#clutching a third key in his palm

[seumyo]

museum dates with bf!tsukishima.

NOTE. oh, certified tsukishima luvr @solvisun for u <3

You hated museum dates. 

No, really—loathed them with a passion that only grew with every agonizing hour you spent trailing after your boyfriend through echoey halls and glass display cases. It wasn’t even that museums were boring. That wasn’t fair. You liked the exhibits, genuinely. The restoration work was incredible, the artifacts were fascinating, and it was kind of cute how your boyfriend lit up every time he got to explain something. Which was often.

Because Tsukishima Kei, your darling pain-in-the-ass boyfriend, worked part-time at the Sendai City Museum, and apparently that gave him a divine license to deliver play-by-play commentary like a snarky academic podcast with legs. Tall, spectacled legs. One with particular moles that even make a heart (not that you ever told a single soul, because you knew he would be after you if you did).

“So this piece,” he would say, already a few steps ahead, pointing casually at a weathered samurai armor set, “was from the late Edo period. See the difference in the breastplate design?”

You would squint through bleary, dry eyes, clutching your water bottle (which he somehow allowed—through sheer persuasion and outright begging on your knees) like it was your only link to life. “Yeah,” you mumbled. “Looks… shinier?”

Tsukishima turned to you, shrugging. “You didn’t even look.”

“I did!” you insisted. “I just… I’m not a samurai historian like you, Kei.”

“You should be grateful,” he said with mock arrogance, adjusting his glasses. “People pay for this kind of tour experience.”

“I’m paying,” you said, trudging after him. “With my soul.”

But you followed him anyway, like you always did. Through the samurai wing, the early Jōmon pottery, and the textile restoration gallery. He knew you were flagging when you started leaning on the handrails more, moving slower, and falling behind like a rebellious school kid on a class trip. You would never think that he thought you were awfully cute like this.

A true sadist in the making, really.

“Hey,” he called, halfway through the Meiji industrial section. “Are you dying?”

“I’ve been dead since the third hour,” you grunted. “My ghost is haunting your dumb little tour.”

Tsukishima turned to you, walking back a few paces with his hands in his coat pockets. “We’ve only been here two hours and forty minutes.”

“Time doesn’t pass normally in museums,” you said. “It’s like a black hole of walking and standing and standing and walking. And it’s too cold.”

He snorted, then took your hand. His palm was warm, steady. It feels perfect against yours. “Come on, we’re almost at the dinosaurs. You like the dinosaurs.” as if he’s talking to a child—trying to coax and/or motivate a reaction out of you.

“I like sitting.”

But you went with him anyway. Because, yeah, okay, you did like the dinosaurs. Not in a prehistoric nerd way, but in a watching-his-face-light-up-as-he-explains-how-paleontologists-determined-the-size-of-a-femur kind of way. It was kind of endearing, the way Tsukishima got subtly excited. His voice would go just a pitch higher, and he’d push his glasses up with his knuckle like he was restraining actual joy. 

“There,” he said, stopping in front of the towering fossil of a Futabasaurus. “That one’s my favorite. Native to Japan.”

You blinked up at the enormous skeleton, rubbing your shoulder. “Big,” you said.

“Articulate,” Tsukishima deadpanned.

You yawned, long and unashamed, before leaning into his side like your bones had turned to jelly. “If I die here,” you muttered, “bury me under the plesiosaur. Let my suffering be remembered.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m tired.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

You pulled back just enough to give him a weak glare. “I wanted to come. For you.”

He looked down at you, something shifting subtly in his expression. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a very good girlfriend.”

“You just took pictures to post on your socials and barely listened to what I’ve been telling you.”

“I thought I could be one of those museum lovers—and academically inclined aesthetic girlies on Pinterest.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his thumb brushed lightly over your hand, how he slowed his pace after that. Maybe it was a little thing, but you noticed it. You always did.

By the time they left the museum, dusk had settled in, and your legs were practically jelly. You said nothing, just collapsed into the passenger seat of his car, and groaned like an elderly crypt keeper.

“You survived,” Tsukishima said, starting the engine.

“Barely.”

“Want to go again next weekend?”

“I will stab you with a fossil.”

-

So you were right.

A fever was heading straight to you after that whole museum date. Oh, and you felt like your body was boiling from the inside out.

You lay in bed, cocooned in three blankets and clutching a half-full water bottle like it was the only thing that could save you from ascending with the light. Your head was pounding, your skin too warm and too cold at the same time, and every time you tried to sit up, the world tilted sideways like you were on a carnival ride from hell.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You groaned and fumbled for it with the coordination of someone wearing oven mitts.

Grumpy [10:12AM]: How’s the museum hangover?

You didn’t reply immediately. It took real effort just to squint at the screen. Instead, you turned over with a muffled groan and tried to sleep again. You really had no energy to even quip even a single like emoji.

An hour later, the doorbell rang. Twice. Thrice.

So maybe if your dorm was on fire, you really didn’t care right now.

You, still feverish and fuzzy-headed, dragged yourself to the door in a hoodie three sizes too big (which was definitely Tsukishima’s; his brows furrow in that accusatory expression whenever he sees you wearing it, but he decides to let you keep it because he isn’t a total jerk of a boyfriend, duh) and mismatched socks. You cracked it open and blinked blearily at the tall figure standing there with a plastic bag and an expression caught somewhere between concern and guilt.

“Kei?” you croaked.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said, stepping inside before you could tell him not to.

“I’m sick.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”

You swayed a little under his touch. “Told you I was dying.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You were already exhausted yesterday. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“Because I wanted to see you. And dinosaurs.”

Tsukishima let out a slow sigh, setting the bag down on the kitchen counter. “That’s stupid. I guess idiots really do get colds.”

“You dragged me across natural history for three hours. I’m not the stupid one.”

“I didn’t drag you.”

“You gave me a guided death march through time.”

He looked at you, arms crossed, then unfolded one to hand you a small bottle of sports drink. “Drink this.”

You took it, pouting. “You’re only being nice because you feel guilty.”

“Yes.”

You blinked at the bluntness.

Oh.

Oh?

“I feel extremely guilty,” he said flatly. “I thought you were just being dramatic.”

“I was being dramatic.”

“You also had a fever brewing, apparently. And I laughed at you. So now I’m going to cook you porridge and feel bad for the rest of the week.”

You blinked at him. Again. “…You’re going to cook?”

“Don’t look so alarmed.”

“I just… didn’t think I was hallucinating yet.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes and moved into your kitchen, already unpacking the bag. Rice, eggs, green onions, a tiny bottle of sesame oil, and some store-bought pudding cups.

“I wasn’t sure if you had groceries,” he muttered. “So I brought my own.”

You leaned your head against the wall, watching him, hugging (more like wanting to become one by just leaning into it) the cold surface to cool your temperature. Your throat was sore, your skin felt like it was in flames, but somehow you still found the energy to smile. Of course, you weren’t going to miss the chance of still being pretty in front of this man.

“You’re kind of sweet when you feel bad.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t. You’ll annoy me again by Thursday.”

He looked over his shoulder at you, deadpan. “Wednesday, probably.”

You chuckled weakly, then let out a sigh as you slid back into your bed, the bottle still in hand.

“You’re forgiven,” you called out hoarsely. “But next time we go to a museum…”

“I’ll bring a wheelchair?”

“Or a coffin.”

From the kitchen came a long-suffering sigh, followed by the sound of a pot hitting the stove.

But Tsukishima stayed. All day. Quietly watching over you with guilt etched between his brows and the same quiet steadiness he brought to everything.

And though you hated museum dates, truly and deeply, you didn’t really mind the fever. Not if it meant he’d look at you like that, hovering in your doorway with a bowl of too-thick porridge and a stubborn determination to take care of you. 

Worried boyfriend Tsukishima in your fever arc? Finally unlocked.

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[mountaesan]

third time's the charm ; h. taesan

pairing. non-idol!taesan x reader genre. newly est. relationship au , fluff , chalant x chalant , taesan is down BAD  synopsis. when you’re a little too tipsy and a little too in love, it sometimes takes a few tries to get everything right. luckily, the third time’s the charm, right? word count. 1466 words warnings. none? kissing but they’re both drunk but it’s consensual  playlist. electric love by børns notes. cheesing like an idiot like this is ever going to happen to me

The low hum of summer crickets serenaded the quiet streets as you wandered aimlessly, shoes scuffing lazily against the pavement. Your bag dangled off one shoulder in a comical struggle to stay on, bouncing with every step like it too was tired of the night. The streetlamps blinked softly overhead, casting your sleepy figure in a patchy golden glow as the breeze curled around your body like a cool whisper, brushing against your skin and making your hair dance gently around your cheeks.

You paused, swaying slightly as you leaned dramatically against a streetlight for support, feeling the metal cool against your back. The night was gentle, the kind that felt like it had been dipped in honey—warm, unhurried, and laced with a kind of dreamy nostalgia. You breathed in deeply, the scent of asphalt and blossoms and leftover summer heat filling your lungs.

The echo of earlier laughter still clung to your mind—snippets of voices, clinking glasses, someone’s off-key karaoke rendition of a love song. You smiled at the memory, but it quickly faded into a soft groan as your head gave a tiny throb in protest. 

With a dramatic little sigh, you rummaged through your bag until your fingers curled around your phone. You brought it close to your face, squinting one eye open as the screen flickered brightly as it illuminated your face. 32%. Perfect. Just enough to call him.

Almost like he had read your mind, the phone buzzed in your palm. And then—his name. And just like that, your heart, previously snoozing somewhere near your stomach, flipped up to your throat.

Still clutching the streetlight, you lifted the phone to your ear, the cool screen brushing your cheek. “Hello?”

The line crackled softly before his voice reached you like warm honey. “Hi… where are you right now?”

“Hi…” Your voice instinctively softened, a dopey little smile tugging at your lips. You closed one eye, trying to get the world to stop moving. “Hey. I’m, uh… in front of the café. The one where you asked for my number.”

“Really? Me too.” 

You giggled, eyes sparkling. “Really? Then…” you dropped your voice to a hush, giddy and conspiratorial. “We should meet up. I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”

“Not anymore. Turn around.”

“Hm?”

You whipped your head around so fast you almost unbalanced yourself—but there he was, already walking up the sidewalk toward you, with his phone still pressed to his ear. Rushing toward you with such desperate joy, it looked like his legs might outrun his heart. The wind caught his hair, the streetlight caught the gleam in his eyes, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Haiii,” you waved both arms in the air like a doofus, grinning. He mirrored you instantly, waving back with a dramatic flourish like you were in some over-the-top romantic comedy. He skidded to a stop in front of you, cheeks tinged pink from the run or from seeing you—you weren’t sure which, but your own face burned to match.

“Hi. Did you have fun with your friends?” He was a little breathless, his chest rising and falling in gentle waves, but his gaze never wavered from you. You rocked gently back and forth, still clinging to the streetlight like a sleepy koala.

“Yeah, but I think I drank too much.” Your pout came naturally, and he responded by guiding you gently toward a bench tucked under a streetlamp. You flopped down onto it with a soft oof, the cool metal seeping through your jeans. He followed, sitting close enough that your shoulders nearly touched.

“It’s okay. I drank a lot too.” Silence settled like a blanket as he dug through his bag. You let your eyes flutter shut—just a second, just a blink—

A cold sensation suddenly pressed against your cheek and you yelped, jerking awake. Your eyes shot open to find Taesan grinning, holding a chilled can of coffee to your face like it was some kind of love offering.

“Jeez… you scared me.” you mumbled, blinking blearily. He laughed and cracked open the can before placing it reverently in your hands.

“Are you buying this for me? I’m so touched…” you teased, holding the can close to your chest like a precious gift. You both laughed, easy and breathless.

Then Taesan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Wait, this is kinda giving me deja vu. You know the last time when we went out drinking with some other friends and you and I both stepped for air at the same time? And we were super drunk?”

You squinted at the night sky, lips pursed in concentration before your face lit up with recognition. “Oh! Yeah! It kind of is deja vu, huh?”

“Oh, man. That was really funny. Do you remember? We almost ki—“

His voice faltered. Like the memory had caught up to him too fast. You could feel your ears warming up as you stared very intently at the cracks in the sidewalk. Taesan glanced away. 

You cleared your throat, trying to rescue the moment. “I mean… yeah… We were—“

“Do you want to kiss?”

“—yeah, sure, let’s kiss.”

You froze. The words had practically sucker punched you. “Huh?”

“Do you want to kiss?” He said it slowly, deliberately. Your brain stalled, unsure if you were dreaming or just tipsy enough to hallucinate.

“What… what did you just say?”

There was a moment of stunned silence between you.

Then he groaned and threw his hands over his face. “AURGH, I must be going insane. I’m so sorry. This isn’t smooth at all. This doesn’t seem right but I don’t know how else I’m supposed to be going about this. Other people tell me that it comes naturally but how am I supposed to be natural at something I’ve never done before? I don’t even know how to—I don’t even know when the timing is right.”

You watched him spiral like a tornado in real time, his words tumbling out and spinning faster and faster as his fingers pulled at his hair and his foot bounced against the ground. And even through the dizziness, you couldn’t help but smile. He was just so stupidly sincere.

“That’s why I asked,” he mumbled. “If I can kiss you.”

Feeling brave (and just a little mischievous), you leaned in slightly, lips curled into a smirk. “What if I say no?”

He looked straight ahead. “Then I’ll respect that. And be very, very sad.” His eyes flicked toward you, mouth forming the tiniest of pouts. “You don’t want to?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “You’re so cute.”

“Huh?”

Before he could blink, you leaned in and kissed him. Just a short one. Sweet and soft and dizzyingly real. You pulled back and saw his eyes—wide, stunned, glowing like moonlight caught in glass.

“Th—there, we did it. We kissed.” Your voice was barely a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would break the spell.

“Y-yeah. We did. We did it.”

His hands curled into excited fists in his lap, knuckles pale from the effort of staying still. “Th—that was too fast. Wait. Can we do it one more time?”

You laughed, incredulous. “What?”

Taesan looked positively giddy. You placed your hands on either side of his face, the way you’d always imagined in cheesy dramas, and pressed your lips to his again.

“AH!” Taesan immediately whipped around, hands in the air like he’d just won a gold medal. “WHAT!”

You giggled behind your hand, eyes sparkling.

“Woah… I’m only saying this because it feels surreal, but can we try one more time?”

“You…!” Your laughter came out in full now, sparkling and unstoppable, and Taesan’s grin matched yours. This time, he leaned in first—shy, but certain—and your lips met again, softer, surer.

When he finally pulled away, just enough to see your face, his smile was dazzling. You leaned in to pepper his lips with a flurry of quick kisses and he burst into a laugh, breathless and radiant.

“Are you happy now?” You asked, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“Yeah.” He leaned back, his whole body buzzing with joy. “Can, can I just take a quick lap around here? This just doesn’t feel real—“

You laughed, waving him off. “Yes! Go, go!”

Taesan pointed at you dramatically, eyes alight. “Stay right there!”

Then he launched off the bench like he’d been lit from within. Arms flailing, he let out a triumphant whoop that echoed down the empty street. You watched as he sprinted ahead—skipping, twirling, throwing his fists into the air like a man hopelessly smitten.

You sank into the bench with a breathless grin, your fingers brushing over your lips like a secret only you two knew. Your heart beat fast, giddy and light, as though it were trying to chase after him.The stars above blinked knowingly as you sighed. 

The air had turned quieter, softer somehow, as if even the crickets had paused to give the moment some room. You sat back, lips tingling and heart stammering in your chest, still tasting the ghost of his nervous laughter.

He stayed beside you, not saying a word, but everything about him spoke anyway—the way his shoulders relaxed for the first time all night, the gentle way his knee brushed against yours, the way he kept glancing at you like he couldn’t believe any of it was real. The silence wasn’t awkward.

It felt like something sacred, sealed in starlight and shared warmth.

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[wendichester]

hiii it is i again \(^o^)/

was wondering if you could per chance maybe write a castiel x reader fic where he comforts the reader after a series of unfortunate events day. i need some fluff after not spontaneously combusting with the day i’ve had.

love your writing!!!

‧₊˚✩彡 in the quiet,

summary. you've been going through it. it's like the universe has personally decided to challenge you. and you're losing. luckily for you, you have an angel on your shoulder--or willing to burrow you one.

pairing. castiel x reader genre. comfort

wordcount. 607

notes / warnings. thank you so much for requesting this, sweets! hope it helps a little 😙 // light touch of anxiety and frustration, reader having a rough day, comforting physical affection (platonic kinda)

The door creaks softly as you push it open, shoulder first, too tired to care about stealth or politeness. You’re soaked from the rain, your hair sticking to your neck, your jacket dripping onto the bunker floor like the universe itself is mocking you.

You drop your keys. Again. Third time today.

“Perfect,” you mutter, crouching to pick them up with hands that are shaking harder than you’d like to admit.

It’s been a day. No—a series of days.

Coffee spilled. Car battery died. Case went sideways. Dean snapped at you. Sam accidentally erased three hours of research. And now, the sky opened up just to spit on you. Of course it did.

You barely notice Castiel until he speaks.

“You’re upset.”

You flinch, then sigh. “Cas. Jesus.”

“I am not Jesus,” he says calmly, stepping into the hallway light.

You snort weakly, rubbing your face. “Yeah, I know. Just a saying.”

He watches you. Head tilted. Gentle concern written in every line of his face.

“You are…” he pauses, looking for the word. “Frayed.”

That makes you laugh—a raw, tired sound. “That’s one way to put it.”

You expect him to offer a solution. An awkward question. Maybe another ‘why are you like this?’ angel interrogation. Instead, he just walks over to you. Silent, slow. Careful.

“May I?” he asks, already lifting his hands toward your face.

You nod.

His fingers brush along your cheeks, your temples, like he’s reading something there. You lean into his palm without meaning to. His skin is warm. Steady.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he says quietly. “You don’t even have to speak.”

Your throat tightens.

“I just wanted to come home and not cry,” you whisper.

“You are home,” Castiel replies, voice barely audible.

And then—he wraps his arms around you.

You tense at first. Not used to this. Not used to him being this solid, this close. But he doesn’t push. Just holds you like you’re something breakable, sacred. His coat smells like ozone and safety. His chin rests lightly against your hair.

You break.

Quietly. Softly. No big sobs, no theatrics. Just a long exhale, and then another, and then the tears come like they’ve been waiting at the gates all day.

He holds you through it.

He doesn’t try to fix anything. Doesn’t shush you or tell you it’s going to be okay. He just stays.

And in a world full of monsters and chaos and endings that never come gently—Castiel staying feels like a small miracle.

Eventually, your breathing evens out. Your fingers clutch the lapels of his coat like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

His voice rumbles low. “You never have to thank me for caring about you.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to see his face. “You care about me?”

His brows pull together, puzzled. “Of course.”

There’s something naked in his eyes—something unsure, like he’s worried he said it wrong. You smile, watery and crooked and real.

“I care about you too, Cas.”

His expression softens, like clouds parting just a little.

“Good,” he says simply. “That makes this easier.”

“This?”

He hesitates, then brushes your damp hair back from your face. “Letting you fall asleep against me without worrying you’ll wake up embarrassed.”

You blink at him.

“You’re—?”

“You’re exhausted,” he says. “And I’d like to make that better. If you’ll let me.”

You nod.

He leads you to the couch. Wraps a blanket around your shoulders. Sits close, warm and still, letting you lean against him without pressure.

You fall asleep before you can ask what he meant by easier.

He doesn't move all night.

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[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, slight smut

pairing: kei tsukishima x fem!reader

summary: fast furious inspired but i never watched the movie.

you swore you were done with this shit.

racing.

engines snarling like wild things, streets lit with flickering LEDs and cigarette lighters, bets barked into thick night air.

you’d lived enough of it to know what came next. the high, the crash, the long silence afterward.

your dad died on the track.

not a metaphor. not some quiet decay of spirit.

a real crash. metal screaming. fuel in flames.

he flipped doing 110 trying to shave milliseconds, the whole town betting on him to win.

you found out later he’d bet everything he had. everything you had. your college fund. your mom’s savings. her wedding ring.

gone. all of it, before the second lap.

your mom didn’t cry when they told her. just shut the garage door and left it locked for a year.

then, just when she started to breathe again, you nearly died too.

a night run. stupid impulse. someone else’s car, someone else’s ego. a curve taken too fast, and then nothing but noise, nothing but pain.

you woke up with a fractured rib, road rash down your hip, and a jagged scar across your side that still tugs when you stretch.

your mom cried then. harder than at the funeral.

held your hand like it was the last thing she had left and said, “i can’t do this again.”

so you quit.

pulled the tarp over baby blue. tried to forget the way it felt to fly.

…

you were stocking vending machines at your part-time job when you met him.

it was late, past midnight, the parking lot humid, the hum of cicadas louder than the overhead lights.

you’d clocked out with a sour attitude and sticky palms, uniform shirt tied around your waist, walking toward your busted civic when you saw him.

tall. lean. sharp lines.

leaning against a yellow 350Z, aggressive and spotless, parked two slots down from your car.

not looking at you — looking at her.

baby blue.

your hood was popped, half her engine exposed. you’d checked the coolant before your shift and forgot to close it.

he didn’t even flinch as you approached, just tilted his head at the sight of you.

“didn’t think she’d still run.”

you squinted. “excuse me?”

he nodded at the chipped paint along the fender, the mismatched spoiler — all scars you remembered helping your dad patch.

“baby blue. i remember her. your dad used to open her up on third and ash, right?”

your jaw tensed. “she doesn’t race anymore.”

he looked back at her, thoughtful. “shame. waste of good blood.”

you frowned. “the hell does that mean?”

he finally looked at you.

and when his eyes hit yours, narrow, amber, sharp as sin, it was like being sized up and stripped bare at the same time.

“you were better than him,” he said, simple. “cleaner. smarter. faster.”

you felt your throat close up. “don’t talk about my dad.”

he held your gaze. didn’t blink. then: “race me.”

you laughed in his face. “fuck no.”

“i’ll pay for your tune-up. no strings. just race me.”

“i can’t afford a race.” you couldn’t afford to lose.

“don’t want your money,” he said. “i want the story.”

you stepped closer. “what’s your angle?”

his smirk was small and devastating.

“i want to see if the legend’s real.”

…

he dropped money on parts like he was buying gum.

coilovers, pads, an oil cooler. high-grade synthetic. a new clutch kit.

and then, to your surprise, he didn’t drop it off and vanish.

he came to your garage.

night after night. t-shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair pulled into a lazy tie, hands already dirty.

he worked quiet. efficient.

passed tools before you asked. understood baby blue’s rusted wiring like it was language.

“you really could’ve just paid someone,” you said once, yanking open baby blue’s rusted hood.

“where’s the fun in that?”

he knew your car like he built her himself.

and you hated how easy it was to fall into rhythm with him, passing tools, brushing hands, swapping stories without really talking about anything.

you also hated that it only took three nights before he had your legs around his waist.

you’d been underneath the chassis. tank top sticking to your back. grease on your stomach.

he leaned over to hand you a wrench and you’d caught a flash of his stomach under that black t-shirt, lean and pale and when you looked up — he was already watching you.

“you’re staring,” you said, wiping your face with the back of your hand.

he crouched down. voice low. “yeah?”

you didn’t mean to say it.

“wash your hands first.”

but he did.

and the next thing you knew, your back was hitting the garage wall, mouth open under his, his fingers under your waistband, grease still smudging his neck.

he didn’t ask. just kissed you like he already had. like it was tradition.

mouth hot, unyielding. tongue piercing clinking against your teeth.

you tasted heat, dust, black coffee.

and when your back hit the hood of baby blue, you felt the metal rattle against your spine.

you gasped.

you let him lift you up, thighs hooked around his hips. his fingers pressed into your waist, teeth at your neck, hips rolling hard between your legs.

you didn’t stop him.

didn’t want to.

and after that, every night, it was the same.

you fixed the car.

he fucked you against it.

quiet. messy. stretched across her hood, bent over her door.

sometimes your hands shook from the engine. sometimes from him.

sometimes both.

your mom stopped checking in on you guys in the garage.

you didn’t stop going.

…

the night of the race, everything felt loud.

louder than it should’ve.

streetlights lit up the city like an altar.

your hands trembled as you pulled your gloves on. tsukishima leaned against his yellow Z, arms crossed, lips quirked.

“hope you’re not gonna go easy on me,” you said, brushing your thumb along your gearshift.

his gaze was molten. “never.”

he stepped closer and your breath hitched.

“but when i win…” his eyes dipped, slow, raking down your body and back up again. “…you owe me.”

you licked your lips. “what exactly do you want?”

he smirked. “i got a couple ideas.”

…

he won.

barely.

you pull up second, tires smoking, chest rising like you ran the whole way.

he’s already out of the car, eyes blown wide, golden under the lights.

you climb out, breathless.

don’t say anything at first.

he walks toward you. stops close. “you almost had me.”

you stare at him.

at the sweat on his collarbone, the way his forearm flexes when he wipes his mouth.

“how much did you bet?”

“enough.”

you shift, grimacing. “i’ll pay you. i just… not all at once. might take a few—”

“y/n, i don’t want your money.”

you blink. “then what do you want?”

his gaze dips. you feel it before he says anything, the weight of it on your skin.

“i think you know.”

you smile. slow. feel your fingers twitch to grab his jacket.

“garage?” you offer, voice low.

he tilts his head. “backseat.”

your breath catches.

you grab his wrist and pull him into the dark, and when his hands hit your waist again, you’re already unzipping your hoodie.

baby blue purrs behind you.

she knows what’s up.

[missarchive]

Hi,

could you please write a Hannibal one-shot, where his new patient has a gruesome fantasy and he convinces her to fufill it? Throughout her first kill he acts as her mebtir and get‘s turned on by the sight of her killing?(with smut?)

thank you so so so much for the request, i hope this is what you had in mind <3

cw; +18 minors dni, fingering, blood, gore, violence, typical hannibal shit, dark themes, please do not read if this bothers you

The first time you walked into Dr. Lecter’s office, it wasn’t therapy you sought—it was validation. The weight of your fantasies had become too much, teetering on the edge of action, yet you lacked the push to leap. Until him.

Hannibal had a way of making you feel seen. Not the polite, perfunctory sort of recognition you endured from others, but a piercing gaze that seemed to dissect your very essence. By the third session, your carefully guarded secret spilled forth.

“I think about it all the time,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “What it would feel like to take a life. The rush, the...control.”

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, fingertips steepled beneath his chin. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a glimmer of curiosity that fanned the flames of your courage.

“And what holds you back?” he asked, his voice velvet smooth.

You hesitated, swallowing hard. “Fear. That it won’t feel as good as I imagine. That I’ll mess up and—”

“Be caught?”

You nodded.

Hannibal smiled faintly, the expression both soothing and chilling. “Fear is natural, but so is hunger. You must feed it, or it will consume you.”

The words lingered, seductive and dangerous. Over the next few weeks, he guided you through hypothetical scenarios, his calm, deliberate tone grounding your chaotic thoughts. He spoke of technique, precision, and restraint as though tutoring you in a fine art. And when the moment came—when you found the perfect prey—he insisted on being there.

The alley was dark, reeking of stale beer and garbage. Your pulse thundered as you clutched the knife in your hand, its cold weight a strange comfort. Hannibal stood a few feet away, his presence both an anchor and a catalyst.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Focus. This is your moment.”

The man you’d chosen stumbled out of the bar, oblivious to the predator in his midst. He was drunk, staggering, an easy target. You stepped forward, heart pounding as the knife plunged into his side.

His scream was cut short as you withdrew and struck again, this time aiming for his throat. Blood sprayed, warm and sticky, coating your hands and face. You froze, staring down at the body as the reality of what you’d done washed over you.

“Good,” Hannibal said, his voice tinged with something primal. He stepped closer, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Now, savor it.”

You looked up at him, your breath ragged. His eyes were alight with something you couldn’t quite name—pride, perhaps, or lust. He reached out, brushing a bloodstained finger across your cheek before bringing it to his lips.

“You’ve done beautifully,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

He took a step closer, his hand cupping your jaw. “Let me help you fulfil your other hunger as well.”

His kiss was hard, demanding. You moaned, surrendering to the sensation as his tongue traced the inside of your mouth. The taste of blood lingered on his lips, turning your stomach with a mix of revulsion and arousal.

His hand slid down your body, lifting your skirt as he groped you. Your panties were already slick, wetness coating your thighs as he palmed your pussy, blood spreading over your inner thighs.

“Please,” you whispered, desperate for more.

Hannibal chuckled, a soft, seductive sound. “Patience is key,” he reminded you, echoing the lessons you’d learned in his office. “You don’t want this to end too quickly, do you?”

He began to circle your clit with his thumb, the light touch sending jolts of pleasure through your core. You gasped as he slipped a finger inside, the pressure sending you soaring.

“Mmm, you’re very wet,” he murmured. “I wonder why that is.”

“I…I don’t know,” you stammered, your mind foggy with desire.

He laughed again, his voice full of dark mirth. “I think it’s because you’re enjoying this more than you expected.” His fingers sped up, plunging deeper as he worked you towards climax. “It’s only natural to be aroused by the taking of a life.”

You moaned, your orgasm building. “Yes, yes, please…”

“That’s right,” he whispered. “Come for me.”

Your body shuddered as pleasure surged through you, the intensity of the release almost too much to bear. When you finally returned to awareness, Hannibal was watching you with an intense gaze.

“Now, let’s take care of this body,” he said, nodding toward the lifeless form at your feet.

You stared at him blankly, still reeling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Hannibal took your hand, pressing a kiss to your wrist before leading you out of the alleyway.

“First,” he said as they walked, “we’ll need to clean up. Then I can show you how to prepare the meat for consumption.”

You swallowed hard, your stomach churning with excitement. “Consumption?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Wouldn’t that be the most delicious part? Sharing your passion with the one you love.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, your heart racing. “Yes,” you said, your voice barely audible. “It would be.”

Hannibal smiled, his gaze lingering on your lips. “Come now, my darling. It’s time for dinner.”

[partylikemajima]

Distance makes the heart break.

A peek from Stack's POV into Smoke losing it during the time away from home.

Stack opened his eyes to almost darkness, dim moonlight shining through their living room window of the home they managed to stay in up in Chicago. Something had pulled him out of his sleep, a sound but he wasn't aware of what yet. In his sleep he'd hear various sounds of gun shots, yelling, explosions, laughter, metal piercing skin, all mixed together. So when he opened his eyes to silence he was confused.

He heard Smoke sniff once. Nothing to worry about.

Then a second time, and third.

Many more after, he heard him clear his throat and sniff some more. Stack lifted himself a little out of the sprawled position he was in on one of the couches and peered through the dark at Smoke, who was facing towards the cushions on the other couch he was laid along the length of it.

They both had passed out in the living room from the long day they had getting used to their new lives with the gangs. Playing the long game to make enough money to bring back home. Really long. Taken longer than it should be.

Stack saw Smoke's hand move out of his crossed arms and up towards his head. His face was not in view but it looked like Smoke was rubbing his hand over his face and paused where his eyes would be.

"Smoke?" Stack called out to him gently. When there was no response he called out again. "You up?"

His brother turned on the couch until his back rested on it and stared at the ceiling. "I can't do this" His voice low. He sniffed again.

Stack felt his chest tighten. "Do what?"

Smoke touched his face and held a hand over his eyes. "I'm so fucking close to going ba-" He stopped for a breath before speaking again. "Can't do this anymore Stack"

At that, Stack sat upright, wide awake and shifted on the couch slowly. As if not to scare his brother from speaking. "You-"

"I can't-" Smoke cut him off, shot upright and swung his legs until his feet hit the floor, hands clutching his head. "I miss her so much I feel like I've been stabbed in the chest" One of his hands left his head and rubbed over his chest just above his heart. Stack opened his mouth to say something, anything but for once he was lost for words. His brother was hurting and he didn't know how to fix it.

Though his silence was somehow an answer as Smoke slapped both hands onto his knees and stood. He looked towards the window and from where Stack was sitting on the opposite side of the room, he could see their car parked outside.

"I'm going home" Smoke grabbed the keys off the table in front and headed for the door but Stack scrambled off the couch and blocked it, holding his hands out in front of him. "Hold on now-"

"Move" Smoke's voice a warning. His jaw was clenching and his fists tight by his side. "I'm not gonna ask again"

"Smoke we- we just started man!" Stack waved his hands but Smoke's left hand clamped down on Stack's upper arm and with a grunt, shoved Stack to the side. He stumbled against a corner table, getting his bearings as his brother swung the door open. The door smacked off the wall adjacent as heavy footsteps marched down the stairs.

Stack paused for a second or two with a thumb and two fingers over his eyes, taking a breath before hurrying outside after him. He practically leaped forward, snatching the keys out of Smoke's hand before he could react and skirted around the car to bring a barrier between both of them. Smoke gripped the top of the car door tight, his eyes glaring at him. "Just give me the ke-" He paused and inhaled, his breathing shaky. He huffed out a sigh, smacked the top of the car door with his palm and looked away from him.

Stack held the keys in his hands, fidgeting with it as he thought. He couldn't let him leave, they'd be in way more trouble leaving now instead of at the end of their long term plan. Still earning the trust of the gangs. He missed home too. Missed the woman he loved. Maybe in a really shit way, knowing it was not possible to be with Mary out in the open made it easier for Stack to leave. Still hurt, but it was a definitive answer.

But his brother was suffering. They both committed to leave to make money their own way. To bring it back to their community. Smoke lost his daughter and vowed to his wife that he'll make so much money they'll be drowing in it. Stack saw it though, predicted that Smoke would be feeling like this.

But he didn't predict him being a flight risk.

Stack waited with the keys in his hands. Watched Smoke grip the car door in both hands with his head hanging low. Watched one tear drop down onto the paint of the car.

"Elias" Smoke called him, his name sounded feable. Smoke pushed off the side of the car and turned his back to him, hands on his hips and stared out towards the trees, breathing laboured. "It hurts"

Stack pocketed the keys and stepped around the car, stopped beside him. Smoke glanced to him, eyes shining, expression remorseful. His hands covered his face and Stack pulled his brother in for a tight hug.

He didn't know it then, but it would be the last time Stack would see Smoke this visibly broken. He would still be able to see the signs, but his brother became an iron wall.

Until they stepped back into the Delta years later.

~~~~~~

I say a peek but its all I got and tbh sadness is not my forte. Lover man Smoke everyone, im in desperate need for Smoke/Annie 24/7 like air

[winterzxsoldierz]

Well You Know Me...

Avenger!Bucky Barnes X Goofy!Villain

Part two

Warnings: Reader being an idiot and a flirt, no mentions of Y/N, Reader is a Female and a demigoddess who loves to cause chaos.

"Frosty the Bucky was a grumpy grumpy soul...and his arm was made of black and gold." Your voice rings through the loud speaker of the intercoms of your lair as Bucky walks in. "Hey James, looking fine per usual." You say with a chuckle and Bucky could just hear the smirk in your voice, he rolls his eyes, "Where are you?" he scoffs, already fed up with you, "Ah ah ah, you gotta find me, with those white wolf senses." You tease, and again he rolls his eyes. "Oh, hey there." You smile as Bucky approaches from behind, you spin in your throne chair for the evil effect and you grin.

"You're being an insufferable nuisance." Bucky tells you simply, while glaring at you, the chair you're in, it's ridiculous, he can only describe it to be unicorn vomit, if that's even a thing.

"More like an irresistible nuisance because you just keep visiting me, what's this like now...your third time i believe. you know what they say, third times a charm." A cheeky smirk grows on the curve of your lips and you laugh. "How much charm will it take for me to get that shirt off?" You slip in and tilt your head, the smirk on your lips grows seeing the pink tint Bucky's cheeks.

"Enough of the games, where is he?" Bucky demands, his tone taking on some sternness, as he eyes you wanting to see if you slip.

"Where's who James? gonna have to be more specific." You say, your tone mocking innocence. "Are you assuming i kidnapped someone because i most definitely did." you smirk wickedly. "He's alive, i think." Bucky blinks, "You think?" he stares at you. You smirk and nod. "Yes i think, i hadn't checked on him after i hit him with that." You point over to the long clown fist sitting on your desk, Bucky is about to speak but you raise you hand to silence him. "In my defense he was trying to rob me, i ain't rich, so i had to do something to protect my McDonald's money." Bucky face palms and nods, "Just show me where he is."

When you get to were your hostage is you grin wickedly and chuckle, Bucky isn't amused, as usual but you don't care, you walk slowly and speak animatedly "Ladies and Gentlemen, prepare yourself for my hostage and clutch your man bags and purses tightly, because he will try to steal your gas money or-" Bucky cuts you off "For Christ sake open the damn door." You bow and smirk "I love it when you're mean." Bucky's eyes roll "Why do i deal with this." he whispers but you hear him and laugh. Opening up the large purple door that has a large sign up with the words danger on it, it reveals a boy tied to a chair with a paper bag over his head that says punch me in big bold letters, but the bag isn't what Bucky was looking at, it was the suit the boy was wearing, a specific spider suit and Bucky loudly curses "What the fuck" You snicker "LANGUAGE." you snip in and toss the key to the chains in the air, Bucky catches it, "Good to see you're not dead bug boy." you watch as Bucy removes the chains from Peter

Bucky looks at you with a glare "He wasn't trying to rob you, just so you know." Bucky shakes his head "And his name is spider-boy."

"Bug boy." you retort.

"Spider-boy." Bucky says back."

"Bug boy." You roll, your eyes.

"Spider-boy." Bucky says again, a little frown on his face.

"Bug boy." You say again, determined to win this argument.

Peter just stares at you both, his eyes going back and forth to both of you as you both argue about his superhero name, he raises his finger "Actually it's, Spider-Man."

"No." You and Bucky say at the same time looking Peter's way." you look back at Bucky, now with a plan to trick him.

"Spider-boy." You say a knowing grin coming to your lips.

"Bug boy." Bucky argues and the pauses." "No wait- how." Bucky stammers and you laugh." "I win." You sing as Bucky grumbles and walks with Peter to the exit."

2 months later

Back in the compound Bucky sits, a bored expression on his face, no missions were happening at the moment, he looks down at his phone and sees about 5 text messages from you, how you manged to get his phone and put you number in it he'll never know. "I see you're texting your girlfriend." Sam teases, making Bucky jump a bit, he wasn't even sure when Sam came in but he glares at Sam grumpily and scoffs "She is not my girlfriend Sam." Bucky grumpily replies but to Sam it sounded defensive to defensive. "Sure sure, not your girlfriend, but you always visit her." Sam smiles, it's smug and Bucky hates it. "Whatever." Bucky shoves his phone into his pocket and gets up. "Where are you going Buck? i was only messing with you." Sam says, with a teasing smirk watching Bucky walk off. Sam is 100% sure it's to go see you.

Tag list: @hisredheadedgoddess28

i'll make a part three, stay tuned😉 part one here <-

[slowd1ving]

Hello !! Do I ask for a Jinyoung Park x husband reader ? please fluff and one shot

NOSTOS . ⁺ JINYOUNG PARK

nostos: defined by homecoming, as after a long journey Gone are the days of an empty stomach and the taste of blood on your tongue. Tonight, your biggest worry consists only of explaining the ball of fur (wedged damply under your raincoat) to your oh-so-beloved husband. anon this is my first married fic ever so I hope this is decent enough fr pairings: jinyoung park + husband reader warnings: none! (literally my only one with zero warnings) wc: 1.1k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Forgive me. Two words repeated themselves like pious mantras while you trudged up the stairs. The rubber of your soles colliding rhythmically against the linoleum of each step sounded comforting, unlike the frivolous allegro of your heartbeat. Residue rainwater left miserly puddles in your wake, and you felt guilty for the soft-spoken janitor who’d tend to the mud tracked into the flooring. 

Forgive me. For what? There were a million mellifluous syllables to describe the long wrongdoings of your life, but to list them all would blur them into flowery wine rather than the sour plums that they were. Lying to good people? Purging the murky cesspits of Gapryong’s Fist? Muddying up the downtown apartment complex your penthouse had been reduced to? 

Gone was the gilt that came with the blood. Your biggest sin this week was making a babe cry with your brief glance, and perhaps the parcel wedged beneath your warm body and raincoat. 

With one hand, you fumbled a rusty key into your lock—third floor, no lurkers, no telltale signs of intruders—and with the other, you clutched the bundle to your chest with the fervour of a starved man. It’s open—!

“Oh.” There he is. 

“‘Oh’ is right. You are late,” he seethed, eyes roaming from the very crown of your soaked head to the tips of your muddy boots. “And you’re getting mud everywhere.”

“Forgive me.” You sounded perfectly contrite, and somewhat abashed—and the sincerity in your tone caused Jinyoung Park to somewhat deflate. You— he— he could never stay mad at the face of his downcast husband after all, even if he knew full well the trembling furrow in your brows had been practised and machinated until Gapryong damn Kim himself twitched in irritation at your performances. 

Well. You weren’t the Infiltrator behind the Fist for no reason. 

“If you’re sorry, take a hot bath before you catch a cold. I’ll heat up the jjigae so you don’t get sick,” he grumbled, but anyone and everyone who knew him could see the soft-worn affection behind his grousing. He wasn’t your husband for no reason. 

There was no move from you. You remained holding your coat to your chest, ring glinting on your finger as you shifted. The back of his neck prickled. 

“Err, might be a bit of a problem, doc,” you said. Sheepishly. Like you always did before that mouth of yours caused your target to become tetchy as they threw something at you. 

His hand instinctively reached for your pink fluffy slipper on the shoe rack to whack your arm with. 

“You got injured? What did you do?” But rather than land on his target, he grasped your arm. There might’ve been a meow. Did it come from you? Maybe. He could never be too sure with you. 

With a loud, obnoxiously obvious gulp, you slid the material of your windbreaker aside. It rustled as though it was making excuses for you, since you wouldn’t argue your case. In fact, you would probably cheerfully agree with whatever he flung at you. 

“A… cat. A cat,” he stared dumbly. A soggy feline juvenile stared dumbly back. 

Huh?

“A… cat?” he repeated, still processing the mental shock. Its matted, damp grey fur and huge splotch on your shirt suggested you’d carried this wretched creature for many miles. And, knowing you, you probably had. Despair wrought his face pallid. 

“Sur… prise?” you echoed in a mimicry of his cadence, and he buried his forehead in his clammy palm. No, he prepared himself to say, already expecting the imminent question. No, his mouth formed. No. “And it’s a kitten, not a cat. Be nice.”

“Can we keep him?” you asked as though this wasn’t the cheap apartment you’d purchased in this district. No, he wanted to reproach, since you did somewhat acquiesce to his request on your whims. You stared, just as dumbly as him and that cat—an unfortunate trio if he ever saw one. “We can call him Jake.”

“We are not calling him the name of my nephew,” he shot back instantly, then immediately cursed at both himself and you for your masterful deceitfulness. Damn you. Damn his silly, obnoxious, beautiful husband drenched and pitiful from the rain, pleading with those eyes of his and causing him to unintentionally fold. You played him like a damn fiddle. 

And judging by the bright beam you wore, it seemed you knew that a bit too well. 

“Well, I’ll be off cleaning our dear nephew,” you zipped past him, still clutching that little furball with all the tenderness of a new father. He was so lost in the happy glow of your smile that it took him quite a few seconds to recall exactly just what you had said. 

“We are not naming it Jake!” he gritted out. 

“You can finally be the favourite uncle!” you sang, partially drowned out by the flow of hot water. 

Staggering, he propped his elbow up against the thin door leading to the bathroom—sharp glare poised right at it. 

When will I learn to refuse him?

 . ⁺ 　

“Who are you and what the hell did you do to my husband?” Shellshocked, you gaped at the scene before you; Jinyoung Park, the man you had sworn to cherish forevermore, had been replaced by someone who’d actually tolerated the kitten’s presence. Nay, the man had the very furball—that he glared at—sequestered away on his very lap while he looked over research files from his lab. And he was stroking behind its ears and under its chin nonetheless! 

What a conundrum. 

“Being the favourite uncle,” he replied with a half-smirk that couldn’t be hidden from your prying eyes. For once in your long life—riddled with more lies and deceits than you could count—you were stumped. 

You cooed to the kitten, attempted bribing it with treats, and even brandished the foxtail you’d found on your way back home. All for naught—the feline remained firmly wedged on his lap, and you couldn’t believe your eyes. 

“Well, your prophecy did work out. We’re both favourite uncles now,” he bragged, and a tear might’ve slipped from your eye as you watched the heartwarming scene. 

“Save a space for me on the couch after I shower,” you demanded, though it was not with any malice nor aggression—just a raw affection for this little bubble. 

“I’ll see.” However hard he denied it, he was still that wily man you’d fallen for; in the hazy evening lamplight, though, he was much softer round the edges.  

And perhaps you were too. 

For despite your lack of piety, you sincerely prayed this would be the domain of the future.

a/n: yes the cat is still called jake

[theseshipsshallsail]

TRATTENUTO

They say the eyes are windows to the soul, but it’s the medium of music through which Elio expresses himself perfectly, and as such, his hands that held Oliver captivated from the very first instant he watched them master the Bösendorfer’s ivory keys.

The harried chords of Strauss and Rachmaninoff, for example, born of their early trepidation.

The mournful strains of Elgar’s Nimrod when they were seldom speaking.

The Siren’s call of Bach’s Capriccio when they were.

The exact same hands, in fact, that are currently clutching the emerald-green metalwork of the spare room’s single bed frame.

Grip determined.

Knuckles blanched.

Flexing fingers criss-crossing his own.

“I love you…” Oliver murmurs, edging his cock backwards in a tortuously slow retreat. “I’m in love with you,” he swears, the unabashed freedom to do so compelling him to make the distinction. 

There’s a carnal thirst twisting his belly. 

A frustrated ache in his drawn-tight balls. 

Drunk with the build, the kiss of his glans to Elio’s greedy rim sees Oliver’s heart expanding, and the other man strains as he arches from the rumpled sheets: a desperate plea spilling loose on a whimper when he exerts the scantest pressure; inching inside anew. 

“Non fermarti…” Elio slurs beside his ear; charcoal lashes fanning his burnished cheeks. “’m close…” 

The feeling’s entirely mutual, of course, yet Oliver’s resolved to fuck him senseless; watching Elio’s face contort in rapture as the pitch of his honeyed groans turns almost guttural.  

They’ve been at it a while, is the thing. Driving one another to the proverbial brink, then switching gears at the pivotal moment to eke out their release. It’s addictive - this self-imposed restraint after several months apart - but when bruising heels dig into his ass all bets are off, and Oliver surrenders to his baser urges as he dutifullyquickens the pace. 

“More…” Elio demands, blowing an errant curl from his dewy temple. “Please, mon chéri… need to come…”

Oliver leans in: lathing the salt-gleam hollow at his boyfriend’s throat. 

“You’re a provocateur, Elio Perlman…”

“Praw-vaw-ka-tœr,” comes the heavily-exaggerated reply; playtime ostensibly over as Elio chokes on a whine: nostrils flaring at each fervent jab to his tender prostate.

Caged between their sweat-slick bellies, his erection smears wet and sticky, and were the clasp of Elio’s palms not fused with such intensity he’d have happily reached down to double the stimulation.

In the end, however, it makes no difference. 

Success is a dance perfected through repetition, so no sooner have Elio’s legs hitched to encircle his waist does he cry out raggedly: Oliver’s world going blindingly white as he curses and shudders and grinds his teeth; spurring him on amidst motley sounds of contentment. 

One thrust.

Two.

An uncoordinated third.

Liquid pearls streak Elio’s sternum right up to his stubbly chin, and pressing his mouth to the spiderweb veins at his wrist, Oliver savours the perfect thrum of life: hips endeavouring to twitch in vain; jetlagged refractory period be damned.

How long they lie there he isn’t quite sure, but nature’s chorus is already stirring beyond the wooden shutters when he properly catches his breath, and the steady rise of Elio’s chest suggests he’s not too far from drifting off beneath him.

“Baise-moi…” the other man mumbles eventually, looking rather like the cat who got the cream. “That was -”

“Exceptional?” Oliver mutters, wheezing louder than Anchise’s old generator. “Spectacular?”

“Truly, I am Fortune’s favoured,” Elio drawls, chapped lips grazing the hinge of his jaw. “Humility is a virtue, professore.”

“So I’ve heard,” Oliver replies, snagging a pair of discarded boxers to clean up the mess. “But don’t let that keep you from stroking my ego.” 

Elio grunts. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll stroke your -”

“Goose,” Oliver snickers - smothering him with a pillow - and rearranging their sated limbs he settles in for the duration; thumb skimming idle patterns over Elio’s spine in the crushed-velvet pageantry of dawn. 

[sionisjaune]

hello i am here for toxic brocedes :)

Post Met Gala 2016, Lewis/Nico with a hint of Lewis/Miles, 1.2k

In the end, Lewis can’t bear to go to the afterparty. He can’t imagine cramming himself into a booth, nodding his head to the glitzy thump of American dance pop, and watching Miles dance and drink and flirt like he didn’t just alter the course of Lewis’s life. So he takes a car back to the Manhattan apartment—drives it himself, even, silent behind the wheel—and sits in the underground parking garage with the engine still running until the worst of the emotion drains out of him. If he was always going to leave alone, it was better that he left on his own terms. 

He shuts off the car, ducks out and orients himself towards the elevator. It must have started raining when he was inside the Met, and now it’s all seeped underground, dripping from the concrete ceiling and pooling in the potholes on the garage’s asphalt. The heels of his loafers click and echo. He steps inside the elevator when it arrives. 

His apartment is a swanky two-bedroom on the ninth floor that Nicole picked out for him when he was sufficiently big-time to require a base in New York. He still remembers clutching her to his side in this exact elevator while she teetered in her heels, drunk and cold after a night out. That was years ago. He blinks, realizing he hasn’t yet selected his floor. The elevator lurches into motion a moment later, and Lewis’s stomach clenches. 

He’s still seeing Miles in his mind’s eye when the elevator opens on his floor. The fucking striped suit. The bleach blonde fucking hair. Miles was seated next to Rihanna, which meant it was impossible for Lewis to make any kind of impression. He blows out a tense breath, halfway down the hallway to his door. As if Miles would want him that way. 

Lewis twists the key in the lock, and nudges the door open with his shoulder, expecting the dim stillness of his empty apartment. Orange light spills into the hallway when the door opens instead. 

Lewis squints against the light. His head is pounding like the hangover is already kicking in. 

“You look rough,” says Nico. 

Lewis blinks rapidly, as though shaking a nightmare, but it really is Nico. The shape of him resolves, hunched over a bottle of rum at Lewis’s kitchen island. His blonde hair is too short to flop in his face like it used to. Lewis shuts the door behind himself and kicks his shoes in the vague direction of the closet. 

“What are you doing here,” says Lewis. His voice is deadpan and gravelly. Like a smoker, or someone who doesn’t care. 

“I saw you on TV,” says Nico, lifting his glass and swirling it around. There are only a few millimetres left, and the bottle is half empty. “You’re… really doing it.” He raises the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. “You’re growing out of me.”

Fuck it, Lewis thinks, tossing his keys on the island and sliding into a seat across from Nico. He gestures for the glass, and Nico tops it up obligingly and slides it over. When Lewis drinks, he knows he’s tasting Nico’s saliva on the rim. 

“Another one,” says Lewis. Nico tips another few fingers of rum in the glass and Lewis tosses it back. The last time he and Nico were this civil in such close proximity was the beginning of 2013, before Nico was married. 

“What are you drinking to?” says Nico, watching Lewis sip on his third glass, cheek resting in his palm, blue eyes limpid underneath the pendant lights. 

Lewis sucks down another bitter sip. “I met someone,” he says. 

Nico raises an eyebrow. Lewis doesn’t know what reaction he was expecting. 

“He’s a fencer,” says Lewis. “Tall, blonde, stylish.”

“And where is he now?” says Nico, glancing around theatrically. It doesn’t have the intended effect, probably because Nico is completely wasted. 

“Probably fucking Rihanna,” says Lewis. “Fuck.” He presses his face into his hand. His cheeks are numb. Nico snorts across the island, wiggling the glass out of Lewis’s lax grip and pouring himself another drink. 

“I know something that will make us both feel better,” says Nico. 

Lewis unburies his face from his hand and fixes Nico with a serious look. He’s only here because Lewis gave him a key when he was still sleeping around on Nicole, and because he saw Lewis on TV and booked a flight to New York, apparently. Nico’s lips are wrapped around the rim of the glass, where Lewis’s just were. He doesn’t look like he’s expecting much. 

“No thanks,” says Lewis. 

Nico shrugs. “Fair enough. I’ll try again in the morning.” 

“How do you figure?” says Lewis. 

“I don’t think either of us want to sleep alone tonight,” Nico hazards. 

“And what if you’re wrong?” says Lewis. He wants another drink, but he’s still got another twenty minutes before his last few catch up with him. He might end the night kneeling over the toilet bowl. It’s a good thing Nico’s here after all. 

“Feel free to send me packing,” says Nico. “I don’t think you’re going to, though.” 

Lewis presses his fingertips into the granite countertop. He watches the flesh under his nails turn white. “You’re really fucking irritating, you know,” says Lewis. 

“I know,” says Nico, tilting his head. 

“You fucking did this to yourself,” says Lewis, gesturing. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing with his hands, other than showing that he’s angry. “You stranded yourself at my apartment because you wanted to test me like this.” 

“Test you?” says Nico.

“Yeah,” says Lewis. He can hear himself slurring. It’s remarkable that Nico is still speaking so elegantly. “You want to measure how much I want you.” 

Nico snorts. “I’m getting the sense that it’s less than you used to. I fucking miss wanting you, though. I’m sorry your fencer is straight.” 

“Yeah,” says Lewis, choking on a little laugh. He misses it too. There’s a hole in him where his feelings for Nico used to be. It’s like the black spot that you see when you stare at a lightbulb for too long, when the rods and cones in your retinas get so excited they burn out. “Come on,” he says, sliding out of his seat. 

Nico trails after him, towards the bedrooms in the back of the apartment. “I told you you weren’t going to,” he says. 

“Shut up,” Lewis tells him. When he reaches the bathroom, he digs a spare toothbrush out of the mirror cabinet and hands it to Nico. “Wait your turn,” he says. 

Nico makes a funny face at that, but he backs out of the bathroom and leaves Lewis to fumble drunkenly around the bathroom for his cleanser and his toothpaste. He finishes up after an indeterminate age, mouth thick with the taste of rum and spearmint, like the foul aftermath of a mojito, and pads out of the bathroom, head spinning. 

Nico is sitting on the foot of the bed clutching his spare toothbrush when Lewis enters the bedroom. “I’m finished,” says Lewis, lamely. He strips his shirt off and tosses it at the laundry bin. Nico disappears into the bathroom. Lewis tries to conjure Miles, if only to torture himself, but his thoroughly intoxicated imagination can’t manage it. At least something worked. He slides into bed between cold sheets and buries his head in the pillow. A few minutes later, Nico joins him, tenting the sheets at Lewis’s back. 

“Goodnight, Lewis,” says Nico. 

Lewis shuts his eyes and carefully doesn’t think about what the fuck he’ll do tomorrow morning when he wakes up sober with Nico in his bed. 

“Goodnight,” Lewis croaks, willing sleep towards him.

[thesightstoshowyou]

Freeze

- A Sights Original -

Unnamed Male Character x F Reader (NSFW)

(A/N: Are you a fight, flight, or freeze kind of person? I’m more of a “freezer” myself. This was based on a dream I had the other night. Happy late Valentine’s Day to my favorite pervs.)

Warnings: Very polite noncon, mentions of unresolved medical issues, threats, knife usage, praise, forced orgasm

~~

Paper crumples in your palm. Your brows furrow, scowl deepening as you stomp down the sidewalk. With each annoyed step, your knee twinges, bone grating on bone, the joint popping painfully.

This is the third doctor you’ve been to, the third time your concerns have been dismissed. You’re too young to have arthritis. Take some ibuprofen for a week, the pain will go away. Give it time.

You have given it time. You’ve given it weeks. Months. An entire year. At what age do doctors start taking you seriously?

Your dress billows around your thighs, ruffled by the breeze. The temperature plummeted while you were at the clinic. Shivering, you wrap your arms around yourself. Should have brought a jacket.

In the distance is the parking garage. Having to walk this far is not helping your knee. You’re nearly limping by the time you make it to the staircase leading to the lower levels.

Prickling on the back of your neck.

Discreetly, you scan your surroundings. Out of the corner of your eye is a man. You make a mental note of his appearance: Tall—maybe a little over 6ft—blonde, short cropped hair, lean, white t-shirt, ripped jeans.

It’s probably nothing. He’s just going to his car too.

But he’s staring right at you.

The stairs are difficult. Your knee clicks and the ache deepens with each hurried step. Your leg threatens to buckle every time it must hold your weight. Your knuckles blanche with how tightly you grip the railing. Breathe, breathe, slow your pulse, keep calm, it’s okay, stop panicking—

Tap, tap, tap. Footsteps behind you, closer now, matching your hurried pace. Your fingers fumble with the zipper of your purse. Frantically, you shove the crumpled doctor’s notes in your bag and search for your keys. You should have gotten them out sooner, what a stupid mistake….

Last two stairs, almost there, you can see your car just across the lot, look around, is there anyone near, can you yell for help? It’s so empty, there are only three other vehicles. Your phone! Idiot. It’s in your bag too, call the cops, hurry—

The footfalls suddenly disappear from behind you and you half turn in time to see the man leap clean over the railing. Effortlessly, he lands and uses the rail to swing himself around to face you and block your path.

“Hey,” he says, grinning wide like you’re an old friend. This close, you see a raised scar running from his brow and down across his eyelid. On the side of his face, near his left ear is a tattooed symbol or pattern of some kind.

You don’t waste time studying the composition, instead twisting on your heel and racing back up the stairs, heart in your throat. Adrenaline helps dull the discomfort in your knee, but your leg still trembles until you must clutch the railing.

You don’t make it far. He’s so much quicker, taking the stairs two at a time and gripping your upper arm to pull your hand from your purse and stop your hasty retreat. He whips you around and gently pushes you against the kneewall. His opposite palm comes up to cover your mouth, as pointless as it is. You’re too frozen in terror to react yet, your voice trapped in your throat.

What strikes you first is his grin. He’s smiling so warmly, his dark eyes lit up with such joy. It makes you second guess your fear, like maybe you should know him, like you should be just as thrilled.

You falter only for a second. A quiet click heralds the feeling of steel at your throat. Your eyes widen in horror and wildly dart around—no cameras, no people, you’re alone—as you hold your breath and stay as still as you can.

“Hey, I really don’t wanna kill you, but I’ll have to if you scream okay?” He speaks softly as the thumb of the hand covering your mouth caresses your cheek, a sick imitation of comfort.

Quickly, you nod, and the man’s smile widens. He huffs a relieved laugh, his palm sliding from your mouth to rest on your waist. The knife stays where it is, hovering just over your throat.

His kind expression is so jarring, so alien to the situation. He should be glowering like a villain, not smiling like a friend.

“Y-you can take my purse, please, I d-don’t have cash—

“Shhh,” he whispers with a chuckle, shaking his head like you made a silly joke. The hand on our waist slides lower. The warm, calloused skin of his palm brushes your thigh to push your skirt higher.

Terror chokes you, a strangled little squeak leaving your lips. It becomes horribly apparent what this is, what’s actually happening to you now with each inch his hand claims.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. You shake in his grip and clench your eyes shut, your breath only coming in sharp gasps. The scream is there now in the back of your throat, begging to be freed, but the blade now resting on your neck keeps it in check.

“P-Please, please don’t, please—

“It’s okay, I promise it won’t hurt, see…?” he murmurs, fingertips stroking your folds through your panties. A quiet whimper escapes, tears pooling in your lashes. He’s right, it doesn’t hurt, but that doesn’t make it any less shocking.

“What’s your name?” he asks, the gentle rumble of his voice buzzing against your palms.

Palms? When did you place them on his chest?

You’re not sure why you tell him, but you do, your name leaving you in a shaky whisper only he can hear.

“I love that. So pretty like you. I knew you would be really, really good for me.” His digits circle your clothed clit, languid circles that make your toes curl in your shoes. You despise the wetness gathering in your underwear and the wanting heat curling in your belly.

Your nails twist in his shirt when he nudges your panties to the side to touch you unhindered. When he finds you dripping, his pleased gasp makes you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. You could almost forget about the knife like this. Almost.

Your cheeks burn, mortification constricting your chest when your cunt squelches around his digits. He offers a needy groan in response and pumps his fingers until you’re fighting the urge to buck your hips.

What the fuck is wrong with you?!

“I can’t wait, sorry—sorry, god, you’re such a good girl,” he mutters, wet fingers sliding from your channel so he can shove his hand in his pocket. He produces a condom wrapper. Bringing it to his mouth, he rips it open with his teeth. Dexterously, he works open his pants to free his leaking cock and slides the rubber down his length.

Your heart stutters in your chest and you desperately shake your head when he hooks his hand under your thigh to lift your leg. A grimace twists your features when all your weight is put on your bad knee. Your hand flies to the railing to steady yourself.

“What—oh right, you were limping, I’m sorry.” Hurriedly, he sets your leg down and lifts the other, easing the pain in your knee. Confusion and dread addle your mind; you’re torn between his consideration and trauma he is about to inflict.

You can’t fight or flee with the knife at your throat. You don’t know how to react when he hooks a thumb in the crotch of your underwear to tug the soaked fabric to the side. All you manage is a pathetic whine as the tears pooling in your lashes streak down your face.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he chants like he’s trying to soothe an injured child. You tense, every single instinct in your body screaming at you to do something, but you’re trapped in your own body, like your brain is disconnected from the rest of you.

Eagerly, he lines up and surges into your slippery cunt. You barely manage to contain your shriek behind your teeth, his hand flying to your mouth to cover the strangled sound you emit. You look up at him through despairing, watery eyes, inhaling the scent of yourself on his fingers, your pleas of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” muffled by his palm.

He groans through his teeth, eyes fluttering, hips grinding against you when he rolls them. “It’s—ahh—it’s okay, honey, you didn’t mean it, I know it was an accident. I know you can be quiet for me,” he purrs and you’re…relieved.

His hand leaves your lips to return to your trembling thigh. He spreads you open to make room for deeper thrusts. It’s tender, though, the way he ruts up into you. He pushes you tighter into the wall, pins you there with his weight, holds you close like a lover.

Hushed moans wash across your skin when he leans down to drag his lips through your tears. There’s praise too, ‘so good,’ and ‘thank you,’ murmured near your ear.

Inside, you’re burning. Every gentle thrust sends pleasurable shock waves through your belly while conflict rages in your mind. It shouldn’t feel this way! You shouldn’t be fighting moans, your fingers shouldn’t be digging into his shoulder, you shouldn’t be leaking down your thighs, and you most assuredly shouldn’t be climbing the precipice of climax.

The man’s hand slips from your leg and his fingers quickly locate your clit to rub more torturous circles. You suck in air through your teeth and furiously shake your head. If you cum, you’ll never forgive yourself.

“Please cum with me, baby?” He moans softly and adds, “I’d love that so much.” With the way the molten knot in your gut tightens with each passing second, you realize you don’t have a choice.

Eyes snapping shut, quivering lips falling open in a silent cry, the knot unravels. Slick muscles spasm and grip the throbbing length buried within you. A strained exhale escapes from the man’s throat when his cock twitches and spills into the condom. For one, brief moment, you consider thanking him for using one.

The hand holding the knife shifts so thumb and forefinger can grip your chin and tip your head back. You sob against his lips when they press to yours. It’s too tender a gesture for what just occurred.

Would it have been less distressing if he’d been cruel?

“Thank you for being so good for me,” he murmurs against your mouth before pulling away. You snap your knees shut as he steps back. Your skin prickles. The loss of his body heat makes you aware of the chilly air billowing down the stairs.

Quickly righting his clothes, he flashes you another disarming grin and departs. Back up the stairs he goes, jumping two at a time. You watch him leave, tears cooling on your face.

Now, the only sounds echoing through the darkened garage are your haggard breaths and quiet sniffling. You’re alone. Slowly, you sink onto a step, legs shaking like a newborn calf. You stare blankly at the goosebumps dotting your skin.

Should have brought a jacket.

[euijoosorangeslice]

Turned into the Mafia's Maid (part one)

warnings: kidnapping, cursing

You were in a new city, being originally from a place farther from where you are now: a distant, desolate, hole in the wall. You had your occasional event, but there was already a built community. You always felt like an outsider.

Though, you have noticed one thing. This mysterious looking, cat like boy has been staring at you awfully hard. You went to the corner store (almost every day, you can barely cook), grabbing all the snacks you wanted from the shelves as your makeshift dinner. You put your phone and your apartment key down on the counter, grabbing a hot dog and a frozen dessert.

When you went to check out, grabbing your phone and heading to the counter, you noticed there was a guy staring at you. You didn’t think much of it, since you were a foreigner to the area. “23.56, ma'am.” The cashier spoke in his usual monotone voice. Damn, you really just spent over twenty bucks at a corner store. Either way, you handed the cashier your cash, turning to stuff your money into your pocket. Then and there you noticed that the boy’s eyes were locked in onto your figure.

When he noticed that you’d seen him, he immediately disappeared into the aisles. Weird, but okay. Still, you’re new to the area, he’s probably just a little confused since this city doesn’t get much traffic. You grabbed your bags and left, walking slowly down the street while listening to rock music. Your music paused due to the city’s shitty connection, and that’s when you heard hurried footsteps behind you.

On instinct, you turned around quickly. But no one was there. Starting to freak out, you clutched your taser in your hand tightly, speeding up your pace. The music continue, making your heart beat faster. Should you run? What if they chase you? Is there even anything there?

So your pace turned into a light jog. Your apartment is only a few minutes away, just turn the corner and full send. You hit the corner, looking behind you before you started running like a maniac. Sure enough, you saw a tall man in a hood and all black behind you. Fuck. You quickly turned on your heel, running as fast as you can. You ripped your earbuds out of your ears, heavily breathing as you snapped your body around the corner of the pillar outside your apartment.

You lurched forward, slipping and scraping your exposed knee against the gravel. Hissing in pain, you hobbled up and kept running. You heard rocks kick up as you ran, your brain clicking. He was chasing you, only a few feet behind you. Shit.

You ran into the dim corridor, the place unlit and run down. Elevator or stairs? Fuck, no time to think! You took a sharp right turn, your shoes clicking up the cement steps. You heard the door open behind you, going up to the third floor. By the time you reached your room, you heard the stair door open. Oh god, your keys. In your purse or in your bag, maybe your pockets? “There you are, my dear.” A condescending voice started from down the hall. You fumbled with your pockets, before it hit you.

You left your key at the store.

“Looking for this, sweetheart?”

His voice was angelic, smooth like a creamy spread over toast. “No need to run. Just tryna give you your keys back.” You still maintained a distance between the man, who removed his hood. “I’m Nicholas, nice to meet you. You are?”

“Y/n. Give me my fucking keys you perv.” You shouted, Nicholas taking careful steps toward you. “Got it. Here.” He reached out, placing the key in your palm. You turned to go into your apartment, feeling him tug your body backwards as a rag was pressed against your face, doused with chemicals. “Sorry princess, you were just being so difficult."

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

//next

yeahh soo.... im in my wattpad era rn but atleast itll get good soon.

[kat651]

is this love? Sherlock x reader (pt 1)

word count:2239

warnings: a bit of blood, Sherlock (cuz he’s a whole warning), bit of angst, cliffhanger.

Sherlock ran through the streets of London. It was around three in the morning and he was in trouble. Deep trouble. 

Sherlock turned to try and escape the men chasing him. A wrong turn. He ended up in an alley. He turned to face the men. Sherlock was out of breath and his gun was out of bullets. He slowly backed away, palms up. He was screwed. 

Sherlock gulped as the men came closer. He’d messed up this time. Sherlock felt his blood run cold. This was it. This was the end. He could already see the headline on the London newspaper. 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐌𝐄𝐒: 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃

He shuttered at the thought and took a shaky breath. 

Sherlock watched the tall burly man, clearly the ring leader, come closer and lift a closed fist. Sherlock slammed his eyes shut and yelped as the man’s fist made contact with the side of his face, right below his eye. 

Sherlock placed his hand over his cheek and stumbled back. This was going to be a very painful death. 

-.-.-

Sherlock panted, clutching his side as his knees trembled before giving way beneath him. He braced himself for another blow, closing his eyes as tears threatened to pour down his face. 

Sherlock heard a shuffle of feet then a crack. He opened his eyes slowly. There was not a forth person in the alley. 

This cloaked figure grabbed one of the men and flung him into a nearby trash bin. The other two backed up as the mysterious person cracked their knuckles. “Who’s next?” They asked, walking closer and kicking one in the jaw, rendering him unconscious. 

The third man went to run but suddenly a small object was thrown that hit him in the back of the head. He fell to the ground with a thud. 

The figure shook their head and turned to Sherlock who was fighting to stay conscious. Sherlock felt his body trembling and looked up to see the figure extend an arm. 

You grabbed Sherlock as he coughed and frowned. The poor man was a mess. “I’ve got you…” you whispered in a voice deeper than your natural one. You slipped his arm over your shoulder and helped him out of the ally and to a waiting car. 

Sherlock didn’t really want to get in the car with a stranger but he was too weak to protest. 

You opened the passenger door and helped him sit before getting in the driver’s seat. You looked over to see him struggling with the seatbelt, teeth clenched in pain. 

You leaned over and grabbed the belt, clicking it in place. 

Sherlock slouched in the seat and groaned. “W-who are you?”

You glanced over at him as you started the car. He looked exhausted and shaken. You sighed and put the car in drive. “I’m here to help…” you finally answered. 

Sherlock realized he wasn’t going to get much more of an answer and let exhaustion take its toll, causing him to drift off. 

-.-.-

Sherlock lay on a couch as you and your boyfriend stood in the corner of the room, arguing. 

“Well what did you want me to do? Leave him to die?” You hissed. 

“Well- no you just- you can’t bring a random guy into the house.”

You rolled your eyes. “What did you want me to do? Leave him in the street and hope someone came and picked him up?”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and moved over to the two of you as you bickered. 

“Sympathy, Y/n! It’s going to get you killed!”

You growled. 

“It doesn’t bring you any advantage, it doesn’t give you a good reputation, it gets you killed!”

You crossed your arms. “Oh, well then if I shouldn’t give sympathy then out of my house!” You shouted, grabbing the extra set of keys from the counter and putting them in your pocket. “Out, you can go back to living in your mother’s basement!”

He glared at you. “I made you who you are!”

You laughed. “Made me who I am? If it weren’t for me, you’d still be digging through garbage bins for your next meal, out!!” You seethed, shoving him out the door. “And don’t come back!” You shouted as you slammed and locked the door. 

You turned and saw Sherlock staring at you with confusion. You turned red from embarrassment. “Sorry you had to see that…” you said, walking over. 

He groaned. “Where am I?”

You chuckled and gently placed a hand on his forehead, checking for a fever. There wasn’t one. “You’re a door away from your flat. Honestly I’m surprised you haven’t realized that we’re neighbors, I’ve lived here for years.”

He went to sit and you helped him.

“I have a hard time believing that we are neighbors.”

You smiled and shook your head. “Well we are. I’ve been woken up late at night because you got bored and shot the wall, if you need proof.” 

Sherlock turned pink. “Ehe, sorry bout that…”

You smiled. “It’s alright it doesn’t bother me much anymore.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I-thank you for helping me…”

You smiled as you entered the kitchen. “Don’t mention it.” You said, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and heading back to the living room. 

You gently pressed it against his face. “Your poor cheek…” You mumbled. 

Sherlock leaned into your touch but you pretended not to notice. “You know…” you began. “If you need to go out late like that again you can just wake me. It’s dangerous to travel alone.”

He raised a brow. “Oh yes because you could fight off three men that wanted you dead.”

“I saved you sorry skin didn’t I?” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “That was you?!”

You smiled and nodded. “Yes,now hold still.” You whispered. 

Sherlock quit moving and you gently wiped the blood from his lip and cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner…”

Sherlock smiled. “Hey you got there in time that’s what really matters.”

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah I guess I did.” You answered sheepishly. 

Sherlock yawned. “What time is it?”

“Seven in the morning. But you need to rest.” You said, gently pushing him to lay down. 

-.-.-

It took a few days for Sherlock to heal enough that he could walk around on his own. 

You helped him over to his flat and smiled. “Here,” you said handing him a piece of paper. “Call me if you need anything, it doesn’t matter if it’s four in the morning call, I’ll answer.” You said before turning and heading back to your flat. 

Sherlock felt his cheeks grow red as you walked off. 

Someone cleared their throat and Sherlock turned to see John. “Oh hey…”

“Who’s the girl?”

Sherlock turned even more red. “She was just… helping me with… stuff.”

John rolled his eyes and stood up. “Why don’t you bring her some flowers and tell her how ya feel?” John said, walking to the door. “I’d say by the looks of it she enjoyed tending to your wounds and nursing you back to health.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ok, whatever.” Sherlock said as he rolled his eyes. “Enjoyed nursing me back to health ha!” He laughed once John had left. Yeah right..”

A few days later, there was a knock. Sherlock groaned and went to the door. To his surprise you were standing there with a smile on your face and a box in your hands. “I-I brought you some cookies…”

Sherlock smiled and took the box. “Thank you… would you like to come in?”

You smiled. “I guess for a few minutes.”

Sherlock opened the door a bit more and you walked in. 

Upon entering a smile spread across his face as you looked around. He had been nervous you wouldn’t want to come in. But now he was relieved. 

He offered you a seat, pulling it out and everything. “Tea?” 

You smiled softly. “I would love some…”

-.-.-

“I want to thank you again for saving me that night.” Sherlock said as the two of you sat at the table talking. 

You smiled. “You don’t need to thank me, really.” 

Sherlock’s cheeks were dusted over with pink. “Y/n?”

You looked up. “Yes?”

Sherlock placed a hand on the back of his neck. “A-are you free tomorrow night?”

You nodded. “Yea why do you ask?”

He slowly met your gaze. “I-I was wondering if I could take you out for dinner tomorrow.”

You smiled. “I would like that, yes.”

“Really?” He asked, face lighting up. 

You nodded. “Yes, really.”

Perfect, I’ll get you at six tomorrow, sound good?”

You nodded. “And we’re are you taking me?”

Sherlock smiled. “That’s a surprise.”

You smiled. “Well alright. Anything particular that I should wear?”

Sherlock smiled. “Whatever you wish,” he said. 

You nodded. “Sounds wonderful.” You whispered. 

When it came time for you to leave, Sherlock held the door and bid you goodbye. “Until tomorrow,” he said bowing. 

You chuckled and nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow…”

At around 5:45 the next day you were a panicked mess. “What on earth am I supposed to wear?” You asked yourself, holding two dresses and growling at them both. 

Suddenly there was a knock on your door. You ran and answered it. “I know I’m not ready yet I just…” you paused as Sherlock stood in a sharp looking suit. “Woah…” You breathed. 

Sherlock chuckled. “Trouble deciding what to wear?”

You nodded. “I’ve narrowed it down to two chooses but…”

Sherlock gently put his hand on your shoulder. “Let me see them…” he said gently. 

You led him to your closet and showed him the two dresses. One was deep purple and the other a deep teal. “I can’t decide…” you mumbled. 

Sherlock considered the two before something handing in your closet bought his eye. 

He carefully grabbed it and took a closer look. “What about this one?” He asked gently. 

You were about to protest. The plain brown one you’d had for years? But the look in Sherlock’s eye made you hesitate before biting your lip. 

“At least let me see it on you.” He asked. 

You hind the two dresses and nodded. “I’ll be right back” you said taking the dress and running off to put it on. 

When you came back, Sherlock had something in his hand. You raised a brow. “What do you have?”

“Come here.” He said. 

You did and he gently tied the teal ribbon from the other dress around your waist. “Perfect…”

He made you turn to look in the mirror. You hated to admit it but the teal made this plain dress like good. 

“Ready to go? Or do you want to wear something else?”

You smiled and looked up at him. “No, I like this one…”

Sherlock smiled and handed you your dress coat. “Ready?”

Nodding, you took the coat and fallowed him. “I’m ready.” 

The two of you headed out the door. Your arm linked with Sherlock’s. “So you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

Sherlock chuckled and opened the door of the cab for you. “No, it’s a surprise…”

You shook your head. “Fine, keep your secrets,” you teased. 

Sherlock sat next to you as you looked out the window. You were scared and excited at the same time. 

You were surprised when you felt Sherlock’s hand gently take yours. You looked over at him but he was gazing out the window. You scooted closer so your arm was against his before you closed your eyes and let out a happy sigh. 

Sherlock glanced over at you and smiled. “We’re here…”

You both climbed out of the cab and you gasped. “Oh Sherlock!”you looked over to see Sherlock’s face bright pink. “I used to come here every Friday with my family!” You smiled up at him. 

Sherlock looked at you with a slightly tilted head. “So… I made a good choice?”

You smiled, putting your arms around him. “It’s a wonderful choose. I haven’t been here since my brother got married…”

Sherlock smiled and you both entered the restaurant together.

You sat across from Sherlock with a smile on your face. 

Halfway into the meal and conversation you managed to make Sherlock laugh. You were smiling from ear to ear. “Your laugh is lovely.” You said as Sherlock covered his mouth. 

“really?” He asked with surprise. “I-no one has ever said that before.”

You smiled and gently took his hand. “Well no one has ever took me on a real date before…”

Sherlock’s expression dropped. “What? But the other guy he-”

“Was a pervert.” You finished giving Sherlock’s hand a gently squeeze. “You’re a hundred times better.”

Sherlock smiled. “Well I’m glad.” 

-.-.-

“Well I guess this is it…goodnight.” Sherlock said as he stood outside your door. 

You stood on the tips of your toes and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight Sherlock.”

Sherlock placed his fingers over his cheek. “Y-y/n, what was that for?”

You shrugged. “Everything.”

Sherlock pulled you to his chest and he placed his chin on your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow…”

You smiled. “Alright…”

Sherlock smiled before entering his flat as you did yours. You were immediately met by a rag pressed over your mouth then the world went dark. 

-.-.-

“So did you enjoy your date with my little sister?” John asked as sherlock entered. 

“Wait! Y/n is your sister?!?”

To be continued…

Pt 2 here

[writingpandagoth]

These are the stories Hogwarts didn’t dare archive — the scandalous gossips, enchanted mishaps, magical crimes, emotional confessions, and glitter-fueled disasters left out of the official records from:

Sharp Tongues, Soft Hearts.

Summary:

In todays issue of "Whispering Quill: Hogwarts Most mysterious and Untraceable Gossip Scroll"

Cassie just wanted to find a place to snog in peace.

What she found instead? A sentient broom closet that speaks in rhyming prophecies and exposes your innermost secrets like it's headlining a gossip opera.

From scandalous revelations to poetic emotional damage, Hogwarts students are lining up for their turn to be roasted in verse — including the Marauders, several professors.

Beware: This closet doesn’t just store brooms. It stores truths.

And it’s not done talking.

Broom Closet Oracle

Year: Seventh Time: Wednesday Afternoon (the hour of peak weirdness) Location: Third Floor, Behind the Squeaky Suit of Armor

It begins, as most strange events at Hogwarts do, with Cassie simply looking for a place to snog someone in peace.

“I just wanted somewhere to make out,” she says, arms crossed, staring at the closet door — which is now glowing faintly and humming like it's casting a love song in minor key.

Nyra narrows her eyes. “It wasn’t doing that yesterday.”

“It’s pulsing,” you say, pressing your palm to the wood. “Like it’s alive.”

Leona, sipping a magically chilled lemonade, raises a brow. “Either it’s cursed... or sentient. Either way, I support it.”

Severus peers at the door warily. “Did any of you hex this?”

“No,” you reply.

“Not this time,” Cassie says with suspicious cheer.

Nyra shrugs. “Maybe. For vibes.”

Severus closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength.

You open the door.

The broom closet — previously just a musty storage space full of dusty handles and broken bristles — now speaks in rhyme.

“Step right in, confess your fears. Receive advice to last for years.”

A glowing quill floats midair beside a scroll that unfurls dramatically. The air smells faintly of old lemon drops and forbidden knowledge.

You step in first, because someone has to.

“Okay, what now?” you ask the closet.

“You like a boy who broods and sneers. He notices you. More than he appears. For your love will carry more than just this year.”

You freeze.

Cassie emits an unholy screech.

“HE BROODS AND YOU LIKE IT!”

Severus coughs violently into his sleeve.

Leona chokes on her lemonade.

You drag Cassie in before she keeps talking.

“You flirt with flair, you strut and preen but fear your heart will cause a scene. For you won't find what you seek in kissing the freak”

Cassie gasps. “HOW DARE—accurate and judgy!”

Leona tosses her lemonade aside and strides in like she’s modeling for a perfume ad.

“You lead with pride and glam and grace but want someone to see past your face. For your heart is where your true beauty lies.”

She blinks. “That’s deeply rude and also too real.”

Nyra walks in without fanfare.

The scroll waits a beat, then:

“You act like chaos, blades, and shade but would burn down stars for those you’ve made. For you are the softest on the inside”

She walks out and mutters, “I hate this broom closet.”

Then, all heads turn to Severus. He looks at it. He looks at you.

He looks back at the door.

“No,” he says flatly.

“Yes,” the four of you chorus.

He sighs, clearly regretting every life decision that led him here, and steps inside.

The scroll takes a long, almost dramatic pause before unfurling:

“You scorn, you scoff, you brood but your favorite sound is when (Y/N)’s in a good mood. The hearts she draws upon her page have cursed your soul like ancient rage. For your written words will not go to waste”

The silence that follows is cosmic.

Nyra clutches the doorframe like a lifeline muttering “I am never emotionally recovering from this.”

Leona fans herself with a transfigured parchment exhaling like she just witnessed opera.

Cassie makes an ungodly noise.

You? You’re internally combusting.

Severus exits without comment. “We are setting it on fire.”

“You are not setting the love-confession closet on fire,” Leona sighs.

By dinner, everyone knows. Because of course they do.

There’s a line now — students queued for emotional reckoning, or at least scandalous entertainment.

And oh, the closet delivers.

Of course the Marauders were one of the first to try their luck.

James Potter stepped in grinning looking back once at Lily who stood close with her arms crossed.

“You lead with laughs, you charm, you chase but fear she sees your heart as base.”

He exits looking... troubled while Lily just patted his back comfortingly.

Sirius ever dramatic goes next flinging the door open.

“You hide your hurt with jokes and flair but still wish someone really cared.”

He walks out looking to the floor whispering, “How dare you air my trauma in verse.”

Remus enters next but unlike the two before him he does so calmly.

“You carry guilt like second skin but never ask who lets you in. ”

Remus exits without a word. His ears are red.

Peter walks in chewing a biscuit and staring at the quill and scroll.

“You want to matter. Want to shine but please chase a light that isn’t mine.”

He walks out and lets his friends mumble encouraging words to him.

Other students tried too after that and one after the other stepped in.

A 6th Year Hufflepuff went in:

“You try so hard to please the crowd b ut never once have laughed out loud.”

She got out and cried while hugging a fourth-year and then proceeded to Hug a portrait.

Lucius pushed everyone to the side and strides in the closet like he owned the place.

“You wear ambition like a crown b ut hate yourself when no one’s ’round.”

Narcissa winced and took his hand when he got out. He denies it but he also avoided eye contact with his own reflection for the remaining.

A Ravenclaw from 5th Year walked in almost hesitant

“You speak in facts, you argue fate but secretly want just one date.”

She muttered something about astronomy and ran away.

After nearly half of the school gathered Professor McGonagall showed up and even braved the Closet

“You scold, you guide, you fear your tone but you love these chaos goblins like your own.”

She said nothing as she left but the next day, a glittery Teapot appeared at your dormitory door and it had all your names on them.

Later that night, you and Severus passed the closet again. The door hums, soft and knowing.

Neither of you enter but his hand softly grabs yours as you keep walking with soft matching smiles.

And inside the closet, the scroll writes one last oracle all on its own:

“He will leave every feeling in ink, Folded, unsent, on the edge of the brink. But love is patient, time will bend. It’s the letters that bring her back to him in the end."

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🕯️ Special Issue 🕯️

❝The Broom Closet Oracle❞

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THE CLOSET NOW TELLS PROPHECIES?!

It began with Cassie Fairweather looking for a place to kiss in peace. It ended with Hogwarts’ third floor broom closet humming, glowing and spitting out rhymed emotional destruction like a haunted poetry slam. Originally filled with nothing but dust and broken brooms, the mysterious closet has become sentient and brutally honest. Approach it, and it responds with rhyming insight into your greatest fears, hidden truths, or romantic regrets. First through the door? The iconic chaos coven of five: Cassie, Leona, Nyra, (Y/N), and Severus Snape.

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FAVORITE CLOSET ORACLES

(Y/N) (Y/L/N): “You like a boy who broods and sneers. He notices you. More than he appears. For your love will carry more than just this year.” Cassie Fairweather: “You flirt with flair, you strut and preen but fear your heart will cause a scene. For you won't find what you seek in kissing the freak.” Nyra Moonborn: “You act like chaos, blades, and shade but would burn down stars for those you’ve made. For you are the softest on the inside.” Severus Snape: “You scorn, you scoff, you brood but your favorite sound is when (Y/N)’s in a good mood. The hearts she draws upon her page have cursed your soul like ancient rage. For your written words will not go to waste.” Sirius Black: “You hide your hurt with jokes and flair but still wish someone really cared.” Peter Pettigrew: “You want to matter. Want to shine but please chase a light that isn’t mine.” Lucius Malfoy: “You wear ambition like a crown but hate yourself when no one’s ’round.” (ouch.) Ravenclaw, 5th Year: “You speak in facts, you argue fate but secretly want just one date.” Hufflepuff, 6th Year: “You try so hard to please the crowd but never once have laughed out loud.” (Quill Note: SEVERUS AND (Y/N) JUST KISS ALREADY! Please. Thank you.)

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WITNESS TESTIMONIES & REACTIONS

A sad Slytherin, 7th Year: "I went in for fun. It called me out for crying during a poetry reading. I blame the lighting." Tilda Vane (Gryffindor, 4th Year): "It said I flirt to deflect anxiety. I hugged the suit of armor after." Benji Corner (Ravenclaw, 3rd Year): "I tried to lie. The scroll said 'try again when you're brave enough.' I have never known such shame." Celeste Proudfoot (Hufflepuff, 5th Year): "It told me my dog has more self-worth than I do. I’m now in therapy with Professor Sprout."

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FACULTY SIGHTINGS & REACTIONS

Professor McGonagall: “You scold, you guide, you fear your tone but you love these chaos goblins like your own.” ➤ Status: Left a teapot outside the Glitter Snakes dorm with everyone’s names on it. Unspoken approval. She loves us. Professor Flitwick: “In all my years, I’ve never seen literature weaponized so efficiently.” ➤ Status: Took notes. Possibly inspired. Professor Sprout: “It told me to trust my instincts more. I gave it a flowerpot.” ➤ Status: Emotionally moved. Now speaks to the closet in the evenings.

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ANONYMOUS COMMON ROOM COMMENTS

broomclosetbeliever: "I watched Snape exit in silence after The scroll spoke love poetry about (Y/N). I nearly fainted." glittergossipwitch: "Leona fanned herself. Cassie screamed. Nyra looked like she saw Merlin. Iconic." maraudertrauma: "Sirius said 'how dare you air my trauma in verse' and honestly? Relatable." closetconfessor: "The scroll roasted me and my lineage in under 6 lines. I’ve never felt so seen and so attacked." dramawithabroom: "I heard the closet whisper a poem about Severus and (Y/N) While they held hands passing it. I want what they have." quietpoetwatching: "Not to start rumors but the closet is definitely shipping Severus and (Y/N). It rhymed their entire dynamic." (We agree) quillandchaos: "Cassie said she only wanted a place to snog. Instead she got a life evaluation in iambic pentameter." lemonpoems4life: "It smells like lemon drops and heartbreak. 10/10 would enter again."

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CLOSING REMARKS

The closet is no longer a closet. It is a mirror. A confessor. A scroll-borne seer. Its verses reveal truths none of us were prepared to hear. And for those brave (or foolish) enough to step inside may your rhymes be kind. If anyone sees what Severus and (Y/N) are up to... Whisper it to the portraits. The Whispering Quill wants to know. (We Ship it) may your truths stay spicy and your closets stay cursed. We'll be watching. we'll be listening. And we'll be writing. Until next time, dearest readers… We'll see you in the next scandal.

[indndwnshead]

Soulful Strangers: Part II - Strangers to..?

Pairing: Min Yoongi x (f) Reader

Genre/tags: Actors AU, Somewhat Canon Compliant, Stranger to Friends to Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn

Series summary:

It wasn't during your first encounter, nor the second or third. You've lost count of how many times your paths crossed before you truly got to know him. He was a rare soul, hiding his kindness and true emotions, revealing them only through his actions

In this (maybe low-key soulmate AU) story, follow Actress!Reader and Idol!Min Yoongi as their chance encounters gradually blossom into a deep and lasting connection. This is a slowish-burn journey from strangers to friends to lovers, as they bond over shared passions and kindness.

A/N: Wowness, I haven't been this eager to write new chapters for a long time. I'm done with the next one and halfway through the next one too😝 Let's be friends and stan Yoongi together on twitter @itsdndwn 💜💜

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Masterlist. Previous Chapter. Next Chapter.

Also read on: AO3

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2021

One random day in the middle of the year, you saw him again at a pet daycare in the heart of the city.

You were there to pick up your dog, Bagle, who had spent the day playing with his furry friends because you had a casting call. As you approached the reception, a familiar dog collar with its little charms caught your eye, adorning a tiny toy poodle. Memories of helping its owner in France years ago flashed before you. With a friendly smile, you couldn't resist walking over and stopping at a safe distance, intending to strike up a conversation with the man holding the dog's harness.

He wore a mask, as you and everyone else did, and a hat, doing a pretty good job at hiding his identity. Still, there was a touch of wariness in his eyes as you approached. It was understandable, given his status and the ongoing pandemic situation, but the centre was known for its discretion. They catered to many famous people and were recommended to him by one of his band members.

You surprised him by quickly bending down to the dog’s level and offering a warm greeting to the toy poodle instead.

"Bonjour, Holly! Je suis enchanté de faire ta connaissance!” you said in French, hoping it would jog the man’s memory somehow.

He observed you closely, his gaze shifting between Holly and Bagle, who sat obediently at your side, the end of his harness clutched in your hand. The man’s eyes lingered on the collar that adorned Bagle's neck, a piece of craftsmanship that you had thoughtfully created in France, a connection to a time when your paths had crossed.

Recognition slowly dawned on him, and he couldn't help but voice his realization, his words tinged with surprise and appreciation. "You helped me in France, with the collar tag," he said in Korean, a hint of a smile forming behind his mask.

Your smile widened as you acknowledged the shared memory. "Yes, I remember," you replied warmly. "It's nice to see you again, and Holly too."

Holly tentatively approached you, his small frame exuding caution. Sensing your friendliness, he finally rested his head on your open palm. A soft sigh of contentment escaped your lips as you welcomed his greeting.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence as you offered Holly soothing scratches behind his ears. When you finally looked up, you were surprised to find the man watching you, his gaze a mix of appreciation and curiosity.

Your voice, filled with genuine sincerity, broke the silence. "I'm really glad you get to spend more time with Holly."

He nodded in agreement, his eyes shifted to Holly, who was gradually warming up to your presence. "Yeah, it's only temporary, but it has been nice."

Bagle, sensing the friendly atmosphere, slowly approached the other dog. With cautious sniffs and tentative tail wags, they exchanged greetings, their body language a blend of curiosity and hesitancy. Despite Holly's initial shyness, the interaction between the dogs began to transform into a heartwarming introduction.

Sensing their eagerness to play, you suggested, "Maybe we should let them have some fun together?"

He agreed with a nod, a fond smile on his face. "That sounds like a great idea."

You both decided to detach the harnesses, allowing Holly and Bagle to roam freely and explore the play area together. Their tails wagged in synchrony as they trotted around, exploring every nook and cranny. Their playful antics filled the room with a sense of joy and companionship.

As Bagle and Holly continued to interact in the centre's play area, their enthusiasm became infectious. The shared warmth of the reunion and the playful antics of the dogs seemed to dissolve the initial awkwardness between you and the man. You both spoke vaguely about your respective lives, navigating the balance between privacy and casual conversation. The topic naturally shifted to the unexpected turns that life had taken since the onset of the pandemic.

Suddenly, he asked, "Sorry, it's getting a bit stuffy with this mask on. Do you mind if..." He reached for his mask, awaiting your consent.

You nodded in understanding and gestured for him to go ahead.

As he lowered his mask for a second to breathe more comfortably, you caught a glimpse of his face, and the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. The man in front of you was none other than Min Yoongi. You had seen his face all over the ads in the street and on your screens, watched videos of him performing with the rest of the group, and remembered meeting him and the band years ago.

Yet, here he was, in the pet daycare centre, looking just as ordinary as anyone else.

Your eyes widened, and you couldn't help but blurt out, "Wait, you're Min Yoongi? BTS?"

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Guilty as charged."

Your surprise grew, and you couldn't hide your amazement. "I can't believe I didn't recognize you. I mean, we even briefly met before France."

His eyebrows raised in intrigue. "We did?"

You nodded, a faint blush creeping onto your cheeks. "Yes, it was years ago, one of Wooshik's parties. I guess neither of us made a lasting impression."

Yoongi chuckled again, this time with a hint of self-deprecation. "I'm sorry about that. I meet a lot of people, and it's hard to remember everyone."

“No worries.” You smiled, not surprised that he might not remember your brief encounter. You told him your name for the second time. "I met Wooshik in Canada, on my uni exchange year," you added, just in case he wondered how you entered the actor's circle.

Understanding crossed his face, and he extended his hand for a friendly shake. "Nice to meet you again, officially this time."

You shook his hand, feeling a mixture of excitement and surprise. "Likewise, Min Yoongi."

The dogs continued their playful interactions and the conversation flowed naturally as you both exchanged stories and laughed about the twist of fate that brought you together once more, this time in a pet daycare centre.

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Interlude pt.2

Over the next few months, your occasional encounters with Yoongi at the pet daycare became less frequent. It seemed that your schedules no longer aligned as they once had. Both of you were caught up in the whirlwind of your increasingly busy work lives as restrictions wanes over. The pet daycare, which had once served as an unexpected meeting place, gradually faded into memory, and you found yourselves navigating the bustling streets of Seoul separately, each chasing your dreams and aspirations.

In June 2022, the news of BTS's "hiatus" echoed like distant thunder in the bustling streets of Seoul and reverberated throughout the world. It wasn't a topic you actively discussed with your friends or colleagues, but it was hard to escape the whispers that occasionally brushed past your ears and the headlines that popped up all over your social media timeline. The world seemed to buzz with curiosity about what lay ahead for the global phenomenon that was BTS.

Whenever the topic came up, you couldn't help but wonder about the one particular member whom you had built a special connection with – Min Yoongi.

It had been a long while since you'd seen him in person. Life had taken its course, and with your finished shooting schedule, you no longer required the services of a pet daycare centre. Yoongi had long resumed his idol activities, gaining even more prominence as a member of BTS.

As the news of BTS's hiatus filled the airwaves and online spaces, you found your thoughts drifting to Yoongi. You pondered how he was faring amid the changes and the new solo projects that were undoubtedly in the works. You knew that he had opened his personal Instagram account at the end of 2021, but the thought of reaching out to him always seemed to hover on the periphery of your mind.

However, you hesitated, unsure of whether it was appropriate or if he even remembered you this time. After all, your encounters had been chance meetings, momentary intersections of two separate lives in the bustling city. The idea of reconnecting with him remained an unspoken question, waiting for the right moment to be answered.