#absolute grape of a man

[silverpsychedelic]

Some various Cades, a Queenie and an unnamed Dreepy

[ssilverswanss]

LETS TALK ABOUT ITTTTTTTT

[astrologysaysno]

Shang Qinghua core energy

[xxcherrycoke]

it’s a mess in there

[theprincessandthepie]

did all the “dread wolf’s regrets” memory things last night. whoooo boy. that’s. that’s a lotta lore!

[sweetstrawberryys]

“She’s in Labor?!?”

Summary: Your water breaks, and the strongest, deadliest men on Earth suddenly forget how to function.

Rating: Hilarious chaos with heartwarming panic and big brother energy (plus one very protective husband)

Masterlist

---

Soap (Johnny McTavish)

He’s the first one to scream.

You were just standing in the kitchen, eating frozen grapes, when your face suddenly scrunched. Then came the sentence that would send him into orbit:

“Um… I think my water just broke.”

Johnny blinked. “Broke what?”

You stared at him. “My. Water.”

“…OH BLOODY HELL.”

He spun in three full circles before grabbing his phone, keys, your hospital bag, and accidentally—his tactical vest.

“Johnny!” you shouted. “You don’t need your combat knife!”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT I NEED RIGHT NOW!”

Ends up driving you to the hospital with one hand on the wheel and the other clenched around yours like you’re defusing a bomb. Tears in his eyes. Keeps whispering, “You’ve got this, love. You’re so damn strong. I’m right here.”

He does not leave your side. Not for water. Not to pee. Not for God himself.

---

Price (Captain John Price)

If he’s the dad, he’s prepared. Had your hospital bag packed two months ago. Knew the signs. Has a backup plan. A spreadsheet.

But the moment you say, “It’s time,” that man goes dead silent.

You: “John, did you hear me?”

Price: Nods slowly, blinks once.

You: “…Are you okay?”

Price: Already lifting you like a damn princess. “Yeah. Yeah, just—f**king hell, it’s happening.”

He becomes hyperfocused. He’s the one timing contractions, double-checking your breathing, adjusting your seatbelt, coaching you the whole way with that deep, calming voice:

“You’re doin’ perfect, love. Deep breaths. Almost there. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And when it’s finally time? He kisses your forehead and whispers, “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

---

Gaz (Kyle Garrick)

Gaz is a mess. Like, heart pounding, phone upside down, nearly calls 911 when you say, “My water just broke.”

“Wait—wait, like, now? Now now???”

“Yes, Kyle.”

“Okay—okay! Don’t panic. Don’t panic. One of us has to stay calm, and you’re kinda busy!”

He accidentally forgets the hospital bag, then comes sprinting back five minutes later with four bags, unsure which one’s the real one.

At the hospital, he’s pacing like he’s awaiting a mission briefing. Texting 141 updates every 30 seconds. Even crying a little.

But the moment the baby’s out and he hears that first cry?

He breaks. In the softest, happiest way. “That’s our baby, love. You did that. I can’t believe it. You’re f***ing incredible.”

---

Ghost (Simon Riley)

Says absolutely nothing for the first thirty seconds. You tell him you’re in labor, and he just stares.

Then, suddenly, moves with terrifying speed.

Throws on his hoodie. Grabs your bag. Guides you to the car like he’s in a tactical op. Voice low, calm, deadly precise.

“You alright? Breathing okay? You’re safe. We’re good. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t think he could be gentle, but he holds your hand like it’s fragile. Sits behind the curtain with his head against yours, murmuring quiet things between contractions:

“You’re not alone. I’m here, yeah? Not goin’ anywhere.”

And when the baby’s born? He chokes on a breath and whispers, “Bloody hell... they’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Then he holds them with big, calloused hands and rocks like he was born to do it. Doesn’t say much, but you catch the tear slipping down his cheek.

Bonus: The Rest of the Team

They show up at the hospital like a squad of worried uncles.

• Soap brings a giant stuffed bear and immediately cries.

• Gaz holds the baby like it’s made of glass and won’t stop taking photos.

• Price stands in the corner with arms crossed, eyes watery, whispering, “Takes after their mum.”

• Ghost stays quiet... then sneaks in a baby hat he knitted himself and pretends he didn’t.

[apatheticsunday]

Phantom of the Manor

AKA "The Batfam unintentionally start giving ritual offerings to the Phantom. Danny, who's been mistaken as the Phantom of the Opera, is wondering why his hoodie pockets are full of tomato slices??" prompt idea!

Headcanon that Ghosts become more powerful the more people believe in them, kind of like deities. Danny's never really had to deal with the whole "ritualistic sacrifices to Bloody Mary" or "superstitious prayers against Davey Jones" because Phantom is a Hafta. Danny doesn't need people to believe in him or worship him.

So, he's never gotten a ritual offering before.

Which is why he's absolutely baffled when he shoves his hand into his hoodie pocket to grab his phone and feels something... squishy. And cold. Both Sam and Tucker scream as Danny jolts to his feet with a squeamish shriek. He damn near Goes Ghost as he tries to tear off his hoodie, regardless of the staring mall-walkers. Danny finally manages to fling the hoodie onto their table, scrambling to Sam and Tucker's sides, trying to breath through a panicked: "There'ssomethinginmypocket!!"

Sam carefully pokes around until she finds... squished tomato slices? They're oily and salted like a tomato caprese without the cheese. Which is an interesting choice for a snack. You'd think Danny would at least use a Ziplock bag or something?

("Ancients! Of course, I didn't put them there, Sam!")

Fast-forward a couple of weeks. Danny's going insane because why the hell are there tomatoes literally everywhere? Every couple of days (or hours, depending on the day), he finds different types of tomatoes all over the place. In bed when he wakes up. In his jean pockets at school. Even in the shower, he'll be blindly trying to find the shampoo bottle and come across a handful of grape tomatoes. He can't. Handle. It. Anymore. Danny's going to become the "Tomato Man" at school from how often he randomly pulls out tomatoes from his pockets. Like he needs another reason for Dash to mock him.

The last straw was when Danny was Full Ghost and felt something... itchy in his suit. He knew before he saw it. Danny tentatively pulled the sleeve of his suit open, silently praying that it wasn't what he thought it was, and- yeah. There's V-8 smeared from his goddamn elbow to wrist. He had to fight with tomato juice in his suit for several hours. And that's it; Danny literally can't take it anymore. He goes to Frostbite, begging the Yeti to help him with his Tomato Problem.

Only to be told he's receiving offerings. Which are apparently incredibly sacred and should be appreciated. (It'd be easier to appreciate if it was, like, cash or something. Maybe a Nintendo Switch. Instead, his patrons are worshipping him by offering... tomatoes. Great.)

So, clearly, the only option is to go straight to the source (i.e., his patrons) and tell them to Fucking Stop Giving Me Tomatoes. The next time he feels something weighty in his pocket (gross!), he follows the thready connection of his worshippers through a portal.

And Danny steps out in his full Ghost Regalia (because clearly they're worshipping Phantom, right? So Danny can't exactly show up in ripped jeans and his favorite NASA hoodie). The family sits at a dinner table... which is a little weird, since he'd expected an altar or something. But even weirder is the beady, predatory that look borderline-violent staring at him from everybody at the table. There's an uncomfortable silence more tense than dinners at Vlad's mansion.

Then, Danny carefully scoops out the soupy, baked grape tomatoes from his pocket and dumps them on the table. He doesn't wait for them to question it, just points to the tomatoes and says, "I appreciate the offerings, really, but it's gotta stop. It's gross. I have to wash tomato juice out of my clothes every day. If you're gonna leave an offering, no. More. Tomatoes. Please."

The oldest man seems jolted out of his stupor.

"Excuse me, but could you please explain why you've come to our home?" The man asks cordially. (As if Danny couldn't see him carefully gripping his steak knife like a throwing dart. And that's just rude, honestly. Danny was invited.)

"Uh, I'm Phantom? You literally give me offerings every day. Again, I appreciate it, I never thought I'd have diehard fans, but I don't even really like tomatoes. I mean, they're fine in salsa and stuff, but even I won't eat pocket-tomatoes."

"I believe there may be a misunderstanding. We don't worship a deity named Phantom nor have we left any offerings." The oldest says. He seems like he's about to continue when one of the black-haired adults interrupts him with a nervous, "Uh, B? About that..."

So. Yeah. It turns out Dick Grayson and Jason Todd forced the family to watch Phantom of the Opera, which spawned the joke of offering any food they don't like (i.e., tomatoes) to "the Phantom" (i.e., their trashcan). More than half the family doesn't like tomatoes and Alfred uses it as a punishment for breaking something, overworking, etc. They'd gotten pretty sneaky about scraping their leftovers into the bin but had gotten into a habit of saying "this one's for the Phantom, a treat for the Phantom," or something incredibly stupid like that.

Danny's just... a little relieved, honestly? Because he's literally fifteen and wouldn't really know what to do with followers if he had them. Plus, now he doesn't have to worry about waking up with tomatoes in his bed or making excuses for all his tomato-hoarding while at school. (Which was not necessarily the right thing to mention to Bruce "Serial Adopter" Wayne. Practically the whole table turned to stare at Bruce when Danny mentioned he's apparently an underage deity, waiting for Bruce to sweep in with a well-executed, "Well, it's getting late. Why don't you stay the night?" Because Bruce apparently can't help himself from collecting another black-haired, blue-eyed kid.)

[smallfisheyes]

it's silly, you know, but you have to try it. may the grapes work.

nanami kento can’t find you when the clock strikes midnight.

there was a ruckus, the release of fireworks outside (who permitted fireworks on school premises?), and cheers of happy new year. itadori toots one of those awful noisemakers. tuna mayos and hugs are exchanged. as planned, nanami maintains a wide berth from gojo, recalling his attempts at a sloppy kiss the previous year. it is a new year; the year of the snake.

but you are nowhere in sight.

why does nanami's belly feel like it's sinking? he smiles, but there is an ache at the centre of his chest. his eyes flick left and right, the festivities unfolding before his eyes. the school had been decorated by the students with the funding of gojo's shiny black card, reds and golds streaming along the walls. stuffed snakes (inumaki's idea) were thrown haphazardly onto the ground. the remnants of the party games from earlier scatter the table-clothed tables.

in your stead, shoko meets nanami's eyes. he nods, giving her a brief hug, sure to grip her just below the shoulder and just above the waist.

"happy new year," he mumbles. shoko smiles. it is politeness exchanged with a colleague and friend, but this is not how he pictured his first interaction of the year (and with whom it was shared).

kento had planned it down to the tee: your favourite wine, no more than two whiskeys, arriving just after you to seemingly rescue you from forcing yourself to yap about things you did not care about (work) with a person you could not care less about (gojo). kento was meticulous, more meticulous than he was at that awful firm he worked at in his early twenties. he had to be. the moment must be perfect. you deserved a wonderful evening. yet, there was a variable he forgot to consider: he couldn't find you.

"ah, nanamin," shoko hums. kento steps back, offering his full attention. there's that awful look on that face of hers, one that dates back more than ten years. the teasing one that reminds kento he is nothing but a lost junior; a silly, unkowing little boy with punk bangs. one that is about to be berated by the scary bobbed girl with a cigarette habit.

a force seizes his lungs, halting their movement. may the berating begin.

"are you looking for someone?" shoko teases. that tone. how grating.

"what gave it away?" no frustration laces kento's voice, only soft desperation.

shoko stacks her hands together and brings them to the side of her face. she tilts her head, her voice sing-song-y. "nothing, just that look of yearning."

kento huffs in frustration. his fists curl in impatience. "where is she, shoko?"

shoko steps to the side, an evil scientist revealing her latest experiment.

when kento sees what is behind her, the world tilts just right.

there you are, under the table, crouched and feral. kento draws back at the sight of you: a monkey, primitive and on the hunt for food. in quick succession, large and luscious green grapes were thrown into your mouth. you were a chipmunk. you stuffed your face full of grapes before you even finished chewing. 

you were always a wonder.

shoko's voice is soft, her note of contentment complimenting kento's sudden leisure at the sight of you. "happy new year, nanamin." she pads away.

kento makes a note to gift shoko a red envelope the following day.

there you are; his little star. kento moves, crouches, and parts the red tablecloth.

"you never told me you liked grapes."

your grape-a-thon veers to a halt. absolute horror stills your chewing. you have at least five grapes in your mouth. 

kento smiles wide. a rush of warmth washes over him. he could squish you.

this too much attention from a too handsome man. you turn your head away to fend off the rush of blood to your face.

"they're soh exsensiv hare," kento makes out between your voice and the grapes. you chew rigorously, averting your eyes. you hold a hand in between your wobbly mouth and kento’s eyes, falsely creating a front to maintain your dignity. "tha’s why you don seh meh eaving them. gofo saeh he woulv give them tah me."

kento bristles. he would get grapes for you anyday. command or none.

"may i join you?"

you chew a little more in thought, grimacing as you swallow. kento tries hard not to watch your throat, but he can’t resist. 

“of course.” you’re sincere. you’ve gone shy. his heart aches. he wants to make you get bashful like this every day.

you scooch over to make room for large and long nanami kento to sit beside you under the table. he’s still wearing those winged shoes you love, but opted for a white knitted sweater that makes you wonder how soft it is. you almost reach for kento’s arm, but you draw back. you’re under the table eating grapes for a reason. you deflate. five more grapes to go.

“you don’t need to be under here with me,” you reassure kento. kento looks like a stuffy that got pounded into a too small toy chest. his neck cranes and his bottom is awkwardly sat in a cross cross. you smile. you want this to last forever. 

“i can’t let you be here alone. it’s new years.”

you wring your hands together. you need to eat four more grapes. “thanks, kento.”

you eat your grapes now, but slower. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. weren’t you supposed to eat all twelve grapes before midnight was over? you glance over at the clock. it’s already too late. 

you open your palms: four beautiful green grapes, grown and harvested in japan. when you arrived here, you hadn’t realized fruit was a luxury. fruit is difficult to grow. the majority of land is ill-suited for fruit. 

four wasted beautiful grapes.

“that’s enough grapes for tonight.” kento gently takes your hand and rests them on his own. he cups yours, creating a shield. his hands are warm. they’re so much bigger than yours. “you never needed them.”

“yes i did,” you insisted. 

kento shakes his head. “no. you don’t need any of that nonsense.”

your frown is deep. your eyes are in a different place. kento cups your hands more firmly now. “you never needed the grapes, darling.”

it’s instinct, the little “no” that forms on the tip of your tongue. it takes a second, another, to realize the precious thing kento had called you.

darling. YOU. darling?!

suddenly, you’re the one gripping kento’s hands. “what did you say?!”

kento shakes his head, patting your hand. “you make this difficult.” 

“you! you called me–” you guffaw like a fish when kento nods a tired affirmative, like it was obvious all along. “please don’t lie.”

kento’s eyes turn icy. “i would never lie to you.”

your lips wobble pathetically. you hate this man. he makes you silly and makes your heart beat too fast. he makes you want to turn away and stare all the same because he is too handsome. too kind. so him. and you had always wanted him. but the yearning? you never expected it to be returned.

“nanami kento, were you always on tiktok?”

kento throws back his head and laughs. you stare for too long. you’re allowed to now. “i have three wonderful students.”

the year of the snake will be a wonderful one.

you leave the remaining grapes for gojo. he needed them more than you.

i can't stare at this anymore please take it as it is. happy year of the snake everyone :) hissss

[sophiamcdougall]

I am never going to complain about Greek Duolingo again

I mean, I am. But still.

So, as some of you know, my family has been coming to this tiny Greek seaside village for several years. Just over a week ago I came out here with my mum, under the impression that early September, after the height of the summer heat, would be a good time to have a holiday. ANYWAY Storm Daniel had other ideas about that. Locally things are improving (I'm actually really pissed off about the disaster-porn tone of most English-language media coverage, but that's another post). The power is back on, there's running water most of the time, and though the latter is not drinkable, a truck from the government came and handled out free bottled water yesterday. But we are currently kind of stuck. Can't do tourist things. Can't go home. There aren't any local flights out until Saturday and the road to Thessaloniki is still closed.

So this evening, feeling kind of aimless and depressed, I go down to the nearest beach with a couple of binbags and start cleaning up in an effort to at least do something positive. I always try to do this at least once out here and obviously, after the storm, there's a lot more plastic and rubbish than usual.

At some point I find this large, round bit of metal - some kind of machinery part, I think -- that's too big for the bag, so I take it to the bins on its own, leaving the rubbish bag on the beach. And when I come back for it, something among the stones beside it moves.

Specifically, it pulls its head sharply inside its shell

So, meanwhile I've been trying to learn some Greek with the help of Duolingo.

I currently have a 33-day streak and... I have questions. Shouldn't I be able to use the past or future tenses by now? Shouldn't I be able to say "x is like y"? I can't do those things. But one thing I absolutely can say all day long is έχω μια χελώνα : I have a turtle.

This is far from the limit of Duolingo Greek's turtle-related content. "An obsession with turtles" is my mother's characterisation. I can inform you that the turtle is not a bird, and, improbably, that the turtle is drinking milk. I can introduce you to a turtle in company with a horse and an elephant. As far as Duolingo is concerned, it really is turtles all the way down.

Now this, you may be able to see, is not a turtle. It has claws rather than flippers. It is a tortoise. I know there are wild tortoises in Greece: my aunt once rescued a pair of them shagging in the middle of the road -- but that was up in the mountains. I've even seen one myself, but it was also on a road and very dead.

I am 95% certain they don't belong on beaches. There's nothing for it to eat, except, unfortunately, a lot of plastic. Even if it gets off the beach it will immediately find itself on a road where it could get hit by a car. I'm pretty sure it must have been washed down by the floodwater and has been just sitting there, dazed, ever since.

Now obviously the first thing I want to do on encountering this unusual animal is to go and tell my mummy, so I do. The tortoise immediately brightens her day. She agrees that the tortoise is not happy on the beach and needs to be taken somewhere safe. it gets surprisingly wriggly when picked up so we put it in a carrier bag with some grapes and cucumber and go looking for somewhere to rehome it.

We find a path leading up between the houses towards a likely-looking field, but before we get very far a dog in a yard goes berserk and a man's head pops over a fence and demands to know what we're doing. He does this in English, as evidently we're just that obviously tourists.

"I found a tortoise on the beach!" I explain. "We want to find somewhere to put it."

"A what," he asks.

"It's like a, you know," I begin and then to my astonishment I find myself saying... "μια χελώνα"

"Oh! A turtle!" he says.

"But from the land. δεν είναι χελώνα", [it is not a turtle,] I say, as I am worried he will tell me to put it back near the sea where I found it. As it turns out it actually IS a χελώνα, Greek does not distinguish between turtles and tortoises, but I don't know that; I can't even name the days of the week or identify any colours other than pink yet, give me a break.

The man's entire demeanour changes and thaws. He does not worry about my turtle-that-is-not-a-turtle conundrum. He knows where οι χελώνες come from and where η χελώνα μας belongs. He leads us through a gate into a courtyard area.

"[somethingsomething] μια χελώνα," he explains to the assembled onlookers, of whom there are, suddenly, a surprising number.

"ΜΙΑ ΧΕΛΩΝΑ!!!" crows the throng of delighted small children, who are, suddenly, everywhere.

"μια χελώνα!" I agree, accepting that at least for current purposes, that is what it is.

"Μπορούμε να δούμε τη χελώνα σας; [can we see your turtle?]" asks an adorable little girl, shyly, and I understand??

The children fucking love looking at the χελώνα and showing it to them is kind of magical?

I finally put the tortoise down on the grass of this wild area off to the side of the courtyard, and marvel aloud that it is weird that I barely know any Greek except how to say μια χελώνα.

"I think she will soon run off," a kind lady called Aspasia assures me, seeing I remain slightly anxious about its fate. "I don't know why I'm saying 'she'. I suppose because χελώνα is feminine in Greek."

"Yes! I know that!" I exclaim, thrilled.

"Well done!" she says. And also she asks if we are OK for drinking water after the storm and if we need any help with anything and is just generally incredibly lovely and now we know more of the neighbours!

So "μια χελώνα" has just become, by a long way, my most-used and most understood and all-around most conversationally successful phrase in Greek. So I guess I have to admit I was wrong to doubt Duolingo's wisdom: it is correct to be obsessed with turtles. And I concede that prior to learning how to count to ten or to distinguish right from left, the simple ability to yell the word TURTLE over and over again is, it turns out, a crucial element of the responsible traveller's social skills.

(I am pretty fluent in Italian and turtles haven't come up in conversation even once?)

[xndrpndr]

CHANCES ARE YOU'RE ABOUT TO LOSE.

A/N: Written for a prompt by @suchsweetstories. Much love for hosting!

Cho Miyeon x Male Reader smut

3.3k words

“I already hate it here.”

“You do not.”

“Well, It’s supposed to be spring, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Then why the fuck is it so cold?”

Miyeon doesn’t look up from her phone. She’s too busy squinting at a map of the racecourse. You wager she’s trying to figure out how far the champagne tent is from the betting tables. To her, those are the kinds of metrics that matter. 

“It’s Melbourne,” she shrugs. “The weather changes every six minutes. A bit like your mood,” she adds cheekily. 

You roll your eyes. “Feels like winter in a wig.”

“Aw,” she mocks, finally sparing you a look, giving your bicep a theatrical squeeze. “Is my big baby cold?”

You glance down at your outfit—four layers deep and still doing fuck-all against the wind. “...Yes.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she says, leaping over a puddle. “This is the perfect weather for betting.”

“I’m sorry, what now?”

“You heard me,” she says, flashing a grin. 

“Betting.”

*

So. Miyeon has this habit.

And no, it’s not the gambling. That one’s more of an addiction—chronic, incurable, and one you’re practically enabling at this point. This is more like a side effect. A telltale symptom of the greater illness: the way she insists on solving every problem she has with her mouth.

Not metaphorically.

Not diplomatically.

Literally.

And you don’t mean that in the sense of persuasive debate, or even manipulation—though she’s proven time and time again she’s more than proficient in both. You mean she actually gets down on her knees, flashes those doe eyes, and opens wide like you’re playing here comes the fucking aeroplane.

Take today.

Much like how she got you to fly across the globe in pursuit of the Melbourne Cup—a four-minute loop of men in silks and tiny hats riding million-dollar livestock and whipping them into cardiac arrest—she’s now “talked” you into letting her bet on it.

You resisted, of course. But when she wants something, Cho Miyeon is an unstoppable force, and you are far from immovable object.

She’d cornered you in one of the racetrack bathrooms, leaned back against the sink, spread her legs, flaunted her hair and pouted like the tragic lead of a noir.

“Just one little bet,” she pleaded and you said “absolutely not,” and she said “pretty please,” and you said “no way in Hell,” and she said “I’ll suck your dick,” and you said “Miyeon, we’ve talked about th—oh fuck, okay, alright, Jesus Christ.”

So now you’re zipping your jeans with a sigh, running a hand through your hair and staring daggers into the man in the mirror. In addition to asking him to change his ways, you’re also asking how the fuck he lets this keep happening.

It's like you’re not even a participant in your own downfall anymore. You’re a spectator—front and centre to watch yourself make the same mistakes with the same woman in differing degrees of filthy bathrooms across time zones.

You wash your hands. Not because they need it—Miyeon did all the work this time—but because it buys you a second. A pause. A breath. A reprieve before stepping out into the light where, you know disaster, (Miyeon), awaits.

That and to ask yourself:

How the fuck did I end up here?

*

“The race that stops the nation,” Miyeon had declared with starry eyes about a week ago. She was lying upside-down on your couch, kicking her feet to the ceiling, tossing grapes into her mouth, and making a mess of the misses on your carpet. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t sound appealing.”

You sighed—as you always do when Miyeon suggests travelling half-way across the world to bring you half-way to financial ruin.

“Alright, let me get this straight,” you began, already pinching at the bridge of your nose. It’s a gesture usually reserved for tax season and Miyeon-induced headaches. So, it tracks. “Two-dozen jockey’s ride in a shambolic circle for a few kilometres—no obstacles, no jumps, no real turns—and you want to fly a dozen hours to watch it in person?”

She had obviously realised how shitty of an idea this was on paper (or at the very least it looked that way in your eyes) and decided she needed to sweeten the deal. “We can do other stuff while we’re there,” she pouted.

“Like what? Lose even more money playing ‘pokies’ instead?”

Miyeon hesitated for a moment. You could practically see the responsible answer try to claw its way to the surface. But as always, self control eluded her.

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me…” 

“Oh Miyeon,” you groaned. “For the love of Go—,” 

“Okay fiiiiiine. We could… explore the city!” she offered. “Try a museum or two. Go to a vineyard. Maybe pet a kangaroo!”

“Those all sound awfully like things you’ll forget about the moment you see a betting table.”

She rolled onto her side, head in your lap. “Come on. I’ve never been to Australia. And the Melbourne Cup is iconic!”

“So is the Titanic,” you retorted. “Doesn’t mean I want front row seats to the sinking.”

Miyeon simply grinned. “Except instead of drowning in water, it’ll be in our newfound wealth!”

A hand went over your face, you needed to massage your eyeballs. “Let me make something very clear, Miyeon. Even if we do go, there will not be—under any circumstance—any bets placed. No chips traded. No casinos entered. No horses backed. If you so much as glance at a gacha machine, I will not hesitate to cancel every card we have.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez, I can live with that.”

“That includes the secret debit card you keep behind your license.”

“NO! PLEASE! ANYTHING BUT THAT,” she was practically screaming, shaking your shoulders like maracas. 

It was your turn to grin. “Then promise me something,”

She was nodding like a puppy.

 “No betting.”

Miyeon straightened like a soldier and folded an arm over her chest. “Hand on my heart,” she declared. 

You nodded, almost satisfied. Obtusely unaware of the mistake you were making.

“Well,” you said, completely smug, “at least that makes your promise valid.”

She blinked. “My what?”

“We haven’t decided on going yet. The trip’s still up in the air.”

Miyeon blinked. You could see the wheels turning. 

“Oh,” she said, full of sudden inspiration.

You barely had time to blink before she was crawling into your lap, lips arriving at yours. “Then maybe I should convince you,” she whispered, one hand dragging down your chest, the other already plotting its path toward your jeans.

And you, in your infinite wisdom, said nothing.

Suffice it to say: you went to bed that night very, very convinced.

*

She talks like she’s an expert.

Like she’s spent years refining her own scientific method. Like she’s read the stats, studied the field, hand-picked the jockeys and trained the horses herself. Like she’s here with a plan—all permutations of intentional, calculated and precise.

She has none of that.

What she does have are the very same things she always brings to the betting table: blind optimism, questionable fashion choices, and a gambling history that reads like a case study in the sunk-cost fallacy.

She’s lost money on mice, cats, dogs, vulturine guinea fowls, fantasy stocks, actual stocks, motorsports, chess, video games, tabletop games, competitive rock-paper-scissors, a crab race in busan, one underground mahjong league in Okinawa, another in Kabukicho, another in Dohtonbori, and about a dozen shogi matches with the homeless in Yokohama.

She put six-thousand dollars on the World Cup final based solely on how hot she thought the coaches were.

There was a brief but financially devastating stint with marble racing.

She’s placed money on rock skipping. Celebrity baby name predictions. Whether or not the next Pope will be left-handed.

(As well as another few dozen cases you didn't end up committing to memory. Tack on another few dozen for the times she's undoubtedly gambled behind your back.)

And yet, no matter how many times she’s been burned by Lady Luck—how many “can’t-lose” bets are lost anyway, or how many hot tips go cold the second they’re placed—Cho Miyeon simply does not quit.

She adjusts her sunglasses—not for the sun, which has yet to make a single appearance today, but for dramatic effect. Then she plants her hand on your shoulder, squares herself toward the track like she’s on a TED stage, and resumes the yap.

“And that’s the neat part,” she’s saying now, continuing on from a spout of nonsense you were lucky enough to have tuned out of, “the odds are just a reflection of the pool, right? It’s not real probability. It’s not math-math, it’s like… vibes-math. It’s what everyone else thinks is going to happen—which is already flawed because people are fucking idiots. So really, by betting on the thing no one bets on, you’re actually smarter than everyone else. It’s kind of meta if you think about it.”

You don’t think about it.

“Like, take today for example. Look at these poor, unfortunate, not-winning-shit, souls.” She scans the crowd for a moment, searching for a target. “Oh, like that guy over there? Fedora and the double Windsor? Amateur. You can tell purely by the way he’s dressed he’s betting based on bloodline and track record. Rookie mistake. That’s how you lose money. The real winners—me for example—we bet with instinct. Intuition. Gut feelings. And sometimes alcohol.”

You raise an eyebrow.

Miyeon nods solemnly, as if that makes it gospel.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” she continues, even though you’re very much not thinking anything. “You’re thinking, ‘But Miyeon, didn’t you once lose 700 dollars betting that the royal baby would be named Gundalf?’ And to that I say: yes. But also, the UK had a chance to make history. They chose George. Fucking George. Cowards.”

She doesn’t even pause.

“Or maybe you’re thinking about the crab race in Busan. Which, to be clear, I still maintain was rigged. Oh, and that sperm race in LA? You can’t convince me those weren’t tampered with. You think one swimmer wins by ten lengths without pharmaceutical assistance? Please.”

You try to interrupt.

You choose not to bother.

“Anyway, the point is—betting is about more than just numbers. It’s about story. Narrative. You have to feel the arc: that upward trajectory that comes from being overlooked. You want the underdog, but not too under. You want mystery, but not scandal. You want a horse with baggage, with a little trauma sprinkled in for spice. Something to prove is what I'm saying.”

She gestures toward the big screen showing a replay from the previous race. A horse in bright orange silks is dragging itself over the finish line, dead last.

“Not him though. Orange is the worst color. Proven fact: Bad luck. Studies show it interferes with the horse’s chi or aura or whatever. I don’t remember where I read that—a subreddit, maybe—but still. Reliable source.”

Then she spins around, squints down the stretch, and points at a brown mare doing a very unbothered trot.

“But Whispering Sheila?” she says, near reverent. “That’s a horse that gets it. That’s a horse who’s seen some shit. I mean, just look at her. Not flashy. Not showy. Just focused. Professional. She’s got the legs to take her to the end and back!”

“She was disqualified last race for biting the handler.”

“Exactly! She’s got edge!”

Miyeon folds her arms, completely satisfied, the sunglasses now fully askew on her nose. You stare at her, and consider, deeply, the cosmic imbalance of power between your ability to say no and her ability to not give a fuck.

She smiles. 

“So. Shall we?”

“If I say no, are you going to drag me to the bathroom again?”

“Perhaps,” she beams.

You sigh the deepest sigh.

“Guess I have no choice then.”

Because truly, you don’t.

*

You’re not expecting a lot. That much is a given. 

You’re standing there, arms crossed, mentally preparing yourself to watch twenty-four tiny men in coloured silk slap the shit out of their horses for a couple minutes and call it sport. 

You’re also prepared to lose. 

In fact, you’ve been conditioned to lose. 

You are the emotionally battered war vet of betting by proxy. Weathered by half a decade of Miyeon induced headaches, panic attacks, and bankruptcy scares. So it goes without saying that you’ve long since made peace with the inevitability of financial ruin.

Which is why what happens next makes absolutely no sense.

The gates open with a clang. And then Whispering Sheila—Miyeon’s pride and joy, her bet of the century, her four-figure “hunch”—takes off like a fucking torpedo.

You blink.

Then blink again.

Your mind isn’t playing any tricks. Sheila's in front. Not just in front—she’s leading the charge like a horse-shaped war general. Her strides are long. Her form is beautiful. The wind parts for her like Moses at the Red Sea. And for the first time in her presumably disappointing life, Whispering Sheila isn’t just exceeding expectations.

She’s shattering them.

And beside you, Miyeon is absolutely losing her shit.

“She’s FLYING!” she screams, hopping up and down on the concrete. “Look at her—LOOK AT HER! Did I not say she had the legs?! I TOLD YOU SHE HAD THE LEGS!”

You don’t dare answer. Don’t dare jinx it while the impossible unfolds.

Sheila holds the lead through the turn. The crowd roars. Miyeon screams louder. 

You feel it then.

Not belief, no. Not that strong.

But… suspicion. Suspicion that Miyeon might’ve—against every possible odd, against the universal laws of cause and effect, against the deeply rigged simulation that is your life—actually gotten one right.

God, are you naive.

Because just as the final stretch begins—just as Sheila is poised to make history—

She stops.

Not because she trips. Not because another horse cuts her off. She just… stops. Veers off course. Loses interest. Maybe remembers an existential crisis she was having earlier.

One moment she’s a champion.

The next?

She’s taking a scenic detour near the fence, tail swishing like she’s out for a casual trot—all while the rest of the field barrels past like a freight train.

Miyeon goes silent.

The crowd does not.

Laughter breaks out. Even the drunk guy next to you mutters a heartfelt “Jesus Christ” into his stubby.

You watch, horrified, as the horse Miyeon picked using nothing but “vibes” and a conspiracy theory about saddle colour, trots across the finish line somewhere around a full minute behind the rest of the pack.

Dead. Fucking. Last.

You don’t say anything right away.

You don’t have to.

The anger radiating off your body could power a suburban home.

Broken, shattered, hollowed, you shakily ask:

“…Did we just lose four thousand dollars?”

There’s a pause.

A suspiciously long pause.

Then, from beside you:

“Okay. So.”

You turn.

Don’t fucking say it, Miyeon.

“...I may have added an extra zero.”

*

So. Miyeon has another habit.

 And no, it’s not the rambling, that one’s ingrained in her personality—endless, vexing, endlessly vexing, and one you always just have to kinda sit through. This one is embedded in her DNA:

After every catastrophic loss, every burnt dollar and ruined future, Miyeon’s only instinct is to fuck about it.

Biological, you’ll call it.

It’s like the humiliation hits her bloodstream, and she can’t metabolize it unless she’s writhing on your lap, hissing that she’s “so fucking stupid,” crowing that you “should punish her for it,” and then, in the same breath, telling you to “shut up and fucking choke me.” Perhaps it’s some kind of sick evolutionary adaptation. Perhaps it’s just the way her neurons have always crashed and burned together. Perhaps it’s simply a coping mechanism.

And if so, right now—back at the hotel, with her panties jammed in her mouth, your cock in her cunt, and one hand clamped around her throat—she’s coping.

Hard.

You can feel her smile against your wrist—cheek pressed there, eyes half-lidded, lashes glued with mascara and tears. Her skin is deeply flushed from effort and oxygen deficiency and maybe just a little bit of deranged satisfaction.

Her hips grind back harder.

Because Cho Miyeon doesn’t regret. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t learn.

She fucks.

Like she thinks if she moans loud enough, grinds desperate enough, takes you deep enough, the universe might reverse time. Whispering Sheila will cross the line first. The crowd will roar. She’ll be a genius again. A prophet.

A fucking billionaire.

But right now, she’s just a mess. A mess you’re making messier.

You tighten your grip around her neck. Her eyes roll. And with your other hand gripping her hips, you drag her back into you like this is a problem that can be solved through sheer physics.

She lets out a muffled scream—half pleasure, half penance. The soaked lace in her mouth dampens it, but not enough to keep the neighbours guessing. Her body’s trembling now, pitchforked between orgasm and complete oblivion.

She chooses the former.

It starts with the twitch—spine arching, legs kicking out like they’re trying to run from the heat curling up her nerves. Then, the sound, clawing its way past the gag, echoing around the room and putting a ruthless smile across your face. Her whole body convulses, clamps down, seizes up like your cock is the only thing tethering her to reality. She writhes on it like it owes her money. Like if she cums hard enough, she might get that extra zero back.

You hold her through it. Don’t ease up. Don’t slow down. You fuck her through the climax until she’s gasping through the lace, until tears are dripping onto the sheets, until every broken sob sounds like the word “sorry” in some dialect only she understands.

“Shouldn’t’ve added the zero,” she’s groaning, garbled and guilty and absolutely destroyed. “Shouldn’t’ve—shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I’m so—”

You slam into her again.

Harder.

She chokes on her words.

Good.

Let her regret it. Let her wear it. Let it bleed out of her one desperate cry at a time.

You lean down, lips ghosting her ear.

“Say it,” you growl.

She whines.

“Say what?”

You pull her head up by her hair, your other hand still a noose around her throat.

“That you’re my stupid fucking girl.”

And Miyeon, of course, barely hesitates. Because shame isn’t something she avoids.

You loosen the panties just enough for her to gasp:

“I’m your stupid fucking girl.”

Then—without even being told—she adds:

“Now ruin me for it.”

So you do.

*

After, it’s quiet.

She’s still breathless. Still warm. Still glowing with that dumb post-catastrophe grin like losing forty-thousand on a mare with anger issues was just a minor hiccup in an otherwise flawless plan.

And to her, maybe it was.

You brush a thumb over her temple. She nuzzles into it, half-asleep, humming like she didn’t just obliterate the budget. Like you’re not going to have to explain this on the phone with your bank at 8 a.m. Monday morning. Like she didn’t promise—hand on heart—not to gamble. Again.

And still, some pathetic part of you is already bracing for the next one.

The next bright idea. The next sugar-slick pitch from her upside-down on your couch. The next whispered “babe, hear me out,” followed by airfare, adrenaline, and another financial obituary with her name scrawled across it in hot pink pen.

You’d like to say you’ll draw the line.

You won’t.

Because tomorrow, there’ll be a new scheme.

New odds.

New disaster.

And for some inexplicable reason, you’ll be right there beside her. Wallet lighter. Heart heavier. Lips already forming the words:

“Okay, but this is the last time.”

Even though you know it’s not.

(And it never will be.)

[bkghq]

You and Bakugo barely ever got into any fights; albeit of what people thought of him— an extremely rude, angry, mean and brash guy (which he was just not to you) he absolutely hated getting into any sorts of arguments with you.

But realistically no matter how much either of you despised it, being in a relationship silly arguments and big fights become inevitable. It's more so how you handle it afterwards.

Contrary to popular beliefs, everytime an argument or fight would break between the two of you, Bakugo would want to solve it as soon as he humanly could. He knew he was down bad and couldn't bear the thought of his precious girlfriend being mad at him.

You on the other hand, opted to give him the cold shoulder, dragging it as long as you could. You knew it was petty, but you liked the extra attention your boyfriend paid to you when you ignored him.

But he absolutely despised it. He would be constantly over his heels back and forth asking you to talk to him, while you'd just do your regular chores ignoring his existence.

"I told you 'm sorry baby, c'mon talk t'me." he all but begged in his gruff voice, while you sat on the couch in the living room of you guys' shared apartment scrolling through tiktok on your phone.

You stood up, making your way to the kitchen, acting as if the man double your size just didn't exist. Not even a second later the blond was following your pursuit. Following your every move huffing and puffing about how ''s too wrong to ignore me like that woman goddamit!"

but you paid no attention, your mind wandering towards the yummy PB&J sandwich you were about to have considering you did burn up alot of calories arguing with your man earlier, so obviously you were famished.

Bakugo kept following you when you opened the cupboards to take out ingredients to make the sandwich, instead of words he now resolved to grunts to get your attention, but you paid no mind.

You took out the butter knife from the cupboard, the jar of peanut butter, grape jelly and milk bread already waiting for you on the counter.

Picking up the jar of the peanut butter, you tried to open it. But to your dismay it seemed as if someone had sealed it shut with gorilla glue.

Now, in normal circumstances, you would call out for your boyfriend to help you out with mundane activities like this. But considering you were giving him the cold shoulder you resorted to trying it again yourself.

"y'need me t'open that f'ya?" Bakugo asked, and without even looking at him you could feel him smirking.

You gave yourself an internal monologue on how you're a strong independent woman who doesn't need help of any man and can open a stupid jar on her own.

So you tried again, this time with more force—

Nope, the jar still wouldn’t budge even an inch.

Bakugo's mouth twitched slightly, forming a small smirk. He knew he'd won and now any second you'd ask him to open the jar, and the second you would this whole silent treatment would end and he could go back to cuddling you on the couch, what he initially planned on doing before you guys got into an argument.

You sighed, placing the peanut butter jar on the counter top. Head down and hands gripping the edge of the kitchen island you weighed your options.

Option 1. Keep being stubborn and starve yourself Option 2. Ask your boyfriend for help, get yourself a PB&J and cuddle with your personal heater of a man on the couch

Honestly, the second option sounded way better, and you had been ignoring him for a while now.

Another sigh left your lips and you picked up the peanut butter jar and quite literally shoved it infront of your boyfriend's face.

"Can you please open this for me babe?" You asked with a sickly sweet smile and honey laced voice.

A shit eating grin formed on Bakugo's face.

Katsuki : 1 Y/N : 0

"Thought y'didn't w'na talk t'me." He teased, but nevertheless still took the jar from your hands and opened it without even batting an eyelash.

You just stood there, totally in awe of him— obviously you knew he was strong, considering your amazing boyfriend was #5 pro hero, but his crazy strength never ceased to amaze you.

"I changed my mind." you said, puckering your lips, "Thanks for this though." you added, taking the jar from his hand, attention back to the sandwich.

"Where's my reward?" He questioned with a grunt, as you busied yourself making your little snack.

Without a word, you put the jar back on the counter, and turned to your side, where Bakugo stood. You placed a kiss on your beautiful boyfriend's lips, mumbling a 'thank you' against them. He replied by kissing you back passionately, his hands snaking around your waist.

He lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his torso, walking both of you towards the couch. His lips not leaving yours even for a second.

long gone was the PB&J now, you busied yourself with another, better snack.

Bakugo internally praised himself for shutting the lids to all the jars as tightly as he could after your guys' argument, because hell it worked out better than he could've imagined.

He was definitely going to do this everytime you gave him the silent treatment.

THNX 4 READING <3 RBS + COMMENTS APPRECIATED ིྀ

[fear-is-truth]

𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 𝑫𝑨𝑫 .ᐟ

𓂃 ꒰ headcanons.꒱ gn!reader x jason (est. relationship) + fluff ⌗ ( 💌 let’s chat ! ) ⋆ ( m.list ) ࿐ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝

· ❥ 𝐚/n : very rushed; i was sick when i wrote this

first & foremost, jason todd is girl dad through and through. the moment he holds her for the first time, he recalibrates everything—speech, sleep, temper, priorities—without even realising he’s doing it.

he won’t dilute language for her sake. no sing-song voice, no “whoops-a-daisy!” crap. he speaks to her like a small, reasonably intelligent civilian. when she babbles near-nonsense in response, he nods seriously:

“interesting take. but you’re still not eating crayons.”

when she starts talking, she parrots him with terrifying accuracy. says “bullshit” in perfect context. he side-eyes you like “that might’ve been you” but it was 100% him. he starts substituting in dumb phrases like “holy fork” and “crud nuggets” which somehow sound even more offensive in his voice.

his gut wrenches every time he sees her hurt. no matter how small the injury, how quick the recovery .

“it’s okay to cry, you know.” “m’ not crying.” she sniffles hard, mouth twitching. he takes a breath, carefully brushing dirt from her elbow with the sleeve of his shirt. “…good. because if you did, i might have to start too.” her bottom lip quivers. then she throws her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder while he holds her.

he gives her choices. always. because no one gave him any. ‘pink cardigan or the baby blue one? park or zoo? sandwiches cut into triangles or squares?’ she doesn’t know why the questions matter—not yet—but she answers anyway. and he always listens. even when she changes her mind five seconds later.

when she gets scared of the monster under her bed, jason grabs a crowbar from the hallway closet, locks himself in her room, and puts on a full performance. loud bangs, snarls, curses, all muffled through the door. she waits outside clutching your hand, wide-eyed. when he opens the door, slightly sweaty:

“we’re clear. monster’s in pieces. bedtime.”

absolutely watches disney movies with her. you once catch him mouthing along to i’ll make a man out of you with perfect accuracy.

her room is stocked full of high quality toys: watercolor paint sets, pop-up books, wooden animal figurines, everything he would’ve killed to touch when he was little.

when she gets sick, even the most minor of colds send jason into a tailspin. not outwardly though; outwardly he’s calm & reassuring—but he looking up symptoms and staying up beside her bed with one hand on her forehead, watching the rise and fall of her breath like it might stop at any second.

if you’re out for the day, he sends you hourly photo updates: her sitting in her booster seat, her eating grapes, her mid-nap with a book across her lap.

insists she learn how to throw a punch and memorize your phone number before she enters kindergarten.

she mirrors his sarcasm & sass too well.

you and jason have developed a “tag-team” parenting style—he picks up on your cues instinctively. if you’re too tired to argue with a picky toddler, he just whips up grilled cheese without a word and makes her think it was your idea.

and if she’s crying—inconsolably so—you both sit beside her and jason lets you do the talking. she always opens up eventually, even if it’s just, “i didn’t wan’ the poor banana to break.” (???)

she looooooves curling into him. a six-o kind of love, paired with matter-of-fact trust. she’ll press her forehead to his cheek while holding her sippy cup. tug at his sleeve when she wants to sit in his lap.

her vocabulary is way beyond her age. not just because of books; she mimics his cadence. jason once commented she was “morally opposed” to cauliflower. days later, she informed the pediatrician she was “philosophically anti-broccoli.” this had you laughing uncontrollably.

bedtime isn’t “lights out,” it’s literature hour! jason reads her stories with perfect enunciation and blunt dignity. she grows up on peter rabbit, winne-the-pooh, madeleine, and eventually segues to aesop’s fables, abridged dickens. the sound of pages turning becomes part of her core memories.

as her vocabulary progresses in a rapid fashion, jason still reads to her every night without fail: brontë. shelley. woolf. austen. he edits on the fly when needed, replacing death with long naps and violence with “stern talking-tos.”

four years of age, your little girl is already quoting jane eyre in front of her classmates.

she wins the spelling bee every year!

she told her entire kindergarten class that her daddy is an actual zombie, which resulted in an email from her teacher, regarding “concerns about her vivid imagination.” jason’s only response is, “technically, that’s not inaccurate.”

she loves all of her uncles, but it’s clear that uncle dick is her favourite. she likes him so much it’s borderline treason. jason pretends to be grumpy about it but secretly finds it endearing how much she adores his brother.

he can’t stand the thought of her going hungry. she’s never missed a meal, but he still packs too much in her lunchbox when it’s his turn. carries snacks in his glove compartment, keeps fruit cut up and ready in the fridge, just in case. he remembers what it felt like to open the fridge and find nothing but condensation. his little girl won’t ever know that.

꒰ ⠀· ❥  𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ

[rainrot4me]

First the compliment: your writing is much better than mine when i was at your age, props for writing creepypasta hcs like YOU imagine them while still making it feel like it could absolutely pass off as canon/in character. Thats some talent right there.

Can i request the creeps with a reader that tends to escapism/ suffers from maladaptive daydreaming? Thanks in advance!

Thank you so much!!! As someone who uses daydreaming to get away from the hectic cycle of life, this was very fun to do :)

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

At first? Jeff’s annoyed.

“Earth to space cadet,” he snaps after the third time you don’t respond when he calls your name. Jeff has always been a face-value guy, so it’s hard to understand why someone he wants to talk to doesn’t always want to talk to him. But eventually, he realizes it’s not disrespect, it’s protection.

And after a while, he starts watching you during those dissociative moments, leaning in close, not to scold, but to anchor you. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice unusually soft. “Where’d you go just now?” He wants to know where and what it is that takes you away, what makes that other place so much better than where he is?

Sometimes he’ll jokingly insert himself into your fantasy, “If you’re gonna vanish, at least imagine me shirtless and feeding you grapes or something.”

But other times, when he sees how hard you’re clinging to your daydreams, his voice gets quieter. “You don’t have to run up there anymore,” he says, brushing your hair back. “You got me now. Let me be your somewhere else.”

✦ . ticci toby

Toby understands.

God, does he understand. Dissociation, checking out, needing the dream version of life just to make it through the real one? That’s been his whole survival method. He doesn’t interrupt your spells, he just sits with you, quietly. Maybe fidgets with your hands or hums under his breath so you know he’s still here.

When you come back around, he doesn’t push. Just gently says, “You drifted again… You okay?”

If you let him, he’ll join you in your mental escape. “What’s it like in your head? Ca-Can I come too?” He wants to build you a safe world outside your mind, even if it’s messy and full of shadows, he just wants you to feel safe inside and outside of your head.

“I’ll be your anchor, if you want,” he says once. “Just tug on me when you need to come back.”

✦ . eyeless jack

Jack takes a clinical interest at first, but it turns personal fast.

He notices the signs—the unfocused stare, the half-listening answers when he asks you questions, the barely-there smile like you’re living in a different timeline. “You’re retreating,” he says one evening, gently. “It’s a protective response.” It’s more like he’s evaluating exactly why more than letting you know.

But instead of shaming you, he asks questions. “What does it look like, in there? Are you safer there? Happier?” He’s not offended, but he does want to know why your mind works the way it does without feeling like it’s an interrogation. He’s happy when you let him into your personal space.

Over time, he starts helping you ground—hand on your thigh, blanket over your shoulders, little sensory tethers that ease you back to him without abruptly dragging you from your headspace.

“You don’t have to leave to feel okay,” he tells you. “Let’s make the real world something worth staying in.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Tim has no patience for it at first.

He’s from a world where zoning out gets you killed. “Stop checking out,” he growls during a heated moment. “You can’t afford to float off.” But then he sees the aftermath, the guilt in your eyes, the way you cling to your sleeves like they can shield you.

And suddenly, he sees himself in you. He sees that scared man who was being ripped apart at the edges by some horrifying force out to get him. It hits him like a guilt-filled truck.

Next time, when you space out, he doesn’t snap. He sits next to you in silence, lights a cigarette, and murmurs, “It’s not real, whatever’s happening in there… but I get it. Sometimes you just need out.”

He’ll stay for as long as you’re gone, making sure that nothing and nobody bothers you. He’s protective, so when someone he cares about is vulnerable, he’s sure to have their back. Eventually, he’ll nudge you gently. “Come back. I miss you when you go.”

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Brian recognizes the signs immediately.

He’s been there—lost in thought, lost in nightmares, lost in anywhere-but-here. He never interrupts harshly. Instead, he waits for you to return, then meets your eyes behind his mask. “You were somewhere else again,” he’ll say calmly. “Did it help?”

Sometimes, he sits beside you and just says nothing, letting you wander mentally while he holds your hand. He’ll build rituals to ground you—soft touches, steady sounds, warmth.

He doesn’t force you to stop escaping, but he does give you something to escape to instead of from. If it’s silence you want, he’ll offer that, but if it’s noise and activity, he’ll offer that too.

“When you need to drift,” he says, “make me part of the dream. I’ll keep you safe in there.”

✦ . kate the chaser

Kate’s response is quiet at first.

She sees you drifting off and doesn’t call attention to it, just places a hand on your arm and keeps it there until your eyes clear. There’s no need to rush anything, she’ll take all the time she needs to bring you back. She feels honored that you feel comfortable enough around her to zone off.

But one day, after a long silence, she speaks, “I used to do that too. Escape—into stories, into people, into a version of me who didn’t have to fight so hard.”

She doesn’t try to fix you. But she will make sure you’re okay. “You don’t have to explain where you went. Just… come back when you’re ready. I’ll still be here.”

Eventually, she starts narrating things to help keep you present. She knows it’s easy for you to slip away, so she wants to make sure you’re always being attended to. “We’re in the woods. It’s dusk. You’re holding my hand. We’re walking back to the mansion.” Because with Kate, she makes sure you are never forgotten.

✦ . ben drowned

Ben lives in fantasy.

He’s half code, half memory, always just slightly unreal. So when he finds out you’re a dreamer too? He lights up. “Finally,” he says, half-grinning. “Someone who gets it.”

He’ll ask you about your worlds, your characters, your imagined futures. He wants to play there with you—build kingdoms, bend the rules, dream impossible dreams.

But when it becomes too much, when you start forgetting to eat or sleep, he gently reins you in. “I know it’s beautiful in your head,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek. “But you’re beautiful out here, too. I need you with me.”

He enjoys spending time with you, inside your head or out, but there’s no way he’s going to let you ruin yourself. “…Besides, you’re way cuter in person.”

✦ . clockwork

Natalie notices the disconnect, but she doesn’t get angry.

Instead, she plants her palm against your chest and says, “Hey. You still in there?” If you don’t respond, she waits. And when you do, she doesn’t make you explain yourself. She’s patient. Fierce, but patient.

“You’re not weak,” she says. “You’re surviving however you can. I respect that.” She becomes oddly motivating and supportive.

But she’ll challenge you when the daydreams start taking over your real life. “Tell me what your dream self has that you don’t. Go on. I’ll wait.” Because she wants to help you become that person—here. Now. With her.

“I’ll fight the world for you,” she says, gripping your hand. “But you gotta stay present enough to fight it too.”

✦ . laughing jack

Jack is fascinated.

“You escape into fantasy?” he says, tilting his head like a raven. “What’s so wrong with this twisted little circus we call life?” Jack is a being of the dreamworld himself, but that’s a control tactic, something he uses to lure victims and churn feelings, not an escape.

But then he sees how much pain you’re hiding, how deeply you need the dream world. And strangely, something shifts in him. “Fine,” he says. “Then I’ll make the real world just as colorful. Let’s paint the walls with glitter and scream at the moon. Let’s make this place worth living in.”

He pulls you out of your fugue states with humor, with chaos, with surprise. But always with a touch of care. Whenever you slip, he’ll make sure to lure you back with the sweet smell of baked goods or the wonderful sensation of a dryer-warmed blanket, anything to bring you back to him.

“You don’t have to go to Wonderland, darling. I’ll bring Wonderland to you.”

✦ . slenderman

Slender is eerily in tune with your disassociation.

He can feel when your presence flickers. He doesn’t speak, but his tendrils will coil protectively around you. He grounds you with texture, sensation, pressure, drawing you back into your body.

When you return, he gently cups your face in his clawed hands. “Your mind is a vast, haunted forest,” his voice echoes. “But even the wildest forests need a path home.”

He never demands you stop dreaming. But he offers reality as something beautiful, terrifying, and shared. He understands slipping away for a while, but he’ll always make sure to stick close to keep a watchful eye over you. Nobody is allowed near, at least not until you’re back again.

“If you must wander,” he says, “let me walk with you.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[meenaxskz]

when he gets sick (maknae line)

ot8 reactions-drabbles | bf!skz x reader au genre: crack warnings: language a/n : i'm sorry i didn't mean for it to come so late after the hyung line sniff... but it was hard to come up with different new plots for each members. hopefully it's okay ! hyung line | ✧ maknae line

han

you find him dramatically starfished across the couch like he’s been defeated by a single sneeze. tissues everywhere. hoodie halfway on. hair sticking up like static electricity punched him in the skull. he sees the cough syrup and immediately goes “oh no. not today, satan.” you’re already tired and you haven’t said a word yet. “han jisung. you are sick. take. the. medicine.” “i already took medicine!” “no you didn’t.” “i took homeopathic medicine.” “…you sniffed Vicks and drank orange juice.” “AND I FELT SPIRITUALLY HEALED.” you deadpan. he sniffles. “don’t look at me like that, you judgmental nurse from hell.” you walk over. he backs up into the corner of the couch like you’re holding a weapon. technically you are. grape-flavored and vengeance-infused. “you’re gonna have to sedate me” he whispers. “because I’m not drinking that purple demon piss.” “it’s not even bad...” “then you drink it!!” “I’M NOT THE ONE MAKING DYING GOOSE NOISES IN THEIR SLEEP.” jisung makes a tiny offended gasp, like you just insulted his ancestors “I was wheezing cutely!” “you sounded like a haunted vacuum cleaner.” he slaps a tissue to his chest. “my own lover… turned against me…” you hold up the spoon. he crosses his arms like a gremlin. “no.” you sigh. you text chan. you hold the phone up so jisung can see the message: “if han jisung doesn’t take his meds in 5 minutes, i’m sending you the ‘meow meow sick boy’ compilation i’ve been collecting since 2022.” jisung stares in horror. “you kept archives??” “i am the FBI.” he mutters something about betrayal and capitalism but opens his mouth like a sulky baby bird. you pour the syrup in. he gags like you just poisoned him. “I CAN FEEL MY SOUL DYING” he howls, flailing. “I SEE THE LIGHT.” “that’s the kitchen light, dumbass.” you give him a juice box. he slurps it aggressively. “…i still get cuddles though, right?” “only if you don’t fake your death again.” he nods. “deal.” bonus: later that night, he’s fully passed out on your lap, warm from meds, holding your hand like a teddy bear. you go to grab your phone, and he sleep-mumbles: “…don’t post the meow meow archive… the people can’t know…” you smirk. too late.

felix

you’re standing in the living room, folding towels, living your boring domestic life in peace when you hear the softest, most suspiciously sweet little voice behind you go... “baby…” you already know. your soul leaves your body. you turn. he’s standing there in a hoodie three sizes too big, sleeves covering his hands, blinking like he’s never committed a crime in his life. “…what.” “c’mere” “why?” “just. c’mere.” you blink. you take one step forward. he immediately collapses into your arms. “i’m so tired…” “you slept eleven hours.” “emotionally.” you try to walk but he's wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. “felix i literally can’t fold towels with you hanging off me like a koala” “don’t need towels. need love.” you freeze. “…did you just say that out loud.” “i’m in my soft era.” he looks up at you, full puppy eyes, lips slightly pouty. “can i sit in your lap while you do stuff?” “i'm not a fucking booster seat” he climbs into your lap anyway. man is built like a cat with separation anxiety. “pet me.” “felix” “pet. me.” so now you’re sitting there one-handed folding laundry while your very adult boyfriend purrs into your hoodie and mumbles things like “you smell like safety.” and “you’re my lil mommy bear.” “okay nope. absolutely fucking not.” “my milky wuvy” “I’M GETTING THE SPRAY BOTTLE.” you try to push him off, he clings harder. “if you unlatch me, i’ll cry. real tears. emotional damage. 2007 trauma unlocked.” you freeze. “…why 2007.” “i watched Bridge to Terabithia and i’ve never been the same.” he pulls out the big guns. eyelash flutter. pout. baby voice. “can you scratch my back while i fall asleep and then play with my hair and tell me i’m special and maybe also feed me snacks?” you stare. “…do you wanna be babied or adopted.” “both.” bonus: 30 minutes later, you’re hand-feeding him popcorn on the couch, scratching his back, while he lays across your lap like a little prince. you mutter, “you’re so fucking spoiled.” he smiles sleepily. “and yet… so adorable.” you don't deny that...

seungmin

you walk into the living room with medicine and warm tea, and he doesn’t even look up from the couch. just sniffs dramatically and says, “look who finally decided to check on the dying.” “seungmin. it’s been 6 minutes. i went to boil water.” he shrugs. “a lot can happen in 6 minutes. i could’ve passed away. joined the spirit realm. you wouldn’t even know.” you stare. he stares back, wrapped in the blanket like a bitter old man on his front porch judging the neighborhood. “here” you hand him the tea. “…you think this will fix me?” “it’s ginger and honey.” “oh perfect. can’t wait to taste warm regret.” you sit next to him. he immediately leans just slightly away. “don’t get too close. i’m diseased. like a stray dog” “you’re being dramatic.” “i’m being accurate. my lungs sound like wet socks.” he coughs once. loudly. then looks at you like you personally caused it. “this is what happens when i go outside. i told you. the air is trying to kill me.” “you were at a café for fifteen minutes” “and now i’m paying the price for socializing.” he sips the tea. pauses. “…okay fine. this is kinda nice.” you smirk “wanna cuddle?” he slowly turns to you with a blank stare “…i’m infectious.” “yeah, but you’re also cute.” he scoffs. “disgusting. go date someone with a normal immune system.” you kiss his cheek. he doesn’t react, but his ears go red.he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear: “…love you too, idiot.” bonus: he wakes up from a nap on your lap, eyes barely open, voice raspy as hell. “did you cheat on me while I was unconscious.” you blink.“…what?” “you were scrolling suspiciously fast.” “i was on pinterest.” “mhm. planning your next relationship, probably.” you snort. “i was looking at soup recipes for you, dumbass.” he pauses.“…did you save any good ones?”

i.n

he’s laying on the bed, flushed, sniffling, and looking like a hot mess. literally. fever at 100.7. eyes glassy. shirtless. blanket only covering one leg for some reason. he sees you walk in with medicine and a cold compress and immediately grins like a little demon. “baby…” he rasps. “no.” “you don’t even know what I was gonna say.” “you were gonna say something disgusting and then try to kiss me with your sick-ass mouth.” “…okay yeah but in my defense i’m very charming when i’m near death.” you sigh, placing the medicine down. he props himself up, blinking slowly like he’s trying to flirt through actual respiratory distress “come here. i wanna kiss you…” “jeongin you’re going off to blow your nose.” he pouts, genuinely offended. “so what, you don’t wanna make out with your sexy little plague rat of a boyfriend??” “correct.” “wow. coward behavior.” he starts crawling toward you like a zombie but sexy??? his voice drops an octave,still congested, and he gives you his best sultry stare. “c’mon, baby. don’t you wanna… sweat together?” “…what the actual fuck.” you dodge when he leans in to kiss you. he stops mid-air. “did you just. DODGE me.” “yes because you’re sweating and breathing like darth vader and tried to lick my face five seconds ago” “THAT WAS LOVE LANGUAGE” he throws himself back on the bed like you rejected his marriage proposal. “i can’t believe this. rejected in my time of need.” you toss him the cold compress “cool your horny little forehead.” he mumbles under his breath while placing it on his face“if i die tomorrow, just know it was the heartbreak that got me, not the virus.” bonus: you go to check if he fell asleep. he lifts the compress just enough to say: “you still think i’m hot though, right?” you raise a brow. “…sick hot.” he smirks. “i’ll take it.”

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

[helluvapoison]

Could I get Adam, Lute and Lucifer and how they 'court' the reader? Like how birds with court each other, little gifts, wing 'dances', nesting, etc...

Also, could I be your 🐌 anon? <3<3<3

Birds of a Feather

Adam, Lute and Lucifer courting you

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

˚✧₊⁎ Adam ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Peacocking has nothing on The First Man

• His personality is amped up to the highest level when he sees you walk in a room

• (Overcompensation for how fucking nervous you make him)

• Adam gets cocky when he knows he has your attention

• Tossing grapes high in the air and catching them in his mouth, bragging louder than usual about something or the other

• Heaven forbid you laugh at any of his antics, (His smirk is dangerous, “Oh you like that?”) he’ll start singling you out in front of everyone, calling your name before he acts up

• Performances include inviting you to watch his band play and miraculously getting more energy

• Casually tosses guitar picks in your direction— and when he finds out you kept one!? He’s over the moon

• He won’t go out of his way to get you food but he’ll order you something if he goes somewhere

• Adam hates nesting. He doesn’t like being stressed in general and nesting is really fucking stressful!

• The very fact seeing you pricks the urge in him to nest drives him insane

• (AKA, he likes you a lot more than he thought he did!)

• Seeing you in his space does something he doesn’t particularly hate though

• “It’s whatever if you don’t like it.” Adam shrugs

• “No, I think it looks nice! Very you. Tell me about these pictures?”

• He’s fucking done for

˚✧₊⁎ Lute ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Like they have a mind of their own, her wings stretch out and audibly fluff up when she makes eye contact with you

• Mortifying is an understatement

• She picks out trinkets to give to you at first, something small that could be waved off as insignificant

• Later, when Lute realizes her affections are returned, she brings useful offerings or something you offhandedly mentioned needing

• She wishes she could tell you about the exterminations solely to brag

• See how fierce she is, how skilled she is, how good of a protector she could be for you

• Lute will ask you to arm wrestle as a compromise. She gets to hold you hand and show off her strength!

• Nesting was fine, it was the judgment part that drove her up a wall

• Watching your eyes roam over her apartment, deciding whether or not it was good enough for you? Gah!

• “What, uh—“ Lute clears her throat, she’ll hate herself for even asking later, “What do you think?”

• You smile knowingly, something else that makes her absolutely mad, “It’s perfect.”

• Lute beams with pride like she’s won a great victory

˚✧₊⁎ Lucifer ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Never before has he felt the need to actually flaunt.. anything?

• With you it hits him like a fucking train and it’s even harder to supress it

• He’s Lucifer! That’s supposed to be self explanatory, that’s supposed to be enough

• Suddenly he’s checking every mirror on his way to you, making sure he looks better than he feels

• He tries to find other ways to steal your attention or show that he would be a worthy partner

• …But showing off his wings couldn’t hurt, right? He has six after all. If you needed to get to the other side of town he’d be more than happy to fly you over!

• Nothings too good for you! If Lucifer thinks you’ll want or like something, he’s buying it!

• Did you notice he can make things too? He’ll make you something— or fix something for you!

• Quick, break that so he can show you he can fix it!

• Lucifer pulls all the stops trying to prove himself, nesting is no exception… he’s just not great at it

• He starts! However a little after beginning he realizes just how big his mansion is and gets overwhelmed so he closes all the doors and focuses his energy on the only room that matters; his

• “I mainly stay in here,” Lucifer explains while squishing a duck in his fist, watching you explore his room, “I cleaned it up for you! N-Not for you, not for that— I mean not that I’m opposed! I just meant so that you could, uh, see?”

• “I see why you like it, I’d never wanna leave.”

• You’re gonna kill him saying shit like that

~

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ 🐌 CAN I GIVE YOU A KITH BECAUSE THIS WAS SO FUN!!!!!

[magix-winx-club]

Fun Little Nicknames

Daryl x reader

Summary: Daryl overhears you telling Judy a bedtime story and can't help but give you a nickname afterward, set in prison era

TW: just silly stuff

Okay but can you imagine Daryl calling you dumb variation of something he had overheard as nicknames for you. Okay let me explain:

You were babysitting Judy and it was time for a bedtime story. When you were little you loved listening, hearing, or reading stories before bed. So you really wanted Judy to experience this. You were sitting in the common room area, Judy in her baby carrier while you were folding some laundry. You glanced up once in a while to the little girl, finding her following you with her eyes, waving her little duck around Maggie and Glenn got for her. You made funny voice, facial expression and in general were very animated as you retold the story of Barbie in the Nutcracker. Sadly, you never had time or  money to see the ballett so this was the only version of the story you knew by heart. Sometimes you would sing a couple of verses from the songs, or dance around pretending to be a ballerina. Over the months on the road any hesitation or shame had left your mind. There were far more embarrassing things the grop had seen you do. Even when Daryl, who was sitting on the other side of the common room on a run down couch, fiddling with his crossbow, would snort at your antics or shake his head. You would just shoot him a look and an arched eyebrow, daring him to say something. But he knew better than to challenge your love for bedtime stories. 

Once you got to the end you revealed that Barbie was the sugar plum princess all along. You were so excited about it and Judy laughed when you picked her up, humming a song and slowly twirling around with her in your arms. 

“Ain’t you supposed to make her sleepy, not rile the lil asskicker up?” He drawled. You stopped your spinning, holding Judy close to your chest. She was still wiggling in your arms, waiting for you to start twirling her again. “Yeah, but Daryl! Barbie is the sugar plum princess.” You stared at him, making your eyes as wide as you could, so utterly serious as you said the ridiculous name. He just rolled his eyes, before getting up and picking Judy out of your arms, “All nonsense ain’t it.” He blew a raspberry on Judith's belly, making the little girl shriek. “Wha’ even is a Sugar Plum Princess,” it sounded hilarious coming from his smoke damaged voice. You wanted to laugh but instead you put your hands on your hip, looking at him exasperated. “Haven’t you been listening, Daryl?” 

This is how the nicknames started. “Alr’iht, sugar plum princess. Don’t need ya'all up in knots abou’ it.” He said handing Judith back to you. From that day on he would call you all kinds of variations of the name, “pumpkin pie elf”, “grape jelly gobblin”, "mac'n'cheese mermaid.” It was absolutely ridiculous the things he came up with. Yet, you could not help but look forward to what he would say next. It was a fun game trying to figure out what food item and fantasy creature he would mix together. 

You would always try and hide your laughter but Daryl could see the twinkle in your eyes, and the disappointed head shake lacked the same bite it had when you gave it to Carl. Even so, the game was fun, coming up with different names, scratching his brain for any of the fantasy stuff he knew. Normally, he would drive back in silence after a run just pondering over a new name. Glenn had complained to him that he never chatted in the car anymore. Today he had called you peach pie Gollum, which you could not help and burst out laughing. “That’s fair,” you held the peach can he had found close to your chest. Shaking your head you walked away from the car with the scavenged stuff. Daryl stared after you with a small grin on his face as well. “Man, you are so fucked,” Glenn commented, patting him on his shoulder.

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