#and his first instinct when asked to do things would be

[demonboysdelight]

What about the saja boys sex ban thing, but they listen? Like, you tell them no sex for however long, and they break. "Baby, please!" "Wait, no, don't do that to me, babe!" Shit like that.

This is totally not stemming from my need to have control over powerful men, what? Totally...

Here you go, I hope it's up to your satisfaction. :)

Saja Boys React to Their S/O Putting Them on a Sex Ban

Jinu:

The leader of the Saja Boys had always prided himself on his control, his ability to manipulate any situation to his advantage with that signature cocky smirk and silver tongue that had charmed countless fans. But as you stood before him in your shared apartment, arms crossed and expression resolute, Jinu felt that carefully constructed confidence begin to crack like ice under pressure.

"What do you mean, no sex?" he asked, that familiar arrogant lilt in his voice wavering just slightly. His dark eyes searched your face for any hint that this was some elaborate joke, but the serious set of your jaw told him otherwise. You were younger than him by centuries, yet in this moment, you wielded a power over the ancient demon that even Gwi-Ma had never possessed.

"Exactly what I said," you replied firmly. "Two weeks. No sex, no fooling around, nothing." The reason didn't matter—maybe he'd been too cocky during your last argument, too dismissive of your feelings. Whatever it was, you'd decided he needed to learn a lesson in humility.

For the first few days, Jinu maintained his swagger. He'd lean against door frames with that infuriating smirk, running his fingers through his perfectly styled black hair as he watched you move around the apartment. "You know you want to," he'd purr in that honey-smooth voice that had once convinced desperate souls to sign their lives away. "Why torture yourself, baby? We both know how this ends."

But you held firm, and by day four, cracks began to show in his facade. The cocky remarks became more desperate, tinged with genuine pleading that he tried to disguise as playful banter. You'd catch him staring at you with an intensity that burned through his usual cool demeanor, his jaw clenched as he fought against instincts that had been denied for what felt like an eternity to his impatient nature.

By the end of the first week, the great Jinu—leader of demons, charmer of souls—was reduced to following you around like a lovesick puppy. His all-over-the-place energy had nowhere to direct itself except toward you, and the results were both pathetic and endearing. He'd appear in whatever room you occupied, finding increasingly ridiculous excuses to be near you.

"The, uh, the kitchen faucet might be leaking," he'd say, hovering behind you as you cooked dinner, his breath warm against your neck. "Should probably check on that. You know, for safety." His hands would ghost over your waist, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"Jinu, that faucet has been fine for months," you'd reply without turning around, but you could practically hear his pout.

The breaking point came on day nine. You'd woken up to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands—a far cry from his usually perfect posture. His hair was disheveled from running his fingers through it, and when he looked up at you with those expressive dark eyes, you saw something you'd never seen before: complete vulnerability.

"Baby, please," he whispered, and his voice cracked on the word. Gone was the smooth manipulation, the calculated charm. This was raw, honest desperation from someone who'd spent centuries hiding behind masks. "I can't— This is torture worse than anything Gwi-Ma ever put me through." He reached for your hand with trembling fingers, and you let him take it. "I know I was an ass, okay? I know I take you for granted sometimes with all my cocky bullshit, but please—"

His thumb traced patterns on your palm, a nervous habit you'd noticed he did when his carefully constructed walls were crumbling. "I've been alive for over four hundred years, and nothing—nothing—has ever made me feel as desperate as not being able to touch you properly. You're younger than me, but somehow you've got me wrapped around your little finger, and I—" He swallowed hard, pride warring with need. "I need you. Not just the sex, but you. The way you ground me when my thoughts get scattered, the way you see through all my facades..."

You watched as the great manipulator, the silver-tongued demon who'd convinced souls to damn themselves, fumbled for words like a nervous teenager. His usual quick wit had abandoned him entirely, leaving only honest, desperate longing.

"Please, baby," he continued, scooting closer until his knees touched yours. "I'll do anything. I'll cook for you every day—and I mean actually cook, not just order takeout and claim I made it. I'll watch those historical documentaries you love without complaining about how boring they are. Hell, I'll even admit to the other boys that I'm completely whipped for someone younger than me if that's what it takes."

The admission cost him—you could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, how his free hand clenched into a fist. His pride had always been both his greatest weapon and his greatest weakness, and here he was, offering to sacrifice it entirely for you.

"Just... don't do this to me anymore, babe," he pleaded, bringing your hand to his lips to press desperate kisses to your knuckles. "I'm going insane. Yesterday I got jealous of the way you smiled at the delivery guy, and then I realized I was being jealous of someone who'd barely looked at you for two seconds. That's not me. I don't get jealous. I don't beg. But for you..." He met your eyes, and in them you saw centuries of carefully hidden emotion finally spilling over. "For you, I'll get on my knees and beg if that's what you want."

And he did. The leader of the Saja Boys, the demon who commanded respect and fear in equal measure, slipped from the bed to kneel before you, his hands still clutching yours like a lifeline. "Please, baby. I've learned my lesson. I'll never dismiss your feelings again, never assume my charm can fix everything. Just... please don't make me go another day without being able to show you how much you mean to me."

The sight of him—proud, arrogant Jinu—on his knees, begging with tears actually threatening to spill from his eyes, finally broke your resolve. Because beneath all the cockiness and manipulation, you could see the truth: he wasn't just desperate for physical release. He was desperate for you, for the connection you'd built together, for the way you'd somehow managed to find the parts of his soul he thought Gwi-Ma had destroyed long ago.

Mystery:

Mystery had always been exactly that—a mystery. Even to you, his younger partner who'd somehow managed to capture the heart of the Saja Boys' most enigmatic member, he remained an puzzle wrapped in silver-violet hair and hidden behind eyes you'd only glimpsed in the most intimate moments. So when you announced your decision to put him on a sex ban, his reaction was as subtle and devastating as everything else about him.

He simply... stopped. Stopped the little touches, the brief moments where his hair would part just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes, the way he'd hover near you like a shadow seeking warmth. Instead, Mystery retreated into himself so completely that you wondered if you'd made a terrible mistake.

The first few days passed in eerie silence. Mystery had always been the quiet one, but this was different. Where before his presence had been comforting—a steady, observant force that made you feel protected and cherished—now it felt hollow. He moved through your shared space like a ghost, there but not really there, and the absence of his subtle affections was more noticeable than any dramatic outburst would have been.

You'd catch glimpses of him watching you from doorways, that silver-violet hair falling like a curtain to hide whatever expression might be on his hidden face. But the moment you'd look directly at him, he'd disappear, fading into shadows with the grace of someone who'd made an art form of not being seen.

By day three, you realized just how much Mystery's quiet presence had meant to you. The way he'd wordlessly appear with your favorite tea when you were stressed, how his fingers would briefly brush yours when passing you something, the soft sound of his breathing next to you as you fell asleep—all of it was gone, leaving an aching void that seemed to grow larger with each passing hour.

It was the little things that broke your heart. Finding him curled up on the couch in the living room when you woke up, instead of in bed beside you. The way he'd start to reach for you, then catch himself and pull back as if you'd burned him. How he'd begun making those soft, almost animalistic sounds—little whimpers and sighs that he probably didn't even realize he was making.

The breaking point came on day six, and it wasn't dramatic or loud. You found him in the bathroom at 3 AM, sitting on the floor with his back against the bathtub, knees drawn to his chest. His hair had fallen forward even more than usual, completely obscuring his face, and his shoulders were shaking in a way that made your heart clench.

"Mystery?" you whispered, kneeling beside him.

The sound he made was broken, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft you had to strain to hear it. "Can't... can't sleep without you near me," he admitted, and the words seemed to cost him everything. "Keep reaching for you, but you're not there."

Your heart shattered at the raw vulnerability in his voice. Mystery, who rarely spoke above a whisper, who kept himself hidden from the world, was coming apart at the seams because of your absence. You realized then that for someone who experienced the world primarily through touch and proximity rather than words, your ban wasn't just physical—it was cutting him off from his primary means of connection and communication.

"I keep having the dreams again," he continued, his voice barely audible. "The ones from before... before I became this. Dark places, cold places. Always wake up reaching for you, but you're not..." He trailed off, wrapping his arms tighter around himself.

You'd never heard Mystery talk about his past, had never pushed because you knew how difficult it was for him to open up. But here, in the dim bathroom light, he was offering you pieces of himself that he'd never shared with anyone.

"Used to sleep in the shadows," he whispered. "Always hiding, always alone. Then you... you made it safe to be close to someone. Made it safe to let someone see me, even just a little." His head tilted up slightly, though his hair still hid his face from view. "Now it's cold again. Empty."

The raw pain in his voice was devastating. You reached out instinctively, then stopped yourself, remembering the ban. But Mystery must have seen the movement because he made a sound like a wounded animal.

"Please," he breathed, and it was the most desperate you'd ever heard him sound. "Don't have words like the others do. Don't know how to... how to ask properly. But please." His hand emerged from beneath the curtain of his hair, reaching toward you but stopping just short of contact. "Miss you. Miss being able to... to touch you. To feel real."

You stared at his pale, slender fingers trembling in the space between you, and realized what an idiot you'd been. Mystery wasn't like the others—he didn't express himself through grand gestures or eloquent speeches. His love language was touch, proximity, the quiet comfort of shared presence. By banning physical contact, you'd essentially banned him from being able to show you love in the only way he knew how.

"I know I'm not good with words," he continued, his voice breaking slightly. "Know I don't say pretty things like Romance or make you laugh like Baby or charm you like Jinu. All I can do is... is be near you. Touch you. Show you with my hands what I can't say out loud." His fingers curled slightly, as if trying to touch air. "Without that, I'm just... empty. Invisible again."

The admission destroyed you. Here was this beautiful, mysterious creature who'd given you the privilege of glimpsing behind his carefully constructed walls, and you'd responded by taking away the only method he had of expressing his devotion. His quiet, steady love that asked for nothing but your presence in return.

"Baby, wait, no, don't do that to me," he whispered when he saw you reaching for him again, mistaking your movement for another withdrawal. "Can't take much more of this. Feel like I'm disappearing without you to anchor me." His hidden eyes seemed to find yours despite the hair blocking them. "Please. Whatever I did wrong, I'll fix it. Just... just let me touch you again. Let me remember I'm real."

The vulnerability in his voice, the way this normally composed and mysterious figure was literally falling apart without your touch, finally broke through your resolve. Because you realized that Mystery's love was perhaps the purest of all—wordless, unconditional, asking for nothing but the simple privilege of being close to you. And you'd thrown that back in his face over what now seemed like the most trivial slight imaginable.

Baby:

Baby's reaction to your sex ban was perhaps the most unsettling of all, precisely because it was so calculated. When you first announced your decision, standing in the doorway of your shared bedroom with your arms crossed and expression stern, his response was to simply blink at you with those sharp, intelligent eyes and tilt his head slightly—like a curious cat who'd just been presented with an interesting puzzle.

"Okay," he said simply, his voice carrying that slightly deadpan tone that always made it impossible to tell what he was really thinking. "And how long is this little tantrum supposed to last?"

The casual dismissal in his voice made your blood boil, which was exactly what he'd intended. Baby was centuries old, despite his youthful appearance, and he'd learned long ago that the best way to manipulate people was to make them think they were the ones being irrational. But you held firm, naming your timeline, and watched as something flickered behind those deceptively innocent eyes.

"Two weeks?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it—just that dry, sarcastic sound that meant he thought you were being ridiculous. "Babe, you do realize I'm literally centuries old, right? I've gone longer than two weeks without sex just because I was bored. This isn't the punishment you think it is."

But even as he spoke, you caught the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, how his fingers drummed against his thigh in a pattern that suggested he was more affected than he wanted to admit. Baby was a master of emotional manipulation, but he was also proud—and that pride wouldn't let him admit that your withdrawal actually bothered him.

The first few days seemed to prove his point. He went about his routine normally, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face whenever he looked at you. He'd make pointed comments about how "some people" were being childish, how he'd "outlasted demon kings and apocalypses" so he certainly wasn't going to be broken by something as trivial as temporary celibacy.

But you knew Baby better than he thought you did. You'd learned to read the subtle tells that betrayed his true feelings beneath that sarcastic exterior. The way he'd started biting his lower lip when he thought you weren't looking. How his usual lounging positions had become more restless, his body language betraying an agitation he refused to acknowledge verbally.

By day four, the cracks in his facade were starting to show. You'd find him staring at you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his gaze following your movements around the apartment with predatory focus. When you'd catch him at it, he'd just raise an eyebrow and make some cutting remark about how "some people are awfully paranoid," but the flush creeping up his neck told a different story.

The first real break in his composure came on day six. You'd been getting ready for bed, changing into your pajamas, when you felt eyes on you. Turning, you found Baby in the doorway, no longer bothering to hide the fact that he was watching you intently. But for once, there was no smirk, no sarcastic comment ready on his lips.

"This is stupid," he said suddenly, his voice lacking its usual sardonic edge. "We both want the same thing, so why are we playing these games?"

"Because you were being an ass," you replied calmly, continuing to get ready for bed. "And you need to learn that there are consequences for that."

Something dark flickered across his expression—not anger, but something deeper. "Consequences," he repeated, and there was an odd note in his voice. "You know, most people who tried to give me 'consequences' ended up regretting it."

It was the first glimpse you'd seen of the true darkness that lurked beneath his youthful exterior, the reminder that despite his appearance, Baby was an ancient, powerful being who wasn't accustomed to being denied anything he wanted. But instead of intimidating you, it only strengthened your resolve.

"I'm not most people," you said simply, and the way his expression shifted—surprise, then something that might have been respect—told you that your calm response had caught him off guard.

By day eight, his carefully constructed emotional walls were crumbling entirely. You woke up to find him sitting in a chair next to the bed, just... watching you sleep. When your eyes opened, he didn't look away or make an excuse. He just stared at you with an expression so vulnerable it took your breath away.

"I lied," he said quietly, his voice stripped of all its usual sarcasm. "About being able to go two weeks easily. I lied about not caring." His hands were clenched in his lap, knuckles white with tension. "I've been... I haven't been sleeping well. Keep thinking about you, about how you feel, how you taste..." He trailed off, a flush creeping up his neck.

This was new territory for Baby—honest vulnerability without any of his usual deflection or manipulation. It was clearly costing him, his pride warring with his desperate need for you.

"I don't like feeling like this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't like feeling... weak. Needy. But you make me feel things I haven't felt in centuries, and I—" He stopped, jaw working as he struggled with words that didn't come naturally to someone who preferred to hide behind sarcasm and emotional distance.

The breaking point came on day ten, and it was devastating in its simplicity. You'd been working at your laptop when you felt him approach, moving with that eerily silent grace that reminded you he was far from human. But instead of his usual predatory confidence, there was something hesitant in his movements.

"Baby, please," he said, and his voice cracked on the word. The sound was so unexpected from someone usually so composed that you looked up in shock. "Please, I can't... I'm going insane. I know you think I'm just being dramatic, but I'm not. I'm actually losing my mind."

He sank to his knees beside your chair, and the sight of Baby—proud, sarcastic, emotionally distant Baby—on his knees was so shocking you nearly dropped your laptop.

"I've been alive for centuries," he continued, his voice raw with desperation. "I've survived demon wars, soul harvesting, the literal apocalypse. But this... this is breaking me in ways that none of that ever did." His hands hovered near your legs, trembling with the effort of not touching. "You're younger than me, so much younger, but somehow you've become... everything. The only thing that makes any of this cursed existence bearable."

Tears—actual tears—were sliding down his cheeks, and the sight was so jarring you felt your heart skip a beat. You'd never seen Baby cry, had never even imagined he was capable of it.

"I know I'm supposed to be this ancient, powerful being who doesn't need anyone," he whispered. "But I need you. I need you so much it terrifies me, and I don't know how to handle that. Don't know how to be vulnerable without feeling like I'm going to fall apart completely."

His composure was shattered now, centuries of emotional armor stripped away to reveal the desperate, needy creature underneath. "Please don't punish me like this anymore," he begged. "I'll be better, I'll stop being such a sarcastic ass, I'll try to actually talk about my feelings instead of hiding behind jokes. Just please... please touch me again. I'm disappearing without you."

The sight of this ancient, powerful being reduced to tears and desperate pleas finally broke your resolve. Because beneath all the sarcasm and emotional manipulation, you could see the truth—Baby wasn't just desperate for sex. He was desperate for the connection, the intimacy, the proof that someone could see past his difficult exterior and still choose to love him. And by withholding that, you'd struck at his deepest fear: that he was unlovable without the physical connection to prove otherwise.

Abby:

Abby's initial reaction to your sex ban was exactly what you'd expected from the most confident member of the Saja Boys—a cocky laugh and a flex of those infamous abs that had earned him his name. Standing in your shared gym-converted-bedroom (because of course Abby had insisted on having workout equipment everywhere), he looked at you like you'd just told him the most ridiculous joke he'd ever heard.

"A sex ban? Really?" He chuckled, running a hand through his magenta-pink hair while doing a casual stretch that made his mint green Hawaiian shirt ride up just enough to show off his perfectly sculpted stomach. "Babe, do you see this?" He gestured to himself with all the confidence of someone who'd built his entire identity around being physically irresistible. "You think you can resist this for two weeks?"

His arrogance was infuriating but also exactly what you'd been counting on. Abby's confidence was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, and you knew that having his appeal challenged would eat at him in ways he couldn't even comprehend yet.

"Watch me," you replied coolly, turning away from his display with deliberate indifference.

For the first three days, Abby seemed to treat your sex ban like a personal challenge. He'd find excuses to work out shirtless whenever you were around, his perfectly toned body glistening with sweat as he performed increasingly elaborate routines clearly designed to catch your attention. He'd stretch in front of you, his muscles rippling beneath tan skin, shooting you smug looks that said he was certain you'd cave any minute now.

"You know, babe, if you're having trouble keeping your hands to yourself, I totally understand," he'd say with that infuriating smirk, casually flexing while pretending to examine his reflection in the mirror. "I mean, I am pretty irresistible. The other guys are always saying how I'm the visual of the group for a reason."

But when you continued to remain unimpressed, continuing with your daily routine as if his displays meant nothing, something started to shift in his demeanor. The smug confidence began to waver, replaced by something that looked almost like confusion. Abby had built his entire sense of self-worth around his physical appeal, and having someone—especially someone as important to him as you—remain seemingly immune to it was shaking him in ways he didn't know how to handle.

By day five, his workout sessions had become more intense, almost frantic. You'd find him doing push-ups at midnight, his face flushed with exertion and something that might have been desperation. When you asked if he was okay, he'd just grunt and add more weight to whatever he was lifting, as if he could somehow make himself more irresistible through sheer physical perfection.

"Maybe I should switch up my routine," he muttered on day six, examining himself critically in the mirror. "Add more definition to my arms? Or maybe work on my shoulders more?" He turned to you with an expression that was trying to be casual but came across as almost pleading. "What do you think? Is there anything I should... improve?"

The question caught you off guard because it was so unlike Abby. He'd never asked for your opinion on his appearance before—had never needed to, secure as he was in his own appeal. But now there was something vulnerable in his voice, a crack in that perfect confidence that made your heart clench.

The real breaking point came on day eight, and it was heartbreaking in its simplicity. You'd woken up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and found Abby standing in front of the full-length mirror, shirt off, examining himself with a critical eye that you'd never seen before. His usual confident posture was gone, replaced by something that looked almost... insecure.

"Am I losing muscle definition?" he asked when he noticed you watching, and there was genuine worry in his voice. "I feel like maybe I'm not as... I don't know, maybe I'm not as attractive as I used to be?" He turned to face you, and in the dim light, you could see the uncertainty written across his features.

"Abby, what are you talking about?" you asked, genuinely confused. He looked exactly the same as he always had—perfectly sculpted and undeniably attractive.

"It's just... you used to not be able to keep your hands off me," he said quietly, his usual bravado completely absent. "I'd flex, you'd stare. I'd take my shirt off, you'd practically drool. But now..." He gestured helplessly at himself. "Now it's like you don't even see me. Like I'm invisible."

The pain in his voice was devastating because you realized what you'd done. By remaining unmoved by his physical displays, you'd struck at the core of Abby's identity. He'd built his entire sense of self-worth around being desired, around being the visual that everyone couldn't help but stare at. And without that validation, he was lost.

"Maybe I should work out more," he continued, running anxious hands over his already perfect abs. "Maybe if I just get a little more defined, a little more cut, you'll..." He trailed off, looking at you with an expression so hopeful and desperate it broke your heart.

"Baby, wait, no, don't do that to me, babe," he said suddenly, misinterpreting your sympathetic expression as pity. "Don't look at me like that. I know I'm being pathetic, okay? I know it's stupid to base my whole self-worth on how I look, but I... I don't know how else to be." His voice cracked slightly on the admission.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his perfect posture finally crumbling. "All my life—well, all my afterlife—I've been the hot one. The one with the perfect body. The one everyone stares at. It's who I am, you know? Take that away and what's left?" He looked up at you with eyes that were bright with unshed tears. "What if there's nothing left?"

The vulnerability in his voice was staggering. Here was Abby, the most confident member of the Saja Boys, revealing that his entire identity was built on something so fragile it could be shattered by one person's indifference.

"I work out constantly because I'm terrified," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Terrified that if I'm not perfect, if I'm not the most attractive, then no one will want me. That you won't want me." He laughed bitterly. "And looks like I was right, wasn't I? The moment you stop being impressed by my body, you don't want me anymore."

"Abby, that's not—" you started, but he cut you off.

"Please," he said, and the word came out broken. "Please, babe, I'll do whatever you want. I'll work out more, I'll eat better, I'll try those new supplements Mystery was talking about. Just... just please want me again. I don't know how to exist without knowing that someone finds me attractive."

He looked up at you then, this incredibly beautiful, perfectly sculpted man, and you saw past the confident exterior to the deeply insecure person underneath. Someone who'd been told their whole worth lay in their appearance and had never learned that they had value beyond their physical perfection.

"I love you," he whispered, and it was the first time he'd ever said it without flexing or posing or doing anything to show off his body. Just sitting there, vulnerable and scared and more beautiful than he'd ever been when he was trying to be perfect. "I love you so much, and I don't know how to show it except through this." He gestured to his body. "If you don't want this anymore, I don't know what else I have to offer you."

The raw honesty in his confession finally shattered your resolve, because you realized you hadn't just been denying him sex—you'd been denying him the only way he knew how to express love and receive validation in return. And in doing so, you'd inadvertently confirmed his deepest fear: that without his perfect body, he was worthless.

Romance:

Romance's reaction to your sex ban was, unsurprisingly, the most dramatically romantic and heartbreaking of all. When you announced your decision while he was sprawled across your shared bed in his signature yellow shirt and heart-adorned jeans, his initial response was to sit up so quickly his pink hair fell charmingly over one eye—an effect that would have been devastating if you hadn't been steel-set in your resolve.

"A sex ban?" he repeated, his voice carrying that soft, melodious quality that had always made your heart flutter. "But darling, we're... we're Romance and his beloved. That's like asking the sun not to shine or flowers not to bloom." He reached for you with those graceful hands, his movements fluid and practiced, but stopped when you stepped back.

The genuine confusion in his pink eyes was almost enough to make you reconsider right then and there, because Romance wasn't built for rejection. Where the other Saja Boys had various coping mechanisms and defense systems, Romance wore his heart on his sleeve—literally, in the form of those pink hearts decorating his jeans. Love and affection were his native language, and you'd just told him you weren't going to speak it for two weeks.

"My darling, surely you don't mean this," he said, rising from the bed with liquid grace. "What we have is too beautiful, too pure, too—"

"Romance," you interrupted firmly. "Two weeks. That's final."

The way his face fell was like watching someone break a piece of art. All that practiced charm and romantic confidence just... crumbled, leaving behind someone who looked lost and genuinely hurt in a way that made your chest ache.

For the first day, Romance seemed to treat your ban like a tragic romantic narrative he needed to fix. He'd appear around corners with single roses (where he got them, you had no idea), his eyes soft and pleading as he'd launch into elaborate speeches about love conquering all obstacles. His flirtation became more desperate, more flowery, as if he could romance you out of your decision through sheer determination and poetry.

"My dearest heart," he'd say, dropping to one knee in the middle of the kitchen while you tried to make breakfast, "surely the love we share is stronger than whatever transgression I've committed? I'll write you songs, compose sonnets, serenade you beneath the stars if that's what it takes to earn your forgiveness."

But when you remained unmoved, continuing to go about your day as if his romantic gestures were invisible, something fundamental started to break inside him. Romance wasn't used to his affections being dismissed—his entire identity was built around being the perfect lover, the one who could make anyone's heart flutter with just a smile and a few well-chosen words.

By day three, his elaborate romantic displays had taken on an edge of desperation. You'd find love notes tucked into every possible place—your coffee cup, your pillowcase, the mirror in the bathroom. Each one was more passionate and pleading than the last, his usually elegant handwriting becoming progressively more frantic as his distress grew.

"My beloved star, my guiding light, my reason for existing," one note read, "please don't let this cruel separation continue. Without your love, I am but a shadow of myself, a rose without sunlight, a song without melody."

The dramatic language would have been endearing if there hadn't been actual tear stains on the paper.

By day five, Romance had stopped eating properly. You'd find him sprawled dramatically across various pieces of furniture, one hand pressed to his forehead in a pose that would have been comedic if the genuine anguish in his expression hadn't been so heartbreaking. He'd taken to wearing all black—a stark contrast to his usual bright, heart-covered outfits—and had begun speaking in tragic whispers about "love lost" and "hearts in exile."

"The other boys think I'm being ridiculous," he confided to you on day six, his voice soft and broken. "Jinu says I'm being too dramatic, Mystery just stares at me, Baby laughed, and Abby told me to 'get a grip.' But they don't understand, darling. They don't understand that you're not just my lover—you're my muse, my inspiration, my entire reason for being."

He was sitting on the floor of your shared walk-in closet, surrounded by all those colorful, heart-covered outfits he usually wore with such confidence. Now they seemed to mock him, too bright and cheerful for his current state of romantic despair.

"I don't know how to be Romance without someone to romance," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "It's like asking a dancer not to dance or a singer not to sing. Love isn't just what I do—it's who I am. And if you don't want that anymore..."

The breaking point came on day eight, and it was devastating in its quiet simplicity. You found him in the garden behind your building at sunset, sitting on a bench surrounded by the roses he'd been leaving for you all week. But instead of his usual dramatic poses, he just looked... empty. Defeated.

"I've been thinking," he said when he noticed you approaching, his voice lacking all of its usual warmth and melody. "Maybe the others are right. Maybe I am too much. Too dramatic, too romantic, too... extra." He laughed, but there was no humor in it—just bitter self-awareness. "Maybe you got tired of all the flowers and poetry and grand gestures."

He picked up one of the roses beside him, twirling it between his fingers with mechanical precision. "I never learned how to love quietly," he admitted. "Never learned how to just... exist without making it into some grand romantic production. But maybe that's what you want? Someone who doesn't constantly need to prove their love with elaborate displays?"

The vulnerability in his voice was heartbreaking because you realized what you'd done to him. Romance wasn't being dramatic for show—he was being dramatic because that's genuinely how he experienced emotion. Love, for him, was naturally grand and elaborate and overwhelming. By rejecting his romantic gestures, you'd essentially told him that his natural way of expressing affection was unwanted.

"I don't know how to be different," he whispered, and when he looked up at you, his pink eyes were swimming with tears. "I don't know how to love you without all the flowers and notes and dramatic speeches. That's just... that's just who I am. But if that's not what you want anymore..."

He stood up slowly, looking more fragile than you'd ever seen him. "Baby, please," he said, and his voice cracked on the endearment. "Please don't make me learn how to unlove you. I know I can be too much, I know my feelings are too big and too loud, but they're real. Everything I feel for you is so real it terrifies me."

Tears were sliding down his cheeks now, and he made no effort to hide them. "You're younger than me, but somehow you've become my whole world. Every song I want to sing, every poem I want to write, every romantic gesture I want to make—it's all for you. Without you to love, I don't know who I'm supposed to be."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like hundreds of unsent love letters, his hands shaking as he held them out to you. "I wrote you one every hour," he admitted. "Because I didn't know what else to do with all this love I have for you. It has to go somewhere, and if you don't want it..." He looked lost, genuinely lost, like someone who'd been told their entire purpose in life was meaningless.

"Please don't do that to me, babe," he whispered, and the desperation in his voice was raw and unfiltered. "Don't make me keep all this love locked up inside. It's killing me. I feel like I'm drowning in feelings I can't express, suffocating on words I can't say, dying from touches I can't give." He pressed the letters against his chest, over his heart. "Please let me love you again. However you want, however you need. Just... please let me love you."

The sight of Romance—beautiful, confident, dramatically romantic Romance—reduced to a broken, pleading figure clutching unsent love letters finally shattered your resolve. Because you realized that by banning physical intimacy, you'd also banned him from expressing love in the only language he knew how to speak fluently. And without that outlet, he was quite literally dying from unrequited affection—affection that was his by right, stolen away as punishment for some slight that now seemed impossibly trivial compared to his suffering.

[irlyluvosamu]

"THINK FAST, IM A RANDOM GIRL"

SYNOPSIS: reader tries to do a trend from tiktok with her boyfriend.

PAIRINGS: dazai , chuuya , atsushi, akutagawa , kunikida , ranpo

GENRE: crack, fluff, established relationship!

AUTHORS NOTE: giggling wtf is this. take this while i work on other requests :D

— DAZAI OSAMU๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

"THINK FAST IM A RANDOM GIRL—"

immediately you jump in your boyfriend's arms, dazai's arms quickly pushing you back. he tripped over his own two feet trying to keep you from kissing him—screaming and throwing hands to keep you back.

"NO! NO—IM GAY!😰 STAY AWAY!!"

you couldn't help but cackle at his reaction, getting back on your feet.

you keep fighting him back grabbing at his arms to try and pry them away from his body—suddenly he pushed you back enough you fell over on your back; laughing as he just ran away.

— CHUUYA NAKAHARA๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

"THINK FAST IM A RANDOM GIRL!!"

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

catches you on instinct, only needing a split second to realize what you said until he dropped you.

you laugh and grab his ankle as he yells, tumbling down to the ground after you.

"NO! IM A TAKEN MAN—TAKEN!"

you and him fight, using all his might to keep you from pinning him down.

eventually he uses his ability on you🙌🏻😭 next thing you know your floating just above him—a cheeky smile on your face as you got a good look at him.

hat flown off his head, messy hair, and wrinkled dress shirt.

— ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

"THINK FAST IM A RANDOM GIRL—"

he screams. just screams in your face as you fall to the ground laughing; he holds your arms as you laugh at his feet.

he's chuckling—half nervousness, half entertained.

it took him a moment to understand what you were doing and then when he came to realization—

you immediately went back at it again, trying to kiss your boyfriend who used all his might to keep you from getting close to his face.

"NO!! IHIHI HAVE A GIRLFRIEND—SHES SO PRETTY AND—AAH!😰"

eventually pins you on your stomach as he is sitting beside you, a leg keeping you from getting up and keeping your wrists behind you back; all while you're a giggling mess.

he has a goofy smile on his face as he lets you up.

— AKUTAGAWA RYŪNOSUKE๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

"THINK FAST I—"

you don't even have two seconds before your arms are wrapped around in black and red tentacles; pinning you to the closest wall.

your boyfriend looks at you with a deadpan reaction—"are you five?" is all he would ask.

you eventually explained what you were trying to do, and you just wanted to see his reaction. as much as you should have just let this be the reaction he gave you—he agreed.

take two. saying the iconic line; you graze his shoulder blade before you at once again wrapped around his rashomon, flipped over and laid on your back in front of you. you blinked once, then twice—"ok aku, you can let me go."

silence.

"aku?..im done with my prank, you can—"

"RYŪNOKUKE AKUTAGAWA— YOU CANT LEAVE ME HERE—"

more silence.

— KUNIKIDA DOPPO๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

"THINK FAST IM A RANDOM GIRL—"

literally almost falls out of his office chair when you suddenly jump on him.

glasses half off his face as you lay down on his lap and smile happily up at him.

he questions the fuck out of you; "what do you think you're doing??!"

you quickly bring him up to date—and he's just staring at you. blinks once...then twice—immediately tried to get you off of him as you try to kiss him.

he is holding you back, grabbing your arms as you laugh up a storm—saying how this inappropriate behavior in the workplace, trying to scold while keeping you back at the same time.

"Y/N—THIS IS ENTIRELY INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR—OH NO, YOU DONT—"

i find it funny how he scolds you whilst playing along with you at the same time.

at the end of it, clears his throat—fixes his dress shirt and glasses and tells you to get back to work.

hey, he passed the test at least.

— RANPO EDOGAWA๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

"THINK FAST, IM A—"

he steps to the side as you collide with the carpet beside him—face first.

he munches on his candy he held in his hand—watching you groan in pain and turn on your back.

"telling the world's greatest detective to "think fast" is one of the dumbest things i've heard you say.." he'll you as he kneels down, booping your nose with his finger.

you grab at his hand, pouting at him. "you want me to pretend you're a random girl—this is what you find entertaining? ...ok, ill entertain you—up, up." he taps your cheek as you both stand from the floor.

you stand a good bit away from each, not waiting for him to get ready you run at him again—only for him to spit the hard candy in his mouth to your face, thankfully hitting your forehead and you once again collapsed to the ground.

patting your head with a cheeky grin, he stands up and leaves you in your puddle of shame.

@ ɪʀʟʏʟᴜᴠᴏꜱᴀᴍᴜ — 2 0 2 5

𖦹 ׂ comments / reblogs much appreciated <3

[minniesfiles]

BLOOM WITH YOU | month 3

After years of heartbreak and disappointment, you and your husband’s dream of starting a family seemed out of reach. But miracle was a beautiful thing.

❧ PAIRING; wonwoo x reader

❧ GENRE; angst, fluff, light smut

❧ WARNINGS; none

❧ WORDCOUNT; 1.6k

▁▁▁▁▁▁

series masterlist │ masterlist

𐚁₊⊹

▎19 MARCH 2026

You were fourteen weeks pregnant, officially in your second trimester, and while part of you was relieved to be over the worst of the morning sickness, the rest of you was still adjusting to the constant weirdness that came with carrying another human inside your body.

The nausea was gone, for the most part, but fatigue still hit in waves, and now your belly started to ache on one side like it was being stretched from the inside out. Dr. Jung explained it all, of course. It was nothing serious, just your womb expanding to make room. Totally normal. Still, she scheduled you for regular check-ups just to be safe, which helped settle your nerves.

It wasn’t your nerves that needed settling though. It was your husband.

Wonwoo couldn’t seem to take “normal” at face value. If you so much as sighed too loudly or shifted your weight a little awkwardly, his head would whip around like a guard dog. His concern was constant and intense. And while it was all sweet, it was also sometimes infuriating. Any flicker of discomfort on your face and he’d have Dr. Jung’s number half-dialed. You had to confiscate his phone once. Literally take it out of his hands and remind him that expanding uteruses and occasional headaches weren’t reasons to panic.

Still, he wouldn’t ease up.

You had to admit though, he was trying. He read all the articles and watched the videos. He’d ask you how you were feeling roughly six-hundred times a day. His protective instinct was strong, but sometimes it was bordering on ridiculous. Especially tonight.

It was a chill and quiet Sunday night. You had one goal, and that was to simply curl up on the sofa with your husband and zone out for a while. It was plain and low -effort. You even picked a movie that didn’t require too much thinking. But apparently, Wonwoo had other plans.

He turned the living room into what looked like a maternity ward mixed with a snack bar. He made popcorn — three kinds, just in case you changed your mind because he was hyper aware of the pregnancy cravings you were going through lately. He blended a strawberry smoothie, wiped the blender twice, and then made another one because he thought it wasn’t cold enough. He arranged pillows like he was building a fort around you. Checked the temperature. Adjusted the lights. Pulled out a heating pad. Checked the temperature again.

“Can you stop buzzing around like an annoying fly and sit down already? The movie is about to start,” you said sharply despite the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. You couldn’t help it. He was too much, but he was doing it for you.

Wonwoo froze mid-step like you zapped him. He blinked, then gave you that half-guilty, half-defensive look he always did when he got caught being extra. You watched as he did a mental checklist of anything he might have forgotten before finally giving up.

“Okay, okay, I’m done now,” he mumbled, shuffling over and flopping beside you with a dramatic sigh.

You rolled your eyes as you shifted closer and rested your head lightly on his shoulder. Of course, he wasn’t really done. His arm immediately reached behind to adjust the pillow behind your back, and he gently tugged the blanket higher up your legs.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable, okay?” he said, puffing his cheeks in a pout. “This is a two and a half hour movie. That’s a long time to sit if your back hurts.”

You sighed, couldn’t help but feel your heart melting a little.

“I know,” you whispered with a soft tone. “But you don’t have to go overboard. Just being here with me is enough.”

Wonwoo didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a firm kiss to your lips. His one hand cradled the side of your face with gentleness that he’d been showering you with for months.

“I love you, you hormonal gremlin,” he said softly against your lips, earning himself a playful shove.

And finally, you hit play on the movie.

But halfway through the movie, you shifted uncomfortably. You hoped the position change would ease the pressure building in your side, but instead of relief, a sharp wave of pain bloomed across your lower belly, making you suck in a breath and let out a low groan.

Wonwoo immediately snapped his head towards you, where you were leaning against his chest just moments ago. His arm had been draped lazily around your shoulder and the rhythm of his breathing was calm, until that sound left your lips.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in slight panic as he sat up straighter and his hand flying to your shoulder. His eyes darted over you like he was trying to spot the source of pain.

You tried to sit up, pushing off him with one hand, but the movement made the ache worse. It felt like something was pulling inside you and stretching past its limits. You winced and called your eyes shut. You instinctively reached for Wonwoo’s arm as your fingers dug into his skin.

“Hey,” he called out, immediately helping you upright, but he made sure he was slow and careful. “Honey, is it hurting again? Should I call Dr. Jung?” he asked, hands cupping your face.

You shook your head gently, trying to calm both him and yourself. “No, don’t call her. I’m fine,” you breathed out. The words sounded more stable than you felt. You leaned back against the sofa with one hand instinctively travelling down to your belly and rubbing it in slow, firm circles.

Wonwoo hovered beside you while chewing anxiously on his bottom lip. You could see how badly he wanted to fix it and to ease the discomfort in any way he could, but there was nothing for him to do except be there.

And honestly, that was enough.

Every day, he tried. Whether it was offering water, googling symptoms until his eyes hurt, or fussing over how cold the floors were. He tried. And though sometimes it was overwhelming, you knew it came from love. From fear and from his desire to protect something he had no control over.

“Come here,” he murmured suddenly, gently pulling you toward him again. This time he adjusted so that your back was pressed against his chest. He wrapped the blanket over both your feet and let his arms fold around you protectively.

His hand found your belly again where he rested it over the spot that was causing you so much discomfort. The bump had become noticeably rounder the past week. Fourteen weeks in, it was no longer something you could hide under baggy sweaters. You could both feel it now, and it made things feel real in a whole new way.

Wonwoo’s fingertips moved carefully over the curve, tracing the outline affectionately. You could feel the awe in his breath as it ghosted along the side of your neck.

He knew your body was going through things he couldn’t even imagine. Hormones, aches, pain, fear, joy — all colliding every single day. And as exciting as it was to see your body change, to know his baby was growing inside you, it also made him feel powerless sometimes. He couldn’t carry the burden with you, only witness it.

“Does it hurt here?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear as his fingers slowly rubbed the left side of your belly in soft, circular motions.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, eyes fluttering closed as your hand slid over his and held it in place. The warmth of his palm eased the tension in your muscles a bit. Not because it healed the pain, but because it reminded you that you weren’t going through this alone.

He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to your cheek that lingered just long enough to send a flutter through your chest. His hand never stopped its slow, gentle motions over your belly, it was so soothing and almost hypnotic. You smiled softly as you felt your entire body beginning to relax into him.

“Thank you,” you whispered, which was barely loud enough to hear over the movie’s background score.

Wonwoo tilted his head slightly, his brow creasing as he looked down at you with confusion. “Why are you saying thank you?” he asked. “You know I’d do this for hours if you wanted me to.”

“I know,” you murmured, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “It’s just that…you do so much for me.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Baby, I’d do anything and everything for you. Because I love you. And our baby.”

You felt your heart swell at his words. You turned slightly to face him better, resting your hand on top of his where it still rubbed slow circles across your belly. Your eyes shimmered with tears from the overwhelming gratitude and love.

“I love you too,” you said.

He leaned in again, brushing his lips against your temple as he held you like something precious. The two of you then settled into a comfortable silence. Wonwoo’s palm continued its gentle movement over your bump, while his thumb occasionally swept back and forth in soothing arcs.

“I read that the baby is the size of an apple now” he spoke up again.

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “I can’t believe how much they’re growing already,” you replied, hand still resting over your belly.

“From a poppy seed to an apple in just weeks. It’s kind of magical, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. It really is,” you whispered, your smile lingering as you sat in his arms, feeling safe and loved.

a/n; finally an update🥹

[abbotjack]

️₊˚‧︵‿꒰ The Art of Losing Control ꒱‿︵‧˚₊

♡ NOW PLAYING : LOVE INTERRUPTION BY JACK WHITE

NOTE : Updates every Thursday (unless I get swallowed by an engine rebuild or make an ill timed life choice). If there’s ever a delay, I’ll yell about it here. Chapter summaries may shift as the story takes shape. Want to be added to the tag list? Drop a reply below.

summary: It’s 1999. The dorms smell like mildew and cheap vodka. Everyone’s pretending not to fall apart.

Jack Abbot wakes before sunrise most days. Boots on, uniform pressed, ROTC drills by five. His world is narrow: biochem labs, field exercises, a fraternity that feels more like function than fun. He’s clean cut in a way that’s rigid. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it feels like it cost him something.

You meet him at a party he wasn’t supposed to be at. You’re drunk, glitter smudged, wearing your ex's shirt. Your laugh cuts through the room. He doesn’t look at you twice... which, of course, is exactly why you walk straight over.

You’re studying mechanical engineering but mostly show up hungover. You’ve got tattoos you don’t explain and a habit of breaking things just to fix them again. You live on instinct, thrive in havoc, and Jack Abbot, all posture, silence, and self control, looks like the perfect place to start a fire.

What starts as a dare turns into something slower, something that doesn’t make sense out loud. He becomes a constant. Riding shotgun with his knees pressed against the glove compartment of your rusted out car, waiting outside house shows where he doesn’t know anyone, pressing a water bottle into your palm like it means more than he’ll ever say. He steadies your hips when you sway too hard. Holds your waist like it might disappear.

Neither of you call it love.

status : coming soon (first chapter drops 07/31/2025)

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ chapters :

Chapter One — Strike Match [release date : 07/31/2025] : She meets him at a party he didn’t want to attend. Glitter smudged, drunk, bored... she walks over. She calls him “soldier boy.” It begins.

Chapter Two — Wrench Set Blues [tbd] : His radiator breaks. She shows up with a socket set and a hangover, drops to the floor, and mutters, “You’d think a future Army medic would know basic shit.” He doesn’t argue... just hands her a Gatorade and watches her fix it like he’s never seen anyone work.

Chapter Three — Something Loud [tbd] : She drags him to a dive bar to see her favorite local band. The kind of place with two working mics, three working amps, and no working toilets. He stands stiff in the back. She screams lyrics in his ear, steals a cigarette, and kisses him during the second encore like it’s nothing.

Chapter Four — Night Shift [tbd] : She needs a working outlet and a crash pad. His place has both. She rewires her senior project on his floor while he pretends to study. At 3AM, she falls asleep curled into his side, tangled in wires and his ROTC issued hoodie. He doesn’t move.

Chapter Five — Morning Formation [tbd] : She wakes up at his place the morning of his inspection. He’s pacing. She’s in his bed with mascara under her eyes and nothing to prove. His roommate stares. She flips him off. Jack hands her coffee without speaking. No one says the word girlfriend, but she drinks it anyway.

Chapter Six — Not That Kind of Thing [tbd] : She doesn’t do birthdays. Says it like it’s a boundary. But he finds out anyway... from AOL instant messenger, of all things. Shows up at her place with a six pack and gas station cake. She rolls her eyes, calls him an idiot, kisses him harder than she ever has. That night, he sleeps in her bed for the first time. She doesn’t ask him to stay. He doesn’t ask if he can.

Chapter Seven — Her First Breakdown [tbd] : Her car dies in the lot behind the machine shop. She slams the hood three times, sits on the curb, and lights a cigarette with shaky hands. He shows up twenty minutes later, says nothing, and sits beside her until she’s breathing steady again.

Chapter Eight — Family Weekend [tbd] : His parents are in town. She wasn’t supposed to meet them. She does anyway. Eyeliner sharp, black nail polish chipped, and wearing his hoodie like a middle finger. His mom calls her “something else.” His dad says nothing. She smiles like it doesn’t matter. Jack squeezes her hand under the table.

Chapter Nine — Fault Line [tbd] : It’s stupid. A comment. A missed text. A look. She snaps. He shuts down. They fight; loud, ugly, too honest. She says he doesn’t let her in. He says she never stays long enough to try. She leaves before he can ask her to stay.

Chapter Ten — Final Lap [tbd] : Graduation week. Her project’s late. His uniform’s pressed. She ends up on the roof with a beer and a scraped knee. He finds her there. They don’t talk about what happened. They just sit, pressed close, until morning.

Epilogue — Triage [tbd] : She’s only there to look at a busted compressor in the maintenance wing. Some favor for a friend's cousin, nothing serious. She smells like engine coolant and vending machine coffee, hair pulled back, sleeves shoved up. She rounds the corner too fast, trying to find someone with a keycard... and there he is.

[thelazydetectivecat]

The five menaces and their journey to chaos DC X DP PROMPT

If you asked Talia what she expected from her mission she would tell you that she was going to investigate a Lazarus portal made in a basement. she didn't expect three children on tables for dissection. She knocked what you presume to be the parents out and freed the children under the condition that they give her information and she would help them in return.

Talia wasn't very motherly although for some reason these kids decided to claim her as their own mother they choose her and she didn't have a choice in the matter. The oldest one is a 17 year old girl with ginger hair and blue eyes with a fierce determination in the fire in her eyes that is unwilling to bend to anyone else's will, the next was a 15 year old boy with black hair and blue eyes though he did change into his so-called phantom form with what here that doesn't listen to the laws of gravity and Lazarus green eyes in the last one was a 13 year old girl looking identical to the boy later on it was confirmed that she was his clone via creepy a Godfather.

She took the portal with her and the kids for some reason felt safe with her and for some reason they could purr and chirp she didn't know what that meant although she assumed they were good signs. She didn't know how she exactly felt although these children chose her she has little to no choice but to care for them back she feels her motherly instincts kicking in for the half breeds or at least the two of them and the living girl. When she presented them to her father he was more than displeased as she was about to beg but the children... May have had their own way of torturing their father and making him accept them.

The oldest psychologized him and guessed every part of him telling him every indeed insecurity he has every fear and much more and preceded to explain all his behaviors and great detail that was hard to miss. The boy invisible to her but visible to her father apparently became an Eldritch horror and was menacingly standing on top of his elder sister protectively looking at Ra's like a predator. The youngest was just poking fun at him making fun of him for every decision he made and humiliated him in her own way even was made himself question every choice he made until that point.

He came to a breaking point he started crying and begging for mercy he agreed to every condition that the children made as long as they stayed far away from him or at least didn't scare him as much. Talia has never seen her father so broken and fearful before. And they were all prodigies not only to assassinations but other things as well she was quite proud of them although they did a turn the league upside down when they said why kill when you can do far worse. The League did not want to find out what that meant after they saw one of the victims looking like a zombie so every time they had a mission , they got the targets to the siblings and proceeded to leave never find out what happened to them.

One day a goth girl and a geek boy have infiltrated the League of assassins demanding to see the siblings and once they learned Talia was the claimed mother they proceeded to also claim her. Ra's then did not want a repeat of the first situation and proceed them to let them in without much hassle. Talia was not sure how to feel about having so many children as many as her beloved but alas she had no choice and was frankly quite happy with the children swarming her and dragging her around to show her interesting things or to talk to her. They have been in the league for about a year and the ghosts have been around for a few months to the point to where you couldn't tell who was living or dead.

Talia was contemplating if she should tell Damien and if she does does she tell him personally or with a message? Hm he'll find out eventually. Right now she has a game of Monopoly to win.

Meanwhile in Gotham Damian was very concerned with the amount of assassins that came to him begging for him to come back because the five menaces have taken over the place. Does he know who they are? no but he did learn that mother apparently decided her fate was sealed the moment they claimed her. This could also explain about what happened to the talons with the court of owls. The higher-ups are raging because apparently their talons keep going missing and are being stolen. Hearing that the league became haunted zone it's safe bet to assume that the five menaces are the ones who kidnapped them. Now if only Ra's didn't come there asking for freedom and protection from his supposed five siblings-

[banditcoyote]

"I'm sorry, I'm doing a lot of talking." he said shaking his head. "But try and hold onto that in case I don't answer it okay?" he asked her.

“I got caught a few times, sneaking out, once even in bed with a couple, and I was chewed out and punished for it, sometimes tied up and only given access to Artemis. That was so degrading for her, she didn’t want to be there, and me having sex with her was some kind of punishment for me?” he made a little dramatic wretching sound. “There were talks from the Elders, they were thinking about exiling her, as she wasn’t doing what she had been brought here to do, and even though she was a good fighter, we didn’t need any more of those, we just needed more babies. Exiling a wolf is pretty extreme, her old pack might not have even taken her back either , wolf populations were on the decline during that time, there were still lots of hunters in the human world that would take us out, if she was exiled, she’d be alone, and for some wolve they rather die. So she came to me with a new attitude, she wanted to try harder, and for one summer we did it every night, sometimes even twice if she asked. I tried to make it enjoyable for her, and I tried not to see the revulsion and the hope in her face every night, that maybe this time it would be it, and I’d never have to have sex with her again.” He huffed. “Well that didn’t work either, and it wasn’t until early summer of the following year that she suggested something more extreme….We started having sex in full wolf form. I don’t think that was any more enjoyable for her, but it was easier for both of us to give over to instincts, and it was a lot more direct with better chances, so we did that as much as we could for a few years, but it still wasn’t taking. As the decision was coming down to exile her, she went to a different elder and made an appeal to mate.” Raphael looked distraught. “She hadn’t asked me about it, not even suggested the idea, and it was approved before I was even asked again….I was shocked, but she was desperate, and I felt I owed her after all this time just using her. Mating with wolves involves ceremony, it must be done on a full moon, in full wolf, bites are exchanged, and the Alpha must witness. A lot of wolves don’t mate, it’s usually reserved for real love matches, or those who have grown to love each other, marriage is a contract, the mating is the romance, and there is some magic to it, a bond is formed between the two. Artemis thought if we had that bond then maybe we’d have better luck. If I had refused it would ruin both our reputations, and maybe even Artemis’s life. I didn’t want to mate with her, but I wanted to give the pack some pups so this pressure would go away, so I agreed, it was the only thing she had ever asked me for, so how could I say no?”

“So we mated, it was a beautiful ceremony, we were scared, we were desperate, but we were fully supported, and honestly, it might have been the smartest move…I didn’t want to throw my life to someone who hated me, but it did make us closer, and there was something in that bond where we had a deeper understanding for one another, and a desire for closeness. It’s not anywhere near like it is with you and Coyote, I can tell you that much. But even if sex was still awkward between us, it felt there was something in us driving us towards it…it’s difficult to describe, but it became easier to focus on our mutual goal rather than the experience itself….I know that doesn’t sound great….and it wasn’t, but there was some relief, and when the summers were over and we didn’t have to have sex every day, we could actually tolerate each other. Though I would still slip out to sleep with Echo’s wives when I could…and Echo for the first time….” He added glancing at Sasuga. “That’s a different story for another time”

“We would still get into awful fights every now and then, our sex became rougher, animalistic, almost hateful, but we were still getting the job done. We were determined now…and after a couple years, I remember towards the end of summer she came to me and she just….there was something totally different about her. We had sex, and it was intense, I think that might have been the only time it felt like she actually wanted me, it was actually good, decent sex, and the next morning she woke up and we looked at each other, and she threw up all over the bed.” He laughed a little thinking of it. “We just stared at each other, and then the puke, and then each other, and then she threw up again, and it was so gross, I nearly threw up.” He laughed again “we went to the doctor, and it was confirmed she was pregnant. She cried, I cried, I thought I was going to lose my mind, I couldn’t catch my breath. I was excited about kids, but I was more excited that this hell we had been living in for decades was over. I was just over 200 years old, it had been nearly seventy years of this…and we had finally done it. I devoted my life to her at that point. As my mate I was in tune to her emotions, and as her Alpha I wanted those babies, and as myself I didn’t want to go through any of that again, so I did everything I could for her, I hunted, I made sure she ate, I took her temperature, I made sure she was warm at night, I was by her side as she went for walks. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to this one chance we had, the Alpha was ecstatic, the elders were happy, we were both congratulated. Artemis was relieved, scared as I was, I knew at times she got a little annoyed with how I was smothering her she didn’t want to risk anything either, so we listened to every word of advice and she let me do everything for her while I was around. And it seemed to have worked, we had healthy identical twin boys, and it changed my life.” Raphael was smiling, but there was a sadness in his eyes and the fact that Sasuga had only been introduced to Gabriel was a key indicator of what tragedy was to come in Raphael’s story.

Alpha's Temptation

It had been just over a month since Sasuga had to tell her mate goodbye. She had arrived at the village of Kou just as Mulo was throwing a fit as if she was somehow weeks late. She didn't say a word to him as the beast of a demon howled and hooted in anger at her. Instead, she had gone right to the Elders to let them know she was there and would start her first patrol to get the layout of any changes that had been made while she was away. Changes had indeed occurred in her absence. There were other demons here. Demons that were not monkeys and that was a first for her. There was even a lion roaming about, which at first set her on alarm until she saw her longtime friend holding a baby that looked more like father than mother. She said nothing to the pair that first day, simply taking in the hope now that the Elders would allow her own mate access to the village. Time crept in that first month. The days were bad enough, but nights felt empty and her tiny bed in a hollowed-out trunk just felt wrong. She argued with herself about being too spoiled for it anymore and that she should be mad at herself over it but really a bigger, more grand bed would have been far worse if empty. The fact of the matter was that this wasn't home and hadn't been for a while now.

Friends or people just wanting to know about the world outside would make small talk with her, but everyone could tell she wasn't the same demon that had left here. Many asked about the ring on her finger and eventually she had taken it off and carefully packed it away just because she couldn't continue telling lies when nobody even believed them. She held new babies and dreamed of her own, before making excuse to go on patrol so she could sob without anyone knowing. She shared tales of the human world but always kept it less than personal so nobody would know about Coyote and her family there till she was ready.

One such day, just after a night of heavy rain, Sasuga was on patrol. She was making her second and usually unnecessary round when she heard the distinct sounds of branches being pushed aside. In an instant she jumped down from the wall of trees which kept the village safe from sight and gave out a loud warning shriek. This was to warn those she protected as well as to maybe scare off the ones headed her way. She stalked forward, before leaping easily up into the trees, moving from one to the other in small silent motions till she was close to what was clearly a group of people heading toward the village. Just as they were breaking through the thick foliage she jumped down in their path. "You need to turn around and find another way to wherever the fuck you are going." she huffed loudly before she even fully understood who she was talking to.

@banditcoyote

[sukiwrites]

Fandom: DC Comics / Batfam Pairing: Ex-Boyfriend!Jason Todd x Reader Genre: Angst / Hurt-Comfort / Unresolved Feelings

Warnings: Swearing, emotional vulnerability Word Count: 985 words Notes: Just a little something about that messy, magnetic energy between exes who never quite stopped wanting each other.

Jason sees you in a restaurant after a long stretch of no contact since your breakup. The moment your eyes land on him, you instinctively sink into your seat. “Don’t look,” you whisper sharply to your work friends, “but my ex is here.” Naturally, they immediately��turn to gawk. “That is your ex?” one of them says, eyes wide. Another adds, “Why the hell would you leave that?” You sigh, eyes on your drink. “I didn’t. He left me.” There’s a beat of silence before you stand. “I’m sorry, guys. I just... I need some air.”

You step out the back of the restaurant, the cool night air greeting you with a quiet stillness. Leaning against the wall, arms folded, you try to collect yourself.

Not even a minute passes before you hear footsteps behind you. You turn, and it’s him.

Jason raises his hands like you're a cornered animal. “Relax, I didn’t come out here for you,” he says, reaching into his jacket to pull out a cigarette and lighter.

You exhale, easing slightly back into the wall. “You’re smoking again?” you ask, half question, half quiet observation.

He shrugs, lighting the cigarette. “It’s how I deal with... stuff.” You glance at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

He takes a drag, speaking through the smoke. “Hey, I was just about to drink myself to death before you showed up. But now I’m very intrigued... Who’s the guy? He clearly wants to fuck you.”

You blink. “What?” “I’m here with my friends from work, asshole. And maybe you noticed the girl sitting next to me as well?” “Oh, I did,” he replies, tone smug. “She especially wants you. She was all over you. But I don’t blame her, you’re hot as hell.”

You can’t help it, you burst out laughing. “You’re so silly, Jason,” you say, still giggling. “I’m gonna go back inside, to my friends.”

You start to walk away, but he gently catches your hand. You stop. “You really do look beautiful,” he says softly.

You just stare at each other for a moment, caught in something too familiar, too dangerous. “Thanks,” you finally say, voice quieter. “You don’t look too bad yourself…Red.”

Later, as you’re saying goodbye to your friends, they can’t stop grinning. “Jason’s still outside, by the way,” one of them points out. “He’s literally been waiting for you the whole night,” another teases. “She’s so getting laid.” “No doubt about it.”

You roll your eyes. “Guys, seriously. He’s my ex. That’s not happening.” They squint at you like they know better.

As you go outside to book a cab, Jason is leaning against his bike, arms folded, helmet in hand. “I’ll take you home,” he says casually. You narrow your eyes. “Not on that death machine. I never got on it before, and I still won’t.” He smirks, already walking towards you. “It’ll be fun.” “Nope.” You shake your head, backing up. “Come on,” he says, handing you the spare helmet. “Trust me. I’ll keep you safe. Okay?” You hesitate, then slowly reach for the helmet. “Okay.”

The ride is nothing like you expected. It’s freeing, thrilling, your arms wrapped around his waist, the wind in your hair, his warmth steady in front of you. And when you get home, you're practically glowing. “That was the best thing ever,” you say, grinning as you unbuckle the helmet. “I told you!” he replies. You say, still grinning, “Why didn’t you ever make me try that before?” Jason laughs and replies, “I did! Remember? But you were screaming so loud, people thought I was kidnapping you.”

You both laugh, stumbling a bit as you reach your door. But when the laughter fades, so does the ease. You unlock your door, turn back to him. “Jason?” “Hm?” “Why are you here?”

He says nothing at first, just stares at you. And it’s not the usual stare. It’s the kind that looks too deep, the kind that carries weight. “Here,” you repeat, “now, in my doorway, making me laugh, smile... Why?” His voice is low, raw. “Because I miss you.” He winces, like even saying it hurts. “I know I shouldn’t, but I—” “I miss you too,” you say quietly.

There’s silence between you. Then you sigh. “Come here. "My feet are killing me.” You pull him inside and lead him to the sofa.

After a while, you say, “I’m gonna get into something more comfortable.” You disappear into your room. Jason stays on the couch, calling out after a few seconds, “Can I be completely honest?” “Mhm,” you reply from behind the door. “I’m so extremely horny right now.” You burst out laughing. “Jason?? Jeez, have some composure!” “I’m just saying,” he continues, “it doesn’t leave much to the imagination knowing you’re changing next door.” “Oh really?” you say teasingly. “Wanna see instead?”

You step out, wearing nothing but a pyjama shirt and shorts. Jason’s head snaps toward you. His eyes scan every inch. “You look... a bit disappointed,” you say with a smirk. “Would’ve preferred you naked,” he shrugs, “but you’re always hot.” You blush and sit next to him again on the sofa. He stares at you. First your eyes, then your lips. You raise a brow. “You’re doing that thing.” “What thing?” he asks. “That thing you do when you reallyyy want to kiss me.” “I do,” he says plainly. “Then?” He hesitates. “I don’t want to make you feel—” “I won’t,” you cut him off gently. “I won’t feel or get attached or anything like that. I know we’re done.” Jason looks at you, uncertain. “Are you sure?” He brushes his thumb against your bottom lip. You smile. “Yes. I’m also horny, you know. I’m just more composed than you.” He smirks. “How about I fuck the composure out of you?”

And with that, he crashes his lips into yours, leaving no room for witty remarks.

[sometimesacademic]

wrote this in the gym bc it’s been haunting me

John trusts him with you, and you’re a good wife faithful to a fault.

Your husband is older now, can’t stay up as late, can’t do all the things you need. You’re still young and insatiable.

He invites the men over for a drink, or ten by the end of the night. The clock hits midnight and John kisses your forehead goodnight, bidding Simon, Johnny, and Gaz a nod goodbye and “to take care of ‘er.” You knew your bear couldn’t make it the whole night, and that’s okay!

What follows is a night of fun: shots, beers, and occasional wine cooler. It’s filled with stories, laughs, and games. Johnny is the first to pass out on the couch, then followed by Gaz.

It’s now you and Simon. It’s always you and Simon. Once the men drift into a sweet lullaby Simon turns to you. He asks you about your dreams, your fears, of the one time you were almost caught shoplifting at 15, he cares. The others see it, in the way he perks up at a mention of your name, the way he keeps a steady hand on your back guiding you through the base when you come to visit, in every little thing he does. John knows this, that’s why he trusts Simon. You both see each other and care for each other. John doesn’t think Simon would be the man he is today without the tenderness you’ve brought into their lives.

As Simon tells a story about some odd job hours after the others in the 141 have gone to bed, his deep rich voice lulls you into your own deep sleep. Simon smiles under his mask slightly. He watches you for a while, finally deciding he doesn't want you to be sore in the morning from the position you're in. He sets down his beer, huffs sitting up, and carefully grabs you. As he cradles you bridal style up the stairs into the bed with your husband, your hands instinctively wrap around his strong broad shoulders and you inhale his cologne and tobacco scent. He takes you in himself inhaling you slightly, cherishing your sweetness, your warmth, he’s missed it you.

He carefully opens the door to not disturb the sleeping bear and sets you in your place on the bed. As you stir and lazily grin in your sleep, adjust slightly, you nuzzle into your husband sighing deeply.

Simon steps a few paces back observing the two of you. Could he ever have this? This safety? This life? Simon looks away envious, straightening. No. He can’t. He’s done too much. He’s caused too much damage, and pain, been through too much. He doesn’t deserve this life. He grabs the two men from their snoring and drives them all back to base.

As the sun rises, John rises. He looks down as their sleeping bird brushing a loose hair out of your face, then his gaze locks on to the vent nearest the door with a tiny black dot. John smirks, Simon staring right back at him miles away. John knows Simon would never allow himself a chance at happiness, just as you would never tell John you may be unsatisfied. He knows his lieutenant and his wife. He knows what they need, so John will have to give it to you both. You may not know it to the full extent yet, but soon. It’s not like John hasn’t been trying.

authors note: OKAY GUYS DONT JUDGE TOO HARD!! It’s been years since I’ve written and this was so quick so… sorry!

[aweebshitdrawings]

Behold I give you SIREN STAN !!!

Inspire by the AMAZING @aroace-get-out-of-my-face mermaid Stan AU and @lunarosequarts fic called White Tides (White Lies) Go read it if you haven’t! It’s so funny and heartwarming at the same time :)

WARNING: I’m gonna yap here for a sec so be aware before continuing

So this how it I this going

Everything follows the same as in canon until about let’s say maybe 8 years after the boys fall out with each other. Stan is in a car chase from Rico and his crew after they realize he survived the trunk and saw his car. It was very rainy and Stan couldn’t see and end us up swerving over the edge of a cliff and ends up in the ocean. Now the sea can feel emotion the anger, sadness, regret even strangely relief. So he’s given a second chance with a new body.

But when Stan wakes up he isn’t really lucid or understands whats happened to him and his body and mind are going on pure instinct, and he stays in that mind set even when some shady supernatural merchant find him (about a week after) and bring him to the underground market in Gravity Falls!!

Now Ford has been going through everything in cannon and that mean even bill. Thou instead he listens to Fiddleford about shutting down the portal and finds the truth out. Sense Fidds didn’t leave he was able to help for get rid of him (I’m just gonna say they used some kind of unicorn serum to exorcism him) thou it definitely took a bit and both boys left with some damage mentally and physically.

But about 2 months after the Fords got rid of bill they find themselves at the underground market. Fidds want for to get back into the supernatural thing and explore the outside world more and while Ford has been doing research he has definitely become a hermit these past few weeks. So Fidds thought this would be a good way to get him out of the house

Ford while not happy to be out of the house

(the house is the only safe place)

He dose enjoy looking at all the vendors and that when he see a sign that says “merman for sale” now ford while he can be morally dubious sometimes things selling another living thing and something so close to human is wrong. He tells Fidds and they agreed to back at night when there aren’t as many people and get the merman out and maybe as thanks the merman will let ford ask a few questions it’s perfect

So Fidds and Ford break in and they pass the large tank, surprised to see it’s empty and then they hear a small whimper behind another door and as they come in Ford is well….he can’t really believe what he’s seeing because that not just a man with a chain on his neck and a something covering his mouth. Laying there looking defeated it’s….its his twin…

The fords get him out of there as FAST as possible and make sure they can’t be followed. And it takes about two days for Stan to finally wake up. Ford is obviously going in on Stan asking millions of questions but for Stan this his first time being really lucid in his body sense…. Well when he was being chased by Rico.

Now ford tells Stan where they found him and THAT confuses him because HIM a merman come on that’s crazy. But after a some petty arguments between the twins and Stan saying he’s go nowhere to go now that his car is gone ford agrees to let Stan stay because while he mad at his brother he’s not letting him go on the streets (again).

So while Ford is writing in his journal he hears Stan scream form downstairs “OH FUCK”!!! Running down to see what going on he’s sees Stan, eyes wide and looking at his hand which is now covered in green scales and nails now sharp and webbing between the fingers. Both twins stare at each other and then back at Stan hand.. both of them at the same time say “shit”

Now how dose Siren Stan work we’ll let me tell ya :)

Basically a little like H2O except you won’t turn full Siren with just a little water but depending on what gets wet will make him look more like a fish lol. Like in Luka!

Next his “Siren” song ( this is what took me the longest to figure out lol) Now most siren songs just make the person see something they want and makes them jumps in water. But I thought of something more interesting and a bit more fun. So when Stan starts singing the person he’s singing to and Stan enter a fake almost dream like world where Stan is in control. And what happens in this world depends on Stan. Plus Stan songs don’t necessarily make you do what he wants but makes you feel any emotion physically and mentally. So in way you could say he kinda just transports the person he’s singing to into a music video lol.

As seen in drawing he’s go retractable teeth, and side finds and if he’s in complete darkness he can glow in the dark. Oh and can communicate with sea creatures. ( I just think him and Gobberwalker would gossip all the time lol)

Anyway I’m gonna go daydream some more and maybe figure out some other AU cause I have free will and you can’t stop me Hahahaha

[winteryreads]

no tears, really? -various hsr characters x reader

synopsis: their child’s first day of kindergarten doesn’t go the classic way it’s expected to: tantrums, crying, the whole shebang. your husband is surprised at the bravery of his child. to his astonishment, there’s no tears? weird, but okay…

warnings: none, this is pure fluff in order to make up for two angst posts/fics back to back! i hope you all can forgive me!

word count: ~1.1k

author’s note: i love writing fluff and sure do hope no one requests angst anytime soon (probably foreshadowing)! have some dad hsr characters in a modern au because i want to see them as (good) dads one day! i hope you enjoy this! <33

taglist: @axolotsofluv, @sqgeism, @vyyper, @your-sleeparalysisdem0n, @cmiru, @sheyfu, @threnodians, @sswrillya, @silvermah, @strwbrydreamz, @chokifandom, @sillyseraphie, @riaruu, + @m1ckeyb3rry! let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 

Anaxa:

if Anaxagoras had things his own way, his sweet son would have been homeschooled (and taught by his father). but the second you disagreed with him, he knew he had to listen to you. you insisted that your son is placed in school- he needs friends and education.

so the day you both have been dreading came sooner than anticipated: your son’s first day at kindergarten. to be fair to you both, your son is growing quite fast- he’s oddly mature for his age, pretty studious (a kindergartner mind you), and honestly a bubble of joy. you blame your husband. entirely. your sweet son got Anaxa’s brain, which you’re only mildly jealous of. 

so drop off for the first day at school came. and lo and behold, your son practically bolts out of the car as soon as you get out and open your door. he makes it safely to the school building, of course, but it shocks you how quick the five-year-old is.

a goodbye would have been nice. but he’s happy and that’s all that matters.

Anaxa watches you re-enter the car and once you’re buckled up, he holds out his right hand, and you place your left hand in his almost instinctively. he squeezes your hand. you squeeze back.

today’s gonna be a good day. you hope your son has a good day, too.

Dr. Ratio:

your daughter was a certified genius- extremely smart for a little five-year-old. like… insanely smart. when asked about it in a parent-teacher conference before the school year officially started, your husband just told her simply:

“she was bored, so I made sure to teach her some lessons early. she loves reading but she loves learning more.”

to say your little girl’s teacher was amazed would be an understatement. but whatever makes your little girl happy, right? he was very gentle in his teachings, and your daughter was the ever eager student. you both hoped someone wouldn’t take away her love of learning from her ever. she’s so curious it’s quite endearing. 

so the first day of kindergarten rolls around. your husband is driving the three of you to the school, and your daughter is talking both of your ears off discussing how excited she is to learn new things (assuming your husband hasn’t taught her said things already. she might be breezing past kindergarten.). Veritas pulls up to the school pavilion and helps you both out of the car, and your daughter almost immediately lets go of both of your hands and greets the teacher by the door. you watch your daughter leave to you both, and as you wave back, you weren’t prepared for the tears that have ebbed up in your eyes. Veritas pulls a tissue out of his pocket before reaching out to hold your hand. as you walk back to the car, you’re not prepared to hear what your husband says.

“i told her if any boys give her trouble to kick them in the shins,” he says almost too happily. (cheeky bastard)

“Veritas!”

you would not believe the phone call you get from your daughter’s teacher at the end of the week.

Gepard:

your son is quite the character. not too troublesome, but he’s definitely not an angel either— despite Gepard’s nickname for him being “angel”. Gepard was just happy to be a dad, and could you really blame him?

the only issue was that his kid was growing up too fast for his liking. he literally cried the night before your son’s first day of kindergarten because in his words “he’s not ready to be a little grown up just yet”. bless his heart. 

fast forward to today when your son is getting dropped off at school. he gives you both a quick hug and practically dashes to the pavilion where one of the kindergarten teachers is waiting. a goodbye barely came out of the boy’s mouth, but you both braced yourself for tears on the spot.

they never came. 

but you know what does happen? 

Gepard has a breakdown in the car because he loves his little son so much. he hopes he won’t be a little troublemaker for his teacher. you do the best you can to comfort him. he eventually calls out of work today, and his boss is very sympathetic towards him. but to be fair to Gepard, he almost never calls out of work, so when he calls his boss in a near panic over his son, his boss just says there’s no need for an explanation and gives him the day off. 

Gepard is such a sweet dad to your son, and you have a chill day together. until you get a phone call from your son’s teacher.

he refuses to believe that before the end of the week your son gets in trouble for throwing something at another student’s head.

Moze:

your daughter is as quiet as your husband. which isn’t a bad thing! you’d think she’d be more energetic and outgoing. but part of you was thankful she was not, in fact, energetic and outgoing. but you know what she was?

stealthy. quiet. incredibly so. 

so much so that she scared her preschool teacher by simply talking for the first time that day. although to be fair to your teacher, your daughter has a habit of sneaking up and then speaking to people. 

to say it scared her teacher would be… quite the statement! 

so the first day of kindergarten rolls around! do you know what has changed? absolutely nothing. your daughter is still quiet, a little sneaky, and hella stealthy for a five-year-old. like literally what does she do? aeons only know. you just know either you or your husband have to keep an eye on her or else she’ll scare other students or teachers. 

and to your surprise, as soon as she’s out of the car, she walks quicker than normal to greet the teacher by the pavilion door. this child never goes out of her way to do that. and then she turns around and walks back to you and Moze. she reaches you and your husband rather quickly, hugs you both when you bend down to her height and kiss her head, and then she just… walks off. when she’s out of your sight and safely in the school building, you look over to Moze and see him almost smiling, and holding back a laugh. the ever-so-stoic Moze looks like he’s fighting for his life. 

aeons, she’s so strange for such a quiet child. not that you’d have it any other way. 

©2025 winteryreads. do not repost, copy, translate, modify, or use for AI.

[musubi05]

May I place a request for Team Free will angst?

So it's kind of a point in supernatural that Cas is really bad at answering prayers unless it's Dean. My request is reader is Dean and Sam's young half sister. And she's not really into the hunting stuff but she's like an expert tracker and super smart. She gets kidnapped and she trys to call Cas for help but he never shows up or when he does show up it's much later and she was being tortured. Anyway when reader finally gets back she avoids Castiel?

╰┈➤ Crashing Down

Free Will x winchester sister!reader

Summary: You got kidnapped so you called that one person you thought would come immediately. Did that person- angel come? No. And that is ruining everything.

Warnings: torture/abuse/betrayal/yelling

You should have known something was wrong when the motel parking lot was too quiet.

As the youngest Winchester, you'd learned to trust your instincts—that prickle at the back of your neck that meant danger, the way shadows seemed to move wrong, the absence of normal sounds. You'd been tracking a group of demons through three states, following their pattern of possession and violence like breadcrumbs through a dark forest. It was what you did best: finding the unfindable, connecting dots that others missed.

But this time, you'd been the one found.

The black smoke hit you before you could even reach for the iron knife in your jacket. It slammed you against your car with enough force to crack the driver's side window, and then rough hands were dragging you away from the small circle of salt you'd instinctively tried to create.

"Well, well," the demon wearing a middle-aged businessman's face smiled, his eyes flashing black. "The little Winchester tracker. We've been looking for you."

When you wake up, you're zip-tied to a wooden chair in what used to be an auto repair shop, the smell of motor oil and rust thick in the air. Your head throbs where they'd hit you, and you can taste blood from where you'd bitten your tongue during the struggle.

"Let's try this again," the demon—who'd introduced himself as Crowley's "associate" Malik—paces in front of you. "We need you to find someone for us. A very special angel who's been causing problems for our operations."

"Go to hell." The words come out steadier than you feel.

Malik chuckles. "Already been, sweetheart. Lovely this time of year." His expression shifts, becoming cold. "But we're not asking. You're going to use that legendary Winchester tracking ability to find Gabriel for us."

Gabriel. Your heart sinks. The archangel who'd helped your family more than once, who'd died saving them from Lucifer, who'd somehow returned and been laying low ever since. These demons wanted to finish what Asmodeus had started.

"I don't know where he is," you lie.

"Oh, but you do." Another demon, this one wearing a young woman's body, steps forward with a tablet. "We know you've been in contact. Little birdie told us about the safe house in Colorado."

Your blood runs cold. They know about Gabriel's hideout, which means they've been watching you. Watching all of you.

"I'm not telling you anything."

"We figured you'd say that." Malik pulls out a silver knife, the blade gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. "Good thing we have time to convince you."

The first cut across your forearm makes you gasp, more from surprise than pain. It's shallow, meant to sting rather than seriously harm. A warning.

"Castiel," you whisper, closing your eyes and reaching out with your mind the way Dean had taught you. Cas, I need help. Please.

Nothing. Just empty silence where you'd hoped to feel that familiar presence.

"Praying already?" Malik sounds amused. "How sweet. But I don't think your feathered friend is listening."

"He'll come," you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "When he realizes I'm missing—"

"Will he though?" The female demon tilts her head. "Because from what we hear, Castiel has been having some... issues lately. Something about not being able to hear prayers clearly unless they're from a certain green-eyed hunter."

Your stomach drops, but you force yourself not to react.

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Malik makes another cut, this one across your other arm. Deeper. "Tell you what, why don't you give him a call? See if he picks up."

The pain is sharp and immediate, and you can't stop the small cry that escapes.

Castiel, please, you pray harder, putting everything you have into it. I'm in trouble. I need you. They want Gabriel, and I can't—I won't tell them where he is, but I need help. Please hear me.

The minutes tick by. The demons wait, watching you with cruel amusement as you close your eyes and pray silently, desperately.

Nothing.

"Cas!" This time you say it out loud, your voice echoing in the empty garage. "Castiel, I know you can hear me! I'm—" Your voice cracks. "I'm scared, and I need you. Please."

More silence. Just the sound of your own breathing and the demons' quiet laughter.

"Maybe try louder," the female demon suggests mockingly.

"CASTIEL!" You scream his name until your throat burns. "PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU!"

But the warehouse remains empty except for you and your captors.

Malik sighs dramatically. "This is just sad. Here, let me help motivate you both."

The blade finds your shoulder this time, and you can't suppress the sharp cry of pain.

Cas, please, they're hurting me, you think desperately. I know you're busy, I know Heaven needs you, but I'm scared and I don't know how long I can hold out. They want Gabriel and I can't give them Gabriel, but I need you. I've never needed anyone more than I need you right now.

Hours pass. The questions continue. The pain gets worse. And through it all, you keep calling for him—sometimes out loud, sometimes in the privacy of your mind, sometimes both.

"Castiel, I'm in Riverside, in the old Murphy's Auto Shop on Fifth Street. Please, just this once, choose me. Choose me over whatever's happening in Heaven. I'm trying to be strong like Dean and Sam but I'm not them. I'm scared and I hurt and I just need you to come."

But he doesn't come.

"Please," you whisper around hour six, when the word 'no' feels carved into your throat from repetition. "Please, Cas. I know I'm not Dean. I know his prayers are clearer or stronger or whatever. But I'm your family too. Aren't I? Don't I matter at all?"

The silence stretches on, broken only by Malik's increasingly creative threats about what they'll do if you don't give them Gabriel's location.

By hour twelve, your voice is nearly gone, but you keep trying.

"Castiel." It's barely a whisper now. "I know you can hear me. I know you're choosing not to come, and I don't understand why. What did I do wrong? Why am I not worth saving?"

⛧

By hour eighteen, when you hear the Impala's engine roar into the parking lot followed by the sound of gunshots and shouting, you've stopped praying altogether.

Dean and Sam burst through the door like avenging angels, all righteous fury and deadly precision. The first demon goes down with a devil's trap bullet to the chest, black smoke pouring from the host's mouth. The second tries to run but Sam catches her with another shot, sending her back to hell in a shower of sparks.

Malik, the leader, makes a last desperate grab for you, knife raised, but Dean puts three bullets in him before he can take a step.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Dean says, his voice gentler than you've heard it in years as he cuts through the zip ties binding your wrists. "We got you. You're safe."

Your hands are shaking so badly you can't feel your fingers. Everything hurts—your throat raw from screaming, your arms burning from the cuts, your whole body aching from eighteen hours tied to that chair.

"How did you find me?" Your voice comes out as barely a whisper, hoarse and broken.

"GPS on your phone," Sam explains, crouching down to check your injuries. "When you didn't check in and we couldn't reach you, we tracked the signal. Dean drove like a bat out of hell."

"More like the Impala out of hell," Dean mutters, shrugging out of his jacket to wrap around your shoulders. The leather is warm and smells like gun oil and aftershave—safe, familiar scents that make your eyes burn with unshed tears.

"I called for Cas," you say suddenly, the words tumbling out. "I called for him for hours. He didn't come."

The brothers exchange a look over your head, Dean's jaw tightening with barely contained fury.

"We know, sweetheart," Dean says softly. "We tried calling him too when we realized you were missing. He never answered."

"Where was he?" You need to know, even though you're not sure you want to hear the answer.

Sam's mouth forms a thin line. "Missouri. Some dive bar outside Kansas City. When we finally tracked him down, he was..." Sam trails off, looking uncomfortable.

"Drunk," Dean finishes bluntly. "Angel drunk. Apparently, he's been having some kind of existential crisis about free will versus destiny. Completely cut himself off from angel radio."

The words hit you like a physical blow. While you were screaming his name, begging for help, he was drowning his sorrows in whatever passes for alcohol when you're a celestial being.

"He chose whiskey over me," you whisper, more to yourself than to them.

"No," Sam says firmly, his hand gentle on your shoulder. "He made a stupid, selfish choice. But that's on him, not you."

Dean helps you stand, one arm around your waist when your legs threaten to give out. "Come on. Let's get you home and patched up."

"Dean?" Your voice is small, childlike in a way that makes both your brothers' protective instincts flare.

"Yeah?"

"Don't let him heal me. Not this time."

Dean studies your face for a long moment, seeing something there that makes him nod grimly. "Whatever you need, kid."

They're loading you into the Impala when Castiel finally appears.

He materializes in the doorway in his rumpled trench coat, blue eyes wide with concern and what might be guilt. His hair is messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it, and there are grass stains on his coat. There's also the distinct smell of alcohol clinging to him, even though angels supposedly can't get drunk the same way humans do.

"I came as soon as I could," he says, rushing toward the car.

But all you can do is stare at him, this angel you'd trusted with your life, who'd heard every desperate prayer and chosen to ignore them.

"You're eighteen hours too late," you whisper.

He reaches the car, hands already glowing with that familiar yellow-white grace, ready to heal your injuries. "Let me help—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than you intended, and you shrink back against Dean's side. "Don't touch me."

Castiel's face crumbles like you've physically struck him. "Please, let me heal you. I can take away the pain—"

"You had your chance to help," Dean says coldly, positioning himself between you and the angel. "She doesn't want your help now."

"Dean, please, I know you're angry, but she's hurt—"

"Yeah, she is hurt," Sam's voice is deadly quiet as he slides into the driver's seat. "She's hurt because you weren't there when she needed you most."

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and his voice breaks on the words. "I'm so sorry. If I had known—"

"You did know," you manage to say, not looking at him. "You heard me. And you chose not to come."

⛧

The ride back to the bunker is silent except for the rumble of the Impala's engine and your occasional sharp intake of breath when the car hits a bump and jostles your injuries. Castiel doesn't follow immediately—you can see him in the side mirror, standing alone in that empty parking lot, watching the taillights disappear.

He shows up at the bunker later that night, spawning in the infirmary where Sam is carefully cleaning and bandaging your wounds the old-fashioned way.

"You should let me heal those," Castiel says softly from the doorway.

You don't look at him. "Sam's got it."

"But I could—"

"She said no, Cas," Dean's voice is flat, final. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, radiating protective fury. "Respect that."

Castiel tries several more times over the next few days—appearing in your room at night, lurking in doorways, always with that same offer to heal your injuries, to take away the physical pain. You refuse every time.

Because the physical pain is nothing compared to the betrayal. The cuts will heal on their own, leave scars that will fade with time. But the knowledge that you called for him—screamed for him—and he chose a bottle over your desperate prayers?

That's a wound grace can't fix.

And when he reaches out to heal you with those familiar, gentle hands, you flinch away. Some wounds go deeper than skin, and some betrayals can't be healed with grace and good intentions.

The taste of copper still lingers in your mouth three days later.

You're sitting in the bunker's library, surrounded by ancient tomes and the familiar smell of old paper and leather, but your hands won't stop shaking. Every shadow in your peripheral vision makes you flinch. Every creak of the bunker's old bones sends your heart racing.

Dean keeps hovering. Sam keeps asking if you need anything. And Castiel—

Castiel keeps trying to talk to you.

For three days now, you've perfected the art of avoidance. When he enters a room, you leave. When he tries to approach during meals, you suddenly remember something urgent you need to research. When he materializes in the hallway, you duck into the nearest room and wait until you hear his footsteps fade away.

It's childish, maybe, but you can't help it. Every time you see those blue eyes, all you can think about is eighteen hours of screaming his name into empty air.

Earlier that morning in the kitchen:

"She's avoiding him," Dean states the obvious, watching through the kitchen doorway as you practically sprint in the opposite direction the moment Castiel rounds the corner.

Sam looks up from his laptop, following Dean's gaze. "Can you blame her?"

"No." Dean's jaw tightens. "But this isn't gonna last. Cas looks like a kicked puppy, and she's gonna give herself whiplash if she keeps changing directions every time he shows up."

"Maybe she needs time," Sam suggests, though he sounds uncertain.

"Time for what? To hate him forever?" Dean runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Look, I get it. I'm pissed at Cas too. But she's our sister, and he's... he's family. This is tearing everyone apart."

Sam closes the laptop with more force than necessary. "You want to know what I think?"

"Shoot."

"I think she's not just avoiding him because she's hurt. I think she's avoiding him because she's scared of what she might say if she actually talks to him."

Dean considers this, watching as Castiel appears in the doorway looking lost and confused, clearly searching for you. When he realizes you're not there, his shoulders slump in defeat.

"Yeah," Dean says quietly. "I think you're right."

Later that afternoon in Dean's room:

"She won't even look at me." Castiel stands awkwardly by Dean's desk, his usual composed demeanor cracked and bleeding anxiety. "When I try to heal her injuries, she flinches away. When I attempt conversation, she leaves the room."

Dean doesn't look up from cleaning his gun, though his movements are more aggressive than necessary. "What did you expect, Cas? A parade?"

"I expected... I don't know what I expected." Castiel's voice is small. "Anger, perhaps. Shouting. But not this. This silence is worse than any accusation."

"Maybe that's the point."

"I don't understand."

Dean finally looks up, and Castiel flinches at the cold disappointment in his eyes. "She called for you, Cas. For eighteen hours, she called for you while demons carved her up like a Thanksgiving turkey. And you were off having an existential crisis in some dive bar."

"It wasn't—the situation was complicated—"

"It's always complicated with you." Dean's voice is flat, matter-of-fact, and somehow that's worse than if he were yelling. "But you know what's not complicated? Family. When family calls, you answer. Period."

Castiel's hands clench into fists at his sides. "I heard her prayers, Dean. But they were... faint. Unclear. Not like when you pray."

"So?"

"So I thought—I assumed it wasn't urgent. I thought perhaps she was simply... checking in."

Dean stares at him for a long moment. "Jesus, Cas. You really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

"She's not me." Dean's voice is deadly quiet. "She doesn't pray to you every day about stupid shit. She doesn't treat you like her personal hotline to Heaven. When she prays to you, it's because she's desperate. Because she needs you. And you ignored her."

The words hit Castiel like physical blows. He staggers back a step, face pale.

"I didn't know—"

"You should have known." Dean turns back to his gun. "And now she's not talking to any of us because she's too busy trying to pretend she doesn't exist in the same universe as you."

That evening with Sam and Dean in the war room:

"Found her sleeping in the archives again," Sam reports, settling into a chair across from Dean. "She's got books piled around her like a fort."

"Physical barriers," Dean mutters. "Can't say I blame her."

"This is getting ridiculous, Dean. She's barely eating. She won't let Cas heal her injuries. And every time he shows up, she bolts like a spooked deer."

Dean looks toward the direction of the archives, where you've essentially taken up residence. "Remember when we were kids? When Dad would leave us alone for weeks at a time?"

"Yeah."

"She used to hide in closets when she got scared. Build these little nests out of blankets and books, and just... disappear into them until she felt safe again."

Sam's expression softens with understanding. "She's hiding."

"Yeah. Only this time, it's not Dad she's hiding from. It's someone she trusted. Someone who was supposed to protect her." Dean's voice turns bitter. "And that somehow makes it worse."

They sit in silence for a moment, both lost in thought.

"What do we do?" Sam asks eventually.

Dean sighs. "I don't know, Sammy. I honestly don't know."

The next morning, Castiel cornering Sam in the hallway:

"She won't even acknowledge my presence," Castiel says without preamble, falling into step beside Sam. "Yesterday, I stood in the same room as her for twenty minutes. She acted as if I was invisible."

"Maybe you were," Sam replies, not unkindly. "To her, anyway."

Castiel stops walking. "What do you mean?"

Sam turns to face him. "I mean maybe you've been invisible to her for a while now, and she's just finally admitting it."

"That's not—I care about her. She's important to me."

"Is she?" Sam crosses his arms. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like she's been background noise in your life. Someone you notice when it's convenient, ignore when it's not."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" Sam's voice rises slightly before he catches himself, glancing around to make sure you're not within earshot. "You want to talk about fair? Fair would have been showing up when she needed you. Fair would have been prioritizing her prayers the same way you prioritize Dean's."

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Sam holds up a hand.

"Don't. Just... don't. We both know it's true. When Dean prays, you drop everything. When she prays, you get around to it when it's convenient. And now she almost died because of that difference."

"I would never let her die—"

"You almost did." The words hang heavy in the air between them. "Eighteen hours, Cas. She was tortured for eighteen hours while you ignored her prayers. If Dean and I hadn't tracked her down..."

Castiel looks stricken. "I know. I know I failed her. But how do I fix this? How do I make her understand that I never meant for this to happen?"

Sam studies him for a long moment. "I don't think you can. I think maybe you have to accept that some things can't be fixed with an apology and good intentions."

"So that's it? She'll never forgive me?"

"I don't know," Sam says honestly. "But if you really care about her like you claim to, maybe stop making this about your guilt and start thinking about what she needs."

"What does she need?"

"Space. Time. And maybe for you to prove that she actually matters to you, instead of just saying she does."

Day Four

"I brought you tea," his gravelly voice says from behind you, and you don't turn around. You can't. Because every time you see those blue eyes, all you can think about is how desperately you called for them in that warehouse, how you screamed his name until your throat was raw, how you begged the empty air for just a glimpse of rumpled trench coat.

This is the first time in four days that you haven't immediately fled when he entered a room. Maybe because you're too tired to run anymore, or maybe because some part of you knows this conversation is inevitable.

"Thanks," you mumble, not moving from your position hunched over a book about tracking sigils. Research has always been your escape—the one part of the hunting life you actually enjoyed. While Dean and Sam threw themselves at monsters with guns blazing, you were the one who found the monsters in the first place. Your mind was your weapon, patterns and connections clicking together like puzzle pieces.

Now you can't even focus on the words in front of you.

The tea cup appears in your line of sight as Castiel sets it down carefully beside your elbow. His fingers are pale against the dark ceramic, and you remember how you used to find comfort in those hands. How many times had he healed your scrapes and bruises with just a touch? How many times had those fingers wiped away your tears when the weight of being a Winchester got too heavy?

There's something white beside the cup—a small piece of paper, folded once. His handwriting, careful and precise in blue ink: "Can we talk?"

You stare at the note for a long moment, your chest tightening. Even his handwriting looks uncertain, the letters slightly shakier than usual. The simple question carries the weight of four days of silence, of unanswered prayers, of all the words neither of you have been able to say.

"You've been avoiding me," he states, because subtlety has never been Castiel's strong suit.

You force yourself to turn a page, though you haven't read a single word. "I've been busy."

"No, you haven't." There's some annoyance in his voice, like he's trying to solve a problem he doesn't understand. "You leave the room whenever I enter. You haven't spoken to me directly since we brought you home. Sam says you've been having nightmares."

The book snaps shut under your hands harder than you intended. "Sam needs to mind his own business."

"Your brothers are worried. I'm worried."

And that—that makes something hot and bitter rise in your chest. You stand up so quickly your chair scrapes against the floor, the sound harsh in the quiet library.

"Worried?" The word comes out sharper than you meant it to. "Now you're worried?"

Castiel's head tilts, that familiar confused expression crossing his features. "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." You turn to face him properly for the first time in days, and it's a mistake. He looks exactly the same—messy dark hair, piercing blue eyes, that concerned furrow between his brows. Like nothing happened. Like you didn't spend eighteen hours tied to a chair, calling his name until your voice gave out.

"Where were you, Cas?"

The question hangs in the air between you like a blade. His mouth opens, closes. For once, the all-knowing angel seems at a loss for words.

"I was—there was a situation in Heaven. The other angels—"

"Stop." You hold up a hand, and to his credit, he falls silent immediately. "Just stop. I know exactly where you were because Dean told me. You were in some bar in Missouri, having an existential crisis about free will or destiny or whatever it is you brood about these days."

Castiel's jaw tightens. "That's not—the situation was complex—"

"I called for you." The words rip out of your throat, three days' worth of hurt and anger finally finding their voice. "I called for you for hours, Cas. Do you know what that feels like? To pray to someone you trust, someone you—" You cut yourself off, refusing to finish that sentence. "To pray and get nothing back but silence?"

You can see the moment understanding dawns in his eyes, followed immediately by something that looks like grief.

"I heard you," he says quietly.

The admission hits you like a physical blow. Your knees nearly buckle.

"You heard me." It's not a question.

"Yes."

"And you didn't come."

Castiel's eyes dart away from yours, and that tells you everything you need to know. When he looks back, there's something desperate in his expression.

"It's not that simple. I can't just—when Dean prays, it's different. The connection is stronger, clearer. With others, the prayers get muddled, lost among millions of other voices—"

"Others." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Is that what I am to you? Just another voice in the crowd?"

"No, that's not what I meant—"

"Isn't it?" You take a step back when he reaches for you. "Because that's sure what it felt like. Sitting there, bleeding, while some psychopath carved symbols into my skin and asked me questions I couldn't answer. Screaming for you until my throat felt like broken glass. And you were too busy wallowing to notice."

The memory hits you like a freight train—the smell of rust and motor oil, the bite of rope against your wrists, the methodical way your captor worked. You'd known, logically, that Dean and Sam would find you. They always did. But in those dark hours, with pain shooting through every nerve ending, you'd wanted the angel. You'd needed him.

And he hadn't come.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and his voice cracks on the words. "I'm so sorry. If I had known—if I had realized—"

"But you did know." The words come out steady, even though you feel like you're falling apart inside. "You heard me. You made a choice."

"It wasn't a choice, it was—"

"It was exactly a choice." You're backing toward the library entrance now, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. "You choose Dean. You've always chosen Dean. And that's fine, I get it. But don't pretend like it's some mystical angel thing you can't control. Don't insult my intelligence."

Castiel follows you, his movements jerky and desperate. "Please, let me explain—"

"Explain what? That I don't matter enough for you to drop everything and come running? That I'm not worth the effort it takes to pick my voice out of the cosmic noise?" You shake your head. "I already figured that out, thanks."

You make it to the doorway before his voice stops you.

"You matter to me."

The words are quiet, broken, and they almost—almost make you turn around.

Instead, you grip the doorframe so hard your knuckles go white.

"No, Cas. Dean matters to you. Sam matters to you. I'm just... collateral damage."

You hear him take a sharp breath, like you've struck him.

"That's not true."

"Then where were you?" The question comes out as barely more than a whisper, but you know he hears it. Angel senses and all that.

When he doesn't answer—when he can't answer—you nod to yourself and walk away.

You make it to your room before the tears start, and you lock the door behind you before sliding down against it. Your hands are shaking again, but this time it's not from the memories. This time it's from the look in Castiel's eyes when you walked away—lost and confused and hurt, like a kicked dog that doesn't understand what it did wrong.

But that's the thing. He does know what he did wrong. He's just not willing to admit it.

Because admitting it would mean admitting that his bond with Dean is different, special in a way that excludes everyone else. And maybe that's fine. Maybe it's even beautiful, in its own way.

But it doesn't make the taste of copper go away. It doesn't stop your hands from shaking. And it doesn't erase the eighteen hours you spent calling for an angel who heard you but didn't think you were worth saving.

Tomorrow, you'll have to face him again. Tomorrow, you'll have to pretend that everything is fine, because that's what Winchesters do. You'll research and track and help your brothers save the world, because that's who you are.

But you won't pray to Castiel ever again.

Some lessons are learned the hard way, carved into skin and etched in silence. And some betrayals, no matter how unintentional, cut too deep to heal with just an apology.

In the distance, you can hear Dean's voice calling your name for dinner. In a few minutes, you'll splash cold water on your face and pretend everything is normal. You'll sit at the table and listen to Sam talk about a case and watch Dean worry about you out of the corner of his eye.

And you'll ignore the way Castiel stares at you like he's trying to solve a puzzle he broke himself.

Because some things, once broken, can't be fixed. Some prayers, once unanswered, echo forever.

And some angels, no matter how much they claim to care, will always choose someone else when it matters most.

[bisexualceo]

Trust me

Too Good To Be True series

Summary: After much insistence, Bob agrees to a training session with Y/N.

Warnings: Use of Y/N, Fem!reader. Bob's Power Training.

Word count: 900

Authors note: Not edited

Series masterlist AO3

The conversation about Bob's telekinesis kept happening. Sometimes late at night when Bob couldn’t sleep. Sometimes after missions, when someone makes a comment about how helpful Bob would have been. Sometimes in the kitchen, when Y/N would float him a cup of tea with her mind and he’d flinch without meaning to.

Eventually, he caved. Not fully. But enough.

And their first session was... Clumsy.

The Watchtower’s training room was cold that morning, colder than usual. Maybe it was just Bob’s nerves, or maybe it was the knowledge that today, he’d agreed to something he never thought he would.

Training. With Y/N. Using his powers again after three months since the whole Sentry/Void situation.

She stood by the window, arms folded, watching the city fall into winter. She wasn’t nervous. Or if she was, she didn’t show it. She rarely did. Calm, calm, calm. Always composed, especially when he was a mess.

“Still time to back out,” Bob offered from the doorway.

She glanced over her shoulder, not smiling, but not unkind. “No, there’s not.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“You’re the one who said yes.” She turned to face him fully.

“Under pressure."

She arched a brow. “If you do this I'll take you to dinner wherever you want.”

“Great, try and manipulate me.”

"Oh, c'mon." She walked toward the center of the room, gesturing for him to follow. “You agreed. One session. Easy. You move something, maybe you try to lift it. I don’t expect you to rearrange the building.”

Bob stepped in hesitantly, shoulders tense. “What if I lose control?”

“Then we stop,” she said simply. “And try again tomorrow.”

He didn’t respond.

She picked up a small wooden cube from her pocket and set it on the table in front of them.

"We’re going to start with this.”

“You know, when I said I wasn’t ready, I didn’t mean ‘give me a baby’s toy.’”

"That's how I started." Y/N smirked. “You’re welcome to try lifting me instead, if you think this is stupid.”

His eyes flicked to her, muttering to himself.

“Alright,” he mumbled. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

He focused on the cube. Breathing in. Breathing out. He reached into that part of his mind he hated, the warm hum of power that lived beneath the surface. Sentry’s power. The same place the Void sometimes stirred.

Bob stared at it. He’d done it before. By accident. By instinct. But doing it now felt different. Deliberate. Dangerous.

He knew why he didn't want to do it, or in fact, he knew why he didn't want to do it with her. Failing in front of her or hurting her, either sounded like hell to him.

“I don’t know if-”

“Just do it. Don't think. You have to feel it."

His brow furrowed. He raised his hand a little. Y/N tried to concentrate, suppressing a smile at Bob's move. She did the same thing when she was a child, to have better control over her powers. Dramatic now that she looked back on it.

The cube trembled.

It hovered. An inch. Then two.

Then suddenly it shot across the room and embedded itself in the wall with a thud.

“See?! That’s what I’m talking about!” Bob stepped back immediately.

“Bob...”

“I launched it like a missile!”

“It’s a cube. Bob. You're not going to kill anyone with that."

“You say that now. What if it had been you?”

“Then you would’ve stopped yourself.” She stepped toward him.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.” He shook his head, overwhelmed. But she kept talking. "I know you have it inside you to control it."

“I can’t do this. I can’t be the Sentry. Because being him means being that thing, too.”

Y/N grimaced, knowing that it was a very sensitive topic for him.

"Bob, I’m not asking you to be Sentry. I'm not asking you to get out and put on that little golden suit and go save people." She touched his arm, searching his eyes so he could see that she was serious. “I’m asking you to be you, just with a little more control.”

“You don’t get it.” His voice cracked. “You don't know what it's like to live knowing what I did, the people I hurt last time. I- I don't want it to happen again."

“And you don’t know what I’ve done to survive." Her voice dropped. "I've hurt people too, and unlike you, I made it conscious of my actions and how I used my abilities... Bob, we have to work together and trust each other in this. You have to trust me."

He blinked. She blinked. They were close, closer than they had ever been being conscious. Not asleep. Then she stepped back, creating space.

“Okay. We stop for today. You kept it in the air for two seconds longer than I imagined. That’s a win.”

“I know it was the first time, but have a little faith in me.” Bob joked, trying to take some of the tension out of the room.

“Today was baseline. Tomorrow, we shoot for three seconds.”

He let out a tired laugh, wiping his face with his hands. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“Not on you. No."

Bob swallowed hard. She didn’t say it like a promise. She said it like a fact. The most obvious truth in the world.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted, watching as she walked to the other end of the room to get the wooden cube.

“Good. Means you’re not reckless. Once you fear it, the only thing left to do is control it."

“But you’re not scared.”

“Bob, I was born with this, I’ve had longer to make peace with it. But I was scared. For a long time.”

He nodded slowly. “Thank you. For not giving up on me.”

“I’d never do that. I swear.”

And she meant it.

Helping Bob control his powers wasn’t just about taming the Sentry or avoiding the Void. It was about helping him believe in himself. Believe that he wasn’t the sum of his fears.

That maybe, with enough patience, control, and support, he could just be Bob. Powers and all.

And Y/N would be right there with him. Every step of the way.

[stlllle]

Hello!! Would u pretty please write a oneshot where everything that happens to Jun-hee happens to fem!reader (pregnant, sprained ankle, baby saved, the whole tragic sad ending package) except this time, Nam-gyu who usually couldn’t care less starts falling for her hard as the games go by? He’s not the dad ofc, but he literally eventually starts to care about her after acting tough and indifferent for sm time. Fluff to tons of angst pls ❤️‍🩹

Even If the World Won’t Spare You

Main Characters: Nam-gyu x Female Character (pregnant)

Genre: Light comedy + fluff + heavy angst + au

Notes:Here’s your request! I really hope it turned out at least a little bit nice 🥺 because I’m not even sure what I did here... and I think some parts might be a tiny bit confusing 😔

But I had so much fun writing it!✨

Masterlist squid game

my main list

It was supposed to be just another game. Another illusion sold as hope.

Nam-gyu never believed in hope. He walked into that place knowing exactly what he wanted: to win. No distractions. No alliances. No attachments. And most importantly, no one getting in his way.

He was good at ignoring people. Good at keeping his distance. Life had already taught him that no one stays, no one helps, and anything that wasn’t survival was just noise.

So when she arrived, he barely registered her. A girl in a green tracksuit, hair tied back, face tense but determined.

Nothing special.

At first.

The first time he heard someone mention her was on the second day, right before lights out.

“Did you see the new girl? The chubby one?”

“The one with the ponytail? She doesn’t look like she belongs here. Poor thing’s not gonna last.”

Nam-gyu, sitting in the corner of the dorm, sighed in annoyance. He hated idle gossip. People drawing conclusions like they had any idea what it actually meant to survive in this hell.

Still, his eyes wandered in her direction.

She moved with some difficulty. One hand pressed against her lower back. There was something slightly off about her posture. A small bulge under the uniform. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to notice.

“Chubby,” he thought. “This place is going to eat her alive.”

And then he turned his attention elsewhere.

The first game came fast. The tension was thick, hanging in the air like a noose.

Nam-gyu ran like a machine. Cold. Precise. He advanced during the green lights with surgical control.

At one pause, he glanced back.

She was still far behind. Moving slow. Way too slow.

But steady.

Each time the robot turned and called “Green light,” she moved forward a step or two. When it called “Red light,” she froze instantly.

And somehow, she made it. Just in time.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Hm.”

Around the third or fourth night, something strange happened.

He had gotten up to grab some water and noticed movement in the far corner of the dorm. She was on her knees, scrubbing blood out of her blanket with a damp rag.

Her face pale. Her forehead dripping sweat.

She tried to stand, but wobbled. Her hand instinctively cradled her belly.

“Tsk,” he muttered, stepping closer. “Does it hurt?”

She looked up, surprised. Until then, he hadn’t said a single word to her.

“A little. The baby’s been kicking a lot today.”

Nam-gyu froze.

“What?”

She gave him a weak smile.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

He blinked.

“I thought you were just... y’know...”

“Chubby?” she finished with a soft laugh. “Heard that one a lot already. No. Seven months.”

Seven months. In a death game.

He turned and left.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because, for the first time in years, he did.

Something changed after that.

He started watching her.

She hid her pain well. Walked like she was just a little tired. Refused help. Slept curled up, arms protectively around her stomach. Whispered to the baby late at night.

One night, she was running a fever. Trembling under her blanket.

She didn’t want to bother anyone.

He brought water. Gave her his blanket. Made a makeshift cold compress.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“You’re interrupting my sleep,” he muttered.

A lie.

She started sitting near him. Always quiet. Sometimes offering half her bread. An extra cup of water.

He acted indifferent. But he ate the bread. Drank the water. And felt uneasy when she didn’t show up.

During the paired challenge, she chose him.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you pretend not to care, but you’re the only one helping me.”

He looked away, heart pounding faster than he liked.

They won that round.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

Her smile haunted him.

The glass platform game was brutal. Each step uncertain.

She slipped. Landed wrong.

The crack of her ankle filled the air.

Her scream was worse.

Nam-gyu ran without thinking. Lifted her up.

“Get on my back. Now.”

“I’ll slow you down!”

“Shut up and hold on.”

He carried her all the way to the end.

People shouted at him. Called him reckless.

He didn’t care.

Because nothing mattered more than her at that moment.

And that terrified him.

She got worse.

The infection spread. Her fever spiked. She could barely stand.

He lost it.

“Stop pushing yourself! You’re going to die!”

“If I stop, I die anyway,” she rasped. “But maybe... maybe my baby doesn’t.”

He took her hand.

“I don’t want you to die.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I know.”

She couldn’t make it to the final round.

Collapsed. Unconscious.

Nam-gyu held her. Screamed her name. Begged.

No medics. No help. No chances.

She stirred one last time.

“Thank you... for seeing me...”

And was gone.

He won.

The money felt heavy.

He used it to build a neonatal unit in her name.

Never spoke of the games again.

But every night, he dreamed.

And in the dream, she survived.

And so did the baby.

And they were a family.

END (for now).

[withluvvenus]

　　✶　　we've made it to day two of @bridalribbon's beautiful event . i unfortunately wasn't able to the first day , out of exhaustion . however , i'm here to lock in now . as this is the second day , there are three new prompts . i have chosen to do the option love language for day two , obviously . i mean , hello ?? it's me , venus , we're talking about here . this prompt asks ' your private little rituals with your person, the small things that exist only between the two of you. what cafe knows both of your orders without asking ? what hobbies do you share and compete over with the kind of intensity that borders on ridiculous ? what tiny, seemingly insignificant things do you do for each other ? ' i chose my waiting room for this prompt because matt and i are just universal in this one , and it would be fun !!

　

　　　" 𝓮verything must be done together "

　　　obviously , that's not happening . i mean don't get me wrong , i love this man with my whole heart and demise , but i still need alone time , right ?? but the 92% of the time that IS spent together , we do a lot of things . some of them will be mentioned below , but we both understand the sense of gratitude that comes with solitude . alone time is big for us , especially when we're with each other the whole time in our waiting room . well , we're the only people around and in the world anyways , soooo .

　　　" i could find you across 𝓾niverses "

　　　the island is huge , but somehow we still find each other . i might be relaxing on the beach or he might be basking under a willow tree , but we'd still find each other . there's a beauty in that , in my opinion . it’s like an instinct , persay . to explain the feeling , i’d say it feels like the heart’s a puppeteer and we are the puppets .

　　　" anything , just be 𝓷ear me "

　　　i love painting nails , he doesn’t mind getting his nails painted . often , we both will be on the porch of our cabin , me on his lap as he tells me about his realities and i paint his nails so he stops biting them . he messes up his nails a lot during the process , sometimes he does this because he notices im going to be done with his nails too quick and wants to spend more time with me .

　　　" you go 𝓼omewhere else when you read"

　　　i have a library in my waiting room . it’s not in my cabin but it’s nearby . it looks like it’s two stories tall from the outside , but inside it’s huge . it has all the books i could ever imagine reading and more . matt follows me there , even though he doesn’t fancy reading . i mean , he doesn’t mind it ? he sits with me while i read , he tells me to read aloud for him . i do , every single time he asks . i watch him fight drowsiness , i tell him to sleep on my shoulder , and he does usually .

　　　　　　　　　　　　　 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗹���𝘃 ✶ 𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘂𝘀

[ofbreathandflame-archive]

What made you come to the conclusion that Feyre isn’t actually as independent as she’s made out to be? is is it the way she’s constantly being pushed into situations, or something else? don’t you think Feyre kind of has to rely on others because of her circumstances? It’s not all her fault, right?

Accidentally deleted this anon, so here it is, just a little weird! Hope you still see!

Hi anon!!

My answer is twofold: Yes, I full-heartedly believe that certain factors is genuinely out of Feyre's control, such as Tamlin's abuse (and impact on her mental and physical health), the war (in general), and other misc things. And in general - there's nothing inherently wrong with having a character pushed by external plot circumstances. But - where I think our ideologies may clash - is that I believe that Feyre is almost always 'a victim of circumstance' - nothing is ever actually dependent on whether Feyre has the skills, on Feyre resilience or prowess - and even when we get very small moments where Feyre does take a stand - its still almost always facillitated by Rhysand. Or - the moments don’t say a thing: (I.e. when Velaris is attacked, the story is praising Feyre — and if Feyre had done this immediately after coming to NC, I’d agree, but she does so after she’s the acting High Lady. And at this point…it’s kind of her job? Like - if Velaris was attacked when Feyre still harbored resentment towards the happy Velaris citizens, but still (out of instinct) rushed in blindly, maybe the scene would have been more impactful. But that’s just my reading).

The example I always use is this:

Feyre had a near death experience, in which, she realizes how deadly her illiteracy is to her, especially in this deadly new world. SJM had two choices (or at least - one of which the story goes with):

Allow Feyre to (independently) understand that she needs a new arsenal to survive in this new world. Up to this point, she has had to use her physicality and survival skills to live - now, she realizes she needs to learn a different sort of arsenal. When she comes back from UTM - she still depressed, still broken, but she she still has some fight. And I'm not saying this so that she can be this girl-boss queen who feels nothing, even after being abused - I'm saying this to build on the actual skills that Feyre already has. It would make sense that Feyre - seeing that she needs to shift gears to survive - would make decisions that highlight that survivalist mentality.

Allow Rhysand to be the one who tells Feyre to read (this is whats canon). Allow Rhysand to not only be the one who initiates this, but also allow him this moment to write things about himself - so that the first thing Feyre ever reads is ... an ode to how great Rhys is. Have Rhysand be the one who tells Feyre she needs these skills, that she needs to be able to do xyz.

The difference between those two perspectives leaves a gaping hole in what we should expect from Feyre. The second, while 'beneficial' to Feyre (reading is reading), does not elaborate on Feyre's character. Feyre learns to read and what does that struggle tell us about Feyre: that Rhys is the best. At some point - Feyre was so starved and hungry - that she could count her ribs. When she realizes there's no other way to find food, she ventures into the harshest woods in order to find food to eat. When her father is a neglectful parent, Feyre steps up. What I am saying is - there are positive parts to Feyre's character. There are insightful things about her character...when the series remembers she exists. I am simply asking the narrative to give Feyre some credit - she's not so horribly written in first book.

One of these perspectives highlights that Rhys is the best (quite literally), while the other focuses on Feyre. And the story could even have Feyre have to ask Rhys (which could even further show her distance from Tamlin, as she feels burdened to have to ask her enemy). Rhys is still teaching her how to read - but it’s FEYRE making these conclusion. It’s FEYRE determining what’s best for her, even if she has to rely on her enemy to get it. It’s resilience, it’s survivalist. And it expanded on the skills the story already established that Feyre has.

And to go even further - the novel could even show Feyre asking Tamlin to teach her how to read, and have him be too busy to help her or even have somebody to help her, if the story is leaning towards the ‘abusive tamlin’ angle. But it would still show that Feyre is the one taking the initiative. And the problem isn’t that Rhysand teaches her how to read - it’s that he’s the one who has to come to that conclusion. It’s very patronizing. And weirdly very fatherly - which is a problem I have with the whole Rhysand + Feyre + Tamlin circle; it seems the story is mad that Tamlin doesn’t act like Feyre’s father (I would also love to elaborate on that). And in many ways…I feel like Feyre acts like Rhysand’s daughter than lover. But I guess that’s to be expected given their 500+ age gap. Still weird at points.

[amaris-whisperer]

In Another Life l Conrad Fisher x Reader

Pairing: Conrad Fisher x Reader Genre: Bittersweet, What-If Love Warnings: Emotional repression, pining, mentions of past relationships, lingering heartbreak Summary: You and Conrad were almost something. Almost perfect. Almost real. Years later, you meet again as different people — older, settled, and with other partners — and try not to wonder what could’ve happened if you had just tried a little harder. Warnings: Emotional repression, bittersweet ending, unfulfilled love --

I saw him again on a rainy Wednesday, five years after the last time he kissed me.

The bookstore smelled like coffee and wet pages. A bell chimed when the door opened, and I barely glanced up from the paperback in my hands. Then I heard someone say his name.

Conrad.

I didn’t even think. My eyes lifted before I could prepare myself, and there he was, shaking the rain from his hair, taller than I remembered, a few years older, a little broader through the shoulders. He was dressed in a dark green sweater that clung to his frame in the way time clings to people. His jawline was more defined, his hair still just messy enough to be Conrad. But it was his eyes that stopped me. The same deep blue, quiet and heavy, like the ocean before a storm.

He didn’t see me at first. His gaze scanned the rows of fiction like he wasn’t looking for anything in particular, like he was only trying to pass the time. I had the same instinct I always did when it came to him. I froze. Held my breath. Waited to see what version of him I was about to meet.

It had been years since Cousins.

Years since that last night in the dunes, where I almost told him how badly I wanted him to stay. How I kept trying to believe we were just bad timing, just two people meant to almost happen. I didn’t say it then. He didn’t either. We left it at a goodbye that wasn’t final enough to sting but not soft enough to offer hope.

And now he was here. Browsing the contemporary lit section of a sleepy bookstore on the Upper West Side like he hadn’t been the ghost I kept buried in the pages of every journal I tried to forget.

I don’t know how long I stood there, half behind a shelf, book in hand, heart trying to catch up to itself.

He turned, eventually.

Saw me.

Our eyes met, and I swear I felt time fold over itself. Like no years had passed at all. Like I was eighteen again and barefoot in the sand, waiting for him to say something that would break my heart beautifully.

He smiled. A soft, crooked thing. The kind of smile that could make you forget everything you swore you moved on from.

I smiled back, because what else could I do?

He crossed the space between us slowly, hands in his pockets, looking unsure but hopeful. I tucked my book under my arm and tried to find my voice before he got too close.

“Hey,” he said, like it hadn’t been five years since I last heard him say my name.

“Hi,” I said, almost too quietly. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” he agreed, nodding. “You look good.”

So did he. Better, even. Healthier. Softer around the eyes but still holding that quiet intensity he never outgrew.

“Are you living in the city now?” I asked.

He nodded. “Moved here about a year ago. Work brought me out.”

“What do you do?”

“Law,” he said, then laughed under his breath. “Believe it or not.”

I did believe it. There was always a kind of precision in the way he thought. Even when he didn’t know what to say, it felt like he meant everything he didn’t.

“I’m just visiting,” I told him. “My fiancé has a conference nearby.”

The word felt strange on my tongue. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it came too quickly. Like I needed him to know I was someone else now.

His face shifted just enough to tell me he noticed.

“Fiancé,” he repeated, nodding. “That’s great. Really.”

“Yeah. His name’s Owen. He’s… steady.”

Conrad smiled faintly. “That’s good. You always deserved steady.”

There was a silence then. Not awkward, just filled with all the things we weren’t saying. The air between us felt full of ghosts, versions of ourselves we didn’t have the courage to be.

He gestured toward the coffee corner tucked near the back of the shop. “Do you have time to sit?”

I hesitated. Then nodded. “Just for a bit.”

We took our drinks to the window seat, the rain painting streaks against the glass. It felt like being inside a memory that never really happened. He sat across from me, hands curled around his mug, watching me with that familiar unreadable expression.

“I thought about you last week,” he said suddenly. “When I passed a gallery in Brooklyn. They had this piece, really abstract. Looked like summer caught in motion. I thought you would’ve liked it.”

I smiled, touched in a way I didn’t expect. “I still paint.”

“I always thought you would.”

“What about you? Do you still write when you can’t sleep?”

His eyes lit with recognition, and it hit me how much I remembered about him. The way he used to scribble poems on napkins and receipts. The way he’d share them only when he was half asleep or sad or both.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But not like before.”

“You always had a lot to say,” I told him.

“Not enough when it counted.”

I looked down at my cup. “We were just kids.”

“We weren’t just anything.”

That made my breath catch.

He looked at me then, really looked, like he was trying to figure out if he should say more. I could see the war behind his eyes. It was the same one he fought all those summers ago — the fear of too much and the regret of too little.

“I used to tell myself we didn’t try hard enough,” he said quietly. “But I think we just didn’t know how.”

I nodded. “Maybe if we met later.”

“Maybe if I had been braver.”

“Maybe if I had waited.”

The words hung in the air between us, soft and hopeless. There are conversations that come too late, and this was one of them. Still, I was glad to have it. Even if it hurt. Especially because it hurt.

He leaned back, his gaze flickering out the window. “Do you ever think about it? What we could’ve been?”

“All the time.”

“Me too.”

We sat in silence, letting the rain fill the space. I tried to imagine what it would’ve felt like if this had been a different kind of moment. If I wasn’t wearing an engagement ring. If he wasn’t five years of almost and never quite.

But we were who we were now.

He looked at his watch and sighed. “I should go. I have a meeting in twenty.”

I nodded, standing with him. We walked toward the door together, the bell above it still soft and familiar.

Before I could say goodbye, he paused, looking down at me like he wasn’t sure he should.

“I’m glad I saw you,” he said.

“Me too.”

We stepped out into the rain. I opened my umbrella. He didn’t.

“Be happy,” I told him.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away. No promises. No lingering touches. Just a quiet parting in the middle of a city where we were no longer unfinished.

I watched him disappear into the crowd. I stood there a little longer than I meant to, letting the rain drip down my sleeves, the ache settle in the hollow behind my ribs.

He had been my almost.

My what-if.

The boy I could have loved if life had tilted differently. If timing had been kinder. If one of us had dared just a little more.

But he was not mine. And I was not his.

Still, in another life, maybe we got it right.

In another life, maybe we are still sitting on that porch in Cousins, knees touching, hearts unguarded, saying all the things we never learned how to say.

And maybe in that life, we never had to wonder what could have been.

Because we became it.