#Journal Pages with Arch

[pucksandpower]

The Interview

Max Verstappen x journalism student!Reader

Summary: when you are given an assignment to interview someone, you can’t resist asking your boyfriend to be the subject … it’s just a shame that your professor doesn’t believe the interview actually happened

The classroom smells faintly of old books and freshly printed handouts as you sit in your usual spot, third row from the front, slightly to the left. The room is slowly emptying out, the hum of post-class chatter gradually fading as students make their way out into the hallway. You’re gathering your things, sliding your notebook into your bag, when you hear Professor Carter clear his throat.

“Y/N,” he says, his tone firm but not loud. “Could you stay behind for a moment?”

You pause, your hand gripping the strap of your bag. His voice isn’t one that invites argument, and you’re already running through the possibilities of what this could be about. Your mind flickers to your most recent assignment — the interview with Max. The nerves you’ve been trying to suppress all week twist in your stomach.

You watch as the last few students shuffle out, closing the door behind them. Professor Carter leans back in his chair, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he flips through a stack of papers. His desk is a mess, as usual — books stacked haphazardly, coffee stains on nearly every surface, but his eyes are sharp when they finally meet yours.

“So,” he begins, tapping a finger on the paper in front of him. “Your latest assignment. The interview.”

You nod slowly, trying to gauge his mood. “Yes, sir.”

He holds up the paper, and you can see your neat handwriting sprawled across the page. “You interviewed Max Verstappen.”

It’s not a question, but you nod again anyway. “Yes.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Tell me, Y/N, how exactly did you manage that?”

Your heart skips a beat. You knew this might happen — knew that choosing Max, of all people, might raise some eyebrows. But you hadn’t expected it to be this ... confrontational. You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Well, I’ve known Max for a while,” you say, carefully choosing your words. “I asked him if he’d be willing to help me with the assignment, and he agreed.”

Professor Carter leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Known him for a while, you say?”

“Yes,” you reply, trying not to sound defensive. “We’ve been ... friends.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Friends.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you stiffen. You know what he’s implying — he doesn’t believe you. You fight the urge to fidget under his gaze, forcing yourself to stay calm.

“Professor,” you start, choosing your words carefully, “I understand that it might seem unlikely, but I assure you, the interview was real. I can-”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off. “Y/N, let’s be honest here. You’re a student at the University of Sheffield. Not exactly the kind of place where one casually befriends a Formula 1 driver.”

Your stomach twists tighter. “I’m not lying,” you say, a little more forcefully than you intended. “Max and I-”

“Enough,” he says, his voice rising slightly. He sets your paper down on the desk, his fingers drumming against the wood. “If you’re going to fabricate an interview, at least make it believable. I’ve seen this kind of thing before, you know. Students who get desperate, who think that stretching the truth — or outright inventing it — will get them the grade they want.”

You stare at him, disbelief coursing through you. “I didn’t fabricate anything,” you insist. “I really interviewed him.”

Professor Carter’s expression doesn’t change. “Then prove it.”

You blink. “Prove it?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Show me some kind of proof that this interview actually happened. Otherwise, I’m going to have to give you a zero for academic dishonesty.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. A zero. That would tank your grade — maybe even your entire semester. But the worst part is that he’s asking for proof you can’t provide, not without exposing the relationship you’ve been so careful to keep private.

You hesitate, your mind racing. What do you do? Do you tell him the truth? Risk everything to save your grade? But the thought of Max — his need for privacy, the way you’ve both agreed to keep things quiet for now — weighs heavily on you. You can’t just throw that away. Not for this.

You swallow hard. “I ... I can’t.”

Professor Carter’s eyes narrow. “You can’t?”

“I mean, I can’t give you proof,” you clarify, your voice wavering slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Y/N, you’re a smart student. You should know that in journalism, credibility is everything. Without proof, your story doesn’t hold up.”

You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I’m telling you the truth. I did interview him. Just because I can’t show you proof doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“And just because you say it did happen doesn’t mean it did,” he counters, his tone cool. He taps the paper again, a final, dismissive gesture. “I’m sorry, but unless you can provide evidence, I have no choice but to give you a zero.”

You’re stunned into silence, your mind reeling. You can’t believe this is happening. It feels unfair, like you’re being backed into a corner with no way out.

“Professor Carter,” you try again, your voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Please. I’m not lying. I wouldn’t risk my grade like this if it wasn’t true.”

He regards you for a moment, and for a split second, you think he might relent. But then he shakes his head, resolute. “I’m sorry, Y/N. My decision stands.”

The weight of his words presses down on you, and you feel a sharp sting behind your eyes. You blink rapidly, determined not to let him see you cry. This is supposed to be a professional conversation, and you won’t let your emotions get the better of you.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I understand,” you say, though your voice is tight. “Thank you for your time.”

He nods curtly, already turning his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk, dismissing you without another word. You force yourself to walk out of the classroom with your head held high, even though every step feels heavier than the last.

When you finally make it out into the hallway, the reality of the situation hits you full force. You lean against the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing yourself to keep it together. You can’t believe this is happening. A zero. All because you refused to betray Max’s trust.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out with trembling fingers. It’s a message from Max.

Hey, just finished training. Want to grab dinner later?

You stare at the screen, a lump forming in your throat. How do you even begin to explain this to him? Do you tell him everything? Or do you keep it to yourself, like you’ve been doing for the past year?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, the words you want to say tangled up in your mind. Finally, you type a simple response.

Yeah. Let’s meet at our usual spot.

As you hit send, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. You’ll figure this out. Somehow. You have to.

***

The restaurant is quieter than usual, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware blending into a muted backdrop. You sit across from Max in your usual booth by the window, the warm glow of candlelight casting soft shadows on his face.

He’s already ordered for both of you, the way he always does when he gets here before you. It’s a small thing, but it makes you smile — a reminder of how well he knows you, your likes and dislikes, the little details that make up your routine.

But tonight, the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You can feel the weight of what happened earlier pressing down on you, a knot of tension in your chest that you can’t seem to shake. Max is talking about his day — something about the latest adjustments they’ve made to the car — but the words are barely registering. You nod along, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting back to the conversation with Professor Carter, the way he looked at you, the disbelief in his voice.

“Hey,” Max’s voice cuts through your thoughts, gentle but insistent. “You okay?”

You blink, realizing you’ve been staring at your untouched glass of water for the past minute. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just ... tired.”

Max studies you for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. He’s not convinced, you can tell. But he doesn’t push, not yet. Instead, he leans back in his seat, taking a sip of his drink. “Long day, huh?”

“Something like that,” you murmur, picking up your fork and poking at the salad in front of you. You’re not really hungry, but you force yourself to take a bite, if only to keep your hands busy. The last thing you want is for Max to start asking questions. You know him too well — he’ll find a way to make this his fault, even though it’s not. And you can’t handle that right now, not on top of everything else.

Max is still watching you, though, and you can feel the weight of his gaze. He’s always been able to read you like a book, and tonight is no different. After a few more moments of silence, he sets his glass down with a soft clink.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.

You glance up at him, confused. “What thing?”

“That thing where you say you’re fine, but you’re not.” His tone is gentle, but there’s a firmness underneath it. He’s not going to let this go. “Come on, what’s going on? Did something happen today?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. “No, nothing happened,” you lie, trying to sound casual. “It’s just been a long week, that’s all.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced, and you can feel his eyes on you, searching for cracks in the facade. “Because you’re always this quiet when nothing’s wrong.”

You sigh, pushing the lettuce around your plate. “Max, I’m fine. Really.”

There’s a pause, and then you hear him exhale softly, like he’s trying to be patient. “You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

Your stomach twists at his words, but you keep your eyes on your plate. You know he’s right — you’ve never been good at hiding things from him. But this ... this is different. You can’t just blurt it out, can’t just tell him what happened without worrying about how he’ll react. He’ll get upset, maybe even angry, and he’ll blame himself for something that isn’t his fault.

“Just ... drop it, okay?” You say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Max’s expression softens, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “Y/N,” he says gently, leaning forward. “If something’s bothering you, I want to help. You don’t have to deal with it on your own.”

You shake your head, still not meeting his gaze. “It’s nothing you can help with.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Max’s hand is on yours, warm and solid, grounding you in the moment. “Let me decide that,” he says quietly. “Please.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you, but you bite down on the words that are clawing at the back of your throat. You can’t do this, not here, not now. So instead, you pull your hand away gently, offering him a small smile.

“Really, Max, it’s fine,” you say, trying to sound reassuring. “Let’s just enjoy dinner, okay?”

He hesitates, clearly torn between wanting to respect your wishes and wanting to press for answers. But eventually, he nods, though the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. “Okay. But if you change your mind ...”

“I know,” you say softly. “Thank you.”

You both lapse into silence after that, the conversation stilted and awkward. You try to focus on the food, on the comfortable routine you’ve built together, but the knot in your chest only tightens with every passing minute. You hate this — hate that you’re keeping something from him, hate that you’re letting it affect your time together. But you don’t know what else to do.

It’s Max who finally breaks the silence, setting his fork down with a sigh. “You know, I’m not very good at this.”

You look up at him, frowning. “At what?”

He gestures between the two of you. “At ... whatever this is. The whole ‘let’s pretend nothing’s wrong’ thing. It’s not really my style.”

You can’t help but smile at that, despite everything. “I know.”

“So why are we doing it?” He asks, his tone gentle but probing. “Why are you pretending that everything’s fine when it’s clearly not?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Because ... I don’t want to ruin dinner?”

Max’s lips quirk into a half-smile, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Dinner’s already ruined if you’re not happy.”

The words hang between you, heavy and honest, and you feel the walls you’ve been trying to keep up start to crumble. You take a deep breath, feeling the tightness in your chest loosen just a fraction. Maybe ... maybe it’s time to tell him. Maybe he deserves to know.

“Okay,” you say quietly, setting your fork down. “But ... promise me you won’t get mad.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Mad? Why would I get mad?”

“Just promise.”

He sighs, nodding. “Okay. I promise.”

You take another deep breath, steeling yourself. “It’s about my journalism assignment. The one where I interviewed you.”

Max nods slowly, waiting for you to continue.

“So ... my professor — Professor Carter — he, um ... he thinks I faked it.”

Max’s expression darkens immediately, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What? Why would he think that?”

You shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. “Because ... well, because he doesn’t believe that I actually know you. He thinks I made the whole thing up to get a good grade.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max says, his voice rising slightly in disbelief. “Why would he assume that?”

“Because I’m just a student at Sheffield,” you explain, your words tumbling out faster now. “And you’re ... well, you. He doesn’t think someone like me could actually know someone like you.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and you can see the anger simmering beneath the surface. “That’s-” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. “What did he say?”

“He said ... he said he’s giving me a zero for academic dishonesty unless I can prove that the interview was real.”

Max’s eyes widen in shock. “A zero?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Max sits back in his seat, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s insane. You shouldn’t be penalized for telling the truth. Did you explain to him that we’re ... you know ...”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I didn’t tell him about us. I didn’t want to ... I mean, we’ve been keeping things private for a reason, right? I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

Max frowns, his frustration evident. “Y/N, you shouldn’t have to choose between protecting our privacy and your education. That’s not fair.”

“I know,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I know you would have found a way to blame yourself for this.”

Max looks at you, his expression softening. “I don’t want you to suffer because of me,” he says quietly. “I’d rather the whole world knew about us than have you lose out on your grades.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault, Max. I made the decision to keep things quiet, too. I don’t regret it.”

“But now you’re paying the price,” he mutters, frustration lacing his tone.

You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours. “We both knew there would be challenges. We’ll figure this out.”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just hate that this is happening to you. If I could talk to your professor-”

“No,” you cut in firmly. “I don’t want you getting involved. That would just make things worse.”

Max frowns, clearly unhappy with your decision, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks down at your joined hands, his thumb still tracing soft circles over your skin. “But what are you going to do?” He asks quietly.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I can talk to him again, try to convince him without bringing you into it.”

Max shakes his head, clearly frustrated. “It’s not right, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to prove yourself like this.”

“I know,” you say, your voice soft but resolute. “But I don’t want to drag you into it. We’ve worked so hard to keep our relationship private, and I don’t want this to be the thing that changes that.”

Max looks at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. Finally, he sighs, squeezing your hand one last time before letting go. “Okay. I’ll respect your decision. But if it gets worse, if he keeps pushing ...”

“I’ll let you know,” you promise, trying to offer him a reassuring smile. “But for now, let’s just try to enjoy dinner, okay?”

Max nods, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t quite ease. “Okay,” he agrees, though there’s a note of reluctance in his voice.

You both lapse into a more comfortable silence after that, the conversation slowly returning to more familiar, lighter topics. But even as you talk about other things, you can feel the weight of the situation lingering between you. Max’s concern is palpable, and you know he’s still thinking about it, even if he’s trying not to show it.

But for now, you’re both doing your best to push it aside, to focus on the time you have together. You know you’ll have to deal with the situation with Professor Carter eventually, but for tonight, you’re content to just be here with Max, to enjoy the quiet moments that are yours alone.

No matter what happens, you’ll figure it out together.

***

Professor Carter’s classroom is as stifling as ever, the air thick with the scent of old books and the faint smell of chalk dust. You’re sitting in your usual spot near the back, trying to focus on the lecture. But it’s impossible to concentrate. Every time Professor Carter glances in your direction, your stomach twists with anxiety. The weight of his accusation still hangs over you, and you can’t shake the feeling that everyone in the room knows what happened, that they’re all silently judging you.

Your notebook lies open in front of you, but the words on the page blur together. You can barely pay attention to the lecture, your mind constantly drifting back to the conversation with Max. You told him you’d handle this on your own, but now, sitting here under Professor Carter’s scrutinizing gaze, you’re starting to doubt yourself. What if you can’t convince him? What if you really do end up with a zero on the assignment?

As if sensing your distress, Professor Carter pauses mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he looks in your direction. “Miss Y/L/N, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” He asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You snap out of your thoughts, your heart racing. “No, sir,” you mumble, trying to shrink into your seat.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with your response. “Then I suggest you pay attention. This material will be on the final exam, and I’d hate for you to miss out on any more important details.”

There’s a smattering of laughter from your classmates, and you feel your face flush with embarrassment. You nod quickly, your fingers tightening around your pen. “Yes, sir,” you say quietly.

Professor Carter smirks, clearly pleased with himself, and turns back to the board. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. But just as you’re about to refocus on the lecture, the door to the classroom swings open.

Every head in the room turns to look at the sudden interruption, and you feel your heart stop when you see who’s standing in the doorway.

Max.

He’s dressed casually, in a black T-shirt and jeans, but there’s no mistaking who he is. The entire room goes silent, the air thick with shock and disbelief. You can see the recognition in your classmates’ eyes, the way they start whispering to each other, nudging each other and pointing in his direction.

Max strides into the room with the kind of confidence that only he possesses, his gaze scanning the room until it lands on you. His expression softens for a moment when he sees you, but then he turns his attention to Professor Carter, who is staring at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

“Can I help you?” Professor Carter asks, his voice sharp, though there’s a note of uncertainty beneath it.

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, actually, you can,” he says, his tone polite but firm. “I’m here about Y/N’s assignment.”

Professor Carter’s eyes widen slightly, and you can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to piece together what’s happening. “I’m sorry, but this is a private class,” he says, his tone regaining its usual authority. “If you have concerns about a student’s work, you can schedule a meeting during my office hours.”

Max crosses his arms over his chest, unfazed. “I think we can sort this out right here.”

You feel a mix of panic and gratitude welling up inside you. You didn’t want Max to get involved, but now that he’s here, you can’t deny the relief that floods through you. He’s taking a stand for you, and you can see that he’s not going to back down.

Professor Carter, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to maintain his composure, but there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Max Verstappen, I presume?” He says, his tone clipped.

Max nods. “That’s right. And I’m here to prove that Y/N didn’t fake her interview with me.”

There’s a collective gasp from the students, and you can feel the tension in the room spike. All eyes are on Max now, and you can see the shock on your classmates’ faces as they realize what’s happening. Professor Carter, however, doesn’t seem impressed.

“I see,” he says slowly, his gaze flicking to you for a moment before returning to Max. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

Max’s expression hardens, and you can see the determination in his eyes. “Simple. I’m here, aren’t I? She couldn’t have faked an interview with me if I’m standing right here.”

The room falls silent again, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. Professor Carter opens his mouth to respond, but for a moment, no words come out. It’s clear that he wasn’t expecting this. He was so sure of himself, so confident that you couldn’t possibly know someone like Max Verstappen. And now, here Max is, standing in front of him, making him eat his words.

“I ... appreciate your enthusiasm,” Professor Carter finally says, though his voice lacks its usual bite. “But this doesn’t prove anything. For all I know, you could be here out of some misguided attempt to protect her.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and you can see the frustration building in his eyes. “You think I would waste my time lying for someone? If she didn’t do the interview, I wouldn’t be here.”

Professor Carter’s gaze shifts to you, and you can see the doubt still lingering in his eyes. “Miss Y/L/N, I told you that if you could provide proof, I would reconsider your grade. But this ...” He gestures to Max. “This isn’t exactly the kind of proof I had in mind.”

You feel a surge of anger rising within you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re standing up, your voice trembling but firm. “What more proof do you need? He’s here, in front of the entire class. He’s telling you the interview was real. What else do I have to do to make you believe me?”

The room falls silent again, and you can see the shock on your classmates’ faces as they watch you stand up to Professor Carter. He looks taken aback, his usual smug expression faltering as he stares at you.

For a moment, no one speaks. Then, Max steps forward, his voice calm but filled with conviction. “Look, Professor, I get that this might be hard to believe. But Y/N isn’t lying. She interviewed me, and she did a damn good job, too. If you don’t believe me, you can check with my team. They’ll confirm it.”

Professor Carter hesitates, clearly torn between maintaining his authority and acknowledging the reality in front of him. He glances around the room, seeing the way his students are hanging on every word, waiting to see what he’ll do next.

Finally, he exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Verstappen. But I expect Miss Y/L/N to submit any additional documentation that can verify this interview. Understood?”

You nod quickly, relief flooding through you. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Professor Carter waves his hand dismissively, clearly eager to move on. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to continue with the lesson.”

Max glances at you, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips. “I’ll wait outside,” he murmurs, and with one last look at Professor Carter, he turns and walks out of the classroom.

As the door closes behind him, you sink back into your seat, your heart still racing. The tension in the room starts to dissipate, and you can feel the curious stares of your classmates on you, but for the first time since this whole ordeal began, you feel a sense of calm. Max believed in you enough to do this, to stand up for you, and that’s all that matters.

Professor Carter clears his throat, trying to regain control of the room. “Alright, everyone, back to the lesson. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

You open your notebook again, but this time, the words on the page seem clearer, more focused. You can do this. You’ve got this. And no matter what happens next, you know you’re not alone.

***

When you step out of the building, the late afternoon sun is warm on your face, but you barely notice it. The adrenaline from the confrontation in class is still coursing through your veins, and all you can think about is getting out of here, away from the stares and whispers that followed you as you left the room.

You spot him immediately.

Max is leaning against his car, casually checking his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. But you can see the way his shoulders tense when he catches sight of you, the way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

The sleek black car gleams in the sunlight, and you can’t help but notice the way people are staring, some pointing, others whispering to each other. Max Verstappen waiting outside a university lecture hall is not something anyone expected to see today.

You make your way over to him, trying to ignore the attention and the pounding of your heart. You had told him not to do this, told him you’d handle it on your own. And yet, here he is, right in the middle of everything, like he promised he wouldn’t be.

“Hey,” Max says casually, slipping his phone into his pocket as you approach. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he’s waiting for your reaction.

You stop in front of him, crossing your arms over your chest. “You promised me you wouldn’t get involved,” you say, your voice tight.

Max raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too calm for your liking. “I said I’d respect your decision. And I did — until I realized your professor is a jerk who needed to be put in his place.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to maintain your anger, but it’s difficult when he’s standing there looking so smug, so unbothered by the situation. “That’s not the point, Max. You went behind my back.”

He tilts his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Did I, though? Because I seem to remember you didn’t explicitly tell me not to.”

You huff in frustration, knowing he’s right but refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Max shrugs, unbothered by your accusation. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”

You want to stay mad. You really do. But the way he’s looking at you, with that infuriating mix of confidence and affection, makes it impossible. You try to hold on to your irritation, try to keep the scowl on your face, but you can feel it slipping away.

Max must see it, too, because he steps closer, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “You’re not really mad at me, are you?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “Maybe a little.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. “No, you’re not.”

You look away, trying to maintain your resolve, but Max reaches out, gently turning your face back to him. His thumb brushes over your cheek, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, your anger melting away as quickly as it came.

“Stop trying to be cute,” you mumble, though your voice lacks any real bite.

Max grins, clearly enjoying this. “I can’t help it. It’s just who I am.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that tugs at your lips betrays you. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still love me,” Max counters, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say anything, Max leans down and presses his lips to yours, effectively cutting off any protest you might have had. The kiss is soft, gentle, but there’s an undeniable intensity behind it, a promise that he’ll always be there, even when you tell him not to be.

For a moment, you forget where you are, forget about the stares and the whispers, the anxiety that had been gnawing at you all day. All that matters is the feel of Max’s lips on yours, the way his hand cradles the back of your head, anchoring you to him.

When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless, your heart racing for a completely different reason now. Max looks down at you, his eyes dark with affection, and you can’t help but smile up at him, any remnants of anger long gone.

“Okay, fine,” you admit, still slightly dazed from the kiss. “Maybe I’m not that mad.”

Max chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling back completely. “I knew it.”

You shake your head, but there’s no real frustration behind it anymore. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. “I know.”

You glance around, noticing the continued stares from the students passing by. You sigh, knowing this moment of privacy is short-lived. “We should probably get out of here before someone decides to take a picture.”

Max follows your gaze, nodding in agreement. “Good idea. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He opens the passenger door for you, and you slide into the car, trying to ignore the curious eyes still on you. Max walks around to the driver’s side, getting in and starting the engine. As the car purrs to life, he reaches over, taking your hand in his again.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, his tone more serious now, the teasing edge gone.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thanks for being there, even if I didn’t ask for it.”

Max smiles softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You don’t have to ask. I’ll always be there for you.”

And just like that, the tension that had been weighing on you all day finally eases. You know things aren’t completely resolved with Professor Carter, but right now, with Max beside you, it doesn’t seem as daunting. You’ll figure it out — together.

***

The classroom buzzes with the usual energy as students shuffle into their seats, chatting with friends or tapping away on their phones. It’s a typical day, but there’s a different kind of tension in the air. Today, Professor Carter is returning the results of the investigative journalism assignments, and no one is quite sure what to expect.

You settle into your usual spot near the back, trying to shake off the nerves. It’s been a few months since the whole incident with Max interrupting your class, and while things have calmed down somewhat, Professor Carter’s stern demeanor hasn’t wavered. You still catch him eyeing you from time to time, as if he’s waiting for you to slip up.

The door slams shut as Professor Carter strides in, a stack of papers in hand. The chatter in the room dies down instantly. He’s never been one for small talk or pleasantries, and today is no different. He doesn’t bother with a greeting, just dives straight into it.

“Good afternoon,” he says curtly, his voice slicing through the silence. “As you know, today I’ll be discussing the assignments you all turned in. Some of you excelled, others … less so.”

You swallow hard, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook. You did everything you could to make your article stand out, but now that the moment of judgment is here, doubt begins to creep in.

Professor Carter begins pacing the front of the room, flipping through the stack of papers as he speaks. “Several of you chose topics that were predictable but handled them with enough depth to warrant commendation. For example, Miss Klein tackled the opioid crisis in rural England — an important and underreported subject.” He glances up at a blonde girl in the front row, who nods in acknowledgment, her cheeks flushing slightly at the attention.

“Then we have Mr. Patel,” Professor Carter continues, stopping briefly to peer down at a lanky guy two rows in front of you. “Your examination of government surveillance policies in urban areas was thorough, albeit a bit heavy on the technical jargon. But it’s clear you put in the work.”

You watch as Professor Carter moves on to the next paper, calling out names and offering critiques with the same detached professionalism. The topics range from environmental justice issues to the economic implications of Brexit — serious, weighty subjects that demand rigorous analysis. The longer he speaks, the more you feel the sinking sensation in your stomach. Your topic, in comparison, feels like a joke. An entertaining joke, sure, but still …

And then he pauses.

Professor Carter reaches the last paper in the stack, and his expression falters for a moment before he collects himself. He clears his throat and addresses the room, his voice taking on a more formal tone.

“And then we come to one particular assignment,” he begins, his gaze sweeping across the room before landing squarely on you. You freeze, every nerve ending on high alert. “An assignment that, while unconventional in its subject matter, demonstrated an impressive level of dedication and — dare I say — ingenuity.”

A ripple of whispers spreads through the room. You feel the heat of a dozen eyes on you but keep your gaze firmly on Professor Carter. His words are oddly measured, as if he’s trying to make sense of them himself.

He raises the paper in his hand slightly, glancing at it before looking back at the class. “Miss Y/L/N,” he addresses you directly, causing all the whispers to stop. “Your decision to investigate whether or not Toto Wolff, the team principal of Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 Team, dyes his hair … was certainly unexpected.”

You hear a few muffled snickers, but you keep your face neutral, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“However,” Professor Carter continues, raising his voice slightly to silence the snickers, “the lengths you went to in pursuit of the truth were nothing short of remarkable. Going through Mercedes' trash? That shows initiative. Questionable ethics, perhaps, but initiative nonetheless.”

There’s a stunned silence in the room. You feel the urge to either laugh or shrink under your desk. You aren’t sure which. Instead, you nod slightly, acknowledging his words without letting the grin you’re fighting show.

Professor Carter takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for what he’s about to say next. “In a field where skepticism is necessary, and where finding the truth often requires unorthodox methods, your work stood out. So much so that I found myself contemplating the absurdity of the situation. Here I am, reading about a billionaire’s grooming habits as though it were a matter of national importance.”

This time, the laughter from the class isn’t stifled. It rings out freely, and you feel your own lips twitch despite yourself.

“But,” Professor Carter interjects, silencing the room once more, “that is precisely the point of investigative journalism, isn’t it? To find the story others overlook, to dig deeper, even when the subject seems trivial. Miss Y/L/N, your article was, in its own way, insightful. You followed the evidence, and you made your case with conviction.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you. “Though I must say, I’m not entirely convinced that your methods were ... strictly ethical. Dumpster diving isn’t exactly taught in this classroom.”

You finally allow yourself a small, nervous laugh, shrugging lightly in response. “All in the name of journalism, right?”

Professor Carter lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “I suppose so. Regardless, your paper has made an impact — certainly more than I anticipated.”

He drops your paper onto his desk and addresses the class one last time. “Let this be a lesson to all of you. Journalism isn’t always about the grand topics. Sometimes, the most interesting stories come from the strangest places. I encourage you all to think outside the box.”

With that, he begins handing back the assignments, and the classroom slowly returns to its usual rhythm. Conversations pick up again, but this time, they’re punctuated by curious glances and nods in your direction. You try to focus on the papers being passed down your row, but your thoughts are still stuck on Professor Carter’s words.

When your paper finally lands in front of you, you can’t resist flipping through it. There, scrawled in red ink at the top of the page, is your grade — a solid A. Next to it, Professor Carter has written a brief note: Keep pushing boundaries, but remember — ethics matter.

You smile to yourself, feeling a mix of relief and pride. The assignment had been a gamble, but it paid off in the end. And while the ethical considerations may have been a little murky, you can’t deny that the thrill of the chase had been worth it.

As class ends and students begin to file out, a few stop by your desk, offering congratulations or asking for details about how you managed to pull it off. You answer their questions with a grin, reliving the absurdity of your investigative methods. And though it feels surreal, you can’t help but feel a sense of validation.

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Professor Carter catches your eye and nods in your direction, a rare hint of approval in his usually stern expression. You nod back, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between the two of you.

Stepping out of the classroom, you feel lighter than you have in weeks. The whispers and glances no longer bother you. Instead, they serve as a reminder that you’ve proven yourself, in your own way.

And as you walk through the corridors of the university, you can’t help but think about what Max will say when you tell him about today. Knowing him, he’ll probably tease you about your methods, but you also know he’ll be proud — just as you are.

Because sometimes, in journalism and in life, it’s the unconventional stories that make the biggest impact.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

You Wrote This for Me? - Valentine's Special

Jenna Ortega x Writer Reader

Summary: The journal shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have seen it. But the words are inked, the confessions buried in scribbled margins. Unfinished. She turns the page. The door opens. And now, there’s no taking it back.

Word Count: 1.5k

“Okay, but hear me out—unicorns are terrifying.” You scoffed as you stirred the pasta, glancing over your shoulder at Jenna, who sat comfortably at your kitchen table, script in hand. “Unicorns?” you repeated, unimpressed. “You mean the glittery, rainbow kind?”

Jenna smirked, flipping a page. “No. Think The Thing meets The Last Unicorn—except instead of spreading magic and joy, it hunts people. Horns like spears, glowing red eyes, and it camouflages itself as a stuffed toy when it needs to hide.”

You paused, setting the wooden spoon down. “... Okay. I’m listening.” Jenna grinned, pushing the script aside to grab her water. “It’s an indie horror project. The director wants something totally absurd but terrifying.” “And they chose you?” you teased, arching a brow. Jenna took a slow sip of water, leveling you with a look. “Yes. Because I embody fear itself.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You embody five foot nothing and need a ladder to reach my top shelf.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached for her script again, flipping to a heavily annotated page.

“So, in this scene, the unicorn—”

Before she could continue, you realized you were missing ingredients. “Shit,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I forgot a few things for dinner. And we need drinks.” Jenna raised a brow. “You say that like we’re not just having pasta.” “I was gonna open a bottle of wine, if that’s alright with you, Ortega.” She smirked. “Ah. Fancy.”

You grabbed your jacket. “Bodega’s just a block away. Liquor store’s right after. Be back in fifteen.” Jenna waved a dismissive hand, already distracted by the script. “Bring me something good.”

You smirked. You had a plan for that.

Jenna spent two minutes flipping through her script, highlighting a line, trying to focus. But her eyes kept drifting back to the leather-bound journal sat just a few inches away, dark and worn, standing out against the otherwise neat surface of your kitchen table. It didn’t belong there.

And that’s what made it off. She ignored it. Then, as if possessed by something beyond her willpower, she reached for it. Just a peek.

She flipped past the first few pages—dates, random notes, the kind of scribbles people made when they were half-asleep. But then, a page caught her eye. And suddenly, breathing felt harder, and there it was. Her name. And below it, crossed-out lines, footnotes scrawled in the margins—like you had written and rewritten them too many times, unable to get them right.

Jenna’s lips parted slightly as she read. “She looks at the world like she’s memorizing it. Like every moment is something worth keeping.” A quiet exhale left her as her fingers traced the ink. The way she spoke. The way she carried herself. The way she laughed—not her polished, camera-ready chuckle, but the real one.

Below it, one line that wasn’t crossed out: “I love the way she exists.” Jenna blinked, pulse hammering. This wasn’t just writing. This was her. Her hands tightened around the journal, a war raging in her head. She should put it down. She should pretend she never saw it iInstead, she turned the page. And that’s when she saw the poem.

Short, unfinished, scribbled like you had tried to ignore it:

"If I were braver, I’d tell her." "If I were braver, I’d say it plain." "If I were braver—"

A key in the door.

Jenna’s head snapped up.

You stepped inside, a bag of groceries and a bouquet of flowers in one hand. Jenna barely noticed; your eyes flicked to the table, to the open journal in her hands, and in that moment—she saw the exact second you realized what had just happened.

A beat of silence. Then, softly— “…You read it.”

Jenna swallowed, gripping the pages a little tighter. She could lie. She could say it was an accident. She could pretend she hadn’t just read the one thing she had no business knowing, but instead, she lifted her gaze to yours. “…You wrote this for me.” And for the first time all night—

You didn’t have any words left.

Which was ironic, considering you had spent weeks—months— spilling them into that journal. Hiding them in half-sentences, crossing them out, leaving them unfinished like that would somehow make them less real. But now? Now Jenna was sitting at your kitchen table, holding your secrets in her hands.

You gripped the bag of groceries a little too tightly, your fingers flexing around the bouquet of flowers, still wrapped in plastic.

“I—”

You what? Didn’t mean for her to see? Weren’t ready? Meant to tell her after you worked up the courage with a glass of wine? None of that mattered now. Jenna’s eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unreadable. “You wrote this for me,” she said again, softer this time. Like she was still processing it herself. Your throat went dry. “Jenna—” She glanced down at the open page. Her fingers ghosted over the words again, a quiet intensity settling in her features. “…How long?” she asked. You blinked. “What?” Jenna tilted the journal slightly. “How long have you felt like this?” Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You exhaled sharply, setting the groceries down before you dropped them. “Jenna, can we—can we not do this like this?” She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. And that’s when you realized: She wasn’t going to let you dodge this. Not now. Not after everything she just read.You swallowed, fingers flexing at your sides. “…A while.”

Jenna’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

So you kept going. “A long while...” A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with something you couldn’t name. Jenna closed the journal slowly, resting her hand on top of it. And then, she stood.Your breath caught.

She stepped around the table, each movement deliberate. By the time she was standing in front of you, you had completely forgotten how to breathe. Jenna tilted her head, studying you. You had seen this look before. On set, when she was locked into character. In interviews, when she was asked something she actually cared about. That sharp focus, that quiet intensity.Only now—Now, it was entirely on you.

“You were going to tell me tonight,” she murmured. It wasn’t a question. Your gaze flickered to the bouquet of flowers on the counter, then back to her. You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah. I, uh… thought I’d have a little more control over the reveal, though.” Jenna’s lips twitched. “You should’ve hidden it better.” You huffed. “I didn’t think you’d go through my things, Ortega.” “I didn’t. It was just… there.” She hesitated, a quiet edge creeping into her voice. “Like it was meant to be found.” Your heart slammed against your ribs.

For a second, you didn’t know what to say. But then—Jenna took another step closer, and your brain completely short-circuited. Suddenly, she was standing right there, barely a breath between you, her gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips and back. And holy shit.“You’re freaking out,” she murmured, amusement creeping into her tone. “I am not—” You cleared your throat. “—freaking out.” Jenna smirked. “You’re standing completely still.” You blinked. “That’s called being normal, Jenna.” “No,” she said simply, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s called being scared.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—”

Jenna reached up, gently tugging on the front of your shirt. Not pulling, not forcing. Just holding. And suddenly, the air shifted. Your pulse roared in your ears as her thumb brushed absently against the fabric, the warmth of her hand spreading through you like wildfire. “…You don’t have to be,” she said softly. Your breath hitched. And that was it. That was all it took for every single thought in your head to vanish.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, before your doubts could catch up to you, before anything else could get in the way—You leaned in. And finally—You kissed her. Soft. Slow. Tentative at first, but then—Jenna exhaled against your lips like she had been holding back just as much as you had, and then her hands were sliding up, one curling around the back of your neck, the other gripping your shirt just a little tighter.

And holy shit.

It was so much better than you had imagined. Your journal hadn’t been able to capture this. The way she sighed against your mouth, the way her lips moved like she had been waiting for this just as long as you had, the way her body fit so perfectly against yours like she had always belonged there. By the time you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. Jenna’s eyes flickered open slowly, dazed but smug. “…So,” she murmured, voice lower than before.

You swallowed. “So?” She smirked. “Was that how you were going to end your confession?” You gave a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Honestly? The journal kinda did that for me.”

Jenna hummed, pleased. “Good.”

Then, before you could say anything else, she grabbed the front of your shirt and pulled you in again. Honestly? This ending was way better.

[missysverse]

𝓦HAT I'VE SCRIPTED IN MY 𝓦AITING 𝓡OOM

Feel free to use for inspiration for yours - i'll try to update this post for more new ideas if anyone is interested.

𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐒:

✯₊˚༄ PORTAL ROOM — Each portal represents a different desired reality, with the name of the DR displayed on the arch above the portal. For example, one portal might read "Supernatural DR." When I step through a portal, I will instantly shift to the corresponding DR

✯₊˚༄ STUDY ROOM — a room where I can literally study for school relating to my CR, I have unlimited rescources available to me: textbooks, flashcards, notes all done (anything else I need I can literally just instantly manifest it), comfortable seating, big speaker I can use to play whatever music I want. I have a virtual AI tutor who can provide me detailed explanations for my subjects, orffer practice questions, mock tests, and instant feedback. I have an option to activate 'group study mode' where it will summon whatever people I want to If I want help with studying/get bored.

✯₊˚༄ THERAPY ROOM — Therapy room with Hannibal Lecter (he is not a cannibal or bad person is ANY way y'all.) He will give me good life advice, shifting advice etc anything I need help with - he knows me and my lifes well (only because I tell him about it), he also gives me good inspiration for scripting. He will also teach me a lot about neuroscience, psychiatry, psychology etc.

✯₊˚༄ LOUNGE ROOM — Here is where I can watch unlimited shows/films I want even if they don't exist in my CR e.g films I'm in from my fame DR, or completely new shows, or new seasons of my favourite shows that don't exist. There is also spotify on there and its the same concept as above - there are also playlists that are specific for my DRs and my relationships. There is also a section where I can go on that can play unlimited edits of me from my DRs, people from my DRs. All the edits are really well made and good. There are normal edits but also transition edits too. There is also a custom edit section where I can basically describe the edit and what song and it will make the edit. Not only that but I can also replay certain moments from my DR on the TV, I just have to think about the moment and then it can play or there are complimation videos of different moments from my DR. I also have unlimited games, books, vinyls.

✯₊˚༄ KITCHEN — literally where I can find unlimited food, any food I want will instantly manifest in the fridge.

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒

credits to someone from reddit for some of these ideas (I'll try to find the post)

✯₊˚༄ LIFAGRAM — instagram but for shifters to access multiversally, I can share pictures and videos from my DR on here and can see other shifters. You want to share a cute picture of you and your friends to other shifters? well you can.

✯₊˚༄ SHIFTING SPACE — I have access to videos and photos from my DR and it is stored on my ‘Shifting Space’ and also just any moments from your DR, you can also share edits of your DR and yourself on here with other people

✯₊˚༄ LIFATOK — basically a less toxic version of shiftok lmao (jkJk) but the same premise as LIFAtok but its short video where people mostly share edits or moments from there DR

✯₊˚༄ LIFAFLIX — other people’s and mine DRs as tv shows, you can also watch yourself in other siutations that don’t have to be your DR but other realities that you want to be in but you don’t want to shift e.g a reality where I am spiderman(??) so there's a film based on that scenario.

✯₊˚༄ LIFAFLIX — again like the other social medias, you can share longer videos of moments from your DR

✯₊˚༄ LIFATUNES — basically like Spotify but you can share your songs from your singer DR, you can also find whatever song you want there are basically unlimited songs e.g you can change the language of songs and change lyrics or any certain features of songs you don’t like

✯₊˚༄ LIFABOOK — basically an instant journal with unlimited pages where it will insantly write out enteries of my DR experiences, the dates, everything in detail which I can read back if I want to (although I can always just replay the memories on the big screen)

Last updated : 05/12/2024

[exqorcism]

a freaky doctor Charlie maybe he is being a little bit touch with y/n

sittin' & lookin' pretty ꫂ ၴႅၴ dr. charlie mayhew x fem!reader

𝓝ote: thank you for the request, anon, i hope you like it! as always feedback is deeply appreciated ♡

𝓦arnings: nsfw content ahead! ━ pure smut,, daddy kink, cōckwarming, needy reader, unprotected piv

"stop fucking moving", charlie hissed, gripping your hips tightly. his fingers pressed into your skin, hard enough to leave marks, and you whined.

you were sat on charlie's lap in his office as he went through his medical journals, thumbing at the pages, not even looking in your direction. you were so needy, so desperate for him to fuck you when all he wanted was to finish the god damn paperwork.

so he took his hard cock out of his pants, lifted your skirt up and pulled your panties to the side. his fingers swirled around your clit expertly, letting the wetness cover them completely. you lowered yourself on his long cock, moaning at the stretch of his impressive length inside of you. but when you tried to move up and down in search of relief, he held you down, pressing a soft kiss on your neck, as he focused on his work once again.

"keep me nice and warm while i'm working, can you, doll?" he whispered softly, thumbs tracing soft circles on your thighs, as your pussy clamped down on him, pulsing with need.

"need you, daddy", you mumbled, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses on his exposed neck. you breathed him in, the smell of his cologne filling your nostrils, a soft moan escaping your mouth. his cock throbbed inside of you, and your back arched, your perky nipples hardening with excitement, begging for attention.

"you just can't wait, can you? such a naughty girl, distracting me when i'm at work, sendin' me these slutty pictures" he cooed, fingers tracing over your curves softly, and he shifted on his seat slightly, hips bucking up just slightly. you shuddered, tears in your eyes as he hit just the right spot, pussy gripping to him tightly, deep growl leaving his throat.

"i'm sorry, daddy. need you so bad" she touched his face softly, tracing over his sharp jawline. "please, just fuck me. i'm gonna be a good girl for you, i promise", she begged, pouting her lips slightly, looking up at him from under her long lashes.

charlie laughed quietly, flicking his thumbs over your nipples slowly, the sensation making her head spin as you soaked his pants, his cock pressing against your g spot with every single move of his body.

"don't worry doll, i'm gonna fuck you full of my cum, yeah? and you're gonna take it, every single drop", his voice dangerously low as he moved his hips upwards slightly. you cried out, holding onto his forearms, legs spreading mindlessly. "you're gonna get it if you let me finish. my. job. now, sit fucking still" he growled, hands leaving your body all at once, and you whined quietly, pressing your face against his neck tightly.

you were in for a very long night.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

@ hoffmansgirl, 21/10/24. do not repost, copy or translate.

[honeytonedhottie]

HONEYS IT GIRL MAGAZINE september edition⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🎀

welcome back to honeys it girl magazine, this is the september catalog. get ready for the inside scoop on data that i've collected, things i've learned/started doing, and just general info like that organized in kind of a teen-magazine inspired fashion. a magazine for it girls ✨ and now please enjoy, the it girl magazine.

YOUR GUIDE TO VINTAGE GLAM ;

lately i've been OBSESSED with vintage glam. their makeup is so dramatized and utterly stunning and it just has this timeless elegance to it. so im super duper excited to dive into that in this catalogue…💬🎀

♡ a classic red lip

♡ winged eyeliner

♡ lush lashes

♡ defined brows (arched brows like betty boop)

♡ faux beauty marks

♡ soft eyeshadows

♡ a big bouncy blow out

♡ pearls and diamonds cuz diamonds are a girl's best friend

other details that can really capture the essence of a vintage glam look include pearl necklaces and earrings, cat-eye sunglasses, or a structured handbag. remember, its all about enhancing natural elegance with just the right amount of drama and UMPH.

you can see with this page of my fashion journal where i styled some vintage glam looks. so i incorporated silkier textures and long dresses for that old hollywood charm. idk what it is about hand gloves but they just SCREAM elegance and beauty so i incorporated that into the first outfit.

clutches are SO vintage glam and gorgeous and as u can see i incorporated pearls into the second outfit in the earrings, bracelet and neck piece.

FALL FASHION ;

fall fashion to me is tights and mini skirts. leg warmers and uggs and form fitting sweaters. let’s talk about some fall fashion. the tights and mini skirt combo is a classic and it’s an amazing way to incorporate wearing mini skirts even as the weather begins to get a little colder. the tights add a nice touch, even if it isn’t the color of ur skin tone, tights IN GENERAL look rly nice.

ankle boots, ugg boots, BOOTS are so so fall. i rly love ankle boots that have a heel to them and bonus points if ur fall shoes include fur. the fall shoes on my shopping list are ->

ugg boots

ankle boots

mary jane style shoes

ballet flats

form fitting sweaters and jackets are so in for the fall. along with tracksuits. the color pallete for having a bambi doll fall are very much browns, cashmeres, and baby pink. honestly think of neapolitan colours. pink, brown and an off-whitish almost pastel yellow. think PASTRY PRINCESS.

baby phat puffers are perfect for the transition from fall to winter and a good pair of jeans is CRUCIAL for fall. another thing i wanna talk about with fall fashion is LAYERING. layering is such an important aspect of fashion period but ESPECIALLY fall fashion. experiment with different lengths, textures etc. one of my favorite layering combination during the fall is ->

long sleeve tops with a camisole underneath

a form fitting long sleeve top (the ones with buttons at the front) look so DOLLY and adorable when u dont button it, and wear a camisole underneath. its just MWAH. some more fall fashion details also include ->

fur details

ribbons and lace details

delicate jewelry choices

tights and leg warmers

layering

boots

neopolitan cinnamon princess color scheme

long sleeves

mini skirts + tights combo

BEING A HOTTIE THIS FALL ;

fall is such an easy season to romanticize! and what better way to romanticize the fall then to make a pinterest board or a mood board. in this section of the magazine lets talk about things that u can do this fall to make ur fall SUPER memorable…💬🎀

♡ make cinnamon rolls (recipe is in the section before horoscope)

♡ go apple picking

♡ read a spooky/mystery novel

♡ pumpkin spice latte!

♡ invest in a yummy fall scented candle and light it often to make ur space smell like fall

fall beauty incorporates things like nude lip combos, warmer scents and french tips!…💬🎀

♡ soft bouncy curls

♡ nude lip combos

i recommend the nyx butter gloss (madeleine) and the nyx chocolate lip liner for a pretty chocolaty look. if ur looking for another nude lip combo use the nyx butter gloss (angel food cake) and the nyx club hopper lip liner…💬🎀

♡ french tips

♡ nude colored manicures and pedicures

♡ coffin and stiletto shaped nails

CINNAMON ROLLS RECIPE ;

nothing screams fall to me more than cinnamon rolls. they're just so yummy and cinnamony and so FALL. so here is a recipe to make ur very own cinnamon rolls this fall.

♡ in a mixing bowl, add 1 cup of warm milk

♡ 1/4 cup of sugar and 2 1/2 teaspoons of active dry yeast and give it a little mix

now set this aside for 5 minutes or until its frothed up. if it DOESNT froth up then ur yeast is not okay and ur gonna have to start again…💬🎀

♡ 4 2/3 cups of all purpose flour, 1/3 cup packed light brown sugar, 1/2 teaspoon of salt, half a teaspoon of cinnamon

♡ melt half a cup of butter and add it into the dry mixture and mix everything together in ur mixer but dont mix before adding 1 large egg and a tablespoon of vanilla extract

♡ now turn on ur mixture and knead the dough until its tacky but doesnt stick to ur fingers

♡ now get an oiled up bowl and put the dough in, and cover with a sheet. put it in a warm place so that then ur dough can rise (1 1/2 - 2 hours)

the reason why u have to wait so long is cuz the yeast is working rly hard to break down things like the milk and the butter so just be patient and excited cuz its gonna taste so good…💬🎀

♡ combine 1/2 cup of light brown sugar, 1 1/2 tablespoons of cinnamon and mix together with a fork

♡ once ur dough is done, make sure u flour up ur clean counter and put the dough onto it. with floured hands pat the dough and shape it, just kinda flatten it out

♡ spread out super soft butter across the dough and spread the cinnamon sugar we made over the dough in a nice even layer and once you've done that its time to roll the dough into a cylinder

♡ next butter ur baking dish, cut ur cinnamon rolls with some dental floss or string and place them in the dish, and make sure u give them room to grow

♡ cover them with a sheet again and put them in a warm place for 1 hour so that they can rise, once you've done that put them in the oven at 350 degrees for 20- 25 minutes

while the cinnamon rolls are baking, we'll make a luscious cream cheese icing to go on top of the cinnamon rolls once they're done…💬🎀

♡ combine 2 tablespoons of softened butter, along with 4 ounces of softened cream cheese, a pinch of salt and a teaspoon of vanilla extract and mix it with a hand mixer

♡ add 2 cups of powdered sugar and add a bit of milk as needed. if u want a thicker icing or a thinner one

♡ lastly add ur icing all over the top of ur cinnamon rolls once they're out of the oven and ENJOY

WHATS MY HOROSCOPE (SEPTEMBER 27-31) ;

♡ for virgo, when the sun enters libra on september 22, your self-esteem and natural talents are activated. with the ability to earn money and achieve success heightened, abundance flows. just be sure you’re saving, budgeting, and making wise investments. venus moves into scorpio on the same day, energizing your communication zone. surface-level connections will fall flat as you crave deeper, more intimate conversations. mercury enters libra on september 26, enhancing your powers of negotiation and manifestation.

♡ for aries, the energy changes when the sun enters libra on the twenty-second, activating your relationship sector. use this opportunity to strengthen your closest bonds, form alliances, and bring your romantic visions to life. venus enters scorpio the same day to awaken your realm of intimacy and money. you could find yourself drawn to mysterious people or situations. venus in motivated scorpio elevates your drive, making you an unstoppable force, especially regarding manifestation. this is an excellent time to negotiate. mercury enters libra on september 26, adding a dash of charm to communication with your loved ones.

♡ for taurus, the sun enters libra on september 22 and brings warmth to your realm of service and self-love. strive to create a healthy work/life balance. your relationships deepen when venus enters scorpio later the same day, bringing intensity to your closest connections. you could feel a stronger desire for intimacy and a pull toward mystery and secrets. be conscious of codependency and unrealistic expectations. mercury moves into harmony-seeking libra on september 26, encouraging solutions and charisma within your relationships.

♡ for gemini, you’re full of joy, creativity, and romance when the sun enters libra on september 22, activating your happiness sector. inspiration will be heightened, so pay attention to your ideas. when venus enters scorpio on the same day, it’s time to turn your attention inward. your desire to explore the depths of your mind, body, and soul intensifies, making this an excellent time to embrace self-care practices that promote greater self-love. mercury enters libra on september 26, awakening your charisma and warmth in communications.

♡ for cancer, when the sun enters air sign libra on september 22, you’ll feel ready to cozy up with your loved ones and enjoy the comforts of your environment. with your zone of intuition activated, your emotions will be powerful. venus enters scorpio on the same day, and your creativity will skyrocket. if you crave more romance, initiate it. mercury enters libra on september 26, encouraging you to share your real feelings.

♡ for leo, when the sun enters libra on september 22, you’ll feel eager to express your incredible ideas and connect with others. activating your communication sector, the libra sun enhances your natural charisma and creates ease in conversations. venus enters mysterious scorpio on the same day, prompting you to reflect on your emotional needs. your heart requires you to be assertive, especially with loved ones. mercury moves into peace-loving libra on september 26, inviting you to communicate from a place of neutrality.

♡ for libra, the sun enters your sign on september 22, ushering in a brand-new cycle. you’re the star of the show and your powers of manifestation are heightened. get ready for an exciting new chapter full of opportunity! venus enters scorpio on the same day, enhancing your ability to earn money. mercury enters your sign on september 26, which gives you the gift of clarity. share your ideas and express yourself. you will be well received.

♡ for scorpio, when the sun enters libra on september 22, your need for retreat and soul-searching is highlighted. over the next few weeks, you’ll find the most peace during moments of relaxation. the libra sun activates your imagination, so allow yourself moments to get lost in fantasy and embrace the fluidity and surrender it brings. venus enters your sign on the same day, prompting you to ardently pursue your deepest desires and ask for what you want. mercury enters libra on september 26, helping you process your subconscious thoughts.

♡ for sagittarius, you’re ready to connect with friends when the sun enters libra on september 22, energizing your zone of community. it’s an excellent time to collaborate with others and show up on social media. venus enters scorpio and your privacy sector on the same day, prompting you to take intentional time alone to get clear on your emotional needs. mercury enters libra on september 26, and exciting conversations take place.

♡ for capricorn, when the sun enters libra on september 22, your career and goals come into focus. you’re especially magnetic and charming, which bodes well for negotiations. find ways to creatively showcase your gifts and embrace your people skills to achieve success this season. recognition arrives when you show up confidently, so find ways to empower yourself. venus enters scorpio on the same day, bringing intimacy to your friendships. mercury moves into libra on september 26, offering you clarity on your goals and the ability to plan them.

♡ for aquarius, imagination and creativity are the keys to your success. you’ll feel ready for expansion and adventure when the sun enters libra on september 22, energizing your zone of exploration. plan an exciting excursion with loved ones or book a spiritual retreat. personal freedom will feel important for you, so be mindful of overcommitting yourself to serious tasks that feel like burdens. venus enters scorpio later the same day, motivating you to make power moves in your career. mercury enters libra on september 26, boosting your ability to learn quickly.

♡ for pisces, when the sun enters libra on september 22, your sights will be set on resources and intimacy. when it comes to your closest bonds, you’ll crave lots of privacy. your approach to money will feel more solution based, and you could tap into a new revenue stream. venus enters scorpio the same day, inviting you to take a chance. mercury moves into libra on september 26, activating your need for deep conversations.

[vicariousresearcher]

cw: 18+, ghost sex, invisible, wedgie(?) Researcher!Reader who follows a voice in the abandoned fortress, chasing it into an old war room. Whipping your head around as you try to find the entity you barely saw glimpses of. Ghost!Gaz who finds the pretty little researcher wandering through the ruins and knows he has to get at you fast if he wants to be first. Plus he’s so much nicer than all the other guys :((

“I’ve been so lonely here.” A voice purrs at your ear, a presence suddenly behind you. “You’ll keep me company won’t you?”

You don’t even know how it ended up like this.

Bent over the war table with your cheek squished against the grimy war table, journal abandoned with the pen still clamped between your fingers. Ink scrawled down the page as the thoughts got fucked out of your head.

And the hands, so many hands. Cupping and pinching and groping. Six is what you concluded initially but with how utterly covered you are there has to be more. Phasing between the thick, warm layers of clothing to send body wracking shivers from the cold. Two dimpling into the fat of your ass to keep you open for him. Another thumbing over your rim just to see you jump when he presses too hard. One cupping your nape to keep you pinned against the table. 

Not that you were going to move. For research's sake of course.

You can’t even tell if you’re shivering or shaking from the fucking he’s giving you

“You should be a lot more afraid, little lamb.” He grins as he looks down at your screwed up face. Punctuated by the choked moan you let out when he tugs at the waistband of your panties, tightening the fabric to rub against your needy little clit.

Cock spearing you open against the table. Fully clothed, fabric barely disturbed but your pussy was gaping to accommodate his length. Both fascinating and had you dripping at the possible imagery. Gaping beneath your layers, folds spread over his invisible length.

The coil in your belly is heating up he fucks into you. Wetness dampening your panties as he continues to tug at them, forcing the fabric to squish against your oversensitive clit. It has your hips bucking, rolling onto your toes. You don’t even know if it’s to get away or to get more friction.

Jolting against the table as his thrusts become erratic, hands gripping you firmly to hold you in place. Choked moans coming deep from your chest as your orgasm is melting into your pelvis, ready to grab you by the throat.

Then you’re shaking, eyes clamping shut as your pussy flutters around his length, stuttering his last few thrusts before he sputters to a stop.

You're boneless against the table, mind all muddled as the hands disappear. A weight settling over the arch of your spine, a pair of arms bracketing over your own. Heaving chest against your back, goosebumps imprinting his touch into your skin.

“You’re a fucked up little thing, aren’t you?” His voice sounds almost breathless(?) You note that in some corner of your head.

“Oh the others will like you for sure. Be careful, little lamb.”

The presence disappears, leaving you with that foreboding warning and something dripping out of you.

Monster!141 Masterlist

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Lead By Example 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Trafalgar Law x gn!reader (pre-relationship) ♡ Warnings: Snarky/dark-humored reader, kusarigama-wielder (no fight scenes here, reader just carries it around), quiet emotional intimacy, late-night tension, mutual insomnia, mutual pining, heavy banter, dimly lit library vibes, slow burn energy ♡ WC: ~2k ♡ Notes: I didn’t want to default to the usual sunshine-soft pairing Law often gets (as much as I love that dynamic), so I tried something with a sharper edge. This reader’s a little more serious, kind of snarky, and carries a kusarigama like it’s part of their spine—but I still wanted it to feel like a reader insert rather than a full OC. I’m not always confident with banter writing, so fingers crossed it flows okay. It ended up more tender than I expected, but honestly? I think Law needed that.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The Polar Tang’s library was a cramped little haven carved into the submarine’s steel skeleton, a rare pocket of quiet at 1:00 AM when the crew was dead to the world. 

No creaking wood here—just the low hum of machinery thrumming through the hull, the occasional metallic groan as pressure shifted outside, and the faint clank of pipes settling. 

A single lantern dangled from a bolted bracket, its amber glow washing over shelves stuffed with medical texts, charts, and a few battered novels Bepo probably smuggled in. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, rust, and that sharp tang of recycled oxygen. 

You’d claimed a rickety chair hours ago, one leg kicked up on a crate, your kusarigama hooked at your hip—chain coiled tight, sickle gleaming like a promise of trouble. 

You were slogging through a medical journal on regenerative cell theory, eyes glazing over, when you felt him before you saw him.

Soft boots on metal, a shift in the stale air, that heavy presence Trafalgar D. Law hauled around like a loaded gun. 

You didn’t look up. 

“Late night again, huh?” he said, voice rough, scraped raw from too little sleep and too much coffee. 

You flicked a page, smirking. 

“Look who’s talking, Captain. You stalking me now?” He stepped closer, boots scuffing the deck. 

“Noticed you weren’t in your bunk,” he shot back, dry as bone. 

“What, you doing bed checks?” you said, finally glancing up, brow arched. 

“Keeping tabs on my crew,” he corrected, sharp and fast, like he’d been waiting for that jab.

He loomed there, framed by the hatchway, all loose black sweats and an unzipped hoodie, no shirt—tattoos stark against lean muscle, shadows cutting across his collarbone. His hair was a disaster, dark strands jutting out like he’d wrestled with it and lost, and those gray eyes, rimmed in exhaustion, pinned you with that infuriating mix of menace and calm. 

“Can’t sleep either, I take it?” you said, leaning back, letting your kusarigama’s chain clink against your thigh. 

“Obviously,” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

You nodded at the chair across from you, its faded upholstery patched with mismatched thread 

“Sit, then. I won’t rat you out.” He eyed it, then you, before dropping into it with a grunt, legs sprawling like he owned the damn place.

The lantern swayed faintly, light bouncing off the riveted walls. You went back to your book, pretending to read. 

“You’re gonna crash if you keep this up,” you said, casual but pointed, eyes on the page. 

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you,” he fired back, voice dripping with that smug edge he wielded like a blade. 

You snorted, flipping a page you hadn’t even skimmed. 

“I’m not the one holding this crew together. You go down, we’re fucked. Lead by example, Captain.” 

The hum of the sub filled the silence, a low drone underscoring the weight of your words. He didn’t bite back right away, just let it hang.

“You think they’d follow me that far?” he asked after a beat, quieter, like he was testing you. 

You met his stare, gray clashing with yours in the dim glow. 

“Think? No. I know they would. I would.” His eyes narrowed, searching your face—maybe for bullshit, maybe for something else. 

The silence stretched, thick with the clank of a distant pipe and the faint buzz of the lantern’s filament. 

He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. 

“That’s a hell of a bet,” he said, voice low, dry. 

“Not a bet if it’s a sure thing,” you countered, smirking just enough to rile him.

He huffed—a ghost of a laugh—and you caught the flicker of it in his eyes before he masked it. You closed the book with a snap, tossing it onto the crate. 

“Medical alchemy crap. Boring as shit,” you said, stretching your arms until your shoulders popped, kusarigama swaying at your hip. 

His gaze tracked the motion, lingering on the weapon’s glint, then up to your face. 

“You’re still reading it,” he pointed out, deadpan. 

“Masochism’s my specialty,” you shot back, grinning. 

“Explains why you’re still awake talking to me,” he said, and there it was—banter with teeth, sharp enough to cut.

You stood, pacing the tight space, the chain of your kusarigama rattling against your leg. 

“You’re one to talk, caffeine fiend. Those bags under your eyes got bags.” 

He leaned back, arms crossed, watching you move. 

“And you’re a ray of sunshine, huh?” 

“Only when I’m annoying you,” you said, stopping to lean against a shelf, facing him. 

“Which is always,” he muttered, but his lips twitched, betraying him. 

“Good. Keeps you sharp,” you said, tapping the sickle’s handle at your hip. 

He didn’t argue, just kept staring, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer.

“You don’t have to play lone wolf all the time,” you said, softer now, cutting through the snark. 

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. 

“That a suggestion or an order?” 

“Take it how you want, Law. Just saying—you matter more than you think.” 

The words landed heavier than you meant, and his jaw tightened, just a flicker, before he smoothed it over. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, but there was no venom in it—more like he was testing how far you’d push. 

“And you’re a stubborn asshole,” you replied, stepping closer, close enough that the lantern threw your shadow over him. 

“Rest sometime, yeah? Don’t make me chain you to your bunk.”

He smirked, faint but real. 

“You’d like that too much.” 

“Maybe,” you said, matching his grin, then turned for the hatch. 

“Night, Captain.” 

“Night,” he called after you, voice lingering as you slipped out, the metal clang of the hatch shutting behind you.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Law stayed put, slouched in that shitty chair, staring at the spot you’d been. The library felt colder now. Urgh, what a load of crap. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. You’d gotten under his skin, and he hated it—hated how your words stuck, how that damn kusarigama of yours glinted like it was mocking him every time you moved. 

He’d noticed it again tonight, hooked at your hip like an extension of you, all fluid menace and style. 

He didn’t touch it—wouldn’t, not when it was yours—but he’d thought about it, the weight of it, the way you swung it like breathing. Fuck, he was losing it.

He stood, pacing the tight space, boots scuffing the deck. 

The sub groaned, metal flexing under pressure, a reminder of where they were—trapped in this steel coffin, chasing a fight they might not win. 

Lead by example. 

What a joke. 

He wasn’t some shining beacon. He was a bastard with a plan and a crew dumb enough to follow it. But you’d said it like you meant it, like you’d seen something he hadn’t. 

He stopped, leaning against the desk, staring at the hatch. 

You’d left, but he could still feel you—the weight of your stare, that smart-ass mouth. He muttered a curse, low and vicious, and sank back into the chair. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You were back in your bunk, sprawled out, kusarigama propped against the wall within arm’s reach—never out of sight, never left behind. 

The room was a steel box, bare except for a locker and a porthole showing nothing but black water. The sub’s hum vibrated through the mattress, steady, relentless. 

You couldn’t shake him—Law’s tired eyes, that half-smirk when you’d pushed his buttons, the way he’d gone quiet when you’d said he mattered. 

Asshole. 

Why’d he have to look at you like that, all guarded and raw, like he didn’t know what to do with you?

You rolled over, glaring at the ceiling. 

You weren’t some lovesick idiot. 

He was your captain, a cold-blooded prick who’d cut out his own heart if it got in his way. But you’d follow him into hell, and that’s what pissed you off most—not the loyalty, but how it twisted something deeper, made you notice dumb shit like the ink on his skin, the way his voice dropped when he was too tired to hide. 

You punched the pillow, muttering, “Fuck off, Law,” to the empty room, and shut your eyes.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Next night, you were in the library again. Same lantern, same chair, different book—surgical logs, bloodier and less bullshit than the last. The hatch creaked, and there he was, same sweats, same hoodie, same shirtless crap that made your pulse kick despite yourself. 

“You’re predictable,” he said, dropping into the chair across from you. 

“Says the guy who keeps showing up,” you shot back, not looking up. 

“Touché,” he muttered, slouching like he was daring the chair to break.

“Still can’t sleep?” you asked, flipping a page. 

“Still nosy?” he countered, voice dry.

 You smirked. 

“It’s my job to keep you honest.” 

“You’re shit at it,” he said, but there was a spark in his eyes, a challenge. 

“And you’re shit at resting,” you fired back, closing the book. “We’re a pair.” 

He snorted, leaning forward. 

“A pair of what?” 

“Idiots, apparently,” you said, standing, kusarigama clinking as you moved. 

His gaze flicked to it, then back to you. 

“You ever put that thing down?” 

“Not when I might need to whip your ass into shape,” you said, grinning.

He stood too, stepping closer, cutting the space between you. 

“Keep dreaming,” he said, voice low, teasing. 

“You’re the one who can’t stay away,” you replied, holding his stare. 

The hum of the sub faded, the air tightening. 

“Maybe I like the view,” he said, and it wasn’t just banter anymore. 

You laughed, sharp and quick, breaking it. 

“Smooth, Captain.” 

“I try,” he said, smirking, and you both let it drop, the tension simmering but unspoken.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The third night, he found you on deck instead. 

The library had felt too small, too warm, so you’d taken your brooding outside, leaning against the railing with the sea stretching endless and black around you. 

The air was cool, salted, the stars sharp overhead. Your kusarigama dangled from your hand, chain swaying with the ship’s motion. 

Law appeared beside you, silent as a shadow, hands in his pockets. 

“Not the library,” he said, voice rough from disuse. 

“Change of pace,” you replied, not looking at him.

He leaned against the railing too, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. The wind tugged at his hair, his hoodie, and you caught the faint scent of him—ink, antiseptic, something sharper underneath. 

“You’re predictable,” he said after a while. 

“Says the guy who shows up every night,” you countered, twirling the sickle absently. 

He didn’t laugh, but his silence felt amused. You stood there together, the sea lapping at the hull, the quiet stretching long and easy.

“You ever stop?” he asked eventually, voice low, serious. 

“Stop what?” 

“Worrying about me.” 

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the night sky. 

“You ever stop giving me reasons to?” 

He didn’t answer, just looked out at the water, jaw tight. 

You sighed, letting the kusarigama’s chain clink against the railing. 

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Law.” 

“Takes one to know one,” he said, and this time he turned, meeting your eyes.

The space between you shrank, not physically but in every other way, the air humming with something unspoken. 

You could’ve pushed, could’ve said more, but you didn’t. Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light, deliberate. 

“Lead by example,” you murmured.

He didn’t reply, but his hand brushed yours on the railing, fleeting, intentional. 

And for once, he didn’t pull away. 

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[spitefulsatanfics]

The Art Of Loving You

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I want to be a part of your life.”

— Dean Winchester

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader (She/Her)

Tone: Fluff, Sweet Romance, Established Relationship, Sweetheart!Dean

Rating: T

Written by: Little Devil ♡

Word Count: ~6,700

Based on: Season 4–5 (canon-compliant, non-episode-specific)

---

Synopsis

Y/N has always loved Dean Winchester quietly. Not with fireworks, but with pencil shavings, stolen looks, and every small moment he thought no one noticed. She’s spent months drawing him: the hunter in repose, the man beneath the armor. His birthday gift isn’t something he can use, or shoot, or drink—but it just might be the most precious thing he’s ever held. When Dean discovers how deeply she’s been seeing him all along, it rocks something inside him he didn’t know he still had: the desperate hope to be loved exactly as he is.

=° Scene One °=

Setting: A small town motel room. Early afternoon sun filters through slatted blinds. Dust motes shimmer like suspended prayers.

The motel room was caught somewhere between a nap and a song. The air smelled faintly of old wood and motel soap, and Dean’s voice carried from the bathroom—a low, half-mumbled rendition of Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California” as he shaved.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her sketchbook balanced in her lap. The page in front of her was already smudged—his profile, drawn from memory. The arch of his brow. The stubborn set of his mouth when he’s thinking too hard about things he’ll never say out loud.

She had dozens of them now. Drawings. Little snippets of Dean from every angle imaginable. Dean laughing with his head tipped back, sun catching in his lashes. Dean asleep in the passenger seat, mouth parted slightly, fingers twitching from whatever dream dared to visit. Dean sitting on the motel floor with the Colt balanced across his knee, cleaning it like a priest polishing a relic.

It had started with idle curiosity. A sketch here, a gesture there. But something happened after that first drawing. She couldn’t stop. Not because he asked her to—God, he didn’t even know. But because there was something sacred in the way he moved through the world, and she wanted to capture every fleeting flicker of it before it disappeared.

A leather-bound journal rested beside her on the bed. Not her usual sketchbook. This one had weight. Gravitas. A hundred pages of Dean, wrapped in thick paper and the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

She hadn’t planned on giving it to him.

But his birthday was today.

And for once, she wanted him to see himself the way she did.

The bathroom door creaked open, steam billowing behind him. Dean stepped out, shirtless, a towel slung low around his hips and another around his neck. He was still humming faintly, wiping condensation from his jaw when he noticed her gaze—and froze mid-step.

“You’ve got that look again,” he said, suspicious. “The one that means you’re either plotting a surprise or hiding a body.”

Y/N blinked and closed the book quickly, like it might catch fire under his eyes. “Just sketching,” she said with a tight smile.

Dean arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been twitchier than a cat near water all morning. Not in the fun way.”

She shrugged, trying not to visibly tuck the leather book beneath a pillow. “You’ll see later.”

“Aw, hell no.” Dean crossed the room, bare feet scuffing against the carpet. “You know I hate surprises.”

“I know.” She looked up at him, chin tilted just enough to challenge. “But I love them. So you’re stuck with one.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, mouth twitching. He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and muttered, “One of these days, woman…”

But he let it go.

For now.

---

=°A Hidden Moment °=

Later that night. Motel room dim and quiet. Only the sound of her breathing.

Dean woke to the low hum of the bedside lamp and the slow rise and fall of her chest beside him. She’d fallen asleep on her side, a pencil still tucked behind her ear. The leather-bound journal lay a few inches from her hand, almost daring him.

He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her. Reached over.

His fingers barely brushed the cover when—

“Dean Winchester,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “Put that down.”

Dean jolted like he’d been caught stealing pie from the fridge. “What? I was just…”

“Touch it and I’ll draw you with a black eye,” she added, voice muffled by the pillow.

He smirked, retreating. “Damn. That book got a force field or somethin’?”

She cracked one eye open. “It’s enchanted. By me.”

“Noted,” he grinned. “Witchcraft. Hot.”

---

=° Scene Two °=

Setting: That night. Outside a rural gas station. The Impala idling beneath a flickering neon sign. The world quiet.

Dean leaned against the Impala, brown paper bag in hand, Johnny Walker inside. The night was cool, air brushing over his neck like a whisper. Y/N stood beside him, holding the journal to her chest like it might break apart if she loosened her grip.

“Alright,” she said softly, stepping forward. “Happy birthday.”

Dean tilted his head. “This the thing you’ve been guarding like it’s the Ark of the Covenant?”

“Just open it.”

He opened the cover.

And stilled.

The first page was him, behind Baby’s wheel, eyes closed, face tilted toward the wind. The second—him asleep with a book still propped open on his chest. Then—him laughing. A real laugh, wide-mouthed and honest.

Each page was another moment—private, sacred. Unfiltered. Raw. Him. Over and over, in ways he never knew she saw. Ways no one had ever seen him before.

He turned another page. His fingers trembled.

“You okay?” she asked, voice small.

Dean didn’t answer at first. Just swallowed hard.

Finally: “No one’s ever done anything like this for me,” he said. “Not even close.”

Y/N’s heart threatened to fall out of her chest. “It’s just sketches, Dean. I just—”

“No,” he cut her off gently. “It’s not just anything. This… this is proof. That I exist. Not just as some screwed-up hunter, or a soldier, or Sam’s brother. But me.”

He closed the book slowly, carefully, like it might fall apart. Then looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

He stepped forward and kissed her—slow, lingering, reverent.

“You gonna cry?” she asked against his mouth, teasing, brushing a knuckle under his damp lashes.

“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “No. Maybe. Shut up.”

---

=° Scene Three °=

Setting: Motel room, later that night. Lamplight warm and forgiving. The book sits open on the nightstand.

Dean lay stretched beside her, one arm tucked beneath his head. He was staring at a particular page—him and Y/N sitting on the hood of the Impala, stars above, her head on his shoulder. She’d drawn it from memory. From a night he thought she’d forgotten.

“You drew us,” he said.

Y/N, half-asleep, murmured, “That one was new. I added it last minute.”

He rolled onto his side, hand finding her waist.

“Think maybe next time…” he said, voice barely a whisper, “you could draw us again?”

“Yeah?” she blinked.

“Yeah,” he smiled, thumb brushing her hipbone. “But this time—draw me lookin’ at you.”

She smiled into the sheets, hand reaching for his.

He squeezed gently.

And for once, Dean Winchester didn’t need to be saved.

He just needed to be seen.

=✓= AND I SWEAR, YOU MAKE ME FEEL WORTHY OF ART. =✓=

[fiella]

black ties, red seats, white lies. harry falls in love. again.

“There’s an event,” Harry said, aiming for casual, though his heart was ringing like a death knell in his throat. “In London. Tonight.”

Draco blinked, just once, slowly.

“Just you and me. Possibly wearing something nice. No need to panic. Just—er—it’s an orchestra.”

“An… orchestra,” Draco repeated flatly.

“Yeah. You know—violins, cellos, possibly an old man flicking his wrist theatrically like he’s summoning spirits. Very serious. Very sophisticated. And—very much your cup of tea, if I’m not wrong to assume that.”

A beat passed. Draco stared down at the book for a long time, as though he was trying to find an excuse written somewhere on the pages. Slowly, his gaze lifted and he arched a brow. “Merlin, Potter. Are you—are you asking me on a bloody date?”

Harry’s brain imploded. “What? No. I mean—yes? I guess? Possibly?” He ran a hand through his hair, which only made it worse. “Fuck. I’m really bad at this.”

“You are aware that you suggesting classical music as a date is, frankly, deeply suspicious?”

“I thought you might like it,” Harry replied, gentle and honest. It was so honest, it hurt. It was so honest, it was a near invocation. Of course, he was not going to elaborate and say: I know you’ll like it because you wrote about Bach in your journal. I know you’ll like it because you used to sketch violins, instead of broken strings.  

Harry shrugged softly like his heart wasn’t already bleeding in his chest, and said, “So, what do you say?"

Draco gnawed on his bottom lip for only a second. “You really want me to come?”

It shouldn’t have sounded so disbelieving, Harry thought.

“Yeah. I really do.”

Stay tuned.

[pisstintedglasses]

Diary of a Horny Man

Landlord! Park Jongseong-Jay x Tenant! Reader

warnings: BDSM, unsafe sex (don't copy them), dacryphilia, begging, brat, POV, rough sex, daddy dom!Jay, loud af, dubcon, cnc

Chapter 2 - Diary Journal

What the fuck.

4 chained leather cuffs hung from the ceiling. Leather gloves, whips, collars, leashes, and other BDSM paraphernalia littered the floor the queen-sized-bed in the middle of the room. On each bedpost, a shorter version of the chained leather cuffs. There was a huge body mirror mounted on the wall right in front of the bed. Next to it, a large wooden dresser that was slightly ajar.

Dust covered the floor. This place hasn't been used in a while. Thank fuck.

After making sure the coast is clear, you stepped inside. The first thing you checked out was the dresser. It was basically begging you to open it, from the way it teased your curiosity. Inside were a variety of sex toys ranging from dildos, to vibrators, to.. tail-themed butt plugs? Oh hell no. This shit is nasty. Who the fuck owns this anyway?

It can't be one of the old ladies.. right?

You grimaced at the thought before you ventured for other things to investigate.

Another thing finally stole your attention. A notebook. A black, leather notebook with Jay Park signed on it beautifully. I guess this answers my question. Taking it in hand and opening it, you read a few pages and scoffed. Didn't know grown, angsty men owned diaries.

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December 1

So, things got a little wild last night. I wasn't expecting it to go the way it did, but here we are, and I can't help but smile when I think about it. The chemistry was undeniable, and let's just say the night didn't disappoint... After participating in something as childish yet challenging as No Nut November, I've become a rougher in bed than usual. But she didn't seem to mind at all. Maybe she even liked it. Bondage.

Last night, she let me tie her hands to the bed, and her ankles together. She said it was her treat for me after being abstinent for so long. Apparently, she's researched a shit ton about sex. 

We were never too open to this type of stuff, but it totally paid off when we actually did try. The way her body looked so beautiful, arched in an attempt to bring my hand closer to her body. Those pretty perked nipples ached to be touched, to be played with. I thought I would cave in and just fuck her senseless already but.. I didn't. Instead, I kept teasing her, edging her, frustrating her for probably hours before I finally put it in.

And even then, I just cockwarmed her, letting her tight cunt clench around me. Then it happened. She cried. Cried for my cock, begged for pleasure, an orgasm. I never thought I'd be into making her cry. At that moment, I knew I was. My cock twitched at every tear that slid off her sculpted face.

I couldn't resist it anymore and started thrusting my hips in an unforgiving pace into her hole. God, she was so wet here too. I raised a hand to her mouth and slid a finger inside, letting her coat it with saliva before I shot it straight to her clit. She jolted from the pleasure and tightened around me once again. She was so hot, pratically burning. 

We already had so many unexpected outcomes that night, we'd reached yet another one. She squirted. It was one of the most euphoric feelings I've ever experienced. Her eyes were rolled to the back of her head. She couldn't even moan anymore. All she could do was spasm and silently scream as she just kept squirting. Seeing her being so fucked out was what made me reach my own orgasm. This was the hardest orgasm I've ever had.

The moments that followed felt surreal—like we were suspended in time, a universe of our own, where nothing else existed but the way our bodies connected, the way our breaths mixed. She lay beneath me, her body still trembling from the intensity of what we had just shared. I couldn’t help but trace my fingertips over her skin, feeling the heat still radiating from her body, the way her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath.

I leaned in, my lips grazing the curve of her neck, savoring the sweet scent of her skin. "Are you okay?" I asked softly, the words slipping out without thinking, but I needed to hear her say it. I wanted to know that she was just as consumed by the experience as I was.

Her hand rested against my chest, and she looked up at me, her eyes glimmering with something I couldn’t quite place. "More than okay," she whispered, her voice low and sultry, full of something dangerous and thrilling. "I didn’t know it could be like this. I didn’t know it could feel so good to lose control."

I smirked, the rush of pleasure still coursing through me. "I think we’ve only just begun."

There was a fire in her eyes now—something wild, something new that hadn’t been there before. She shifted beneath me, her hands running down my body as though she was exploring a map, tracing each inch of me with purpose. It was as if she was testing me, daring me to go further, to push us both deeper into this realm we had entered.

"You’re not done with me, are you?" she asked, the teasing lilt in her voice unmistakable. "I want more. I want everything."

I growled softly, the primal part of me awakening, pushing away any remaining restraint. The hunger in her voice echoed my own desires. I could feel her want, the heat of it, the desperation. She was no longer the woman I had known before—this was someone entirely different. Someone who was ready to explore the boundaries of everything we had never dared to cross.

My hands moved quickly, expertly, tying her wrists again, securing them to the bedposts. She didn’t protest, didn’t hesitate. Her eyes locked with mine, and in that moment, we both understood that the game had changed. This wasn’t just about pleasure anymore; this was about giving everything we had, about losing ourselves completely in each other.

I moved over her slowly, making sure she felt every inch of me as I slid into her again. She gasped, her body arching in response, and I held still, letting her adjust, letting the tension between us build. My hands traced her curves, feeling the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips, and then I leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, full of fire and promise.

"Tell me what you want," I murmured against her lips, my voice rough with need.

She moaned softly, her hips grinding against me, urging me to move, but I held myself back. I wanted to savor this, to keep her hanging on the edge of pleasure for as long as possible. She pulled at her restraints, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her face flushed with anticipation.

"I want you," she breathed, her words laced with a desperate edge. "I want you to take me, to make me feel like I’ve never felt before. Don’t hold back."

Her words were like a command, a challenge, and I couldn’t resist any longer. I started to move, slow at first, letting the tension build with each thrust. Her body responded instantly, her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper as if she couldn’t get enough of me. The sound of her breathless gasps, the way she trembled beneath me—it was intoxicating.

I increased the pace, each thrust becoming harder, faster. Her body was so tight, so responsive, and I could feel the way she clenched around me with each movement, as if she was trying to pull me even closer. I leaned down, my lips trailing along her jaw, her neck, savoring the taste of her skin. She was lost in the moment, completely consumed by the sensation, and it made me want to push her further, to see just how far we could go.

"Please..." she whispered, her voice trembling, and I could hear the desperation in her tone. "I need it. I need you to make me come."

The rawness of her words, the way she was begging for release, sent a thrill through me. I didn’t hesitate. I pressed deeper, harder, until she cried out, her body spasming beneath me as the pleasure overtook her. The sight of her in that moment—her face twisted in ecstasy, her body writhing in pleasure—pushed me to the edge. I could feel my own release building, and I lost all control.

I thrust into her one final time, the force of it sending us both into oblivion. My orgasm hit with such intensity that it left me breathless, my body shuddering as I rode out the waves of pleasure. I collapsed beside her, our bodies entangled, drenched in sweat, hearts racing.

We lay there in silence, the only sound the steady rhythm of our breathing as we came down from the high of what we had just shared. I pulled her close, holding her against me, feeling the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair against my chest.

We just crossed new lines. And I get the feeling we won't regret it.

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You closed the diary and processed what you just wrote. Sure you knew diaries were usually filled with its owner's freakiest thoughts, but you didn't expect vividly detailed self-written smut of your landlord. 

Oh shit..

Did he use all of this? Did he really write every round of sex he had in this diary? And most importantly.. who was she..?

You were about to read more but you felt yourself clench around nothing. The room suddenly felt hotter and you got the urge to use one of the toys in the dresser. 

"No.. this- this is wrong.." Standing up, you b-lined for the door to your room.

Right before you left what you've dubbed as Jay's BDSM room, a part of you clawed at your heart and forced it—you to stay. Looking over your shoulder and into the pile of toys in the dresser, then at the other door that led to god-knows-where, you conceded. 

"I should not be doing this I should not be doing this I should not be this I should not be doing this I should not be doing this-" Yet here you were. You chanted those 6 words repeatedly as you swiftly locked the other door and pulled out a pretty, pink vibrator. Then you laid on the bed and sprawled yourself all over it. 

Images of Jay hovering over you, staring at you with hungry eyes, purged all the reluctance you once had. You pressed the buttons a couple of times, and to your surprise, it turned on, vibrating against your sweaty palms. Your breaths were ragged by the time you lowered it to your clothed cunt. It would be better to leave your pajama shorts on since you didn't wanna leave your scent on the vibe.

"Jay.." you find yourself moaning. You circled the vibrator on your clit, hips buckling upwards in response to the stimuli. 

Your mind was so clouded, you started having hallucinations. Such vivid ones. It was as if Jay had really stepped in the room, took the vibrator, and started guiding it along your folds. It felt so good. His sharp stare piercing through your lust-filled orbs. His name came out your mouth numerous times in a hushed whisper.

You imagined Jay driving you into an orgasm, in the same rough matter he's written about in his journal. When you finally reach your peak, your hand stretched out in front of you to grab his head and pull him into a kiss. But you could only clutch at air. 

Post nut clarity hit you way faster due to this, and a distasteful feeling of emptiness clogged the air around you. What was once filled with the heat of sex, now; cold and empty.

Shaking your head, you stood up, tucked the toy back into its position, and left the room for good. The journal, though? You didn't even realize you took it with you until you laid back in your own bed and felt it snug in your hands.

You weren't gonna be able to face anyone else in this building without feeling a sense of guilt creep at your mind for the next few weeks.

Wait. The wallpaper.

Lunging out your bedroom with some tape, you quickly patched the wallpaper up. Thanks to the dim lighting in the halls, Jay probably wouldn't notice if he came in here for an inspection. You slapped a hand over your eyes as you did the walk of shame back into your room.

You were shameful, not just because you touched yourself to the thought of your landlord, but because you felt jealous of the girl he was writing about. Why does she get to be worshipped and not you?

Oh but what are you thinking.. you barely know the guy. And now you won't be able to face him without thinking back to what you just did.

Gods.. what have I gotten myself into.

// to be continued //

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The entire series > kfflerglrh

Chapter 3 - Day and Night

Ong I speedran making this

Comment to be added to the taglist ^^

[siro-cyll]

The Uncharted Mansion

Transcript:

Once again, Gravity Falls has contradicted my ability to predict its unstable weather patterns. While cataloging several anomalies in the woods miles from my cabin, I became lost in a freak blizzard that I was gravely unprepared for. I had no choice but to seek refuge in the nearest cave and light a fire for warmth. As I tried to stave off the cold, I realized the cave was not made of stone but dense trees frozen in an arch, creating a dark tunnel that stretched beyond the firelight. With the storm raging behind me and my curiosity piqued, I ventured forth to get my mind off the storm. To my astonishment, the long tunnel yawned wide into an extravagant courtyard surrounding a massive decadent mansion that rivals the one owned by the Northwest, only more overgrown. It seems I have stumbled upon: The Uncharted Mansion My amazement at the unmarked domicile aside, I decided I had to take shelter inside until the storm passed. I'm sure whoever resides here wouldn't mind, given the circumstances. I gained entry through a cellar door at the back, and as the exterior suggested, the interior had not been touched for some time. A quick sweep of the place told me I was alone. Each room was fully furnished with furniture covered in dust-covered sheets. Given the eerie yet enchanting atmosphere, I half-expected something to come alive to talk to me as some beast-like prince resident to make himself known. Maybe I'm overthinking this. Chilled to the bone, I lit the hearth in a lavish parlor using some dried wood nearby and settled onto one of the covered fainted couches to take in my surroundings. My mind tumbled with what secrets this place could hold as my excitement grew. I had not found any records of this mansion in my research, but it looked as old as the one owned by Northwest. Surprising no one, my first thought was that this place had to be haunted. Also surprising no one, I had brought my emergency ghost-hunting kit with me. While I has unprepared for such a drastic change in the weather, I'm always prepared for an impromptu ghost hunt! A somber portrait above the hearth caught my eyes as I set up my gear. The profile of a pale young woman with long dark hair holding a barn owl with a bowtie stood out against the black background framed in gold. Engraved at the bottom were the initials "B.B.B." Her initials? Her manner of dress was reminiscent of nobility during the pioneer days. The longer I gazed at her, the more my face warmed at the possibility of making contact with her. Would that count as a girl talking to me if she responded? Ghost girls are still girls, right? Then it occured to me that I had no clue what to say to her. "How's death treating you?" would probably get me slapped. I spent an hour rehearsing and trying to be as charming as possible before starting. After hours of trying to detect any paranormal activity, I concluded that I was getting the literal cold shoulder from "BBB", which was likely given my track record with women, or this place was not haunted despite its atmosphere. Pity. I was hoping I would be able to talk to someone tonight. This place had become quite lonesome once the excitement wore off.

For years now I've wanted to make lost journal pages for Journal 1 and 2, and I've finally started! With @lord-rosenth0rne's help, we've started here, at Thorne's mansion! We had a lot of fun with this, messing with codes, and even throwing in a cameo of my oc, Riddell.

We want to keep exploring Ford's journals, along with my Tumble in Time continuity. Thorne is a fruit bat vampire who ends up being roommates with Orion, and these pages happen before Orion comes crashing into Ford's life.

If you want to take a blacklight to it, check out the read more~

No Ford blacklight commentary here, it's all Bill for some reason...

[crowsofdarkness]

Dorogaya: Chapter Eleven[END]

-gif not mine. credit to owner-

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Agent! Reader.

Content Warnings: language, 18 + implied smut, angst, fluff, kidnapping, violence.

Summary: It has been a few years since Bucky and Reader went into hiding. Just when they thought they were slowly building a life together, the past comes back with a vengeance.

Authors Note: This is the end of this series! The final series in this trilogy, Vaz Prizrak, will take place during Infinity War and Endgame!

Tags: @globetrotter28 @sakuracyberhex @chinggay85-blog @bookofriverr @misatxox @that-blonde-girl @cats-chaotic-mind @wintrsoldrluvr @sebastians-love @pumpkin-babydoll @ordelixx @starfly-nicole @j23r23 @baw1066

Soldat Masterlist | Dorogaya Masterlist

I remember who she was, what she was to me. Hydra kidnapped her years ago and forced me to train her. They wanted her to be the female version of me, another winter soldier. I refused at first and was punished. They strapped me to that chair, burning my mind until I agreed. She was so beautiful, the first time I saw her she took my breath away. 

The way her hair hung past her shoulders or the way she would chew on the left side of her bottom lip when she was nervous for our training sessions. I remember being drawn to the beauty mark right below her right eye, dark and prominent. It looked like a piece of jewelry on her. 

My fingers shook as the tears fell from my eyes, staining the page, while I turned to the next one; Bucky’s written words mending my heart. 

She was always afraid to fight me, I could tell in the way her heart would beat through her chest. I could hear it from my room across the building. I knew when she was asleep by the way her breathing would slow and I knew when she was awake from the soft voice coming from her room, singing a tune I found myself loving. She was the one that made the hell we were in bearable. 

I may have forgotten everything at the hands of Hydra but there was always one thing I remembered; our last night together when we were captured together. 

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, knowing exactly what night he was talking about. 

I remember the way her back arched, chest exposed to the air, when I kissed my way down her stomach to her most prized area. Her breath caught in her throat when she felt my lips on her, savoring the way she tasted; salty with a tinge of sweetness. The feeling of her heels locking me into place, pulling me in closer and deeper. The beautiful sound of her moans was music to my ears; I could still hear it now. She was breathtaking that night and I hope to one day feel herself on me again. 

The night air had done nothing to help my burning cheeks as I read that paragraph a few more times. I had been on my own for a few weeks now, Shuri and T’challa came to visit every once in a while to check on me or give me updates about Bucky. Occasionally, the young kids would come to get a look at the “White Wolf”, a nickname they gave Bucky, but would frown when I would say he wasn’t with me yet. 

Steve sent a few texts every now and then on a burner phone that he had given me. From the few conversations we had, I found out that him, Nat, Wanda, Sam, and Vision were on the run together. He wouldn’t tell me where, obviously, but I always wished him well. 

The fire in front of me warmed my feet, keeping the night air from making me shiver, and I turned my attention back to Bucky’s journal. 

She’s sitting across from me right now, reading a book, and she’s never looked more beautiful. Her lip is sucked between her teeth as she’s reading, the words unfamiliar to her. She wanted to learn Romanian. Her eyes are so bright, the color bringing a sense of familiarity to me. Everytime she looks at me, I want to wrap my arms around her and kiss her until my last breath. The sun from outside had casted a warm glow around her like an angel. My Dorogaya. 

I can’t find the right words to say it to her face but I love her; always had. Even though Hydra made her into something she has no control over, she doesn’t let it bother her. She focuses on helping me heal that she forgets she needs to heal herself. We made a promise that life on the run wouldn’t be permanent. I don’t care, I’d go anywhere with her. 

A quick lick of my finger, the page turned easily between them. 

She told me about her past with Steve. This unfamiliar feeling burned inside when she talked about how close they were. She claimed that Steve and I used to be best friends but I don’t remember. All I can remember is her. 

The date on the last passage made my breath catch in my throat; the night before everything changed. 

She was attacked at work tonight. I tried to talk to her about it but her powers took over. I never wanted this life for her, she doesn't deserve this life. She deserves everything good in the world so I sometimes wonder if I’m enough for her. I love her with every single feeling inside of me but I can’t find it in my heart to tell her. The words burn on my tongue, wanting to scream it at her but nothing comes out. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have with her before she realizes that I can’t move past everything that happened to me. I’m trying, for her, but the screams are too much. I promised that I would take care of her, give her everything she deserves, but I’m afraid that she’ll walk away. I can’t lose her, I love her so fucking much. 

Feeling sad that I had finished reading the journal, I closed it with a loud sigh. It was full of memories of us and knowing that Bucky remembered all of that made me fall more in love with him. He loved me all this time and knew that I was the one for him, he was just afraid that I would leave him for taking too long. 

Never in a million years. 

“Rogers, leave Natasha alone! That’s her pile of food!” 

I chased around one of the goats before letting out a frustrated groan. It had been a few months now of my new life in Wakanda and to ease the loneliness I not only took up gardening like Steve had mentioned, I also decided to raise some goats. 

Bad decision. 

They kept me on my toes every single day, hence why I named them after Steve and Nat, but I had to admit that it gave me a reason to get up every day. 

Shuri continued to visit after her sessions with Bucky, saying that he was doing well. She wanted to be careful in removing the words from his mind. Hydra had done a number on his brain and even if she could remove the words, he would still have to deal with the mental thoughts of exactly what happened in his past. 

“You know,” Shuri said one day, “I saw a lot of memories involving you.” 

I went red with embarrassment. “You did?” 

She nodded. “He loves you very much. I think the thought of you is what’s keeping him alive. He’s dreaming peacefully now.” 

I raised my shoulders in confusion. “Then when will he wake up?” 

“I don’t know. Wherever he is ready,” Shuri admitted with a sigh. 

The sun had begun to set so after a long time trying to wrangle the goats into their pen for the night, I was ready to turn in myself another night of sleeping alone. 

“Dorogaya?” 

My heels spun around with a flash at the familiar name. Standing in front of me was a very refreshed and relaxed looking man. His missing arm was covered with a sling of fabric. The soft breeze had wrapped around us, blowing his hair away from his eyes that shined with the familiar light I missed so much. 

“Bucky?” I asked, words trembling. 

I was afraid this was another dream I was having. 

“I missed you,” he breathed while breaking out into a huge grin. 

The bottom of my feet sped through the tall grass towards him and even with one arm, he had caught me with ease. Our lips danced for the first time in months but they never missed a beat. It was a teeth smacking, tongue dancing, kiss that fueled the fire deep within and the pleasure I felt from the both of us was almost too much to handle. 

Reluctantly I pulled away but pinched his cheeks, just to make sure he was real. 

“Ow,” he hissed. “What was that for?” 

My smile reached my eyes, I was so happy. 

“Just making sure it’s really you.” 

He gave me another kiss. “I missed you.” 

I wrapped my arms around his neck, smelling the familiar scent; teakwood and mint. 

“I missed you too.” I admitted with a long sigh. 

Still in his grasp, he looked around our little home with a proud smile. “You’ve made a nice home for yourself.” 

Immediately I shook my head to correct him. “For us.” 

We shared another passionate kiss and I could feel his feet move, walking us towards our hut. 

“Show me around then, doll,” he hinted with a sly smirk. 

For the first time in a very long time, Bucky and I laid tangled together in a mess of sweaty flesh and knotted sheets. Everything was perfect again and I was going to hold on tight to him. Nothing would come between us. We would finally be able to start our lives together. 

My Soldat and his Dorogaya. 

[lovebugism]

for your fall prompts! what about “why are your hands so cold?” with the love of my life, steve harrington?

autumn, my love! ty for requesting! i hope you like it!! — steve makes fun of your cold hands but only as an excuse to hold them (mutual pining, friends to lovers, 2k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Family Video always smells like Robin’s morning coffee, crisp autumn air, and warm nostalgia this time of year. It’s quiet and homey and liminal — as orange as early autumn itself. 

The empty store is filled with the sound of your rushed scribbling as you jot down a load of cursive nothingness in your journal. Your hand smears the wet ink across the page. It stains the paper as much as the side of your wrist. 

Your other hand is curled into a fist to prop up your lolling head. Expelling your racing thoughts into the leather-back book is the only thing keeping you awake.

The stale air glows suddenly with a newfound life when a cozier, more familiar scent engulfs you — like pine, musk, and vanilla. You feel Steve’s visceral warmth surrounding you. Before you can blush about the unexpected proximity, he snatches your journal out from under you.

“Hey!” you shout before you mean to, perhaps the loudest he’s ever heard you.

“What’s this?” this beautiful boy muses, honey eyes sparkling. The dull store blooms with its radiance. You can’t believe he’s looking at you with it and with his rosy, lopsided grin.

“Give it back,” you demand, quieter now and smiling wider.

Steve meets your playfully arched brow with a sunny grin. He thumbs through your journal with golden hands from a leftover summer tan. His biceps are all but bursting from his vest and too-tight polo.

“Keith said you’re not allowed to write in your diary on the clock, you know?” he reminds with a feigned seriousness, scrunching his nose when his twinkling eyes flit back to yours.

Keith did actually say that. A few days ago now. He also said he’d dock your pay if he caught you doing it again, the absolute asshole.

“It’s not a diary!” you argue with a beam on your face.

You briefly wonder if you’re smiling a little too wide, and the fleeting thought makes the bright expression flicker. 

You cross your arms over your chest and pretend to be more serious. Something about Steve stirs a deep sensuality in you, though — like a wolf innately drawn to a full moon. The corners of your lips quirk with an emotion you couldn’t conceal if you tried.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he singsongs with raised brows. 

Strands of honey hair hang over his wrinkled forehead when he turns to the book in his hands. He swipes his fingers through them to push them back again, but they fall into place a second later.

You’re too enamored by the boy in front of you to stop him when he starts flipping through your notebook. You know he knows it isn’t a diary. You also know he wouldn’t be going through it if it were. He’s too nice for that. Too sweet on you, anyway.

He finds a random page and lingers there. His eyes flit over every inch of the ink you’ve scribbled inside — miscellaneous lists, doodles, and song lyrics. He figures it must be the music you’re humming all the time, tunes you can’t get out of your head.

Every time I see you, all the rays of the sun are streaming through the waves of your hair, the words read in clumsy cursive. And every star in the sky is taking aim at your eyes like a spotlight. The beating of my heart is a drum, and it’s lost, and it’s looking for a rhythm like you—

Steve’s heart flutters. He feels like a kid again. His stomach swirls with the thought that you might’ve been thinking about him in between the lyrics. It’s as unlikely as it is childish. He knows this, so he frowns.

“Oh,” he monotones playfully, brows pinching and lips jutting. “That’s boring.”

“Exactly. So give it back—” You reach for the book, but Steve’s too quick. He jerks it out of your reach and leaves your hand grabbing at air.

“Ooh, sorry, sunshine,” Steve lilts. “Looks like you’re not tall enough for this ride.”

Your cheeks speckle with heat. You wonder if he’s flirting or if he’s just being friendly, and you’re too in love to know the difference. Your terribly hidden smile is wide and impossibly giddy, anyway.

“Steve,” you bite, though it comes out much happier than you intended it to. “Give it back.”

He purses his lips to the side and furrows his brows. “Hmm… No.”

Your smile broadens, and your eyes widen at his blatant defiance. You giggle like a child as you walk the short distance towards him. “Give it back,” you laugh and stand on the tips of your toes in front of him. 

He chuckles boyishly in return and lifts it further out of your reach.

You jump slightly off the ground to grab it. You fail the first time and try harder the second. You just narrowly miss it. The tips of your fingers brush his wrist as your torso presses too intently against his ribcage. 

Your chest scrapes his vest and jostles his Hi, I’m Steve name tag. You stumble back in mortification. 

With a red-hot face and a gaping gaze, you try to stammer out an apology. Nothing comes out. Your mouth opens and shuts like a fish as you pull the hem of your sweater down from where it had ridden up.

Steve has his own look of bewilderment. His honey eyes are aglow with something short of amusement. You’re briefly worried he’s about to mock you until he starts to laugh. “Why are your hands so cold?” he wonders with squinted eyes.

Your stutter hasn’t quite left you. “I— I don’t know. My hands are always cold.” 

You curl your fists into the sleeves of your sweater on instinct. If only to hide how they shake for him.

“But that’s like… ice cold,” Steve insists, crooked smile widening. “Like, we live in Antarctica cold.”

Less embarrassed and more playful, you roll your eyes and turn away from him. “Okay…” you mumble under your breath as you sit back down in your chair. Steve can’t stand you being too far away, so he follows you.

“Like, you just got done shoveling snow with your bare hands cold. Like—”

“I get it, Steve. I’m a freak of nature,” you concede, spinning in your swivel chair to face him again. 

He’s much closer than you expect him to be. His long legs are all but inches from your knees as he stands before you. You flush but smirk up at him in attempts to keep cool about how fervently he makes you tremble.

“I’m just teasing,” he assures with a pretty laugh.

You already knew that, though. He’s too kind to be mean. He’s a dumbass sometimes, but he always means well.

“Here, look,” he starts, laying your journal back on the counter with a quiet thud. “Let me make it up to you, yeah?”

Your brows pinch. “What do you mean?”

You find out a second later when he turns back to you and takes your hands in his larger ones. 

His fingers are long and golden as they curl around your knuckles. His palms aren’t soft, but they aren’t rough either — like they’ve been used, but not too ardently. And he’s warm. He’s oh, so warm.

You tense at the sudden action but relax a second later, melting into him like you’ve always been destined to. 

“Oh…”

“Right?” Steve nods with raised brows and quirked lips. “I’m practically a space heater.”

Your heart’s fluttering too aggressively to stutter out an intelligible sentence, so you just nod back at him. “Yeah…”

It makes a little too much sense that the ray of sunlight that always calls you Sunshine feels so golden warm.

Steve gives your hands a squeeze. “See? You’re getting warmer already.”

He doesn’t know it’s because you’re blushing so intensely you feel like your entire body has been set on fire. You’re happy to let him keep on not knowing.

“Thanks, Stevie…” you murmur quietly, gaze trained on your entwined hands.

“Stevie?” he chuckles.

Your eyes dart up to his sparkling ones, and you freeze. You hadn’t meant to call him that. That nickname was usually reserved for your too-elaborate daydreams. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. It just— It just slipped. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, it’s okay,” Steve assures with the shake of his head, giving you another reassuring squeeze. “Seriously. I liked it.”

You exhale a nervous laugh through your nose, ducking your gaze away from his. “You always hate when Robin calls you that…”

“Well, yeah. ‘Cause she’s Robin.”

Your laugh is more genuine this time.

“And it sounds a lot prettier when you say it, anyway.”

He must notice how hard he’s making you blush with how warm your hands have gotten — from frozen solid to fiery hot. But he holds them, anyway. Even when they get all clammy. You want it to mean more than it probably does.

“Yeah?” you press, peering up at him through your lashes.

“Yeah,” he nods like it’s obvious, then gets as sheepish as you a moment later. He tries to act cool through his shyness, tilting his head and shrugging as he smirks. “How about you call me that tonight?”

Your eyes go wide at the unintended insinuation.

His gape matches your own when his own words dawn on him. “I meant at dinner!” he follows quickly. “At Enzo’s. Seven o’clock. You know, if— if you wanna go with me or whatever.”

You do. Most desperately so. In fact, you’re pretty sure you dreamt about it one time. Maybe you’ll tell him that if you’re brave enough — over pasta and breadsticks.

“I don’t have a car,” you confess with a forced laugh. “Or a pretty dress…”

“I can pick you up!” Steve assures immediately, then grows visibly shier. He shifts his weight on his feet but doesn’t try to let go of your hands. It feels too right to hold them. “And, you know, I’m sure you’ll look nice in whatever you decide to wear, sunshine.”

You purse your lips to the side as you nod, lest your beam blinds him and makes your cheeks burst.

“Okay… Enzo’s. Seven o’clock,” you repeat quietly.

“I pick you up,” he says, squeezing your hands.

You squeeze him back. “You pick me up.”

“And we spend an hour eating breadsticks and making fun of all the wine snobs.”

The imagery makes your stomach swirl, a dream so real you can taste it — red wine and garlic and cherry chapstick. 

“Sounds like a plan,” you affirm with a sheepish giggle.

He nods, having no idea he’s grinning like a lovesick idiot down at you. “Cool.”

“Cool,” you repeat.

You watch his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip. For a fleeting moment, you think he might kiss you. You want him to kiss you. You might melt at his feet if he did, but you need it like you need air.

Ding! 

The door chimes at the front of the store. 

Autumn air rushes in, leaving you bitterly cold all over again. Or maybe that’s just because Steve’s stepping away from you. Both of you know that Keith will have a fit if a customer complains about PDA.

“Hi! Welcome in! Can I help you find anything?” Steve greets as kindly as always, smiling just the same. 

He only says it because he has to say it. He’s secretly hoping for a negative response, just so he can keep on talking to you.

The man in big work boots and a thick canvas jacket squints around the store. He rubs his scruffy face with a hardened hand and turns to Steve. “Yeah, actually,” he says in a gruff, gravely voice. “I was looking for this movie for my wife. It’s her birthday and…”

He rambles on about her favorite movie, a cartoon from her childhood he’s gone two towns over to find. It’s sweet enough to give you butterflies, though it doesn’t match the zoo that erupts in your stomach when Steve turns to look at you again.

He departs from you with a honey gaze. You smile back at him as he goes, watching him intently as he helps the customer with a pretty pink smile.

Your hands are cold again. So much that they ache with you curl them into fists. 

You can’t wait for Steve to hold you again tonight. Over a white-clothed table, warm yellow candlelight, and wine-slicked lips. 

Enzo’s. Seven o’clock.

[ashleyfableblack]

"Okay… what about this one?" Queen Twilight tapped a hoof on the page. With a soft glow of her horn she drew out the complex symbol in the air as she sounded it out. "Vah… Lahk. Varahk? Varrac!"

Chrysalis smiled. "Perhaps…" She sleepily craned her neck to study her most recent clutch of eggs. A sticky green resin held the precious charges in place, dangling from a nearby rocky overhang. As the wind funneled through the natural arch, they gently swung, rocked as a baby in a crib.

With a puff of her cheeks she blew a gust of glittering pinkish light in their direction. The love energy swirled around the eggs like an octopus ink, clouding the air in a warm soupy fog before it was absorbed into the tiny grey orbs. The as-yet-unborn gobbling up the nourishment from their mother. Chrysalis gave a sleepy yawn and began to slowly drift to laying on her side,. She wondered if they, too would have violet eyes like their little lavender pony other-mother.

"Chryssi?" Twilight gave her wife a gentle prodding with her wingtip. "Honeybug?"

"MRZussaffm…" Chrysalis's eyes struggled open.

Twilight gave an pleading grin at the pitifully adorable sight of the little larvae nuzzled around her bughorse bride as they tucked into the translucent tresses of her cobweb-mane. "Chryssi…?"

Chrysalis chittered to one of the larvae and gave her an affectionate nip, removing a flake of molting chitin. "I'm sorry, beloved. I'm just-" she yawned again . "You know your pony naming conventions are so unnecessary to our changelings. They're hatched knowing their designations through the hive-mind."

Twilight pouted with a pleading smile as she leafed through the pages of the incredibly ancient book. "I know it's a point of cultural confusion between our races, beetlebum. That's why I'm trying to incorporate more of your culture and try some names more familiar to your people and your people's history- while at the same time educating myself on the Ancient Equish language and history." She held the book aloft in her magic with a prideful flourish, still carefully keeping her place in its pages. "THUS, we are using one of your old journals from the pre-Sucrosian Period!"

Chrysalis sighed and gave a playful roll of her eyes in surrender. She had to chuckle. When Twilight was like this, she truly couldn't deny her little wife anything. She watched with interest as Twilight opened her old journal. Two of their larvae quickly skittered from the navy waves of her wife's mane to climb on the millenia-old manuscript. Excited to help their ponymother, they chittered happily, holding the page in place with their forelimbs.

"So…. Varrac?" Twilight asked with a bright, curious smile.

"Well, she was good with snakes."

Twilight looked from the ancient book to one of the tiny changeling larvae cuddled into her crest of alicorn chest-fluff. "Are you a 'Varrac'? Are you going to be good with snakes?"

The tiny face lit up like a Hearthswarming bonfire at her ponymother's excited smile. She hissed out her tiny forked tongue and wiggled her little caterpillar-like rump of a tail segment. Twilight fawned with motherly pride and nosed at the tiny changeling babe. "I'll bet you will be. Of course you will. You look just like a Varrac."

Chrysalis adored moments like these, lazy afternoons together with her wife, watching her excitement and pride as she learned new things. Pouring over old volumes of any sort, Twilight came to life in a whole other way. Knowledge was her passion.

"Let's see here… What about… This one, V….Vaaa….Varghan?"

Chrysalis peered over the tome. "Vabam. As I recall she …was good with secrets…. good at telling them anyways."

Twilight crinkled her nose at that thought. Looking to one of the larvae she shook her head. "That doesn't sound like you, does it?" The tiny changeling babe tilted her head. returning her ponymother's smile and shake of the head. "No. You're not a Vabam. That's an honest little face if I've ever seen one. Hmmmm…."

She continued pouring over the swirling, magical symbols. With Chrysalis tutelage she was learning the art of reading them but still, the practice was FAR more complicated than any language she'd ever encountered. Deciphering the symbols was as much mental wrestling as it was arcane finesse, even compared to the darkest and most ancient of pony magics. "Okay, what about… Sssssurgat? No. I remember you said something once about that one. She liked to pick locks or…. Oo! Suluth! What about that one, Chryssi?"

After a few moments of silence Twilight looked up from the page. "Chrysalis?"

She chuckled. Chrysalis had dozed off. Their tiny charges, nestled secure in the tucked chitinous hooves of their armored queen-mother, mirrored her gentle snoring.

"Oh well." Twilight sighed. With a curling of the enchanted waves of her mane she drew the larvae gathered around her into her crest of chest floof. "I guess that can be enough for today."

The alicorn queen softly shut the tome. With a mother's love, she gently carried her little buggy babes with her as she sidled over to the slumbering bughorse. After a few moments of ooching she eventually found her way into the creche of her wife's limbs and In the enchanted air of sweet summer breeze the royal family drifted off together.

[the-offside-rule]

Sam Winchester (Supernatural) - Deal With a Demon pt. II

Requested: yes

Warnings: not much tbh

The Impala growled softly as it rolled down the desolate two-lane road, its engine’s low hum a steady comfort in the otherwise quiet car. Sam absentmindedly flipped through their dad’s old journal while Dean, behind the wheel, let out a low, unexpected chuckle. "What?" Sam asked, glancing up from the pages. Dean jerked his chin toward a neon sign glowing faintly in the distance. "The Crossroads." Dean said with a smirk, gesturing at the sign. "Think Ellen and Jo would’ve been up for another Roadhouse?" Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Maybe." Dean’s grin widened. "Perfect. I’m thirsty. If I don’t get a beer soon, I might not make it to the next hunt. You good to drive us out of here afterward?" Sam rolled his eyes, already resigned. "Fine, Dean."

"Atta boy." Dean swung the Impala into the gravel lot, killing the engine. The neon lights reflected off the glossy black hood as they stepped out. The place looked unassuming. Clean, quiet, more like a quaint dive than anything ominous, but something about it sent a subtle chill through Sam’s shoulders. Dean pushed the door open, a small bell jingling overhead. Inside, the bar was all warm wood, soft lighting, and the faint hum of a jukebox in the corner. A handful of patrons dotted the tables, but the bar itself sat nearly empty.

Dean slid onto a stool first, thumping his hand against the polished counter. "Whoever set this place up deserves a medal."

"You'd give a medal to anyone with a working beer tap." Sam muttered, taking the seat beside him. Dean shot him a smirk. "And you’re just bitter. But come on—‘The Crossroads’? It’s practically calling our names." Before Sam could reply, a voice soft and familiar, broke the moment.

"Evening boys."

Sam’s head snapped up, and his blood ran cold.

She stood behind the bar, a towel in hand, a knowing smile spreading across her face as her eyes locked onto his. For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Sam’s expression hardened. He knew that smile—had seen it months ago under far darker circumstances; Y/n.

Dean noticed too, his brow furrowing. "Sammy? What is it?" He asked. "This- Dean this is Y/n. She's the-" Sam paused. "Well, she's the crossroad demon I met a few months back." Dean looked back to Y/n. "Oh." Y/n’s grin only deepened, unbothered by their scrutiny. "Relax. I don’t bite." She turned back to Sam, shooting him a wink. "Unless you ask nicely." He swallowed the lump in his throat avoiding eye contact as he felt his cheeks burning up.

Dean arched a brow. "Listen, no offence lady, but you gotta be the eorst crossroad demon I have ever heard of in my life. That’s it? A kiss? Hundreds of demons would trade their limbs for a Winchester soul, and you settled for a peck on the lips?" Y/n shrugged, wiping down the bar again, as if this conversation was the least of her concerns. "He kept his end of the deal, Dean. And besides-" Her gaze turned sharp, meeting Sam’s. "A kiss like that? His soul is mine more than you realize." Dean blinked, incredulous. "Come again?"

Y/n leaned forward, a sly glint in her eye. "A kiss, Sam. It ties us together. Soul bound. You and me? We’ll always find our way back to each other." Sam’s jaw tensed, the memory of that kiss flickering through his mind. It had been both a trap and a lifeline, sealing a deal he hadn’t been able to avoid. Dean snorted. "Fantastic. Sammy’s got himself a demon soulmate. Can’t wait to send that postcard home." Y/n laughed softly, at Dean's bluntness. "Hey, sister in law, mind fetching me a beer?" She nodded. "Sam? For you?" He shook his head. "Come back to me. I'm not so sure yet." She shrugged, reaching under the counter and pulling out a cold bottle and placing it in front of Dean.

Dean studied her, suspicion lingering. "How does a Crossroads demon run a bar like this, huh? And why aren’t hunters lined up outside, itching to stab you back to Hell?"

"The place is mine." She replied smoothly. "Set it up after making a deal with Lucifer himself. Hunters leave me alone because I leave them alone. It’s a fair trade—peace instead of war. It’s easier that way." Dean let out a low whistle. "Gotta say, you’re either a genius or the laziest demon I’ve ever met."

"I’ll take that as a compliment I think." Y/n replied, unbothered. "So, Sam. Drinks?" Sam, still scowling, muttered something about coffee. Y/n disappeared briefly, returning with a coffee and setting it down with a practiced ease.

As she turned to help another customer, Dean leaned toward Sam, voice low and teasing. "You know, Sammy, for a demon, she’s not bad to look at. Could’ve done worse." Sam shot him a glare. "Dean." He said sternly. "What?" Dean said, raising his hands defensively. "Just saying." Sam ignored him, taking a long sip of coffee, though his eyes strayed once more to Y/n as she moved about the bar. There was something unsettling about the finality in her gaze—like she already knew the paths they’d cross in the days, years, and lifetimes to come.

The bar was getting rowdier, and Dean, now well past tipsy, was perched on his stool, grinning like an idiot. He was deep into his fourth—or maybe fifth—beer, his laugh loud and his charm cranked up to full power as he flirted with a waitress who seemed half-amused, half-annoyed. "You ever hear the one about the ghost and the nun? Because lemme tell ya, it’s great-"

Sam, on the other hand, was nursing his now lukewarm coffee. He drummed his fingers against the table, trying to tune out Dean’s increasingly slurred banter. He couldn’t take much more of this—Dean getting louder, the bar getting warmer, and his own thoughts stuck in an endless cycle. Sam groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dean, seriously?"

Dean of course, ignored him, his laughter louder than anyone else’s in the place. Sam had half a mind to cut him off, but what was the point? Dean would just flash that stupid grin and keep at it. Sighing, Sam turned his attention elsewhere; just in time to see Y/n slip quietly out the back door, her figure disappearing into the night. Sam lingered for a moment, watching the spot where she’d left. Then he stood, grabbed his coat, and muttered. "I'll be back." Dean waved him off. "Yeah, yeah, don’t wait up!"

Outside, the cool night air was a relief. Sam followed the faint sound of clanging metal until he reached the storage room door and pushed it open. The dim light flickered above him, casting long shadows across the shelves and crates. Y/n was standing in the corner, her hands gripping a stuck keg, a faint curse muttered under her breath. She tugged hard, but it didn’t budge.

Sam couldn’t help but smirk. "Need a hand?" Y/n whipped her head up, her expression smoothing quickly into that ever-confident smile. "Nope. I’ve got it." She tugged again, still struggling. "You sure you don’t-"

"I said I’ve got it!" Sam stepped closer, folding his arms as he watched her give it another futile tug. "Sure looks like it." He teased. Y/n sighed, stepping back and waving a hand. "Fine, hero. Go ahead." Sam crouched down, grabbed the keg, and with one solid twist and a pop, it came loose. He stood, grinning as he wiped his hands. "I don’t wanna be presumptuous, but aren't Demons meant to be ridiculously strong?" He chuckled, handing it to her. Y/n rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. "Well, I'm not exactly a fully fledged demon, now am I?" Sam’s grin faltered. "What do you mean?"

Finally fixing the nozzle into the new keg, Y/n’s smile softened into something unreadable. "I mean that I wouldn’t classify myself as a demon. I’m… something else. Something older." Sam tilted his head, curiosity burning in his chest. "What do you mean, older?" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I’m like-" She paused, letting a huff out, trying to decide how she would explain it. "I'm like Lucifer, Sam. Or I was. Before all of this."

Sam frowned. "Still confused here." Her gaze flickered up to meet his, shadowed and heavy. "I used to be an angel once. A long time ago." Sam’s brow furrowed. "What happened?"

Y/n smiled as she reminisced about her past. “I was there at the beginning of time, part of the light. I jad those white fluffy wings and everything. I would fly as high as I wanted, and nothing could stop me. I felt free." Her tone turned to one of sadness rather quickly. "Well, that was until I tricked into doing things I didn’t want to do. Another angel led me astray. Because of that, I was condemned to serve Lucifer. Meanwhile, the one who tricked me? Banished to roam the earth forever."

"Tricked you into what?" He asked. "I'll let you guess. It's not something I exactly want to talk about. It's just that he is running around this planet somewhere, and I am shackled to a burning, fiery wasteland." Y/n gave him a small, bitter smile. "It didn’t seem fair then, and it still doesn’t seem entirely fair now, but I don’t mind anymore. Lucifer gave me this place, this roadhouse, with one condition: that I run the Crossroads as a demon. I keep it balanced. No wars, no messes."

Sam looked at her, something tight in his chest. "I’m sorry that happened to you." She smiled then, a real smile. "You’re the only one who’s ever said that, you know. You're the onky one other than Lucifer that knows. That’s why you’re my favourite of the brothers." Her eyes sparkled. "It’s also why I didn’t want to give you some horrible deal for a lousy blade." Sam chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Thanks, I guess."

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt… heavy. Charged. Y/n stepped closer, close enough that Sam could see every flicker of emotion in her eyes. His heart pounded as he stared at her, every instinct telling him to step back—and yet, he didn’t move. She tilted her head just slightly. "Sam." The air between them snapped like a taut wire. Before he could think better of it, Sam closed the distance, capturing her lips in a kiss. She melted into it, hands resting on his chest as his arms instinctively wrapped around her.

The kiss deepened, slow and steady, and Sam lost himself in it. For once, there was no guilt, no fear, just her. When they finally pulled apart, Y/n’s breath hitched. Slowly, from her back, a pair of wings unfurled. They were massive and elegant, but blackened as if burned, a shadow of what they once must have been.

Sam stared, his expression softening as his fingers touched them. "Oh my god." He whispered. "Don't bring the big man into this. He's the one that did this to me. He made them this way; horrifying." She said, her voice trembling and her wings forcing themselves away from Sam's touch. "No,no. I like 'em." She blinked, disbelief flickering across her face. "You- you don’t really mean that."

"No, I do. I really do." Sam’s voice was quiet but certain. "I love them." For the first time, Y/n looked almost vulnerable, as though his words had caught her off guard.

But then, as if right on queue, the door burst open with a loud slam. "Sammy." Dean’s voice echoed, loud and completely unbothered by the scene in front of him. He froze in the doorway, taking in Sam, Y/n, and the massive wings still spread behind her. His face split into a wide, drunken grin. "Well, hell. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but we gotta hit the road." He swayed a little before pointing at Sam. "You can make out with your demon girlfriend later. Soul ties and all that."

Y/n laughed softly, her wings folding back as she stepped away. Sam cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair as he shot Dean a glare. Dean just laughed harder, stumbling back outside. Sam turned to Y/n, his voice low. "Did you mean it? About the whole soul tie thing?" She nodded, her smile small but genuine. "I meant every word."

"Then I'll see you soon." He said kissing her forehead and reluctantly turning to follow Dean out the door. He glanced back at her one last time, their eyes meeting in a lingering moment that said far more than words ever could.

As Sam climbed into the driver’s seat of the Impala, Dean was already sprawled in the passenger seat, grinning like an idiot. "Man, Sammy-" Dean said with a drunken laugh. "I gotta say, I’m impressed. But you’ve got the weirdest taste in women." Sam rolled his eyes, starting the engine. "Just go to sleep, Dean."

Dean snickered, leaning his head back against the seat. "Soul ties, fallen angels, and black wings… You’re a real piece of work, Sammy." Sam didn’t answer. His mind was still back at the Roadhouse, back with Y/n, her black wings etched into his memory like a scar that he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to fade.

As the Impala rumbled down the dark highway, Sam’s hands tightened on the wheel, a single thought looping in his mind.

They’d meet again. She’d made sure of that.

And strangely, he didn’t mind.