. He knows what the liquid is, usually the men administer it when they torture him. It weakens him, making it impossible for him to break the chains that hold him in place. He growls like a hurt animal and you rest your hand on his arm. 

"I'm sorry," you whisper, testing the syringe as the green liquid pours out and drips onto the ground. "They think you'll put up less of a fight if it's me—" 

Sergei narrows his eyes, the gold irises flickering underneath the surface, and he snarls; "Don't do this," he says but you gently push his head to the side, your hand on his forehead as you sink the needle into his neck. He grunts. No wonder the men are asking you to do this; it's dangerous for you. He could easily turn his head and bite you in this position. Usually, they prick him in the leg or somewhere safe that still works, but not as well as it could. They're becoming impatient it seems and they're now willing to turn you into a pawn. Perhaps, that's the reason he doesn't hurt you. He knows what that's like.

"I'm really sorry," you sob, holding his head as your hand trembles even more. Once the liquid is gone, you pull away. He looks calmer now, the drug already working. You drop the syringe and break some more bread. "Please eat," you whisper, pressing the stale bread to his lips, as if trying to counteract the drug by feeding him.    

He opens his eyes, reluctantly listening to you as he eats a bite. "They're hurting you too," he says and you shift uncomfortably, avoiding his intense glare. "Why? And why can't you heal yourself?" He'd noticed your limp the moment you walked and smelled the blood from your knee, even underneath your pants. You're injured. 

You sit back, touching the bruising along your eye, and look up at him. "You aren't the only prisoner they give that horrid liquid to," you whisper, looking at the syringe and then tilting your head and showing him the needle mark on your neck. "They like m-my ability, but only in moderation—"

Sergei groans, his chest burning with anger. He shakes his head when he sees you begin to clean up. "Who? Who are they?! Who has me!? I can help you—if you—wait—stop—" he watches you walk out helplessly. He groans again from the pain in his side as he shifts his position. Sergei realizes you haven't healed him today. He supposes that would go against the point of the fucking drug. 

Hours later, when he finally falls asleep, all he dreams of is you. 

* * *

"What is your name?" Sergei asks one evening as you run a warm cloth on his face, wiping away the dried blood from the beating he'd received. He hasn't cracked yet, not that he will. You startle a little, not expecting him to ask you that question. You glance up, meeting his gaze, and you whisper your name. 

"Kraven," he introduces. He wants to tell you his real name, but he doesn't know if he can fully trust you. Sergei winces when you swipe your hand across a cut on his cheek, healing the small wound. He pulls against the chains keeping his arms up. He groans, realizing it's useless. "How long have you been here, Y/n?"

You move to rub the cloth on his bare torso, going even quieter. "A year."

"Do you have a family?"

You shrug, turning away and preparing that damned drug again. The men have given up administering it and have charged you with that task instead. Sergei grimaces and when you look up, your hand gently turning his head like it always does, he doesn't fight you. Instead, he whispers, "Y/n, don't give it to me. I can get us both out of here. I won't hurt you. I promise." He's not entirely sure how long he's been here but he's desperate now. He locks eyes with you, almost pleasing. 

You wrap your arm around his nape, shifting and your voice shakes when you whisper, "They're watching. There is a camera— it can't hear us but it can see us." 

Sergei winces, feeling you prepare the syringe; however, he pauses when he looks to the side and sees that the needle is near the bare skin of your arm, the one covering his nape. "They make sure it's g-gone, this is the only way. Will your powers regenerate in one night?"

Sergei nods, his blue eyes are wide and he's a little alarmed when you administer the drug to yourself.

"They're watching us. Please, you have to pretend I gave it to you if you want this to work." 

"Will the drug hurt you?" he asks, knowing you're purposefully hiding what you're doing to the camera in the corner of the ceiling. 

You shake your head, pulling away and hiding the mark on your arm with your sleeve. "No– I just won't be able to use my powers for a while. It's okay. That's all it does. That's what it's been doing to you—weakening you." You gather your supplies with shaking hands as Sergei breathes heavily, keeping his body calm as you said. 

"I won't let them hurt you again," Sergei promises before you leave. You turn around to look at him, your eyes sad, as he whispers, "I'll find you, принцесса (princess)."

* * * 

"Wake up, Hunter." Sergei hears a loud bang as a metal pipe slams against the wall near his head. His eyes shoot open, his body not feeling as weak anymore and his gaze locks onto the two men who've been torturing him these past days. His eyes narrow and his hand twitches in the chains but his heart leaps when one of the men, the one with the scar on his lip, pulls you from behind the other man, his hand in your hair. "We have some exciting news," the man sings-songs and adds, "since ya seem so fond of each other."

Sergei's eyes frantically bounce from your scared expression to the men holding you, his jaw clenching. 

"Since you don't quite break when we break you, we must change our method, you understand," the other man laughs, unsheathing a knife and running it in your hair. You squeeze your eyes shut, controlling your breathing. "Now, if you continue not to give us anything, we'll just have to break your little girlfriend instead. And," the man laughs, "we promise with the damage we'll cause she won't have time to heal herself—"

Sergei's eyes narrow. The men are too busy laughing at the tears that fall from your eyes to notice the glimmer of gold behind his irises—but you do. You hold your breath, unsure what's about to happen but you know it can't be good considering that the drug you'd been giving him for the past week had faded so quickly. Sergei licks his lips, his sharp fangs showing for a second before he lunges for the men, the chains previously holding him easily ripping. 

You gasp, falling to the ground as you grasp the floor, scooting to the opposite side of the room, pressing your back to the wall as you watch as Kraven tears into one of the men's throats, growling like an animal would. You scream, covering your eyes with shaky hands as gunshots ring out and you hear more growls and ripping.  

Once the scream stops, you feel someone's presence over you. You peek through your fingers, your gaze stuck on the splatter of blood across his features. His eyes have returned to their normal blue and he crouches down, like an animal showing its submission as his knuckles skim your cheeks and wipe away your tears.

"Are you okay?" He mutters, his voice hoarse. You nod hesitantly and when he scoops his hand under your knees and your back, you accept and wrap your arms around his neck. 

"I'm here," he whispers. 

Your hands tremble and you nod, finding your voice as you squeeze your eyes shut again so you don't see the lifeless bodies he'd left in his wake as he walks to the exit. However, you can't bring yourself to feel pity; those men had tortured him. And they'd tortured you for even longer. "Thank you, Kraven," you say quietly and he holds you tighter. 

"Sergei," he says, "My name is Sergei."

You hum, resting your eyes as your head falls onto his chest. When you open your eyes again, you're in a truck. Sergei is on the phone, talking in Russian, and you understand snippets of his conversation. You're buckled in, your head resting on the passenger window as the headlights from the other cars blind you. You groan, your head is pounding. "You slept for hours, is that normal,  принцесса (princess)?" Sergei asks, putting his phone in his pocket as he continues to drive. 

"Where are we?"

"Russia," Sergei says and he looks at you with a worried expression, "We've always been in Russia—did you not know where they were holding you?" You shake your head, a little embarrassed. You really didn't know. Sergei clicks his tongue and runs a hand over his face. He's cleaned himself up, the blood is gone and he looks in much better form. He senses you staring and he looks over, "I made some calls. My brother—he has connections," he tells you, explaining the truck. 

"Where are you taking me?" you ask quietly. 

Sergei's eyes narrow. "My home," he pauses, "just so you can rest, I'm not sure how long that drug will last on you, but once you're better, I can take you home."

"Home," you whisper and look down at your lap, picking at your nails. "I have no home."

Sergei is quiet as he looks at the road again. "Well, you can stay with me then. I'll take care of you." 

Silence looms over you as the truck rolls along icy roads, the hum of the engine filling the air. You glance at Sergei again, your gaze softening. He looks different now—calmer, more composed, less weak and frazzled. His knuckles are no longer bloodied, his breaths even now, and yet, there is something simmering underneath, like a fire that hasn't quite burned out.

"You really don't have to do that," you tell him, staring out the window. "You have already done enough."

He just chuckles, low and rough. "Enough? I went through hell, принцесса (princess), I'm not stopping now." He glances at you, his eyes sharp as they lock onto yours and his voice almost wavers when he says. "You saved me first. I owe you."

You press your lips together, unsure how to respond. He sounds so serious, as if nothing you say would sway him. You decide not to speak. Your body is heavy with exhaustion, the aftermath of the drug still dulling your senses. You sigh and shut your eyes, leaning your head against the window again as the lights from outside lull you asleep.

Once the truck finally stops, you wake to the sound of Sergei opening your door. Snow crunches under his boots as he reaches in and effortlessly lifts you into his arms again, ignoring your half-hearted protests. 

"Stop fussing, will you," he mutters, his voice softer now. "You're still weak."

The large house he carries you into is cool, the scent of pine and something faintly sweet greeting you. It's a small but comfortable cabin, filled with old family trinkets and photos of a family of four; two young boys sitting on their mother's knee.

Sergei wordlessly sets you down on a couch, draping a blanket over your shoulders before crouching and starting a well-needed fire. Once the flames crackle, he turns and his hands hover over your knees, uncertain, as if he's not surewhere to begin. 

Finally, he lifts his arms and brushes some hair back from your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Rest," he commands. His tone is calm and serious but the corners of his mouth twitch upward as if he's hiding a small smile. "I will make us food."

You still don't say a word as you watch him retreat to the kitchen, the tension in your chest easing for the first time in a long while. The danger is gone, replaced with a warmth you haven't felt. You glance around the room and you realize that for the first time in a long long time, you feel completely safe.

You smile softly, watching the fire burn and listening to Sergei walk around the kitchen. 

[kthologue]

indulge me? — gojo satoru

synopsis you and gojo go on an overnight mission and it goes wrong in every way

contents so. much. pining. (2.8k words of it!?), one bed trope, whipped!gojo, ooc gojo, completely self indulgent, a lot of cardiovascular talk, they’re first years in this!

notes first time i’ve written in AGES. sorry :3 ps this is a little snippet from a satosugu x reader series im thinking about starting. thoughts?

(edit: i wrote a part ii)

Gojo Satoru was born blessed. From birth and to death he will always be honored. It wasn't his fault that the Heavens delighted in him. So when Yaga had announced that he and you would be sharing an overnight mission to Kyushu, he nearly leapt in joy (lucky him)!

You, on the other hand, were less than thrilled to find out that you were going to be traveling alone with Gojo Satoru. For two whole days. It was a death sentence.

“Make sure to text me, so I know you're not dead.” Shoko looks between you and Gojo. Either your head will implode as a result of Gojo, or he is gonna be on the receiving end of your wrath. Shoko can’t wait to see which.

“Do take pictures, I heard the onsens there are incredible.” Suguru slyly adds. Satoru perks up at his comment. The two of them share a knowing look before Gojo speaks up.

“Wanna take a dip with me once we get there, [Name]?” He looks into your eyes, his lips are quirked upwards like he’s up to no good (which he is). “I promise I won’t take a peek!” He winks.

“Keep fantasizing, Gojo.”

“Oh I will.” He hums happily. The smile on his lips is kind of cute, you decide. Just a little.

— — — — — — — 

Kurokawa, you come to find out is a very small town in Kyushu. So when people start to go missing, the entire town falls into shambles. Before your trip, Yaga had made it known the enemy you’d be facing. 

“A common denominator of the missing persons is that they were all young women.” He had warned you and Gojo. “It’s an unidentified curse, but I trust that the two of you will be able to handle it.”

Three missing girls. All under the age of 25. Two of which were locals, one being a tourist. 

The moment you arrive on the island of Kyushu, your guard is higher than ever. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Gojo.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of some horny curse,” He looks down at you as the two of you make your way down a small street to your ryokan. Kurokawa was a traditional town, its pride resting on the old culture causing it to be untouched by modern architecture.

Unamused by his nonchalant attitude, you decide to ignore his vulgar comment, “What grade curse do you think we’re up against?”

He makes a noise to show that he’s thinking. “Does it really matter? It’ll be no match for me either way.”

You roll your eyes, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, we still have to figure out what happened to the victims.”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary, but okay.” Your snow haired peer dismisses. It makes you a bit envious that he doesn’t have to ever feel fear for his life. Must be nice.

The two of you arrived at your designated ryokan soon enough, it was a small town after all. Gojo leads the way with you following right after. You can’t discern any cursed energy in the building, but you still make a mental note to ask Gojo about it after you both are situated. 

An elderly lady in an orange kimono stood behind the desk, smiling at you and you returned it back happily.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a young couple here.” She says. That’s right, with the recent disappearance of young girls, there would be a sudden decrease of tourism around this part of town. “You certainly are a beautiful match!”

You gratefully accept her compliment, “Thank you, but we’re not–”

“Thanks granny!” Gojo wraps a strong arm around your shoulder. “I don’t know how I even managed to win her over!” There’s a wide grin on his face that makes your eye twitch. Leave it to him to tell people the two of you were together. Not only that but he totally disrespected the old lady with his informal talk!

“Unhand me, you!” You forcefully whisper at him, while trying to unwrap yourself from his hold. His arm does not budge even as you try to push it off. What the hell is this boy eating? Gojo chuckles with the old lady while you struggle.

“My, the two of you remind me so much of my husband and I in the days of our youth,” She sighs dreamily. Her age must be interfering with her memory because there was nothing inherently romantic going on between you and Gojo. “How long will you be staying here?”

“Only one night,” Gojo decides that he has tormented you enough and lets you go. He slides her his card and she pulls out something from the old wooden counter she stands behind. 

A single key.

Your eyes bug out. Gojo’s eyebrows raise. You laugh nervously, face feeling warmer than it was thirty seconds ago.

“There must have been a misunderstanding. We need two rooms, ma’am.” You hold up two fingers to emphasize your point. 

The smile on the old woman’s face falls, “I’m afraid I cannot do that.” Your jaw drops.

“Huh? Why not?” You press on further. Surely they could not have been booked out of all of their rooms. Tourism is at an all time low after the strange disappearances.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the strange disappearances in the area. It’s a miracle the two of you have even decided to stay here, which I am very grateful for. That is why I must repay you back by ensuring your safety. Otherwise I must ask you to leave and stay in the next town because I will not allow you to endanger yourself so carelessly.” 

You blink. Neighboring town? That was hours away. The curse was here in Kurokawa. You can’t afford to jeopardize a mission just because of your own feelings.

Gojo’s hand is halfway to the key, but he waits for your approval. You sigh.

“It’s fine, we can do one. Thank you.” You bow your head. She smiled apologetically as she handed Gojo the key. Gojo, unbothered by the revelation, whistles happily as the lady leads the way to your suite.

— — — — — — — 

operation satoru x [name]!!!!

Gojosatowu added getosugu, shoko.ieiri

Gojosatowu You wont believe it!!! shoko.ieiri What the hell is this gc And what the hell is Operation satoru x [name]?  getosugu  how come [name] isn’t in this? Gojosatowu Ladies, ladies, one question at a time please getosugu  Expect a forehead flick for that comment shoko.ieiri  Stfu and just answer the questions Gojosatowu alright alright [name] and i are sharing a room in kyushu!! i may come out of this mission a changed man. shoko.ieiri  someone make sure [name] is still alive and well Gojosatowu I dont appreciate your lack of faith in me >:( shoko.ieiri  Keep a six feet distance from her at all times perv Gojosatowu I might have to for my own sanity. What do you think she wears to bed? shoko.ieiri  You disgust me sometimes getosugu  Only sometimes? shoko.ieiri  Let me correct myself. You disgust me. Gojosatowu Im feeling the love :(

“What are you giggling to yourself about?” You place a hand on your hips as you watch Gojo smile at his flip phone.

“Oh don’t you worry about it,” He closes it. Weird. “What’s the living situation?”

You sigh. “Despite its traditional arrangement, there is a bed.”

Gojo perks up. “Yeesh I’m glad! If I had to sleep on the floor my back would be all sore right on a mission. Y'know how annoying that is?”

You suck your teeth. “Allow me to rephrase myself. There is only one bed.” 

There is an awful silence in the room, save for your erratically beating heart. Of course the old woman decided to place you in a couple’s suite.  

“Heh.” Gojo chortles happily. “Wow, this must be a divine sign from God Himself. I mean, who are we to ignore this?”

“Don’t start,” You hold out an accusatory finger at him. “I’m gonna go request an extra futon.”

He pouts, “Don’t be like that, sharing a bed with me can’t be that bad.”

“I’m willing to bet otherwise.” You walk past him. The white haired boy watches you go like a sad puppy.

— — — — — — — 

You took your time getting an extra futon, using it as an excuse to get all of the nervousness out of your system of sharing the same room as Gojo Satoru. Sharing a room with a boy was already bad enough, but Gojo? Your heart skipped a beat (out of nervousness, you insist!).

By the time you make it back to the room, the lights are out. You assume that Gojo decided to go to sleep early. You don’t blame him. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day of hunting for the curse rampaging Kurokawa. 

The only light source in the room is coming from the bathroom. You sigh. The idiot must’ve forgotten to turn it off. Nonetheless, you were gonna go get unready either way so you make your way to the half open door.

On the sink is a complimentary toothbrush that you help yourself to. You apply some paste and–

There is a sound of something sliding shut from behind you. You look up at the mirror. Standing behind you was Gojo. Wet. And naked. 

“Oh my gosh!” You spit out your toothpaste and ran out of the room. How did you fail to see that Gojo was in the restroom? You blame it on the sliding doors separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom. Oh my gosh. Your face feels like it’s on fire. He has a six pack. And why does his stupid hair look like that when it's wet? Your heart was beating at an abnormal rate. This is so inappropriate.

Shortly after your freakout, Gojo steps out of the bathroom. There was no way you could face him now.

“Aw, don't be so shy now. It’s not like this will be the last time you’ll see me like this.” Gojo stands in the doorway. There is a towel wrapped around his waist, still leaving him indecent in your eyes.

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating Gojo! And lock the door when you’re in the restroom you creep!” You look anywhere but him.

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault, was it? You were taking so long I thought you left me here alone.” You can practically hear him pouting. “Either way, you were the one checking me out.”

Your eyes widen, “I was not checking you out! Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Don’t feel ashamed, this can all be yours,” He gestures down to his body.

“You freak.” you blanch.

He winks at you.

This was going to be a long night.

— — — — — — — 

It takes you about half an hour to calm down from the bathroom catastrophe. By now, you’re situated in your futon while Gojo is tucked on the bed. If you had to guess, it’d be nearing midnight around now. You just need to close your eyes and get some sleep before your mission tomorrow.

Except you can’t sleep.

Every time you close your eyes, your mind betrays you and an image of Gojo post shower illustrates itself in your mind. And it doesn’t help that he sleeps shirtless. You seriously need your mind cleansed.

That wasn’t your only issue. The room was sub zero. Who knew traditional ryokans had such advanced air conditioning systems? All you could hear was the air conditioning machine overworking itself. You could even argue that it was colder than Shoko’s morgue. And your sleep shirt and shorts were doing little to help insulate you. 

“Wanna come cuddle with me?” The last person you wanted to hear from breaks the silence. You pretend to be asleep. “I know you’re not asleep! My six eyes tell me that you’re shivering.” Busted.

“I am not cuddling with you.” You stare at the ceiling above you, arms crossed. How could he even propose such an idea? Has he no shame?

“Well I can’t face the old granny here if my girlfriend ends up dead by freezing!”

“I am not your girlfriend, Gojo. Nor will I die.”

“That’s not what she thinks. Plus we have a mission tomorrow, so I can’t have you getting sick on me now.”

“I’ll be fine, Gojo. Now go to sleep.”

“I run hot when I sleep, y’know. Let me be your personal heater.” You don’t have to see his face to know that he’s grinning.

“I refuse.”

“Well I refuse your refusal.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Now c'mon,” He pats the spot next to him. “I’ll even make a wall in between us.”

You hear the bedsheets shuffle and you have to sit up to see that Gojo was stacking two pillows in the middle of the bed to prove his point. You’re nearly certain that the only thing you’ll be catching soon is a headache if you keep up with his antics. It was a tempting offer, one that you would surely accept if it wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Gojo, I—”

“...Please?” His voice is softer than you have ever heard it. It was unfair how Gojo was making it harder and harder to reject his offer.

A silent moment passes by.

“...Fine,” You reluctantly get up from your pathetic excuse of a futon. “But no funny business!” You warn him. 

You see Gojo perk up from the bed. He looks at you with expectant eyes, “You got it!” He gives you a thumbs up. 

Whatever. If Gojo knew what was best for him, he wouldn’t try anything. You take in a deep breath before turning to face the opposite direction of where Gojo laid. 

“Good night [Name],” You hear Gojo whisper. You sigh.

“Yeah, yeah, goodnight Gojo.”

Eyes closed, you pray a silent prayer that everything will be fine for the remainder of the mission.

— — — — — — — 

Ever since Gojo was young, his body has been used to getting little amounts of sleep. Unsurprisingly, that caused him to have a natural alarm. It was always annoying whenever he woke up at the crack of dawn on a day when he didn't need to, but luckily for him, today it proved to be a blessing. There was an unfamiliar warmth radiating onto his body. Satoru opens his eyes.

He thinks he feels all of his six eyes widen when he feels himself wrapped around another body.

There you were, in all your beauty, lying fast asleep. In his embrace. Soft snores were escaping your mouth and there were stray hairs in your face. Did he mention how beautiful you looked sleeping? He might have to ask Shoko about heart disease because of how fast his heart was beating.

Unfortunately for him, you also seemed to be drifting away from dreamland and back to reality. Your eyes flutter and your eyebrows furrow. Gojo takes this to his advantage and does the worst thing he can think of; pretend to be asleep.

When you wake up, your mind is still hazy from the good night’s rest you had gotten, but not hazy enough to realize that your body was tangled with another’s. And you’re pretty sure the pillow you had been laying on last night was not this hard. You try to delude yourself into believing that this is all a dream, but the effects of your sleep were fading.

It takes all the strength in you to summon the courage to open your eyes. To your horror, you were firmly wrapped in Gojo’s arms and your legs were intertwined.

“What the hell?” You pull yourself away from him. On the floor below the bed laid the two pillows that Gojo had set up as a makeshift wall. You stare at them utter shock.

“No, don’t go, I’ll freeze to death,” Gojo whines, miraculously waking up. You glare at him.

“Explain to me what just happened or I swear Gojo, I’m going to–” You try to threaten him, but you can’t seem to formulate anything.

Unlike you, Gojo looked unbothered by the sudden turn of events. He even looked pleased. There was a lopsided smile on his face as he sighed, “What can I say, I guess you subconsciously want me after all.” 

"I do not—"

“But if I had to guess, I’d say the room got too cold and we most likely cuddled for warmth unconsciously.” He shrugs it off like it was no big deal. You note that his hair is tousled from the night before.

You leave the warm bed you and Gojo had made. His theory was probably true, meaning it was neither of your faults. You purse your lips.

“I suppose that makes sense. I apologize for overreacting, I guess I was under the impression that we had done something lewd last night.” With that comment, you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up both your mind and body.

You don’t end up seeing how red Gojo’s face got. It was foreign to feel all the blood rising to his cheeks. He takes one of his hands to slap it over his eyes before chuckling to himself. Yeah, he definitely knows why he likes you. 

All of a sudden Gojo feels like he’s on top of the world. For you, it was just a moment of weakness.

┊⋆｡˚. ੈ ┊

Extra notes:

gojo wished he and you got to go to the onsen together. 

gojo also regretted not taking a photo of you sleeping soundly in his arms. it would’ve been his new wallpaper. 

for the remainder of the trip, gojo was at an all time high, successfully locating and exorcising the curse in less than an hour.

[jupiterpiss]

GIYS GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS IMAGINE IMAGINE IMAGINE WITH ME! Let’s hold hands in a circle please and let me say something real thoughtful about our Irish lad Remmick.

Btw.. I wrote this at 3:54 a.m.. and I had an exam the next day.. so, I promise there is a shit ton of mistakes in here just.. JUST DONT LOOK AT THEM OKAY GUYS

Slight gore and NSFW below the cut!!

Remmick with a werewolf reader. Her family.. a long long LONG heritage of wolves that date back to who fucking knows when, made a deal with the Choctaw in order to have peace between them. Because before they would hunt them, or more so both groups would hunt each other, and eventually they found that harmony would do much better than anything. Especially cause they hear whispers of something inhuman.. unnatural lurking its way in the shadows, that feasts on the blood of the innocent and burns under the brightness of the sun.

They both make a deal to never associate with vampires, and to instead protect the land from them and to protect each other. There was strength in numbers. And both groups are amazing at just keeping to them selves when need be, aside from helping against danger— both really don’t fuck around with evil shit. They’re good.

But Remmick doesn’t give TWO SHITS!! Bro doesn’t not give a FUCK and aside from the fact that he never messed around with werewolves before cause uh duh.. he comes across one, a young woman— freshly riped, beautiful. Has the stars of the night twinkled in her eyes, the soft winds in her words and the warmth of the sun in her laugh. She holds life he’s never seen before.. and he wants that pussy NOWHHHHHHH

So he literally won’t leave this poor girl alone, he comes every night to her doorstep, pleading to be let in. That doesn’t work, and so he thinks coaxing her with sweet words and a charming smile might.. nah. She doesn’t fuck around like that.

BUT!! She doesn’t close the door.. and once his freaky ass stops drooling at her doorstep and instead he just talks.. really talks and listens, is when he actually falls a bit deeper. At which that point on the man is in love. Plain and simple. Before he wanted to be burrowed in between her thighs.. and he still really wants that but he also thinks he might want to lay with her after. Trace her features, softly hum to her, maybe even idk cook dinner for her? Love on her?

It’s how she speaks of her experiences, her memories, her family— this fondness, this gentle nature she holds. As if she cradles each story with her hands, and places them gently into his lap. Something for him to hold as well. She radiants love, really. And when he speaks back his own stories, of Ireland, of his people, the memories slipped away in the crevices of his mind.. she listens. Just as he does.. she really listens. Gives her own questions, comments on little things, holds his own memories with the same care that she does hers. And something about it just.. RAHHH it changes the dude ya know.

But don’t let that little snippet of joy fool you.. he WILL be ravishing that POOOSAYYYY lemme say that cause dude.. when the full moon calls, and she starts to switch into something mean. Cruel, hairy and tall, pure rage and festering hunger— well he’s a bit scared lol. At first.. like he sees her bones break and her flesh tear as it makes way for fur.. and a snout.. and some claws with sharp teeth it almost puts his own to shame. It’s fucking terrifying. But it’s later on.. when the moon is no longer full, she’s far from home, her appetite for flesh is gone, and all is left is a naked frame of a woman with blood painted across her skin.. she shows up to where he says he lives. Some part down by the road, near North Carolina apparently. She’s real fucking far.

And real fucking naked and she can’t just walk home bloody AND naked so she just.. decides to go to his house. Cause.. well.. he’s all that will probably help right now.

But she shows, still smothered in sweat and blood of someone or something else that she can’t quite remember.

He pratically DROOLS at the sight of her, damn near falls to his knees begging her for some of that causeeee ur saying this fine assssssss woman, covered in blood that just mauled a shit ton of wildlife and maybe a small village of people somewhere.. is at HIS doorstep.. naked as the day she was birthed.. on top of the fact that she trusted him enough to GO THERE??

That man is really fucking annoying lemme just say that cause he gets her in there, nice and cozy, before he starts tracing his way up her legs, between the skin of her thighs.

He keeps sweet talking her.. all like “yer’ good now, baby. Safe here’ with me”

And gives her some old washed out robe of his, something from far before her time, which she sits in, still bloody.

He makes her a small snack of some sort, wild berries and random stuff outside, all edible. Puts them together clumsily, presents it before her on a small plate.

She tried apologizing for yesterday night. How horrific the sight must’ve been.. which is ironic given how he’s literally a vampire but wtv.. and he’s just like “Girl, you could’ve torn the flesh straight off my bones— still would’ve allowed you in.” Which is like… okay?? Weird? Why would u do that.. but there’s a part of her that grows almost dizzy with that knowledge, that even if she were to tear him tf up.. he would still be happy as a fucking peach.

It’s not too long before he’s eating her out like come on guys.. let’s be honest. It wouldn’t take much.

He’s going to town, straight crazy style. He’s fucking that shit UPPPP okay? He’s spitting on her clit, licking his name into her, lightly nipping at the skin of her thighs.

She’s no better, she’s moaning and huffing, pushing at his shoulders as an attempt to get him to just back the fuck off cause hello?? She already came four fucking times she thinks she’s good but he literally won’t stop. And she’s sobbing on the table he placed her on, spread out like a god damn meal, open and bare and still bloody cause lord knows he wouldn’t want her to wipe it off.

And it’s fucked ip cause… well.. she sorta broke the deal. The deal her parents engraved into her head, warned her about. About how vampires are tricky bastards, how they only take and never give. She thinks of this as he rips out another orgasm from her, legs shaky, breath hitched and face wet with tears.. she really gets it now.

And given how he kisses slowly back up her again.. and how he gives a small smile before lightly brushing a tear away, eyes tracing over her features, giddy as a young boy with a school crush.. she’s starting to think he’ll never not take from her again.

[carmelves]

snippets of fics I'll never finish: 3/?

Sylus finally looks at you and you at last recognize the emotion in his eyes: rage.

“Does your life truly mean so little to you?” His voice is cold and low. 

“What?”

“It must, seeing how you throw yourself into danger time and time again.”

“Sylus, there were civilians outside, I couldn't let the wanderers get out.”

“So you use yourself as a shield? With a broken ankle, no backup, nothing but a pair of handguns?” You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, voice growing louder with each word. “five broken ribs, a punctured lung, severe blood loss… your heart stopped, MC. If I hadn't gotten there in time-” he cuts himself off and turns away, jaw clenched.

“This is my job. I knew the risks when I applied to the academy. I wanted to save lives, and that's what I'm doing. If I get hurt along the way, that's something I can accept.”

“You didn't just ‘get hurt’, you nearly died.”

You just shrug, feeling exhausted and disoriented. You know you should say more, defend your choices, promise to be more careful in the future, but resignation is all you can manage. The response only angers him further. 

“A shrug? That's all you can give me?”

You can't bear to look at him anymore, to see the anger and hurt in his eyes, so you turn your face away, closing your eyes. “I'm going to die sooner or later. Might as well help someone else while I'm at it.”

He growls, then his hand is on your chin, forcing your face back to him. “Look at me. Open your fucking eyes and look at me.”

You're unable to disobey, looking up to find him looming over you, eyes burning into yours. His voice goes deadly calm. “Since you don't seem to care about your own life, here's an incentive: if you die in the line of duty, I will raze the association to the ground.” Your eyes widen and his grip on your chin tightens, forcing you to keep looking at him as he continues. “if you die, I will personally kill every last hunter, one by one, then stand back and watch as the wanderers destroy Linkon City.”

Your breath catches in your throat, sending a painful jolt through your healing ribs. “You wouldn't.”

He laughs, low and despairing. “Beloved, you have no idea what I would do for you, what I have done for you.” His grip on your chin loosens, becoming a caress as his voice softens. “I have burned cities to ash just for a chance to see you. Don't presume to tell me what I wouldn't do.”

[ladykailitha]

Murder in the Heartland Part 1

Here it is, the most wonderfully insane idea I've ever come up with and I've had some whoppers (Steve in a mental institution and Vecna's Timeloop from Hell for example). This is still the wildest. Only that's a twist that's coming up way down the line. My wonderful discord peeps @forgottenkanji, @dreamercec, @bookworm0690 know all, but you'd have to join my discord to be in on the secret (there are other lurkers there who might know, but they might not *shrug*).

Summary: When a serial killer strikes Hawkins, the police zero in on Eddie Munson. But when the last would-be victim Robin Buckley says that it Jason Carver who was trying to kill her and not Eddie, the police are further put in their place by an anonymous tipper who did all the work they should have done instead of going after clearly innocent Eddie. So Eddie becomes a PI to find this anonymous tipper. Featuring Mystery Writer Steve, who will play into the later plot. ;)

You will see snippets of Steve as the story goes on, but it will be Eddie's story for about 2/3 of it. It is also set in canon time for reasons that will become clear as the story goes on.

~

Interviewer: I’m here with Steve Harrington who has put just put out his seven novel in the thrilling Joe Keery books, ‘The Hollow Promise’. How are you this morning?

Steve chuckled: I’m tired. I’m a writer, I spend all my nights writing and my days sleeping, so this is a little outside my normal waking hours.

Interviewer: Gosh I wish I could do that, but I chose to have a morning talk show instead. Won’t you tell the listeners about your latest book.”

Steve: It’s about a series of murders in a small town and our hero comes to town to investigate and finds a bigger mystery than he anticipated.

~

Eddie’s life went to hell the day Steve Harrington blew town. Not that he would find that out until years later. But then again people were more preoccupied with Robin Buckley swearing up and down that Jason Carver who had been trying to kill her and not Eddie than remember a kid being thrown out of his parents place for being gay so... yeah.

Well, okay, so his life had been hell a little bit before Steve blew town. But that wasn’t as interesting an opening as the day Steve blew town. So he still had a flare for the dramatic, sue him. After all it was that flare that made him become a private investigator in the first place.

When Chrissy Cunningham had been murdered just after Eddie dealt her Special K, that made him the prime suspect in her death.

Which, rude.

She had been dealing with some pretty fucked up shit. Like being queer in a small town levels of shit on top of her mom being constantly on about her weight and her boyfriend pressuring her wear a promise ring. In high school.

Then another student died. A boy on the basketball team, Patrick McKinney, who someone else claimed had bought steroids off Eddie. Which couldn’t have been true, not if it was performance enhancing drugs. He had offered to sell them to high schoolers when he first started dealing, but Rick assured him he already had someone for that.

Then another girl died. Someone Eddie hadn’t known. He knew of her. But she wasn’t even in any of his classes, in any of his senior years. She also didn’t do drugs. Hell, Molly Masters was a known Straight Edger. She wouldn’t have gone near Eddie unless she wanted to throw hands.

Which is why he was blamed for her death, actually. They insinuated that she had finally had enough of his drug dealing ways and had gone after him.

He even had an alibi for that one, not that it mattered. Playing in front of five random drunks and a stingy ass bartender wasn’t exactly as air tight as it could have been. Because as far as witnesses go, they were pretty shit.

Then Barb Holland died. And that was a kick in the teeth. He knew who she was but only in a tenuous ‘best friend of the girlfriend of the most popular boy in school’ kind of way. Eddie was starting to see the pattern, even if the cops didn’t.

Then the final one which ended in the death of Jason Carver, Chrissy’s boyfriend. Only Robin Buckley was still very much alive.

But for the those first three days, she was in a coma. So the police spun the narrative that Eddie had been trying to kill her when Jason had interrupted them; saving her life, but losing his in the process.

Until she woke up and blew the whole investigation out of the water.

“I’m telling you Jason Carver was trying to kill me,” she said for the tenth time to a motley crew of Hopper, Powell, and Callahan from her hospital bed.

“Now why would he go and do a thing like that for?” Powell huffed. “Jason was a good, upstanding young man. Captain of the basketball team. He loved Chrissy. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not for anything.”

Robin let out a long sigh of frustration and buried her head in her hands. She looked up at them, weighing her options before she finally snapped, “Because I’m a lesbian!”

They stared at her blankly.

“Apparently Chrissy was too and that’s why he killed her.”

“You telling me that Jason Carver, all American boy next door was a murderer killing queer kids?” Callahan huffed in disbelief. “There’s no way.”

“And I’m telling you it’s true,” Robin hissed. “Plus whoever saved my life and killed the rat bastard wasn’t Eddie Munson.” She crossed her arms over her chest and settled into the bed, grumpy.

Hopper pinched his nose. “Let’s say we follow this line of inquiry, why do you believe Eddie Munson wasn’t involved at all. You keep saying you never saw your rescuer’s face.”

She looked up at him like he was stupid. “Because the guy that took the bat to Jason’s head was wearing a short sleeve shirt.”

The cops all looked at each other in confusion.

Robin threw her arms up in the air. “No tattoos, assholes! Eddie very famously has bats on his...” she looked at her own arms for a second, “right forearm. And whoever this Jesus with a bat was, he didn’t have any tattoos on his arm.”

“Robin!” her mother admonished. Melissa Buckley was there to ensure that the police didn’t try and twist Robin’s words into saying something that wasn’t true.

Robin just shrugged, unrepentant. They were being assholes and someone should tell them to their faces.

“Well, shit!” Powell snapped, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. “If it wasn’t Eddie then who the fuck was it?”

Just then the door to Robin’s room burst open, startling all those inside. Officer Glenn Daniels came running up to Chief Hopper, a large envelope in his hands.

“Florence got this this morning,” Daniels said, panting for breath. “And we wanted to verify its authenticity before bringing it to you. So me and couple of the other officers looked into it.”

Hopper opened the envelope, his eyes growing wider the more and more he looked through it. “And how much it of is accurate?”

“All of it.”

“There is no way,” Hopper growled, slamming the envelope on Powell’s chest. “No evidence is that air tight. There must be some kind mistake or error in there somewhere.”

Powell took the envelope and looked down into it. His eyebrows shot up. “There are actual fucking writings by Carver in here. Where the hell did they find those?”

Daniels just shook his head. “Whoever found this shit was meticulous. There are no other fingerprints than Jason’s on anything. But there is a letter.”

Powell went searching through the envelope and pulled it out, handing it to the Chief, who read it, mumbling to himself.

“Well, as much as I would like to say the bastard is wrong,” Hopper said with a resigned sigh. “He’s not. Or she or whatever. They’re not wrong. The victims wouldn’t have gotten justice, not with them being queer. Jason would have been lauded a hero and paraded in the streets for taking out the trash.”

“‘To the police,” Powell read out loud. “I am sending you all the evidence you failed to collect when you were too busy trying to pin these murders on an innocent man. It didn’t take a lot to realize the true connection the victims had. I’m just sorry I was too late to save Molly Masters. She didn’t deserve to die in that horrible way.

“Once I figured out who it was, I knew that there would be no justice for these kids. Not when Jason Carver was who he was, and why he was killing his peers. So I quietly compiled all the evidence I could. His journals. His distinct lack of alibis for any of the murders. His emotional connection to the first victim, his girlfriend, Chrissy Cunningham.

“I’m just glad I was able to stop him from killing that final girl. But if she did die later, I hope Carver rots in the hell of his own making. No one deserves to die because of who they love.

“-Jason’s Executioner.”

“Well, that ain’t creepy as shit,” Callahan said sarcastically. “Well it’s not as though we could have used any of this evidence anyway.”

“And when is Eddie Munson being released?” Melissa huffed, pulling herself up to her nearly six feet of height.

Hopper blinked at her for a moment. “I’m not sure I understand the question, ma’am.”

“That boy is innocent!” Melissa said sternly. “And what? You’re going to just sweep this all under the rug and leave Jason Carver’s reputation intact?”

“That’s not what I said,” Hopper replied, low and dangerous. “And I don’t appreciate you putting words into my mouth.”

Melissa crossed her arms over her chest and stared him down.

“He is innocent of the murders, yes,” he said, “but he still sold an underaged girl ketamine. And last time I checked that was still very much against the law.”

“I don’t believe you actually have proof of that,” Melissa said with a winning smile.

“He confessed,” Powell said in confusion. “We have it on record of him confessing to selling the drugs.” He put his hands on his hips. “There’s no way he’s not going away for the drugs.”

“Under duress,” Melissa said smugly. “Which any lawyer worth his salt will get tossed out in a heartbeat. You have nothing on the boy and you know it.”

Robin grinned up at her. “Isn’t she so cool? And she’s my mom!”

“Stop calling him a boy!” Callahan hissed. “He’s twenty! He knew full well what he was doing and I’m not going to stand here and let you pretend otherwise.”

Melissa scoffed, eyeing him up and down with a raised eyebrow. “I’d call your dog to heel there, Chief, we wouldn’t want me to scream police intimidation, now would we?”

“Don’t make me arrest you, Mel,” Hopper growled. “Again.”

Melissa grinned up at the chief. They had been on very opposite sides of the Vietnam War. Him having been in the army and her having been in the protests against the War. Hawks and Doves.

“And just what would be the charge this time, Chief?” she asked with a wink.

Hopper squeezed his eyes closed and then opened them slowly. He let out a long exasperated sigh. “Eddie Munson will be released without charges by the end of today.”

But before his underlings could protest he held up his hands. “It’s either release him and sweep under the rug that some rank amateur or we don’t release him and Melissa here goes to the press about how we put away an innocent man and get the national media up in our business.”

They stared at him for a moment before they grumbling agreed. Hopper bid the Buckleys goodbye and then led his officers out the room.

So how did Eddie know all this? He talked to Hopper, Daniels and the Buckleys and while some details varied they pretty much confirmed that how it went down and how Eddie got out on a ‘technicality’ as the cops were calling it.

When he stepped out into the fresh air outside of the jail with Wayne waiting for him, he took a deep breath and let it go.

“I don’t know how you can stand living in this hell hole,” he groused as he hopped into Wayne’s truck.

“Can’t afford to leave,” Wayne huffed and started the truck. “If I could scrape up the money to get out of here, I would and I’d take you with me.”

Eddie gave his uncle’s shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe I’ll be able to get a job and get enough money for both of us out.”

“If wishes were horses,” Wayne said ruefully as he pulled out into traffic. “I’m just glad you were released without charges.”

“You and me both, old man,” Eddie huffed. “I was sure I was going to be Reading, Pennsylvania, Short Line and B&O railroaded.”

“Good thing Melissa Buckley was there when they interrogated her daughter,” Wayne growled. “Or you might still be sitting in that cell.”

“I hope you sent her flowers,” Eddie said. “She certainly deserves it.”

“Delilahs and some of my grandma’s shortbread,” Wayne confirmed. “I even offered to help out any handwork they may need in the future too. And if I were you I’d offer your way around an engine too.”

Eddie saluted. “Aye, Aye!”

Wayne snorted. “If the way she tells it is true, some rookie wannabe detective is the one that provided the most damning evidence against that Carver kid.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Eddie said with a snort. “These backwater cops wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow.”

“Still it makes you wonder who it was...” Wayne said softly as they turned into the trailer park.

“It certainly does that,” Eddie agreed. “It certainly does that.”

~

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

I am ridiculously pleased with the railroad joke. It still makes me smile every time.

Tag List: TEN SLOTS OPEN

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Good Omens graphic novel update: December 2024

We promised a graphic novel treat for December to send off 2024, which we have at the end of the update, so let's dive in!

Colleen has been working diligently ahead of the graphic novel going to print next month, which she discussed over on Patreon. For those looking for more behind the scenes on both Good Omens and Colleen's work more broadly, we recommend either following her Substack, or subscribing via Patreon, as she approaches the finish line.

A snapshot from our production HQ where dummy books of the graphic novel, slipcase and other editions of Good Omens have been arriving thick and fast. The graphic novel (slipcased version shown) has quite the heft to it. It's going to be such a magnificent object inside and out.

Here, we're testing out the various papers, finishes, embellishments and more – everything is falling into place!

Merch-wise, some more delights. The A.Z. Fell & Co tote bag design is in, one side in celebration of our favourite angelic bookseller, the other as if it's been purchased from the bookshop itself, so you can take your pick.

We've got more pins that will be available in the 3-pin set add ons. While the full list will be available in 2025, we're happy to share a few more to get excited about:

On the trading card front, have a look at some of the base deck designs by Steve Gregson and Kirsty Hunter in situ as this all comes together rather nicely, and causes a heated game or two behind the scenes.

And, a quick admin note to wrap up that we always recommend checking the FAQ page as a first port of call for any queries. If you have questions tied to specific tiers, we'd suggest checking the last few updates if your answer can't be found on the FAQ. If there is any information required for your pledge, we will be in touch. We will be back at full steam in the New Year!

Thank you.

So, to wrap up this year's updates, we give you the draft of the full first scene of the graphic novel, artwork by Colleen Doran and lettering by Lois Buhalis. If you'd like to wait until the graphic novel publishes in Spring, skip everything after the ducks!

To 2025 🥂

Until next time.

+ post from Colleen Doran:

Good Omens: You Get...Stuff Like This

In the most recent Good Omens update at the Kickstarter, a few people got upset at the suggestion that you have to get past my paywall here to see Good Omens updates.

Except you really don't, and the post doesn't actually say you do. You get a bit more, like pics of my studio, a discussion of tools and process - but not all of that is exclusively about Good Omens.

I think the Dunmanifestin team just wanted to draw a little attention to my blogs and other works, for which I am very grateful.

As my Patreon supporters already know, Good Omens info posted here gets to the Substack and Kickstarter eventually. And since most of my posts here aren't just about Good Omens, but my other projects and personal stuff, as well as links to our weekly Virtual Art Studio sessions, I think I'm justified in keeping that material behind a paywall.

In fact, I don't think I've posted much stuff about Good Omens since the summer: pages of flats like the one you see above, a few studio photos, and color tweaks.

Also, me boo-hooing about my nerves and health.

But for those who feel left out missing even this small amount of stuff, then the screen shot above is for you.

That's called a flat.

It's a prelim color before adding final color.

Here's what the final color looks like.

So I've posted a handful of this sort of thing since this summer, but frankly, there's even more of my sketches and so on posted at my Instagram that aren't here at all.

For those who don't know, I am doing most of the color myself on the book, but I am working with assistants. I'm not sure how much the Dunmanifestin team wants out there before the big reveals, but here's a snippet of a sky.

In the first image, my flat color.

And after my assistant worked on it.

Here, I've done a repaint. Sometimes I do very extensive repaints after the assistant works on a page. Sometimes not so much. I didn't use assistants on many pages at all. About 80% of the labor on the color of the book is my work.

However, the assistants have been a big help, and I am very appreciative of them.

I will make a point to go through all my prior posts and get every single bit of art that you haven't seen and make it public for all of you in the coming weeks. I need to excise it from previous posts. As I respect the privacy of all my readers, I never make prior posts public without their permission as they may not want their comments or identities to be public.

Thanks so much for everything!

[cloversnstrawberries]

will you do platonic yandere alastor x teen reader for the “refusal/acceptance” prompt? like the teen reader was kidnapped by him and refused to accept him as their father but as time goes on he manipulates them into accepting him.

"refusal / acceptance" plantonic!yandere!alastor & teen!gn!reader ! !

[2024 christmas/holiday event, entry 3]

event post ! | event masterlist !

description; When you fell to hell, you hadn't expected yourself to make it this long. 5 years wasn't very much at all to most sinners, but to the younger ones-- it was a massive milestone, you included. However, your relatively peaceful (as peaceful as it could get in hell...) existence was abruptly interrupted by your own curiosity getting the better of you.

Really, you shouldn't have poked around the house you'd basically been squatting in for the past 5 years like you were, all it could lead to was trouble, and you should've known that.

additional notes; the first part is very focused on the reader themself/the mysteriously unoccupied and very nice house they found after first falling, but i promise you alastor does show up and is very much his usual overprotective self :D

warnings; Kidnapping, vague possessiveness, overprotectiveness, imprisonment, entrapment, Reader is convinced Alastor wants to kill them, brief/vague mentions of violence, murder, torture, etc etc, Reader has trust issues (for a good reason, it is alastor we're talking about), manipulation, and if i missed any others, please let me know!!!

w/c; 5.5k (oh lord)

You aren't sure how long you've been here, isolated with The Radio Demon in some messed-up pocket dimension(?).

In all honesty, you don't know what you did to deserve this. To catch his interest like this, and by god you don't know how the hell you've been keeping it.

Both in life and death, you knew many people like The Radio Demon-- you knew how they operated, the ins and outs of what their main goal was. For some, they prioritized wealth, and others prioritized power above all else--

You've come to the very clear conclusion that the Radio Demon prioritizes his own amusement above anything else in the world. Yes, he most definitely has a thing for power (as all Overlords do, it's practically a requirement for the position), but that's certainly not his intentions with you.

Being a younger sinner wasn't necessarily rare-- it was hard to come by them, yes, but that's because they're usually snuffed out before they could even get a look around the place.

It's a wonder you've made it this far, five years wasn't much in the eyes of Sinners like Alastor, but to you-- it was far beyond how long you'd expected yourself to make it.

The Exterminators that come down each year-- they target the younger ones, the vulnerable. On more than one occasion, people have claimed they heard Adam, the leader of the Exterminators, proclaim "Oh, I just love killing the small ones!"

Not very holy in your humble opinion, but that opinion was not asked of you; so you'd never shared it to anyone but yourself.

Dying at the hands of other sinners wasn't uncommon for the younger ones either, obviously-- which is why you were (understandably) a bit of a hermit.

This is, ironically, how you encountered and was promptly swiped up by no other but the Radio Demon himself. You never interacted with others much, but you'd still heard tales of him-- little snippets of conversations as you did your monthly grocery shopping. One of the few times you'd ever leave your little shoddy cottage on the outskirts of Pentagram City.

You were always a very curious person-- cautious, so you'd keep your curiousity to yourself. Let yourself silently mull over information, but forcing yourself from never seeking any more than you could passively pick up.

But this one time-- God, you really don't know why you did it. Perhaps you were getting bored with it all, with the monotony of your afterlife; always on edge, even in your own 'home'.

This cottage you lived in was abandoned once you found it, just a few days after you'd fallen into hell. It was close to the field you'd woken up in after dying, and you'd curled up on the cold, scratched up wooden floor and slept for the first time in Hell.

Ever since, you'd claimed the place as your own. The first few months-- scratch that, the first few years, you were always on edge, expecting its true owner to come crawling back-- and slaughter you, who by all means was a squatter, simple as that.

You didn't mess with the items much, and you stuck only to where you needed. The bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room-- where you'd set up shop, claiming it as your bedroom.

Only recently had you begun exploring the other rooms. The kitchen was simple, having an icebox and a gas stove; besides the archway was an apron hanging on a hook that read "Don't kiss the cook". You'd snickered when you first noticed it.

You never used it, you only used what you had to-- never rearranging, never touching what wasn't absolutely necessary to your survival. Forever in fear of if-- or when, the original owner returned.

A few months ago, after residing in this cottage for so long, you came to the conclusion that owner probably was never coming back. They'd most like died in an extermination-- when you'd first discovered the house, it already had a light covering of dust over all the objects.

And yet, nothing looked out of place. Nothing stolen, nothing broken. That's what put you on edge, making you certain for so long that the owner would come back and rip you to shreds.

You started small, looking and eventually locating an unassuming hall closet in search of cleaning supplies. You pulled a duster out, a wooden handle with a metal bit attaching the real feathers on the end-- it was ornate, in your eyes, because you were so used to having a duster made of synthetic fibers. It looked quite old, but that fit with the rest of the house.

You pulled it out and began dusting-- once you were done, you were surprised by how much nicer the place looked by then. You turned the feather duster back to its home in the closet, still careful about disturbing anything else.

A few days later, you took a mop and cleaned the floor of the living room and kitchen.

The next day, you cleaned and reorganized the bathroom, but didn't dare throw away anything.

Then, a week later, you finally removed those mounted heads of various cervines, stashing them in a corner of the living room. Out of sight and out of mind, no longer looming over you as you slept on the cushy sofa every night.

Your boldest move by that point-- but after that, it was like a gateway had been opened. No longer so nervous, you moved furniture around; inspected all the cabinets of the bathroom and kitchen, looked through the large oak armoire standing by the entrance.

In it, you found a few coats, an umbrella, a couple hats that hadn't been in style for decades, maybe even nearing a century-- and a few bits and bobs a like. One thing in particular caught your eye-- a coat made in beautiful earth-toned colors, with jewel-red accents as well.

You took it out, and began wearing it around your house.

In the following months, you'd branched out into a few other rooms-- no longer sleeping in the living room, you settled down in what you assume to have been a guest bedroom. It was plain, with a queen-sized mattress held up by a metal wire frame.

It was done up in blues, and it looked like it'd been rampaged through when you first entered. Slate blue covers ripped off the bed, drawers pulled from the dresser-- spilling its contents all over the floor; and a 1950s CRT TV on the floor, a hole running right through the screen and out the casing. The glass of it was still strewn about the floor.

You cleaned it up with careful hands, and took the broken TV to sit beside the mounted stag heads in the corner of the living room.

A few more changes-- you found a storage room, stacked high with neatly folded clothes; hunting gear, and various different items from a bygone eras, along with dozens and dozens of boxes-- most, if not all, were labelled in some shape or form. You placed the TV and mounts in there, not having the heart throw anything away. You'd even kept the glasses pieces, placing them in a Tupperware you'd discovered in a particularly dusty cabinet in the kitchen.

One night, you'd grown bored again-- a terrible thing to be in a place like this, something you both did and did not consider your own. But, you'd ventured into the storage room regardless; careful of the items piled high, you pulled out a random cardboard box from the top of one of the less precarious towers of stuff.

In neat, swooping cursive; it was cryptically labelled "Cherished Belongings". Against your better judgement, you pried the top open--

Inside were a few radios, far more modern than the rest of the cottage appeared to be. Deep gouges were in the side of some, but the marks didn't dig deep enough to make it unable to be used.

A stack of letters you didn't dare touch, feeling like it'd be going too far to look into the private affairs of your home's previous owner-- a couple small boxes, that once you opened revealed little knick knacks that reminded you of your great-grandmother.

She had a farmhouse out in the country, and every time you'd visit her when you were young and she was still alive, you were always so enamored by the little trinkets placed all over a wooden shelf hanging above a corner-countertop.

They were delicate, bisque porcelain and well maintained. Your grandmother had a thing for rabbits and birds, many of those trinkets being one of those two things;

In the box, wrapped oh-so delicately in bubble wrap, were three tiny bisque porcelain deers. By the looks of their make and paint job, you guessed they were from the 50s or 60s.

You set them aside, along with the other boxes like them (though, you didn't open those yet. you wanted to explore the big box in its entirety before delving into the details), and explored the box a little more.

You found a beautiful Cathedral radio, from the brand Philco-- it was at the bottom, obviously an antique model. It appeared to be a custom, made of red wood and brass accents; it was polished to perfection, obviously a treasured item to the person who lived here before you did.

You pulled it out, and then closed up the box. You didn't place it back on its tower, as there was still more you could dig through in the large box; you took your findings to the living room, and set them carefully down on the accent table near the sofa.

You opened the rest of the little boxes, and placed the little figurines all around the kitchen, a few in the living room as well. Once you were satisfied, you sat down on the couch and began fiddling with the radio.

When it buzzed to life, it was already on a station. It was playing... swing music, you think it is-- you weren't too sure, since you weren't incredibly familiar with that era of music.

You tried turning the knob, but it always managed to come back to the same exact station. A second or two of static as you moved the knob, a spark of hope-- before it was quickly dashed as you were redirected right back to the same station.

Still, some music was better than none-- you'd found yourself going stir crazy without much background noise, save for the woods outside and the occasional animal prancing around; so this find was actually quite nice, you'd thought.

Until the song ended abruptly-- you thought it might've been a technical error of some kind, interference on your end. Until, right as the song stopped midway through a word, a talking segment began.

The show host was directly addressing you. And in that moment, you knew that you were done for-- one you heard that voice, everything started to make so, so much sense.

"My oh my, it seems like we have a special listener!" He'd started out, and it felt like there was somebody watching you. Hair on the back of your neck stood immediately, skin crawling as you nearly dropped the radio in fear-- your hands having grown clammy and trembling.

Laughter, cruel and mocking-- as you fumbled with the radio "Ah ah ah, don't drop it! That is quite priceless to me, you little thief."

Your heart dropped to your stomach, and in a moment of haste, you haphazardly tossed the radio onto the sofa-- not doing it too hard, making sure not to damage it in the meanwhile-- and quickly stood, ready to get the hell out of dodge.

Something grabbed at your ankle, and you shrieked-- a shadowed, clawed hand was coming out from the ground. Its nails dug through the cheap material of your pajama pants, and you toppled over; wincing as you landed directly on your tailbone.

That was, by far, the least of your worries at that point of time.

"I apologize, loyal listeners! We'll have to go to intermission, but I assure I will be back-- a new guest in tow, if all goes accordingly!" More laughter-- cackling, before it cut to a soft, almost lulling sort of music.

It did little to calm your nerves-- in fact, it worsened them tenfold, knowing what was to come next. Who was to come next,

A wordless cry escaped you, frantically clawing at the hand around your ankle-- but it was almost... slippery, non-corporeal as well. You couldn't seem to get a grip on it, as it just--

Your fingers just moved right through it, and it tightened its death grip in warning. But you were too afraid by now, the realization that for the past five year you'd been staying in the Radio Demon's house came crashing down on you in an instant.

That's why it hadn't been ransacked already, why it had such nice things, why there was barely anything that exceeded the 1930s technology or aesthetically wise-- the mounted deer heads, the-- the everything!

You'd fallen after he took his 'sabbatical', but you still heard so much of him. In the past few years, the fear of him had died down-- but still,

You knew exactly what he meant by a 'new guest'.

In that moment, you had the stupid thought of I'm too young to die like this, which was ridiculous, because you were already dead. You were in Hell,

and yet, the truth lied in the 'like this' part of that statement. You didn't want to be tortured and eaten on air, you didn't want all of Hell (or at least a very, very large portion of it) tuning in to hear the first 'guest' The Radio Demon got on his show post-disappearance.

Stomach flipping, vision blurring from your tears, your ears rang as your heart worked overtime-- You're sure your face was red and blotchy, tears already making tracks down your cheeks.

Half-hysterical, you were saying "Please, please, please--" in such a desperate tone, directed to no one but yourself. begging yourself to just grab the hand and rip it off, to make it out of this in one piece--

You don't know why you fought so hard, and as you look back, you realize that might've been what made Alastor want to keep you (for the time being). Surely, he adored the fact that you-- teetering on the edge between child and adult, crying and begging-- fighting so hard for a life not worth living.

Really, you had nothing to fight for. No family down here, no friends or even acquaintances, nobody knew you; you were a hermit, one of the younger sinners that people assumed would be snuffed out quickly, and leave behind little to no impact.

Panic surged as you look to your right, a pool of shadows forming-- then, out came the tip of antlers. Then, fluffy ears-- a head, shoulders...

And soon enough, the shadows dissipated. Leaving behind what you assumed, what you were so sure would've been your killer.

He'd opened his mouth-- but as he looked at you, for a reason entirely unknown to you; he buffered. Looking down at you, sobbing and shaking-- lip wobbling, face red and soaked with tears.

You know you looked pathetic at that point.

Maybe that's why he did what he did, why his demeanor entirely changed as he crouched down. Antlers shrinking and the static surrounding him dying down (though never ceasing entirely) as he extended his arms your way. Like he was trying to beckon forward a scared child.

And maybe you did look like one-- but you hardly believe that he genuinely saw you as one.

You know men like Alastor, you know that they could never make room for anyone else in their hearts but themselves-- and a select few people who'd managed to worm their way into his close circle; one way or another.

You were not one of those people.

And yet, he did not harm you.

Even as an indeterminate amount of days, weeks-- maybe even months, passed; he still hasn't harmed you once. He clothes you, he gives you gifts upon gifts (nearly all of which go unopened, shoved in an ever growing pile in the very corner of your room)-- he set you up in a nice room, he feeds you; he claims that you can have all you ever wanted, as long as you ask.

You never did. It was a trap, and you knew it. He was-- was trying to lure you into trusting him. You don't know why he was doing this, maybe he got bored with every horrible act he did being a one-and-done thing.

He was fattening you up like a pig to the slaughter. Making your life all nice and cushy, only to pull the rug from under your feet and reveal what you knew all along.

No matter how many times he said something along the lines of "I won't hurt you, you're safe here, my fawn." or "I view you as my own, a child I never knew I wanted before you came along.", you knew how people like him went about life. People were stepping stones to their goals, his being entertainment; always getting the last laugh.

Once upon a time, you'd heard that his youngest 'guest' he had featured was an 11 year old-- early in his stay in Hell, right as he began to blossom into a fearful Overlord, that child had done something to upset him.

That was, allegedly, back in the mid '30s; and that after that, he never dipped lower than 19 year old. Now, you aren't entirely sure how true that could've been, either part of the claim--

But it was all you had.

You were curious, but not foolish enough to externalize that curiosity. Especially not to like Alastor.

He didn't keep you in the cottage you'd grown accustomed to-- he took you somewhere else. It looked like the cottage; all the way down to the knick-knacks you'd placed all around, right before you made the mistake of touching that radio,

It was always dark out, and when you look out the window-- it was not a forest, but a swamp-- bayou, what-have-you. It was a wetland, with fireflies buzzing around at all times,

There never was a moon, the only light outside came from what seeped out of the faux-cottage and the fireflies that were all over, but that hardly illuminated much.

You didn't leave your 'room'-- the room that looked like the one you'd claimed as your own in the real cottage. He tried coaxing you out of it a lot-- tried making you move rooms, saying he'd set up a room much more suited to your needs.

Every single time, you gave a quiet shake of your head-- that was the furthest those one-sided conversations ever got. Alastor didn't seem too pleased with it, but he laid off it. Didn't force it on you, and he'd then bring you food on a little bed-tray.

Today, you got a little too bold-- or perhaps you just wanted it over with, finally coming to terms with the only way out of here was... well, to force Alastor's hand and get him to snap-- then kill you.

It was obvious he wasn't going to let you go any other way.

You left the room for-- jesus, it must've been the first time you'd done so since the first couple days after you got stuck in this strange other-cottage. The living room didn't look very different.

Noticeably, the trinkets you'd placed before were right where you'd placed them. Not a centimeter out of place.

You tried to ignore it, and sat down on the sofa. You frowned at the Philco Cathedral radio beside you, sitting oh-so-innocently on the accent table near your head.

You glared at it, and while you knew that, realistically speaking, you were entirely to blame for getting in this situation-- not so much the radio, it was still a little cathartic to have something else to blame but yourself.

You turned around and laid on the couch, arms crossed as you pulled your legs to your chest-- back of your head resting against the arm of the couch, you closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Tried to pass time that way,

Predictably, your nerves refused to let that happen. But you retreated into your mind-- and soon enough, you heard Alastor shadow-warp in. You kept your eyes closed, tried to look as peaceful as possible. As vulnerable as you could, open and easy to atta--

A hand, a hand landed on your cheek. it was soft, caring, even. It confused you. Did he know you were awake? Was he trying to pull one over on you as well, because theres no way he'd do this if he didn't know you were witnessing it--

His hand pulled away, and you heard his footsteps pattering away; a door opening, fainter footsteps, the door closing-- and his footsteps getting closer.

Then, you felt something being thrown over you. It wasn't easy, resisting the urge to snap your eyes open-- obviously he knew you were awake, trying to trick you by being all sweet; reaching levels of deception you never thought possible before.

You realized he was trying to deceive you, because you were trying to deceive him-- and any such combination, made your head hurt if you thought about it too long.

Then, he leaned forward; you knew this because his hair brushed against your cheek in the process; both hands went to your face-- cupping your cheeks as he leaned forward and planted a little kiss on your forehead.

He began to tuck you in, and brushed some stray hair from your forehead. In a soft, almost reverent tone, he said "Sweet dreams, little fawn.", then ran his hand through your hair one last time--

Then he was gone. And nothing more came of it-- it was a little embarrassing to admit you'd really fallen asleep, so you reasoned with yourself that you hadn't. Just as you opened your eyes (which you'd totally just been resting, absolutely no sleep having found you. nope, nuh uh), you realized you hadn't been alone.

On the other side of the sofa, pressed as far against the other arm as possible-- almost like it was afraid of startling you if it got too close, was Alastor's weird Shadow creature. The same one that had restrained you that day you'd turned on the radio and spelled your own doom.

"...Hi?" You asked, trying to make yourself sound as groggy as possible (as if you needed to put any conscious effort into that in the first place); trying to sell the impression that'd you'd just been asleep, even though the Shadow probably knew otherwise (you hoped it believed that you hadn't actually fallen asleep, but you're pretty sure it did because nothing felt out of place-- obviously it hadn't attacked you while asleep).

It chirped, jolting up. It's face split in to a jagged grin(?), bright neon blue made up its mouth and eyes as it jumped from its seat and ran to the kitchen. You sat up, blanket falling into your lap; it was a nice, large quilt made up of reds and earth tones. Alastor's signature colors, and if you had to guess, he'd probably pulled it from the storage room.

You'd never been in his bedroom, but you doubt he'd sully a blanket he sleeps with by putting it on you. Even if the point of doing so was to manipulate you or whatever the hell he was playing at.

Around 30 seconds later, Alastor popped his head out of the archway leading into the kitchen. He found you rubbing your eyes with the back of your palm, just now awake enough to realize you smelled something cooking in the kitchen.

Oddly enough, he didn't speak until you pulled your hand from your eye and registered his presence. You looked up at him, eyes wide-- confused. His... his smile,

It looked so real, so genuine. It was soft, something you never thought a man like him could accomplish-- either in a genuine or otherwise manner. It reached his eyes, causing the skin around them to crinkle slightly.

And for a second, just one second, you believed that he actually did care for you.

When he spoke, he did it quietly. He sounded... different, and at first you couldn't quite place your finger on the difference.

"Mornin' fawn! Did you have a good rest?"

First off, he sounded way too... eh, cheery-- actually happy to see you, and like he actually wanted an answer to his question. And secondly, he sounded southern! With how much he talked about being from New Orleans, you should've made the connection that he had an actual accent underneath that transatlantic one; it was so jarring, hearing it gone completely like it was.

You sat in silence for a little bit, Alastor waiting for you to respond to pick up the conversation. Not rushing you, just standing there. God, if you didn't know any better, you'd say he was being patient with you!

In lieu of a verbal response, not trusting yourself to keep the bewilderment out of your voice; you gave a quick nod, and his smile grew by a fraction. He probably thinks he's caught you in his trap--

He gave you one last look, before turning around and heading back into the kitchen. You heard something boiling, and you didn't know what he was making-- it smelled good, though.

"That's good." He called from the kitchen, and it felt so terribly domestic that it had your stomach flipping. Him peacefully cooking, continuing to talk to you even as he did so.

You were beginning to feel nauseous, no longer liking this game he was playing (let's be honest, you never did-- but it was getting too real, blurring too many lines. you knew that, at some point, he would up the ante; but you really wish he hadn't),

(he's beginning to make you believe it, despite you knowing for a fact it was all a dirty trick to get your guard down.)

"I'm so happy you've started to warm up to me!" He started again, and you clenched your hands in the soft, probably expensive, quilt fabric. I'm not warming up to you, your mind supplied-- trying desperately to grasp at straws, and hide away from the fact that you were, you were starting to really believe his lies.

You suppose that it was inevitable, that being isolated with just Alastor (and his shadows, but they were extensions of him-- they didn't count much as another person) for long would get to your head.

You'd like to think that you were mature, hardened by living in Hell for 5 years beforehand-- but deep down, you knew you weren't. That little showcase you'd done when you two first met, cowering on the ground as you sobbed and shuddered and fruitlessly clawed at your restraint was more than enough to prove that.

After everything, you were still a child. You were still that scared little kid, who thinks they're so much better than all their classmates because one of your teachers said "You're so mature for your age!" as an offhanded comment.

There was some clanging and clattering coming from the kitchen, a cabinet opening and something being taken out. A pan, probably; it sounded like a large, flat metal thing. A baking sheet, actually; not just a regular pan.

What on earth was he making in there? A dangerous, curious part of you wondered. Urging you to stand up and go look, but you keep firmly rooted to you spot on the couch. You wouldn't walk right into a trap, you refused to be that unknowing fly that didn't see the spider-web right in front of their face.

You heard (what you assumed to be) the baking pan placed on the tile countertop, a drawer being pulled out, metal utensils clinking together--

"You know," He started off, a bit more rustling came from the kitchen before he continued his though. "I was starting to worry that you never would," He paused, and if you didn't know any better-- you'd say he sounded sad.

But as soon as it showed up, it was thrown right out the window-- Alastor exchanging what seemed to be genuine emotion for the upbeat, almost saccharine sweet tone he'd held moments prior.

"But, I'm so glad you decided to prove me wrong! It was torturous for me, my child refusing to so much as look my direction when not forced to..." Alastor trailed off, leaving you in relative silence-- the conversation went dead for a while, as you process his words.

When you realized what he'd called you, panic flooded you. He'd never called you that before-- or maybe he has, and you just tuned it out. He said so many things, all of which you had a very hard time believing were based in even an ounce of truth;

Maybe it was the tone that finally brought your attention to the title-- his child. You were not his child! You were some random squatter who just so happened to be a minor! You weren't a kid, and you certainly weren't his kid--!

"I'm not-" You tried to say, spine stiffening, hair on the back of your neck standing straight up at the realization. But, in true Alastor fashion, he quickly cut you off and diverted your attention-- out of the blue asking "Could you come and help, my dear? I think it's about time you start learning how to cook."

okay, rude, you thought. Alastor couldn't have known you for more than a few months; you're sure you would've realized if a year had passed (you hope you would, anyways), and never once had he asked if you could cook.

You had half a mind to try and push how far his patience could go, refuse to stand-- to follow his 'invitation' (demand) for you come help him in the kitchen.

A much more rational part of you screamed at you that no, no-- don't do that, you absolute idiot!

You wish you could say you didn't give in to him, that you stayed right where you were and tested how far he'd go with his promise of not hurting you. That would, however, be a lie.

It was almost like you were on autopilot, pulling the blanket off and making a half-assed effort to fold it before setting it on the couch. You felt a little numb as your feet seemed to move on their own, eventually leading you to the kitchen.

One hand of the edge of the entryway, you stood cautiously at the very edge between the living room's hardwood floor and the kitchen's black-and-white checkered tiles.

You're not sure how long you stood there-- not long at all, you think. Alastor turned around, offering a small, horribly soft smile and quietly beckoning you.

You took one step in, and Alastor laughed at that; he lifted his arm, gesturing to his right. Obviously, he was instructing you to come stand by his side.

It was out of fear, you told yourself-- that when you'd followed his orders, standing next to him; you didn't fight at all when he laid his arm over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

"Isn't this kind of impractical?" You asked, mumbling under your breath-- you were halfway between wanting Alastor to hear and not wanting him to, but of course, the former was the outcome.

Alastor's hand had settled on top of your head, absent-mindedly smoothing down your hair as his other hand whisked eggs into... something. He laughed, amused. Not entertained, not the joy he so obviously took in toying with others-

He sounded endeared.

That spelled the beginning of the end for you-- for your staunch position on the idea that Alastor was just messing with you, playing the long game and what not.

The realization of how... real he was being, with his actual accent out in the open... it opened the floodgates, and your grip started slipping on the idea that Alastor wanted to do you harm.

He was patient, more patient than you'd ever think he could be (from you'd heard previously, of course), he cares about your boundaries (somewhat, but that's way, way more than you ever thought you'd get with him), he fed you, he provided you with clothes and books-- claiming he'd give you anything if you'd just ask.

Your head felt full of cotton, ears ringing slightly-- drowning out Alastor response of "Mm, i suppose it is. But is it such a crime for a father to want to have his darling child close?"

Numbly, you shook your head, only have vaguely registered what he said. He gave a pleased hum, and went back to his cooking.

Really, he wasn't teaching you anything-- just doing his own thing while he kept you glued to his side.

You found yourself not minding it too much. You couldn't find it in yourself to care that you didn't mind it, actually.

[hoshinasblade]

second best |3| hoshina soshiro

PART 1 | PART 2 | BONUS: PART 3

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f!reader genre: slight angst, comfort, childhood friends to lovers, a bit of that miscommunication trope snippet: hoshina soshiro always ranks second at everything in his life. god forbid he falls behind in the bid for your heart too. word count: 2k trigger warnings: a bit suggestive at the end author's note: i promised a part three so here it is, hope you guys like it! likes, replies, and reblogs are welcome but im begging you not to copy or steal my works. feel free to sign up for my taglist (which i swear im gonna use on the next fic lol), and i appreciate when people send me asks so let me know your thoughts (or send me hoshina pics, that'd be great too). my masterlist is here! also i gotta let you know that i might put the next fic on hold because i am so tempted to start a short nsfw collection instead - just one-shots so it won't be a lot of commitments. who knows cause i might write angst and nsfw at the same time 😉

soshiro's hands were trembling. you noticed because it has not happened in a while - you cannot even recall the last time you've seen the man nervous, much less shaking. you were going to himeji that morning; hoshina had snatched your backpack from you - "when i said i would make it up to ya, i mean in every way i can," he said, sounding gentle and sincere that your only choice was to let him carry your belongings and blush as he also intertwined his fingers with yours while walking.

there is this story you have been hearing for a while - the red string theory, it is called. according to it, people who are destined to be together will always find each other despite everything and anything. when you were a kid, instead of thinking it romantic, you rather thought it is frightening - fate is a difficult enemy to go against: if it is meant to be, then it will be eventually. when you grew up, you held that belief as a prayer - it means that whoever is the one chosen for you may get lost on their way to you, but they will always - always - arrive.

you glanced at hoshina soshiro and you knew you were right to believe.

it was roughly a four-hour journey from tachikawa to himeji by train, and during the entire ride, even when he fell asleep for a short while, your boyfriend did not let go of your hand. you complained about your palms being sweaty as a joke, and he only loosened his hold. you understood - he is making it up to you, but he is also making up for all the wasted time.  

"we're almost there," you told him when he startled from his nap. his bangs were slightly messy, and he bumped his head to your shoulders. "comfy," he hummed. you giggled.

you are still trying to navigate through dating a high-ranking officer of an anti-kaiju defense force unit. relationships aren't strictly forbidden but still frowned upon, which was a little bit of an issue between you and soshiro when you had a proper and long-overdue conversation about what you guys were. confessing is one thing, but when being friends is all you've known your whole life, you know adjustments are supposed to be made here and there.

 which brings you and him back to your hometown.

he didn't exactly disagree with you, but you are aware he had his reservations about the idea of visiting himeji. "oh i'm pretty sure soichiro-kun would be surprised," you said when you were still planning the trip. "yes, we should kiss in front of him and give him a heart attack," soshiro suggested, and you weren't hundred-percent sure he was just joking. maybe you didn't want him to be.

when the streets started to look familiar, soshiro noted the sudden bounce in your pace. you and he have walked in the same alley years ago - he would wait for you after class and would even make up some ridiculous excuse so you could go home together. "i used to pretend to be tired way back just so i could convince you to slow down. i wanted to spend so much time with you," you reminisced.

"i should have known ya were head-over-heels for me," he teased.

"they miss ya, soshiro-kun. ya don't have anything to worry about." the change in topic wiped the smirk off his face. he was suddenly serious, sad even. there was a part of you that regretted saying the words, but he had to hear it - you only wanted to reassure him after all.

"just that i haven't been here for a long while", he said, squeezing your hand. "i don't know if they think this place is still my home."

"ya need to have faith in the people you care about, soshiro-kun. ya need to trust that they care about ya too," you solemnly advised. "i know that doesn't make any sense sometimes, but that's how i do it."

"have i told ya i love you so much?" he responded, to which you smiled.

"only a thousand times," you joked once more.

the hoshina estate is a spacious one - you have to pass through an automated black gate that directs you to the main house, the cobblestone path lined with cherry blossom trees, their delicate petals swirling when the wind blows gently; the grandeur of the home soshiro grew up in is undeniable with its traditional japanese architecture. a man with striking features and an aura of authority was waiting at the entrance, waiting for his son.

“father,” soshiro greeted the man, bowing deeply.

“an embarrassment that your friend will be the one to bring you home when you could have done it a long time ago,” soshiro’s father scolded him. his stare at soshiro was that of disappointment, which quickly disappeared when he looked at you. “ah, my dear, come on in, hurry, come on in,” he turned and said to you, inviting you in. the hoshina patriarch had always been fond of you - soshiro’s parents had wanted a daughter and they found one in you.

soshiro rolled his eyes. “my father’s favorite child is my girlfriend, great,” he muttered.

the maids made you a great dinner, cooking soshiro’s favorite food per his father’s request. conversation was light, and it was apparent that the old hoshina wanted to catch up so badly on how his son was doing, inquiring in consecutive questions about soshiro’s rank in the unit, his experiences so far, and his long-term plans in staying with the force. soshiro’s replies are detailed, but you know he intentionally did not mention all the instances where he almost died fighting.

soshiro’s father regaled you both with stories of soshiro’s childhood antics - “do ya remember, my dear, when soshiro tripped and fell on his face after training with soichiro? we were so worried, but he only fell asleep,” he recited the memory as if it was just yesterday., his kansai accent thick on his words. the tension that had lingered in the air had dissipated as you finished your meal.

“i had the guest room prepared for ya so ya can rest for tonight,” soshiro’s father had said when his son cut him off.

“no, we can sleep together,” soshiro declared, and thinking it might have sounded improper, he spoke again. “beside each other, i mean. in my room. because we’re tired. from travelling all day," he attempted to clarify but failed.

“ah, may i look forward to a grandchild soon from ya two?” color drained from your face as you slowly closed your eyes. you fought off a laugh but failed.

“ya may, but we aren’t doing that here of all places,” soshiro argued just as his father had turned his back on the both of you, amused with himself. at least now you know where soshiro got his sense of humor.

the hot shower felt great against your tensed muscles, and if you weren’t that exhausted, you would have opted for a bath instead. soshiro wanted to speak to his father alone, so when he ushered you inside his childhood bedroom, he’d let you know that he would be gone while you were cleaning yourself up. you were relieved; you haven’t seen your own father since you were a teenager, and it would be a shame to see it happening to the person you care about the most, not if you can do something about it. and this is not to say that you wanted to fix soshiro’s life - you pointed this out to him once - but he’s had a terrible habit of holding back and assuming the worst, so you had decided that if you could help him out, you would push him to the right direction.

“didn’t ya pack clothes?” his eyes were on you immediately after he came in, finding you on the bed with your phone, wearing his shirt.

“i did, but yours look better,” you replied, holding your arms out and showing him how oversized it is on you - the sleeves are passed your elbows, the hem reaching the middle of your thighs.

“they look better on ya, i agree.” he sat on the mattress for a few moments before lying down, his legs dangling off the edge of the bed. “ya all good?”

“i am,” you said to him. “especially because i scanned yer photos when ye're still little while ya were gone,” you informed him then showing him a folder you created in your device - baby hoshina soshiro folder, you named it - full of duplicates you made of the framed pictures of your boyfriend all over the house. there’s one where he didn’t have any hair at all; there’s one where he was close to crying but appeared to be keeping the tears in; there’s one where he was missing a tooth but smiling like there’s no tomorrow. soshiro moved to take your phone away, but you were quicker than him.

“this is payback, for all the times ya weren’t talking to me.” you were alluding to the three long months when you were still an applicant to the defense force and soshiro acted like you were a stranger. he had apologized for it already, but it is nice to make fun of him sometimes so you brought it up. “that hurt my feelings, ya know.” you laid down beside him, invading his personal space, your shoulders touching his.

“i was stupid”, he said. “and it’s not like i could have come up to ya and said, hey i’m sorry for leaving ya in himeji, by the way i’m crazy for ya.”

“and all those times i thought ya had something with commander ashiro, oh god!” you exclaimed for effect. “by the way, the other recruits thought the same.”

“it’s not like that between her and me.” his gaze on you was brief. “it’s not like that with anyone else.”

“it better not be, because i’m leaking all yer baby photos to the first division if ya mess up,” you threatened him despite not needing to.

“i promise, i won’t.” he grabbed your hand from your side and linked it with his, cradling it to his chest before bringing it to his lips. “i’m not that stupid.”

soshiro’s childhood room was what you would expect from a teenage boy: a king-sized bed, a bookshelf of manga, a cabinet showcasing knives and blades. you never had the opportunity to enter his room even when you were kids, you realized. you looked up to the ceiling and you saw green dots that formed shapes - makeshift constellations, you recognized the patterns - little plastic stickers that you glue to surfaces. “are those supposed to be stars?”

soshiro sighed, his arm on top of his face. “yeah, uh - remember when uh - i think that was in junior high, and ye're so into astronomy? i thought it’d be a good idea to know the names of the stars to impress ya, so i started trying to memorize them.”

you shifted to face him, speechless. maybe if you had known this, if you had known the other things you are certain now that soshiro had done and was willing to do for you, you wouldn’t have wasted years questioning your place in his life and deciphering his feelings. a wave of warmth washed over you as you reached out and lifted his arm off his face, meeting his eyes.

soshiro’s lips felt as soft as it looks like, you thought as you kissed him. you pushed yourself into him, and he pulled you tighter until it seemed there was not enough air for you to breathe - until your chests were pressed together it was as if your hearts were beating as one. something sparked inside you; the sensation of being so close to soshiro about to consume you from within. his hand crawled to your hips and remained there. you drew back a bit after that, and when you saw the panicked look on his face, you kissed him again.

“i love you,” you told him in between pants.

the night went on, and by the end of it, hoshina soshiro discovered that his favorite sound is you moaning his name.

[tiny1ntheblu3]

SFW VORE scenario :3

Merfolk brainrot got me.

Tiny works at an aquarium cleaning the fish tanks. Giant works there as a performer; a merman/mermaid show.

--

While the latter takes a break, the former dives into the fish tank. Usually, there's no risk of the tiny one getting eaten by any of the aquatic animals. Usually. Why? It could be anything—maybe their diving suit has a special scent that drives the fish away, or maybe they're a fast swimmer. Whatever the case, today it doesn't apply.

While they're scrubbing away, doing their duties, a fish comes up from behind. The giant could be walking back to the tank to warm up, or say they're actually a merman/mermaid messing around in the human world. Let's say it's the second option.

They could have a way to hear the aquatic life around them, be it coherent thoughts translated into something they can understand, or maybe just slight snippets of the animals' wants.

In this case, the big guy catches the wandering thought of a very hungry fish that's about to feast.

"Great, the fish are being fed,"

they think to themselves, till realizing it's much too early for that to be the case. Rushing over to the tank, they dive in. Did someone throw in something for the fish? Did the cleaner not do a good job and leave something for them to eat? Speaking of the cleaner, shouldn't they be inside the tank, doing their job right about now?

All these thoughts race through the giant's head as they swim around, looking for the fish. Following the creature’s thought process, hearing as it got louder and louder, they find a sight to behold.

They spot a tiny silhouette racing through the water, desperate motions of their body as they try to gain speed. The smaller one could spot, or maybe sense a shift in the water. Turning around, they see a much larger shadow looming over them than the fish chasing them.

A second or two later, the tiny finds themselves being sucked in the direction of the large shadow. The fish, unaware and possibly not caring about this other entity, stubbornly chases the tiny, denying to let go of this free food.

The tiny, gasping for air that they don't have, and is quickly running out of, tries their best to outswim both of them. The bigger fellow, sensing the tiny’s distress, shoos away the fish and gets closer. On the brink of fainting, be it from fear or lack of oxygen, they don't recognize their coworker.

They hear a muffled voice and feel gentle pokes at their body. Feeling like an eternity passed, they blink and hear a faint, "Sorry." The giant shoves the little one into their mouth, swallowing as gently as they can. Feeling the small round lump go down, they feel their gills starting to filter out the water. The tiny, now safe inside the giant's stomach, rests.

The day goes on with the giant going about their usual schedule. In the middle of their show, they feel a small squirm.

"Now of all times," they think to themselves.

Swimming further, away from the visitors' prying eyes, they tap their stomach gently. A shiver runs down their spine as they feel tiny vibrations throughout their innards. A small, muffled voice calls out,

"Hello...?"

They smile.

"Hi. Mornin', sleepy head. How are you feeling?"

A second or two pass.

"Better. Uh... where... am I?"

The bigger one's smile falters a tad. Right.

"I—"

The interaction gets cut short by a banging on the glass.

A kid smiling, watching the merman/mermaid.

Sighing, they swim over slowly, remembering they're still on the clock. Shushing the smaller one, they promise them they're safe. Not too convinced but without much choice, the tiny snuggles into the bigger one's walls. If they're going to stay here, may as well get comfy.

The bigger one, feeling this, smiles gently, putting a hand over their stomach as they swim over and continue the show. A lengthy explanation would occur a few moments later, but that was for another time.

[jude-duarte-wannabe]

husband material

it is finally here! as promised my loves <3

so to keep my formula one girlies satisfied and fueled, i put this together until my university work slows down for a bit which may be a little hard since this term we are covering all the theory topics of my business degree like accounting and law, i'm sorry my lovely's <3 i will try and write when i can but it's literally only week one and i've already got three assessments due next week <3

pairing; lewis hamilton x phoebe windsor [original character]

blurb; this is a list of cute things husband lewis hamilton and his wife phoebe windsor with features from their daughter sage hamilton do in my smau series that i'm working on called the billion dollar baby, this story features a original character but for your reading pleasure, i've used 'you' and 'y/n' in this little snippet <3

currently playing; my love mine all mine by mitski "cause my love is mine, all mine, i love mine, mine, mine. nothing in the world belongs to me but my love mine, all mine, all mine"

how you two met;

you are friends with my original character broadway actress marceline 'marcy' bennett [from my story broadway bug] who is dating charles leclerc.

you've been best friends for the past fifteen years of your lives and you attended the silverstone race with her, hanging out in the ferrari garage most of the time.

you met lewis when you ran into roscoe and stopped to pat him due to you being a dog lover and having one yourself.

marcy ended up introducing you to lewis, who was absolutely floored the very first time he met you.

and i'm talking speechless, stumbling over his words and weak in the knees down bad for you [the way i want this]

when it comes to your jobs;

your relationship is secret for the longest time, you two love having a private relationship and just being in the moment with eachother so when your relationship is finally revealed to the world no thanks to paparazzi, you can finally support your husband at his races.

and when you can't make it to a race, you always send him the same text message.

your often filmed at races in the garage jumping up and down.

he gives you a necklace with his race number on it but unknown to him you already have it tattooed on you.

your a singer and he often ends up helping you write lyrics even though your styles are completely different from eachothers.

he promotes your company that you have on the side selling bourbon, your company being called the chamomile company.

your company is a sponsor for whatever team lewis happens to be apart of, where lewis goes, your companies sponsorship follows.

whenever you are on tour and he can make it to a show, he's often filmed in the VIP tent yelling "that's MY wife"

and you two are often the paddock favs in your matching or mostly matching outfits. [i did my best]

whipped;

this boy is so utterly and completely whipped for you.

he is completely weak in the knees for anything that you do.

he's a utter gentleman and pulls out every chair and opens every single door for you.

he carries both your heels and your bags and sometimes when he's feeling extra loving he'll just carry you.

he steals your perfume when he leaves for the race season so that he can spray it the hotel pillows to make it seem like your with him, you always have to have two bottles for this very reason.

this man will not stop gushing about you, in interviews or in conversations with other drivers, george is begging him end of season to just shut the hell up.

he is in love with your voice and will often call you at any time of the day just to hear you talk.

before you two even started dating, he was told of your love of flowers my marcy and sent them to you all the time and he kept doing it long after you got together and even after you got married.

you've just come to expect random surprise bouquets at this point, you have a whole instagram story highlight dedicated to the bouquets you've gotten.

kisses, cuddles and all thing cute;

lewis will often wake you up with kisses along your shoulders and back.

if your standing together and his hands on your hips, it's almost always likely that his thumbs are under your shirt hem and gently rubbing your skin.

cheek kisses galore, whenever he passes you in fact.

belly kisses, even before you were pregnant, he would just lay between your legs and kiss at your belly imaging what you would look like pregnant.

whenever you've been apart for long amounts of time, whenever you see him again, your sprinting to get to him and just so eager to have his lips on yours.

random surprise kisses are a definite.

and if lewis is cuddling you from behind standing or laying in bed, he's bound to be nuzzling against your neck, placing sweet little kisses the skin.

he kisses all of your tattoos and even sometimes traces them in content silence and peace.

you will also do the same with him from time to time.

you two are always holding hands and you both find it bittersweet to let go.

if your sitting next to lewis and your tried from a long day of travel, your head is resting on his shoulder while he plays with your hair.

sudden hugs from behind from both of you are a thing, one time you surprised him at a race and when you hugged him from behind, lewis freaked out but calmed down as soon as he heard your soft whispered "i love you lew"

your a stomach sleeper and lewis will just lightly run his fingers up and down your spine while you sleep.

there is moments when your face is squished in between lewis fingers while he kisses your cheek.

you both grew up in england and so if one if you wakes up before the other, you make eachother proper english tea.

when he cuddles you from behind while just standing around in the garage and the camera captures you wriggling in his arms.

"ugh.. bub stop moving" lewis would whine and pull you tighter in his grip to which you would protest but stop when he says "you feel too good in my arms to let go just yet" while he nuzzles against your cheek.

when you two are both on a break and this man wants to get out of bed early, you can bet you are dragging his ass back to bed "not today you don't" with a cute grumpy look on your face.

THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE!!!

you often have to stand on your tippy toes to kiss lewis and sometimes if your in the garage, a mechanic will give you a step stool so you can kiss or even just hug him properly.

lewis is the kind of husband to always give you the first bite of his food cause he knows you want to try it but just won't admit it.

you will pull lewis in by his jacket to kiss him.

he'll blast your music in the garage.

if he comes home during a break from the race season but you had errands to run, lewis will often find notes like this.

if lewis gets bored which can happen really easily and he texts you but doesn't get a response, the texts will often get cute aggressive, like if your in a meeting and your phone is on silent once it's over you often show your manager the texts and how peeved lewis gets over you not answering him for an extended period of time.

and there was a moment after you moved in with him and you guys were in your honeymoon phase that you were so excited to spend the first day in your now shared home together that you woke him up by jumping on the bed, yelling "get up, get up, get up! it's a very pretty morning!" but lewis who had come home late the previous night from a sponsorship event just put his hands on your legs as you stood over him to stop you from jumping around, gazed up you with soft sleepy eyes and muttered "do you know what else sounds real pretty... sleep" and then he tugged you back down and wrapped you in a cuddle.

the animals;

roscoe is a cuddler and often intrudes on your intimate moments or romantic cuddles cause he feels left out.

you two are dog parents well before becoming real parents but even your dogs have different vibes.

and before you met lewis you were a cat mum too, to a calico cat named boba who seemed to inherit your adhd and hyperactivity, you know this by the video's lewis will send you of her when your away on tour or just cause she was being strange per usual.

nicknames + cute things lewis says;

lewis's nicknames for you include; mama, sweetcheeks, baby girl, little one, wifey, mrs hamilton and my personal fav bub.

your nicknames for him include; papa bear, baby boy, lew, hubby and my lifeline.

when lewis get's approached by your fans and they ask "are you-" this man won't even let them finish their sentence before he's very proudly blurting out "hell yeah i am... i'm y/n's husband"

down and dirty;

you wearing lewis's clothes is one of his biggest turn on's.

there is no quickies with lewis, this man likes to take his time.

he is in love with your legs.

panty band snaps, he loves hearing you squeal every time he does it.

the both of you are suckers for praise.

another turn on for him is when you wear his clothes for an extended period of time and then end up smelling like him.

he loves being able to eat you out, he'll drop to his knees just about anywhere.

and let's finish on a cute note with family;

lewis is very over protective when your pregnant, if your walking through the paddock or a high traffic area or anywhere basically, he's got you tucked tightly against his side and if your sitting, his hand will always be on the bump.

he dedicates his race wins to you and your daughter; sage.

roscoe is sage's own personal bodyguard, roscoe loves that little girl so much that while you were pregnant, he would lay with his head resting on your belly like he knew his future best friend was growing within.

he'll often message you during the season asking for bump updates while your pregnant with sage but it turns out that you happen to be pregnant at the same time as marcy and so lewis will often get a picture of your bumps together and because he and charles are teammates at this point, he'll chuckle and show charles the photo who just has this lovesick smile on his face.

and i think it's safe to say that sage is a daddy's girl through and through, in fact she has lewis wrapped around her little finger even if it does scare the crap out of him the minute she shows an interest in racing.

i hope you guys enjoyed and feedback is very much welcome, love you lovely's <3

[ashthesalamipiece]

Hiii this one might be a bit different and long, but could I request one of Katsuki who's a famous singer, and a reader who is a fan that has alwaya shown up to his showa without fail. He starts to look forward to seeing her every time. One day, she doesn't show up for 3 shows in a row, and he decides to look for her and finds out she has a chronic illness and has been in the hospital because her body is getting weaker? His music was everything to her and helped her through her illness. She has a risky surgery coming up that could help her live longer, and he tells her that she has to live so he can ask her out. She successfully goes through the surgery, and Katsuki is there for her through it all, even singing to her during her recovery. Once they get together, He writes an entire album about her and dedicates it to her in his next concert, the first concert she is able to attend again since her health started declining. She is now in a wheelchair because of her health, but Katsuki loves her as she is and is happy to have met her. Sorry if it's a bit long!

“Always”

You were always there.

Every show.

He’d scan the crowd without meaning to, eyes sweeping past the bright lights and noise until they landed on you—your gentle smile, the handmade sign you always waved, and that quiet, hopeful glow in your eyes that felt like home even from the stage.

He didn’t know your name. But he knew you.

The girl in the third row. The one who sang every lyric like it meant something.

---

And then one day… you weren’t there.

Not at Tokyo.

Not at Osaka.

Not at Fukuoka.

Three shows in a row.

And it hurt more than it should have.

“Hey, have you seen—” he started asking the staff. No one knew your name. Just vague things.

“She’s the quiet one, right? Always in the same spot?”

“She hasn’t bought tickets lately, actually.”

“She was at like, every show. Kinda hard to miss her.”

Katsuki’s chest felt tight.

So he did what most people wouldn’t expect him to do.

He looked for you.

---

When he found you, it was in a hospital room.

White sheets. Machines that beeped. Tubes. And you—smaller than he remembered, skin a little paler, eyes dimmer but still… still holding on.

You looked up in surprise when the door opened.

“K-Katsuki…?”

He wasn’t sure whether to curse or cry.

You tried to sit up and winced. He was by your side in seconds.

“You idiot,” he muttered, voice rough. “You should’ve told someone.”

You gave a breathy laugh. “I didn’t know you’d notice I was gone.”

“Of course I noticed. You think I sing to a million people every night and still manage to find your face in the crowd by accident?”

You looked like you might cry, but he leaned in closer.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

“My condition’s worsening,” you said softly. “Chronic illness. It's been getting harder the past year. The doctors are trying something new, but there’s a surgery coming up. High risk. Could help me live longer, but…”

“But it’s risky.”

You nodded.

He looked at you for a long time. Then—quietly—he reached out and took your hand.

“Then you better survive it.”

Your lips trembled. “Katsuki…”

“Because when you get out of here,” he said, his voice low and sure, “I’m asking you out. And I don’t take rejection well, so you don’t get to die on me.”

You blinked, stunned—and then laughed, for real this time, tears in your eyes.

“I promise I’ll try.”

“You better. I’m already writing songs about you.”

---

You made it.

The surgery was long, terrifying—but it worked.

Katsuki was there the whole time. In the waiting room. In your recovery. In the quiet moments, holding your hand. Singing to you with nothing but his voice and his heart.

He even brought you snippets of songs on his phone, holding it to your ear while you healed.

“I’m calling the album Always,” he said. “Because you always showed up for me. Now I’m showing up for you.”

---

Six months later…

Your first concert since everything.

You rolled into the arena in your wheelchair, heart pounding, escorted backstage by his team who now knew you by name.

When the show started, he walked out onto stage in front of tens of thousands—but looked directly at you.

“This one,” he said into the mic, “is for the girl who saved my voice before she ever said a word to me.”

The crowd went quiet.

“She was always there. Every night. Until she couldn’t be. And even when life hit her hard, she still fought like hell to come back.”

He turned to you.

“You’re my always. This whole album’s yours.”

And then he sang.

And you cried.

And when the lights dimmed and the final note hit, Katsuki Bakugo left his mic behind and jogged straight down into the crowd—straight to you—and kissed you like the world finally made sense again.

---

And he stayed.

Through the pain.

Through the joy.

Through every day after.

---

Because you were always there.

Now it was his turn.

And he would be there—

Always.

[chock-and-bates]

Cant wait to read your medieval au and imagine charles wearing a slutty damsel dress, lying on a bear fur waiting to be ravished <3

bear fur, you say? are you, like, psychic???

in honor of this prophetic ask, here is a very long snippet from my dark medieval au, roar of the fire.

(tw: blood, #43 fans beware!, and some mild chussy spice 🌶️)

His husband had dragged his chairs close as soon as they had sat down, wrapping a possessive arm around his shoulders and tucking Charles into his side, where he had stayed throughout the feast, with Max occasionally trying to hand feed Charles food and snickering when he would snap at him.

They were still pressed together now, observing the barely contained mayhem in the Grand Hall. Charles watched as Lando made a fool of himself, shamelessly flirting with Sir Ricciardo, Carlos, and the physician's apprentice, Oscar. He spun around on the dance floor, throwing his arms around whichever man was closest, and laughing maniacally at whatever they said.

Charles scowled at the scene, ashamed that such a fool was his lord-in-waiting. It made him grateful that Max was not one for dancing, for Charles had no desire to be in close proximity with the little strumpet tonight.

Of course his present situation was not much better. Since the dancing had started, Max was honestly more preoccupied with Charles than with watching his own court. He kept plying him with more wine, humiliatingly lifting his goblet to Charles’ lips for him to sip from as he whispered filthy promises to him, occasionally allowing his hand to wander no matter how many times Charles tried to push it away.

“I like the gown,” Max murmured to him, his finger running along the low neckline of the blood red dress Charles had been forced into. He brushed the tip of his finger against Charles’ skin, “You look very pretty.”

Pursing his lip, Charles threw him a withering look, “I look ridiculous. Apparently Lord Perez did not think my usual robes were fitting for a feast.”

Chuckling, Max just leaned closer to rest his forehead against Charles temple, his arm still tight around his shoulder so he couldn’t shrug him off, “My poor little queen. Maybe it will cheer you to know that I do not intend for you to be wearing it for much longer.”

Heat crept up his neck at the words and he uselessly tried to squirm away, “I told you, this is not a conversation befitting for a feast, you brute.”

Max didn’t let him budge an inch, instead whispering hotly against his ear, “Did you see the massive bear rug one of the diplomats gifted us? I’ve already ordered it to be taken to our chambers and laid out in front of the fire. I’m going to take you on that rug tonight, wife. Going to rip off this dress and-”

“Your grace,” Lord Horner’s voice interrupted Max’s filthy words, “May I present to you, Lord Colapinto.”

With an irritated huff, the King pulls away to see the guest. Flustered, Charles also glances up at the intrusion.

Lord Colapinto turns out to be one of the foreign diplomats, a young man, with a charming face, and a misplaced, confident sparkle in his eyes from far too many drinks. He gives a low, drunken bow to Max and begins to extol the incredible feast-

Charles tunes out of the conversation quickly, he has no desire to listen to more diplomats lather his husband in praise and flattery, as if that will spare their lands if Max sets his sights on them.

Until he realizes Colapinto’s eyes have begun to rest on him.

“I, of course, offer my congratulations on your recent nuptials,” Colapinto practically purrs as he stares at Charles, “Your bride is most lovely.”

Everyone at the great table stiffens, Charles included.

“Your grace, you do not dance,” Colapinto looks back at Max, the drunken haze in his eyes even more obvious after his words. Who could have let this poor man stumble up here in such a state?

Max does not answer the question. He’s gone very still, his gaze sharp and focused, a predator observing his prey.

“King Max does not dance,” Lord Horner answers instead, an icy warning underlying the statement.

One that, unfortunately, Colapinto does not heed.

“Ah, a true shame. If I may,” Colapinto stumbles closer, “I would offer to take the Queen for a dance, if it pleases your grace.” He extends a hand towards Charles, “Your beautiful bride deserves to be shown off to the court-”

Max stands abruptly. In what feels like the blink of an eye he has unsheathed the knife from his belt…and stabbed it straight through Colapinto’s wrist and into the table.

The lord shrieks in agony, writhing in shock and pain as his blood spreads out from where he’s pinned. Exclamations of surprise and disgust erupt from those near, causing the music to stop and the rest of the guests to crane their necks to see the bloody spectacle.

Charles does not look away from the grisly sight, clenching his jaw and staring at the foolish lord as he screams and squirms.

“It does not please me,” Max sneers as he answers the lord’s witless question. 

With icy eyes he looks out at the rest of the crowd, everyone falling silent and fearful under his stare.

“Come, we’re retiring,” he says to Charles, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. 

Everyone bows to them on their way out, but Charles barely notices, Calopinto’s shrieks still ringing in his ears.

Moments later, despite the violent scene, Charles still finds himself laid out on that bear rug. The fur is pleasantly warm from the heat of the fire against his bare skin, that cursed dress laying in tatters near the door. Max is also naked, laying half on top of him, sucking and biting dark, possessive marks into his neck as his hand works at Charles between his legs.

“Did you want to dance with him, schatje,” Max asks him, the words whispered against his throat.

Biting his lip, Charles tries desperately to hold in the wanton mewls that Max keeps pulling out of him, his thumb relentlessly circling the sensitive bud at the top of his sex, while his cunt keeps clenching around the two fingers Max has buried inside him. He keeps remembering how it’s the same hand that had just wielded his knife.

Still, his question makes Charles scowl, and he hopes Max can hear it in his voice when he answers. “No. As if I would ever want to dance with a drunken idiot.”

He can feel Max’s smile against his neck, sharp and violent.

[starmocha]

Remember when I said the Grassland!Sylus childhood friends/arranged marriage/soulmates AU was at around 4.6k words?

she grew and I still have like three scenes I need to finish writing, but instead of doing that, I kept writing new scenes and...I think I lost control of the story and my life (╥_╥)

So I'm posting another snippet, because...my brain is tired and I really, really, really want to finish this by Sunday because I have another AU wip that I'm also obsessed with I mean I need to finish part 3 of that other Sylus breeding kink fic I promise it's coming

Reminder that this story will include light breeding kink, pregnancy kink, smut, body worship, gratuitous usages of terms of endearment ("my bride" and "my beloved"), Sylus being grossly in love with you, basically lots of fluff. Anyhoo...

The following morning you were lazing in the field as the flock of sheep grazed peacefully all around you. The warm sunlight had you yawning, already feeling yourself being lured by the tempting sun into drifting back to sleep. As the time passed, your eyes felt heavier, and you nodded off a little. Another yawn escaped before you decided a few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt. Slowly, you closed your eyes, letting them rest for a few minutes. “Is this what you do when I’m not here?” You immediately opened your eyes when you heard Sylus’ approaching voice. You let out a soft surprised squeak when he knelt down next to you, his face looming just mere inches from yours. He was smirking. “Lazing around and sleeping? What if your sheep gets stolen by wild beasts, my beloved?” You glared at him. “I was not sleeping. I…was blinking.” “Your eyes were closed for far longer than a blink should be.” “I had some dust in my eyes.” “I’m quite sure I heard you snoring.” You blushed and shoved his face aside, glowering when he started laughing at you. “Did you come all the way out here just to tease me?” “Mmhmm,” he answered with a pleased nod as he sat back with his legs propped up. His elbow rested on top of his leg while he cradled his chin in his hand. You noticed in his other hand was a wreath crafted from leaves and berries. Your heart quickened and you gasped softly. You looked at him expectantly. It was at that moment that you noticed the dark bags under his eyes. You crawled over to him and he sat back, allowing you to settle in between his long legs. You reached up and touched his face. “Did you not sleep last night?” you asked him worriedly. He simply smiled and shook his head. Without a word, Sylus placed the wreath on top of your head. You reached up and touched it tentatively as you looked at him confused. “I wanted to finish this for you,” he explained, smiling, “Just as I had thought. This suits you.” “R-really?” “Mmhmm,” he hummed again, nodding. He leaned in to steal your lips. “You look beautiful.” “Sylus…” You could feel your cheeks warming up as he spoke. “Now everyone will know you are mine and I am yours.” You felt touched by his gesture. Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, surprising him into losing his balance. Sylus laid on the grass with you on top of him. You grinned and kissed him happily. He looked up, gasping softly when he saw the sunlight had formed a radiant halo behind your head. How…ethereal... He smiled, his hand gently grasped your chin, his thumb brushing over your soft, trembling lips. “We are already promised to one another,” he said, “but if I may be presumptuous, I would still like to ask.” You looked down at him confused. “My beloved,” he said, voice soft and sincere, “will you be my bride?” You stroked his cheek, and as you leaned down closer to his face, your wreath tilted on your head. “What do you think?” He smiled. “Your wreath is going to fall off.” “You’ll put it back on for me, right?” He huffed in amusement at your audacious question, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, reaching up to fix the wreath for you, “I will…my bride.” For that brief moment, you felt like your heart had stopped, and then you smiled again as you leaned in and kissed him, feeling his strong arms wrapped around you and holding you close to his body. “This is my vow to you, my bride” he said, “There is only you in my eyes. In this life and all of the lifetimes afterwards, I will always choose you.” “Same for me,” you answered, gazing back at him fondly. You stroked his cheek, letting yourself drown in those passionate crimson eyes. “I will always find you,” you promised, “In all of our lives together, I will always find you and choose you, my love.” Your ardent words beckoned his lips to yours, and for the rest of the day, you lay together under the warm morning sun on the grassland, lost in your own world of bliss.