#me just casually forgetting to answer this

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 2

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

E:

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

E:

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned. Instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then waited.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet. Expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” Then she sank into her desk like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, then quietly turned toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

Instead, you reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Calm. Measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Then, without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

Then slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you. Quiet. Focused.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp, deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance. Brief. Sharp. But not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, just twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. Just kept staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapped the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. Just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands slipping from her hoodie.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unseen. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glanced up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back, hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii

[muxshwriting]

bruises and a backache

max verstappen x teammate!reader

summary: hiding an injury from your teammate and then proving yourself beyond his overprotective-ness || warnings: bruises, past injury || word count: 1790 || masterlist

Max was pounding at the bathroom door, his blood rushing hot and fast through his body like he’d just stepped out of the cockpit mid-race. His palm slammed flat against the wood again. “Y/N,” he said, voice tight, bordering on frantic. “Open the door.”

The sound of the shower was still running, steam curling out from the cracks in the doorframe, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the noise he’d heard, the unmistakable sound of you stifling a scream. “I’m fine!” you called out, your voice thin and shaking as you tried to steady it. “It's just… a spider.” You try to make it sound casual but it comes out confused and as an almost question.

“A spider?” he repeated, disbelieving. “You’re not scared of spiders.”

You paused, eyes trained on your reflection in the fogged-up mirror. “It just surprised me,” you added quickly, the lie tasting stale on your tongue.

But Max wasn’t letting it go. You could hear him draw in a slow breath through his nose, trying to rein in the panic in his chest. “Please just… unlock the door,” he said, softer now. “Let me see you. Are you hurt?” Your words did nothing to calm Max's racing heart, only serving to make him more concerned. His body slumps forward, trying to be closer to you as his forehead rests on the door. "Can you unlock the door? Let me check you're alright?"

You stared at the lock, heart thudding. You didn’t want to lie to him. Not really. But you also didn’t want the storm you knew was waiting on the other side of that door. “You can't come in,” you tried again, voice light, teasing, desperate. “I'm changing.”

“It's nothing I haven't seen before. I’ve seen you change,” he shot back. “You've got to lie better. What's happening?”

There was a moment of silence before you gave in with a small sigh, walking over and unlocking the door with a soft click. Max watches the shadow retract and as soon as the lock is turned, he was already pushing it open.

You stood there, in your underwear, staring into the mirror, eyes flicking to his reflection as he entered. His gaze dropped to your skin instantly, like it always did, but instead of wandering hands and a smile, all that crossed his face was alarm. Your back still had the scars of childhood races etched onto it but it was now a mess of blooming bruises, angry purples and fading yellows. But Max could instantly tell which ones were new.

You hadn’t even made it into your shower and you were frozen in place like a deer caught in the beam of his attention. Max didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

Then, quietly; “Where did you get those, schat?”

You closed your eyes for a second and reached for your shirt, fumbling with it as you gave up on pretending you were fine. The ache in your muscles was too much tonight, and your stupid scream had ruined the last of your cover. “They’re from the crash last week,” you said softly. “It’s nothing serious. We checked everything- the medical team checked, everything’s okay. I just knocked them weirdly when I was changing.”

Max’s brows furrowed hard. “We checked?” he echoed. “Who’s we? Does Christian know?”

You hesitated. That was enough of an answer.

“Are you kidding me?” he barked. “Everyone knew except me?”

“I didn’t want to hide it from you-”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you would do exactly this,” you said, voice sharp but tired. “You’d panic. You’d hover. You’d worry and forget how to focus. And I couldn’t do that to you.”

Max exhaled harshly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You should’ve told me.”

You looked up at him. “I didn’t want you to stop seeing me as your teammate first. I didn’t want to become a problem to manage.”

His expression twisted at that, something between frustration and heartbreak. He stepped forward, his hand brushing your arm carefully.

“You’re never a problem,” he said. “But you are my-" His mind jumped for something that didn't compeltely give the game away to his feelings. There were the countless nights of binging tv shows with you, culred up on on sofas and slipping away into each other's motorhomes. "You're my person. Do you get that? If you’re hurt, I need to know.”

Your shoulders dropped, the weight of the truth finally settling between you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Max pulled you close, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other ghosting over your bruised skin like he wished he could draw the pain out of it. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he murmured. “Just don’t make me find out like this again. I want to worry with you. Not because you shut me out.”

You nodded against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steadily under your ear.

“Okay,” you said. “I promise.”

The paddock buzzed with its usual pre-race energy, mechanics moving like clockwork, journalists circling like flies, engines humming in the distance. You walked toward the Red Bull garage in your race suit, helmet in hand, eyes focused ahead.

Max, of course, was already there. He spotted you immediately and beelined across the garage like a heat-seeking missile. “Morning,” he said casually, walking beside you. “Sleep okay?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Max. Still fine.”

He nodded once, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Did you take the painkillers Christian gave you?”

You gave him a look. “Max.”

“Just checking.”

He hovered as you moved to your station, watching as you adjusted the strap on your suit and flexed your shoulders, testing the pain quietly, discreetly. It twinged, sure, but nothing that would stop you from racing.

Max narrowed his eyes. “Was that a wince?”

“No,” you lied with the confidence of someone who’d already practiced it twice in the mirror. “Just adjusting.”

He didn’t look convinced. “We can still switch you out for Liam, you know. It’s not too late.”

You scoffed and turned to him fully, jabbing your finger into his chest. “Don’t start with that again. I passed medical. I’m cleared. I'm racing.”

Max lifted his hands in surrender but stepped a little closer. “I know. I know. It’s just… I watched the replay again last night.”

You paused. “Why would you do that to yourself? It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just a racing incident.”

He looked at you like you’d said the dumbest thing imaginable. “Racing incident or not, I nearly lost you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavier than the sound of pit tools and shouting engineers. You softened, resting your hand on his forearm. “You didn’t. I’m right here.”

He looked down at your hand, then at you again. “Yeah, but I also wasn’t there. I didn’t know. You were hurting and I didn’t see it.”

“And now you do,” you said. “So let me drive, Max. Please. Don’t let this be the thing that makes you forget who I am.”

He stared at you for a moment, searching your face like he could read every inch of emotion you weren’t saying aloud. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you so much as blink weirdly on the radio, I’m calling it in.”

You rolled your eyes, lips quirking. “Deal.” You're both hiding small laughs as you part.

As you turned to leave, Max called after you, “And don’t worry about carrying your helmet and your pre-race things again. I told the interns to do it.”

You turned over your shoulder, walking backwards with a smirk. “Max, are you trying to seduce me with team orders?”

He smirked right back, eyes gleaming. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

When you cross the line in first place, the throbbing of your back seems to fade away with the joy of the occassion. Max rounds off the podium but when your parked up in parc ferme, his first thought is to crouch by your car, take your helmet in his own hands and his eyes scanning you like he was reading telemetry. He didn't say anything at first, waiting, not with champagne or celebration in mind.

Just walked up, hands hovering until he gently pulled you into his chest. Not a crushing hug, he knew better, but a steady one. Solid. Careful. Like he was trying to hold you together without hurting you.

“You’re walking a little stiff,” he murmured near your ear, voice just for you.

You let out a soft breath, arms around his waist. “It’s fine. I’m just sore.”

Max pulled back to look at you, eyes narrowed, like he could spot every lie beneath your skin. “Sore how?” he asked, tone more measured now. “Like regular ‘I just drove 300 kilometers’ sore, or ‘I haven’t told my teammate my back’s killing me’ sore?”

You sighed, cheeks flushing. “Don’t do that thing where you read my mind.” He didn’t smile. Not this time. He reached out and gently, so gently, brushed his fingers against your side. When you flinched just slightly, his jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t have pushed it that hard,” he said softly, not angry, just concerned.

“I needed to prove-”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he interrupted. “I don’t care if you finished first or dead last, I just need to know you’re not hurting worse because of it.”

You looked down at your hands, pulling your gloves off gently. “I never need to prove it to you. But it wasn’t that bad, I paced myself, I didn’t take risks. I just… I needed to feel normal.”

Max exhaled slowly, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “You are normal. Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean weak.” His voice dropped even lower, quieter now with the noise of the crowd fading in the background. “If you’d told me it was too much, I would’ve been proud of you for stepping out. I need you to remember that, okay?”

You nodded slowly, eyes flicking up to his. “I was careful, Max. I promise. I know I’m not back to 100% yet.”

He searched your face for a long second, then finally gave a small nod of his own. “Alright,” he said. “But you’re icing your back the minute we get to the motorhome. And I’m carrying your suitcase. And I’m not negotiating on either.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, Captain Verstappen.”

He smiled this time, just a little. “You can win the race, but I’m still calling the recovery strategy.”

You lean in and almost want to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for watching out for me.”

“Always.” He tilted his head to your waiting team. “Go get 'em.”

[kxsagi]

I always pronounce your name as Kissagi because you love Isagi so (Kiss Isagi) 😭

Also every time I see you post about Sae, I have to take a breath to not go feral cause he’s my favorite and it’s bad for my heart 😞

And to all the people thirsting about Sae, I love you all, I relate so hard like you have no clue– He takes up like 30% of my brain at all times (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝) I’ve made 3 playlists (about to be 4) for him and drawn him multiple times, guys help me–

~ 💜 anon

“𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞”

a/n: OMG I PRONOUNCE MY USER AS KISSAGI TOOOO like kiss isagi yessssss mwah mwah 💋💋💋

please don't be shy and share the playlists and drawings 😩 (only if you're comfortable!!)

also, for your kind message, take this sae drabble i had in my drafts ❤️

the rain isn’t heavy, but it’s persistent, enough to soak the hem of your jeans and leave misty streaks on your cheeks. the train station is quieter than usual, the fluorescent lights above humming with an indifferent buzz. you’re standing there like a character in a drama you never asked to star in, arms crossed over your chest, waiting for the person who always makes you wait in ways that aren't just about time. 

sae itoshi shows up five minutes late, umbrella tilted lazily over his shoulder, hair slightly tousled by the wind. he doesn’t apologize. of course he doesn’t. he just glances at you, lips pressed into that unreadable line, like your presence here is both expected and inexplicable. 

“you’re wet,” he says flatly. 

“great observation,” you reply, deadpan. “next you’ll tell me the sky is blue.” 

he doesn’t respond, just lifts the umbrella higher so it covers the two of you. his arm brushes against yours, barely, but you feel it like a spark anyway. 

you hate how calm he looks. you hate how he does this – appears in your life again like he never really left. one text. that’s all it took. “you still take the 7:15?” and you said yes. gosh, of course you said yes. 

“so… what is this?” you ask, voice low. “you miss my sarcasm or something?” 

his eyes move to yours then, slow and deliberate. sae’s always been like this – silent, heavy with meaning, like he communicates in pauses more than words. and you’ve known him long enough to read between them, even if it hurts. 

“i saw that photo,” he says finally. “the one with you and that guy.” 

you blink. “what?” 

“the one where he’s got his arm around you. you were smiling.” he says it without inflection, but there’s a sharpness to it, like he’s testing you. or himself. 

you cross your arms tighter. “so? people smile in photos.” 

sae looks away, jaw tight. “you looked happy.” 

“and that bothers you?” you ask, stepping half an inch closer. “why? because i moved on?” 

he doesn’t answer. just stands there, rain dripping off the edge of the umbrella like it’s marking time. you want to hit him and hug him at the same time. classic sae effect. 

finally, he says quietly, “i didn’t think i’d care. but i did.” 

that makes your heart thump in a way that makes you furious. you hated how he left things. always cool. always distant. always expecting you to read the fine print of his silences. 

“you could’ve said that months ago.” 

“i know.” 

“so why now?” 

he shrugs, but it’s not casual. nothing about him is, when it comes to you. “i thought if i gave you space, you’d forget me. or i’d forget you.” 

“did it work?” 

his eyes flick to yours again, sea-green and solemn. “no.” 

you should be angry. you should tell him it’s too late. that you’ve built a life without him. that you learned how to stop checking your phone every five minutes. but somehow, all you do is sigh. 

“i don’t know what you want from me, sae.” 

he’s quiet for a moment. the kind of quiet that aches. 

then he says, voice barely above a whisper, “i don’t want anything. i just… wanted to see you. make sure you’re still real.” 

your chest tightens. 

the train screeches in the distance, and the moment feels like it’s suspended between then and now, like you could choose to walk away and it would hurt, but it wouldn’t kill you. you’re not sure you could say the same for him. 

you glance up at him, still standing close, still sharing his umbrella with you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“you don’t have to say anything,” he adds. “i know i messed it up.” 

your voice is softer now. “you did.” 

he nods. doesn’t try to defend himself. doesn’t move away either. 

but as the train pulls in and the wind gusts again, you feel his fingers graze yours under the umbrella – tentative, like he’s asking for a second chance without the pride or the words. 

and for some reason, you don’t pull away. 

not yet. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[chadobi]

Lonely Together

Bayverse Raphael x Reader

The Lair was buzzing with life tonight or at least, Raphael’s version of “buzzing,” which meant Mikey was yelling about pizza toppings, Donnie was arguing with himself over a glitch in his latest gadget, and Leo was being, well, Leo. In the middle of it all, like always, you were there. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, arms loosely draped over your knees, watching the chaos unfold with that same tired smile you always wore.

Raph noticed it more than he cared to admit.

You were around a lot. Practically every night for the past few months, even when nothing exciting was going on. You’d sneak down to the Lair through April’s shop with a casual “Hey,” act like part of the furniture, and never ask for anything in return. No expectations, no drama. Just quiet company. That should’ve made sense to him, considering how private you were, but something about your presence always made him… wonder.

Why were you here so often?

Why weren’t you with friends? Family? Someone?

Raphael wasn’t exactly the king of social intuition, but he wasn’t blind either.

So tonight, when the pizza boxes started emptying and the volume in the Lair lowered to a comfortable hum, he found himself watching you again from across the room, elbow braced on the kitchen counter, half a slice of pepperoni pizza forgotten in his hand.

You were just sitting there with your eyes slightly unfocused, your gaze somewhere in the soft flicker of the TV, a mug of lukewarm tea cupped between your palms.

And that same tired smile.

Raph didn’t know what made him move, but he did. Quiet steps, bare feet against tile. No one noticed they were too busy arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

He sank onto the couch beside you, letting out a grunt as he got comfortable.

You blinked and turned toward him slowly, as if startled from some far-off thought.

“Oh. Hey,” you murmured, smiling again.

Raph tilted his head. “You ever don’t say that when you see me?”

You snorted. “Well, I don’t usually have a lot of time to think of clever greetings when a six-foot mutant turtle just appears beside me.”

“Touché,” he muttered with a smirk.

A short silence fell between you, comfortable, if a little tentative. You looked down at your mug. Raph watched your fingers as they played with the rim.

He cleared his throat. “So uh… you ever hang out anywhere else but here?”

You looked up, surprised. “What?”

He shrugged. “Just… noticed you’re always around lately.”

“Oh.” You looked back down. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

There was something in your tone that didn’t sit right with him.

“Not that I mind,” he added quickly. “S’just… you got friends or somethin’? People your age usually do, right?”

You laughed, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh he liked hearing from you. It was short. Dry. Almost bitter.

“I used to,” you said quietly.

That wasn’t the answer he expected.

“…Used to?”

You shifted in your seat and stared at the TV for a few seconds before sighing. “Yeah. I had this group of friends. We were super close. Like… sisters.”

He didn’t interrupt, just watched your profile as you talked.

“We did everything together. Sleepovers, birthdays, vacations. They were my whole world.” You let out a short exhale. “Then stuff started to change. I didn’t even notice it at first. One of them would ‘forget’ to invite me to something. Another would borrow my clothes and never return them. Little digs, you know? At first, I thought I was being sensitive.”

Raph frowned. “You weren’t.”

You smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Eventually, they just… dropped me. Like I was nothing. After years of being ‘sisters.’ I asked why. They said I was too ‘emotional,’ too ‘needy,’ that I made everything about me. But I wasn’t, Raph. I swear I wasn’t.”

Your voice cracked slightly, and he stiffened beside you.

You took a shaky breath and forced a smile. “So, yeah. I’m around here a lot because this is the one place I don’t feel like I’m walking on eggshells. With you guys… it’s different.”

Raphael didn’t answer right away.

He felt a strange twist in his gut. Not anger — not exactly. But something deeper. Something bitter and ancient and all-too-familiar.

“…They sound like assholes,” he said eventually.

You let out a surprised laugh, genuine this time.

“Yeah,” you admitted, “they kind of were.”

Another pause. This one stretched a little longer. The sound of Mikey singing badly in the background filled the space between you.

Then, Raph shifted. His voice dropped.

“I get it, y’know.”

You turned to him.

“Get what?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Feelin’ like that. Like… you’re too much. Or not enough. Or both, somehow.”

There was something raw in his voice now. Something that made your breath hitch a little.

“I mean,” he continued, staring down at his own hands, “look at me. I’m literally built different. Too big, too angry, too much muscle, not enough brain.” He chuckled dryly. “People always act like I’m supposed to be the ‘tough one,’ but… I dunno. Sometimes I feel like I’m the most breakable one. Just… in different ways.”

You watched him in silence, heart tugging hard in your chest.

He shifted again, slower this time.

“When I get mad, people leave. When I don’t talk, people assume I’m fine. When I do talk, they think I’m scary.” His jaw tensed. “Ain’t really much middle ground.”

You set your mug down gently and turned fully toward him. The light from the TV caught on the edge of his shell, outlining him in silver.

“Raph,” you said softly, “you’re not too much.”

He blinked. Slowly looked up at you.

“And you’re not scary. You’re protective. You feel deeply. And that’s not a flaw. It’s… rare.”

He didn’t say anything, but something in his shoulders loosened.

You smiled gently. “I think that’s why I like being around you. With you, I don’t have to pretend.”

Raph swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Me too.”

The air between you suddenly felt warmer. Closer.

You looked at each other for a long time. Something passed unspoken. Not quite romantic, not quite platonic. Just something real.

Raph let out a soft grunt. “Y’know… bein’ alone sucks.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “It really does.”

“…But bein’ lonely with someone else?” He looked at you with something vulnerable in his eyes. “That don’t suck so much.”

You felt your throat tighten, but you smiled anyway.

“No,” you whispered. “No, it really doesn’t.”

There was a moment of stillness, like the world around you had gone quiet, like you and Raph were the only two people in it. You both sat there, neither moving, neither speaking and yet, something between you shifted permanently in that space.

The silence wasn’t lonely anymore.

Raph glanced at you again, almost shyly.

“You uh… wanna stay a bit longer?”

You nudged your shoulder into his gently.

“I was already planning on it.”

⸻

You were curled up beside him on the couch. Mikey had long since passed out on the floor, and Donnie had retreated to his lab. Even Leo had disappeared to his room with a book and a sigh of peace.

But you and Raph remained.

The TV flickered silently now, muted, casting soft shadows across the Lair.

You were half-asleep, your head resting lightly against Raph’s shoulder, his arm stretched along the back of the couch like a quiet guard.

For once, he didn’t feel like too much.

And for once, you didn’t feel like not enough.

And together, just like that the loneliness began to fade.

Not because it was fixed.

But because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore.

————-

Hey there! I hope you’re all doing well! The topic of this one-shot is quite heavy, but I wanted to talk about it.

I was a bit inspired by events from my own life, because I’ve needed to pour my emotions into writing for a while now.

If you’re feeling lonely, remember that no matter what, you’re not alone in this.

Someone who truly deserves you will come into your life eventually 🩷

Enjoy reading!

[andy-15-07]

owmg just a prompt PROBABLY FOR JOAQUIN

he’s all so good with his dirty talk n u ask him “where did u learn how to say those things?” “is it working?” n as an answer u guide his hand down to make him feel how wet he’s making u

Say It Again, Torres

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 999 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

The night was young, but the air between you and Joaquin was already thick with electricity. You’d spent the evening wrapped up in his company,just the two of you,in the quiet sanctuary of his apartment, the city lights casting a soft glow through the windows. The way he looked at you had shifted since dinner: from playful charm to something raw, edged with a hunger that made your pulse quicken.

You sat on the plush couch, fingers tracing idle patterns on the leather. Joaquin had settled beside you, his arm brushing against yours in a casual way that sent shivers down your spine. His dark eyes locked onto yours, and a sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low and velvety, “I’ve been thinking about you all evening.”

Your breath hitched. There was something in that tone,so intimate, so deliberate,that made your skin crawl in the best way possible.

“Oh yeah?” you teased, arching a brow. “What kind of thoughts?”

He chuckled softly, leaning closer so his lips brushed your ear. “Naughty ones. The kind that have me imagining all the ways I’m going to make you forget your own name.”

Your heart skipped. “Is that so?”

Joaquin’s hand slid slowly to your thigh, fingers tracing the curve just beneath the hem of your dress. His touch was light but charged with promise. You swallowed hard, the heat pooling low in your belly.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, teasing, wanting. “Where did you learn how to say those things?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He smirked, a gleam in his eyes that was half mischief, half pure desire. “From experience,” he said simply, and then his mouth was on your neck, sucking gently as his hand slid a little lower.

You bit your lip, trying not to lose control. “Is it working?” you asked, lifting a hand to his chest and guiding it down slowly, deliberately. Your fingers pressed into his palm, letting him feel just how much he was making you ache.

His eyes darkened, and he groaned softly. “Yes,” he admitted, voice rough. “Very much.”

The room seemed to shrink around you two as Joaquin’s hands explored, his lips never leaving your skin. Every whisper, every brush of his fingers sent waves of heat through you. Your breath came faster, your body alive with the promise of what was to come.

“God, you feel incredible,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “I want to make you feel even better.”

You reached for him, fingers tangling in the dark curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that was fierce and full of need. His tongue traced the seam of your lips before slipping inside, deepening the kiss, making your knees weak.

Joaquin’s hands roamed lower, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress, fingertips pressing against bare skin. The cool air met the heat of his touch, making you shiver with anticipation.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded softly, voice thick with desire.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and whispered, “I want you.”

That was all the invitation he needed. He lifted you effortlessly onto his lap, his body pressing against yours. His hands cupped your face as he kissed you again, slower now, more intimate.

You felt him grow harder against your thigh, and your breath caught. His hands moved with a growing urgency, and you tangled your fingers in his shirt, pulling him closer.

“Joaquin,” you moaned, voice trembling, “please.”

He smiled against your mouth. “Patience,” he said, lips ghosting down your jaw and over your collarbone.

His touch was electric, tracing a path over your bare skin. He teased and tantalized, his hands moving lower, slipping beneath your dress again. You gasped when his fingers brushed against the slick evidence of your arousal.

“See how much you’re making me crave you?” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

Joaquin growled, lifting your dress higher, exposing your thighs to the cool air. His lips found your inner thigh, kissing, licking, sucking gentle trails that made you arch against him.

“You’re mine,” he said fiercely, voice low and possessive.

Your hands roamed over his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

“Tell me you want it,” he demanded.

“I want you,” you whispered, breathless.

His mouth closed around you, warm and insistent, his tongue teasing, coaxing waves of pleasure through your body. Your back arched, your fingers gripping his hair as the tension inside you wound tighter and tighter.

“Joaquin, I’m,” you began, but the release crashed over you before you could finish, your body trembling in his hands.

He rose slowly, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet kiss before positioning himself between your legs. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close.

With slow, deliberate movements, he entered you, a deep groan escaping his lips. The connection was electric, every movement sending sparks flying.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

You moved with him, matching his rhythm, your bodies a perfect dance of pleasure and need.

“Say my name,” he urged, voice ragged.

“Joaquin,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

He quickened, his hands steady on your hips. The room filled with the sounds of your shared ecstasy, breaths mingling, hearts pounding.

“Come for me,” he growled.

You did, shuddering around him, your cries filling the space between you.

Joaquin followed, his body tensing as he reached his own peak, collapsing beside you with a satisfied sigh.

You rested your head on his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns over his skin.

“That was…” you began.

“Only the beginning,” he promised, kissing your forehead.

The night stretched before you, full of whispered promises and lingering touches, the perfect afterglow of a night neither of you would ever forget.

[sister-hannah]

"I'm not sure, Papa. I'm sorry. I don't know how to find the words for this. I think I just have to try to forget about it and go from here because you're clearly not bothered by anything that's still eating me. It doesn't make sense for me to fixate. I'll try to let it go."

She curls up in his arms. As far as he's concerned, it seems like none of this really registered at all, so there's no point worrying. It feels unreal, somehow. Maybe she imagined the whole thing.

He's so accepting of her, seemingly without conditions. It feels unearned, somehow, given how short a time they've known each other and how much of it has been spent with her being badly wrong. She doesn't understand why it would be so. He's so trusting with her, as if they have a long successful history of some kind. He can't possibly be such an innocent. He's even older than she is and he clearly knows the difference between a casual fuck and something more than that.

That's the core of it, maybe, she thinks. He trusts me so much and it feels so unearned that it's hard to believe in it at all. I don't think that's something I can explain to him, though. I think maybe to him it just is, and that's enough of an answer unto itself. Which only makes me wonder how he's escaped being badly hurt for so long.

[Sister Hannah enters the confessional booth, sighing with exhaustion in the darkness. She's a librarian and scribe at the Abbey, nearly your own age.]

I'm glad it's you taking confessions today, Papa. You always comfort me. Just hearing your voice feels like a kindness, and it's been a long day.

I don't even know if you remember me. I'm usually in either the library or the new scriptorium. Sometimes I find you books, when you're there.

If there's one thing I should probably confess while I'm here, it's that I wish I knew you better. I know the seal of confession protects what's said here today, so if you choose never to pursue it, we can forget I ever said it.

But if by some chance you wanted a friend -- someone to laugh with, or to help you if you need it -- I hope you will find me.

I love to see you smile.

Dark Lord's blessing on you, Papa. You probably get this sort of thing a lot around here, so forgive me for being forward, if I have been.

[Sister Hannah gets up to leave the confessional booth, slightly relieved to have spoken, but nervous about it too.]

Perpetua’s heart blooms at the unexpected confession, the sweet words making a blush rise beneath his mask. It’s unusual for anyone to give him such kindnesses, so he can only rely on impulse to respond.

“Wait!” he blurts out, hoping to catch Sister Hannah before she leaves. “That was, um… very kind of you, Sister. I do remember you, my dear. You are such a valuable resource to the ministry; how could I possibly forget such a treasure? The next time I see you, I will stay a little longer, si? We can certainly get to know each other then. My office is always open as well. For… anything.”

He takes a deep breath, heart fluttering wildly in his chest. Honestly, he isn’t even sure if Sister Hannah is still there, and the growing period of silence makes him worry that all he has said was in vain.

[spitefulsatanfics]

🕯️ 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖, 𝕃𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕀𝕥𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗 — 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕟 𝕎𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕀𝕟 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 🕯️

"You’re the one thing I can’t lose." — Dean Winchester, trying not to panic when you’re ten feet out of sight

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (She/Her)

Rating: T / PG-13 — Canon language, extreme amounts of soft-grumpy-boy devotion, implied cohabitation, protective instincts turned up to 11

Tone: Canon-adjacent, overprotective boyfriend energy, domestic fluff, ride-or-die romance, emotionally repressed but loyal to the death

Written by: 🖤 Little Devil — ⌘ Written and published: June 26, 2025 ™

Based on: Supernatural — Seasons 2 through 6 (canon-compliant, 17+)

✧ 𝟏. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 ✧

Dean doesn’t talk about his feelings. But he does clean your gun, tune your car, and fix the wobbly leg on your nightstand without saying a word.

Drabble: You wake up and your silver knife’s been sharpened, polished, laid out neatly beside a note that just says: “Don’t forget this. Love—D.” You smile. You didn’t even ask. Dean will never say “I’m worried about you.” He just prepares you like you’re going to war. And in his head? You’re the most important soldier he’s ever sworn to protect.

✧ 𝟐. 𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 ✧

Dean’s never believed in forever. But now he’s folding your laundry and thinking about what kind of curtains you might like.

Drabble: It’s a Tuesday. No monsters. No mayhem. Just the smell of cheap coffee and your sock stuck in his sleeve. He doesn’t say it, but the idea hits him out of nowhere: I could do this forever. He looks at you — hair messy, wearing his flannel. And he’s never wanted anything more terrifying in his life.

✧ 𝟑. 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲? 𝐇𝐢𝐦? 𝐍𝐨. (𝐘𝐞𝐬.) ✧

He acts like he doesn’t need to be near you 24/7. But if you leave the room for too long? He’s pacing. Quietly. Dramatically.

Drabble: “Where were you?” His voice is casual — too casual. You glance at the clock. “Bathroom, Dean. It’s been ten minutes.” He shrugs. “Could’ve died in there. I don’t know.” You arch an eyebrow. He looks away, mumbles, “Didn’t hear you breathing.” And suddenly you realize — he wasn’t being dramatic. He was worried.

✧ 𝟒. 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐫 ✧

He feels when something’s wrong. Even if you say you’re fine.

Drabble: You plaster on a smile after a rough hunt. Dean sees right through it. Later, he’s wordless — sliding into bed behind you, arms wrapping tight like a second heartbeat. “I’m not gonna make you talk,” he says into your hair. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.” You don’t answer. Just squeeze his hand. He doesn’t sleep until your breathing evens out.

✧ 𝟓. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 ✧

Dean knows how you take your coffee. He makes it before you wake up. Every single time.

Drabble: You shuffle into the kitchen. He’s already got your mug in hand. “Two sugars. Dash of cinnamon.” You blink. “How do you remember that?” “I’d remember your blood type if it meant you smiled at me.” He says it too fast. Like he’s covering a wound. And then… you smile. He won’t look at you, but his ears go red. Totally worth it.

✧ 𝟔. 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥 ✧

If you’re in danger, Dean goes unhinged. Rational thought? Gone. He’s a force of nature with a singular focus: you.

Drabble: You’re missing for four minutes during a hunt. Dean loses his mind. He’s calling your name, gun drawn, voice low and deadly. The second he sees you — muddy but fine — his knees almost give out. He pulls you in hard, breath ragged. “You don’t get to die, sweetheart,” he rasps. “That’s my rule. You. Don’t. Die.” And for once, his fear shows.

✧ 𝟕. 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 ✧

Dean forgets to flirt with waitresses. He forgets to flirt at all. His world just doesn’t revolve like it used to.

Drabble: “You didn’t even notice the bartender,” Sam teases. Dean grunts. “Why would I?” Sam laughs. “Because she was staring at you.” Dean shrugs. “I only look at one girl like that.” He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t have to. You’re across the bar, laughing at something on your phone. Dean’s already looking at you like the sun just blinked back into existence.

✧ 𝟖. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐑𝐚𝐭 ✧

Your stuff ends up in the Impala without you noticing. Lip balm. Your playlist on a burned CD. A photo of you in the visor.

Drabble: You find your old flannel tucked under the passenger seat. “Dean?” He shrugs. “Figured you’d want it. Sometimes you get cold.” You find your hair tie on his rearview. “I like it there,” he mumbles. Then the photo in his glovebox. Folded. Worn. “Been in there a while,” he says, eyes distant. “Just... makes me feel like you’re always with me.”

✧ 𝟗. 𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐠 ✧

He always ends up on your side of the bed. Half-awake, unconsciously clinging like you’re the only thing anchoring him.

Drabble: You wake up to find his entire body halfway across the bed — head on your pillow, arm around your waist like a vice. “Dean,” you whisper. He groans, nuzzles in. “M’bed too cold without you,” he mumbles. “You have your own side.” “Don’t want it.”

✧ 𝟏𝟎. 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐢𝐟 𝐇𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 ✧

Dean doesn’t want to need anyone. Not after everything he’s lost. But with you? He can’t help it.

Drabble: You get hurt. Not badly. Just a scratch. Dean’s hands are shaking when he bandages you. You ask him what’s wrong. He just looks at you, voice low: “I don’t do good without you.” You pause. “I’m still here.” “Don’t ever not be.” It’s not a demand. It’s a prayer.

✧ 𝙁𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩:

Dean Winchester doesn’t fall in love. He crashes. Bleeds for it. Claws his way through the dark with his fists clenched around your name. He’ll never say “forever” — but he’ll live like it’s already true. Because to him, you are the safehouse. And he’ll guard you with everything he’s got.

✧ The End ✧

[serve-cunt]

|˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ 60.Truth Serum/spell or 4.mind reading for the prompt game

thank you for not giving me a pairing for this, v low stress prompt I just let it sit until inspiration struck.. the inspiration in question?? listened to Sue Me by audrey hobert until my brain melted

— —

sue me I want to be wanted (galex, truth serum)

It’s a bad idea, but it's been a bad weekend and Alex is sick of being careful. George is across the room at the bar, squinting at a bill. Alex thinks fuck it and makes his way over.

Halfway there somebody he’s pretty sure he recognizes hands him one of the two drinks she's holding, clinking her own glass to Alex's and shouting something Alex can't hear over the music. “Thanks,” Alex shouts back, hoping that it’s appropriate or, alternatively, inaudible, and shoots it back in one swallow. Then he hands the glass back empty, claps her on the shoulder, and keeps walking. 

“Hi Georgie,” he says directly into George's ear when he's behind him. George jumps, and his signature skids off the receipt slip with his pen. “Saw you and realized I didn't want to talk to anybody else.”

It isn’t what Alex had been planning to say; he hadn't worked out what exactly he was going to say but he'd been leaning towards something more casual. He and George haven't spoken properly since—well, in a while. George doesn't respond immediately, his eyes skittering over Alex’s face. “Well,” he says finally, “Here I am.” 

“Heading out?” Alex asks, nodding at the bill.

George hesitates. “No,” he says, and Alex laughs. Trust George to pay for his round immediately instead of starting a tab and forgetting his card at the bar when he left like a normal person. 

“You look good tonight, George.” Huh. Also not what he had been planning to say. He had been going to make fun of George's outfit: grey and unadorned. The outfit, unfortunately, does look very good. Alex is more drunk than he thought. 

George's hand goes spasmodically to his collar, then to his drink. His fingers are long; they wrap around the glass and George takes a sip, glancing at Alex and then away. Alex smiles. Sometimes when he's sober he feels badly about this: how much he likes being wanted by George. How easily he can soak this up—this, what can he even call it? attention? affection?—without intending to let it go any further. 

“Where's Lily?” George asks, and Alex answers breezily: “She left. We had a row, actually, I think it might have been a bad one.” Then he blinks. He really hadn't intended to say that. God. He must be loads more drunk than he thought. But he didn't feel it; he was still walking. Felt clear-headed. Didn't need to be sick, et cetera. 

George frowns. “Why are you still here, mate? Go talk to her.”

“Need the ego boost,” Alex says. “I figure if you’re still giving me fuck-me eyes I can't be a total troll.” 

What the fuck. George goes bright red, visible even in the dim light. Alex has a moment of panic. They've never, ever talked about it. Alex doesn't care that George is gay. He's flattered that George has—whatever, a crush on him, or something. He knows that he shouldn't let it go too far—probably shouldn't let George jerk him off anymore, for example. One time was probably too many times, to be honest. Three times would be inexcusable. 

“Sorry,” Alex says, stupidly, and tries to think how to rescue the situation. “It's okay that you're in love with me, or whatever. I like it. It makes me feel good.”

Alex needs to shut up, what the fucking fuck, what the fuck is wrong with him? He puts his hand over his mouth, and laughs a panicked laugh. “I didn't mean to say that,” he says. “God, I’m sorry—I don't know what's wrong with me—George—”

But George has put his drink down on the bar with a clatter and turned away. He heads for the door, head down and shoulders tight. Alex looks after him, heart pounding. The drink he’d been handed a few minutes ago is still coating his throat, sickly sweet and medicinal, unlike anything he's ever tasted before. 

[just-dreaming-marvel]

From Now On ~ 1

FROM NOW ON MASTERLIST

Word Count: 2,090ish

Summary: Tony Stark and you meet. Basically a rushed intro.

Notes: This is a short chapter. I promise the chapters will get longer. Please send in reactions!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

1995

You were twenty-five, attending a Stark Industries weapons expo as part of your assistant job with a security company. It was an entry-level position that meant you mostly took notes, fetched coffee, and tried to stay out of the way while men in expensive suits talked about efficient ways to destroy things.

You weren’t impressed. The expo was loud, over designed, and reeked of testosterone and high-yield explosives. The air buzzed with false charm and handshake politics. You kept your head down. Until someone bumped into you, holding a sloth in one hand and wearing an unnecessarily sharp suit.

“Whoa— careful, Miss…?”

You looked up, and there he was. Tony Stark. Billionaire. Stark Industries’ golden boy. Hair slightly windswept, grin tilted just enough to be dangerous, and clean shaven.

“Uh, you bumped into me,” you muttered.

He gave a mock-apologetic bow. “Then allow me to make it up to you. Free weapons tour, the Tony Stark himself as your guide. Limited time offer.”

You stared at him, wondering if he was serious. But you had heard the rumors. Then, awkward, you replied, “I’m good, thanks.”

That made him laugh. “Wow. The first woman in this building not drooling over a missile or me. I thin I’m in love.”

“I— I’m just here for work.”

“Ah. A mystery professional.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to make you nervous. “Tell you what— I’ll let you guess which of these shiny death machines is my favorite if you tell me your name.”

“I don’t need to know your favorite, Mr. Stark.”

He blinked at you, trying to see if you were serious or just playing him. “Still, could help your boss, right? Knowing my favorite?”

You sighed, and against your better judgement said, “Y/N L/N.”

He smile like he’d just won something. “Well, Y/N, don’t wander too far. I might need you to explain how gravity works when I inevitably fall for you again.”

You rolled your eyes.

But you kept seeing him. At the coffee stand. In the back row of a seminar. He waved each time, too casually to be a coincidence. Then he cornered you during a tech showcase, smiling like you shared a secret.

“Are you going to let me buy you dinner?” He asked.

“No,” you answered simply.

The rest of the day, you continued to run into Tony. He kept asking you out to dinner and you simply told him no each time. At the end of the day, as you were walking out, Tony cornered you, yet again.

“You’re really not going to let me buy you dinner?” He questioned.

“You’re persistent,” you stated.

“I’m Tony Stark. It’s kind of my thing.”

“Fine.”

You only agreed to dinner with him to get him off your back, or so you told yourself. 

Dinner turned into a walk. The walk turned into drinks. Drinks turned into three hours of talking about everything but weapons. He made you laugh and he was a surprisingly good listener. When he dropped you off at your hotel, you were sure he was going to try to go to your room with you. But he didn’t try anything.

Tony just touched your hand, briefly, and said, “Don’t disappear on me, Y/N. I want to know how this story ends.”

~~

You didn’t disappear, only because Tony wouldn’t let you. He some how found your workplace— the direct line to your office.

The first time you answered and it was him, it freaked you out. Not because you didn’t recognize the voice— you did, instantly. That smooth, low drawl, soaked in confidence and charm. Tony Stark was hard to forget. What did freak you out was that it was your office landline. A number you hadn’t given to anyone outside your department, let alone a man you spoke to a few times at a weapons expo.

“Hey,” he said, like he called you every day. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything world changing.”

You stared at the phone in disbelief for a solid three seconds before answering. “How did you get this number?”

“I’m Tony Stark. Come on. Don’t make me say it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I made some calls. Okay, one call. To a guy at your work who owed me a favor. The rest was charm and pure determination..”

You stood from your desk, shutting your office door with a shaky hand. “That’s not okay. This is my work line.”

“And yet… you picked up.”

You didn’t know whether to hang up or yell at him. “Because I thought it was my boss.”

“Do I sound like your boss?”

“No. He has better boundaries.”

Tony chuckled, low and unapologetic. “Fair. Look, I know this is probably wildly inappropriate by HR standards that don’t exist yet, but I wanted to talk to you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

“I was planning to send a letter, but my handwriting’s terrible and I didn’t want to seem like a creep”

“You tracked down my number and called my office. I think we’re past ’seem’.”

“Then let me at least earn a less-creepy title. How about ‘persistent admirer with great taste in women’?”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. You tried to keep your voice cool. “Why are you really calling?”

There was a pause. No smooth quip. Then, quiet, “Because I meant what I said. I want to know how your story ends. And I don’t think one night was enough to find out.”

You should have hung up. You should have said something professional and firm. But your fingers didn’t move, and your voice came out quieter than expected. “You flew home two days ago.”

“Yep. And the first thing I did was try to figure out how to reach you. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

You glanced at the notepad on your desk, the half-written report, the coffee you hadn’t finished. “It’s 1995… People don’t just… track down strangers.”

Tony snorted. “You think Howard Stark built the backbone of the defense industry by playing it safe?”

You rolled your eyes— but smiled, just a little.

He took the silence as his opening. “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. No suits, no missiles, no sales reps with too much hair gel. Just us. Talking.”

You resisted. 

“Please? One meal. Worst case, you find out I’m terrible company and never speak to me again. Best case… you find out I’m slightly less terrible company than you assumed.”

A long pause. “No. Goodbye, Mr. Stark.”

Then you hung up.

~~~

The faxes started the next day.

The first one was a cartoon drawing of him being rejected, complete with a speech bubble that red, “She’s too smart for me. I’ve never wanted her more.”

Then came the coffee delivery. “Bribery attempt #2: caffeine.”

A week in, you received a cassette tape with his voice on it— singing a terrible version of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You with backup from what sounded like a few disgruntled Stark engineers. 

You rolled your eyes, but kept the tape anyway.

His assistant called next. “I apologize in advance,” she said flatly. “He won’t stop asking me to find out your lunch break schedule. I promise, I am on your side.”

You laughed. “I don’t even know what side that is.”

“The sane one.”

~~~

Two weeks passed. Tony called again— this time in the evening, on your landline at home. That number, you hadn’t even given to your firm. You stared at the ringing phone, suspicious, then finally picked up.

“I’m not stalking you,” he said immediately. “I’m creatively networking.”

“Tony.”

“I’ve decided to try something wild. I’m going to stop bribing you.”

“Finally.”

“And instead I’m going to ask: would you let me talk to you— just talk— for five minutes over coffee? In public. No limo. No tux. No expectations.”

You stayed silent.

“I’ll even let you pick the place.”

You sat there, weighing it. You weren’t sure why you were even still on the phone. Maybe it was the steadiness in his voice. The lack of showmanship for once. Maybe it was that part of you, deep down, that had never stopped thinking about him either.

“I’m not promising anything,” you said.

“I’ll take it.”

~~~

Tony Stark didn’t just flirt with you. He committed. And somewhere in the middle of the chaos he always carried, he carved out room for you.

You didn’t want to like him. You didn’t want to fall. But he didn’t just want your attention— he wanted your thoughts. Your opinions. Your time. He wanted to know what books you read. What made you nervous. He remembered things. He asked questions and showed up— even if at the most random of times.

Tony made room for you in his schedule, even when it meant arguing with Obadiah. He flew to your city for dinner even if he had to leave again in the morning. He sat through your work gala in a tux, smiling at you like you were the only person in the room.

You learned that he had nightmares sometimes. That he kept old newspaper clippings about his dad tucked away in a drawer he never opened. That he talked to his cars like they were people and called one of them ‘baby’ when he thought no one could hear. He let you into the quiet places— the vulnerable ones.

And one night, not long after this thirtieth birthday, you found yourselves in the kitchen of his brand new Malibu home. It was two in the morning. You were barefoot in one of his shirts, laughing as he tried to make pancakes with flour and no eggs. He burned the first batch. You were teasing him about it when he turned serious.

“Wait,” he said.

You stopped mid-laugh.

He pulled something out of the drawer— a rusted old washer bolt from one of his earliest prototypes. He held it between his fingers like it was precious. “I could give you a ten-million-dollar ring,” his voice was quiet. “But I think this one means more.”

You stared at him, eyes wide.

His grin wavered, just slightly. “You’re the first thing I’ve ever built a future around. Marry me?”

You didn’t even think. You said yes before he could take it back.

~~~

But being Tony Stark’s wife wasn’t always easy.

The world saw the headlines: genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. You saw the man who worked until his hands shook. The man who forgot to eat and lost hours in his workshop.

And then there was Obadiah Stane. He smiled in your face and treated you like a footnote. You didn’t like him or trust him. He scheduled Tony for meeting he didn’t remember agreeing to. He pushed weapons deal through when Tony was too distracted to fight them. You tried to raise concerns, but Tony brushed them off.

“Obie’s just keeping things together,” he said more than once. “He wants the company to succeed. He wants me to succeed.”

But you saw the patterns. Every time you made plans, something came up. Every time you needed him, Obadiah needed him more: contracts, weapons demonstrations, government visits.

Your third wedding anniversary, you made dinner. Tony promised to be there. You even wore the dress he liked, the soft navy one that hugged your curves and made him stare. But he didn’t show. The food got cold and the candles burned down.

JARVIS played his message at 10:44 pm. 

“Obie says we had to meet with some NATO generals,” Tony’s voice planned through the speakers. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t forget. I’ll make it up to you.”

You didn’t send a reply.

When he finally came home, he looked wrecked. His tie was half-undone and eyes bloodshot. You stood in the kitchen with your arms crossed. He dropped his keys and looked at you like he knew he had already lost.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I really am.”

You looked away.

“Baby…” He stepped closer.

“I know you’re trying,” you whispered. “But I’m scared that one day you’ll stop remembering what you’re trying for.”

He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. We can take off this weekend. I’ll tell Obie that this weekends all yours.”

But he didn’t tell Obadiah that. Tony let Obadiah continue to pull the strings. Because Obadiah knew that he didn’t need to drive you away, he just needed to keep Tony too busy.

next chapter >

[romanczukowsky]

Advanced Studies

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Summary: A summer at the Burrow was supposed to be quiet — just some sun and studying. But when George agrees to help with O.W.L. retakes, the lessons quickly turn into a slow-burning game of teasing, touch, and tension.

Content Warnings: Flirty, suggestive content; mild language; sexual tension; implied intimacy; no explicit sex scenes.

Author’s Note: Hey! This started as a little idea about what happens when you ask George Weasley for help studying. It’s a mix of humor, heat, and sweet moments.

It was supposed to be a quiet week at the Burrow.

That was the lie I told myself as I packed my things for a summer visit to the Weasleys'. A bit of sun, some reading, a break from the castle's dusty corridors. No pressure, no chaos. Definitely no George Weasley making it impossible to focus.

But there he was, every morning in that worn T-shirt, teasing everyone at breakfast with a mouthful of toast and a smirk that made me forget my own name.

After three days of doing absolutely nothing useful, I remembered I was technically meant to study. I had my O.W.L.s retakes coming, and I’d promised McGonagall I wouldn’t waste the break.

So I knocked on George’s door.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, tinkering with something small, glowing, and vaguely illegal-looking. He looked up, eyes amused.

“Didn’t expect you,” he said. "Unless you're here to test my new self-stirring cauldron. Might explode."

“Tempting,” I said, stepping inside. “But no. I need help studying.”

He raised a brow. “You came to me for help?”

“You’re smarter than you act.”

He smirked. “Flattery. Dangerous tactic.”

“I’m desperate.”

He gestured to the bed. “All right. Quiz format. One right answer gets you a reward. One wrong, and… I stop helping.”

I sat. “Define reward.”

“You’ll see.”

I didn’t expect the first few to go so easily. Three correct answers later, George was sitting impossibly close, his warm breath brushing against my cheek as he leaned in. His fingers started to wander almost casually—first a light touch on my wrist, like he was checking if I was really paying attention. Then, when I didn’t pull away, his hand slid down to rest briefly on my knee, the touch lingering just a moment longer, electric and teasing.

My heart kicked up a notch, and I tried to focus on the parchment in front of me, but it was hard to think straight with him so close. His voice dropped to a slow, teasing murmur, each word wrapped in that familiar smirk that always made me forget what I was supposed to be doing.

“And what about this one?” he whispered, tracing a finger slowly along my thigh just beneath the edge of my skirt, testing the limits. “If you get this right, maybe the reward’s even better.”

I swallowed, my breath hitching slightly as his touch sent little jolts of warmth shooting through me. I bit my lip to stop myself from smiling—no, from blushing.

Then came the question that tripped me up. A simple one, really, about bezoars.

“Bezoars… are used to—”

George’s hand stopped mid-motion, pulling away so suddenly I could almost hear the crackle of the space left behind. His eyes locked on mine, amusement flickering out, replaced with a sharp, almost challenging glint.

“You’re slipping,” he said quietly, almost mockingly.

I felt a flush rise up my neck, and not just from embarrassment. His absence was louder than his presence had been. It was like a sudden cold draft in a room that had just been warm and close.

“You’re mean,” I said.

“You’re rusty,” he replied, eyes gleaming.

And with that, his fingers crept back toward me, slower this time, as if daring me to get the next question right.

“Keep going,” he said softly.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my trembling hands. The warmth of his returning touch sent a confusing mix of comfort and nerves swirling inside me. I forced my eyes back to the parchment, blinking away the sudden haze clouding my vision.

“Alright,” I murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “What’s the antidote to basilisk venom?”

George’s fingers traced slow circles on my thigh, distracting but strangely grounding. I caught the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he already knew I’d nailed this one.

“Powdered root of asphodel,” I answered, a little breathless.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice low, his breath warm against my neck.

He shifted slightly, pulling me closer until my back rested against his chest. His hand slid from my thigh to rest possessively on my waist, fingers pressing just enough to remind me of his presence.

The lines between studying and something much more electric blurred. Every correct answer was met with a gentle touch, every pause filled with the weight of his gaze and the heat of his breath.

I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, my thoughts tangled between concentration and the pull of his hands exploring under my shirt, tracing the curve of my ribs.

“You’re distracting,” I confessed, breath hitching.

He smiled, low and knowing, as if he’d been waiting for me to say that.

“Good,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “Because I’m not done distracting you yet.”

Before I could respond, his hands slid around my waist, lifting me effortlessly. Suddenly, I was perched on his lap, the solid warmth of his body anchoring me in place. My breath hitched again as his arms tightened gently, pulling me closer.

His eyes searched mine, gleaming with mischief and something softer underneath. “Now, where were we?”

I swallowed, heart pounding wildly, trying to focus despite the way his fingers traced slow, teasing patterns along my sides.

“Keep going,” he whispered, voice thick with promise.

I nodded, steadying my breath, and forced my eyes back to the parchment — but all I could think about was the way he held me, the way his presence blurred every thought except him.

One hand slid slowly, deliberately under the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing the soft skin of my bra strap. The light touch sent a shiver racing down my spine. His other hand moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my underwear, tracing the bare skin there with gentle exploration.

I bit my lip, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“George… the next question,” I murmured, barely able to get the words out.

His lips curved into a slow, teasing smile. “I’m listening.”

I swallowed hard, my voice trembling, but I managed to push out the next answer. “The next potion is Felix Felicis—the liquid luck.”

He hummed approvingly, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Correct. Lucky you.”

I fought to keep my focus, my eyes flicking back to the parchment, but his hands kept moving—gentle, teasing explorations, setting my nerves alight like tiny sparks dancing just beneath my skin. Every touch was electric, sending shivers that traveled from my waist, up my ribs, to the nape of my neck.

“George,” I whispered, my voice barely steady, caught somewhere between warning and invitation, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile spell hanging between us.

He paused, his breath warm against my cheek, a slow, almost predatory smile curling the corners of his mouth. His eyes darkened with something deeper, fiercer, as if he were searching for permission but also daring me to take the leap.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured, voice low and rough, laced with a tension that made my pulse thunder in my ears.

“I do,” I breathed out, the confession slipping from my lips before I even realized I’d given it away.

His hand tightened on my waist, fingers curling slightly as he leaned in, mouth hovering just inches from mine. The space between us was a fragile, electric wire—full of promise and heat. His gaze held mine, intense and unyielding.

“Then you’re not stopping,” he whispered, voice husky with desire. “Neither am I.”

And with that, he closed the distance, capturing my lips in a slow, searing kiss. It was soft at first—tentative, testing—but quickly deepened, igniting a fire that spread through every nerve ending.

His hand, still resting between my thighs, moved with a deliberate, feather-light touch that sent shivers through me. Fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns on the bare skin, teasing, finding places that made my breath hitch and my heart race faster than I thought possible.

I melted against him, my body instinctively leaning closer, the warmth of his touch weaving through every inch of me. My knees instinctively parted a little wider, the soft friction and pressure pulling a quiet moan from my throat.

I clutched at the fabric of his shirt, grounding myself in the sensation, in the way he held me—possessive, protective, demanding.

Between broken kisses, his voice was a low whisper, thick with desire. “You feel so good,” he murmured, fingers never still.

I swallowed the last of my doubts, leaning into the moment, letting the warmth of his touch and the sound of his voice pull me deeper into the fire.

His hand pressed a little more firmly now, fingers tracing slow circles, gentle but insistent, coaxing a response from me. My back arched slightly against his chest, matching the rhythm he set—unspoken, urgent.

Every little movement, every sigh and shiver, was a silent conversation between us, building tension so thick I could almost taste it.

Then, just as the world was narrowing down to just him and me and the heat of that single, perfect touch—

The sharp knock on the door shattered everything.

“BOYS! DINNER!”

We both froze, breaths caught in our throats.

His head lolled back with a groan that was almost painful.

I scrambled off his lap, cheeks flaming hotter than the summer sun outside.

The door creaked open—and there was Fred, standing on the stairs with that infamous smirk and arms crossed like the world’s best spectator.

“Honestly, George,” he said, voice dripping with amusement, “I was going to give you five more minutes, but that was… unmistakably not studying.”

George slammed the door in his face, muttering something about dinner and interruptions.

I stood there, heart still racing, cheeks burning. For a moment, I thought it was over.

George’s voice, quieter this time. “Wait.”

I looked up.

Without a word, he crossed the room in just a few steps, and before I could react, he pulled me close, his mouth crashing onto mine with a fierce, desperate kiss that left no doubt about what he was feeling.

I wrapped my arms around him, matching his intensity, the world narrowing until there was only us.

When we finally broke apart, he gave a small, embarrassed chuckle and gave a quick glance down at himself.

“Okay, yeah,” he admitted, voice low and sheepish, “I might have a… bit of a problem.”

I laughed, shaking my head, feeling lighter despite the chaos.

“Guess I’m not the only one who’s distracted.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Nope. Definitely not.”

[hyunles]

Casual | H.HJ.

pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader word count: 669 genre: angst cw: none notes: this is a bit of a vent!fic and it's not really long but i did my best, hope you like it :) as always, english is not my first language, pls consider on giving feedback (in the kindest way possible) taglist and requests are open, feel free to ask! have a nice reading <3

It started good.

Holding hands, mutual smiles, friendly dates…

Until it wasn't just a friendship.

You two started to grow closer and closer, saying cheesy things to each other, talking and playing until down, cute dates you'll never forget. The I love you's were the best. You always felt butterflies all over your body.

But these days, he's been silent, very quiet for his usual. He just texted at 2 pm asking how was your day and going silent again until midnight. Ignoring your texts but being active on social media.

You noticed all those little things, and they were like little daggers on your heart. You were confused but you thought he was just busy with his job. But no.

One night, he decided to finally text back.

"Can we talk about smth?"

Your heart skipped a beat. Your mind racing with infinite thoughts. What if he wanted a formal relationship with you? What if he didn't? What if he just talked about why he has been so distant lately?

"Sure :)"

You could only text with trembling hands. You were happy because the odds of him telling you that he wanted to take the next step were high.

"I'm going to your house. Give me 5 mins ;)"

Sigh. You were nervous as hell. You tidied up the slight mess there was on your living room —that just implied the wrinkled blanket on your couch and a coffee mug on the table— before he arrived.

As he promised, Hyunjin was at your door 5 minutes later. He had teary eyes and didn't look happy at all.

"Hyune, what happened?" You immediately asked, pulling him inside the house before cupping his face.

But he moved away.

He stepped back, swallowing his tears.

"Look… Let's start for the fact that I really love you. I think I've shared very nice moments with you, and I still have them, but I know that I might have made this situation bigger than it is, and I don't want it anymore."

He sighed quietly after that, scanning for your reaction, hoping you wouldn't feel that bad.

Oh, how wrong he was.

"Hyun?" You mumbled, confused.

He continued, wanting to make this as quick as possible.

"I don't know exactly what your feelings are for me, but I know I can't reciprocate them."

His words stung, hurting like hell.

I can't reciprocate them.

It killed you.

"This… How… Why?" You were speechless, trying not to cry.

"I just don't want you to hurt. I'm not good for you." He didn't say more. He even avoided your gaze on a desperate attempt of feeling better.

"Hyune…"

"Listen to me. I want you to be happy. And I'm not the right person… Not right now." He murmured before opening the door again.

You immediately got nervous, your eyes crystallizing with tears. "No, no Hyunjin, don't do this." You grabbed his arm in a desperate attempt to keep him close.

"Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Hyunjn don't do this. You told me you wanted to marry me, that you loved my cheesy ways, that you didn't know what you'd do without me. We've been like this for almost a year, why did everything change overnight?! What did I do wrong?" You said with broken voice, tears flowing out of your eyes, streaming down your face.

The sight broke his heart, but she moved away again. "Forgive me…" He whispered, walking out with no further explanation.

You froze for a second, and when you finally opened the door, he was already driving away.

You yelled his name hoping he would stop and turn around, but he never did.

You called a million times but he never answered.

You texted a thousand messages but he never replied.

He was serious.

And he didn't explain either. He just let you live in doubt, thinking you weren't good enough for him. He just let you feel like you were a burden or a difficulty.

And you accepted it.

After all, you knew that, if he returned, you'd be there.

ᝰ.ᐟ Reblogs and likes are very appreciated. If you enjoyed this, please consider them!

Thanks for reading!

── 2025, hyunles ⋆ No translations, rewrites, or reposts allowed.

[pink-sparkly-witch]

Sauvage, Part Five (FINALE)

Summary: Jensen finally meets Y/N, the woman Jared and Gen say is perfect for him. Just as they think they have their happily ever after, opportunity knocks taking Jensen halfway across the world. He’s determined to make their relationship work from an ocean apart, but it’s a lot harder than either of them bargained for.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Female Reader

Rating: General

Bingo Square: Reunion for @jacklesversebingo

Triggers / Warnings / Tags: fluff, reunion, heart-to-heart, kissing, happily ever after

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Please consider leaving feedback, a comment or a keyboard smash. Interaction really fuels a creative’s muse. If you’re too shy or don’t want people to know you read fanfic and don’t want it showing on your blog, you can submit an anonymous ask or drop me a DM 💖

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Jensen made sure to arrive twenty minutes early. The last thing he wanted to do was be late—or worse, for Y/N to arrive before him. It also meant he could partake in a little Dutch courage to try and settle his nerves a bit. Not until he arrived at the bar did he realise just how much this meeting meant to him. She said it herself; they lived in the same city again and they couldn’t keep avoiding each other every time the Padalecki’s had a party. It wasn’t fair on either of them, or on Jared, Gen, and the kids.

“Scotch, neat, and can you make it a double?” he requested from the bartender as he sat in a barstool facing the entrance so he could see Y/N come in without looking like a meerkat at every flash of movement that caught his eye. “Thanks,” he nodded, handing twenty dollars over when the crystal tumbler was placed in front of him.

“Do you need change?” he asked.

“No,” Jensen shook his head. “It’s all good, thanks.”

He sipped his whisky slowly trying to practice their conversation in his head, but it didn’t do any good. Everything he thought to say sounded too forced, too desperate, or too nosy.

As he finished his whisky, Y/N walked through the door, and his mind went completely blank, forgetting every topic of conversation and every question he’d thought to ask. She looked stunning in the most understated way. A white V-neck shirt tucked into dark wash jeans, a smart black blazer, and a pair of heels. Her make-up was done in the way he’d always preferred on women: natural and minimal, to the extent she looked like she wasn’t wearing any at all.

She was perfect, and not for the first time, he cursed himself for ever letting her go. For not fighting harder. For breaking her heart and letting her down.

Y/N’s eyes casually scanned the bar and when they reached him, he raised his hand in a wave so she would see him. The way her shoulders relaxed when she saw him made him smile, and he wondered if she’d been just as nervous as he was about being stood up.

As she walked towards him, Jensen stood from the barstool to greet her. It took everything he had not to kiss her cheek when she stopped in front of him, but instead, he settled on a warm smile.

“I’m glad you came,” he chuckled softly.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” Y/N smirked, watching as he nervously ran his hand through his hair.

“Kinda!” he chuckled. “I put you on the spot earlier when I asked you how you’d been. I don’t have the right to ask, and I don’t have the right to know. I’d have understood if you stood me up.”

Y/N frowned at Jensen’s choice of words. This wasn’t a date, no matter how much she wanted it to be, so she tried not to dwell on it or any hidden meaning that might have been behind them. 

“So,” she cleared her throat, “are we getting a table or do you want to sit at the bar?”

“I’d like to get a table, but if you’d be more comfortable at the bar, I’m fine with that,” Jensen answered.

“A table would be great,” she replied, smiling that he was still as chivalrous as she remembered.

“Okay, great!”

Jensen held his arm out for her to take and she quickly linked hers with it. He led them to a quiet, intimate table for two at the back of the bar where they wouldn’t be disturbed by patrons queuing for drinks or people coming and going from the restrooms.

He pulled her chair out for her and once again, she found herself enamoured by his gentlemanly manners. “Thank you, Jensen.”

“You’re welcome, Y/N.” Jensen’s smile was wide and contagious, and the sparkle in his green eyes was brighter than she ever remembered seeing it. She couldn’t help wondering if it was the low, atmospheric lighting, or if their spark was reigniting.

As they settled into their seats, the silence and tension between them grew to an unbearable level. Y/N was about to bite the bullet and tell him that this was a bad idea when a waiter approached to take their drinks order.

Jensen ordered a beer with an ease that instantly diffused some of the tension she was feeling, making her wonder if it was only her that felt the awkward air surrounding and suffocating her.

“Merlot,” she blurted when the waiter asked her what drink she wanted for the second time. “A really large glass of Merlot, please.”

“Of course,” the waiter nodded and left them to their awkwardness once again.

“What?” Y/N frowned at hearing Jensen’s chuckle.

“Nervous?” he smirked and she narrowed her eyes.

“You’re not?”

“I am. But you look like you’re plotting a prison break!” Y/N laughed, breaking the remaining tension between her and Jensen. “There she is!” he chuckled. “You had me worried for a second!”

“I’m sorry. This is…” Y/N gestured wildly with her hands trying to find a word that wouldn’t offend him.

“Awkward?” Jensen offered. “Yeah, it is.” he agreed and took a swig of his beer, watching as she took a long swallow of her wine.

“But it doesn’t have to be,” he added, putting his bottle back on the table and making himself comfortable on the faux leather armchair. “So, since I asked you here, it’s only fair that my interrogation is first.”

“Interrogation?” she chuckled. “Why so serious!” Jensen threw his head back in laughter and she grinned. She’d missed his laugh.

“Maybe that was a little strong!” he smirked.

“You think? I’m about ready to get a cab home!” she laughed.

“Okay, how about reacquainting? Is that better?”

“Much,” Y/N grinned. “So, tell me about Paris.”

Jensen spent over an hour talking about himself, his time in Paris that led to him getting a dream position in a very successful New York restaurant, and his latest venture into owning his own place.

“Sauvage. I like it. It suits you,” Y/N grinned as he finished his story. “I’m so happy everything worked out for you, Jensen. Truly.”

“Thank you. It came at the sacrifice of any kind of personal life, but I’m hoping it pays off,” he chuckled.

“I have no doubt it will. Everything you’ve worked so hard towards will be worth it when you see your restaurant full of happy diners.” Y/N swallowed the last mouthful of her wine and gestured to the waiter for another round of drinks.

“So, I guess it’s your turn,” Jensen said.

“I guess so,” she cleared her throat and thanked the waiter for her second glass of wine. “What do you want to know?”

“How’s work?” Jensen started with the perfect icebreaker. She loved her job when they were dating, and he was pretty sure she’d still love it now.

“Great!” Y/N’s smile lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle. “I have my own family practice and see patients part time. The rest of the time is paperwork and the day-to-day running of things. I have an amazing office manager though, who helps with a lot of the admin.”

“Wow! Your own practice? Looks like I’m not the only one living their dream!” Jensen smiled.

“Yeah, well, you worked hard for yours. Mine kinda just fell into my lap!” she chuckled, and he tilted his head in a silent question.

“I’d been out for drinks with a group of friends and I ran into Eddie Simpson. We both specialised in family medicine at Harvard and shared classes together there. He was working in a practice and told me they were looking for a new pediatrician.

“Long story short, I got the job, and when the original owner, Dr Reynolds retired, Eddie and I bought him out, and I’ve been there ever since,” Y/N explained.

“Is Eddie still your business partner?” Jensen asked.

“Ah, now that brings us to the personal part of my life!” she chuckled sadly.

“I’m listening,” he said softly, and she smiled wearily.

“Not long after I started working at the practice, Eddie and I started dating. He’s a really great guy and he treated me well. We got married,” she sighed and paused, her memories making her smile slightly, making Jensen curious as to why things didn’t work between them.

“But we shouldn’t have,” she continued. “I had my doubts that accepting his proposal was the right thing to do, but I wanted what everyone else had. I wanted a partner and a best friend. Someone who’d always have my back.” Y/N paused again to take a long sip of wine.

“I got all of it from him, but I didn’t love him. I mean, I loved him… I still love him. I’m just not in love with him. I’m not sure that I ever was.

“He met someone else,” she smiled softly at Jensen’s scathing expression. “He never cheated on me. But when he met Laura, he realised the way he felt about her should have been the way he felt about me.”

It hadn’t been as heartbreaking as she imagined the news would’ve been had she been in love with Eddie. In fact, it’d been a relief. It meant they could part ways amicably and without anyone getting hurt. They loved each other, they just weren’t in love, and they’d managed to get through their separation and subsequent divorce and still be friends.

“When we separated, Eddie decided to move to Houston. It’s where Laura is from originally. When we sold our house, I offered to buy Eddie out of the practice and become its sole owner. He agreed and… here we are,” Y/N picked up her wine glass with a shrug, and took another healthy swallow from it.

“What about you?” She cleared her throat and placed her glass back on the table. There was no need to elaborate because they both knew she was referring to his love life.

“Do you want the truth or the polite answer?” Jensen chuckled.

“The polite answer, obviously,” she grinned.

“Alright, but remember you asked for it!” he laughed and took a long drag of his beer.

“I tried to date after… but no one ever came close to you. So, I threw myself into work and dated casually. Even that wasn’t… it didn’t feel right. It always felt like I was cheating.

“I know we weren’t together very long,” Jensen drained the rest of his beer. “But what we had was intense and all consuming. It was the real deal. I have no doubt whatsoever about that.” 

Y/N may have managed to move on and get married, but he never could. It had only ever been her. It still was and it always would be. He knew that now just as much as he’d known it back then. 

But back then, he couldn’t see the wood for the trees, and he thought it’d be easier for both of them — no, him — and his feelings to end it. Part of him held onto the hope that she’d wait for him. That she’d still be there when he came back from Paris, but she wasn’t. And it was only then that he realised just how big of a mistake he’d made because he knew her. And he knew that if they’d separated before he went to Paris, she would have waited for him. But he fucked up in so many ways, the first being his insistence that they stay together.

“I’m so sorry,” Jensen sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I just wish I’d tried harder—fought harder for you.”

“No, you don’t, Jensen. You wouldn’t be where you are now if we’d stayed together.” He knew she was right, but the shame and the guilt of what he’d put them both through was still as raw as it was then.

“I don’t care. None of it makes up for the future I could’ve had with you,” he fumed. “One where both of us would’ve been happy.”

“Maybe not. But neither of us would be who we are or where we are now, and everything happens for a reason. If I didn’t believe that, I’d never have survived us breaking up.”

“I still love you,” Jensen bravely admitted. If he didn’t do it now, he knew he’d let her walk out of here without telling her. “I never stopped.”

“Me either,” she replied.

“Can I kiss you?” He didn’t know where it came from, but it was out now and he couldn’t take it back.

“You better!” Y/N giggled, leaning forward to meet Jensen’s plump, perfect lips with hers.

The kiss was everything and more. Y/N felt the butterflies swarming the second their lips touched. Her heart skipped a beat before hammering twofold when Jensen’s tongue traced across her bottom lip.

She opened her mouth, whimpering as their tongues grazed. It was warm and passionate, familiar and comforting all at the same time. It was perfect. He was perfect. And Y/N finally felt like she was home.

“Can we, uhm,” Y/N murmured against his lips having had to pull away for some much needed oxygen. “Can we get out of here?”

Jensen smirked at Y/N’s red and swollen lips, proud that he’d been the one to make them that way.

“Together?” he asked, hoping it was but not wanting to assume.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice raspy with arousal.

“Your place or mine?”

The End

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[ahollowgrave]

11. Blood at the corner of your mouth.

It is not your blood at the edge of your mouth. Not your blood that your tongue swipes from the corner of your lips.  Not your blood whose coppery tastes lingers between your teeth. 

But he fucking deserved it.

Sister Kindness has you tucked under her arm as she, to use her words, books it. Something she must not do often because she huffs and puffs her way through the crowded Shaded Bower. And though some call out ‘Sister’ to her with warm recognition she does not stop ‘booking’ it. (Sister Kindness would have you know that she is perfectly in shape for a woman of her age. She was ‘huffing and puffing’ from the extra weight of carrying you, thank you very much.)

She slows when the westshore pier appears around the corner and then she steps off the main path and sets you down. Kneeling to be something more like eye-level, she pulls a Roegadyn-sized handkerchief from the depths of her habit. Wetting a corner with a flask pulled from a separate, equally confusing pocket she begins to clean the blood from your face.

Sister Kindness’ hand is firm where it grips your chin, holding as little of you as possible. For once the contact does not send you recoiling. Perhaps it is the way your rage has left you as quickly as it had flooded you, leaving you feeling drained of everything else as well. Now that the moment has passed you tremble and, to your horror, you can feel a well of tears rising to fill that empty space.

“Was a helluva bite, darling girl,” Sister Kindness’s voice is quiet as she tilts your head to the light, searching for any blood she may have missed. You focus on her creek colored eyes and swear you feel their waters lapping at your ankles. Her smile is sudden but woozy around the edges; she is just as shaken. "Reckon he'll have a scar, too. Bet he lies about who gave it to him." ‘He’ was an elezen man -- maybe a merchant but likely not, as Sister Kindness did not know him -- with a face as sharp as his ears and a smile that spoke of too much confidence. And you had hated him on sight. His crime was making Sister Kindness uncomfortable and his mistake was not being aware of his surroundings. 

It does not take much pressure to break skin. 

Pleased with her work, Sister Kindness rises and disappears the handkerchief away. Handing you the flask, she instructs you to take a sip, swirl it around your mouth, and spit it out. There is some confusion about what 'swirl' means but, eventually, she is satisfied with this too. “Well, we didn’t get what I came for but we’ll be headed home all the same. Come now, before the ferry leaves without us. We will, ah, not be telling the abbess about this.” You don’t know if she means the bite or the trip to the city. 

You don’t ask.

Thank you for the ask, Anon! ][ Sensory Prompts ][

[comixandco]

my current vibes-based deltarune theory is that we aren’t kris’ soul like literally. we were another human’s soul, the one you design at the beginning of chapter one, or at least we were meant to be. but something happened and now we’re with kris. and they hate it.

[lucyhasnoidea]

tbh i just feel like nothing in my life sparks joy right now

[maskedbyghost]

You were facing the wall.

Arms tucked close to your chest, your back turned toward the door, and a blanket pulled up to your chin even though it wasn’t cold. Your eyes were wide open. You weren’t even trying to sleep. The light from the hallway bled under the crack in the door, and every time it shifted, your breath caught, half-hoping, half-dreading that it was him.

He’d left without another word. You’d told him to sleep on the couch, and he didn’t argue. Just looked at you for a moment, his lips pressed into that hard line he always got when he was trying not to say something he’d regret. And then he walked out.

That was almost an hour ago.

You blinked slowly, eyes stinging. You hated fighting with him. Hated the way it left your chest tight and your mind buzzing. You hated the silence afterward even more. And this time… you weren’t even sure who was more in the wrong.

The fight started with something stupid. It usually did. You’d asked him why he hadn’t texted back when you messaged him earlier in the day—just a casual check-in, nothing serious. He said he’d been busy. You said you understood, but something about your tone made it obvious you didn’t. And then he said, “It’s not always about you,” and you froze.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them, like you’d been a burden instead of someone he missed. Like he didn’t have space for you in his head that day, and you were wrong for noticing it.

You’d snapped and told him if he didn’t want to talk to you, he could’ve just said that. Told him you weren’t going to beg him for attention. He looked at you like he wanted to speak but didn’t, and you’d finally said it.... go sleep on the couch, Simon, because you didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t hurt more.

And he left.

Now you were here, pretending the pillow was more comfortable than his chest, replaying the words in your head until they lost all their meaning. You hadn’t even told him goodnight. And he hadn’t told you he loved you, not like he always did before bed.

Your throat tightened. You blinked at the wall again, trying to will yourself not to cry, not now when you’d already said your piece, already told him to leave. You didn’t want to be the one to break first. But still, your chest ached in that way that only came when something between you felt wrong.

A floorboard creaked somewhere outside the bedroom. Then silence came, a pause just long enough to make you question if you’d even heard anything at all.

And then—

The door creaked open slowly.

You stayed still. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to seem too eager, didn’t want him to think you’d just forget everything because he came back. But your heart betrayed you, picking up speed the moment you heard his quiet footsteps on the carpet. Then the bed dipped behind you, before his arm wrapped around your waist, fast like he was afraid you’d push him away if he didn’t do it quick.

You didn’t.

“I know you’re awake,” he said quietly, his breath brushing against the back of your neck.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“I thought about what you said.” His voice was low and soft. “And I thought about what I said. And I didn’t come back to fight. I just... I needed you to hear this.”

He paused, exhaling slowly.

“I fucked up,” he admitted. “I was tired and distracted, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just lookin’ for me and I made you feel like you were too much.”

Your eyes burned. Still, you didn’t speak.

“I never want you to feel that way,” he murmured. “Not ever. Not when you text me, not when you talk to me, not when you just exist near me. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re the best part of my day, and I treated you like you weren’t. I’m sorry, love.”

You felt his hand squeeze your side gently, like he was grounding himself just as much as he was trying to comfort you.

“I meant what I said before I left,” he added, “but I meant it wrong. It’s not always about you, but it should be. You’re my person. I should’ve answered you. I should’ve checked in. You have every right to need me.”

You blinked hard, finally managing to whisper, “I wasn’t trying to fight.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “I know, love. You were just tryin’ to connect. And I shut down on you. I let shit get in my head and I pushed you out. I won’t do that again.”

You turned slowly, finally facing him. His eyes met yours in the dim light, and god, he looked wrecked.

“I just missed you,” you whispered. “That’s all.”

He reached up and cupped your face gently. “I missed you too. More than I can say. And I don’t want to end a single fuckin’ day with you wonderin’ if I care. I do. So much.”

You leaned in, tucking your face against his neck. His arms wrapped around you fully now, pulling you in close, holding you tight like he’d fall apart if he didn’t, before his lips pressed against your hair.

“I’m not goin’ back to the couch,” he said softly. “Even if you ask again. I’ll sleep on the floor next to you before I ever leave you like that again.”

That made you laugh, just a little.

“Sorry I got mean,” you mumbled.

He smiled into your hair. “You weren’t mean. You were hurt. And I made you feel that way. I deserved it.”

You looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “You’re really good at this. Talking about it. Most guys just shut down.”

“I used to,” he admitted. “Didn’t fix a damn thing. I’d rather talk and hold you than be right.”

You snorted. “You were wrong though.”

He grinned. “I know. Fully aware of it.”

You finally let your body relax fully against him, tension leaving piece by piece as he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Still love you, even when we fight. Especially then.”

“I love you too,” you murmured.

And you meant it. Even when it was hard. Even when things got messy. Because he came back. Because he chose to come back and say the things that mattered. Not everyone did.

But Simon did. And that was enough.

----------------------------------------

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