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coolwyous · 2 days ago

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┈─★ #1 𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺

⊹ ࣪ ˖ megan skiendiel loves three things in this world: her amazing brilliant wife, her incredible adorable kids, and the beautiful sport that is ice hockey.

ˎˊ˗ ❄️ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 🔓��˚. ⠀ ᵎᵎ ⠀ 🗝️

➴ pairing: hockey daddy!megan skiendiel x f!reader

➴ genre + wc: 3.3k, domestic parenting au, all fluff no pain baby!

┈─★ a/n: wrote this in 2 hrs bc i missed our big puppy hockey!megan so bad and this put such a cute fucking vision in my head. can def be read as a standalone but if you're new here, i highly encourage reading the college hockey!au verse this is based in! <3

“babe! baby! jesus christ babe, get in here!”

your mind goes to the worst possible places. your son could be choking, he could be having an allergic reaction, he could be stuck in between a piece of furniture, and your perfect angel of a wife could be having a crisis as she tries to figure out what exactly to do in an emergency.

marriage with megan has been an absolute dream, and you always knew she’d make an incredible parent. protective, calm, kind— basics, sure, but megan does them so easily, you never questioned that a family together would be an absolute dream. however, megan is still megan, and you love her for each part of her, including the parts that panic when things do not go according to plan. that’s where you balance each other out: you keep megan in line when she starts to spiral, and she reminds you of the beauty in the day to day.

in this scenario, you’re in panic-mode, racing into the living room expecting the worst.

you let out a gasp to find not only is there no crisis, no furniture on fire, no natural disaster sweeping up your son and wife, but quite the opposite.

megan is reaching her arms out, crouched down, and your infant son is taking his first steps towards her, his chubby face squished up in the cutest smile you could have ever imagined.

“look at this guy! so sturdy,” megan beams, reaching out ready to catch him should he start to wobble.

you laugh and take a mental picture of the moment. you see a mischievous glint to megan’s eyes as she watches his wobbly little body take another step forward.

“megan, i swear if you even think about—”

“i wasn’t gonna say it!” she throws her hands up innocently.

“he just took his first steps,” you chastise her, knowing her well enough after all your years together. “don’t do this. i didn’t start rambling about universities or classic literature when he first said mama.”

“fine,” megan shakes her head in defeat, focusing back on waving to your son to get him to take a few more steps forward. “fine.”

you smile and turn to go hunt down your phone to document the moment. before you’re fully out of the room, you hear a quiet voice whispering to the baby.

“you’re a tank, dude. you’re gonna make a killer defender. get that core strong and we’ll be on the ice in no time.”

“megan skiendiel,” you warn firmly.

“shit. mommy heard us talking about the no-no word.” megan swoops up your son and uses him like a human shield, knowing you can’t stay mad at your two favorite people in the whole world. “okay, okay. i can wait. i get it.”

“i just want one milestone where you’re not trying to prep him for the nhl, i’m begging,” you laugh, reaching out to kiss her. she grins and kisses you back, scooping up your son to hold him between you two.

you can’t even pretend to be mad. you have the most perfect family in the world, what more could someone want?

“push left, then push right.”

megan makes skating look so easy, impossibly easy as she always has. when the first snowflake of the season fell, you already knew to get the kids’ winter coats ready, knowing megan would force you all into the car and haul you all to the lake ASAP.

“this is hard,” maxie breathes, his lower lip jutting out in frustration.

“guess what?” megan tells him, her voice softening as she realizes the emotions taking over your toddler. “it may be hard, but you can do hard things. and you’ll have me holding your hand all the way through.”

your daughter starts to squirm out of your grasp and eagerly reaches for her other mom. you press a kiss into the beautiful baby’s head and hold onto her, knowing your wife needs all her focus in one place right now.

“push left, push right. don’t be afraid to fall,” she nods confidently as you watch from the snow. “you’ve got this, dude. if i didn’t think you could do it, i wouldn’t be pushing you.”

your heart swells as you see your son’s eyes burn with determination at megan’s encouragement. max does exactly that, and he’s shaky, but making slow paces forward.

megan skates over to you, giving your son some space to figure it out without her over his shoulder. you grin and reach out to kiss her reddened nose, cold to the touch from the chilly falltime air.

“forgot how good of a captain you were,” you compliment, your chest warm and fuzzy seeing how gently but firmly megan builds your son’s confidence. “might want another one just to keep seeing you be that good.”

“another team for me to captain?” megan grins.

you laugh. “no— another kid, loser.”

“oh.” her eyes widen, but that stupid dopey grin only multiplies on her face. “right right right.”

your daughter wiggles once more in your grip and reaches out again. you smile, handing her to megan, who nestles her onto her hip while skating backwards to keep her eyes fixed on your son.

“look, look!” max calls out loudly, beaming with his precious toothless grin as he glides slowly along the ice.

you look up, ready to cheer him on, but your wife has already got you beat, her face lighting up instantly in pure, sincere, beaming pride.

“that’s my boy! that’s my boy!” she cheers.

megan throws your daughter up into the air and swings her legs around her neck to have the toddler sitting on her shoulders, causing the girl to giggle uncontrollably. max, still wobbly, manages to skid along the ice, his confidence increasing with each pace forward he makes without tipping. you smile at your little family.

“baby,” you call out, peeking at the three on the ice from over the pages of your book. “your daughter is about to do a backflip off of the snowbank.”

“josie, sweetie, sit down please,” megan calls out to her, standing with max as the two practice passing a puck back and forth.

“no thank you,” the girl responds simply.

“okay, no, wait,” megan pauses, wrinkling her nose. “no, princess, it doesn’t work like that. daddy’s words are not an option.”

max pauses, watching the whole thing unfold in front of him. he shrugs and drops his stick, putting his hands on his hips as he innocently observes his sister. “auntie dani says sometimes you just gotta send it.”

“okay, no more time at auntie dani’s,” megan grits. you burst out laughing.

“i told you she’d be a terrible influence.”

“i didn’t think she’d try to influence a five year old,” megan groans, grabbing josie to snatch her off the snowbank. the girl pouts and wiggles out of your wife’s grip, taking easily to the ice in her skates.

“babe, you know how daniela is,” you laugh. “you’re the only one to blame if you trusted her to be a good influence. i told you lara is more than happy to watch them.”

“lara has enough on her hands with the twins,” megan shakes her head, giving max a push to help him slide across the ice, sending the boy screaming laughing. “josie is a tornado.”

“so you stick her with the most insane person you know and expect it to go well?” you laugh.

“okay, okay, this is not bag on daddy time,” megan scrunches her nose at you, grabbing josie by her hood as the rambunctious child tries once more to climb the snow and jump. “i thought maybe dani could help me understand how to lay the law down more. you never have any problems with them.”

“the kids listen to me ‘cause i mean what i say,” you laugh, watching as megan increasingly fails to wrangle the two children as they go in opposite directions. “unfortunately, big bad strong hockey daddy folds every time your five-year-old gives you the puppy eyes.”

josie’s little voice cuts in, somehow at the top of the snowbank.

again.

“can you send a picture of me up here to auntie dani? i want her to see me send it!”

megan’s eyes nearly bug out of her head at the sight.

“my perfect sweet wife, will you grab your daughter, please?” she pleads, nervously holding her arms out in case the girl is too quick and jumps anyways.

you shake your head, pointing behind her as max is aimlessly hitting pucks off in random directions on the ice, pucks you know will never be found again.

“actually, my perfect sweet wife who doesn’t listen or learn, i wanted to do a library date. you’re the one who insisted on taking them to the lake. when you know i still can’t skate,” you remind her.

“oh my god,” megan groans, reaching up to snatch josie by the ankle, causing the little girl to giggle uncontrollably as she gets swung through the air and placed gently back down onto the ice. megan picks up her stick and quickly blocks max from hitting his last few pucks, instead redirecting them all easily back into the small bucket they came in. you watch, impressed. megan has been retired for a year now, shortly after josie turned 4, but she’s still good as ever.

“my thoughts exactly,” you laugh.

“remind me of this exact moment next time i suggest doing this again,” megan blinks.

“babe, this happens every time.” you remind her, flipping through another page in your book. “literally every weekend.”

megan, still impossibly strong, grabs both your kids by the back of their jackets, flipping them both around to face the same direction on the ice. the sound of their rumbling giggles makes your heart flip.

“laps, both of you.” she demands, her voice stern (or about as stern as your goofy, ridiculous megan can get.) “now, minions.”

“no,” josie pushes back challengingly.

“oh yeah?” megan bends down, pointing a finger menacingly at your daughter. “why? scared you’ll get left in my dust?”

you laugh, watching as your wife takes off on the ice, your two bumbling children skating along after her in an attempt to catch her. your heart melts at the sight.

even at lara and dani’s encouragement, megan had never seen herself as exactly coaching material. several colleges had tried soliciting her to coach for them after her time in the wnhl, and she had turned down each of them in favor of staying home with the kids while you continued to work. you didn’t mind— between what she had made playing professionally, your current job, and the current time she can dedicate to her family now that she’s done traveling, the trade off is well worth it.

but the perfect way to fill her time was coaching your son’s 7 & under junior hockey league.

“way to take that shot, champ!” your wife cheers as max misses yet another practice shot. “love the confidence, buddy!”

you laugh and hand her the coffee you just picked up for her in the lobby. “you’re being surprisingly patient.”

“no, he’s honestly so, so bad at this, poor guy,” megan lets out a quiet breath, and the both of you laugh. one of the assistant coaches takes over the drills as you two watch the kids from the side. “he’s trying like hell, though.”

“alright, relax coach,” you wrinkle your nose at her playfully.

you both hear a thud against the plexiglass and realize josie, who is supposed to be taking figure skating lessons on the other side of the rink while max’s team practices, is shoulder checking her poor coach into the wall again, much to the woman’s displeasure. you give her a sharp look to cut it out and she instantly straightens up, nodding at you in understanding.

megan gives you a quick look before bursting out into laughter. you know your daughter’s menace-like behavior is nothing to laugh at, but it’s such a sharp contrast to gentle and compliant max, you’re grateful to have such characters for children that keep you and megan on your toes.

“josie’s sick of figure skating, meg” you tell your wife gently, knowing you’re approaching a sensitive topic for her. “she’s been stealing his sticks and messing with his goal in the backyard. i know you’ve seen her.”

megan lets out a nervous sigh. “i was afraid that’d happen.”

when max happened, you saw it be so easy for megan, like being a boy dad was the most thing in the world. she had all the answers, no fears, no concerns. but as much as she loves both your children equally, you know for a fact that josie was different. megan was so, so much more nervous with raising a girl, and while you didn’t feel the same pressure, you knew it kept megan up at night wanting to make sure she did everything just right for your guys’ little princess.

“she wants to be just like you, meg,” you tell her gently as you both watch the girl roll her eyes at the coach and do another twirl. “she pays attention, talks about your teams, wants to watch your old games. she’s so eager to be part of that world, and you keep brushing her off.”

megan shakes her head, clearly wanting to pivot away from the topic. “mrs. baker called again today. she’s worried about her reading.”

you sigh. mrs. baker, josie’s kindergarten teacher.

“i remember how the first meeting went, megan. i was there, remember?” you laugh, rubbing her arm soothingly. “josie’s still got time to figure it out before they go on diagnosing anything. she’s barely 5. give her time. you sound more worried than her teacher did.”

megan’s knits her brows, avoiding your gaze as she watches both kids on the ice.

“i don’t want her to distract herself with hockey if she’s already at risk of falling behind in school.”

“meg,” you soften your voice, leaning you weight against hers. “it’ll be okay. let her try, we can support her. she won’t fall behind.”

“i don’t want her to beat herself up.” her voice drops into a rasp as you see her swallow down nervously. “i don’t want her to feel stupid.”

your heart aches thinking about baby megan, all those years beating herself up over struggles that were never her fault. you see how anxiously she projects forward, wanting so desperately to spare your guys’ daughter from the same fate, the same self-consciousness, the same lack of confidence.

“she won’t. give her a chance. she might thrive,” you reassure her. “having something she’s that passionate about might make her motivated to work harder.”

megan nods, pressing a kiss into your head. you feel her body relax against yours as you two lean together, watching the practices go on. “you’re right. i’m overthinking it.”

“she might be the next you,” you smile.

before you can say anything else, megan is motioning for the figure skating coach to pause, waving for your daughter to come over to where you guys are standing.

“max, come here,” she calls out, leaning down on the wall to be eye-to-eye with your kids as they both skate over, their eyes wide in confusion. “josie, go borrow your brother’s gear.”

“are you benching me?” maxie asks anxiously.

“would you rather go get a new book and hot cocoa with your mom?” megan asks, her voice soft, her eyes scanning over your son’s face as she chooses her words carefully. “would you rather not come back to practice?”

“i like hockey,” max says quickly, almost too quickly. your heart aches. you see megan in him too— nervous, kind-hearted, eager to be good, not wanting to hurt anyone.

“but do you love it?” megan pries gently, taking one of his hands in hers to comfort him.

“i would rather be reading, yeah,” max admits, his gaze dropping to the floor.

megan is quick to take his chin gently in her fingers and lift his gaze back up to hers. “hey, hey, that’s okay. were you afraid to hurt my feelings by telling me that?”

“yes,” he admits sheepishly.

“thank you for being kind, but thank you even more for being brave and telling me the truth,” she pulls his helmet off of his head and presses a kiss into the top of his sweaty hair. “go with your mom. i love you so, so much. you’re the coolest kid.”

the boy complies, coming off the ice and taking off his gear, handing each piece to his younger sister. “i was scared you’d be mad at me.”

you see megan’s face wrinkle in concern. she shakes her head, reaching down to give the little boy a tight, comforting hug.

“never ever. i love you with my whole heart. i can’t wait to buy you all the books in the world, dude,” she reassures him, nodding. “go give your sister your gear. your mom is waiting.”

you smile and reach out to your son, handing him his hoodie. he swipes it up eagerly and takes your hand, beaming excitedly.

“i heard you’ve been practicing on your own,” megan says as she kneels down, focusing now on helping josie put on all the gear. it’s a size too big, but it’ll do. “you ready to show me what you can do?”

“really?” josie’s eyes light up.

“these boys are bigger than you are,” megan warns, but she doesn’t sound worried. she sounds eager, proud. “think you can keep up?”

“yes,” the girl nods eagerly.

“go show off,” she encourages, giving josie a push on the ice to send her towards the practice. “but no backflips! you’ll give me a heart attack.”

“boring,” she gripes, skating off.

you can’t help but laugh.

“she’s going to kill me,” megan groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.

you poke her in the cheek, letting max rest on the bench for a moment.

“she’s karma for every single time you lashed out at one of your teammates. remember senior year?”

“yeah. alright, alright,” megan waves you off, rolling her eyes, but she pulls you in to give you a quick peck. you both watch as she boldly joins the drill as if she’s been doing it for years, quickly handling the stick and the puck with a confidence unmatched by most of the boys on the team.

“she’s a natural,” you beam proudly.

megan lets out a low whistle. “better than i was my first time on the ice.”

“i’ve always said she’s just a less anxious version of you,” you smile. “right down to the puppy dog eyes.”

megan grins back, wrapping an arm around your waist. “you love these puppy dog eyes.”

you look into those puppy dog eyes, the things that drew you in when you first met her, and the things you’re pretty sure were the first part of megan that you fell in love with, before the rest of her fell right into place inside your heart.

“being just like you won’t be the worst thing in the world, meg,” you tell her gently, you both watching as josie blasts past the other boys on the ice, handling the puck with unimaginable expertise.

“at least college is paid for,” megan wrinkles her nose, letting out a sigh. “who knows. maybe some sucker will get roped into giving her their english class notes.”

“and then they fall in love with each other and become college sweethearts. and survive long distance, and get married. and have a super cute family with two kids and a crusty white dog,” you add on, wrapping your arms around her waist to pull her into a hug.

“i got super lucky,” megan breathes, finally turning to look down at you.

“yes you did,” you grin back up at her.

“i love you,” she tells you, kissing your forehead tenderly.

you admire her perfect face, looking back at your perfect daughter and your perfect son. your perfect little family, something you could have never pictured when you first met megan in your british literature class all those years ago.

you smile, reaching up for one more kiss.

“ditto.”

#☆ﾟ coolwyous ditto.#☆ﾟ dittoverse thoughts.#megan katseye #megan x reader #megan skiendiel x reader #katseye x reader #katseye #katseye megan

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delilahsturniolo · 1 day ago

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— 𝜗ৎ the greatest . . . m.s

in which . . . you want something more with fwb!matt, but he shuts you down, turning it into an argument, so he decides to “make it up to you” and you can’t help but give in

warnings . . . fwb!matt, smut, arguing, crying, unprotected sex, unresolved angst, use of pet names, fingering, multiple orgasms.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

HIT ME HARD AND SOFT WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #6

there's something about matt that just drives you wild. maybe it's the way he looks at you with those piercing blue eyes or the way his hair falls perfectly into place. whatever it is, you can't get enough of him. but the problem is, all he wants from you is to fuck, and nothing more. a real relationship is where he draws the line. you've been friends with benefits for a while now, but lately, you've been wanting something more. you want to be able to call him yours, to have him hold you close and tell you that he loves you. but every time you bring it up, he shuts you down.

"matt, we need to talk," you say, tangled in the sheets. "about what?" he asks, pulling on his shirt and avoiding your gaze. "about us. about what we're doing here."

"we're having fun, aren't we? i mean, the sex is amazing. what more do you want?" you take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. "i want more than just sex, matt. i want a relationship. i want to be with you." he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "i can't give you that. i'm not the relationship type."

"why not? why can't you just give us a chance?" you plead, matt snaps back. "because i don't want to hurt you. i care about you, i do. but i'm not capable of being what you need." you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "how do you know what i need? you've never even tried."

"look, let's just drop it, okay? we're good together, let's not ruin it by trying to make it into something it's not." you shake your head, wiping away a stray tear. "i can't keep doing this, matt.." he looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment you think he might actually be considering it. but then he leans in close, his breath hot on your neck, and whispers, "let me make it up to you."

and just like that, you're putty in his hands. he knows exactly how to touch you, how to make you moan and writhe beneath him. he trails kisses down your neck, his hands roaming over your curves, and you know you should stop him, should tell him no, but you can't. you need him, need this. you can’t resist going back to him. you love the way he makes you feel and you will never escape that.

he pushes you back onto the bed, his body covering yours, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. he thrusts into you, filling you completely, and you cry out, your nails digging into his back. “you feel so good," he groans, his hips slamming against yours. "so tight and wet for me."

"matt, please," you whimper, not even sure what you're asking for. "i've got you, baby. i'll take care of you." and he does. he fucks you hard and deep, hitting all the right spots, until you're a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. and when you finally cum, screaming his name, he follows right behind you, spilling himself inside you.

but you’re not done yet. matt leans in, his hot breath tickling your ear, and whispers, "you want this, don't you?" you can only nod, your heart pounding in your chest. his fingers brush against your panties, already damp with your arousal. he chuckles softly, a sound that sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

his fingers deftly push your panties aside, revealing your slick folds. he runs a finger along your slit, gathering your wetness on his fingertip. he brings it to his lips, tasting you. "mmm," he hums, "you taste so sweet, can’t get enough of this pretty pussy..” then, without warning, he plunges a finger inside you. you gasp, your back arching off the sheets. he pumps his finger in and out of you, adding another when he feels you're ready. his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing circles around it.

your hips buck wildly, meeting his thrusts. you can feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter. "that's it," matt encourages, "cum for me again.” and you do. your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your walls clamping down on matt's fingers. he continues to pump them in and out of you, prolonging your pleasure until you're left a quivering mess on the couch. he withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his lips once again. he sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

afterwards, he holds you close, stroking your hair and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. and even though you know it's not real, that he's not really yours, you can't help but bask in the afterglow. you know you shouldn't keep doing this, shouldn't keep falling back into bed with him, all he wanted was to see you naked. but the truth is, you're addicted to him, to the way he makes you feel. and as much as you want more, you're not sure you're ready to give this up just yet.

💌: MAN AM I THE GREATESTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

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sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 2 days ago

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So this is random but in the Blossom Reverse story does poison ivy ever think about her daughter or care I was just wondering anyways have a good night/ day

Oki dokey, so I plan to involve ivy in my story later on. But it will take a while.

And let me characterize Mom Ivy for you guys, since I want to give you some crumbs. A little spoiler Ivy as a mom is also a yandere. In my eyes, she would be one even in a non-yandere AU. When she found out she was pregnant after the affair with Bruce she was at first stunned. Ivy never imagined herself a mother—she sees herself as a force of nature, not a nurturer. But once it settles in…

The idea that she is growing something inside her, something that is half her and half him, turns into a kind of sacred obsession. This bloom will be perfect. No toxin. No corruption. Only life.

Ivy would swear off toxins and even isolate herself to ensure the child’s safety. She talks to her belly like it’s a seedling. She tells her growing daughter that daddy may be gone, but Mommy will protect you from everyone. Always.

Ivy sees her daughter as the most perfect thing in the world—a living blend of human and nature, something divine. She raises her like a rare flower. Ivy controls her environment, ensures no pesticides (aka people) get too close.

On the surface, she’s the gentle, nurturing garden mom, brushing her daughter’s hair with rose-petal fingers and telling her stories about nature spirits and betrayal. But there’s a line—and when crossed, Ivy becomes terrifying. One raised voice at her child and you might end up buried under a blooming bed of vines, face frozen in fear.

She feels conflicted about Batman, since he is also responsible for the sweet little bloom in her arms.

And when she gets captured and send to Arkham? Oh yeah that‘s her reason to crashout.

It was foolish of her to join the other goons in their plans of robbing a building. She had just wanted a bit more money to provide a better place for her sweet baby, but when Batman but the cuffs in her she knew she was done for.

t begins the moment she’s captured. Bloodied, cornered, and restrained, she reveals the existence of their child—not as a threat, not to manipulate—but as a mother whose world just shattered. For the first time, Batman sees something behind her eyes that isn’t cruelty or seduction, but raw, trembling fear.

As she’s locked in Arkham, her psyche begins to decay in silence. Her obsession with control twists into delusion. Without her daughter, Ivy becomes unmoored. The natural cycles she once worshipped feel meaningless. Seasons blur. Her grip on reality slips.

She stops seeing Arkham as a prison—she sees it as rot infecting the roots of her life. She turns inward, building a world of vines and fantasy where her daughter is still safe in her arms. She cultivates that world obsessively in her cell: sculpting figures from leaves, whispering to blossoms, assigning names and memories to plants.

She is a grieving mother redefined by obsession.

Not out for justice.

Not for balance.

Only for her daughter.

In the quiet of her cell, surrounded by creeping ivy and the scent of damp earth, she closes her eyes and breathes in the memory of her daughter’s laughter—soft, high, blooming. She knows Y/N is safe for now. Bruce may be many things, but he protects what’s his, and he knows how to raise broken little souls with steady hands. Still, Ivy’s fingers curl against the cold stone floor, the vines at her wrists tightening like promises. This separation is only temporary. One day, the walls will crack, the roots will reach, and when they do, she will take back what was stolen. And this time, her little bloom will grow only in her garden. Forever.

#blossomreverse #yandere platonic #batfamily #yandere #angst #yandere family #yandere fluff #yandere batfam #bruce wayne #dc universe #jason todd #poison ivy #yandere fic #ask #platonic yandere #yandere batman #yandere fanfiction #male yandere #x reader

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biteyoubiteme · 1 day ago

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meet me in montauk teaser

choi soobin x fem!reader

𓅪 synopsis: do you ever truly forget a person? even those whom you have specifically paid to be removed from your mind? no matter how hard some try, some people can never be forgotten because the love and the hurt can be found in even the smallest things. memories easily triggered by nothing more than running your fingers through the grains of sand on the beach where you met, not once but twice. ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ warnings: fem!reader, angst, romance, bit of a science fiction au, soulmate trope ish, depression, mentions of pregnancy, miscarriage, postpartum depression, smut, more to be added/subject to change/full warnings to be posted with fic

estimated word count: ~25k I could be lying I don't know how to estimate word counts so we will actually see how far off I am or just right when it’s posted lol ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ release date: july 2025

ོ ⸝⸝⸝ now playing: back to me- the marías an: this is based off the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, most of the movie is spent going through memories and this is a bit of my interpretation of that although not as heavily as the movie does it. i hope that you guys like this one its very heavy but i love it and was looking for a bit of an outlet and its helped me a lot and i hope you guys can find something you like in it as well <333

[m.list]

With beomgyu on one side, teasing him, and taehyun on the other, telling soobin he should have given you his number, he looked back at you across the street, looking back at him. And it didn't matter if he looked like a madman, he turned back, hand cupping his mouth as he shouted across that nearly empty New York street right at the head of the subway stairs, “Do you work tomorrow?”

The question had pulled everyone to a stop, your face heating up, not caring if yeonjun and Kai joked over the clear crush you had formed over a single beach trip, “On Monday! You'll visit me, right?”

“I wouldn't miss it!” Not when he had found someone so interesting, he forgot himself enough to shout into the busy city just to catch one more line with you. And while both of you left in the opposite direction, you still wore identical, hazy, love-struck, love-sick smiles all the way home.

It had been instant then, and it was instant now. The unfurrowing of your life lines not crossing once, but twice, when the two of you had done everything in your power to forget one another.

The treatment had been offered as a last ditch effort to pull your relationship out of a sinking ship. A lifeline tossed into the water, thrashing with unrelenting emotions, drowning the both of you until the waves were too high and too heavy to fight. But it had not been like that at first; your ship was just sailing, and the masts were heavy and strong with each gust of wind heading your way. No low going self-implosion waiting on your horizon. At least not just yet.

Because at the start of it all, on that Monday morning, soobin had called in sick, faked a strained voice with the aid of his sleep-ridden one, and made sure to secure the full day without a blink of an eye. He didn't know when you started your shift, if it was in the afternoon or even at night; all he knew was that he would be there waiting to be checked out with your favorite novel tucked in the crook of his elbow.

He hadn't gotten your number, and distance made the heart grow fonder, so the only replay in his mind was the way you made him laugh and the way he wanted to see you laughing right along with him. And when he arrived, you hadn’t been in sight, the checkout counters bare of people, just as the rest of the store. His languid stroll only made him take in the place as you might have seen it. The towering light washed wooden shelves holding far too many books to not make the place feel cramped in the best way possible. Ladders sitting at the edge of each aisle waited, and he wondered how often you must have had to climb up one for a customer scared to reach a height they hadn't been expecting for a paperback.

And as he rounded that last corner, he ran into you with your apron on, the bookstore logo tattooed on the front in delicate green stitching above the neatly done black of your name. “You came,” your voice hooking him in the way it was just so easily said, an exhale that he had been waiting to feel the second he saw you again. Because it had been a bit like holding his breath. His anxious mind worked to ask him the question: Was she really like how he remembered her, or was it just the salt and the sand influencing his mind?

But it hadn't been the beach, not when you stood so vividly alive there, just as you had sitting next to him on the shore and the train. “I told you I wouldn't miss it,” because anything he had been feeling washed away, and he was just a boy in a store flirting with a girl he felt like he had known for a lifetime.

⸝⸝⸝

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#soobin x reader #soobin txt #choi soobin x reader #txt x reader

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casdeans-pie · 2 days ago

Text

Breakfast at Midnight

“What are you cooking?” Cas's voice rumbles behind Dean, announcing his presence as he enters the kitchen. As usual, despite wearing nothing but dress shoes, the angel's footsteps can be completely silent when he wants them to – but Dean is used to it. He doesn’t even blink.

“Pancakes,” Dean says simply, as he flicks his wrist to jolt the frying pan and flip a cooking pancake gracefully into the air. It sizzles when it lands. “You want some?”

Cas must move closer, because his voice is suddenly right behind Dean when he says, “It’s midnight.”

Dean finally turns around, and of course Cas is weirdly close – they’re practically nose to nose. He can’t help the fond smile that breaks out onto his face. “Everything tastes better at midnight, Cas. It’s magic.”

“I’m not sure that it is.”

“Human magic,” Dean says again, tapping the side of his head.

Cas’s eyebrows scrunch together and his lips pinch into a thin line, but amusement and fondness sparkle in his blue eyes.

Dean’s grin widens. “Just sit down and enjoy your breakfast at midnight, man. They’re nearly done.”

Cas stares at him for a beat longer, holding eye contact in the way that he does, before he finally goes and takes a seat at the small wooden table.

Dean returns to the frying pan, humming a tune, and casually flips the pancake again. (Totally not showing off.) “Can’t sleep either?”

“I-”

“-Don’t sleep, yeah yeah I know,” Dean says with a chuckle. “It was a joke.”

Cas frowns. “I could sense that you were awake, actually.”

“Worried about me?”

“No, I could feel that your soul was at peace. That made me even more curious, I suppose,” Cas says. “It’s nice to see you happy.”

Dean jumps so hard he nearly flips the pancake onto the ceiling. He turns around and shoots a glare at Cas, but the bastard looks smug.

The scent of sweet Pancakes fills the kitchen, and Dean can’t help but start to hum again as he adds more and more pancakes into a small stack. After another few minutes Dean finally picks up two plates – one has a single pancake on, while the other holds the rest of the stack. He brings them both to the table, places the single pancake in front of Cas, the stack by himself, and takes a seat. His pancakes get immediately drowned in syrup.

Cas's expression softens as he looks down at the food he’s been given. (One singlular pancake on a plate and he’s looking at it like Dean made it out of gold.) “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean hums his acknowledgement as he takes a huge bite, but he can feel the damn heat in the tips of his ears and knows that they’re probably red. The traitors.

Dean’s hands are covered in syrup so he looks away and licks the worst of it from his fingertips.

Eventually Cas takes a cautious nibble from his own pancake. He chews for a long time, and then finally swallows.

“Molecules?” Dean guesses.

“Mm. But pleasant.”

“You shoul’ pu’ some syrup on ‘em or somefin’,” Dean says, around a mouthful of food, after he’s shoved the remaining portion of his current pancake into his mouth.

Cas reaches over the table and brings Dean’s empty hand over towards himself. Dean is still chewing, so he makes a muffled noise of confusion, but lets Cas do whatever he wants.

Cas leans over the table, and sticks out his tongue, to gently and methodically lick the syrup clean from every single one of Dean’s fingers.

Dean nearly chokes.

But he doesn’t move his hand.

Cas eventually releases Dean’s hand and settles back into his seat. His expression doesn’t change, but Dean can see the mischevious crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

Dean's heart is racing in his chest while his hand is hovering awkwardly in the air where Cas left it. He swallows loudly.

“You’re right,” Cas says gravely, “it does taste better at midnight.”

#somehow three words in some song lyrics inspired this whole entire fic. inspiration comes from the strangest places lmao #destiel #destiel ficlet #castiel #dean winchester #spn fic #deancas #pie's projects #sorry they couldn't stay normal for more than five minutes. to me they are always freaks with each other

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flyingbanananas · 1 day ago

Text

Accidental Courting (Izou x Reader)

Sharing food, exchanging gifts… You only want to be kind and show Izou how much you appreciate him and his willingness to share his culture while visiting Wano with you. But every gesture seems to draw stares and knowing chuckles.

Are you accidentally being rude, despite your best efforts?

If so… why does Izou look at you with such soft eyes instead of scowling?

_____

~ 8.000 words

Part One of the “It’s Never Easy” Series

The moment you set foot on Wano soil, it’s like stepping into another world.

The air smells like cedar smoke and summer rain while mist curls along distant hills and crimson torii gates stand like sentinels along the winding path that leads toward the capital. Moreover, a procession of paper lanterns sways in the breeze as you and the others disembark from your small, hidden ship.

Your jaw drops instantly. “It’s… beautiful.”

Izou glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Still want to come?”

“Are you kidding?” you breathe. “This is incredible.”

Next to you, Ace stretches his arms behind his head, already looking somewhat bored. “The trees are cool, but where’s the food? I heard they’ve got sweet buns the size of your face.”

Whack.

Thatch smacks him on the back of his head with a huff. “Stop only thinking about food. I’m pretty sure the point of this trip isn’t stuffing our faces. Right, Marco?”

Marco is already scanning the treelines. “Right, yoi… Izou wants to visit family, so we keep a low profile, stay out of trouble, and let Izou enjoy himself for once.”

You nod. “Right. We let Izou do all the talking then.”

“Why does he get to talk?” Ace instantly grumbles.

“Because if you talk,” Marco says calmly, “we’ll start a war yoi.”

You stifle a laugh while Izou doesn’t even glance at Ace as he leads the group forward, robe swaying with every step. His posture is straighter here, and his expression quieter like something in him slots back into place just by being home.

You fall into step beside him, your boots crunching the gravel path.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods. “Haven’t been here in a long time. Feels… strange.”

You look at him for a second longer, watching the way the breeze brushes against his dark hair and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. “Well, thanks for letting us come with you. I feel like I’m walking through a painting.”

He doesn’t smile exactly, but his eyes soften.

“Just… mind your manners,” he murmurs.

You travel for nearly thirty minutes before encountering the first locals—a small group of older people standing near a roadside shrine, their voices hushed, their movements slow. One of them, an elderly woman, spots Izou as you approach. Her expression shifts from curiosity to recognition, and she bows. Deeply.

You stop, startled, and watch.

Izou returns the bow, his spine folding forward with elegant ease, hands folded neatly at his waist. The others pick up on the gesture and follow suit, if a little awkwardly. Thatch tries to match the depth, Marco bows with precision, and even Ace gives it an honest attempt.

You’re the last one just standing there like an idiot.

Panic rises. You bow quickly, clumsily, but now your brain’s screaming: How deep? How long? Too short? Too stiff?

Then, just as you start to straighten up, a hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. Not forceful, just steady. Guiding.

Izou.

“Lower,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “Just a bit.”

You freeze in place, heart skipping in your chest, and adjust yourself with a muttered apology.

The elderly woman says nothing, and the others don’t seem to react, but you swear one of them gives you a look. Not cruel. Not judging. Just… assessing.

You feel your cheeks heat.

When the group moves on again, Izou falls into step beside you once more. He doesn’t say anything about your awkwardness. Doesn’t tease. But his shoulder brushes yours, just barely.

You get the sense he’s watching your every move - not to scold you, but to make sure you’re okay. And somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. You're not sure yet.

“You did fine,” Izou says calmly.

“I short-circuited, Izou,” you mutter, still warm in the face from the encounter. “You all bowed and I just stood there like a statue. I might’ve actually squeaked.”

“I noticed,” he says dryly, though there’s no real judgment in it.

You groan. “Great.”

“You’re not from here,” Izou says simply, like that settles it. “No one expects you to get it right.”

You glance at him, squinting. “But you fixed it anyway.”

He lifts one elegant shoulder in a soft shrug. “Couldn’t let you keep bowing like that. It looked like you were apologizing for murdering someone.”

Marco’s voice pipes up just behind you. “To be fair, you usually are.”

You swat him without even looking back. “Not here, I’m not.”

Ace snorts. “Give it time.”

“I’m trying to respect the culture, thank you very much,” you huff, crossing your arms as the group continues up the path.

The path narrows as you wind deeper through the countryside. The scent of smoke and incense thickens, and soon the trees thin to reveal a small cluster of wooden buildings nestled at the foot of a hill.

Izou slows his pace, gaze drifting over the buildings with something like nostalgia softening his features.

Then someone bursts out of the front door.

A young woman in a pale kimono practically flies down the front steps, long dark hair streaming behind her. She looks so much like Izou, with the same dark eyes and elegant bearing, that you blink in surprise.

“Izou!” she gasps, voice high with joy.

He barely has time to react before she throws her arms around him, hugging him so tightly he actually takes a step back. His arms come up automatically, one hand cradling the back of her head as he laughs—a real, full laugh you’re not sure you’ve ever heard from him before.

“You got taller,” he murmurs into her hair.

“You got slower,” she sniffs, squeezing him tighter before finally pulling back. Her eyes are shiny, but her smile is huge. “You didn’t write, you didn’t send a message, I didn’t even know if you were really coming until I heard rumors!”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he says gently.

She swats his arm. “Idiot.”

“Definitely related,” Marco mutters behind you.

You grin.

Izou turns toward you, still smiling in that quiet way of his, the kind of smile that seems rare enough to feel important when it happens.

“This is my little sister,” he says, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Kikunojo.”

"Nice to meet you," you smile and glance at Izou. "Should we bow again?"

Kikunojo lets out a soft, melodic laugh. “You don’t have to. This isn’t an audience with the shogun.” She bows to you anyway, graceful and deep, with hands folded over her stomach. “But it is a pleasure. Izou rarely brings anyone home.”

You bow quickly in return, not quite as fluid but sincere. “It’s an honor to be here.”

Kikunojo’s smile softens further. “You must all be exhausted from the journey, and hungry, I imagine. Please, come inside. You’re just in time. Dinner is nearly ready.”

The moment the word hungry leaves her lips, Ace lights up. “Finally,” he groans. “I was about to start chewing on my own arm.”

Whack.

Thatch doesn’t even look at him as he smacks the back of Ace’s head with ease. “Have a little grace, would you? We’re guests.”

Ace scowls, rubbing the spot. “I was being honest!”

“Try being quiet instead yoi,” Marco mutters, brushing past them both.

Kikunojo giggles behind her sleeve, her expression unreadable and amused all at once. “You brought quite the lively group, brother.”

Izou exhales through his nose, his tone dry. “They grow on you.”

“I believe you,” she says, stepping aside to let you all pass through the inn’s doorway.

The air inside is warm and softly lit, the floors polished to a gentle sheen, and the scent of simmering broth drifting in from the back. You slip off your shoes, following Izou’s lead, and step up onto the raised wooden floor.

The place feels lived in but not worn down instead it appears to be quiet and welcoming. Like someone took the time to make sure everything was ready for your arrival.

But you’re not the only one taking it in.

“Wow,” Thatch murmurs, glancing around. “This is… way nicer than I thought.”

Ace’s jaw drops. “They’ve got yukata ready?!”

Sure enough, a small wooden rack nearby holds a variety of neatly folded yukata—indigo, cream, deep green, patterned with delicate motifs. Without hesitation, Ace grabs the brightest one he can find: a bold red with orange wave patterns.

“This one’s mine,” he declares.

“Of course it is,” Marco says dryly, though you catch the faintest twitch of a smile as he surveys the room.

Kikunojo steps in behind you. “I’ve laid out a few things to make you comfortable. Please, feel free to choose whichever yukata you like. You’ll find washing basins and fresh towels through the hallway to the left. When you’re ready, we’ll be in the main room for dinner.”

You nod quickly, bowing your head again. “Thank you. Really. This is… amazing.”

She smiles, and something in her eyes suggests she’s glad you’re being sincere about it. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. And don’t worry about formalities too much while you’re here. Just try not to break anything.”

Ace already has one arm in his yukata, half-spinning in the middle of the room. “No promises!”

“Ace,” Thatch groans.

You’re guided to a smaller adjoining room, divided by sliding paper doors - simple but elegant. Inside are bedding rolls tucked neatly to the side, low lacquered furniture, and enough space for each of you to rest in separate areas without feeling cramped.

As you gather your chosen yukata and step toward the changing area, you glance back at Izou. He’s standing just off to the side, watching the group settle in with a mix of fondness and mild disbelief.

“Go on,” he says, catching your eye. “We’ll eat soon.”

You nod again, clutching the fabric in your arms.

____________

A low table is set in the center of the main room, surrounded by floor cushions, each place set with care. There are ceramic dishes arranged with seasonal vegetables, simmered fish, miso soup, and delicate pickles.

Moreover, a warm clay pot steams gently in the center, its broth bubbling as Kikunojo ladles in thin slices of meat and tofu with ease.

You sit beside Izou, mimicking his every move like it’s a test you desperately want to pass. When he folds his hands and bows slightly toward the food, you do the same. And when he uses chopsticks, you mirror him, resisting every urge to fumble.

Across the table, Ace is already digging in, slurping noodles and humming with his mouth full.

“This is amazing!” he exclaims, eyes sparkling. “Is this lotus root? What is this WHACK Hey!”

Thatch swats him again. “At least try to act like you weren’t raised in the wild.”

“I was raised in the wild!”

Marco sips his tea without comment.

You manage to hold back a laugh and return your attention to the food, trying not to seem too wide-eyed at how beautiful everything looks.

Carefully you pick up a delicate slice of fish glazed in something sweet and smoky, and when it hits your tongue, you actually pause.

Oh. Oh, that’s good.

Then, without thinking, you reach for another piece and gently place it in Izou’s bowl.

“You have to try this,” you murmur, leaning in just a little, your voice softer than before. “I swear, it’s perfect.”

You expect a quiet thank-you, maybe a nod, but what you don’t expect is the softening of his whole expression.

He pauses, just for a heartbeat. His eyes flick down to the fish, then back up to you, softer now. There’s something gentle there, almost guarded, like a secret he’s not ready to share. And then, a small smile, almost like it’s just between the two of you.

“Alright,” he says, and picks up the piece with his chopsticks like it’s nothing.

But across the table, Kikunojo has stopped mid-pour, her eyes sharp with sudden interest as she glances between the two of you.

She notices the way Izou’s shoulders relax ever so slightly, how his voice carries a different warmth when he talks to you. And when he tastes the fish, he doesn’t comment on the flavor; instead, he offers a small, satisfied nod, like he’s savoring more than just the food.

Then in the corner of your eye you catch Kikunojo watching you – just briefly – before she looks away, but not before her gaze makes you question yourself and your gestures.

“…Did I do something wrong?” you ask softly, careful not to make it obvious. Your eyes flick to Izou’s bowl. “I… was that rude?”

Izou meets your gaze, his brow lifting slightly. He studies you, as if debating whether to say more. Then, with the faintest shrug, he replies, voice steady and soft. “No. Not rude.”

“Really?” You glance at Kikunojo this time, your expression openly concerned. “Please tell me if I did something out of line. I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”

She looks at you for a long moment. Then at Izou.

There’s a beat, where she seems ready to explain something. But the way her brother looks at you—quiet, unreadable, yet undeniably tender, makes her pause.

“No worries,” she says at last, her voice smooth and kind. “No harm done.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tension easing from your shoulders. You smile again, lighter this time.

“And here I was thinking I accidentally called you an idiot or something,” you say to Izou, half-joking, half-trying to hide your earlier nerves.

Izou chuckles, low and easy. “No... nothing even close to that.”

His eyes flicker toward yours, linger for just a second too long, then drop back to his food like he’s trying to play it cool.

You smile, turning back to your own plate… only to be interrupted by no other than Ace.

“Hey, was that the fish you gave Izou?” he grins, leaning across the table. His eyes gleam with mischief. “Come on, share some with me too!”

You turn to him, unimpressed, and gently push his chopsticks aside. “Get your own. I’m not your personal waitress.”

Ace blinks, a little surprised by your edge, then smirks, delighted. “Oh? But it’s totally fine when it’s Izou, huh? Playing favorites.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are!”

You roll your eyes, trying to dismiss it with a scoff, but your ears burn all the same.

As you continue to eat you don’t seem to notice how Kikunojo continues to watch you closely. But eventually she shifts her gaze to Izou and raises a single, knowing eyebrow. It’s a silent question, not teasing exactly, but close.

”Why don’t you say something?”

Izou doesn’t answer with words. He only offers the faintest of shrugs, eyes still on his tea as he lifts the cup to his lips. But his smile lingers a little longer this time. And it’s different, not one meant for the table, or even for Kiku.

It’s the kind of smile you offer when something quietly matters. When you're not ready to name it out loud, but you’re already holding it close.

And Kiku sees that, too.

She hums under her breath, almost like a laugh, and finally looks away.

_____________

Later that evening, when you return to your room well fed and tired, you find a small hand-painted charm in the gift basket left in the corner of your room. It’s a delicate little thing – red, gold, and black, strung with a paper tag that reads “for protection and sincerity”.

You think of Izou, how gently he’d touched your back, how he hadn’t laughed when you messed up. How he looked like someone caught between two worlds and carried himself like he belonged in both.

So, you pluck the charm from the basket and tuck it into your pocket. He needs this more than you do right now… so maybe you’ll give it to him tomorrow.

_____________

The next morning, you find Izou standing alone beneath a flowering tree behind the inn. Soft petals drift around him, caught in the breeze, and scatter across the surface of the koi pond below. He’s watching the water, arms folded neatly, his face unreadable.

You shift the little paper-wrapped charm in your hands and step closer, careful not to crunch the gravel beneath your feet.

“Hey,” you say gently.

He glances over. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you admit. “Too many crickets. Loud little things.”

You come to stand beside him, the silence stretching out in the way it only can with someone you trust. A comfortable quiet, filled with birdsong and the ripple of fish in the water. And after a few beats, you hold out the small bundle.

“I found this in the gift basket in my room. Thought you might like it.”

He raises a brow, but takes it from your hands without question. His fingers are warm against yours, and as he peels back the paper, his expression stills. Inside is a deep red omamori charm, threaded with gold and marked with two careful ink strokes: protection and sincerity.

He studies it for a long moment.

“…You’re giving this to me?” he asks, voice lower than before.

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly unsure. “I figured, with us being here and… probably messing up a bunch of stuff culturally without realizing, you might need it. I mean… not need it, but maybe it’s, like, a nice buffer? I don’t know. Is that not okay?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

“No,” he says firmly, and closes his fingers around the charm. “It’s not rude. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

You blink. “Really?”

Izou nods once. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but the edges of his gaze soften. Then, to your surprise, he tucks the charm into the inside fold of his kimono close to his chest, pressed over his heart.

“I’m planning to go to the temple today,” he says after a pause. “If you want to come.”

You blink. “Oh.” Then you smile, bright and open. “I’d like that very much.”

Izou returns your smile, though his is more reserved. Softer. “Me too… If it’s not too much to ask we could go now… You know… before it gets crowded. It’ll be quieter.

You blink again, then nod quickly. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. I’m gonna get dressed then!” you say quickly, practically bouncing. “Give me ten minutes!”

You rush back inside before the excitement can bubble over. Your room is still dim with morning light, and the scent of tatami mats and sakura hangs in the air. You go straight to your luggage and pull out two kimonos you’d set aside the night before.

One is pale lavender with delicate silver cranes stitched along the hem, airy and graceful. The other is a deeper shade of indigo with subtle plum blossoms curling around the fabric.

You hold them up in front of the mirror, shifting your weight back and forth.

“They both look nice,” you murmur to your reflection, but the mirror is no help at all.

So, you purse your lips, glancing toward the door. Izou’s room is only a few steps away, and you know him well enough to know he wouldn’t mind.

Probably.

You pad quietly down the hall, barefoot, the fabric of your robe rustling softly as you go. You knock lightly, but don’t wait long before sliding the door open.

“Izou?” you call gently, poking your head in.

He’s already dressed, standing beside a low table adjusting the sash at his waist. His kimono is dark with soft floral patterns stitched in faded silver and violet. It fits him perfectly, of course.

He looks up the moment he hears your voice. His gaze drops to the two kimonos in your arms, then back to your face.

“I can’t decide,” you confess with a sheepish grin, stepping inside. “Do you think the lavender or the plum one suits the temple visit more?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just steps forward and gently lifts the plum kimono from your arm. His fingers brush yours briefly, a warm touch that lingers longer than it needs to.

“This one,” he says softly.

“Yeah?” You tilt your head, looking between the one he’s holding and the one still in your arms. “I thought you might say that actually… It’s a bit more traditional-looking, huh?”

Izou’s lips quirk, but he doesn’t explain further. His gaze flickers over your face, then down to the fabric again.

“We’ll match if you wear it,” he says softly.

“Match?” You blink, then look at his kimono. Sure enough, plum blossoms. “Oh! That’s adorable. We’ll look like a set.”

He chuckles, low and smooth, but there’s something else behind it. Something softer. Fonder. “Yes… a set.”

You beam without catching the subtle shift in his expression. To you, it’s just a cute coincidence. But to him…. To Izou it means something more… because matching outfits are a sign of commitment.

A subtle declaration, but of course you don’t know that.

“Thanks, Izou!” You tell him and rush off to change with a smile.

_____________

Even though it is rather early the road through the village is busier than you expected.

Many stalls line both sides of the path, vibrant and loud, filled with vendors shouting over one another to sell fresh peaches, steamed buns, trinkets, and charms. Moreover, children run between adults, chasing kites and each other.

You walk beside Izou, your sleeves brushing now and then. The road is just crowded enough to press you closer than usual.

Every so often you glance to the side, eyes catching on something you think might make a good souvenir — a little frog-shaped coin purse, or a painted wind chime that jingles softly in the breeze. You're in the middle of admiring a delicate porcelain tea set when movement at a nearby pottery stall catches your eye.

To your left, an older woman glances up from arranging her wares. Her gaze sweeps over you Izou briefly, then lingers a little longer than necessary. She takes in your matching colors, the slight closeness, and the ease in your movements beside each other.

Then she offers you a small, knowing smile.

“Oh,” she says softly, to no one in particular, but clearly aimed in your direction. “How lovely! Plum blossoms for both. A sign of harmony, you know.”

You blink. “Huh?”

The woman doesn’t explain further just tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear and returns to adjusting a small clay vase like she hadn’t said anything at all.

You glance at Izou, puzzled. “What did she mean by that?”

He’s quiet for a beat longer than expected. Then his lips quirk faintly, and he says far too casually, “Just an old saying.”

“If you say so…” You push the rising feeling of unease down and keep walking.

But it happens again.

A man selling persimmons catches your eye. He gives you a knowing smile - small, but unmistakably amused, and nods politely as you pass. You blink, confused, and glance behind you to check if he is looking at someone else.

Unlikely, there is no one, but Izou beside you, close as ever, with his arms tucked neatly into his sleeves.

“Odd,” you think, and try not to think about it too much. After all, Izou doesn’t seem to be concerned, so why should you be?

But then a few steps later, a mother walking with her child suddenly slows as you approach. Next, she leans down and says something in a soft voice, too fast for you to catch, but the child giggles and stares right at you. Then at Izou. Then back again.

“What was that about?” you murmur, trying to smile politely as they pass.

Izou shrugs, face neutral, but his eyes are almost too calm. Like he’s holding something back.

”Why do I get that feeling that everybody knows something I don’t?”

Luckily, you’re finally nearing the far end of the village, the crowds thinning out, the temple just visible beyond a row of trees. Only a handful of stalls remain between you and the quiet ahead.

But then one of the stalls catches your attention immediately. The air around it smells of something grilled and sweet, a smoky, nutty aroma that makes your stomach twist in a pleasant way.

You pause without thinking.

“Smells amazing,” you murmur, already stepping closer.

The vendor beams at your reaction and begins wrapping one of the rice cakes before you even ask. And before you can pull out your coins, Izou’s hand moves quietly between you and the vendor.

“I’ve got it,” he says simply.

You blink, surprised, but say nothing as he pays.

The vendor chuckles softly as he hands the rice cake to you, not unkind by any means, but with the kind of knowing smile that makes your stomach flutter for a different reason. His eyes flick from you to Izou, and there’s a warmth there.

“Enjoy,” the vendor says. Then, with a subtle smile, “She’ll love it.”

You feel your ears go warm.

Izou only offers a polite nod and turns to continue walking, his expression unreadable save for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

You scramble to follow him, clutching the warm bundle in your hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

His tone is casual, but your heart skips anyway.

And behind you, the vendor chuckles again low, amused, and just loud enough to feel like the punchline of a joke you weren’t meant to hear.

But then finally the road leads you to the edge of the village, and the noise of the stalls fades behind you. Ahead, a stone stairway leads up the hill, flanked by carved lanterns and shaded by tall pines. The temple you two plan to visit sits above, overlooking everything.

You slow at the base of the steps, still holding the rice cake. The warmth has soaked through the paper by now, soft and steady in your hands. A harsh comparison to the chaos inside of you that you can no longer ignore.

“…Are people staring at us?” you ask quietly.

Izou doesn’t look away from the path ahead. “Mm.”

“…Why?”

This time he glances at you, brief but deliberate. “Why do you think?”

You frown, uncertainty knotting in your chest. “I don’t know,” you mumble, heat blooming across your face. “I must’ve messed something up again. Maybe I did my hair wrong, or it’s the kimono’s color, or I wore the wrong sash, or…” Your heart suddenly drops. “Should I go back? I can change!”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “I picked the kimono, remember?”

You blink up at him, that spiraling panic softening just a touch. “I know, but—”

“Why don’t you take a bite,” he says gently, nodding to the rice cake in your hand. “Might help settle your nerves.”

You glance down at it, the scent drifting up—sweet and warm and toasty. You take a slow bite. The crisp edge gives way to soft chew and sweet red bean paste, and despite everything, a tiny noise of approval escapes you.

“…You’re right,” you murmur, chewing. “That actually helps.”

Izou hums, watching you with the faintest smile ghosting the corner of his lips. The breeze lifts a lock of his hair and carries with it the distant sound of wind chimes.

You take another bite, then hold the rice cake up to him, offering it wordlessly.

He raises a brow. “You’re sharing?”

“Of course,” you smile up at him, trying to cover the quiet flutter in your chest.

“I bought that for you,” he says quietly and you would have assumed that he truly doesn’t want to take a bite if it weren’t for that lingering look in his eyes.

“I’m offering a bite,” you chuckle softly, “not the entire thing. Come on. It’s really good.”

Izou hesitates for a moment but then leans in slightly and takes a small bite close enough that you feel his breath brushing your fingers, warm and brief. Then he pulls back, chewing thoughtfully.

“…You’re right,” he says. “It is good.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out too breathless.

Luckily Izou doesn’t tease. He just watches you for a moment longer, then reaches out with two fingers and adjusts the edge of your sleeve where it slipped slightly off your wrist.

He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t need to.

You look at him, heart suddenly full of something you don’t have words for, and in that moment, the noise of the market fades completely. The laughter, the whispers, the tension from before, it all disappears into the quiet space between you and him.

Izou’s voice breaks the silence, soft and almost hesitant: “Do you still want to go to the temple?”

You blink, surprised by the question, by how careful he sounds. Do you?

“I can take you back to the inn,” he offers gently. “If it’s too much… if you’d rather.”

Your eyes drop to the small, warm remnant of the rice cake in your hands, then up to the stone steps ahead, the temple looming just beyond. You take a slow breath, then shake your head.

“No,” you say quietly, but with certainty. “I still want to go.”

Izou studies you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if weighing your words.

You offer a small, shy smile. “You wanted to go. And I don’t want to ruin this for you.”

Izou’s brow furrows, and he steps closer. “You’re not ruining anything,” he insists firmly. “Whether you stay or go back, it doesn’t change anything. You don’t have to worry about that.”

You bite your lip, uncertain.

He softens, voice dropping to a gentle rumble. “If you want to go, then we'll go. If you need a break, we can turn around. Either way, it’s fine.”

You smile again and shake your head, pushing down the soft giggle that dares to escape your tight lips.

You move on.

_____________

The temple sits quiet at the top of a stone path, surrounded by wind-chimes and willow trees. It isn’t grand or towering. It feels lived-in, loved. Worn wooden beams curve softly under carved tiles, and paper lanterns sway between weathered posts.

You climb the last steps slowly, trying not to let your thoughts race ahead of your feet. Izou walks beside you, hands folded neatly in front of him, expression unreadable but unmistakably calm. Always calm.

Naturally, you fall into step just half a pace behind, unsure where you should be.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. Every step he takes seems sure, quietly measured, and respectful. You watch the way he holds his hands, how he walks without rushing. It feels like there’s a rhythm to it, one you weren’t taught.

So you copy him.

Or try to.

Hands folded the same way. Stride small and even. You don’t want to risk doing something wrong, not in a place like this not when it clearly matters to him.

At the main hall, Izou slows, then stops just before the offering box. He bows once—deep and respectful, and steps forward silently. You mimic the bow a beat after, not quite as fluid, but earnest.

He pulls a small coin from his sleeve and drops it gently into the box, the sound barely a whisper against the wood. You fumble for your own coin, offering it the same way.

Izou brings his hands together in front of his chest, fingers lightly touching, and bows his head in prayer. His eyes close. Shoulders still. He doesn’t rush.

And of course, you follow every movement. Match the shape of his hands. Lower your head. Try to still your breath the way he does.

Eventually, he opens his eyes, and for a moment his gaze flickers toward you. Feeling his stare you look up, half-expecting him to look surprised or annoyed. But his gaze softens… just slightly… just for you… and a small smile flickers across his face, brief but real.

You blink at him. “What?” you whisper, uncertain. “Did I mess it up?”

He shakes his head slowly, that tiny smile still curling at the edge of his mouth. “No,” he murmurs, “you’re doing it… perfectly.”

And then he turns to light incense, stepping quietly to the side.

Of course, you follow. Just close enough to match his pace. Just close enough not to lose your place beside him. And together, you place the incense upright in the ash bed. Side by side. Your hands nearly brush.

You keep your gaze lowered, but movement catches at the edge of your vision.

Two older shrine-goers, praying near the incense trays, glance up. One smiles. The other leans toward her and whispers something beneath her breath. You catch the phrase “still so traditional” before it’s lost to the wind.

You blink. Traditional?

You’re just trying not to embarrass yourself further.

Still, your steps stay cautious. You keep your hands folded the way Izou does. You walk in silence.

You want to do it right.

Then, when the offering is done you two turn to leave. Still, you can’t help but look over to the older women again and notice how one bows her head while the other smiles as she watches you both pass, like she knows something you don’t.

So, you glance at Izou and lean toward him, keeping your voice low. “Are you sure I didn’t mess anything up?”

He hums lightly, almost amused. “You didn’t.”

“Because…” You glance back again. “They keep looking at us like we just announced something. Or agreed to something. And I… I don’t know what I’m missing.”

Izou doesn’t answer right away. But his pace slows just enough that you notice.

When he does speak, it’s quiet, thoughtful. “They probably saw something familiar.”

You blink. “Familiar?”

“Something they remember,” he says. “From when tradition wasn’t just formality. When it meant something.”

You glance sideways at him, brows still slightly knit. “Is that a good thing?” you ask, still not completely understanding.

Izou doesn’t look at you right away. His gaze stays ahead, fixed gently on the path winding back down through the trees. But the corner of his mouth lifts, not a smirk, not teasing. Something softer.

“Yes,” he says, and this time, he does look at you. “One might say that.”

His voice is steady, but there’s a glimmer of something behind the words something you can’t name yet, but it feels warm. Quietly proud. Maybe even fond.

But you don’t press. You just walk the rest of the way beside him, wondering what, exactly, they all saw that you didn’t.

_____________

What a day… You enjoyed experiencing the culture and interacting with the locals, but once evening comes around, you’re truly happy to be back in the inn.

The inn’s common room glows with golden light, lanterns swaying gently as night folds over the village outside. The table is already full with ceramic dishes piled high with leftovers, cups clinking softly as another round of sake is poured.

Thatch leans back, laughing at something Ace just said, something loud and ridiculous, at Marco’s expense, judging by the exasperated look on his face.

You smile faintly, letting their voices fade to a low buzz and not really listening, thoughts bouncing from memory to memory, replaying the day’s moments over and over.

Eventually, you glance to Izou, who’s sitting next to you. He hasn’t said much all evening.

But to be fair, you haven’t either.

“Izou,” you murmur, low enough that only he hears. “Can we talk?”

He looks at you then, eyes steady. “Is something wrong?”

“I just… Please…” You nod toward the hallway, and he follows without a word.

You end up near the edge of the garden, where the paper walls let in the soft sound of wind chimes and the distant laughter of your friends. It’s dimmer here, quieter. And when you turn to him, your hands are folded tightly in front of you.

“I’m not stupid,” you begin, voice soft but firm. “I know something’s been going on.”

Izou doesn’t respond, he just watches you, unreadable.

“People stared,” you go on. “They whispered. They laughed. At us. And you…” your voice catches, “…you won’t tell me why. I’ve asked. I’m asking again now. Just once more.”

Still nothing.

You exhale, starting to turn away, but then Izou reaches into his sleeve and pulls something out. A small, rectangular parcel, neatly wrapped in deep red cloth.

He holds it out to you.

You blink, confused, but take it carefully. Your fingers unwrap the cloth slowly, revealing a slim wooden box. You open it.

Inside is a hairpin.

Delicate and exquisite—silver inlaid with lacquered flowers, with a tiny crane poised in flight at the end. It glimmers faintly in the light, too beautiful to be anything casual.

Your breath hitches. “Izou, this is…”

He cuts in, voice low but clear. “In Wano… when someone wants to court another person, they don’t use words at first.”

You look up sharply.

“They offer gestures,” he says. “Meals. Walks. Small touches. Gifts. And eventually… a hairpin. It’s the final step before the proposal.”

The silence that follows is thick. Dizzying.

You stare down at the hairpin, its delicate craftsmanship glinting in your palm. The crane’s wings are outstretched mid-flight, caught in a moment of motion, and yet your whole world feels like it’s holding its breath.

When you speak, your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Izou’s gaze lifts to meet yours, but he doesn’t answer right away. You push, just a little more, because you need to understand.

“All those times I asked if I did something wrong,” you murmur. “If I offended anyone. You could’ve told me what it meant. That I was…” Your words falter. “That I was doing all that by accident.”

Still, he says nothing.

Your voice sharpens, not with anger but with hurt. “Why didn’t you explain it to me?”

Izou finally exhales, slow and quiet, like he’s setting something down inside himself.

“Because it wasn’t wrong,” he says simply. “It never felt wrong.”

You blink, startled.

“I liked it,” he continues. “Being looked at that way. Being given food, and walked beside, and…” He hesitates for a moment, then finishes softer, “It felt like I was being chosen. And I… I wanted to pretend. Just for a while.”

Your breath catches in your chest. He’s looking at the floor now, his voice low, unsure. Like he’s afraid to look up and find regret on your face.

And maybe you should be angry, or embarrassed, or feel tricked. But you don’t. You’re just quiet for a long moment.

Then, with slow, careful fingers, you lift the hairpin from the box and hold it out to him.

Izou freezes.

His eyes drop to the pin, to the crane resting in your open palm, then to your expression. Whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. He doesn’t reach for it at first.

You give it a little nudge toward him.

And finally, he takes it.

His hands are shaking.

You see it, the tremble in his fingers as he wraps them around the gift he gave you. The way he holds it like it’s something fragile, something breaking.

Like he thinks you’re handing it back.

“I just…” You start, then pause. You turn away, looking down toward the wooden floorboards, suddenly very interested in the weave of your sleeve. “I don’t know how to put it in.”

You don’t see his face, but you hear the breath he lets out. A sound caught somewhere between disbelief and relief.

“Could you…?” You swallow, still not facing him. “Would you… put it in for me?”

Silence stretches just long enough that you wonder if you misread something until you feel him move.

He steps behind you, slow and steady. And when his hands rise to gently brush your hair aside, your whole body goes still.

His touch is feather-light, reverent. He gathers your hair with more care than you thought possible, pulling it back just enough to find the right place near your ear. You feel the cool brush of metal as he slides the pin in.

And he sees it, then—your ears flushed bright red, the blush creeping all the way to the tips. Your shoulders tense under his touch like you’re trying to hold yourself perfectly still, even though you’re clearly on the edge of bursting into flames.

Izou smiles.

It’s soft. Private. A little stunned.

“Adorable,” he can’t help himself from saying it out loud.

He lingers just a moment longer, smoothing one last stray piece of hair away from your cheek, his fingertips ghosting across your skin.

And when you finally turn to look at him again, your blush hasn’t faded, but there’s something proud in your eyes now, too. Like you’ve chosen this. Like you’re not afraid of being seen anymore.

The crane glints in your hair between you.

And Izou… he just stares at you, utterly undone.

Then, like his body moves before his mind can catch up, his thumb brushes softly across your cheeks, tracing skin like he’s memorizing it.

You stay still, heart fluttering like the crane resting just above your ear.

Your breath catches when his hand tilts ever so slightly, his fingers cradling your jaw now. You open your eyes to find him already looking at you—closely, deeply—like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Izou,” you whisper, though you’re not sure what you meant to say. Maybe just his name. Maybe just to breathe it into the space between you because you need him to know how you feel without saying anything else.

“I know,” he murmurs, just as quietly.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not yet.

There’s a reverence in the way he waits, giving you time… always giving you time. And it’s that patience, that gentleness, that makes your chest ache with wanting.

So you tilt your chin up. Barely. Just enough.

His eyes flick to your lips. Just once.

And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow, almost tentative at first. A brush of lips, soft and searching, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to have this… if you’ll stay or pull away.

But you don’t.

You lean into him, one hand rising instinctively to grip the front of his kimono, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. And that’s all the answer he needs.

His other arm curls around your waist, drawing you closer, holding you steady as his lips press more firmly into yours—still tender, but now with more weight. More intent.

It’s not a kiss meant to steal your breath.

It’s a kiss that gives it back to you.

When you part, neither of you speaks right away. Your foreheads rest together, the hush between you humming with something alive.

But then a sudden gust of wind chills your skin, making you shiver beneath the soft night air and Izou feels it instantly.

His hand presses to the small of your back.

“Come on,” he murmurs, already shrugging off his haori. “Let’s head back. It’s getting cold.”

The walk back is slow and quiet, your steps unhurried, your heart still fluttering from the kiss and everything it meant. The hairpin glints gently in your hair as you lean a little into him, warmed more by his presence than the borrowed fabric.

When you return to the inn, laughter and voices are already spilling out of the common room. Inside, Ace, Thatch, and Marco are sitting cross-legged around low trays stacked with sake cups and half-eaten snacks, joined now by Kikunojo.

The moment you and Izou step into the light, Kiku looks up. Her gaze sweeps over you both—your flushed cheeks, the borrowed haori still wrapped around your shoulders, and then... the crane hairpin gleaming in your hair.

Her expression shifts immediately, all amusement and recognition. “Well,” she says, eyes dancing. “Congratulations.”

You blink, not expecting anyone to figure out what just happened by looking at you for less than three seconds.

Ace immediately pauses mid-sip and whips his head toward her. “Congrats for what?!”

Thatch nearly chokes on a rice cracker. “Hold on, hold on, what did we miss?! You two were gone for, like, five minutes!”

Kiku smiles behind her cup, absolutely enjoying herself. “Look closely.”

Thatch squints. “What am I looking for…? Oh. OH.” He points dramatically at your head. “The hairpin. It must have something to do with the hairpin!”

“Exchanging gifts, especially hairpins and other accessories are a sign of commitment, yoi.” Marco sips calmly. “It’s the final step in a Wano courtship ritual.”

Ace screams. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN FINAL STEP?! WHEN WERE THERE OTHER STEPS?!”

You burst into laughter just as Izou casually sits down and pours himself a drink like nothing is happening. You slide down beside him, flushed but smiling, and reach for his hand your fingers linking without hesitation.

“Oh my god, it’s real,” Thatch whispers. “It’s actually happening. I thought you two hated each other.”

“We bickered like once,” you say, amused.

“Which is flirting, apparently!” Ace gestures wildly between you. “Since when? No one tells me anything! Was this happening under our noses the whole time?!”

You’re laughing into your sleeve, but Izou’s hand is still in yours, steady and warm. He watches the chaos unfold with a faint smirk, as though this is exactly what he expected from his loud brothers.

“Okay but LISTEN,” Ace says, suddenly pointing between you and Izou. “We need a timeline. When did this start? When did you fall in love? WHO confessed? Was it dramatic? Did someone cry?”

Thatch slaps the table. “Did you hold hands before this? Kiss behind the inn? Is there a secret love letter somewhere? I need to know everything.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Ace cuts in again.

“Oh my god… NO… did you accidentally court him? Was it one of those ‘oops we’re married now’ situations?!”

“Well…” you begin and than look towards Izou for help, but he doesn’t answer, just raises his sake cup to his lips and takes a slow sip.

“Oh no,” Thatch groans, smacking the table again. “That’s what happened.”

Ace gasps. “And he knew the whole time! Maybe even planned it!”

“I didn’t plan anything,” Izou says smoothly.

“I don’t believe a single word that’s coming out of your mouth !!” Ace howls, flailing dramatically. “I swear, if one more surprise drops on me tonight, I’m throwing myself into the koi pond.”

You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, but there’s a fluttering warmth in your chest you don’t want to let go of. You look at Izou - his eyes, his steady presence, the way his thumb gently brushes your knuckles beneath the table.

And maybe he feels it too, because he leans in and murmurs, just for you: “You’re glowing.”

“Blame the sake,” you tease.

“No,” he says softly, his smile deepening. “It’s not the sake.”

“STOP WHISPERING SWEET THINGS WE CAN’T HEAR,” Ace yells.

“WE’RE YOUR FAMILY, DAMN IT,” Thatch adds. “WE DEMAND TRANSPARENCY.”

“You two are the worst,” you say, still smiling.

“No, YOU TWO are the worst,” they shout in unison.

_____________

The docks are bustling as you prepare to leave, the sails of your ship tugging gently in the wind, and the early morning light painting everything gold.

You hug Kikunojo tightly, your voice soft. “Thank you. For everything.”

She squeezes you back just as firmly, a warm smile on her face. “Take care of him,” she whispers into your ear, then pulls back with a glimmer in her eyes. “And keep wearing the pin. It suits you.”

Your hand instinctively touches the ornament tucked neatly into your hair, and you nod, throat tightening a little.

Izou stands nearby, exchanging quiet farewells with a few other locals, and when your eyes meet, his expression softens in that way that makes your heart flip all over again.

But the moment is short-lived, because as soon as you both step aboard the ship, you can feel that chaos is about to start.

“Alright, listen up!” Ace announces, sliding down the mast with exaggerated flair. He plants himself firmly in front of you, arms crossed. “New rule: no sneaky late-night strolls, no romantic moonlit talks, and absolutely no eloping behind our backs!”

You blink at him. “We’re not… Ace, seriously?”

“I mean it!” he insists, pointing between you and Izou. “If we give you two even an inch of privacy, next thing we know, you’re getting married in the middle of the night by candlelight with no witnesses and we’ll all find out from a note taped to the mast!”

You can’t help laughing, lifting your hands to try and calm him. “Ace, come on, it’s not like that. We’re not planning anything. I swear.”

Thatch strolls up behind him, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the drama. “That’s what they want us to think. But we’ve seen the signs. The blushes. The stolen looks. You’re one quiet dinner away from exchanging vows.”

“Exactly. Therefore, I will sleep outside your door,” Ace threatens dramatically. “I will do it. Just try me.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but you feel Izou shift beside you, entirely too calm. In fact… smug.

“Well,” he says smoothly, folding his arms, “technically… I could marry her right here. In my cabin. Doesn’t even need to be formal. Quiet. Private. No interruptions.”

You turn to look at him, eyes wide. “Izou!”

But he’s smirking now, and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes. He’s enjoying this.

Ace gasps loudly enough to echo off the sails. “OH HELL NO. You are NOT sharing a room! Not unless I’m sleeping between you two from now on!”

You sigh through your laughter, watching as Ace frantically starts drawing diagrams in the air with wild gestures while Marco walks away in the opposite direction, pretending not to hear a word.

Through it all, Izou’s hand remains firmly in yours.

You glance up at him, smiling despite the ridiculousness of it all. “You really like riling him up, don’t you?”

His smile softens. “Only a little.”

And even with Ace shouting about curfews and Thatch declaring himself your “maid of honor just in case,” it’s quiet between the two of you in that one perfect moment, like the chaos only makes it sweeter.

You glance up at Izou with a snicker you can’t hold back, eyes still bright from laughter. “Just wait until the others hear about this.”

He lifts a brow, returning your grin with a gleam of mischief in his gaze. “And Pops.”

Your expression shifts into a mixture of amusement and mock horror. “Oh, Pops is going to love this.”

Your laughter softens as Izou turns toward you, the teasing fading into something quieter, gentler. The breeze tousles his hair, and the warmth in his eyes isn’t playful anymore… It’s something deeper.

You don’t need words.

His hand rises, fingertips brushing against your cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, lingering there as if afraid the moment might slip away. You tilt your face up instinctively, breath caught between heartbeats.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, tender, full of the kind of affection that’s been building in quiet glances and stolen moments. The world around you fades away… the sway of the ship, the distant shouting from below deck, even the sound of the sea. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in that single, perfect kiss.

Until…

“OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!!”

#fanfiction #fanfic #one piece #op izou #izou x reader #izou one piece #whitebeard pirates #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece fanfiction #one piece wano

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wildernessuntothemselves · 2 days ago

Text

Eternally | yandere soulmate au teaser

Summary: Beomgyu is a bully. You wish he would leave you alone but it seems that the only joy he derives from his miserable existence is when he's fucking with you and Kai. He especially loves hurting Kai, his eyes glint every time his cruel words hit a nerve, his grin turning sadistic every time his actions lead to another bruise on Kai's soft skin. Kai, ever the pacifist, tries to avoid any confrontation with the bully, but unfortunately for him, Beomgyu knows how to hit him where it hurts, and that place is you. Kai never seems to be able to control himself when Beomgyu directs his harsh insults towards you, your brave best friend always putting himself in the line of fire to protect you.

Your heart aches for him, breaking every time you see the evidence of Beomgyu's hate on his face and his body. But it'll all be alright, he tells you. As soon as you get your soulmate marks, no doubt getting each other, and you graduate from college, you'll be leaving this awful town and Beomgyu behind. You'll start a new life where he won't be able to hurt you anymore.

You cling onto that, wrapping that hope around yourself every time Beomgyu tries to make you fall apart. But it seems like fate can be even crueler than him...

Warnings: soulmates au, yandere au, bully beomgyu, bsf to lovers kai and reader, noncon, dry humping

It all started when you had stayed back late, grading papers for the class as the TA. You hadn’t expected to find any other students lingering around so you were surprised to hear the sound of someone playing the guitar in the music room.

They sounded really good and you were curious who it was so you went to check it out but to your dismay, it was none other than Beomgyu. You tried to quietly slip out but Beomgyu noticed you, throwing a mocking remark your way that you decide to ignore in favour of running away.

But Beomgyu wasn't happy with that, his long legs helping him quickly catch up to you. He grabs you by the wrist and all but slams you against a wall, hissing in your face for daring to ignore him.

"Don't fucking ignore me, bitch." He snarls and then grins at your shivering form. "What? Got nothing to say now that you don't have your lapdog to take your beating for you?"

Oh how you wish Kai was here. He wouldn't have been able to stand up to Beomgyu but damn would he have tried.

He reaches over to your face and you flinch, worried he'll slap you, your sudden movement pulling your top to the side and exposing your bra to him.

"What do we have here?" He laughs, thumbing the lacey strap. Your entire body goes cold. "Didn't peg you for a slut. What? You wore this hoping he'd see it and fuck you?"

You shake your head, telling him this had nothing to do with Kai. Truth is you'd worn it because you were feeling bad about your body and wanted something to give you confidence back even if no one saw it. You certainly never wished for Beomgyu to see it.

But here he was, ripping your top apart so he can get a better look. You yelp when he does it, and try to cover your chest up with your hands but he quickly gathers them in his own hands and pins them roughly to the wall, growling at you "keep those here if you know what's good for you."

You don't dare move them even when he lets go, even when his hands go your chest to cup your breasts through your bra, even when he's pinching and pulling at your nipples, even when he's pressing his leg between your thighs and ordering you to grind against it.

"Come on, baby, we don't want this to go to waste. I'll give you what that cuck can't. I know your body is dying to be felt up by a real man."

You shake your head, follwing his orders but refusing to acknowledge his words. But that's not good enough for Beomgyu because he grabs your face, his fingers digging into your cheeks, "you don't look very grateful. I am doing you a favour. No one else would give a stupid whore like you the time of day so you better thank me for it, bitch."

The threat in his voice is clear. He won't tolerate your disobedience for much longer so you quickly give in to his humiliating demands, thanking him for touching you, for violating you.

"That's better." He murmurs, satisfied. "I prefer it when you're honest. After all I can feel your filthy pussy dripping down my thigh."

He wasn't lying. God you hate your body for reacting to his unwanted touch.

"Bet you're close. Why don't you beg nicely for me to let you cum."

"Please." You sob, wanting this to end. "Please let me cum."

"Please who?" He pushes, grabbing you by the ass and pushing you down harder on his thigh, making you cry out. "Please beomgyu."

"Good girl." He purrs, moving you over his thigh, his movements much more deliberate and effective than yours, quickly bringing you to the edge and shoving you over it.

Your hands finally move off the wall to grab his shoulders, attempting to ground yourself as your body shakes and shivers through the distressing orgasm, but beomgyu doesn't seem to mind.

As your body comes down from its sweltering high, a chill comes over it when you feel beomgyu's hard cock pressed against your hip, and bile rises in your throat as you think of what he might do to you next.

But to your surprise, he steps back, taking off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders to cover you up.

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll make him bleed."

_____________________

A/N: yes I have reposted it this to make it prettier because I need others to freak out about this idea with me lol

#txt smut #beomgyu smut #yandere au #soulmates au #yandere beomgyu #dom!idol #sub!reader #tw noncon

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forestshadow-wolf · 2 days ago

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Price on a mission where he finds soap in the cage. He's between fights, breathing heavy, resting on the chains that seperate him from the onlookers. The place is dirty, grimy, littered with strays and drunkards, and illegal goods. Price (lieutenant) is on a mission, looking for his target, he's not even a captain yet, he shouldn't be scouting. And he's not. But he's watched the man's last three fights, and he's queueing up for another as a new opposition steps in. He'd make a great asset. And Price is only a few months from Captain, he'll need his own team. There's little more time to think on it as his comms crackle to life, watcher tells to to get ready, his target is heading his way. Price is ready, always ready. Waiting to receive. One of the many stray canines trots across the floor. Except his target never shows. Watcher asks him what the hell he's doing. He says he's got no visuals on the target. Watcher says he was right on top of him. But the target wasn't there. Watcher tells him to pull out, get to exfil. He will. He does. But first. The man in the cage has just finished his fight, two tenders are dragging his victim out, and the man is back to leaning on the boundry. Price hasn't heard a word from him thus far, he's an angry looking man, dangerous, and something distinctly animal in his eyes. Price tells him he's got somewhere for him to go if he wants, something better than this. Something with purpose. In a voice that's more feel than sound in the low roar of the place. He watches the man think it over, price thinks he'll ignore him, he's about to let it go, won't take a what doesn't belong to him. But as price turns so does the man, not towards him, not towards the center of the cage either. Towards the chained gate. An attendant lets him out easily, and without a word the man follows price out. And he never stopped following Price

It's years down the line now, coming up on 8 years almost to the day. And he

Finds himself once again circling an adversary, in a metal bound arena. But this time it's Ghost on the outside where Price once was, he tells him that Gaz is nearly on their target. The whistle blows and there's no more time to ponder nostalgia. His knuckles sting as the split skin makes contact with his opponent's nose. Blood sprays, and Soap doesn't hesitate to follow it up with a jab in the sternum with his other hand. He stays on the much larger man, pummeling him with his fists. His ribs throb with bruises, his arms ache the same, it's hot, and the sweat slicks the blood fron the cut on his eyebrow. The man is large, and faster that soap expects, a heavy fist catches him on the cheek. His head snaps to the side with the force and he stumbles back, Gaz chases the target past the cage hot on his heels as Soap knocks in to the chains with a clang. Ghost is on the edge, right by his ear, but he's still reeling from the hit, and his opponent has him pinned now. It's easy, automatic to get low, block his face with his arms, let the hits land where he can take them, find an opening and fight dirty. There are no rules except *win*, and Soap never lost in the ring. His opponent leaves his left side open when he throws his right, not much, but enough to slip though. Enough for soap to win. Ghost's voice is clearer now. He tells him to get up. Soap takes the slip, drives his fist into ribs, puts his weight behind it. Pain explodes in his hand and runs up his arm with the force. The man backs off, and soap is on him immediately, slamming him into the opposite side of chains, holds him there as he swings his fist over and over into his face under soap feels the man stop fighting. Then he drops him. Spits blood from his mouth, circles the cage like a predator to show his strength, his danger, his dominance.

Ghost tells him Gaz got the target, that he and Price are heading back to exfil with him. Tells him that soap's done his job. It's time to go home now. Soap doesn't wait for someone to let him out. Another act of dominance. Aggression. He sees Ghost retreat, can't follow him yet, they still need this identity for another op. So soap stays. Not long. He, this guy, never does. Long enough to collect on his winning and have a neat drink. 45 minutes that's all. He's bleeding and sweating, and he lost his shirt somewhere, but the alcohol helps dull the pain, and he finishes it off soon after he collets his dues. Rich men with rich suits try to stop him like always, trying to buy his loyalty, his skill, but he pays them no mind like always. Pushes through the crowd like a bull after a fight.

Ghost is waiting for him when he leaves the cacophonous building. Hands him an oversized shirt, slings an arm over his shoulders as he helps Soap to exfil 2 klicks away.

#el rambles #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #call of duty #cod #cod mw2

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skyracha · 1 day ago

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Our Girl

[3RACHA x Bsf!Reader]

No warnings- just fluff

Word Count: ~ 1.4K

500 Follower Event- Part 2

Synopsis: After not seeing your three best friends- Bangchan, Han and Changbin- in almost 2 years, you score barricade tickets to their show. One by one they spot you in the crowd, leading to staff bringing you backstage for a long overdue reunion.

__________________________

It had been six hundred and eighty-four days since you’d last seen them.

Since you’d sat across from Bang Chan in that little café in Hongdae, his hands warm around his coffee but his smile just a little tired. Since you’d hugged Han Jisung outside the dorms after a late-night snack run, his laughter echoing in the street. Since Changbin had wrapped you in one of those rib-crushing hugs, the kind only he could give, before boarding a van for tour rehearsals.

And then they were gone. Schedules. Time zones. Fame. Life.

You didn’t blame them—never could. But it had left a hollow ache where their laughter used to be.

So when you scored barricade tickets to their show—Stray Kids World Tour, final night in Seoul—you didn’t even hesitate. You’d screamed. Cried, even. Not because you expected anything. Not because you thought they’d remember you after two years of world tours and award shows.

But because this was as close as you’d been to them in so long.

Close enough to see them under the lights.

Close enough to whisper: I missed you.

⸻

You arrive early, hours before gates open, your heart racing as you grip your ticket. You feel ridiculous—dressed in their tour merch, eyes scanning the stadium floor like a fangirl, not a girl who once knew the way to their studio better than her own apartment.

But when the lights go down and the intro VCR starts, you forget everything.

Then they appear.

And suddenly you’re eighteen again, sitting on the dorm floor eating convenience store ramen, their laughter surrounding you. But now, they’re towering on stage—stars in every sense of the word.

And then it happens.

Chan spots you first.

You don’t even mean to make eye contact—it just happens. You’re singing along, arms raised, when his gaze sweeps the crowd, freezes, and locks on yours. His mouth parts. He fumbles a lyric. His brow creases in disbelief. You smile—soft and unsure. He blinks, then smiles so wide you think his face might split open.

Next is Jisung.

He’s bouncing across the stage during his rap in “Topline” when he skids to a stop mid-line, nearly crashing into Felix. He squints into the lights, then grips Chan’s shoulder, gesturing frantically. His whole face lights up when he sees you—eyes wide, mouth curled into that signature grin. He does a ridiculous little hop in place, mouthing, No way—NO WAY.

Finally, Changbin.

He’s mid-verse, all intensity, until he sees his hyungs losing it. He follows their gaze—and his jaw drops. A laugh bursts out of him right there on stage. He holds his mic out to the crowd and just stares at you for a moment, completely off-beat.

Chan leans into his mic and says, “Sorry, everyone—we just spotted a really important friend in the crowd.”

The cheers rise, but you barely hear them.

Because minutes later, a staff member is weaving through the crowd, heading straight for you.

⸻

Backstage smells like hairspray, sweat, and something electric—like memory. You’re guided through corridors, your steps faltering as the noise of the crowd fades behind you.

Then the door opens. And they’re all there.

Chan crosses the room in four long strides. No words. Just wraps his arms around you and pulls. His chin tucks over your shoulder. You feel his heart racing—faster than yours.

“You’re real,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You’re actually here.”

You nod, tears burning behind your eyes. “I had to see you. One more time.”

Jisung crashes into you next, arms looping tight around your waist. “You’re still short,” he teases, voice thick. “Thank God.”

Then Changbin, who just stares at you for a second too long before pulling you in, squeezing so hard you wheeze. “You idiot. You should’ve told us. We’d have flown you out to the first show.”

You laugh wetly. “Didn’t think you’d remember me.”

They all step back at once. Offended. Insulted.

Chan’s voice drops. “Don’t ever say that.”

“We talked about you all the time,” Jisung adds.

“You think we could just forget our best friend?” Changbin shakes his head. “Hell no.”

You’re led to their dressing area, and somehow, they all manage to circle around you like you’re a secret they’ve kept safe for years. The makeup team scolds them for crying off their touch-ups, but no one cares.

“Why didn’t you text?” Chan asks quietly.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your lives. Everything changed.”

He frowns. “It didn’t change how we feel about you.”

Jisung reaches for your hand. “You were with us before the stage. You never had to earn your place here.”

“Yeah,” Changbin grins. “You’re not just part of the crowd. You’re part of us.”

⸻

They pull you out to the wings for the encore.

You watch from just offstage, tears slipping freely as the ocean of lights sway. The boys glance back every few minutes, sending winks and smiles just for you.

And then Chan lifts his mic again.

“There’s someone really special here tonight,” he says, voice cracking. “Someone we haven’t seen in a long time. And even though we’ve been apart, they were always with us. In every lyric, every late-night recording session, every hard moment.”

Jisung grabs the mic. “She believed in us before anyone else did.”

“She’s the reason I didn’t quit,” Changbin adds.

Chan looks toward the wing—toward you. “This one’s for you.”

The lights dim. A soft melody begins—an unreleased song, one you heard once in the studio but never thought would see the light.

The lyrics? They’re yours.

Every word.

You cry. Openly. The staff tries not to stare, but the boys don’t hide it. They point to you, tears in their own eyes, and sing like they’re pouring two years of silence into the music.

When it ends, the applause is deafening.

And you know something deep in your bones.

You were never just part of the past.

You were part of their story all along.

#skz #stray kids #skz fluff #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz x reader #bang chan #han jisung #seo changbin #3racha

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cosmowgyral · 2 days ago

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With You through every Season ~

(5th Anniversary Story Event - Me and You, Always)

▪︎ Gilbert von Obsidian

this is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. creative liberties have been taken. all content belongs to cybird. reblogs are appreciated but do not repost. hope you enjoy!

story is from gilbert's pov

~chapter 2

Emma: If I’m going to make your heart skip a beat—

In the small pool, so symbolic of summer, Emma’s hand gently cupped my cheek.

Her face leaned in—and just when I thought she might kiss me, she suddenly gave my cheek a playful bite.

Emma: This kind of thrill is much better.

Gilbert: Oh?

(So my little rabbit gets excited when someone bites her cheek, huh.)

(Feels like a totally different kind of thrill than a ghost story, though…)

Gilbert: So this is your idea of how to spend the summer?

When I bit her cheek in return, a shy, bashful smile bloomed across her face.

Emma: This is our own way of spending summer.

Emma: It’s hard to feel the seasons here in Obsidian, after all…

Emma: So I thought… maybe we could start making our own little traditions like this, together.

(So that’s where this is going, huh.)

Emma: ...You don’t like the idea?

She didn’t miss it—the faint flicker of hesitation, the subtle shift in my expression that hinted at discomfort.

Gilbert: Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?

(That wasn’t a lie.)

Gilbert: It’s just… something new to look forward to.

(I... really wasn’t lying…)

As the gentle summer came to an end, Obsidian slowly began to fall under the assault of a harsher, more unforgiving climate.

Gilbert: ……

Roderic: ...Prince Gilbert, please refrain from taking your frustration out on your cane.

As I walked along, I finally earned a complaint after repeatedly poking at Roderic with my cane.

But the moment I smiled and let the tip dig in just a bit, the protest vanished from beneath the hood.

Gilbert: She’s been holed up in the kitchen all this time, completely ignoring me.

Roderic: Lady Emma is simply devoted to preparing something delicious for you, Prince Gilbert…

Gilbert: Still doesn’t mean she should be ignoring me, does it?

Gilbert: I don’t care if it’s harvest season or whatever—so food matters more to her than I do?

(Ever since autumn started, she’s been locking herself in the kitchen every spare moment.)

(Even though she’s the one who said she wouldn’t leave me lonely...)

Roderic: By the way, Prince Gilbert—where exactly are you heading…?

Gilbert: The kitchen.

Roderic: You mustn’t.

Gilbert: Why not?

Roderic: Lady Emma reminded you several times, did she not?

Roderic: She was very clear—you mustn’t peek inside until she says it’s okay.

Gilbert: I sat through that ridiculous meeting earlier, didn’t I? The least you can do is be on my side.

Roderic: Even so…

Gilbert: Hmm? What is it?

Roderic: ...Lady Emma, she...

Gilbert: What is it? I can't hear you.

Roderic: ……My sincerest apologies, Lady Emma…

Crushed by guilt, Roderic stepped aside, and I made my way into the kitchen alone.

What greeted me was a gentle sweetness in the air—and Emma, fast asleep with her head resting on the counter, sitting in a chair.

(Ah… no wonder she wanted to keep this place off-limits.)

As my eyes wandered, I saw all kinds of sweets lined up—likely test batches of her creations.

Beside her lay a well-used notebook, filled to the brim with cute little doodles and densely packed writing.

(Looks like a recipe journal. Was she planning some kind of autumn tea party...?)

Carefully, so as not to wake her, I turned the pages.

Test Batch 1: Sweet and tasty, but too much sugar—bad for the body, so no good.

Test Batch 2: Cut too much sugar, not tasty… need to find a better substitute.

Test Batch 3: The sweetness is just right, but if I can’t scale it up, he might not be satisfied.

(Really now… how can you go this far for a villain like me?)

(You didn’t have to try so hard just to give me “autumn”...)

--flashback--

Albert: Gil! I found some beautiful autumn leaves. Want to make leaf crafts together?

--flashback ends--

(…When I’m with you, I end up remembering things I’d rather not.)

(Why is it that the kind people around me are always trying to gift me the seasons...?)

Emma: Mm..

I stopped turning the pages at Emma's slight stirring.

Thankfully, she showed no sign of waking.

(......)

(…Back in Rhodolite, wasn’t autumn all about celebrating the harvest and eating together?)

(Obsidian has no such traditions… but still—)

The next day, I left a note that read,

"Since you're ignoring me, I'm bored—so I'm off to conquer the world."

Emma burst into the lab, panic written all over her face.

Emma: Gil! Please don’t do anything reckless—!

Emma: …Wait, what?

Gilbert: Heehee, if you’d been just a bit later, things might’ve gotten really interesting.

Emma: What… exactly are you doing?

[Chapter 1] [Masterlist] [Chapter 3]

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri jp #ikepri gilbert #ikepri gilbert translations #gilbert von obsidian #ikemen prince translations #ikepri translations #ikemen prince gilbert #d: strangergraphics #イケメン王子

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thewretched1999 · 9 hours ago

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── .✦ i'm not in love, so don't forget it.

a/n: this is inspired by the song. i had it on loop while writing....god i lovelovelove vergil...ghhh ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| cw: none! it's all just fluff. wc: 1k

When Dante finally showed up again with Vergil in tow, he felt like a mystery to you.

It seemed on the surface that he was nothing like V, who was so open and honest about everything when it came to you, from his thoughts to his feelings, all were whispered and confessed in the dark expressed with flowery words and shown through poems he’d come to associate with you.

Vergil wasn’t like that.

For the first few weeks he barely even looked your way, and when you tried to make idle conversation with him it felt like talking to a brick wall until he’d take his leave to go demon hunting with Dante as if they hadn’t spent months doing just that every damn day. You somehow didn't take offense because V’s words always rung in your head.

It was hard to forget about the man that you came to care for but even after he’d long been gone, replaced by a man in blue who’d treated you so coldly in the beginning--those feelings didn’t waver, merely adapted.

To your benefit, Vergil’s frigid and callous temperament didn’t last long. His front melted away rather quickly, actually.

Despite being nothing like V. Vergil couldn’t keep away, couldn’t force himself to forget the nights he’d spent with you as V, curled up on the ratty couch reading poems when there was nothing to do, but he couldn’t quite let himself accept that the love you had for him was still there.

He didn’t really know what to do with these feelings either. Couldn't decide whether to bottle them up or let himself explore them thoroughly this time, without the worry of his time running out.

Only when you two were alone would he let himself indulge in you just a little.

Some days he’d avoid you like the plague and on others he’d cling to you so tightly, never saying a word unless you tried to get up and leave when you thought he was asleep, and when he does open his mouth to speak all he mutters is a;

“Don’t.”

Before letting the room fall into silence again, keeping you crushed against the couch with your only option left being to let your hands run through his hair gently. At least until he senses Dante or Nero on their way. Only then does he shove you away and pretend like nothing happened.

Vergil says he doesn’t love you, but he lies to himself and to anyone who’ll ask. When his hand finds yours he’ll ignore the puzzled look on your face, when he holds the door open for you he’ll say it’s because he has manners. (He shuts the door in front of Dante, so you don’t know how true that is.)

…And when he takes you out under the guise of a hunt to slow dance with you in the forest, leaving only the fireflies and the stars above to bear witness, he won’t say anything at all.

It’s peaceful, when you two come together like lovers who’ve known each other for lifetimes, how he cradles you close to him so delicately, but it’s all so so confusing, his hand stays faithfully on the small of your back, whilst the other holds onto yours tenderly, most would never take Vergil for a romantic, but you know better.

“You didn’t have to bring me this far out.” You murmur, slightly pulling away from where you’d had your head resting against his shoulder to look up at him, to see how his eyes sparkle with something soft underneath the moonlight, pupils dilating before he looks away.

You smile. He was so obvious.

“I thought it was a lovely place.” He mutters. He’s right, you suppose, it’s gorgeous, serene.

“How did you even find this place?” You ask, his hand squeezes yours softly, and like always, it’s him who presses his forehead against yours.

“Does it matter?”

“No.” You hum. “I guess not.”

You pause, and something else piques your interest.

“I didn’t take you for the type to dance.”

Vergil's lips press into a thin line. “I don’t.”

Yet the way he moves so gracefully with you to the song playing from the little radio he’d brought quietly says otherwise, speaks as if he's done it for years. You don't poke fun or prod though, at least not yet, simply hum as if it were the most interesting thing you'd heard.

“I’m special then?” You ask teasingly, just to hear his answer.

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face, you know for everything Vergil is, everything he was, underneath all the ice he’s a man in love, you half expect him to deny it but he surprises you.

“You are.” He says.

You stay silent for a moment, wondering if you’d heard right, before you beam, grinning so widely and laughing so softly in disbelief he knows it’s not meant to mock, it’s why he doesn’t make a fuss.

“You admit it.” Your hand unravels from his only because he reluctantly lets it, rewarded when he feels the warm pressure of your hand as it comes up to cup his cheek gently, in which he leans into your touch almost instantly. Needy man.

The silence washes over you both again, but this time it’s not heavy with denial or unsaid words, only the calm that comes with acceptance and a new beginning.

When he doesn’t look away from you, doesn’t deny that yes, he does feel something for you, something he’s yearned for all his life—you lean in to let your nose brush against his, his breath ghosts against yours, mingling for just a moment until finally his lips meet yours.

He doesn’t hide the affection he holds for you, it’s all consuming and heartachingly tender the way he lets you lead—and how wonderful it is to be reminded that you still feel the same. As if your feelings for him would have ever changed.

While yes, you may have loved V, you adore Vergil.

#── .✦mel's fics #devil may cry #vergil sparda #dmc vergil #vergil sparda x reader #devil may cry 5 #dmc 5 #dmc 5 vergil #vergil sparda x you #vergil x reader #vergil x you #x reader #fluff #dmc fluff

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undertheopensky · 2 days ago

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Helping Hands

Characters: Wild, Four

Tags: Chronic Illness, Dislocated Joints, Medical Care, modern au but it's so vague you could be forgiven for not noticing

Warning: This fic contains information of a medical nature. This information should not be considered professional medical advice and should not used to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent injury or disease. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME UNLESS YOUR DOCTOR HAS EXPLICITLY INSTRUCTED YOU TO AND HOW TO DO IT.

———

The trust inherent in letting your brother wrap their hands around your neck.

———

“Hey, Four. You know I trust you, right?”

Four glances up from his pliers. “Yes, but you asking me directly is a little concerning.”

“Would you be able to do me a massive, massive favour?”

Bemused, Four sets his wire project aside and hops off his stool. “I mean. What do you need me to do, exactly?”

“Well first get back on the stool, I need to be standing and you’re too short to reach otherwise.”

Four complies with a snort and an eyeroll. “If this is just an excuse to harass me about my height—”

“It’s not, I swear.”

Actually, now that he’s looking, Wild looks — tense. Moving slow and stiff and not turning his head, with something that might be pain tucked into the creases at his eyes. “Is your neck bothering you? I have painkillers—”

“It is, but later. Right now I need you to hold your hands like this-” Wild demonstrates — “at the base of my skull, and apply pressure without moving at all while I pop my neck back into place.”

Four’s heart stutters. “I’m sorry, your neck?”

Wild looks sheepish. “The second vertebra subluxated and it hurts like fuck, I can pop it back in but I need your hands. Will you do it? Please? I trust you.”

“That’s — are you sure?”

“Yeah, my physio taught me how to do this. Wrists and stuff too. Since… y’know.”

Four does know. Wild dislocates bones like most people change clothes. It wasn’t until his twenties that someone actually went hey that’s kinda weird and they started looking into it, started getting him help.

He does better now.

Four takes a deep breath. “Yeah, of course I’ll help. You gotta tell me exactly what to do, though, okay? I do machines, not squishy humans.”

Wild laughs, a flutter all in his chest as his head stays unnaturally still. “Yeah, you got it, bud.”

Wild turns his back and steps trustingly into the cradle of Four’s legs so his small hands settle over his shoulders and his fingers splay down towards the collarbones peeking out of his shirt. Between his thumbs sits the line of Wild’s spine, bone under skin. It looks delicate. It looks normal.

Four’s stomach churns.

“Okay, now brace your hands, and dig your thumbs in a little,” says Wild. “More pressure. More pressure. That’s perfect, just like that. I’m gonna move my head but I need your hands to stay exactly where they are, okay? Don’t follow me.”

“Alright.” Four steadies himself. Not locking up, just — bracing, tensing the muscles to make an unmoving scaffold for Wild to use.

Slowly, Wild turns his head to the left, then the right. The bones under the skin press against Four’s thumbs. He holds fast, doesn’t let them push him aside. He’s never paid attention to it before but now it’s right in front of him and the hard shapes flexing under the skin is — it’s disturbing. The way the muscles in Wild’s neck flutter and jump doesn’t help. Goddesses.

Wild tips his chin up with a hiss of pain.

“All good?” Four asks. He’s pleased by how steady his voice is.

“Yeah. Just can’t quite — get that one. Hurts too much.” He switches tracks and tilts his head slowly to the side, and under normal circumstances he can touch his ear to his shoulder without lifting it at all but he’s so stiff right now. Wild barely gets halfway before hesitating and switching sides. Avoiding the pain. Avoiding hurting himself, maybe damaging himself, and Four trusted him to know his limits but was this really safe —

Under Four’s right thumb there’s a faint click like a door latch closing and Wild gasps with relief. “Yes! Got it. Fuck that’s so much better. Four, thank you so much, fuck, I can’t do that on my own and it’s a pain in the ass getting an appointment with my physio every fucking time—”

“Doesn’t it go back on its own sometimes too?” Four pulls his hands away as Wild turns to face him.

“Yeah. Some little movement and it just slides back in, but it’s not consistent. It’s so much easier with a helper. Thanks again.”

“You sure we don’t need to go to the doctor? Oh, I need to—” Four digs around in the desk drawer, he knows he has a spare bottle here somewhere.

“No point. It’s not like they can do anything for me that you didn’t.” Wild beams at him. “Thanks, Four.”

“…shut up and take the painkillers.”

#legend of link fic fight 2025 #linked universe #lu four #lu wild #lu fic #skies writes #medical squick #do not try this at home #if you're getting your medical advice from fanfiction you have bigger problems than i can help you with

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oceantornadoo · 3 days ago

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when the sun came up (i was looking at you)

the pitt fic: samira mohan x jack abbot

Samira tries not to hate people.

She doesn’t hate Robby for the condescending squat he does when she doesn’t meet his eyes. She doesn’t hate her father for leaving her thirteen and missing half her heart. She doesn’t hate her father’s sister for screaming it was all Samira’s fault behind closed doors at the funeral house. She doesn’t hate her Amma for cutting her off from her cousins after that.

But she really, really hates drunk drivers.

They aren’t her “thing”, the switch every healthcare worker has that cuts like a serrated knife between broken ribs. They just suck, as Trinity would say, and as someone with a higher-than-normal level of self control, she just doesn’t understand how this happens. How a drunk driver hit an afterschool care bus of three children and one driver, who swerved at the last minute to take the brunt of the damage.

Samira works on the driver for 43 minutes, but there’s too many glass shards in her bloodstream. Robby calls time of death after they lose her heartbeat twice, a murmured “Time of Death: 6:23pm.” The group bows their head in silence for a moment, the heart monitor silent as Samira’s eyes trace the pattern of blood on the floor. Robby exhales sharply, his frown lines more pronounced than usual, and that’s that.

Samira takes the little girl in North 15 so day shift can start wrapping up while she settles into her double shift. Mel’s the best with kids, but she’s off today and Jesse and Mateo have tried their hardest, but the girl hasn’t stopped crying. Samira pretends she’s talking down one of her cousins on her mom’s side from a tantrum, an open face and an understanding tone.

“Hi, sweetheart. My name is Samira. What's your name?" The little girl sniffles, her crying ebbing slightly. It seems she might be more comfortable with a woman, as both Mateo and Jesse couldn’t get through to her. Samira waves them out, trying to analyze her patient as much as possible. "Audrey," she finally whispers. Samira gives her an encouraging smile.

"My friend Mateo thinks you have a broken leg, but I need to do a scan first. Do you have a parent I can call?” Samira puts Audrey at about seven years old, with auburn curls and all-seeing green eyes. There's something a little familiar about the slant of her eyebrows and her curls, but Samira can't place it. Instead, she takes in her trembling lip and watery eyes and decides that despite her mantra to not hate, she can hate drunk drivers.

"My mommy got a new phone and I can't 'member her number." Audrey sniffles, wiping at her eyes. "That's okay. Now I know your bus was an after-school bus. Do you know where it was taking you? Was someone waiting who isn't your mommy?" Samira gently approaches as she peppers the girl with questions. Audrey seems to no longer be crying, instead fiddling with a friendship bracelet on her arm.

"I was going to see Uncle J since Mommy works late. I don't know where Daddy is." She frowns at the blanket like it's refusing to tell her the location of her dad. Samira can relate, even she has no clue about the circumstances Audrey alludes to. The X-Ray tech, thankfully female, knocks on the door. "Audrey, this is my friend Jaida. She's going to help me look at your leg. Is that okay?" Audrey nods. Jaida is a seasoned professional, doing the scan as quickly as possible without compromising care as she senses the tension in the room. When the scan comes back, Samira sighs. Audrey's tibia and fibula are broken, but it's a clean break with no fragments. Jaida uploads the scan and retreats quietly as Samira sends her a thankful smile.

"Okay, Audrey. It looks like you've hurt your leg. You're being really brave today. Do you know your Uncle J's number or where he lives?" Audrey's emerald eyes brighten as she nodded enthusiastically. "Mommy says Uncle J lives at the hopsitial." Interesting. Hopefully Audrey's mom meant he's a worker there and not a frequent flyer. Either way, he'll be in the system. "Do you know his first name, like how yours is Audrey? Or maybe his last name? It might be the same as your mommy's." Audrey purses her lips for a second, and Samira is hit with a sense of deja vu that she cannot name. She's seen that thinking face before, which seems impossible. That is, until, Audrey says:

"Abbot! Our last name is Abbot." Followed by, "Janie at school says my name sounds like a-butt."

Well, fuck.

Samira steps out for a second, leaving Audrey in the capable hands of Princess, who the little girl immediately adores. She takes out her phone and clicks the name she's texted tens of medical journals. It rings and rings and rings, and she hopes this is all a bad dream, but he finally picks up with a rushed "Mohan? Not a great time."

Samira straightens her shoulders. "Do you have a niece named Audrey?" There's no pause at the other end, just the immediate sounds of a man getting out his keys and leaving his house like he's being chased. "Fuck, I've been trying to call the program but they didn't know what hospital she went to. Is she okay? I need the facts."

Samira peeks into through the glass door of North 15, just to see Princess feeding Audrey a cracker. "Six-year-old female, MVC car crash. Presented with leg pain. Broken tibia and fibula concluded after portable X-Ray, no bone fragments visible. Patient is stable with normal stats but emotionally distressed." Jack inhales sharply, the sound of his car engine rumbling in the background. Samira thanks every being in the universe that Audrey is stable, that Jack doesn't have to lose another person he loves. It's been ten months since she started pulling more doubles to cover Langdon's absence, five months since Jack told her how his wife died on the roof as the sun came up, and less than one month since Samira became an R4. And it's been one year and eight months since Jack sent Samira that first journal article, but who's counting?

"I'll be there in five minutes. Thank you, Samira." He hangs up before she can say anything. What she would say, she has no idea. "You're welcome" feels both hollow and untrue, since she didn't even do anything.

Jack Abbot bursts into the Pitt four minutes later. Samira's there, brow furrowed and hair frazzled, beautiful in a way he cannot comprehend. Despite the neurons and brain waves and other neurological shit that computes every day up there, he still can't believe her inky waves and doe eyes exist and intelligent mind in the midst of chaos. "North 15," she spits out in a rush. Jack nods and beelines there.

The curtain isn't closed, so he can see the moment Audrey recognizes him. His little ladybug starts waving vigorously, and he bites back a grin at her determination while Princess exerts herself to ensure Audrey stays put. "Uncle J!" She greets him with his favorite voice in the world the moment he opens the door. He scoops her up in his arms, firm as to make sure her leg isn't jostled. "My brave bug. I'm so glad you're okay." Audrey starts crying again, but he's pretty sure they're happy tears. Between his sister Deb's divorce with Audrey's piece of shit father and Deb's new job with long hours, his niece has been going through things no six-year-old should. The family therapist he got for Deb and Audrey is going to have a field day next Thursday.

Out of the corner of his eye, Samira hovers protectively outside the door. It's like the God he doesn't believe in anymore knew to send Audrey to the most capable doctor in the PTMC, let alone the state. He catches Samira's eye and she immediately darts away, most likely heading towards the board to pick up another case. Always working, always moving to the next -- the complete opposite of whatever those shitheads call Slow-Mo. "I called your mom. She should be here soon. How are you feeling?" He releases her only to pull up the circular chair with wheels. Audrey immediately grabs for his hand, always the one with the ring so she can fidget with it. As her breaths calm and her tears recede, Jack pushes away the fringe of auburn curls that's sticking to her forehead, a mirror of what his own looked like at her age.

"I was scared. But Samir- Sami- Mira and Princess are nice. Princess said I'm going to get a cast and I can pick any color!" He grabs the iPad Samira left for him to pull up Audrey's scans, nodding along as she ruminates between blue and green. There seems to be no bone fragments, but when Deb gets here, he'll want to run an extra test just to be sure. As he gets to Audrey's file, there's a note from Samira asking for the same test.

Jesus.

"Can I tell you a secret, Bug?" His little gossip is all ears, nodding so fiercely he might need to do a concussion test. "Doctor Samira is my favorite doctor in this place. If I was here, that's who I would've picked to see you." Audrey's eyes widen. "She's so pretty." Audrey replies. Looks like Samira really has this effect on all Abbots. Jack agrees with Audrey and kisses the side of her head, remembering how fragile she felt the first time he held her. Still fragile even now, and he wasn't there. Recently, he'd been trying to keep the police scanner off, instead watching a rerun of a Pitt Panthers game as he waited for her afterschool bus drop off. He'd waited on his porch ten minutes to five, eyes on her bus stop, and was still waiting there ten minutes past, the yells of basketball fans instead of police calls echoing from inside. And then that dreaded call from the program and-

"Sweetheart!"

"Mommy!"

Deb sweeps in, still in her fancy lawyer suit he made fun of this morning when he picked Audrey up after his shift and drove her to school. His baby sister's curls are dull rust instead of Jack's premature greys, currently trying their hardest to escape the tight braid down her back. Deb goes to Audrey's free side, gathering her own child in a tight hug and murmuring prayers of the God she still believes in into her hairline. When she pulls back, it's jarring to see tears in her eyes. The few times his stoic baby sister has looked like that was her first visit to him in the VA hospital after his amputation and Claire's funeral eleven years ago. "Jacky, what happened? All I know is her bus was in an accident." Jack opens his mouth, but a sharp knock on the door interrupts him.

"Ms. Abbot? I'm Doctor Samira Mohan and I've been treating your daughter today." The baby hairs around Samira's forehead crown her like those angels Jack used to see in the paintings in his grandma's house; embossed golden halos encircling their heads. Deb turns back to Jack with an evil glint in her eye, mouthing 'Samira'? And of course, his lawyer baby sister has a perfect memory of Jack, even when it happened months ago. When Audrey was with their mom and the two Abbot siblings got wine drunk to celebrate Deb's divorce and starting waxing poetic about Samira in their porch chairs. The morning after, Jack's limb aching after he slept wrong on his couch, Deb greeted him with scrambled eggs and her mom smile, sad and understanding. That was the only time he's voiced this parasite in his head.

Deb clearly gets the message, turning on work mode and standing to shake Samira's hand. "Deb Abbot. Jack's sister, as you've probably noticed." Samira shakes her hand firmly, completely unaware of the magnitude of the moment. The last woman Deb met that Jack loved liked was Claire, seventeen years ago after their six-month anniversary. This meeting, however, is covert, and he takes in Samira the way he imagines Deb is doing. Waves clipped back in an all-business claw clip (a new vocabulary term in his mental dictionary, courtesy of Santos and her side remarks), mouth set in a stern line but offset with those dimples that come out whenever she's trying to calm a patient, and a too-big scrub shirt, meaning the machine was out and she's been sprayed with some sort of fluid today. Strength, in all its forms.

"Audrey was very brave, and very lucky. She's suffering from a broken tibia and fibula in her left leg, but I'd like to run a few more tests to make sure she doesn't have any bone fragments floating around that could harm her in the future. While we wait for Radiology, let's talk about family history and next steps." Jack stands up immediately, giving the free chair to Samira who he's sure hasn't sat down all day. She pretends to not notice, clearly wanting Deb to take it. But Deb Abbot is a force of her own.

"Dr. Mohan, if you don't sit in that chair, I'll force you in it myself. I have been sitting for 12 hours today and don't plan on making it 13." Jack helps his baby sister and her incessant need to order people, rounding around the hospital bed until he stands behind Samira's shoulders. Gently, to the soft giggles of Audrey, he curls his fingers around the slopes of her trapezius down to her acromion, resisting the urge to brush her clavicles. He pushes her forward until he's satisfied she can walk the two feet left to the chair. Once she sits, and he can see the relief in her face, he steps back next to Deb. "I'll leave you to take a history, Dr. Mohan. And take your time, because I will be double checking." He shoots Audrey a wink and exits before he can think twice.

When Jack Abbot can't think, he goes to the roof. On the worst days, it's on the wrong side of the railing, but that's with a small part of knowledge that Robby is in the building and can pull him back. Robby's here today, and he's already called Shen for a last-minute replacement without even consulting Jack, probably because he knew he'd refuse. But Audrey's in the building, and Debbie, and Samira if he forces himself to go there, so Jack stays on the right side. He does, however, sit and prop up his arms on the rails. That's where Samira finds him an hour later, staring at the sinking sun, thinking of how he could've prevented his baby niece facing the brutal side of life.

"I didn't know you broke your wrist in fifth grade," is how she greets him once the iron roof access door swings shut with a bang. "I was trying to do a front-facing slide during a Little League game. Didn't quite get the technique down." She snorts, sitting down at his side with crisscrossed legs, but keeps her hands in her lap instead of joining him at the railing. "So, the baseball cowboy came before the ER cowboy." She states, not even a question. He huffs at that stupid nickname, knowing she finds a little truth and a lot of stupidity in it. Silence stretches after that, comfortable like a sigh after a long day.

Her knee nudges his thigh. It's the leg that's not a leg, stuck out straight instead of folded. "It's not your fault." She whispers. But it is, is the problem. This is why he listens to the police scanner at all times of the day, giving into his anxiety about shit exactly like this. Warfare brought home, civilians facing violence that he should be there to fix. But this time he wasn't, he was selfish and the baby he held (before her own father, who was out shitfaced somewhere) was alone and scared and he wasn't there.

"I turned the scanner off. I was watching a fucking basketball game, Samira, and her bus was overturned because of some drunk idiot." Samira inhales at the sound of her first name, one he almost never uses, but he's too weak to keep up the pretense of being professional. When he turns, it's not pity he finds in her eyes, but understanding. He thinks of the father she's grieved for longer than he was in her life, and how she might share this heavy burden of guilt, despite the time that's passed. That's why he does it, he thinks. Not because he's acting on years of infatuation, but because Samira might be the only person in this building that understands him.

She moves in tandem with him, as always.

His legs leg retracts to the right side of the railing as Samira opens her arms. Jack buries himself in the crook of her neck, only noticing the wetness on his face when it slides against Samira's neck. There's no rumble of disgust or complaint, just acceptance as she tightens her arms around the breadth of his shoulders. His hands tighten around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer as the tears fall. It's a catharsis, a rebirth, a release of the guilt that's weighed on him since one drunk driver took away his wife and another harmed his ladybug. And Samira just holds him, even as he begins to shake with relief. A warm hand rubs at his back, a grounding motion as his breathing slowly calms with every exhale.

When he pulls back, after a wipe at his face to ensure it's dry, Samira's dimples are winking at him. "Feel better?" She murmurs, her hand dropping from his back to his knee, warming the metal of his prosthesis. After a clarifying inhale, he nods. "Always taking care of me, huh?" He softens it with a laugh, but she doesn't return it.

"What are you talking about? If anything, it's the opposite." Jack disagrees, but he wants to hear her continue, so he stays silent. "You, you, give me these protein bars at shift change on the days I don't have time to eat. And then you email me about my research even when the other attendings think there's too much on my plate. You even offered me your veteran benefits when I started complaining about my insurance!" Frustration laces her tone, and maybe that means he's been pushing this too far? But her hand is still on his knee...

"Audrey hates those protein bars." Jack mutters, like he hasn't been caught red-handed. "Don't get me started on Audrey." She says sternly. When Jack frowns, Samira rolls her eyes. "You've mentioned her, but I didn't realize how much you take care of people until I saw you with her. This isn't on you, Jack. You'd never hurt her and you know that." She's right, because Samira Mohan is always right. And he takes care of Samira (and Audrey and Deb), but maybe he can let her take care of him right back. His defenses are down and she's right there with so much openness on her face and she's the one keeping him on the right side of the railing.

When he kisses her, he thinks of magic.

Of rediscovering it by reading Audrey bedtime stories as Deb worked late. Of the feeling of a human heart in his hand for the first time at 24. Of getting that baseball slide right the third time, stealing home and breaking a tied championship two years later. Of Samira Mohan, and her determination to treat people like people, and not numbers on a screen.

Her lips are soft, and after a moment, open wider to let him in. She tugs him into her, farther away from the edge and he knows what she's doing and he won't stop her, practically caging her onto the ground as he ensures there's no way for her to stumble. He pours years of longing into it, and he didn't want it to be under these circumstances, but Jack Abbot has learned he's a selfish man when it comes to Samira Mohan.

She pushes at his chest slightly, her hands having migrated there at some point, and he immediately retreats. Her brows are furrowed and her lips bitten, and he can't help the masculine possessiveness that rears its head for an ugly second, especially as his hand cups her head to protect it from the concrete under them. "I can't do this if it's guilt." She confesses, and his heart aches. Jack leans forward until his forehead touches hers, their breaths one and the same. "I've been watching you for years, Samira. Every overpriced latte, every printed journal article with colored ink from the Pitt, every protein bar, that's not guilt. I've been waiting for you to see me this whole time, and it turns out you have, and I'm just the blind old man." She smacks his chest with a playfulness he almost never sees in the ER.

"You're not old, you're middle-aged." Jack kisses her jaw before replying, running his nose down the side of her face. "Somehow, baby, I think that's worse."

Samira seems to have decided the kiss is guilt free and tugs him back for more.

That is, until, something starts vibrating between them. Jack pulls away with a grunt, smoothing the baby hairs threatening to drown Samira's face as she pulls out her pager. "Audrey's scans are back from Radiology." She reports, and its so inane that all he does is shake his head. Ignoring all the creaks of his bones, Jack rises up, one hand proffered to Samira. She takes it, leaping up in a much more flexible manner Jack would like to investigate further, and he can't help but kiss the smooth skin of her hand before dropping it.

"Let's go help some patients, Dr. Abbot." She orders, and he gladly follows her lead.

out of the woods lyric was necessary for a title but the sun was literally setting during the last scene oops

#tornadothoughts #the pitt #jack abbot #samira mohan #abbot x mohan #mohan x abbot #mohabbot #jack abott x samira mohan #dr abbot #dr mohan

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