#it always had to do with the dreams we knew there was something doing on there and it was some type of mental signet she had

[siri-ike]

(This got a little long)

Danny quieted down when he realized he wasn't in any danger. He stumbled out of bed, his legs were numb and wobbly, and everything looked out of focus. He grabbed onto the window sill to stay standing, but he just couldn't.

Suddenly, someone wearing white burst into the room. He couldn't tell who it was, or even if he knew them. It didn't help that he couldn't seem to keep his head still. The figure rushed toward him, and he flinched.

"It's ok, you're in the hospital. My name is Katie, I'm a nurse here. I can help." The woman had a Midwestern accent. She slowly stroked his sholder and held his cheek until he caught his breath and stopped shaking.

He sniffled as his vision slowly faded into focus. Katie was holding his head still. It really helped. He let his shoulders relax. "There was- th was a woman, she, she threw me into the water. And, and, and-"

"Vivid dreams are normal. But you're safe now. How about we get you back in bed? You can tell me everything you saw while we wait for Doctor Benton to get here." Katie helped him up and onto the bed. She held out his arm and reached for a butterfly needle hanging from an IV bag.

"What's that?" He asked diffencively, pulling his hand away.

"It's just some IV fluids. Saline, B vitamins, electrolytes, a little glucose." She listed reassuringly, but Danny didn't give her his arm. She smiled and put the needle down. "It can wait. Do you still want to tell me about your dream?"

He looked at her full of questions, but he did want to tell someone about what he saw. The problem is; how much does she know? He probably can't tell her about being Robin or the League of Assassins. Whether he's here as Jason Todd Wayne or Jon Doe. To them, he should have no reason to know about that. "How, long- ha-has it been." He stuttered. He never had a stutter before. Could it have been caused by the explosion?... wait. There was an explosion. How is he in one piece? He looked at his arms and lifted up his pant legs. Everything was still intact. Aside from some fading lichtenberg scars on his hands, he was fine.

"Six months." She took his hands in hers. "The scars will heal in due time. But until then, you'll certainly have the coolest thing to show off at school." She grinned like they were planning a prank together or something. "Now, how about telling me about your nightmare?"

Jason picked at the inner corners of his eyes and wiped the clumps on his soft pajama shirt. "I was -, arguing with my dad. About - something. He sent me to my room. But I didn't listen. And this guy, I never learned his name, he hit me. Over and over. Then I was alone, and I died... after that, this woman, she's always flirting with my dad, took me to her home, and threw me in the water." He wanted to say more. But how? Even if he told these things to a therapist, they would be obligated by law to report to the police.

"Sweety. Do you want to see your dad? Your family's been over a lot. I'm sure they'll drop everything when we call them."

"Drop everything," ha. Bruce probably "dropped" the joker after what he did. But it would be nice to see him. Even if the last time they spoke wasn't on the best of terms. "Thanks."

"Ahem," a woman in a labcoat cleared her throat in the doorway. She probably didn't wanna startle them.

"Doctor Benton. Danny, she's just going to give you a checkup. I can go call your parents, so they'll be here when you're done."

Danny? Why would she call him Danny? And parents? Plural? Has Jason been confused for someone else? Come on, this isn't like mixing up newborn babies. He's 15. Plus, he had to have been flown in from Ethiopia. And how would Bruce not have noticed? Is some other boy living at the manor pretending to be him?

Katie affectionately touched Dr. Bentons upper arm. "Speech, reflexes, and attention, normal. Temperature, low. Breathing patern, stable. His IV and catheter fell out again." She was testing him? The whole time? He couldn't even be mad. That was pretty impressive.

"Now then, Danny. I have a few simple tests here. Most people in your position need to relearn some skills, and these will help us figure out which ones." Dr Benton pulled out a table and placed a note card and several colored pens on it. "I would like you to draw a clock that reads ten thirty, a green square with an orange letter G in it, and write your name."

OK, so a memory test and a dexterity test in one. Danny picked up the red pen. With a shaky hand, he drew a circular clock, one hand down, one up, and to the left. He picked up the orange pen and wrote the letter G, then drew a green square around it and filled it in. He hastily wrote his signature and handed the card over.

Sure, the lines were unsteady, and he didn't put any numbers on the clock, but he's still going to get a good grade in waking up from a coma. "What's next?" He eyed the folder Dr Benton held.

She placed a sheet of paper with a few simple math problems and shapes with the names of colors written under them.

The tests must have lasted at least 20 to 30 minutes. By the end, his handwriting didn't look half bad anymore.

There was a bit of ruckus in the hallway that seemed to put Dr Benton in a bit of a rush. Who could blame her? There was a guy yelling and clearly getting closer. Working in a hospital probably means dealing with a lot of people like that. Danny was just going to ignore it and hoped they weren't headed to a nearby room. But then.

"DANNO!"

The guy came into his room. He was huge, loud, and worst of all. He was holding Jason in a bear hug. Two women walked in behind him. One of them was all too eager to leave lipstic marks all over his face, but the younger one, the red head, stood back and scolded the large man for making such a ruckus in a hospital.

Who are these people? How are they not noticing that the person they are talking to is someone else? Does Jason have a doppelganger? Or better yet, a clone. He's overdue to be cloned. Hmm. But then, wouldn't it be the other way around?

"Dad! Would you put Danny down. He could have had serious mental regression or new sensitivities. You didn't even ask him how he's doing. Or if he remembers who you are." The girl was right. All of this was a lot so soon.

"Nonsense, Jazzy pants." The guy ruffled Jasons hair. "You remember who we are, right?"

They're probably civilians. If Jason was switched with someone, chances are these people are obvious to it. "You're... my family." Keep it vague. Don't wanna make too many assumptions.

Something about his dismissal made Jason feel uneasy. It was so fast. He expected to stay another night, or at least have more tests run. They just handed him his hoodie and practically dragged him out the door. He was already in a car less than an hour after waking up. The receptionist seemed so relieved. Most of the staff seemed relieved.

Is he actually ok to go?! Does anyone care?

The car was weird, too. It was full of add-ons like the batmobile, but nowhere near as sleek and clean. At least the driving was eaqualy reckless. Although they weren't chasing anyone.

"Danny... Danny." The girl spoke to him.

Oh, right, he's Danny. "Yes?" He rubbed his eyes to sell it. Gotta keep those expectations low.

"Are you alright? How are you feeling?"

"Uhm, I guess I'm kinda hungry. And stiff."

"I mean, emotionally, how are you feeling?"

Emotionally? He literally just woke up. He's supposed to have feelings this early. Let a guy shake off the rigormortis, whatever your name is. "I... don't know." Maybe he can use this to his advantage. "Did anything happen while I was asleep?"

There was a record scratch, somehow, and everything went silent.

"Honey," the woman in the front seat spoke up. "Maybe it would be best to have this conversation when we get home." She had a slight Midwestern accent. Just like Katie. Are they in the Midwest?

"Why? Did you get divorced or something? I'm not dead."

And there was the awkward silence again.

Crap, bad joke, bad joke. That was a full-on Jason response. Danny might have a completely different sense of humor.

This time, the silence lasted until they got home. He awkwardly shoved his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and felt a folded up piece of paper inside.

They still didn't say anything when they got home. He didn't get punished for joking about death, at least. That was a nice touch. But it was weird that they all went in different directions. The two adults ran straight to the basement, yelling something about "overheating" and "GHOSTS!". And the red head went for the stairs before Jason stopped her.

"Could you help me? Dr. Benton said I shouldn't cook anything unsupervised."

She looked surprised at the request. It's not like he wants to have someone cook for him. It was literally doctors' orders.

"I'm not supposed to be around sharp knives of fire." He justified.

"Oh, I read about that. Some people can be self-destructive after waking up from a long coma. Often, they are trying to test if they're still dreaming." She sounded too excited about his potentially dangerous mental state.

While... crap, gotta find out their names. She cut up some vegetables and left him to assemble a sandwich. That sure was quick. Usually, he would have had to sit through endless conversation just to eat something. This gave him time to snoop.

The sandwich was amazing. It was like eating something for the first time in months. When he was done, he remembered the note. He pulled it out of his pocket, and, ok, Jason swears he is a good reader. Why are only some of the letters making words?

He powered through and eventually managed to decipher the letter.

Dear Mr. Fenton

It is important that you continue your brain exercises. You may also experience some decline in fine motor skills. Below is a list of activities that can speed up recovery.

Reading, puzzles, writing, drawing.

-Nurse Katie

She must have slipped it in before she left. Would it still be developmentally appropriate to have a crush on his nurse? She seemed to be in her late 20s to early 30s... "we could make it work." Jason nodded delusionaly.

*bdrrrrr*

The doorbell cought Jason off guard. He answered it and saw two teenagers, the same age as him. One male, African American, red barrette, yellow t-shirt. Height 5"4, teal eyes. The other female, Caucasian, black clothes, black hair. Height 5"6', violet eyes. Their facial expressions suggested they were friends, but of course, Jason didn't know them.

"Danny!" They cheered in unison.

"We came as soon as we heard."

"Are you ok?"

"Sam was so worried about you." The boy mocked, only to get jabbed in the abdomen.

"I'm fine." This "danny" sure has a lot of people to keep track of. Why couldn't Jason have been switched with some loner?

They both stared at him for a moment. "Can we come in?"

Jason looked back inside. Put on a show for five people, or for two people? "Uhm, let's go somewhere else." He practically shoved himself outside.

They looked at each other, and it was clear they were avoiding saying something.

Jason couldn't risk choosing where to go, so he let them pick. He wasn't really sure what he expected, what with the lack of third places in American cities now a days. But a science museum? He would have preferred a library, but he could still read here.

"What should we look at first?"

"Your choice. This place has gotten three new exhibits. There's a brain maze-"

"A human skeleton-"

"And they added a thing that you can stand on, and it zaps you."

They looked at each other in silence.

"We can ignore that one." They seemed to agree.

"Why? I wanna get zapped. Which way?" Jason grabbed a map at the front desk while the girl paid for 3 passes. "The brain is closer. Let's start there." He looked back at the others. "Bet I could get through faster than you." He grinned and dashed through the hall.

Jason stopped in front of the big plastic brain. He expected the others to run after him, but they were far behind. He had to take his shoes off in order to enter the structure. It's kind of like those indoor playgrounds. Except way bigger.

Despite all the big talk, Jason ended up wandering into every dead end in order to find all the fun facts. Each one came with a small stamp on the arm, and if you find all of them, you get a sticker.

On the way out, Jason spotted the two teens he came here with. They didn't even go inside. He can't beat them if they don't even play. The brain has no pain receptors!" He shouted to them as an employee put a sticker on his hoodie. It was a brain wearing pants with the words "Smarty Pants" written under it.

"I know you didn't go in, but I'm still counting this victory. I win." Jason showed off his sticker with that sassy little smile. You know the one.

Their supportive smiles looked fake. Jason could tell they were hiding something. He didn't even need to look for micro-expressions. These people were terrible liars. Finally, he snapped. "What's wrong? You two have been acting like you covered up a murder or something."

Mini Prompt: Death Runs in the Family

Danny and Jason are twins separated at birth. When they were born Danny was very sick and it didn’t look good for him from the start. As a final act of love or malice Sheila abandoned Danny at the hospital–making sure that there is nothing connecting him to her–leaving him to whatever fate desired for the small boy.

On the other hand she took Jason with her who then ended up being raised by Willis and Catherine. With them being completely unaware that Jason has a twin brother.

Jason’s life continues on as normal with him eventually being found, adopted, and becoming Robin. He dies at 15 in Ethiopia with his bio-mom never knowing about his brother. He comes back

Meanwhile Danny gets better and is later on adopted by the Fenton’s. Living in a crazy ghost-invested town. His parents build the portal in the basement, and at 15 dies with a press of a button. He comes back.

What no one knows though is that both meet their fate at the same time. A portal opening and a bomb going off. The two become twins in life and in death.

[rositaslabyrinth]

Don’t open that drawer - Dean W

Dean x fem!reader

While patching yourself up after a rough hunt, you find yourself in Dean’s room late at night—only to discover a drawer he forgot to close.

Content warning ; canon typical violence, emotional vulnerability, smut, oral (f!receiving) but nothing to crazy, dean being a sweet coward <33

Word count ; 1,511

Minors please do not interact !!

You never meant to find them.

It was late—past midnight—and the Bunker was unusually quiet. Sam had already gone to bed, the echoes of his footsteps fading down the hall hours ago. You’d stayed up patching your jacket, a fresh tear sliced through the arm from the hunt earlier that day. Dean had said he’d help, but he never came back from the garage.

You figured he was brooding. He did that, after a close call. And tonight had been closer than usual.

The kitchen light flickered as you passed, mug in hand. You made your way to Dean’s room instead—mostly because it was closer than yours, and partly because you were tired of pretending that wasn’t a habit.

He always left the door unlocked.

The room smelled like him—leather, old cologne, whiskey, something earthy underneath. You set your mug on his nightstand and dropped into the chair by his desk, rubbing your sore arm. His flannel was slung over the back of it. You pulled it on without thinking.

That’s when you noticed the drawer.

The bottom right. Slightly ajar. Not enough to catch the eye unless you were sitting this close.

You didn’t mean to open it.

But there was a curl of paper sticking out.

At first you thought it was one of his old case notes, shoved out of sight. But the handwriting was neater. More intentional. And then you saw your name.

Your name. On the top of the page. Centered. Underlined.

Your chest tightened. You knew you should stop. But your fingers moved on their own.

“You had blood on your cheek tonight. You didn’t even notice. I wanted to wipe it off, but I didn’t. I just watched you laugh with Sam like we hadn’t almost died. I think that’s what kills me. That after everything, you still know how to laugh. You make the worst parts of this job feel less like hell. And God, I want to tell you that. But I never do. So I’m writing it down, instead.”

Your hands trembled. You unfolded another.

“I had a dream about you. You were wearing one of my shirts, standing in the library. You didn’t say anything. You just looked at me like you already knew. And for once, I didn’t feel like running.”

There were more. Dozens. Some torn out of notebooks, some written on scraps of diner napkins, lined legal pads, the backs of maps. Your name on every single one.

And they weren’t just sweet, or romantic. Some were angry. Frustrated. Devastated.

You walked into the room today and smiled at me like I was someone worth loving.

“I don’t know what the hell I did to deserve that, but I know I’ll never be brave enough to say what I should. So this’ll sit in a drawer. Just like the others.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until a drop hit the page.

“Hey.”

You jumped, heart thudding. You hadn’t heard the door.

Dean stood in the doorway, keys in hand, jaw clenched, green eyes locked on the drawer you’d pulled open.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t rush to snatch the papers away.

He just said, quietly, “You weren’t supposed to read those.”

“I know,” you said. Your voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I saw my name.”

Dean stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind him. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he leaned back against it like he needed something to hold him up.

“I wrote them when I couldn’t say it out loud,” he admitted. “Didn’t think anyone would ever see them. Especially not you.”

“Why not?”

He looked down. “Because if you knew how long I’ve felt this way, you’d either hate me for keeping it quiet or pity me for being too much of a coward to do anything about it.”

You stood, slowly, letter still in your hand.

“You’re not a coward.”

Dean gave a soft, broken laugh. “You don’t know how many times I almost told you. How many nights I sat right there—” he nodded toward the desk—“and thought about knocking on your door. But I’d look at you the next day, and you’d smile, and I’d think… if I tell her, she might stop smiling at me like that.”

Your chest ached.

You crossed the room and stopped in front of him. The silence was thick—too full of everything unsaid.

“I never would’ve stopped,” you whispered. “Not ever.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And all the years of buried emotion hit the surface like a storm breaching a dam.

“God, I’m in love with you,” he said. “I’ve been in love with you since you walked into that diner in Nevada with a busted lip and a silver blade and said, ‘You boys need backup?’”

You smiled through the tears. “I remember that. You said, ‘Only if you’ve got whiskey.’”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You had some in your boot.”

“And you smiled at me like you hadn’t done that in years.”

Dean stared at you. “Because I hadn’t.”

You reached for his hand, gently, lacing your fingers with his. “Then stop writing me letters you’ll never send.”

He squeezed your hand like he never wanted to let go. “Can I kiss you now?”

“You’d better.”

When Dean kissed you this time, it wasn’t restrained. It was everything. The hesitation was gone, stripped away by years of closeness, tension, aching want, and love too long buried. It was the kiss of a man who had written you into the quiet spaces of his life, who had bled feelings onto paper because his mouth had failed him too many times.

His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing tears you didn’t remember falling. You melted into him, fingers fisting into the front of his henley like your body finally recognized where it was meant to belong.

The kiss deepened — slow, hot, careful, then not-so-careful.

Dean pulled you flush against him, one hand sliding down to rest at your waist, gripping tight like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You let out a soft, shaky sound into his mouth — something between a gasp and a whimper — and felt his whole body tense in response.

He pulled back just enough to search your face. “Tell me if this is too fast. I mean it.”

“It’s not,” you said. “Dean… I’ve wanted this for so long.”

His expression softened. “Me too.”

He kissed you again — more urgent now, more certain — and walked you back toward the bed. His hands were everywhere, warm and calloused, reverent as they slipped beneath your shirt, memorizing the feel of you like he’d dreamed it more times than he could count.

When your shirt came off, he stared like you were sacred.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

Your hands trembled when you pulled his shirt over his head. The soft light of the bunker caught the scar across his collarbone, the curve of muscle, the slight freckle near his ribs you’d noticed years ago and never forgotten.

You touched him like the letters — slow and sure and aching. He groaned low in his throat when your palms slid across his chest.

“Lie back,” he said, voice thick. “Let me take care of you.”

You did.

Dean kissed every inch of skin he uncovered — from your collarbone to your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs. His hands gripped you like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go. He kissed like he was still writing to you, but now with his mouth and body — all the things he couldn’t say poured out in sighs and touches.

When his mouth found the place between your legs, you gasped — arching into him, fingers buried in his hair.

“Dean—”

He groaned against you like your voice undid him.

You tried to speak — to tell him how good it felt, how long you’d dreamed about this — but your words fell apart under the heat of his tongue and the rhythm he set. Slow. Devoted. The kind of touch that said I’ve thought about this a hundred different ways, but nothing compares to the real thing.

When you came, it was with a cry of his name, your thighs trembling around his shoulders, your whole body curling in on itself.

He kissed your inner thigh, then crawled back up your body and kissed your lips like he wanted to taste the sound you’d just made.

“Still with me?” he asked, eyes full of warmth and wonder.

You nodded, dazed and smiling. “Still here.”

“Good.” He kissed your forehead. “Because I’m not done.”

Later, when he finally wrapped you in his arms on that old mattress, the letters still sat on the desk. Open. Read. Finally seen.

“I was gonna burn them one day,” he murmured into your hair.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “They’re part of us now.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“I don’t need the drawer anymore.”

Liz talks : GUESS WHOS BACK!! HEYYY did you miss me cause i missed all of you <33 I am so sorry about being away for so long but this app was lowkey draining me, but we should be all good now !! I hope you all enjoy this sweet little thing :))

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[twlgholts]

always kind of was, j.b.

chapter nine, things you don’t say

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: holy long chapter its like double the length of other ones oops! but we almost done so stay tuned…

taglist: @asillysimp @grimlinn @eneywey @shinobuily @ravisinghs-wife @mjustag1rl @mae-gi-writes @agustdeeyaa @itsfromaboyband-blog

prev. series masterlist! next.

Death is imminent. Most don’t get the luxury of reaching the end of their life naturally–peacefully. Most don’t die knowing their life was well-lived, well-loved.

You, however, were going to take that luxury away from Jacob Black.

Thirty-five hours, forty-two minutes, eight seconds. That’s how long it had been since you last saw him, since that night. You hadn’t texted, but neither had he.

To be fair, he knew you needed more space than he did. Jacob always seemed to know that about you–how when your emotions boiled over, you needed quiet. Stillness. Time alone to cool off so you could speak your mind without every word carrying too much heat, especially ones you didn’t mean.

And he was right.

Which only pissed you off more.

Because if he understood you that well–understood what you needed, how you worked, how you shut down–then why did he keep you under the dark, like you hadn’t spent your entire lives knowing each other inside-out?

He knew you wouldn’t reach out first. You weren’t the kind of person who broke the silence until you were ready, and he knew that. You knew that he knew that. Which made it all worse because even if he knew you needed space, even if he understood it down to a science, a part of you still wished he’d done the opposite anyway. You wanted him to prove you wrong, to show up at your doorstep soaked and breathless and say, screw space, I care too much to stay away.

But he didn’t.

And maybe there was no right move he could’ve made. Maybe there was no winning. Maybe this whole situation was designed to screw you both up.

When Jacob felt things, he felt them with everything in him. He was stubborn. He loved hard and fast, but he always, always, put others before himself. That’s why it felt natural for him to throw his life into danger without blinking–because protecting Forks from real monsters gave him purpose. It distracted him from thinking too hard about stuff that really scared him.

Like feelings.

Like you.

Everything had happened too fast. The shifting, the imprinting, the supernatural chaos. One second he was just a kid worrying about homework, dreaming about a girl who moved away. The next, he had fur, paws, responsibilities, and a cosmic bond telling him the person who kept him grounded was now the axis his entire universe spun around.

You didn’t do anything wrong and it wasn’t something you said. You just existed, and somehow your existence alone became the thing Jacob needed to survive.

When you left, he told himself the crush would die quietly. And it did–kind of. It fizzled out, but not really. Never really. He buried it, shoved it down with both hands, and then you came back and suddenly it was like he didn’t need air, or food, or sleep. Just you.

You being near him rewired everything. The progress he’d made–the person he was trying to become–froze. Halted like his growth hit a red light and never got the green again.

He never wanted to hurt you. Not ever. He wanted to do the opposite, to protect you and preserve your peace by keeping you from the heavy, tangled mess of what he was now. The last thing he wanted was to trap you in something you never asked for.

And the worst part? He knew you’d understand because you always did. You’d listen and nod and hold space for him the way no one else could.

That made it scarier.

Because if you understood, then it’d be real. It would mean accepting what he was, what you were to him, and what that might do to you.

Not seeing you sucked. But knowing you were hurting because of him? That made his skin crawl, his chest ache. He could feel it–literally–because of the damn imprint, the cosmic tie that tethered his every heartbeat to yours.

And lately, with patrols getting more intense, with rogue vampires creeping through the tree line again, Jacob’s already limited time had shrunk even more. Which meant pushing you further out. Which meant more guilt. More regret. More thoughts circling like vultures.

And everyone noticed.

“You look like crap,” Embry told him one afternoon, smirking around a half-eaten granola bar as Jacob slouched deeper into the worn couch in Emily’s living room.

Jacob didn’t bother answering. His arms were crossed, hair a mess, dark circles etched under his eyes like bruises.

Quil threw down a reverse card during their lazy Uno game and raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, man. You’re gonna implode. Or imprint-sulk yourself into an aneurysm.”

“I’m fine,” Jacob muttered.

“Liar,” Embry replied immediately, not even looking up from his cards.

“You’re not sleeping. You’re screwing up on patrols. You let a tree root punk you last night. A root, Jake.” Quil gestured toward the bandage around Jacob’s thumb. “That’s embarrassing for all of us.”

Jacob sighed through his nose. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a pause.

Then Quil leaned back and said, “Look. I’m saying this because I love you, bro. But you’re being a total idiot. A certified, capital ‘I’ idiot. You know it. We know it. Probably even the trees know it at this point.”

“Great pep talk,” Jacob replied, sarcastic.

“I’m not done,” Quil said. “You don’t even have to tell her the wolf stuff yet. Honestly, I wouldn’t. She’s already trying to figure out why you’re acting like this moody-loner-slash protector hybrid. You’re already giving off major Angel-from-Buffy vibes. Don’t make it worse by dumping a werewolf-shaped bomb on her.”

Embry snorted. “For real. If you disappear dramatically one more time, she’s gonna start journaling about you in cursive.”

Jacob cracked a reluctant smile but didn’t say anything. Then, without looking up, he tossed his last card onto the pile. “Uno out.”

Quil blinked. “Wait–seriously?”

Jacob just leaned back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling, eyes dull. “Doesn’t mean I’m winning at life.”

Embry let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was darker than expected.”

“Talk to her,” Quil said again, more serious now. “You don’t have to say everything, just something. Something real, honest, because not saying anything? That’s what’s killing you.”

Jacob was sad, but so were you. 

Not just sad. Confused. Conflicted. Hurt. Stuck somewhere between rage and ache and it all sat heavy in your chest like a weight you couldn’t breathe under.

You were drinking a glass of orange juice and staring at the fridge like it had answers. Maybe if you looked hard enough, the swirling storm inside your brain might settle.

“You’re looking at the fridge like red laser beams are gonna shoot out of your eyes and evaporate it,” your dad said, stepping into the kitchen with that familiar dry tone, breaking the silence like a crack of thunder. He clocked your slumped posture and pinched brows instantly.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Practicing for my victim.”

He walked over and rubbed your shoulders, then kissed the side of your head in that comforting, fatherly way he always did. “Black? Don’t do that to my boy.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m just so annoyed. Like why is he acting like a freak and being so secretive? I’m not asking for the government’s confidential top-secrets. I just want him to be honest.”

“I was just like him,” your dad says, smiling as he opened the cabinet and pulled out a mug. “Young. Rebellious. Mysterious. It didn’t help when I fell in love.”

You raised a brow and perched up a little, staring at him like he’d said something criminal. “With Mom? You? Mysterious?”

He smiles with pride written all over his face.

“Mom said you used to call her five times a day and show up to her work ‘accidentally’ like, three times a week.”

He nodded solemnly. “That was me being mysterious.”

You laughed, for real this time.

“I once tried to impress her by dancing backwards down the hallway in rollerblades while holding a boombox in high school. Hit a locker, flipped over, broke my wrist, passed out, hospitalized. She was sitting next to me when I woke up. That’s when I knew she was the one.”

You blinked. “You never told me that version.”

“Because I looked like an idiot,” he replied, sipping his coffee. “But an idiot in love.”

“So what’s that got to do with Jacob acting like an emotionally repressed cryptid?”

He chuckled, deep and loud from his belly. “Everything. You kids think love is clean. It’s not. Sometimes it’s stupid and messy and makes you act like a weirdo who stares at a fridge. But if you don’t deal with it head-on, it eats you alive.”

You stared into your juice, feeling heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“Just… don’t wait too long,” he advises, heading for the hallway. “I’d like a warm thank you in your wedding speech, not a cold one on your deathbed. Go talk to him before your temper rips him apart.”

Your dad disappears down the hallway, leaving behind the faint scent of coffee. You take another sip of your orange juice and just sit there, watching the condensation slide down the glass, listening to the silence settle in the house like fog. Your thoughts churn quietly beneath the surface–heavy, sharp, loud, impossible to name. You look down at your hands and they’re still, but everything inside you is not.

You don’t know how much time passes. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe an hour. But eventually, after thirty-seven hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-six seconds of silence and distance, you throw on (his) hoodie, grab your keys, and drive.

The road is muscle memory. You’ve taken this route so many times, it’s etched into your bones. You pass the place where Jacob taught you how to skate, where he pushed you too fast down a hill and nearly gave you a concussion. Where he laughed so hard he fell over with you.

Eventually, you’re on the reservation, the ocean wind shifting in through the cracked window, and the ache in your chest building like pressure before a storm.

You park in front of a small, red wooden house that always looked too much like a barn. A little weathered by time, but standing.

You barely knock before the door opens.

Jacob looks tired, his hair messy like he had just woken up, his chest rising and falling concerningly fast. He looks at you like he wasn’t expecting you but was hoping you’d come anyway. But you don’t give him a chance to speak.

You step forward and just let it all out.

“Do you know how much it hurt not knowing what the hell was going on with you? I felt like I was screaming into a void and you just stood there watching. Do you know what it feels like to have someone look at you like you’re everything one second and then like you’re a stranger the next? Like they’re holding behind some thick wall and you’re not allowed through, no matter how hard you pound on it?”

You don’t even notice your hands are shaking until you grab at the sleeves of the hoodie.

“I came here thinking things would be different–or maybe just the same in the ways that mattered. But you’re not talking to me, Jacob. Not really. You show up, you bail, you look at me like I’m the answer to a question you won’t even ask. And I’m trying. God, I’m trying to be patient and soft and understanding, but I’m not a mind reader. I don’t want to be. I want you to trust me enough to say something. Anything.”

He’s still. Watching you. Breathing heavy.

You keep going, voice cracking just slightly now.

“Because this isn’t fair. I know you’re going through something, I see it. But it feels like you’re grieving something I don’t even know about, like there’s this shadow over you and you won’t let me near it. You shut me out and I feel like I’m just waiting for the version of you I used to know to come back. But maybe that version is gone. And if he is, at least say that. Is that too much to ask for? Too selfish?”

There’s a moment of silence. He doesn’t move.

Then he steps aside and lets you in.

You follow him into the warmth of the house, your heartbeat still thudding, your throat dry. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a long breath before finally looking at you again.

“I can’t tell you,” he says, voice low but steady. “And before you get mad again–just listen. I want to be honest with you, more than anything, but there’s this part of me I didn’t ask for. Something that’s not entirely mine to explain. And I don’t even understand it yet.”

He swallows, his eyes are shining too, but he blinks quickly.

“It’s been eating me alive since before you came back. Every time I look at you, there’s this war inside me wanting to protect you and wanting to keep you as far from me as possible, and I don’t know how to handle that. I don’t even fully know what I am right now, let alone how to share that with someone else.”

He finally steps closer. “And I know you’re hurt. I hate myself for hurting you, but I’m hurting too, and I don’t have the words or the tools to fix this yet. I just need more time. I promise I’ll tell you–everything. But right now, if I did, I’d only be handing you a burden that I’m still trying to carry myself and I can’t do that to you.”

You breathe in slowly, heart thudding against you ribs.

“Nothing about you is a burden to me, Jacob,” you whisper. “I love and care about every inch of your soul. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he says quietly, “And that’s what terrifies me. Why do you seem to love and understand me more than I do myself? Just let me figure this out first. Let me become the person who deserves that kind of love. Then I’ll tell you. I swear.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then you nod once, slow.

“Okay, I trust you. Don’t go breaking it, Jake.”

“I won’t,” he replies almost immediately. “I swear I won’t.”

“You’re not kicking me out now, are you?” you ask, voice soft.

“No,” he says, voice low, like the word had been waiting in his chest this whole time. “Stay. Please. Stay.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it–not desperate, exactly. Just sincere, like he’s finally admitting that he needs something.

You stop, half-turned toward the door, and look at him.

“Okay,” you say softly.

You drop your keys on the table, toe off your shoes, and glance around the room like it’s unfamiliar, even though you’ve been here a hundred times before. Everything feels a little warped, like the air’s heavier now, slower. Jacob stays quiet, eyes following you with that same unreadable look. Part guilt. Part relief. Mostly something deeper–something wounded and tender.

You shift your weight, then glance down at your phone. “Crap. I forgot my charger.”

His voice is steadier now, a little warmer. “Top drawer on my desk. Might still be that old one you left.”

You nod, grateful for something simple, and head toward his room.

His room smells like him–that mix of pine and clean laundry and something warm you can’t quite name. Possibly familiarity. You flick on the light and go to the desk.

You open the drawer and pause.

The overhead light flickers softly, catching on the edge of something crinkled and colorful nestled between loose batteries and old screws.

Starburst wrappers.

Dozens of them.

Some smoothed flat, others crumpled into little cubes like they’d been stuffed into a pocket in a hurry. Pink, orange, red–every color, every flavor. You pick one up, your fingers still recognizing the texture, the weight of it. A soft breath escapes you before you can help it.

Jacob’s voice floats in from the hallway. “You find it?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still staring into the drawer, holding a piece of your shared history between your fingers.

He steps into his room. “Hey, you okay?”

You hold up the wrapper without turning around. “You kept these?”

A pause. You can feel him stop in the doorway behind you.

Then, quieter: “What do you mean?”

You look back at him, your expression a mixture of incredulous and something tender. You shift back slightly so he can see inside the drawer. His eyes land on it–on the sea of familiar colors–and something in his face changes. Softens.

He walks forward slowly. “I forgot I still had those.”

You raise a brow. “Did you, though?”

Jacob scratches the back of his neck again, half a smile playing at his lips. “Okay. Maybe I knew. But only because I never wanted to throw them out.”

You turn toward him, arms folded loosely, a pink wrapper still in your hand. “Why?”

He looks down at the drawer, then back up at you with a sort of quiet vulnerability. “Because they were yours. Ours. I don’t know. I guess… I held onto them because they reminded me of a time when things made sense. When getting a kiss from you only cost a few pieces of candy.”

You scoff lightly. “You were constantly broke.”

“I know.” He smiles. “But you still patched me up anyway. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You shake your head, stepping closer. “You’re such a sentimental idiot.”

“I’m aware.”

He meets your eyes, and something heavier settles between you. A beat of silence. A shared knowing. You search his face for something—an answer, maybe. Or a reason why you’re still here, why your heart still aches when it comes to him.

“I missed this,” you say, your voice quieter now. “Us. Before everything got complicated. But I’m glad we talked.”

Jacob nods, almost solemn. “Me too.”

You inhale slowly, chest tight with the things you haven’t said. Then he reaches out and pulls you in gently, his arms wrapping around your waist like they were made to. You fold into him without resistance. The hug is soft at first, then stronger. He tucks his chin over your shoulder, and you stay that way–for a long, quiet moment. No words. Just breath, warmth, and the ache of being known too well.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands are still resting on your arms. “Let me make everything up to you.”

You tilt your head, suspicious. “How?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, but certain. “Be free at six.”

You blink. “You’re giving me a time but not a plan? Again?”

His smile tugs to the side, sheepish. “I swear I won’t drag you hiking this time. Not without warning or verbal consent, at least.”

“Hmm,” you pretend to mull it over. “But I’m expecting, like, a five-course apology.”

He raises a brow. “You’re getting a pack of Starbursts and my sparkling company. Anyone else would be fighting for that.”

You snort, despite yourself. “Modest, aren’t we?”

“I’ve been told it’s one of my more annoying qualities.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile’s already taken over. “Guess I’ll allow it.”

He leans in a little, playful but tentative. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, softer now. “I’ll be there.”

He grins. “I’ll take what I can get.”

There’s a beat. Just the quiet hum of the room and the distance between you shrinking a little more.

You tilt your head. “We’re okay?”

Jacob meets your gaze, steady and warm. “We’re okay if you’re okay.”

You nod, voice just above a whisper. “Then we’re okay.”

And you don’t need to say anything else. Because right now, in his hoodie, in his room, in this moment—you are.

[theprettynosferatu]

I Have Lost My Goddamn Mind

Or

The Dreaded Belle Delphine Post

Part the First: A Most Unnecessary Introduction

I cannot explain why, exactly, I started thinking about Belle Delphine. It's not lust, and it's not outrage I feel, nor is it some strange longing. If anything, what I feel is more akin to professional admiration.

Many did it before her, and many will do it after. But I struggle to imagine someone doing it smarter than her.

You know her, even if only as a half-forgotten tidbit about "that girl that sold her bathwater". But her influence cannot be denied. She emerged almost fully formed as the platonic ideal of the "egirl"; so much so that it's hard to separate how much of that aesthetic preceded her and how much is inspired by her, or her many, many imitators. At the time it seemed like she had been always there, lurking in dreams and the secret fantasies of so many.

We all know she is a person. A human like us. But it felt like we summoned her, brought her from beyond space and into our mortal world with our desires.

The truth is far less esoteric: Belle Delphine does not exist.

She never has.

She is a character. Fiction, in the way that all online personas are, to a degree, fictional- only more so. She is product and art. She is the creation not of a woman but, in fact, a couple. And it was brilliant.

So why don't we hear about her like we used to? Well, to figure that out, we need to understand why it worked to begin with.

Part the Second: Deniable Hentai

It's truly fascinating to read what was said about Belle Delphine before she did outright porn. She was written about in Rolling Stone, in Insider, in the Spectator... mainstream publications tried to make heads or tails of her. They called what she made "performance art", or "surreal erotica", or "sexy trolling". She said she was just goofing around.

That was a lie.

She was never random. She was never just silly. She was calculated, pointing at something without fully going in on it, going right up to the line in a way that felt alien to many, but all too familiar to her target audience.

She was referencing not real porn, but Hentai.

The octopus is not a lol so random choice. It hints at that age old hentai chestnut of tentacle sex.

The face, which we now all recognize as ahegao, is not just a sexy, goofy face. It's an expression used in hentai- more concretely, in the kind of hentai where the lovely lead breaks and the pleasure is too much to bear, so dignity goes away.

Her many "troll" videos of her eating, among other things, photos of men points towards vore, a kink mostly explored in hentai.

Make no mistake: she was making porn. Without taking her clothes off, without ever stating it, giving herself just enough room to pass it off as "goofing around", her work would be read, by the right people, the people in certain kink communities, as porn. Secret porn. Stealth porn.

And they would eat it up.

The longer she kept her clothes on, the more ravenous the desire for her to cross the line, to become what the audience knew she was hinting at. The more she didn't do porn, the more the anticipation grew.

The need for her grew to the point that people paid for her bathwater.

Sidenote: it was never her bathwater in reality. But the concept is where kink lives.

She started a pornhub account. She posted no "porn" on it. She titled the videos in a way that could be read as porn, or as trolling. The joke was obvious: the video titled "Pewdiepie goes DEEP inside Belle Delphine" was just her eating a picture of the famous YouTuber. Funny gag. But also, for part of the audience, another hentai reference.

And so it came to pass that a 20 year old girl edged the internet. For months. And months.

But where could she go from there? How much could she tease being living hentai without showing a single nipple? How to keep the gag from growing old?

Part the Third: The Disappearance of Belle Delphine

And then she was gone.

The content mills churned. They spat out theory after theory. That she had been arrested (thanks to a fake mugshot provided by Delphine herself). That she had experienced a mental breakdown. That she had been kidnapped.

She just... vanished. And the public, the drama channels, the social media users did all the work for her. How to keep the buzz going? Simply stop.

And yes, she left her patreon in the dark and in the dirt. I said she was smart. I never said she was ethical.

The truth, it would later turn out, was that the vanishing was planned. As rest, yes, but also as a way to fan the flames for the endgame. How can the public miss you if you won't go away?

And so, she waited. She saw the aesthetic she brought to the masses become a genre of "girl". She saw the theories and the hit pieces and she... waited. And waited.

And just as the public began to forget her, to move on, she entered her final act. She did the one thing she knew she could not come back from- but it didn't matter. It had been the plan all along.

She returned and made porn.

Part the Fourth: The Death of Belle Delphine

When she returned, brand new onlyfans in her arsenal, Belle Delphine was murdered by her creator.

She made a ton of money. Her onlyfans exploded. Chances are she has enough money, at age 25, to never work again.

But the OF came with promotion. And so she went on podcasts and did the one thing that could destroy Belle Delphine: reveal her fictional nature.

It's bizarre to listen to those interviews. There she is, speaking about Belle Delphine in the third person. Speaking not as the character but the creator. Revealing she had been in a relationship all along. Explaining why she vanished. How everything had been planned out from the very start.

The show was over. The thin line that let people believe that maybe, perhaps there was something real behind the bizarre sex icon disintegrated.

She was a sex worker, playing a very carefully constructed character. She was a person. She was no longer a personification of a million hentai-fueled fantasies. She worked hard. She was smart.

She was brilliant. But human.

Her audience never truly wanted "human".

She still makes a lot of money. She is still working, like so many other sex workers. She is now an icon, an inspiration, the popularizer of an entire aesthetic. But she is, in a way, in the past tense.

She's not even 30 yet. And she's in the past, in our memories more than our feeds.

Now let's not weep for the rich girl. She played her hand masterfully. She held back, teased, gestured towards porn in a way that made it so people couldn't call it porn, while being porn all along. She had a plan, entered the endgame, cashed in.

Is she a good person? I have no idea. Has she acted ethically? Not always. Is she a villain? I doubt it.

But god damn it, she did it.

And she did it smarter than anyone else.

[siawritez]

i had this thought in the middle bc i am a Very gay petson about yujin 😋😋 so like reader tries to make dinner for yujin cuz shes busy and wanted to do smth for her girl😚 but reader is not a great cook🙁 so when yujin came she saw reader with food burnt and she starts sobbing cuzz she wanted to do smth for yujin for once but! yujin decides to have another type of meal by eating reader out 😋

It was supposed to be a drabble,but i kinda got carried away. It's still a drabble, tho....also i really loved request and being a gay person for yujin,is totally acceptable and normal...as a society we should embrace it more....

You were proud of yourself for exactly three minutes.

The moment the fire alarm screeched and thick smoke curled up from the pan like an ominous spirit, you knew things had gone off track. Again.

The pasta was… not pasta anymore. The sauce had congealed into a suspicious brown sludge. The garlic bread had become charcoal, and you'd dropped the salad bowl on the floor in your panic—shards of porcelain glinting like your broken dreams.

You blinked rapidly, tears welling up as you stared at the disaster zone you once called a kitchen. All you'd wanted was one night. One meal. One simple surprise for your girlfriend, Ahn Yujin, who'd spent the past month on planes and concert stages and barely sleeping in her own bed. She always did so much for you. You just wanted to give her something.

But you sucked at cooking. And you’d known that. And now, as smoke clung to your hoodie and tears dripped down your cheeks, you felt more than stupid—you felt useless.

You were still frozen there, blinking through the blurry sting of smoke and emotion, when the front door clicked open.

"Baby?" Yujin’s voice echoed through the apartment, followed by the thump of her bag hitting the floor. "Something smells...burnt?"

Your heart sank.

She appeared in the doorway a second later, still in her oversized hoodie and ballcap, strands of dark hair falling over her eyes. She stopped cold, eyes wide.

You stood there, sniffling, clutching a spatula like it was a weapon and a shield. “I was trying to surprise you,” you croaked.

Her brows furrowed, her gaze sweeping over the room—smoke, crumbs, shattered glass, a blackened baking tray on the stove—and then back to you. “Oh, baby…”

“I just…” You tried to speak but your throat closed. “I know you’ve been tired, and you always cook or bring food or just… do everything, and I wanted to do something for you this time. Just one nice thing. But I ruined it.”

Tears fell faster now, and your hand trembled. You looked down, ashamed. “I can’t even boil pasta right.”

Yujin didn’t say anything. She walked straight toward you, boots tapping across the tile, and you flinched when you felt her arms wrap around your waist. She held you tight, pressing your head into her shoulder, her cheek resting against your hair.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she murmured, her voice warm and low. “You tried. For me. That means everything.”

“But the food is—”

“Fuck the food.” She leaned back slightly, cupping your cheeks, her thumbs brushing your tears. “You made a mess. So what? It's kind of adorable. You smell like burnt toast, and I still think you’re the cutest thing in this entire city.”

A weak laugh escaped your lips, and Yujin kissed your forehead, soft and lingering.

Then her gaze dipped lower—past your lips, down to the streak of sauce on your hoodie, and then to the counter behind you.

“You know,” she said slowly, her tone shifting into something silkier, “I am starving.”

You blinked. “I can order something. I’ll clean this up first—”

She shook her head. “No need.”

Yujin stepped forward until your back hit the counter. Her hands slid to your waist, fingers dipping under the hem of your hoodie.

Your breath caught. “W-What are you doing?”

She leaned in, nose brushing yours. “You wanted to feed me, right?”

You flushed. “Y-Yeah…”

“Then let me have a taste of you instead.”

Your mouth opened but no words came. Before you could gather a thought, Yujin kissed you—deep and slow, like she had all the time in the world now that she was home. Her hands tugged your hoodie up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind her. Your bra followed soon after.

“Counter,” she said against your lips. “Up.”

You obeyed, still dazed, hoisting yourself onto the edge of the counter. Yujin slipped between your thighs with ease, palms gliding up your bare thighs as she kissed down your neck.

“You work so hard to love me,” she murmured. “Let me return the favor.”

Her fingers hooked into your waistband, tugging your pants and underwear down in one smooth motion. The cold air kissed your skin, followed quickly by the heat of her breath.

“I should come home to this mess more often,” she whispered, eyes gleaming as she knelt. “My favorite kind of meal.”

And then her mouth was on you—slow and deliberate, her tongue moving with expert ease, drawing shaky moans from your throat. Your hands gripped the counter edge, knuckles white as your hips arched toward her. She tasted you like she meant it, humming softly with every flick and curl of her tongue.

You cried earlier for burning pasta. Now you cried again, from the overwhelming warmth blooming through your chest and between your legs.

Yujin didn’t stop until your thighs were trembling and your cries had turned into her name, broken and breathless.

When she finally stood again, she kissed your lips—your taste still on her tongue—and rested her forehead against yours.

“Dinner was perfect,” she whispered.

You laughed, dizzy and flushed. “I don’t think this is what most people mean by ‘homemade meal.’”

Yujin smirked. “Good. Because I’m not most people. I’m yours.”

And she kissed you again—hungry and full, just like she said she was.

......

[ladykailitha]

Murder in the Heartland Part 7

Hey guys! Here we have another chapter of this fun little fic.

In this we have Eddie finding out what happened to Carol.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

~

Interviewer: You don’t like talking about your family or growing up. Can you give us some insight into that?

Steve sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully: When Robin first approached me about publishing my works, she first offered to have me publish under a pseudonym but I wanted to shove it in my parents’ faces that I was doing well without their favor or money.

Interviewer: I thought you said that you were trust fund baby?

Steve nodded: My grandparents on my dad side set it up for me when I was born and both sets of grandparents were given access to deposit money but the only one allowed to take money out was me. I was supposed to get it when I turned eighteen, but my parents hid it from me. It was only when I saw the notice that I had thirty days to claim it or it would revert back to my grandparents did I even know I had one.

~

Hunting down Carol Perkins was easier and the same time harder than with Billy Hargrove. It had been a year since she cut town and sent that postcard so she might have moved on from New York to literally anywhere else in the world.

But Eddie had a hunch that she was still there. Mainly because from what he remembered about her. She always wanted to live in New York. She had been just as vocal about it as Eddie had about anything else. She would talk your ear off about it if you stood still long enough.

Of course Tommy would follow it up with him being some hotshot Wall Street trader, with Steve just shaking his head at both of them.

That brought Eddie up short when he thought about it. Like everyone assumed Steve was going to join his dad in whatever it was his dad did. He was a business man, whatever the hell that meant. But, no matter how hard he wracked his brains he couldn’t remember a single time that Steve had talked about his dreams or what he wanted to do after high school. No school he wanted to get into or career he wanted.

Steve Harrington would nod along, but he never really added to the conversation. Did he have a dream? Even as a kid he must have before high school and popularity beat every original idea out of his head, right?

Was it being a sports star? Eddie didn’t know much about the guy, but he knew he was on the basketball team and maybe something about a swim meet competing with a basketball practice if he remembered right.

Damn!

He really should paid more attention to the dude. If nothing else because what he did affected Eddie and his freaks. But he just... hadn’t.

Eddie couldn’t even remember having any classes with Steve either, not even the year they shared their senior year. Which now that he thought about it, that was weird, right? Surely their lives must have intersected somewhere in high school, but the more he racked his brain, the less he remembered.

Eddie scratched his chin, then he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He pushed the file away from him and sat back in his chair.

He had other cases to work on, but Carol’s disappearance kept calling him back. He knew that it wasn’t likely that she had anything to do with murders or even Jason’s death and Robin’s rescue, but it fascinated him.

There were a rash of disappearances that weren’t related to the murders as far as he could tell, but happened at the same time. It scratched that little monkey part of his brain that loved mysteries and he was more than happy to give into the temptation.

Where Steve Harrington fit in all this? That was another thing he didn’t know, but he felt like the former King was a part of the puzzle and he was going to find out what.

~

Since there wasn’t anyone paying him to track down Carol it had to take a backseat to whatever paying job he was working on. So he was grateful when an employee drained his employer’s bank account and made a run for New York.

That meant while he was tracking the little idiot, he could track down Carol too.

It was almost comical how fast he found her actually. He passed a corner market and stopped in for smokes and more film when he saw her and Nicole giggling together in the corner apparently fighting over the kind of chips to buy.

Nicole spotted him first. “Holy shit, it’s Eddie Munson.”

Carol turned her head and her jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”

Suddenly Eddie felt self-conscious and he ducked his head. He found her, he just needed to tell Tina she’s in New York and which area to look. Then everyone could avoid this awkward farce all together.

“Hey, man!” Nicole greeted warmly. “It’s good to see you again.”

Eddie’s head rocketed up and stared at her wide-eyed and slack jawed. “You are? I mean it is?”

“Yeah, god,” Nicole said putting her hand on his arm comfortingly. “I was so relieved when I heard they had released you. After Molly, no one but the pigs thought you were the killer.”

“Yeah,” Carol said, joining them. “Like I don’t care how drunk the patrons are, the owner and the bartender both said you were playing all night.”

Nicole looked over her shoulder at Carol and nodded. “My dad was one of those drunks and he might be a piece of shit most of the time, he swore on his next bottle of gin that you didn’t do those kids in.”

Eddie blinked at them both for a moment, trying to fight back tears. He hadn’t known that the people in town believed him. He assumed that they were all like the cops, and playing the game of ‘pin the crime on the poor kid’.

“Thanks, ladies,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “It’s nice to hear that from someone who wasn’t part of Carver’s hit list.”

Both girls looked at each other muttering and stammering over themselves.

“Right,” he huffed. “This sounds like a conversation for somewhere a little more private than a very public corner store. So let me buy what I came in for, you two lovely ladies do the same and you can show me the best place to buy a slice of pizza.”

Carol grinned at him. “I think we have a deal.” She shook his hand and they went their separate ways for the moment.

Eddie was done first, so he sat outside the store, smoking one of his freshly bought cigarettes, waiting for them to get done with their shopping.

He had finished his cigarette and was contemplating another when the two girls came out of the shop laden with grocery bags.

“Come on then,” Nicole said brightly, “get us a cab and we’ll talk.”

Eddie eyed her warily for a moment and then stuck out his hand, a cab immediately breaking from traffic to pull up to the curb next to them. “After you, ladies.”

Carol and Nicole got into the cab and slid all the way over, then Eddie got in after them. Carol gave the address to the pizza place.

Carol and Eddie got out but Nicole remained with the groceries. Eddie gave her some money for the cab and then followed Carol into the pizza place.

Suddenly Eddie was hit by a hundred aromas and all of them smelling divine. Carol led him to the counter where she ordered two large pizzas and a pitcher of beer. Once they had settled down at their table Carol placed her hands on the table.

“Right,” she huffed, “full disclosure, Molly Masters was...” she stopped and let out a pained sigh. “She wasn’t really anything, we couldn’t be. But God I loved her. She bright and funny and snarky as hell. I tried to get her to come with me when Tommy found us kissing behind the bleachers, but she wouldn’t leave. She wanted to finish high school. And now...” she let out a small sob.

Eddie’s eyes went wide and stayed that way her whole story. “Well shit. Tommy hit you didn’t he? That’s why you ran?”

Carol let out a pained sigh. “He tried, but I played softball, trust me when I say my swing is a hell of a lot harder than Tommy fucking Hagan.”

Eddie snickered. “Good on you, girl. So what brings you out to New York?”

She straightened up and took a deep breath. “I trying to be an actress on Broadway, but I don’t think it will take. Me, Nicole and a couple dykes we know are doing blood drives for AIDS patients. So I’m thinking of heading to law school. I think I can convince my parents to pay for that at least.”

“Are you in contact with them?” Eddie asked, tilting his head to the side. “The way they acted when I asked them where you were they didn’t want to talk about you at all.”

Carol smiled. “They don’t like that I’m a lesbian, but when Tommy tried to hurt me, they went into protective parents mode. If you brought him up at all, they probably thought you were sent by him and they didn’t want him to hunt me down.”

“So why not tell Tina where you are?” Eddie asked, as their pizza arrived. Two warm plates filled with a cheese pizza and a pepperoni. He grabbed a couple of slices of each and put them on his plate. “She seemed to think they’re in league with your ex.”

“Oof!” she said, grabbing a slice of the cheese. “I’ll send her another postcard. I had kinda forgotten that she might be worried about me. I’ve been enjoying my time here.”

“So you and Nicole?” Eddie said with a teasing grin and a cock of his head.

Carol blushed and focused on chewing her food very thoroughly. She gulped heavily. “Something like that.”

Eddie cackled. “So why do you want to be a lawyer anyway?”

“To help those suffering from AIDS,” she said fiercely, “make sure their wills in order and help them make the right end of life choices. There are so many of them who’s loved ones are torn from them because their families came in and took everything after they died.”

“That’s shit.”

“So Nicole is going to be a nurse,” Carol said with a shrug. “And I’m going to be a lawyer. Because our people are dying and their families are swooping in and shutting their loved ones out and if we can make the end easier for just one person, then we’ve succeeded.”

“I’m glad you were able to get out,” Eddie murmured around another bite of pizza. “How did you get out anyway? The way Tina tells it one minute your packing up and the next you’re sending postcards from Times Square.”

Carol shook her head and sighed. “Even though we weren’t friends anymore, even though he was in a dead end job slinging video tapes to the masses, one call to Mr. White Knight himself and he’s driving me to the Monroe County Airport so that no one would be able to find me unless I wanted them to. My parents even staged a fight so loud to cover my leaving.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Eddie said waving his hands in the air. “Steve Harrington gave you money and lift to fly out of Monroe to get the hell out of Dodge so your shitty ex-boyfriend wouldn’t follow you?”

Carol huffed. “Yeah. I owe the bastard a lot and I hate owing people anything.” She cocked her head to side. “My parents notwithstanding.”

“You’re always gonna feel some obligation to them,” Eddie said, wiping his hands off on a napkin. “They brought you into this world. No matter how shitty they treat you.”

“Sounds like you’re talking from experience?” she asked, turning to pay their waiter. She handed him a credit card and he walked away.

Eddie snorted. “Mom died when I was eight, my dad was a drug dealing, car stealing, law avoiding asshat with anger issues that were worse when he was drunk. And he was almost always drunk. I got put with my uncle, Wayne when I about eleven years old and he’s been my family ever since. But dear old dad comes around every once in awhile for a handout or to pull one or both of us into some kind of scheme that will get us arrested, maimed, and/or dead.”

He licked his lips and started picking at a loose thread on the table cloth. “And for the longest time, I thought I owed him for at least trying to keep food on the table even if it was through less than ethical means. But when he told me he wanted to burn down house I grew up in for the insurance money when I was sixteen and wanted me to help him cover it up, I walked away. He was never going to be the man I needed as the kind of man to grow up into. I had my uncle for that.”

“Yeah,” Carol said, “but you beat the odds, you’ve got a good job as seeing as you can travel to New York when you want to and that’s something your dad could never say.”

Eddie worked his jaw as he fought back tears. “Yeah, I’m a private investigator now. I’m technically here on a job, but yeah. I’ve been all over the place. I love it.”

She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Good on you.”

They talked for awhile longer and then Carol had to go. She had the rest of the pizza boxed up to take home to Nicole and they said their goodbyes.

Eddie stepped out onto the pavement and lit up another cigarette. He knew he would be there awhile hunting down his corporate idiot thief, but he was glad that he got to meet and talk with Carol and Nicole. He was glad her parents were trying to protect her from Tommy and not colluding with the asshole.

It also meant he was back to square one. If Molly was still alive when Carol had made a run for it, there was no way she was in Hawkins when Robin was attacked.

He blew his first drag straight into the air and then let out a heavy sigh. He was starting to think that he was just going to have to let it go. As much as it galled. He let out another sigh and hailed a cab. It was time to get back to work. The kind that paid.

~

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @steddieislife @bridget-malfoy-stilinski-hale @stripey82 @kroymu09 @chaotic-waffle

10- @tartarusknight @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff @mags6422 @johannamry @mags6422

[marvel-snape-writes]

I came across this image and a really sad thought came to mind, I just had to jot it down — enjoy my late night Lamb x Standish rambling 🥲🫶

We Will Never Be Like Anybody Else

It would’ve been like any normal end of the day if she hadn’t heard it: music at Slough House? She knew that Struan had, had what he classed as a brilliant idea of putting a piano in one of the rooms to try and ‘bring the team together’, but Jackson’s reaction soon put a stop to that dream. She quietly walked downstairs, trying to make as little noise as possible with her small heels. She could’ve sworn Struan had already gone home… unless he sneaked back to get the place all to himself and have a go? It was his idea in the first place, she thought.

As she approached the open doorway, she clasped her hand to her mouth to try and prevent any sound escaping it. Wide eyes stared forward at the figure sitting with their back to her at the piano; it was Lamb. She stood completely still, afraid any sudden movement would put him off, and also afraid of how he would react if he knew she was watching. She didn’t know he could play piano. To be completely honest, she didn’t even know he was capable of doing something that appeared to have him escaping reality. Sure, he had his whisky and his cigarettes, but they weren’t exactly the healthiest choice of vices. He didn’t even entertain the idea of company anymore, not since back then. This was like a breath of fresh air. She almost felt relieved knowing that he had an outlet that wasn’t something that could kill him – because he did seem fairly talented, so this can’t have been something he had never done before.

She watched in awe as he continued to play, her heart skipping a beat each time he spread his arms out to reach the notes that were further along to either end of the piano. His fingers danced along the keys as if they had always belonged there, and for a moment, she remembered when they did just the same against her skin. She leant against the doorframe and revisited one of several memories, remembering how, after all his roughness, his fingers were amongst one of the softest, most delicate things she had ever felt once they were upon her, around her, inside her. For years that had been a distant memory. One that she was being reminded of now every time his arms outstretched and fingers reached either end of the keys. She shook herself silently out of her thoughts. Was she really getting jealous of some piano keys?

Her heartbeat sped up each time his body moved and she pressed her lips together a little harder whenever his head would turn in either direction of the keys. Her eyes fell upon the scruff around his cheeks and she was instantly taken back to how it used to feel against her own skin. Admittedly, it was not as well kept as it used to be, but she still wouldn’t mind the feeling of it against where it had been before; cheek, neck, breasts, between her thighs. Her body tingled at the thought.

What she would give to walk over to that far end of the room and dangle her arms over his shoulders and rest her chin upon his head as it bobbed along to the melody he was playing. Maybe he’d even take her hands in his and physically show her how to play. That would be nice, she thought, to be guided by those hands again. She imagined how they would feel now after all these years; rough, worn, older than before, yes, but still capable of swift, gentle skill and expertise.

Was this Jackson Lamb at peace?

Just when she thought she couldn’t be more surprised, he changed the melody and started humming along. Her heart dropped the moment she realised what it was and her stomach felt like someone had filled it with ice.

“Because you’re sweet and lovely, girl, I love you. Because you’re sweet and lovely, girl, it’s true. I love you more than ever, girl, I do,” he sang along to the melody so faintly it was barely audible, but she knew every word. It wouldn’t matter to her if his voice sounded like nails on chalkboard, it was the memories that were igniting inside her like wildfire that made her lip tremble in awe; when they were working together in the early days, Jackson always allowed her to chose the music, if any, that they listened to, and the majority of the time, she would select an album by The Beatles. Jackson often teased her about how she should try and branch out into different bands, but there was this one particular song that she so often would go back to. One of her most fondest memories alongside it was when one night he spun her around in his arms and sang those exact lyrics to her. She thought she’d never get that feeling again, but for him to have then gone and secretly learned how to play it made her chest flutter in a way she thought was only for dramatic effect in movies. The way only he could ever make her feel. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, you looked at me, that’s all you had to do…”

She stood there in admiring silence, one hand over her mouth, one hand over her chest. The Jackson whom she once kissed and danced with often seemed worlds away these days. The Jackson whose chest she would lay her head upon whilst dancing, relaxing, sleeping… The brightness that previously bounced in his expression seemed to take forever to light his eyes now, if at all. It made her hurt more than he could even imagine, but she certainly wasn’t brave enough to tell him. What would she say? I haven’t moved on from those days. Despite everything, it’s still you that I trust.

As he got to the end of the song, she felt the sadness overcome her even more. It was like losing him in slow motion again. She could have happily watched him play that song one hundred times over. She imagined him turning around and calling her over. She would obey in a heartbeat, obviously, and sit in his lap. He would continue to play, brushing her hair out of her face every time he stopped and tucking a few strands behind her ear with that Jackson Lamb smile that, still to this day, had the capability of making her melt. He would then wrap an arm around her waist, kiss her forehead and tell her, “we will never be like anybody else, Catherine Standish.” and, Christ, could she vouch for that. To end something that passionate so abruptly was enough to never seek out that kind of love ever again.

How could watching something so admirable cause so much pain? She couldn’t stand it any longer. Her eyes were stinging from trying to prevent them from tearing, and the lump in her through was fighting a losing battle. Not to mention her heart rate preforming at an ungodly speed. She decided to turn away without making her presence known. To have witnessed such an intimate, private moment was enough, she thought.

While she walked away as silently as she had approached, she glanced over her shoulder once more. How could someone so usually on their toes have not noticed she was stood in the doorway? That really must have been a personal moment for him to have not scanned the room once.

Tears fell down her cheeks as she walked away, already knowing that tonight would be putting her recovery to the greatest test. However, people often say that music is for when words alone simply are not enough to convey the amount of emotion they require. Maybe he wanted her to find him there all along?

---

Thank you for reading my sad Lambdish thoughts - I'm in two minds whether to continue it and have him call out her name with his back still turned or forever leave it to interpretation as to whether he ever knew she was there or not... 👀♥️

(This is the song btw https://open.spotify.com/track/5dpRJkvY8oWMQmQbEQTXhO?si=hbS7wvUuQ-23-8LQIPfFJQ 😍)

[sereia4skz]

Reia!

We have to call sometime soon, you know Minho? The cat hybrid I told you about last time, the brat? Turns out, all you have to do to get him to listen is blindfold him and spank him a bit. Should have known he liked impact play with how much he plays with his friend’s asses.

I’ll tell you more in person, let’s plan a call!

1k Followers Event | who turned off the lights

pairing: cat!Minho x reader

genre: smut

warnings: sub!minho, blindfold, ass play, spanking, prostate orgasm?

event masterlist: #1kShootingStars

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Can't wait to hear about it! I'm sure you had loads of fun with this silly cat. 

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Minho looked so smug, even asleep. Stretched out on his back like he owned the bed, arms thrown above his head, mouth parted just slightly. One leg was bent, knee cocked to the side like he expected someone to slot themselves between his thighs in the middle of the night. His tail had curled neatly over his hip, the very tip twitching in tiny, satisfied flicks, like he was dreaming something good.

Probably about what he did to you in the kitchen last night. Your body still aches from it, in the best, sorest way. His fingerprints were fading from your hips; the nick on your collarbone still faintly stung when you moved just right. You touched it, just a brush, feeling a warm twinge at the memory.

God, he’d looked so composed. Knife in hand. Voice like smoke. Fucking you deep, slow, and smug, whispering how ruined you looked. Now it was your turn.

You crossed the room barefoot, silent. The lights were already off, Minho couldn’t sleep unless it was pitch black, but you paused anyway, waiting for your eyes to adjust. The shadows wrapped around you like a second skin. You moved carefully, climbed onto the bed with practiced grace, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.

You leaned down, barely breathing. Slipped the silk blindfold from your pocket. Soft as water, cold from your fingers. You waited, let your breath fan over his throat, then carefully slipped it over his eyes and began tying it behind his head.

Minho flinched. “Mmnh… hey- what…”

He shifted slightly, trying to blink through the sudden darkness, but the blindfold was already snug. He let out a sleepy, irritated groan. “The lights were already off,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Why the blindfold?”

You grinned against his cheek. “BecauseI know you can see in the dark, kitten. I want you to feel.”

He scoffed but it cut off abruptly when your fingers slid across his chest. You let your nails scratch lightly down the plane of muscle, then circle his nipples over his shirt, slow and teasing. His breath caught.

“...Is this silk?” he whined, twisting his head slightly against the fabric. “It’s going to mess with my hair.”

You bit back a laugh. “Oh my god,” you whispered, mock scandalized. “I sneak into your room like a sex demon and your first complaint is fabric choice?”

“It’s a valid concern,” he mumbled.

You pinched his nipple, just hard enough.

“Fuck- okay, okay,” he gasped, chest arching. “I’ll shut up.”

“Good boy.” You hum, observing how it made him twitch.

You let your hands roam slowly, now that he was settling under you. Down his arms. Across his chest again. You made sure to keep your touch inconsistent. Sometimes feather-light, sometimes a firm press. The contrast made him squirm, he never knew what to expect, where your fingers would land.

The dark, quiet stillness of the room made every breath louder. Every brush of your skin against his echoed in the space between you. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t anticipate your movements. His ears twitched when you shifted your weight, when you adjusted your knees on the bed.

“Minho,” you whispered, letting your breath hit the shell of his ear. “You always act like you’re in control. But the second I take away your sight, you melt.”

“I don’t- mnh…”

You kissed just beneath his jaw, let your teeth scrape lightly over the skin. His words dissolved.

“I bet you’re already hard,” you teased.

“Am not,” he muttered.

You reached down. He was. Throbbing in his sleep shorts. You grinned. “Liar.”

He whimpered when you wrapped your hand around him, just a soft, slow squeeze. The blindfold gave you everything. You could see it, albeit not well, but better than he could. His shoulders tense, lips parted, breathing shallow and quick, trying not to move, not to seem needy.

You stroked him once, deliberately slow. He let out a shaky moan and shifted beneath you. “I should’ve done this sooner,” you whispered. “You talk so much. But you’re so obedient when you’re like this. Just all these cute little sounds.”

“I swear-”

You slapped his cock lightly.  He gasped, the noise torn from his throat like a secret. “Y-you’re such a- fuck- bully.”

“That's rich coming from you,” you purred, sliding your fingers lower. You palmed the soft swell of his ass, kneading it in both hands. “Keep bratting out, see what happens.” You didn’t wait to finish. The first spank landed sharp, just enough to sting.

Minho moaned, he jolted slightly, breath catching. His tail tried to curl between his legs, but your hand caught it, holding him open.

“Oh my god,” you said softly, teasing. “You liked that.”

“I didn’t-!”

You spanked him again. He bit down on a gasp, fists clenching in the sheets.

“Minho…” you leaned in close, dragging your tongue slowly up his spine. “You’re such a fucking brat. But you have the prettiest reactions when you’re treated like a toy.”

He groaned. His hips pushed back without thinking. You rubbed over the spot you’d just smacked, soothing, warm, slipping off his shorts and slid your hand between his cheeks. This time, you didn’t tease. You spat lightly, then used your thumb to circle his hole, wet and slow.

He twitched, full bodied, like he had been shocked. “Fuck you,” he breathed, voice breaking.

You pushed your thumb in slowly. Minho whimpered. “Still think you’re in control?” you murmured.

The silk blindfold had turned him into something else entirely, or maybe the other boys never stood up to him. His cock was flushed and leaking against the sheets now, his thighs trembling under your weight. Your name fell from his lips in a ragged moan as you worked your thumb in and out, then slowly, slowly added a finger. He gasped like it hurt and you slowed.

“You’re mine tonight,” you whispered. “But use a safe word if you need to. Since you didn't ask about the knife, I won't ask either~”

“You liked the knife,” he gasped.

“I did,” you admitted, curling your fingers. “But someone needs to put bratty kitty in his place.”

You brushed his prostate, just once. He cried out, hips bucking, body arching like you’d shocked him.

“God! Fuck- please, please do that again- ”

“Beg.”

“Please,” he whined. “Please, I need it! need you to touch me, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything, just-”

You pressed your fingers in deeper and leaned down, kissing his shoulder. “Good boy.”

He shuddered, his whole body trembling.

“I’m not done,” you whispered. “I haven’t even made you cry yet.”

Minho was already losing it. You could feel it in the way his thighs trembled, in the arch of his back, the flutter of breath against the pillow. His cock was hard and untouched, leaking messily into the sheets, but you hadn’t given him more than a single stroke. He wouldn't need it.

“You’re gonna come just like this,” you whispered, mouth in his ear. “No hands. Just my fingers. Just your needy little hole.”

Minho shook his head, like denial could save him. But his hips betrayed him, pushing back onto your hand, gasping when your palm collided with his ass again. Another sharp, wet slap echoed in the room, followed by a broken whimper.

“F-fuck, I can’t- I can’t, please~!”

You pressed in again, two fingers now, slow and deep, rubbing over that sweet spot while your other hand slid up his spine to pin him down. “Let it happen,” you murmured. “Don’t fight it. Just let go.”

Another spank. His whole body arched, tail whipping to the side as the pressure shattered inside him. He let out a strangled moan, raw, shocked, and then he was coming. Minho cried out, back arched off the bed, thighs trembling violently as the orgasm wracked through him. His cock twitched helplessly, spurting onto the sheets beneath him, his entire body pulsing with it, unable to stop, every muscle drawn tight in electric tension.

You didn’t move, just held him through it, fingers still curled inside him, slow and firm until his body jerked away with a strangled sob.

Too much. You pulled out immediately. “Shh,” you soothed, brushing a hand down his back as he collapsed onto the bed, boneless and dazed. “You’re okay.”

Minho whimpered, breath hiccupping. His hips twitched even after you stopped, too sensitive to bear even the warm air brushing over him. You reached for the blindfold, fingers gentle where the knot rested against his hair. He flinched slightly as you untied it, blinking slowly against the darkened room. Even in the pitch black, you could see the tears shining in his lashes.

“Oh, kitten,” you whispered. He looked wrecked. His cheeks were flushed, lips bitten pink. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. But he wasn’t scared. Just overwhelmed. “I’ve got you,” you murmured. “You’re okay.”

Minho swallowed, breath still hitching faintly. “I… I didn’t know I could come like that,” he mumbled, voice hoarse.

“You were so fucking hot,” you whispered. “You’re so sensitive, baby. You gave me everything.”

He didn’t answer, just curled into your chest, trembling slightly. You cleaned your fingers on the edge of the sheets, then pulled him into your lap slowly, cradling him as best you could. His tail flopped weakly over your thigh, the tension melting from his body in small, twitchy waves. And just before he fell asleep, he whispered, quiet and wrecked:“Tomorrow… I’m tying you up.”

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taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o

[lila-lou]

✨Played - 1/5✨

Summary: You’re an aspiring actress stuck in dead-end roles, desperate for a break. Then you meet Jensen. Kind, connected and smitten Jensen. You don’t love him, but you pretend to. Until pretending turns real.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, Angst, IMMORAL ffs

Word Count: 2562

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

You groaned, annoyed, as you read yet another email that started with the words, “We regret to inform you…”. You didn’t even finish the rest. The rejection felt the same every time. Sharp, personal, and exhausting.

You had just turned 21. Fresh out of a respected acting program, full of dreams and ready to fight your way through the chaos of the industry. But so far? Two tiny, one-episode roles in TV shows no one even remembered the names of. Not exactly the breakout you had imagined while crying over Oscar speeches and memorizing Shakespeare in a tiny rehearsal room.

It wasn’t like you didn’t have what it took. You knew you were talented. Your teachers had told you. Your classmates had envied your range. And, yeah, you looked good. Camera-loved-you kind of good. But still… nothing.

You dropped your phone onto the couch beside you, flopping back against the cushions with a dramatic sigh, half-laughing at yourself.

That’s when the front door creaked open and slammed shut again, followed by the familiar thud of boots hitting the hardwood. You didn’t even have to look, you already knew it was Lila. She always made an entrance like she was walking into a music video.

She stepped into the living room, took one glance at your face, and sighed like she was the one who just got rejected. “Damn. Another one?”.

Without waiting for an answer, she tossed her oversized tote onto the floor and flopped beside you on the couch, limbs sprawling dramatically as she settled in like she belonged there… which, of course, she did.

You gave a slow, exaggerated nod. “Another one. And this one was especially poetic. They went with someone ‘more fitting to the tone’. Whatever that means”.

“Means they went with a nepotism baby who couldn’t act their way out of a Target commercial”, Lila muttered, grabbing the throw pillow and hugging it to her chest. “You’re too good for them anyway”.

You let out a tired laugh. “You always say that”.

“Because it’s always true”.

You turned your head to look at her. Her eyeliner was smudged and her curls were frizzy from the rain, but she still looked like she could land a Vogue cover with zero effort. You, on the other hand, were rocking day-old sweats and the soul of a deflated balloon.

Lila studied your face for a second, then nudged you. “You know what you need?”.

“A job?”.

“No”, she said. “Well, yes. But also wine. And popcorn. Possibly a Disney soundtrack”.

You grumbled something incoherent but vaguely in the realm of fine and I hate that you’re right, as Lila sprang up and disappeared down the hallway like a woman on a mission. You heard the bathroom door shut and the water start running a few seconds later.

With her gone, the apartment felt still again. Quiet in that heavy, disappointing kind of way. You glanced at your phone once more, rereading the callback email like it might vanish if you blinked too fast. It was still there. Still real.

You tucked it away in your mind and grabbed the remote.

By the time Lila emerged from her room, freshly showered, wearing fluffy socks and a face mask she forgot to rinse off properly, you were halfway into Tangled and already quoting lines under your breath.

“Of course you picked a Disney princess with a frying pan”, she said, flopping beside you with a freshly opened bottle of wine and two glasses.

“She’s resourceful”, you shrugged, grabbing one of the glasses she handed you.

Hours passed. You switched from Disney to trashy reality TV to comfort sitcoms. The bottle of wine slowly emptied, and the couch got cozier the more your brain melted into fictional worlds. You actually laughed, real, from-your-stomach kind of laughter, and it felt like the first time in weeks.

But just when you started to forget about everything else, you caught Lila grinning at her phone like it was a damn love letter. You squinted suspiciously. “Who are you texting?”.

She quickly flipped the screen down onto her lap, cheeks flushed in that guilty kind of way. “No one”.

You raised a brow. “You’re smiling. At no one?”.

She paused for a second, then sighed, already caving. “Okay, okay, fine. His name’s Alex”.

You blinked. “Alex?”.

She nodded, a sheepish grin tugging at her lips. “I met him yesterday at the bookstore. The one on Melrose, with the little coffee stand? He dropped his iced latte and apologized like five times and then offered to buy me one. It was kind of adorable”.

You stared at her, slowly sitting up. “Wait—you’ve been hiding a meet-cute from me?”.

“I didn’t want to jinx it!”, she said, laughing. “We just started talking. He’s sweet. Funny. Cute in that kind of messy, hasn’t-slept-but-still-hot way”.

You narrowed your eyes. “You mean ‘your type’”.

“Exactly”, she winked.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “Alright, alright. I approve. For now. But I’m interrogating him if this goes past three dates”.

“Deal”, she said, tapping her glass to yours.

A few weeks later, and a few more soul-sucking Absagen to add to your personal collection, it was Lila’s birthday.

She’d been planning the house party for weeks, buzzing with excitement every time she mentioned it, and you hadn’t had the heart to dampen her energy, even if you felt like a deflated party balloon yourself. You helped string up the fairy lights, picked out the playlist, even wore that one skirt she swore made you look like a “mysterious indie film lead”. But inside? You weren’t exactly celebrating.

As the apartment filled with strangers, most of them artists, photographers, and vaguely creative types who looked like they only spoke in metaphors, you found yourself smiling your polite, customer service smile. The kind you’d perfected for auditions and awkward industry mixers.

They weren’t your people.

The Vancouver art scene had a vibe. Kind of feral, kind of glamorous, kind of too much and somehow still wildly unbothered. These people moved through life like they were already legends in a documentary. You? You were just trying to land a role where your character had a name.

Two hours in, you quietly slipped away. Up the fire ladder, past the creaking metal and peeling paint, you found your little piece of quiet, your rooftop.

The city stretched out in front of you, buzzing but distant. The wind bit at your bare legs, but you didn’t care. You were on your third whiskey, courtesy of the party, and scrolling through casting calls like they were lottery tickets. Nothing promising. Nothing real.

Your thumb hovered over an open listing. It was vague. Some pilot, shooting in the next province over. Probably another dead-end. You sighed, closing your eyes for a second as the cold pressed into your skin and the noise from below turned into muffled echoes.

It was one of those nights where the dream felt far away. Like you were chasing a ghost. Or maybe just… stuck.

And then, you heard the fire ladder creak behind you and you turned your head, half-expecting Lila, or worse, some random art guy coming to mansplain existentialism under the stars.

But instead, a man emerged through the opening. Tall. Broad shoulders under a black leather jacket. Whiskey in hand, like he’d matched your mood without meaning to.

You blinked. Definitely not one of the art crowd.

He spotted you instantly and offered a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to crash your hideout”, he said, voice low and smooth, with a little Southern drawl curled around the words. “Just needed a minute”.

You watched him carefully, not quite sure how to respond. He didn’t look like trouble. Didn’t look drunk either. Just… tired. Maybe a little bored. Like he’d rather be anywhere else.

He nodded toward the other end of the rooftop. “Mind if I sit?”.

You shrugged. “Free country”.

He chuckled at that, moved over to sit a few feet away, giving you space. He took a slow sip of his drink before finally glancing over. “I’m Jensen, by the way. Alex’s friend”.

You blinked again. “Alex, as in Lila’s new Alex?”.

“That’s the one”, he said, smiling more now. “He roped me into coming. Said I ‘needed to socialize more’”. He made air quotes with the hand not holding his glass.

You huffed a small laugh. “Sounds familiar”.

He tilted his head at you. “You the roommate?”.

You gave a mock salute with your whiskey. “The one and only. She tells me nothing but insists I wear real pants when guests come over”.

“Sounds like a solid friendship”.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him, really looked at him. He was definitely older, way older. Forties, probably. Your brain almost automatically filed him under handsome but way too old to be relevant. Still… something about him was disarming. Calm. Warm. Like a fire on a cold night.

“Don’t take this the wrong way”, you said slowly, “but you don’t exactly look like you belong in that chaos down there”.

He snorted. “Thank you. I thought I was the only one wondering if I’d accidentally walked into an experimental music video”.

That got a real laugh out of you. The first in a while.

He smiled again, softer this time. “You hiding from the party too?”.

You nodded, tapping your phone against your thigh. “And from life. And from casting emails. And maybe just… everything”.

He didn’t ask for details. Just nodded like he understood more than he let on. Then he held his glass toward you in a quiet toast. “To hiding”.

You clinked yours against his. “To hiding”, you echoed.

You sat there with Jensen in a surprisingly comfortable quiet, sipping your whiskey as the city wind tangled through your hair. The muffled hum of the party below felt like it belonged to another world, a mess of colors and voices you had no interest in returning to. Up here, things were simpler.

You and this guy—Jensen—had fallen into easy small talk. Nothing deep. Just stories about bad party food, awkward birthdays, and the weird things people say when they try too hard to sound interesting. His laugh was warm, a little raspy, and he had that steady, grounded presence that made you feel less like you were spiraling.

Eventually, he glanced over at you, then away again like he was weighing something in his head. He cleared his throat. “So… I’m just gonna say this”, he started, voice a little quieter now, like the wind might carry it off before you heard. “I wasn’t really planning on coming out tonight. Alex dragged me. Said I needed to meet someone. ‘Unwind a little’. His words, not mine”.

You tilted your head, watching him. “Let me guess. You got out of a relationship recently?”.

He gave you a sidelong glance, smirking faintly. “Divorce, actually. About a year ago”.

You winced. “Yikes. Sorry”.

He shrugged. “No need. It was the right call. Just… took a while to feel like myself again. Been on a few dates since then. Hookups, mostly. Nothing real”. He paused for a second. “And tonight wasn’t really about finding anything real, either”.

You raised your brows, waiting for the but. And there it was.

“But then I came up here”, he said, meeting your eyes. “And you’re funny. Smart. Got this… fire. Like you don’t care if people like you or not, and that’s kind of rare. I like that”.

You blinked, caught off guard, not by the compliment itself, but the way he said it. Straight. Honest. No sleazy undertone. Just… interest.

And then, gently, he added, “So. Would you wanna maybe go out sometime? Just a drink. No pressure”.

You stared at him for a long beat, heart doing something weird that you ignored. Then you sighed and gave a half-smile. “You’re sweet. Really. But… you’re kind of way too old for me”.

Jensen blinked, not in offense, but in surprise. A small flicker of it crossed his face before he quickly schooled his expression into something more relaxed, more casual. Pro that he was, he recovered fast. You wouldn’t have even noticed it if you hadn’t been watching him so closely.

He let out a quiet laugh, more to himself than anything. “Damn. That’s a first”.

You raised an eyebrow. “What is?”.

He glanced over at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass like it might distract from the shift in his voice. “Being turned down. Not trying to sound arrogant, just… hasn’t really happened before”.

You gave him a look, but there was no ego in it, just honesty. If anything, a little bit of amusement. “Well”, you said, dry, “happy to be your first disappointment”.

He grinned at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Wouldn’t call it that. Just… unexpected”.

There was a short beat of silence, not awkward, but thoughtful. Then he tilted his head a little, looking at you in a different kind of way. Curious. Almost impressed. “I figured you were younger”, he admitted. “But not that much younger. Twenty-one, really?”.

You nodded, sipping your drink. “Freshly. Still learning how to pretend I know what I’m doing”.

He gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “I pegged you for, like… twenty-six. You carry yourself older”.

You shrugged. “Trauma. Rejection. Soul-crushing auditions”.

He laughed again, the kind that rumbled low in his chest. “Yeah, that’ll do it”.

You looked over at him. He seemed so easy in his skin, even when caught off guard. Confident but not pushy. The kind of guy who probably walked into every room knowing he could charm it without trying. And yeah, he was undeniably attractive, one of those men who aged like a fine bourbon and knew it. But still.

“I mean”, he said, glancing back out at the skyline, “age gaps like that aren’t really that weird anymore. Especially not in this town”.

You didn’t disagree. You’d seen worse. Way worse. “True”, you said. “Still not for me. Not now”.

He nodded, a little slower this time. “Fair enough”.

You both fell into silence again, the city humming beneath your feet, the rooftop holding onto your shared warmth. The tension dissolved, replaced with something quieter. Not disappointment, not awkwardness, just mutual understanding. Maybe even a little respect.

“You’re cool”, he said finally, voice low and genuine. “Hope something good comes your way soon. You’ve got that kind of spark. Industry needs more of that”.

You glanced at him, the compliment landing softer than you expected. “Thanks. Same to you. With the whole… not-hookups thing”.

He chuckled. “Touché”.

You didn’t say anything after that. Just sat side by side under the stars, two strangers from different worlds, brought together by birthday cake, cheap whiskey, and a party neither of you really wanted to attend.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @lmg14

[sparklystarrrr]

Hey! I love you're Kalim x Lottie reader (they are absolute rich money sunshine couple I ADORE them!) SO! what if we got Jamil x Tiana reader? I just feel like they would be such a good pair with both of them admiring how hard each other work like Jamil admiring Tiana doing her best to achieve her dreams and supports her by making sure she takes time to herself and Tiana reader being there to comfort Jamil when the weight of his duties are weighting on him too much and she's always there prepared with with a warm beignets and hugs!!

So maybe a scenario of when Jamil maybe sending reader his letter of him feeling down and maybe not even like him finishing writing that letter that he heard reader coming to the Scarabia front door with plates of beignets dropping her shift at work telling the whole dorm to let her in cause "I SENSE MY BOYFRIEND FEELING DOWN!! NOW WOULD YOU KINDLY BE GOOD BOYS NOW AND OPEN THE DOORS OR I WILL MAKE YOU ALL UNDERSTAND WHY YOU SHOULD NOT STOP A WOMAN FROM FEEDING HER MAN!!!" And cue Jamil falling even more in love with her💕💕💕

Also bonus! This is a continuation of Kalim with Lottie reader when they finished shopping and Lottie seeing her best friend visiting makes her and Kalim to start making a party, of course after Tiana reader said to them to let her be with Jamil first cause she wants some alone time with her man

I’ve been feeling some sorta way for Jamil lately… this is perfect😻

ALSO i’m so happy y’all liked my Kalim and Lottie fic I literally pulled that out of my ass cheeks when I saw that i had no idea what to write😭😭

Warm Beignets

Synopsis: Jamil’s girlfriend always knows how to heal him on a bad day!

Contains: Jamil V. x Fem! Tiana! Reader, reader is very doting, slightly domestic, cringy ahh nicknames (they give me butterflies)

It was an early weekend morning like any other, Jamil was usually quick as ever to get ready for the day and make a ton of yummy breakfast. Usually.

Today though, something in him just couldn’t do all that. His limbs were heavy in the bed he laid in as he tried to rub any grogginess out of his eyes to wake himself up. It was to no use. He’d been worked to his breaking point for a while and this was his body telling him to slow down. He felt like he weighed a ton. But even so, he knew he’d have to inform Kalim and his girlfriend. He dragged himself out of bed, leaving the last bit of warmth his blankets provided him. He plopped down into his desk chair, curling himself into the warmth of his thick pajamas. He started with (y/n) first.

His thumbs pressed the keyboard on his phone slowly.”Hey Jewel, I don’t think I’m going to be working to-“ Before he could even finish the text he heard chaos coming from the living room of Scarabia. There was a feminine voice among the crowd of boys making way for her,”You boys better move outta my way before I smack y’all! I gotta get to my boy! I CAN SENSE HE’S DOWN!!! DON’T STOP A WOMAN FROM FEEDING HER MAN!!!” Oh, he clearly knew who that was. Part of him wanted to scold her for causing such a ruckus so early in the morning, but… Her actions and words made him feel a bit warm and fuzzy…

His door swung open, as ordered by some of his dorm members by (y/n). Her hair was up in a curly bun, clad in a melon green nightgown, she seemed like she’d just woken up as well.

That’s what he thought before she revealed two platters of beignets fresh from the oven, still steaming. Suddenly his room smelled like warm pastries and love.”Hey baby, I felt like you were sad so I brought some beignets. How are ya feeling?” He was practically melting in his chair at (y/n)’s sweetness.”I’m better now, I guess. Aren’t you supposed to be at work though?” Oh Jamil, just as doting as ever. He knew his girlfriend’s schedule like the back of his hand.

She glanced at him completely serious while placing the beignet platters on his desk,”I dropped my shift today to take care o’ you.” She pressed a kiss on his forehead,”You better get back in bed now, you hear me? I don’t wanna have you getting burnt out more than you are right now.” She spoke sternly, like a mother.

“Huh? But shouldn’t you be at work?” He said with brows furrowed. (y/n) shoved a warm beignet into his mouth to shush him.”You don’t need to be worrying about that. You should be resting!” Jamil would’ve protested more had he not been so exhausted (or had a delicious beignet muffling his words), so he let her bring him back to bed. He tried so hard to look upset, but he couldn’t help the wobbly smile creeping up on his lips.

(y/n) helped him into bed, cuddling up under the sheets right after. His head nuzzled into her neck, sighing against her warm fragrant skin. She smelled of flowers and baked goods. Her arms found their way around him, gently pulling him in and pressing a kiss on top of his long silky brown hair. Just before the two could sleep the day away, and door was swung open.

“Yo yo! Jamil!! Me and my Habiti went shopping, let’s have a party!” Kalim’s bright voice bounced off the walls as his girlfriend jumped up next to him.”We bought y’all some stuff too!! Let’s party (n/n)!!” The two giggled loudly together as two Scarabia students stood behind them carrying their mountains of boxes and bags. (y/n) nearly grumbled. “Sorry but, me and Jamil ain’t gonna be movin’…” Kalim’s girlfriend scurried forward, heels clicking against the floor,”What, reallyyyy? But a party would be sooo fun, don’tcha think (n/n)?”

(y/n) giggled softly at her best friend’s sunny personality,”Sorry girl, we’re gonna rest for the day, he needs it. You get that, don’tcha?” Her bubbly bestie nodded quickly and made her way back to Kalim,”Alright (n/n)! I’ll leave ya two lovebirds together~ Have a nice nap! We’ll have a party some otha time!” The two sunbeams skipped literally hand in hand off to somewhere else.

Jamil was just gobsmacked the entire time. He was surprised how well (y/n) handled the situation. While she spoke, he stared up at her with pure adoration. His cheeks were slightly flushed the whole time… He swore his heart grew two sizes bigger at the sight of his gorgeous girlfriend doing anything in her power to be with him. “Thank you Jewel… thank you so much…” He mumbled groggily into her skin. “Don’t thank me baby,” (y/n) smiled,”just sleep now.” He didn’t even need to say anything, he just nodded and fell right asleep into her soft arms. It felt like a silent ‘i love you’ as the two nuzzled closer into a deep slumber, clearly both exhausted from their hard work. He felt himself softening from the care he was receiving.

[pankowcrumbs]

The warfare love triangle

Joseph Quinn X Reader, Will Poulter X Reader, Charles Melton X Reader

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Will Poulter Masterlist

MasterList

I never imagined my dream job would involve sponging fake blood off Joseph Quinn’s cheek while Charles Melton flirted with me across the trailer and Will Poulter told jokes so dry I genuinely wasn’t sure if he was serious. And yet, here I was, wrist-deep in prosthetic glue and grime, working as the lead makeup artist on Warfare, a gritty war epic movie that had more dirt, sweat and shirtless men than I knew what to do with.

The production was huge. Long shooting days, early mornings, mud everywhere, and more bruises to paint on than I had ever thought humanly possible. But the silver lining? I had three of the most ridiculous and attractive men under my brush every day.

Joseph was the first one I’d met. He came in quietly, coffee in hand, headphones in, his usual curls shaved off and his jumper two sizes too big. He’d smiled when I introduced myself and let me fuss with his face without complaint. It only took a couple of sessions before he started taking one earbud out, asking me how my morning was. Then he took both out. Then he brought me coffee, too.

Will was different. Loud, charming, and surprisingly earnest. He cracked bad puns while I worked on him and he had the annoying habit of squirming when I was trying to paint blood streaks on his hands. But then he’d apologise, all sweet and sheepish, and I’d forgive him immediately.

Charles arrived a week into shooting. American, cocky, devastatingly handsome. He sat down in my chair, grinned at me and said, “You’re too pretty to be covering me in dirt, Y/N.” I rolled my eyes, of course but he kept finding new ways to make me laugh. He was the type who flirted like it was breathing.

It didn’t take long before I realised something strange was happening. They all flirted. They all lingered. They all remembered things I’d said days ago my favourite snack, my dog’s name, the book I was reading. And they weren’t exactly subtle.

“Isn’t it my turn to be in your chair first today?” Joseph asked one morning, raising a brow as Charles tried to cut ahead in the queue.

“I think we should make her breakfast before makeup,” Will said casually, stirring his protein shake. “You know. Keep her sweet.”

“You lot are going to give me a headache,” I muttered, cheeks burning.

The other makeup artists teased me mercilessly. They could see it clear as day the quiet little war happening between the three of them, using compliments, winks and ridiculous attempts to one-up each other.

“They’re obsessed with you,” Priya, one of the prosthetic techs, whispered to me during lunch. “I’ve never seen men act so pathetic over foundation.”

“I don’t even know what to do,” I admitted. “They’re all lovely. And stupidly attractive. And...”

“And you like them all,” she grinned.

I groaned, dropping my head to the table.

The thing was, she wasn’t wrong. Joseph was gentle and thoughtful. Will made me laugh when I was exhausted. Charles could light up the whole room with one smile. They were each so different and somehow each had a piece of my attention.

It was never mean-spirited between them, never anything more than playful competitiveness. They were mates off-camera, professionals when it counted, but when it came to me… they didn’t hide their interest. They teased, flirted, lingered always lingering.

One particularly cold morning, Joseph sat in the makeup trailer as I painted grime along his jaw. I noticed he wasn’t watching his phone or a script he was watching me.

“What?” I asked, not looking up.

“You’ve got paint on your nose,” he said softly.

I paused, blinked, then reached for a tissue. He caught my wrist gently, his fingers brushing mine. “Let me.”

He wiped it away, so slowly it felt more like a caress than a clean-up. My heart hammered.

“Alright, Romeo,” Will called from across the room. “Some of us need our faces done too.”

“Back of the queue, Poulter,” Charles added, striding in like he owned the place. “She’s working on her favourite.”

“She is not,” I said, flustered. “You’re all the worst.”

They grinned at me in unison. I hated them. I really, really didn’t.

Later that week, we were on set filming a brutal scene. Mud everywhere. Blood. Screaming. Chaos. I spent twelve hours reapplying splatter and shouting over generators. When we finally wrapped, my hands were stiff from the cold, my shoulders aching. I collapsed in a chair, exhausted.

“Here,” a voice said. A warm hoodie was draped over my shoulders. Will.

“You’ll catch your death,” Joseph said, handing me a hot drink.

“I’ve got snacks,” Charles added, flopping into the chair beside me and offering crisps.

I blinked at the three of them.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I said, voice wobbling between laughter and confusion. “You’re all going to drive me mad.”

“Maybe,” Will said, smile soft, “but at least you’ll be warm, fed, and loved.”

The word hung there. Loved.

They meant it as a joke, I think. Or maybe they didn’t.

I looked at each of them. Three stupidly beautiful, kind, funny men. And me covered in dirt, overwhelmed, and falling for all of them.

God help me.

I tried to ignore it the way my stomach fluttered when Joseph handed me his script to hold while he ate, or how Will always waited outside the trailer with two coffees like it was the most natural thing in the world. Or how Charles would lean against the mirror behind me as I powdered his face, looking far too amused by how flustered I got when he winked.

But ignoring it became impossible once the teasing turned into something else.

It started with a late wrap one evening. Everyone was tired, crew milling around like zombies. Joseph had gone back to his trailer, Will had been pulled into ADR, and I was packing up my station alone when Charles walked in.

“Thought you’d need a hand,” he said, already rolling up his sleeves.

“You’re not qualified,” I said, smiling despite myself.

“True,” he grinned. “But I’ve seen you clean fake blood off six men in one day. Pretty sure you deserve an assistant.”

I let him help. He wiped down palettes while I packed brushes, talking about LA and how British weather was “bullying” him. At some point, he fell quiet.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You alright?”

I looked up, surprised. “Yeah, just tired.”

“You work harder than anyone here,” he said. “I see it.”

I froze, throat tightening.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, “you’ve got three idiots practically falling over themselves for you. Just… don’t let it stress you out. Don’t let us stress you out.”

The honesty in his voice hit harder than I expected.

“Thanks, Charles,” I said. And for the first time, I let myself lean into him a little when he hugged me.

The next morning, Joseph showed up early earlier than anyone else.

“I brought you this,” he said, handing me a blueberry muffin and a coffee.

“You’re making a habit of spoiling me,” I teased.

He shrugged, then looked at me properly. “I’m not trying to compete. Just want to be someone who makes your day easier.”

My heart tripped.

And Will… well, Will cornered me at lunch.

“I have a question,” he said, sliding his tray next to mine.

“Dangerous.”

He laughed. “If I told you I liked you. like, actually liked you would that ruin this friendship-slash-weird-work-flirting-thing we’ve got going?”

I blinked, mouth half-full of crisps.

“Because I do. Like you. I think you’re brilliant. And I’d hate to make things awkward, but I also don’t want to wait around while Quinn and Melton charm you with their dimples.”

I swallowed. “Will”

“I know,” he said quickly. “It’s a lot. You don’t have to say anything. Just… wanted you to know.”

I sat there in silence, unsure how the hell I’d ended up in the middle of the Warfare dating game.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I liked them all. For different reasons. Joseph’s softness. Will’s wit. Charles’ confidence.

But more than anything, I liked how seen they made me feel. Like I wasn’t just the girl behind the brush like I was worth noticing.

The problem was: who did I want?

And could I choose without breaking hearts?

I should’ve known it was all going to boil over.

The teasing. The soft looks. The coffees and the half-meant touches. It had started as something harmless. Fun, even. But lately, the edges had begun to sharpen.

It started small. Little jabs disguised as banter.

“Did Charles tell you he’s allergic to continuity?” Will muttered one afternoon, eyes on the mirror as I dabbed a gash onto his cheek. “He wiped off half his dirt yesterday before we even got to the scene.”

I tried to laugh. “Be nice.”

Will raised his brows. “I’m just saying… some of us take this seriously.”

Two hours later, Joseph slid into the chair, tossing me a grin that made my heart stutter.

“You look exhausted,” he said gently. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” I said, trying not to melt as he brushed his fingers over my wrist like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Then he looked in the mirror, eyes narrowing. “Why’s Will got that burn mark down his temple? His character was facing away from the blast.”

“I thought it worked?” I offered, surprised.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Just not what we discussed yesterday.”

My stomach twisted.

They were starting to use me. My time. My choices as a new battlefield.

Later that day, Charles pulled me aside.

“They’re acting like kids,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward Will and Joe, who were sat across the craft table glaring at each other between mouthfuls of pasta. “This whole ‘quiet war’ thing they’ve got going? It’s getting pathetic.”

I looked at him, lips parted. “You mean about me?”

He gave a dry laugh. “Who else?”

I pressed my forehead to my hand. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know,” Charles said. “But it did. And honestly, sweetheart… they’re not going to back off.”

Then, he stepped closer. “Neither am I.”

That night, I went home exhausted emotionally wrecked. I tried to sleep, but my phone kept buzzing.

Will: Sorry if I was weird today. I just don’t like the way Charles looks at you.

Joseph: Hope you got home okay. I miss our quiet chats. The others don’t see you like I do.

Charles: For the record, I don’t need to play nice to want you. Just saying.

I stared at the screen, heart hammering.

What the hell was I supposed to do?

The next morning on set was tense. Joe barely spoke. Will was quiet but clipped. Charles cracked jokes like usual, but I saw the way his eyes tracked every time I leaned close to one of the others to adjust their prosthetics.

It all came to a head at lunch.

I was sitting outside, eating in peace, when Joseph sat down beside me. Moments later, Charles plopped down on the other side. Will followed, pulling up a chair directly across from me.

I blinked. “This is… a lot.”

Joseph cut into his sandwich, eyes flicking to Charles. “So. What are we all doing here?”

Charles smiled like it was a challenge. “Lunch. You?”

“Watching the games begin,” Will muttered.

And that’s when I cracked.

“Guys,” I said, voice sharp. “I’m not some prize at the end of a mission. I’m literally here to cover you in dirt and fake blood, not to be the centre of some testosterone-filled turf war.”

They fell silent.

“I like all of you,” I admitted. “I care about all of you. But this? This isn’t fair. Not to me. Not to yourselves. It’s childish.”

Will shifted, biting the inside of his cheek. “You’re right.”

Joseph nodded. “Sorry.”

Charles just sighed, pushing his tray back. “Didn’t mean to make you feel caught in the middle.”

I exhaled.

The silence that followed was somehow heavier than all the teasing before.

But later much later as I touched up Will’s cut lip before a close-up, he glanced at me and said softly, “For what it’s worth, I’d rather lose the game than lose you.”

And my heart did that stupid, aching twist again.

Filming was halfway through the shoot schedule, and the dust on set wasn’t the only thing making my skin itch.

Since the showdown at lunch, the tension had shifted. Less combative. More restrained. Like each of them had quietly agreed to dial it back for my sake. Still, the air buzzed with something unsaid every time I walked into a trailer or lingered too long next to someone’s chair.

It didn’t help that I still hadn’t made a decision.

How do you choose between three incredible men all so different, all making you feel so seen?

Will was warm. Kind in a way that grounded me. He made me laugh when I was losing it with prosthetic glue and broken airbrushes. His steadiness made my heart feel safe.

Joseph was intense. Thoughtful. He listened in a way no one else did, asking questions that left me wondering how someone could care so deeply. And when he smiled. Really smiled I felt like I was the only one in the room.

Then there was Charles. Effortlessly charming. Confident, but never cocky when it counted. There was something electric about him. A spark that made me feel wanted like I wasn’t just admired, but chosen.

I thought I could keep navigating it.

Until one of them flipped the script.

It was a Friday early wrap and most of the crew had headed to the nearby pub for drinks. I wasn’t really in the mood, so I wandered back to my trailer, still picking fake blood out from under my nails, when I saw it.

A note stuck to my door.

“Come to the field just outside of set. -J”

My heart thudded. Joseph. Of course it was him. He’d been quieter the past few days, less flirty, more present. He watched me like he was waiting for something not pressuring, just hoping.

I debated for all of three seconds before setting off down the gravel path toward the backlot.

By the time I got to the field, the sun had dipped low painting the sky in streaks of lavender and gold. And there he was.

Joseph Quinn.

Standing next to a folding table covered in takeaway containers, a little speaker playing Fleetwood Mac, and what looked like a mini picnic setup in the middle of the bloody war zone set.

He grinned as I approached. “I figured if I was going to compete, I may as well raise the bar.”

My throat tightened. “Joe…”

“No pressure,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I wanted you to know how I feel.”

He stepped closer, gaze sincere.

“You’re the best part of every day, Y/N. I mean that. I know you’ve got choices, and I don’t blame you for not choosing yet. But I couldn’t go another day without putting my cards on the table.”

I blinked, already overwhelmed.

He gestured to the table. “So, I asked the catering lot to pack up your favourites. I bribed the interns to help me set this up. And I stole this blanket from Will’s trailer, so don’t tell him.”

Despite myself, I laughed full and warm. “You did all this?”

He nodded. “Because I want you to know I’m not just flirting. This isn’t a phase for me. I’m not interested in beating Will or Charles. I’m interested in you.”

I swallowed hard. “Joe, this is…”

“A lot?” he offered.

“Amazing,” I corrected, voice barely above a whisper.

And just like that, the rest of the world blurred.

We sat on the blanket, eating lukewarm chips and laughing about the day’s chaos on set. He didn’t push. Didn’t expect anything. He just was honest and open and unfiltered.

At one point, I rested my head on his shoulder, and he didn’t move or tense or make a joke.

He just said, “I know it’s messy. But I’m here. However long it takes.”

And that? That might’ve been the moment I felt the scales tip.

When I walked onto set the next morning, something was… off.

Not the usual chaos of someone forgetting to charge the fake blood pumps, or an extra passing out from heat in full military gear. No, this was personal.

I could feel it in the way Will glanced up from his script a second too long before forcing a smile.

Or the way Charles, always the first to greet me with a wink or cheeky line, simply nodded from his chair, jaw a bit too tight.

I knew immediately.

They knew.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. This set was worse than high school everyone knew everything within 24 hours, especially when Joseph had somehow managed to hijack catering staff, interns, and Will’s actual blanket.

Still, the awkwardness made my stomach coil.

Joseph gave me a small smile as I passed him in the corridor, a sort of soft reassurance that made my cheeks heat. But even he looked a little uneasy, as if he knew he’d crossed a line with the other guys.

And to be fair… he had.

By lunch, the tension had gone from awkward to borderline unbearable.

Charles cornered me outside the trailers, sunglasses perched on his head, chewing a protein bar like it had personally offended him.

“So,” he started casually, “romantic picnic in a fake battlefield, huh?”

I sighed. “Charles”

“Look, I’m not mad,” he cut in, holding up a hand. “I just didn’t realise we were doing all that. Thought we were still in the friendly banter, cheeky flirting phase. But hey, if Joe’s pulling out grand gestures, I’m not about to lose this without putting up a fight.”

And with that, he walked off leaving me standing there, slightly horrified and oddly flattered.

Will found me later in the make-up trailer, staring into my kit like the fake scab materials held all of life’s answers.

He slid onto the stool next to me. “You alright?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… navigating some unexpected theatrics.”

Will gave a small chuckle. “You mean Joe’s battlefield picnic?”

I winced. “Word really travels.”

He shrugged. “He used my blanket. Not exactly subtle.”

“Are you… angry?”

Will shook his head, thoughtful. “No. Maybe a bit gutted. But mostly annoyed at myself for not doing something sooner.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

He looked me straight in the eye, that soft steadiness I always admired settling into his gaze.

“I’ve been playing it safe. Flirting here and there, sharing snacks, waiting for the right moment. But I should’ve known I was never really the only one seeing how brilliant you are.”

My heart thudded. “Will…”

“I’m not here to compete,” he said. “I’m here to make sure you know how I feel. So… I booked us something. Not a picnic. Something better.”

I frowned. “Better?”

He grinned, sheepish. “A massage van. Full service. Hot stones, aromatherapy, all of it. Comes tonight after wrap. I figured… you never stop. You’re always looking after everyone else, fixing bruises and burns and gore. Thought maybe you deserved someone to look after you.”

I genuinely didn’t know what to say. My chest felt tight and not in the bad way.

“You booked me a massage?”

Will shrugged, that signature soft smile returning. “You deserve to feel good. Even if just for an hour.”

I was already tearing up when he added, “And I’ll be waiting outside with hot chocolate. No pressure. Just company.”

And just like that… another gesture. Another moment where one of them saw me not the game, not the flirting me.

Later that night, after the massage (which nearly made me weep from sheer relief), I stepped out of the van to find Will exactly where he said he’d be. Sat on a bench, two cups of hot chocolate in hand, a blanket over his shoulders.

We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to.

And if that wasn’t confusing enough, the next morning was Charles’ turn.

I entered the make-up trailer to find my station… transformed.

A bouquet of sunflowers sat next to my brushes, a ridiculous gold crown with “Queen of the Set” written in glitter letters, and a laminated list titled “101 Reasons Why Charles Melton Thinks You’re Bloody Brilliant.”

I was already laughing when he poked his head in. “Too much?”

“Yes,” I said, grinning, “and also exactly right.”

He winked. “Good. I’m not losing to British manners or battlefield candlelight. War is war.”

Three men. Three gestures. Three very different ways of saying, I see you. I want you. Choose me.

And me? I was absolutely spiralling.

Because it wasn’t just a game anymore. It was real. And soon, I’d have to stop smiling my way through the chaos and actually face the fire.

But for now… I was going to enjoy the warmth.

Pick your own ending

Joseph ending

Will ending

Charles ending

[birdofwildness]

⋆.♡.ᐟ˚Endings and beginnings

⋆.♡.ᐟ˚Tom Riddle

summary:: Tom Riddle tries being a normal person for the last time and kisses reader

warnings:: boring writing,sad ending (just a little)

I sat behind him.

Not by choice—at least not consciously. My body moved, sat, as it always did, but something in me had already shifted. I just knew something was coming, though everything around me was still quiet.

The classroom was cold. The kind of cold that seeps from stone, from old walls that have forgotten warmth. Slughorn was speaking—his voice always reminded me of lukewarm tea. Students around me were scribbling, mumbling, the scratch of quills like insects against the silence. But I was looking ahead. Too caught up in doing nothing.

Tom Riddle didn’t move.

I noticed, he doesn't belong here, not really. He was too precise for a student.

I didn’t know what I was looking for in him.

I didn’t even want to know.

And yet, when he spoke—just a reply, a passing comment about potion ingredients—his voice struck something in me. It wasn’t deep, it wasn’t soft. It was hollow.

I lowered my gaze. I didn’t want him to see me.

“For the next task you will have to work in pair,” said Slughorn. “You'll have to make a very complex potion. It requires sensitivity, precision, a shared rhythm. Today’s task is the Memory-Welling Draught.”

Memory-Welling.

Someone could have laughed. Like a phrase from a children’s book. But anyone who knew what the potion did… wouldn’t laugh. Not even a little. One sip, and the memories surface—not the ones you reach for, but the ones buried. The ones that live under the floorboards of the soul. The ones you were sure had rotted away by now.

A tension spread through the room.I was sure everyone felt it. This wasn’t going to be an ordinary class.

“You're partner will be the closest one to you physically.” he continued, cheerfully oblivious. “Unexpected combinations are often the most enlightening.”

In that moment, I wished I had my friend with me. That I could melt into the ink stains on my desk, or disappear into the stone, unnoticed, unspoken.

“You can all start” he looked at everyone. And suddenly, the air got heavier.

I didn’t look at Riddle nor the teacher. I only held my wand tighter. I couldn’t say why I was afraid—after all, this was just a potion, not a battlefield.

He moved toward me—slowly, deliberately.

He sat beside me.

And for the first time, I caught his scent. It wasn’t perfume. Not a potion either. Something like...Dusty books. Dried magic. Something that couldn’t be named.

“Are you ready?” he asked, quietly.

I didn’t speak. I just nodded.

The book lay open between us, like a silent truce. We didn’t speak. We worked. He chopped the roots, I stirred the brew. Sometimes we switched. There was no disagreement. There was no need.

The potion was starting to take shape. There was nothing dramatic about it—no sparks, no burst of color—but it had its own rhythm. Slow and steady, like a fevered dream that hasn’t yet decided whether to break or deepen.

Riddle said nothing, but he was watching. I could feel it—the way his gaze brushed over me now and then, not lingering, just checking.

Then, quietly, he spoke.

“You’re skilled,” he said, plainly. It wasn’t a compliment. More like a statement.

I looked up to him, but he didn’t look back. He continuee stirring the potion.

“Why do you hide it?”

The question landed like a blade—I could pick it up. Or walk away.

“What?” I asked, though some part of me already knew what he meant.

Now he looked at me. Fully. Without flinching, without expression. Just seeing.

He didn’t say anything else.And neither did I.

We turned back to the potion. Quietly. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was something else. Like a fragile thread strung tight between two trees, humming faintly in the wind.

We worked.

One of us adjusted the flame. The other measured the last ingredient. The pages of the book shifted with the breeze from the draughty windows, but we didn’t need them anymore. Our hands moved with certainty. Coordination without speech.

By the time the hourglass ran empty, the potion in our cauldron had turned a translucent silver-grey, soft and slow-moving like smoke in deep water. No hiss. No crack. Just a quiet shimmer.

Slughorn wandered by, rubbing his belly as if that helped him think.

“Well now,” he said, peering into the cauldron with what seemed like genuine surprise. “That’s nearly perfect. In fact—” He chuckled. “Yes, better than perfect. Not a trace of bitterness, look at that. Very good.”

We didn’t answer.

Tom nodded once, without smiling. I kept my hands folded on the edge of the desk. There was nothing to say.

A few days had passed. Not many—three, maybe four—but just enough for everything to shift slightly, and yet remain exactly the same.

We hadn’t spoken since.

There hadn’t been a need.

I was in the library, seated at a forgotten desk tucked deep in the northern wing, where the light always seemed dimmer, even at midday. Outside the tall windows, the afternoon stretched grey and still—like the air before rain, holding its breath.

The book in front of me was heavy. Not just in weight, but in the way certain words are—dense, folded in on themselves. Ancient spells. Theories half-erased by time. It wasn’t assigned. I wasn’t reading for class. I was reading for the silence.

The world was quiet here. Quieter than usual. Just the soft rustle of parchment, the scratch of a quill a few shelves down. And the steady sound of my own breathing, like waves hitting the edge of something I hadn’t yet named.

Footsteps, soft and deliberate, barely broke the stillness. Not hurried, not hesitant—just measured, like someone who had already decided where they were going long before they took the first step.

I felt him before I saw him.

Tom Riddle moved through the aisles like a thought forming mid-sentence. Silent. Certain. He wasn’t carrying any books. He didn’t seem to be searching for one either. He walked as if he belonged not just to the space—but to the silence itself.

When he stopped, it was beside my table.

For a few seconds, he said nothing. Neither did I.

Then, quietly, he reached for the shelf above me and pulled down a thin, dark volume—Anatomies of Influence: Magic Through the Mind. The leather binding creaked faintly in his hand.

Only then did he glance at me.

“Strange choice of reading,” he said, not as a judgment, but as a key turned slowly in a door.

I didn’t answer right away. I closed my book halfway, not as a reaction—more like punctuation.

“And yours?” I asked, looking at the spine in his hand.

He turned the book slightly, then back again. “Curiosity,” he replied. “Sometimes the wrong texts hold the right questions.”

His eyes didn’t leave mine.

Neither of us smiled.

And yet something passed between us. Like ink soaking through thin paper—silent, irreversible.

He looked at the empty chair across from me.

“Is this taken?”

I shook my head, once. A small gesture, like brushing dust from a page.

Tom sat.

For a few moments, we both turned back to our books. The silence resumed—but now it was different. Not solitude. Not exactly company. Something in between. Parallel lines sharing the same gravity.

He spoke without lifting his eyes.

“You read with intent.”

I glanced up. “Is there any other way?”

He gave a quiet sound—almost a laugh, though too precise for that. “Plenty read to pass the time. Or to look clever.”

“And you?”

“I read to recognize.”

That hung there, between us, like a phrase from a foreign language you almost understand but dare not translate.

“To recognize what?”

He looked at me fully then, like he had in the Potions classroom. The same stillness in his face. The same searching behind his gaze.

“Patterns,” he said. “Weaknesses. Origins. People.”

I closed my book completely now.

The light from the tall windows faded slightly—clouds gathering outside, maybe. Or perhaps it was just the way time moves differently in the company of someone who doesn’t waste it.

Neither of us moved to leave.

Looking back, I couldn’t tell you the exact moment we became friends.

There was no sudden shift, no grand gesture. Just… small things. An exchanged book. A glance held a little too long across a room. A shared silence that neither of us tried to fill.

He never asked me personal questions. Never pried. But he listened when I spoke, even when I wasn’t saying much at all.

And sometimes, he said things I didn’t know I needed to hear—like he could see the words forming before I dared speak them.

It was friendship the way some people fall asleep:

Slowly, and then completely.

...

We were somewhere else now. Not the library, not the classroom. A hallway neither of us had reason to be in. Empty, cold, quiet. The castle had strange pockets like that—places that forgot themselves.

The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was aware. Thick with all the things we hadn’t said yet.

His eyes didn’t leave mine.

I should have walked away.

But I didn’t.

He stepped forward. Not fast. Just… finally.

There was no warning. No question.

Only closeness—like heat before flame.

And then his hand was at my jaw, gentle but sure, and his mouth touched mine like he’d been thinking about it for a long time but never dared name it aloud.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t rough.

It was certain.

A kiss like a decision.

The kiss landed like a seal pressed into wax—quiet, final, undeniable. It wasn’t searching. It wasn’t soft. It was measured, like everything he did, and yet there was something deeper under it—something restrained, almost breaking.

His other hand found my waist, careful, but firm. Mine stayed at my sides for a moment too long before I let them rise, unsure, to his collar.

Our mouths moved with the same control we always carried in words, but the silence said more than anything we could have spoken.

He kissed me like he’d already seen how it would end—and chose to do it anyway.

And when he finally pulled back, his face was close enough that I could feel the breath he exhaled, slow and steady.

whispered:

“This won’t last.”

I didn’t pull away. “Why not?”

“I can’t afford this,” he said, quieter now. As if speaking too loud might make the feeling more real.

I studied him—his eyes, his jaw, the way his fingers still held me like he hadn’t quite decided whether to let go or never move again.

“Then why even try?” I asked, not bitterly. Just… honestly. Like someone standing at the edge of something too deep to name.

He looked at me like I’d said the one thing he couldn’t answer. But he did.

“Even I wanted to feel what it’s like to be normal,” he said, voice low, steady, like a confession made to the dark. “Just once. Before I become everything I’m meant to be.”

The air felt heavier then. As if the castle itself had heard him.

I didn’t reply. What could I have said? That I wished he didn’t have to choose? That I wished this—us—could be more than a pause in his becoming?

But I knew him.

And I knew that pauses don’t last.

Not in his story.

So I let the silence fall again.

And in that silence, we both knew:

This wasn’t the beginning of something.

It was the memory of what could never be.

[joyful-lurker]

ONYS STORM SPOILERS!!!

I know there's a lot of people out there who think the venin brother is garrick, and there's all these theories around, but surely we're seeing it's Bhodi? All the dots line up. It's all the same writing of being plainly there but not explicitly stated like every other reveal that's happened in the books. He has the motive - not being 'strong' enough to fight the venin with his signet. He has the opportunity - Rebecca has always told us to look who's missing, and he disappears from the action after his powers don't work. He clearly isn't in charge of tyrrendor at the end of the book when he's the heir and the clear successor if Xaden is out of commission. It's also always pointed out how similar he is to Xaden, the other person we know about who turned in the heat of battle because he didn't have enough power to fight the venin. I'm not shitting on anyone for their theories. Variety is the spice of life, and you pop off with your theories. That's what makes these book fandoms fun, honestly. But let's be clear, all the evidence says it's Bhodi.

[attractthecrows]

brooo i hate having Dreams That Piss You Off i woke up all pissed off at NOTHIIINNNNNGGGGG

[skibasyndrome]

So one thing I've always loved about uni/studying/learning new things is when you have different subjects or different tiny dots of knowledge and slowly, as you learn more and more, those tiny splashes of knowledge are becoming less isolated, and you realize that it's all connected and - at least with my subjects being in the humanities - you sort of “unlock” this new perspective on a certain aspect of the human condition. And like, that's fun enough and - if I'm being honest - probably my favorite thing about studying already as it is, BUT NOW, now that I've finally gotten back into writing as a hobby this is just ANOTHER dimension for me to expand that knowledge into and to use that knowledge for. And I am absolutely living for it. So happy to be back on my bullshit and so happy to be at a place in my life where these two passions of mine fit so seamlessly together and one passion benefits from the other and vice versa

[kingkaisen]

𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒!

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: JJK men & their nasty, perverted habits . . . ft. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, & choso.

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: MINORS DNI — fem! reader, reader wears a dress, drinking, smut, grinding, whining, riding, masturbation, panty stealing, touching, creampie, penetration, unprotected, etc.

𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒𝐘! - NANAMI

Kento Nanami is a gentleman.

He always opens doors for you, never shows up late for dates, and is truly an old-fashioned romantic.

However, he just can’t keep his hands to himself.

The two of you are attending an important gathering related to his corporate job. There’s expensive drinks, classical music, and soft chatter.

You and Nanami make your way around, engaging in small talk while sipping on champagne, and Nanami’s large hand is pressed against your back.

You’re having a conversation with the wife of his boss, and Nanami’s hand starts to go lower and lower, and he grabs your ass rather quickly. You keep your composure, but Nanami’s breath hitches a bit as he clears his throat.

Feeling your ass, even just for a second, was starting to make him lose control.

“Sorry, if you’ll excuse us for a moment,” Nanami suddenly says before dragging you away.

He takes you into one of the bathrooms and shoves you up against the sink.

“Kento,” you whine. “We’re at a gathering.”

“I know,” he whispers into your ear. “I just can’t keep my hands off of you.”

Nanami starts to grind his hard, clothed dick against your ass, moaning softly.

You simply looked too phenomenal in that dress. As his hard cock strains painfully against the fabric of his pants, the only form of relief came when your ass rubbed against it.

“We need to leave,” he grips your hips, pressing himself against you even more as you gripped the edges of the bathroom counter. “If I don’t take you home now, I’ll cum right in my pants.”

𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐑! - GOJO

Satoru Gojo was ready to stuff you with his seed as soon as you both made it home after your wedding.

He had often dreamed about having children with you, but in particular, he wanted to fill you up until he couldn’t physically cum anymore.

Gojo thrusted in and out of you at a quick pace. His hand was pressed underneath your knee as he held your leg back, as close to your chest as he could. You could feel him inside of you even more that way. The thick veins running along his cock rubbed your walls deliciously, and the way your body jerked from his thrusts were starting to make you dizzy.

And he couldn’t get enough. By now, he had finished inside of you already, but he had to do it a second time. Perhaps, a third time as well.

His balls tightened as another orgasm started to overwhelm him, and he groaned.

“I’m gonna cum again, baby,” he warned. “I’m gonna cum deep inside of you. You’re gonna take it all for me, right?”

You nodded eagerly.

“I gotta fill you up — I have to.” As another load of his cum shot out of his aching dick and inside of you, he pressed a hand down against your stomach.

“You feel it?” He continued to thrust and moan. He needed to stuff you as much as he could. “You feel my cum, don’t you?”

“There’s so much of it,” you said with a soft moan.

He was still cumming and cumming, and it didn’t seem like he would ever stop. And, god, he hoped he wouldn’t somehow.

𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇! - GETO

Suguru Geto was a man who always knew what to say. His words were always powerful and wise.

They were also downright filthy, too.

No matter where you both were — at dinner in a nice restaurant, in the movie theater, at the airport — Geto couldn’t help but press his lips against your ear, and whisper something he knew would get your panties wet.

Today in particular, you were both at the grocery store, waiting in line patiently with a cart full of food.

Suddenly, Geto pressed himself against your backside. To nearby shoppers, he simply seemed like an affectionate partner, but you knew what was coming.

Geto leaned down a bit, his warm breath patting against your ear.

“Let’s head home after this. I really wanna eat your pussy before dinner. Let’s see how much of your cum I can swallow.”

“Suguru,” you whispered softly. “We’re in public.”

“No one can hear me, sweet girl. I bet I could reach my hand into your pants and rub your clit, and no one would notice. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I-”

“Shhh,” he smiled a bit, although you couldn’t see it. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait until we get home, but once we do, we’re gonna fuck and fuck all night long.”

He gave your ear a slow, little lick, and stepped away from you, grinning as he started to put the groceries on the conveyor belt.

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐘! - CHOSO

“Please,” a soft, desperate whine fell from Choso’s lips. “Make me cum again, please.”

The gorgeous guy started to squirm around beneath you, attempting to raise his hips, chasing the feeling of your tight cunt around him.

“Ride me again,” Choso gripped your hips. “Please ride me again.”

He couldn’t wait any longer. Slowly, he started to glide you up and down along his cock, moaning softly.

“You’re so impatient,” you teased. Despite your words, you helped him out by pressing your hands against his chest, and riding him once again.

“Oh my god,” Choso whispered. “Feels so good. Don’t stop, okay? I need to cum again.”

Your pussy milked his cock until he could no longer form any coherent sentences.

“Baby, please . . . shit, baby. I can’t hold it, I can’t- please, oh fuck.”

Moan after moan fell from between his pretty lips, and without warning — he couldn’t speak well enough to say anything — Choso shot another load of cum right inside of you.

You both paused to catch your breath, but not for long, as Choso started to squirm around once again.

“Another,” he whined softly. “Don’t stop, please. Do it again . . . I wanna cum again.”

𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑! - TOJI

When Toji Fushiguro asked to come to your house, you thought nothing of it.

It wasn’t unusual for him to come over, but little did you know, he had a habit of snooping around.

He liked to see what kind of things you had in your home, and eventually, he knew by heart what brand of toothpaste you preferred and whether you kept certain condiments in the fridge or in the cabinet.

But, his favorite place to snoop was in your bedroom.

Often, he’d say, “I’m gonna go piss,” while getting up from the couch and making his way down the hall. But he never went into the bathroom.

He’d go into your bedroom instead and open your drawer, growing hard at the sight of your undergarments.

He’d typically just steal one pair of panties and shove them into his pocket.

But it wasn’t good enough.

After all, your underwear smelled like detergent. It didn’t smell like you — or, more specifically, your sweet pussy.

That was when he snuck into your laundry room and went into your dirty clothes hamper, digging until he found the perfect pair of used panties.

He shoved them into his pocket, and returned to the living room.

Later on, when he got home, he put those panties right into his mouth, jerking off as he daydreamed about eating your pussy. It was magical, especially now that he knew how it would taste.

Then, he laced those panties around his hard cock, fucking his fist as he shot load after load into the soft material, moaning your name as he did so.

🏷: @sad-darksoul