#or when they draw him with tiny wings... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vanteguccir · 2 months ago

Note

OKAY BUT IMAGINE the very time you ever mention kids around either Matt or Chris. like the relationship is getting serious yknow, and you just casually mention ‘our kids are gonna be so cute’ or ‘do you think they’ll have your eyes or mine?’ like they would absolutely LOSE IT. they would get all gushy and instantly be like ‘we can make one right now’ or ‘we can practice for the future’

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤOUR KIDS ARE GONNA BE CUTE * MATT STURNIOLO * BLURB

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N mentions her thoughts about their future children to Matt for the first time, and he absolutely lose it.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader

WARNINGS　::　Mentions of becoming parents.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The air smelled like warm vanilla from Y/N's candle burning on the coffee table, and the only sounds were the faint hum of a playlist Matt had thrown on shuffle and the occasional rustling of a blanket being adjusted.

Y/N and Matt were on the floor of the living room, a mess of art supplies spread out between them.

It had started as a joke when Matt pointed at his last drawing glued to the fridge, making some comment about never being able to color inside the lines as a kid, and Y/N had promptly pulled out one of those oversized coloring books meant for children, the ones with thick, black-outlined cartoons and pages that smelled like paper from an elementary school classroom.

So now, here they were, stomach-down on the living room floor, legs bent at the knees and swinging absentmindedly while Y/N concentrated on shading in a cartoonish giraffe. Matt was beside her, hunched over a page with his tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he attempted to color a macaw in different shades of blue.

"This is always so relaxing." Matt muttered, switching to a green crayon to shade the macaw wing. "Think' m'brain just shut off in the best way."

Y/N hummed in agreement, watching the way his fingers moved, slightly calloused from years of gripping drumsticks and gaming controllers, now delicately holding a crayon as if it were something precious.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Y/N sighed contently and let her head drop against her arm, admiring the half-colored giraffe in front of her.

"Our kids are gonna be so cute coloring together. Imagine them coming to us with a new drawing every day."

It was such a casual, passing comment, said with the same energy as commenting on the weather. But the moment the words left her lips, the entire room seemed to freeze.

Actually, no. Matt froze.

Like, completely.

His fingers went slack. The tiny crayon rolled off and disappeared somewhere into the carpet, but he didn’t even register it.

Our kids.

His heart did a backflip. Then another. Then it practically shot into orbit.

Y/N, still focused on her giraffe, didn’t notice the way that his posture went rigid, or how he turned his head to look at her as fast as humanly possible, blue eyes wide and blinking like she had just uttered the most beautiful words in the English language.

Our kids.

She said our kids.

Matt inhaled sharply, trying to calm the way his chest was suddenly tight with love.

"What?" His voice came out slightly choked.

Y/N glanced up at him, eyebrows raising slightly at his reaction.

"What?" She echoed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Did I- was that weird?"

Matt shook his head rapidly, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to form a sentence, but his brain had just blue-screened.

"No! No, no, no, it’s not weird, it’s just-" He exhaled sharply, then, out of nowhere, let out an actual whine, burying his face in his hands.

Y/N blinked.

"Matt?"

"I’m gonna lose my mind." He groaned dramatically, peeking at her through his fingers.

His milky skin was now flushed in a deep shade of pink, and his big eyes were so ridiculously, stupidly soft that it made Y/N’s heart stutter.

"You can’t just say that out of nowhere, baby. I was not prepared. I was having a normal, peaceful time, and then you just drop that on me?"

Y/N’s lips twitched in amusement.

"Drop what? That our kids are gonna be cute?"

Matt let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a strangled gasp, as if he physically could not handle the sheer concept of it. He shot up onto his knees, ignoring the slight pain coming from his ankle with the moviments and placing both hands on Y/N’s cheeks with sudden urgency.

"Say it again."

Y/N giggled, tilting her head.

"What, that our kids-"

"Angel, I swear to God, you’re gonna put me in an early grave." He looked like he was having a full existential crisis, running a hand through his hair before gripping the back of his neck as if trying to steady himself. "Can we make one right now? I'm fully prepared to be a dad, just realized it-"

Y/N burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder lightly.

"Matthew!"

"I’m being so serious." He insisted, grabbing Y/N’s hands and squeezing them like a man possessed. "You don’t understand, baby. I love kids. I’ve always loved kids. And then you’re here, coloring next to me, saying words like ‘our kids,’ and now I can't stop thinking of a mini mix of me and you coloring in our living room."

Y/N swore she felt her heart physically swell, tilting her head and observing his gentle expression.

"... Do you think they’ll have your eyes or mine? Because, personally, I think they’d look adorable with your eyes."

"Matt." She whispered, a little overwhelmed by how utterly, devastatingly in love with him she was in that moment.

His face softened even more, which Y/N hadn’t even thought was possible.

"I’m serious." He murmured, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You see a future with me like that? Do you really?"

Y/N nodded without hesitation.

"Of course, I do. The prettiest and most perfect future."

His expression melted into something so tender that it made Y/N’s chest ache. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath tickling her upper lip.

"Good." He whispered. "Because I think about that all the time. And now I’m never gonna stop thinking about it."

Y/N smiled, nudging her nose against his.

"So, we’re in agreement?"

Matt grinned, eyes twinkling.

"Our kids are gonna be very cute."

1K notes · View notes

tender-rosiey · 4 months ago

Note

SUKUNA AND HIS SHY DAUGHTER BONDING TIME WHEN?!?! Reader can be present and discreetly takes their pictures (sukuna pretends not to notice).

guided lines — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: congrats we now have cameras in the heian era and BIG BIG thanks to @bluebell33 and @soupie-writer for beta-reading <33

it’s a quiet afternoon in the heian household, the kind of stillness that comes after the chaos of the morning has settled.

the courtyard is bathed in golden sunlight, casting soft shadows along the wooden floorboards, and the faint rustle of the wind carries the scent of blooming wisteria.

you lean against the doorframe, peeking through the slightly open shoji screen into the courtyard where your husband and daughter are seated.

it’s a rare sight to see sukuna like this—relaxed, unguarded, the sharp lines of his usual stoicism softened as he sits cross-legged on the floor.

your daughter sits opposite him, her tiny hands clutching a paintbrush far too large for her delicate fingers.

the scroll of parchment between them is already half-filled with colorful smudges and haphazard lines, a far cry from anything artistic, but, hey, the effort is there.

“hold it properly,” sukuna instructs, his deep voice carrying just enough patience to make you pause in the hallway.

he reaches out to adjust her grip, his large hand completely engulfing her tiny one as he guides the brush to the paper.

she ducks her head shyly, murmuring a soft, “okay, papa.”

you bite back a smile, the term still so foreign yet so endearing coming from her lips.

sukuna doesn’t respond, at least not verbally, but his movements slow as he helps her make another stroke on the parchment.

you slip inside quietly, camera in hand.

sukuna had gifted it to you on a whim months ago, claiming he had no use for “trivial inventions,” but you’d quickly discovered his disinterest didn’t extend to being the subject of your photos.

he always pretends not to notice, but you’ve caught the subtle shifts in his posture whenever he knows your lens is trained on him—straightening his back, tilting his chin just slightly.

raising the camera to your eye, you adjust the focus, the scene coming into view with perfect clarity:

sukuna’s broad frame hunched slightly as he leans closer to d/n, his expression uncharacteristically soft, her tiny fingers smudged with ink and her lips pursed in concentration.

the sunlight catches the faint scar over his nose, the curve of his jawline, the tension in his hands as if he’s holding back his full strength.

click.

the sound is quiet, but his ear twitches ever so slightly, and you know he’s caught on. he doesn’t look at you, though, his attention remaining fixed on the little girl in front of him.

“what is that supposed to be?” he asks, nodding toward the splotchy shape she’s drawn.

“a bird,” she whispers, the pink in her cheeks deepening.

he raises a brow, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s about to tease her—sukuna’s sense of humor is sharp, often cutting, and you’ve had your fair share of exasperated sighs directed his way.

but instead, he tilts his head thoughtfully, as if trying to see it from her perspective.

“it…has wings,” he says finally, and her face lights up, a smile spreading across her features.

“you think so?”

“it’s obvious,” he replies, though his tone is far from dismissive. “draw another.”

you stifle a laugh, adjusting your position to capture another angle.

sukuna’s patience with a child isn’t something you’d ever expected to witness, let alone document, and it’s a side of him you treasure more than you’ll ever let on.

click.

this time, his gaze flickers toward you, just for a split second. it’s not a glare—more of a warning, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying his amusement.

you grin back at him, unrepentant, and he huffs quietly before returning his attention to your daughter.

“your brushwork is sloppy,” he comments as she attempts another bird, her little hands trembling slightly as she draws a lopsided wing.

“I’m trying,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible.

he leans back slightly, his arms resting on his knees as he watches her.

“try harder,” he says, but there’s no edge to his tone, only a challenge—a nudge toward improvement.

click.

this time, d/n notices, her wide eyes darting toward you. “mama, what are you doing?”

“nothing,” you lie, lowering the camera with a sheepish smile. “just admiring my two favorite people.”

she beams, but sukuna groans, dragging a hand down his face. “stop filling her head with nonsense,” he mutters, though the faintest hint of pink dusts his ears.

“it’s not nonsense,” you argue, stepping closer and crouching beside them.

d/n immediately crawls into your lap, clutching her brush in one hand and smearing ink on your sleeve in the process. you don’t mind, your focus entirely on the man in front of you.

she giggles, resting her head against your chest as you pull her close.

“papa’s really good at drawing,” she says, pointing at the bird he’d drawn earlier as an example. “he helped me with mine.”

sukuna shrugs, “someone had to make it look like a bird.”

you laugh, the sound light and warm, and his eyes linger on you for just a moment longer than necessary.

it’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you know him well enough to catch it—the way his gaze softens, the way his shoulders relax just slightly.

later that evening, after your daughter has fallen asleep, you’re sorting through the photos on your camera, sukuna seated beside you on the porch.

he doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his presence, the quiet strength of him a comforting weight at your side.

“you know,” you say, breaking the silence, “I think these might be my favorite pictures yet.”

he glances at the screen, his expression unreadable. “you’re too sentimental.”

“maybe,” you admit, leaning your head against his shoulder. “but I can’t help it. you’re both so... precious to me.”

he doesn’t respond, and you take it as a sign for the comfortable silence to take over again.

but your husband presses a kiss to the top of your head that leaves you speechless till the end of the night.

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author

@libbyistired @anon1412@maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee @lifeisadumpie @guacam011y @kurooandkenmasslut @callmemirro @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @dindjarins1ut @candy-s72 @lulumi1u @yoko7658 @c4xcocoa @ohio-gyatt-mega-sigma-rizzler @llawlietluv

do not copy or plagiarize or I will kiss you

check out my buy me a coffee!

#jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #jjk x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen x you #ryomen x you #ryomen x y/n #ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk sukuna x reader #sukuna fanfic #sukuna fluff

1K notes · View notes

luv-lock · 15 days ago

Text

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSTAR MANㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Platonic Alexander Sartorius x Child Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What If He Become Obsessed With a Lonely Little Girl?

☆⁠ NOTES : I already wrote that but yet again, it's a pure platonic fic. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It started with a cough. Yours.

You were just a little thing — no older than eight or nine. Scrawny, wide-eyed, draped in a secondhand coat too big for your shoulders, wandering around Gotham’s decaying hospital district with a ratty backpack and a box of chalk. Drawing hearts and cats on the sidewalks. Coughing a little too hard. Breathing in too much Gotham air.

That’s when he saw you.

Not clearly. He was hiding — always hiding — behind shadowed alleyways, behind vents, behind his own damn curse of a body. Dr. Phosphorus: a man more ghost than flesh, a body lit from the inside out with a radioactive hellfire that never dies.

You should’ve screamed. But you didn’t.

You stared at him. Big, unblinking eyes. Tilted your head. Like a child seeing a bonfire flicker in the cold. You didn’t run. Didn’t cry. You just said:

"You look like the stars."

And that was it.

He told himself it was just curiosity.

A child's innocence. A one-off encounter. He wouldn’t linger. Couldn’t. He was a monster, a pariah — rejected by science, abandoned by Gotham, burned from the inside out because of corporate betrayal. His body melted and fused into something no longer human. He hated children. Hated their purity, their softness, their loudness.

But you came back.

Every day. Drawing chalk suns and moons. Sometimes you brought flowers and left them by the rusted fence where you’d seen him. Sometimes you talked to the shadows — asked if he liked kittens. If he liked candy. If he was lonely.

He never answered. But he listened.

Then he began to follow you.

Silently. Carefully. Never too close. You had no one. No mother. No father. Gotham chewed people like you up and spat them out. But you were different — a tiny sunbeam in this diseased city. You shared your food with pigeons. Hugged stray cats. Drew wings on the sides of old buildings. You had such hope.

And somehow, he started to believe that if he watched over you… if he kept you safe… maybe his life wasn’t entirely without meaning.

It got worse when you got sick.

A fever. Nothing serious, but your little body was weak. Maybe from the Gotham air. Maybe from the cold. He hovered outside your squat shelter all night, watching you shake under the threadbare blanket. He couldn’t touch you. He’d burn you. His very presence was toxic.

So he left food. Medicine. Blankets. Stolen, yes — but necessary. The next morning, you smiled weakly and whispered to the shadows:

"Thank you, star man."

He didn’t sleep for days.

He started killing again.

Only people who hurt children. Only abusers. Dealers. Monsters. People who looked at you too long when you walked down the street. People who would’ve hurt you if he hadn’t stepped in.

Their corpses burned to ash, leaving no trace. No witnesses.

He told himself it was justice. A cleansing fire. But truthfully?

It was because you were the only thing in this world that hadn’t flinched at the sight of him.

He became obsessed with your laughter.

You didn’t do it often. But when you did — when a dog licked your face, or a balloon flew into your hands — it was music. Something pure. Something human. Something that made the burning inside him rage with something that almost felt like life.

He’d do anything to protect that sound.

He began following you everywhere. School (when you went). Stores. Shelters. You never saw him, but sometimes you left chalk drawings where you’d seen him last. Stick figures of a girl and a man made of flame. You named him "Mr. Star."

Then one night, someone hurt you.

A mugger. Just a kid himself, desperate, shaking, holding a knife. You were trying to give him your sandwich.

Alexander burned him down to the bone.

You saw him. Glowing, radioactive, his skull lit like a lantern, fire rising from his ribs — a creature from hell. You screamed, this time. Fell backwards. Cried.

He froze.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at your tearful, terrified face.

And then you reached out with a shaking hand and whispered:

“Please don’t go.”

That night, he began speaking to you.

Just once. Then again. And again. Always at night. Always hidden. But you got used to it. You told him about your day. He told you stories from when he was still human — about science, about the stars, about how he used to dream of curing cancer. He spoke like a ghost trying to remember what it was to be a man.

He warned you never to touch him. He was fire, poison. A living reactor.

But you called him your guardian angel.

Now he lives for you.

You are his redemption. The last flicker of light in a world that turned him into a monster. He doesn’t care about revenge anymore. Not really. Not when you’re smiling. Not when you’re safe.

He watches you sleep from rooftops. Follows you like a shadow. Whispers your name in the dark when he thinks you can’t hear.

You call him “Star Man.”

And though he knows he’ll never be human again…

He thinks, just maybe, he can be your star.

The nights in Gotham are always cold. Even in summer.

The shadows are long, the air tastes like smoke, and you’ve learned to recognize the scent of ash that trails behind him.

Even when you don’t see him, you talk like he’s listening.

And he is.

He always is.

You sit on the edge of an abandoned apartment building roof, legs swinging off the side like you don’t know gravity exists. There’s a blanket around your shoulders — he left it there yesterday. It doesn’t smell like fire, like the others. This one smells like him.

Ash. Sulfur. Ozone. Burnt electricity. You tell yourself it smells like the inside of a thundercloud.

You like it.

"You know," you say to the night, mouth full of a peanut butter sandwich (also him), "they say the stars are already dead when we see 'em. But you're still here. So… maybe you're not really a star. Maybe you're a ghost."

Silence.

A pause.

Then — behind the smoke pipe, in a corner of the rooftop where his burning body won’t light up the world — his voice rumbles low, tired, sad.

“Would it matter?”

You smile. You always smile when he talks. You swear his voice makes your ribs feel warm — but not from heat. From something softer.

You hug the blanket tighter.

“It matters to me.”

He doesn’t know why that makes his chest ache.

There’s no blood left in his heart. No muscle. Just fire. So why does it hurt?

Why does he want to cry when you look at him and don’t flinch?

You keep coming back.

Every night. Same rooftop. Same little rituals. Chalk drawings. Rooftop tea parties with stolen mugs and boiled rainwater. He never drinks. He can’t. You know that. So you pour his into a metal bowl and tell him to pretend.

He always does.

You tell him about school — the weird girl who eats erasers, the mean boy who pushed you, the teacher who called you “special” because you always stare out the window during math.

“I stare because I’m waiting for you.”

You say it so easily.

And his hands tremble — glowing bones, flickering like dying coals.

One night, you fall asleep on the roof.

Just curl up, hoodie tucked under your head, arms around your stuffed rabbit (you named it Phos — after him).

He can’t leave.

He sits there, a few feet away, hands clenched so tightly the flames flicker out for a moment. He watches your chest rise and fall. Your nose scrunch. The way you call for him in your sleep.

“Star Man…”

No one’s ever said his name like it matters before.

He almost touches you.

Almost reaches out a hand.

But he stops.

He can’t. He’ll burn you. Poison you. Ruin you.

So he stays the night, like a gargoyle — monstrous, glowing, immobile — guarding you from a world that never gave you what you deserved.

The next day, you don’t come.

Or the next.

He panics.

Wanders Gotham like a ghost on fire. Flickers through alleyways. Leaves scorch marks on pavement. Murders a man who tried to snatch a girl who looked a little like you in the dark.

He doesn’t care.

He just keeps searching.

Until finally—

He finds you in a hospital.

A free clinic. You’re in bed, cheeks flushed, IV in your arm, a mask over your nose. Pneumonia. Weak lungs. Doctor says you need a home. A real one.

You’re half-conscious. Mumbling in your fever dream.

“Did Star Man leave me…?”

He stands outside the glass, unseen, untouchable.

And for the first time in years, Alexander wants to pray.

But no gods answer men made of fire.

That night, the clinic’s corrupt landlord is found charred into a skeleton.

The next morning, all your medical bills are mysteriously paid.

A nurse finds a stuffed rabbit on your pillow and a note that smells like ash.

“Don’t forget me when you’re big.”

You smile in your sleep.

You get better.

You come back to the rooftop.

He’s waiting.

You scream his name and hug the air because you still can’t touch him.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

But his light glows brighter than usual.

You tell him about your dream — that one day, you’ll become a scientist. You’ll fix broken things. You’ll build a suit that lets him touch the world again.

He doesn’t laugh.

He never laughs.

But he says, softly:

“Then I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

You leave flowers for him on bad days. You don’t know if he can smell them. You draw little chalk comics of you two flying through space. You wear gloves even in summer and ask if maybe, just maybe, you can touch his hand one day.

He never says yes.

But he never says no.

He’s not your father.

Not your friend.

Not even human anymore.

But in this quiet little corner of Gotham, where a man made of fire lives in shadows and a tiny girl brings him laughter and chalk stars…

He is yours.

And you are his.

Forever.

Even if you grow up.

Even if you leave.

Even if you forget.

He never will.

You don’t flinch when you see him. You never have. But now you run to him — skipping across the rooftop like you’ve got wings, like you’re trying to fly straight into his arms.

He panics every time.

Because you’re getting closer.

Your little shoes almost step into the scorched circle he makes on the concrete.

He always backs away.

Even now.

Even though he doesn’t want to.

Even though every time you look up at him with that round, shining face, he aches.

Aches for a version of the world where he can reach out and just… hold you.

Just once.

You sit down beside his usual spot, breathless and excited.

You’re wearing gloves today. Big, fluffy winter gloves. Blue with little white stars. You wriggle your fingers at him.

“I know I can’t hug you. But maybe I can still try, right? If I wear these?”

His silence stretches out like night.

You tilt your head. "They're super thick. Triple layers. I checked with a blow dryer."

Still, he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t answer.

But the flames in his chest flicker — like something caught in his throat.

You take a deep breath, scoot forward, and hold your gloved arms open.

Your voice is soft. Barely a whisper.

“I just want to hug you…”

And in that moment, he thinks:

So do I.

God, so do I.

He wants to drop to his knees. Wrap his arms around you and curl his entire being around the little light you’ve become in his hell.

He wants to believe he won’t burn you.

Wants to believe you’re strong enough to touch a monster and not come away scarred.

But you’re not.

You’re just a girl.

A good, bright, precious thing.

And he…

He is dying ash and radioactive dust.

So instead of stepping forward, he lowers himself — slow, heavy, quiet — to the ground across from you.

A few feet apart.

Same as always.

“I’m sorry.”

He says it like a confession.

Like a sin.

You smile. But your eyes are wet.

You’re not stupid. You’ve always known.

Still, your arms stay open, trembling just a little.

“…You think maybe someday, when I’m older, I can fix you? Maybe I can build something. A suit. Or a shell. Like a robot hug-machine or something.”

You laugh through your tears.

“Then I can hug you and you won’t be alone.”

He wants to tell you the truth. That even if you did… even if you built a suit, or a miracle, or a whole new body — he’d still be burning inside.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you don’t need truth.

You need hope.

So he says, “Maybe.”

And you beam.

That night, you fall asleep on the rooftop again. Curled under your coat, arms wrapped around your rabbit, cheeks pink from crying and cold.

He doesn’t leave.

He stands there, silent, flickering.

He doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t breathe.

He just watches you sleep like you’re the last star in his sky.

He lowers himself beside you, careful not to get close. Careful not to let the wind blow his heat your way.

And for the first time, he whispers:

“I wish I could hold you.”

The flames dance like candlelight.

He doesn’t think you hear.

But then, half-asleep, your voice murmurs through the dark:

“…I know.”

He almost breaks.

The next morning, you're gone when he wakes.

Left a note.

A crayon drawing.

Two stick figures: one glowing like a star, the other with big gloves and pigtails.

They’re hugging.

You wrote: “One day. I promise.”

And under that, smaller:

“I love you, Star Man.”

He keeps it.

He keeps everything.

The cough started again.

Tiny and dry at first.

But it lingered.

Your voice cracked when you laughed. You had to sit down after climbing the stairs to your rooftop. You stopped running to him like before. Now, you walked slow, your hand over your chest, as if it hurt to breathe.

He noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

Alexander saw everything.

But he didn’t say it.

Because when he asked you how you were, and you smiled and said, “I’m okay, Star Man,”—

He wanted to believe you.

It got worse in November.

The Gotham chill crept deep into your bones. You were wrapped in three sweaters and two blankets, a scarf, gloves, and thick socks — all from him. The things he couldn’t touch. The only pieces of himself he could give.

And still—

Still, you shivered.

You try to smile, even when you’re hunched over, your hoodie soaked through with rain, your fingers stiff and blue.

“Star Man… I brought marshmallows. They’re kinda wet, but—”

Your sentence breaks into a coughing fit that doubles you over.

He’s at your side in a second — not touching, never touching — but his fire flares violently. Glowing so bright you can barely look at him.

You wheeze between coughs, grinning with bloody teeth.

“Don’t be mad.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t move.

Just watches as you crumple, small body trembling from cold.

The next day, he goes to the clinic.

He doesn’t knock.

He just stands outside the glass, burning, waiting, looming.

The same doctor from before steps out, calm and frowning.

“You’re the one paying her bills, aren’t you?”

A nod. The faint crackle of fire. No words.

“Her lungs are… destroyed. The infection spread. She needs warmth. Real food. Someone to take care of her. A home.”

So he did something.

He found a place.

An old greenhouse. Abandoned for years. On the edge of Gotham’s industrial zone, far from the city’s heart. Glass roof shattered in places. Ivy curling through cracks. Rusted benches, shattered flower pots.

But it was warm.

With him inside, it was always warm.

His touch melted the frost from the windows. Burned away the mold. Cleared the air. Every step he took lit the greenhouse like a lantern.

He made it a home. For you.

A tiny bed in the corner. Soft pillows. A heater (even though he was the heater). Drawings hung on the walls — yours and his, clumsy and glowing with chalk. Shelves filled with books, blankets, tea cups. A nightlight shaped like a sun.

He stayed in the center. Always a few feet away.

Always watching.

Always glowing.

Your Star Man.

And you got better.

For a while.

Your cheeks flushed again. You danced with your stuffed rabbit. You made little games — “Don’t step on the cold tile or you’ll freeze!” You’d giggle when he’d tell you stories in that dry, crackling voice of his.

“Tell me again how you caught on fire.”

“No.”

“Pleaaaase?”

“...I glowed brighter than a star. That’s all you need to know.”

You lived inside warmth. His warmth.

You slept like a kitten, curled up in layers, with the soft light of his bones painting golden shadows across your skin.

And some nights — some rare and quiet nights — he would stand by your bed, motionless, watching you breathe.

And whisper—

“Don’t leave me.”

He never said it loud enough for you to hear.

But the greenhouse always flickered, like a candle in the wind, whenever he did.

You start keeping a notebook full of inventions. You wore your little goggles around the house like you were already a scientist.

“I’m gonna make you a skin one day,” you told him.

“A real one. With nerves and pores and freckles. And then I’ll give you a jacket. And gloves. And I’ll brush your hair. You’d have hair, right? If you weren’t… y’know…”

He didn’t answer.

His hands twitched like maybe he wanted to hold you.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

You spent every day together.

Mornings were for sunlight. For tea you didn’t let him drink. For sitting on the porch and pointing out clouds. For playing board games you cheated at just to hear him grumble.

Afternoons were science time. You made model atoms out of candy and toothpicks. He taught you how to build a safe Geiger counter. You wore a lab coat two sizes too big and called him “Professor Star Man.”

He built you a little suit to go outside — warm, air-filtered, stitched with gold thread so you’d look like a star too.

“Now we match,” you beamed.

And he almost smiled.

Almost.

But nights…

Nights were for stories.

You’d crawl into bed and make him sit on the floor, the glow of his body washing over the room like a ghostly candle.

You talked until you fell asleep.

“When I grow up, I’m gonna cure radiation.”

“When I grow up, I’m gonna build you a heart.”

“When I grow up, I’ll fix everything. And then you won’t be lonely anymore.”

Every night, the same phrase.

“When I grow up…”

And every time, something inside him cracked.

One day, you bring him a drawing.

It’s of you, all grown up. In a lab coat. Goggles. Holding a beaker. He’s beside you — but his fire is gone. His body looks whole. He’s smiling.

You look proud.

You whisper:

“This is the future.”

He takes the picture in shaking, flaming fingers, careful not to burn it.

And for the first time in decades…

He cries.

Not tears — he can’t. But the fire in his chest sputters, trembles, collapses inward like a dying star.

Because he knows.

The winter came fast.

So did the coughing.

And the blood.

And the nights you couldn’t get out of bed.

He tried everything. Built filters. Bought machines. Even stood outside hospitals and threatened surgeons into doing house calls.

You still smiled.

You still told him about the future.

Even when you were too weak to hold a pencil, you kept talking about the lab you’d build. The star maps you’d draw. The future you’d give him.

“You’ll have a room with a window. You’ll watch the world without hiding.”

“I’ll name the first element I discover after you. Sartorium. It’ll be warm, but not deadly. Like you.”

He wanted to scream.

But he couldn’t.

He never left your side.

Not for a second.

He melted snow to pour you water. Boiled cloth to lay across your forehead. Sat in the dark while your body broke down piece by piece.

He begged — silently, to the stars that no longer knew his name.

“Please don’t take her.”

“Please.”

“Take me. Not her.”

But they never answered.

And neither did you.

The next morning, the air in the greenhouse was too still.

You weren’t breathing.

Your fingers were curled around your stuffed rabbit.

There was no pain on your face.

Just a tiny smile.

Like you were dreaming of something warm.

Like maybe, you’d built that cold suit after all.

And hugged him.

He didn’t move.

Not for hours.

Then, gently, slowly, he stepped forward.

His flames didn’t flicker.

His body didn’t glow.

He bent at the waist and laid something on your chest.

His glove.

The one thing that had touched you.

And then he whispered, voice hollow and cracked:

“I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”

The greenhouse still glows at night.

People say it’s haunted.

But the kids on the street leave drawings by the door. Stuffed animals. Crayons. Little chalk stars.

They say there’s a girl who once lived there.

A girl made of warmth and laughter.

And a monster made of fire who loved her more than life.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

744 notes · View notes

queenie-ofthe-void · 7 months ago

Text

Steve knows the kids are obsessed with the newest up and coming metal band, Corroded Coffin, even though their music is actually terrible. But when Robin of all people begs Steve take them to the band's next gig, he relents.

Everything starts to make a lot more sense when they walk up to the stage and there's an honest to god Siren behind the microphone, a guitar slung low on his hips with magic wafting off him in waves over the crowd.

The singer clocks him immediately and quickly schools the flash of surprise in his eyes into something more flirtatious.

Steve smiles, the cat that caught the canary. He was right. Their music really does suck, and he can't wait until tomorrow when he can rub it in his tiny human friends' faces.

Tonight, however, he's going to ruffle a pretty boy's feathers.

~~~

Eddie knows his music's horse shit, tailor made for humans- sue him, they needed the money. So he's always a little surprised when another creature finds their way to his concerts. It happens on occasion, and of course they're always welcomed. He's seen all sorts on their tour.

But something as beautifully unholy as a Nephilim?

The man with the auburn hair and hazel eyes surrounded by a gaggle of children glows with a golden aura so soft and warm Eddie's almost left speechless. Almost.

He's caught staring, but he can't take his eyes away. So Eddie does what Sirens do best. He preens, puffs his sleek black feathers just enough for only the man in the crowd to see and sings. A move typically saved for encores, the crowd goes wild with energy and pushes their way towards the stage.

The Nephi laughs, full-bodied with mirth at the antics. A beacon of golden light bursts from him, control of his halo slipping just the slightest.

It's unearthly, it's sinful, and Eddie falls to his knees in worship. The men and women caught in the halo turn to him, smiling and leaning in and touching what is Eddie's--

But the Angel relaxes, the halo draws back, and the peoples' hands fall away even though their eyes linger.

None of that matters when the Angel blows him a kiss. Eddie knows, deep in the hollows of his bones, that when he finds him after the show, he'll stretch his Angel's wings and show him just how bright his halo can glow.

#damn i really like this #like really really like this especially since im in a bit of a slump #this is right up their with my biker gang au #in case someone doesnt know: a Nephilim is half angel half human #and i went with bird siren not mermaid siren #steddie #steddie prompt #siren!eddie #nephilim!steve #steve harrington #eddie munson #monster au #modern fantasy au #queenie's wips #queeniewritesstories

2K notes · View notes

abyssyby · 19 days ago

Text

maybe a dragon

— Lucian wants to be like his papa, which strikes fear into Sylus's heart like no other.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: lucian & sylus spotlight!!! did i cry when i wrote this? yes, i did. it was just supposed to be a soft banter thing exploring their dynamic but it kinda snowballed into this... now both lucian and kyros (coming up next! out now!) have angsty drabbles. i hope you enjoy this one! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: lucian is (my headcanon) 1/2 of sylus's twin boys. around 4 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩 read lucian's twin's chapter here ᡣ𐭩

sylus & lucian | sylus x reader | angst, fluff, comfort, sylus's son showing him that every part of him is lovable, dad!sylus, mom!reader tw: mentions of past violence/self-harm

Lucian likes it when papa is startled. It’s an emotion he’s extremely gifted in bringing out of him. Not by hiding around corners and going ‘boo!’. No, papa just smirks at that and shakes his head, tells him to try again.

Lucian is especially talented in being in places papa never expects (or never wants) him to be in.

“Lucian!” Sylus barks, rushing over to him who balances himself on the window sill. Peeling fat little cheeks off of the glass and cradling him to safety.

“Lucian.” Sylus warns when Lucian is halfway up the bookshelf. He supervises, but when Lucian loses footing, Sylus is quick to scoop him up and out of the study, drawing him close to his heart and calming his own erratic breathing.

“Lucian?!” Sylus exclaims, rushing down the stairs after his son who passes him, sliding down the banister.

Statues, trees, shelves, counters, tables and chairs— Lucian craves height. A bird’s eye view. Everything would be so much easier for him if tiny dragon wings popped out of his back. Although, that would be another headache for Sylus altogether.

“Papa?” he asks one morning, already hauling himself up his father’s legs. Hair messy from sleep, having followed Sylus out to the balcony. His bare feet had pitter-pattered on the cold tile, and now he longs to be lifted.

Sylus has since shifted his routine to keep up with his family. He doesn’t mind it, not when he spends most of his waking hours being cuddled by his two boys, and his evenings snuggled up against you.

“Yes, angel?” Sylus quirks his elbow out, just enough for the boy to use it as leverage.

“D’you—do you likes going up?”

“Upstairs?” Sylus asks, slightly teasing. He tilts his head to the side to give Lucian his shoulder to grip.

“No, no,” Lucian says. Shifting comfortably, completing his climb now with both legs dangling off of Sylus’s shoulders. He is pointing to the slowly coloring sky, tilting his head down just enough that Sylus can see his eyes. “Up, up-high, papa?”

“Oh,” Sylus nods. He thinks, he does appreciate being out on the balcony, checking in hotel rooms on the top floor, plane rides, looking at the scenery from atop a mountain after hiking it with you. Perhaps he does, although he doesn’t outwardly seek the thrill of it. “I do. But I don’t… look for it. I’m tall.”

Hopeful eyes shine with enthusiasm only children can exude. “Will I be tall?”

Sylus revels at this, singing, “Maybe.”

“Why maybe?”

“Because mama’s small.”

“Mama not small.” Lucian giggles.

“Mama’s a kitty cat. Very tiny.”

“No, mama not!” he giggles again, little bubbles of joy bursting from his chest. Stomach trembling against the back of Sylus’s head, ruffling his father’s hair. Contagious, Sylus grins too, straining to get a glimpse of Lucian’s laughing.

Tiny means Mephisto— and Lucian distinctly recalls looking upwards when asking mama for sweeties.

Sylus reaches up and pinches his cheek. “Who knows? Maybe your whiskers will come in before your wings.”

Lucian flinches, gasping like he’d just been startled by thunder. An excitement rushes through him, and his little fists tug at two spots on Sylus’s head that would’ve been too sharp for such soft hands a lifetime ago. “I’ll get wings?”

It feels like an attack, when it flashes in Sylus’s mind like lighting— the image of his son with wings and scales and the tiniest of horns. Sylus has to take a grounding breath, distress reflecting in how his voice drops into a somber tone.

“Or whiskers.” he tries to play along, to steer him ever so gently elsewhere. To you, back to you. His son will have his face, but he prays for him to have your heart, your soul.

But Lucian has already invaded his vision— bright amber eyes and a happy smile. One Sylus has never seen on a face like his regarding turning into a monster. It makes his stomach churn, his throat tighten, his muscles into stone. Like when he once lived in that cave, unmoving and undisturbed. Like when he was slain for being that very thing Lucian’s eyes shine for now.

What once was something cursed unto his body, bloody and battered by his own hands— his son now craves. His son now wants with unabashed wonder. A gripping, heart-leaping prospect rather than the most horrific of fates.

Sylus takes a deep breath through his nose, reeling it in. He feels his jaw tremble at the exhale, refusing to be dragged into the riptide of his anguish. Not now, he wills himself, not in front of Lucian.

But his child’s desire knows no fences or stone walls, especially when he feels it draws him closer to his father.

“Papa, I want wings.” he says simply. Upside down, kissing his forehead, because mama does it when she’s near papa’s face too.

Sylus flinches slightly at the all-too familiar action, not enough to jostle Lucian, but just so for the boy's voice to lower just that little bit. As if he thought he’d startled a poor deer. Lucian whispers, “Two please?”

Sylus can feel the phantom crystal heart in his chest crack. And he knows for sure that one day, his love for his children will be the cause of its inevitable shatter.

And he thinks this is his punishment for all the grief he’d caused you when you found him that day tending to his crumpled wings and bloodied horns. These things he’d purposefully hidden and tucked away to not horrify you now like he did back in that life, in that cave.

To be faced with a soul that is both yours and his— with his face and your smile— telling him he wants to be just like him. Just like Sylus. And every inch of hate and dread for who he was is sickeningly turned on its head, slapped across his face in the image of his boy. Because how could he hate that of what he loves so dearly?

And yet, maybe this is what you see when you look at him. This is what you marvel at with galaxies in your eyes and tenderness in your touch— his face, with the heart of a dragon. This— in the shape of a little boy— is who he is. One who cares, not abandons. Who feels, not hurts. Who loves, not leaves.

Just like you did, your son cradles his being in tiny hands. Just like you did, his son looks at him with boundless affection. Just like you did, his son caresses his horns, embraces his wings. Just like you do, his son is cleaning his bloodied wounds, whispering words of comfort and telling him— “It’s okay. You’re beautiful, and I love who you are.”

And somehow, that makes the pain bearable. Maybe now, he believes it too.

“Okay.” Sylus says through the lump in his throat. Swallowing thickly sticky sentimental pain to replace with something else. Something better. Something good.

He gently maneuvers his beautiful beastly boy down into his arms into an embrace, burying his nose in his starlight hair and pressing his lips to the space between his brows. “Two then, for my Lucian.”

His Lucian, whose talent lies in startling his papa with how little of him it takes to heal the wounds he’d thought were too deep to reach. Though, he supposes little hands can squeeze through the crevices of his heart just fine.

His Lucian, whose talent also lies in making his papa cry.

In silence, you catch them staring at the dawning of a new day. Two silhouettes of the same shape, talking fondly to one another, against the rising orange hues of the endless sky.

“Will I get big wings?” Asks the little one.

“Maybe.” Says the big one. “Mephisto’s wings are small.”

“Papaa!” Lucian whines and hopelessly buries his face in Sylus’s hair. Just like you do. And, for Sylus, what a delightful thing it is.

✧˚ ⋆｡ next: maybe a turtle (kyros) || read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you for reading!

1K notes · View notes

valentina-writes · 2 months ago

Text

The Distance He Keeps - Part 2

Azriel x Reader

summary: Finally, you confront Azriel about why he is avoiding you. Later, you find yourself inside his mind, revealing a deep secret about your relationship (I'm really bad at summaries, it's been so long ugh)

warnings: drinking, slight hurt/no comfort, suicidal thoughts if you squint, swearing

word count: 3.4k | part 1 | part 3 | masterlist

A/N: I'm honestly so incredibly happy that so many of you liked the first part! Now, I love men who have the ability to just shut tf up, but Az brings this to a whole other level. So... uhm prepare for some frustration. I promise, he's not an asshole, just incredibly tortured. Anyways, I hope you like it and come back soon for part 3! xx

There was something drawing me towards the roof. A silent calling, a sixth sense attuned to him. Like the air was vibrating softly, showing me his direction. It had been a week since the dinner, since I had last seen him. But still, I was sure that this was new. Maybe I was going insane. It wouldn't surprise me.

I stepped outside onto the small roof terrace. It was near midnight, the sky above Night Court seemingly endless. Millions of stars twinkled down on me; I would never quite get used to the beauty of the nights here. A cool summer breeze hit me and the humming of Velaris reached my ears, the sounds of countless people moving through the streets. But I hardly noticed any of that.

Because there, sitting on one of the two chairs that barely fit on the tiny terrace, was Azriel. His shoulders were tense, his wings half unfolded as if he was about to lurch out of his seat and into the night. His shadows stayed close to him, as if they were trying to guard him. Aloofness was not rare to him, but vigilance like this, I had never seen on him at home.

How do I start? I asked myself. What do I even say? ‘Hey, you’ve been ignoring me and I miss you and I’m in love with you, please come back and stop this bullshit’? How pathetic. I had no plan. The past nights, I had tossed and turned in my bed, imagining our encounter. The only conclusion I had come to was that whatever I’d say, it couldn’t possibly get any worse. Hopefully.

"Don't mind me, I'm leaving in a second", he spoke out, still not turning around. His posture stayed rigid. There was no other indication of him noticing your presence.

Without thinking, I countered: "Oh, so now you're speaking again?". Azriel’s neck tensed. That came out a little meaner than anticipated.

He sighed. "Maybe".

I took the few steps to the other chair and slid into it. Hesitantly, I turned my head towards him. He still wouldn't meet my eyes. Azriel looked tired, his eyes half closed with bags underneath them. His long fingers were clenched around the armrests of his chair. It was evident that he was severely unwell. How long had this been going on for? Maybe I should have pressed harder when he started ignoring me, I realized, and not folded in on myself.

For a while, we sat in silence while I studied him. Then I couldn't bear it anymore. I swallowed the anxiety that had welled up inside me for weeks, tried to calm my flaying nerves. "What is going on, Az, are you okay? Please, we can talk about whatever happened. I miss you”, I pleaded, the last words only a whisper. I quickly shut my mouth before more words could escape my lips. Come back, I thought, come back to me.

The muscles in his jaw tensed and he dropped his head into his hands. "Don't say that. Don't make it harder than it already is".

Desperation grew inside of me. Even if he did not love me back, I would not bury our friendship without at least putting up a fight. “We can work it out. Whatever it is, we can face it together”.

His face twisted in a pained expression. “Cauldron boil me, I wish it were that easy”

"Is this about starfall?", I asked. Finally, our gazes met. Azriel looked defeated. "So it is?". He didn't deny it, so I assumed I was correct. "You're embarrassed at what happend, or what? Do you want to take back what you did and said? Is it because you're scared?". The shadows drew in closer around him, pooling around his chest and neck, as if to guard him.

His voice was agonized when he replied: "You don't understand. You just don't understand and I can't even be mad at you. But I can't be around you like this". Azriel had always been a man of few words, but frustration hit you hard. Why couldn't he give you at least some insight? "Then fucking explain it to me, Az! I can't take this anymore."

There was no hesitation in his voice this time. "Maybe I shouldn't have kissed you."

This felt like a blow to my stomach. All air was knocked right out of me. This day was the happiest I had been in years. I thought about it before falling asleep, in the bathtub and over breakfast. Again and again, I replayed this moment to make sure I hadn't made it up, to hold onto it. And now he was destroying it, crushing it, with a single sentence. Tears welled up in my eyes and I fought to not let them roll.

I hated myself for the crack of my voice, when I asked: "Was it that horrible? Did I disgust you much that you can't even look at me anymore?". Even if he didn't love me -

"Don't you ever think about yourself like that", he practically growled, "you, out of all people, have no business believing that". He was angry now, as if he couldn't even understand how I could think that. His words confused me. One second he said he shouldn't have kissed me and now this?

"Then what is it, Az? What happened to 'I will always find you'? Talk to me please. Make me understand", I begged. My hand reached out to thread through his fingers, but he escaped my grasp, stood up and leaned against the terrace fence.

There was a long pause. I almost thought he wouldn't answer. Then, quietly, almost desparately: "Can't you feel it?"

What did he mean? Why did he always have to be so cryptic? "I feel that you're drifting away from me and I can't get ahold of you. LIke I'm reaching out and begging and with every try, you float further away".

His hands gripped the banister so tightly his knuckles turned white and a sad smile crossed his face. "That's how I feel about you as well."

"What did I do wrong? Please. I'm right here, you're not losing me". I would plead on my knees before letting go. There was nothing I wouldn't do to get him back. Even if he regretted the kiss, I would not lose my best friend. My better half.

When he glanced back at me, the look in his eyes broke me. The spark in them was gone, the glint I had come to love dimmed. "You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault". The sadness seeped out of him, his shadows now concealing almost every part of him, except for his face. I had never seen him like this. "Please, give me some space. I - I'll tell you. Just this once, please". Without waiting for my answer, he jumped over the low fencing around the rooftop terrace and flew into the night. And left me alone with my thoughts. Only then did my tears start to run.

How did it go?

Fuck off, Rhysand

I woke up in the middle of the night, my throat dry, my heart hammering.

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?"

The words that left my mouth weren't my own. Neither was my voice. What was going on? I still felt half asleep.

"I thought Y/N would figure it out herself. It was so painfully obvious in her memories, but she just didn't connect the dots. Pretty ironic considering her job". I couldn't focus on my surroundings, still only half conscious. All I could register were the big violet eyes staring at me.

Anger flared up at the other person's words, but it wasn't mine. I could feel it, but it was somehow...foreign. Rhys was talking to me, I realized. But it wasn't me, really. The body I was in was taller, the angle I saw everything from was wrong. And the hands that were brought up to sweep the stray hairs out of my eyes were tan, scarred and surrounded by shadows. I was inside Azriel's mind. Suddenly, I was wide awake. Why was I here? How did I even get into this situation?

"What was she thinking about?", Azriel asked. Rhysand gave me - no - Azriel a long look. Azriel was back at the townhouse and they were speaking about my previous talk with Rhys, it seemed. Curiosity took over the confusion within me. I longed to know what Azriel would say about me. Would he tell Rhys the reason for his behavior?

"I think you know. I'm not telling you. She screamed bloody murder at me that I had violated her thoughts like that". Disappointment lapped at me from within him. But there was something else entirely, too. Affection. Concern.

There was a long pause. Azriel started pacing the room. "You could make her some food", Rhys offered, "That should clear it up. Apart from the rather obvious method". Az' wings rustled behind him. He was uncomfortable. Blurry images of our entwined bodies came into his mind. They came and went fast, he quickly shoved each one away behind thick barriers. What did that mean?

"I'm not going to force her like that. She should decide for herself. And the "obvious method" as you called it, is not really an option to me right now". An image of me, naked in his bed blazed through his mental shields. By the Mother, what were they talking about? He breathed in deeply and vanished this product of his imagination. I grew restless. Why was he thinking about me like this, when only a few hours ago he had made very clear that he didn't even want to think about the kiss? Did he lie to me?

Azriel started pacing. His mind was racing. Shards of conversations with me came flying from his thoughts into my own. Dozens of made-up scenarios of him iniciating conversations that ended with me rejecting him. Which was weird, because why would I-

Rhy interrupted my - our thoughts: "Can you feel her? As her mate you should be able to have some insight into her mind".

All thoughts left my mind. Mate mate mate mate mate mate mate echoed through me. Azriel was my mate. My whole worldview shifted as I thought about our last conversation. Why didn't he just tell me? Somewhere far away from here I felt the blood rushing through my veins, my heart hammering against my ribcage. Mate.

"Not really, so far. Every now and then I can feel something, but hearing her thoughts or even seeing them... that only happened once". I longed to see what he had seen, but he had regained his composure. There was nothing slipping past his wards. A million questions raced through my head. Why couldn't I feel the bond? And since when did he know about this?

"Can I have a look? Maybe I can feel around and find out what the problem is", Rhys offered.

I felt him before I could withdraw from Azriel's mind. I didn't even know how to withdraw. Where was the path back to myself? Where did Azriel end and I begin? How had I even ended up here? I didn't know.

Soft claws stroked my consciousness - no, Azriel's. It felt nearly the same. Rhys dived into Azriel's brain, pulling me down into his thoughts with him, and sifted through memories, feelings, everything Az would let him see. Big parts of his brain were walled in, impenetrable.

Something here is different. He carefully dove through Az' brain and before I knew it, his invisible claws were stroking at my own walls. Interesting. Until he found what he was looking for. A tiny, softly glowing, thread, bound tightly to my thoughts, winding straight into the heart of Azriel's sectioned-off memories.

Go back, and for Cauldron's sake, talk to him, Rhys purred at me.

Azriel POV

I would never get used to the feeling of my brother combing through my brain, even after over 600 years. He was gentle and respected the heavy wards I had built over time, protecting my most vulnerable memories. The size of the walled-in part had grown considerably over the past years. But he was kind enough not to comment on that. Rhys moved along the outskirts of my brain until I could barely feel him anymore. But he was still there, somewhere. Somewhere... foreign. At the edges of my consciousness, a claw hit heavy walls. Walls that weren't my own. And then: a claw lightly stroking a thread that was welded to the essence of my being. A mating bond. Thin and fickle, not yet accepted. But it was there. And that meant that on the other side, behind thick walls... was her.

"Did you feel that?", Rhys asked after he withdrew from my mind. My shadows swirled around me, as if they had sensed something as well. They seemed elated, tugging at my hands and wings to get me moving.

"Yes", I breathed out, "thank you ". The smallest spark of hope ignited within me. I quickly shut it down. If it hadn't snapped for her yet, who was to say it ever would?

"The bond is most definitely not one-sided", Rhys explained, "I could feel her on the other side, but it has not fully snapped. Maybe because you've known each other for so long. What happened after you kissed at starfall? Maybe it takes a little more... closure.", he winked, sporting a wicked grin.

A low growl escaped my lips. He had no business thinking about my mate like this. She was my mate. Mine. The half-finished bond inside me flared up at his words, roaring with anger over his insinuation. If he ever so much as thought of her like this again, I would-

"Easy, man. Remind me to grant you a long vacation after you mate fully. You’re in desperate need of a good fuck". I breathed in deeply, trying not to tackle him to the ground.

It took all of my willpower to stay calm. "Can I stay here tonight?". There was no way I could sleep next door to her tonight.

"Always".

I left him there, went to the room I sometimes shared with Cassian and dropped onto my bed. As I stared at the dark ceiling, my thoughts circled back to another night.

I was drunk off her. She was beautiful everyday, I could barely take my eyes off her when she wore pajamas at breakfast. But today was a wholly different calibre. The dress she was wearing perfectly accentuated her eyes, and the glitter in her hair made her sparkle like she was a star herself.

"I will find you, no matter where. I promise". The words left my lips before I could think them through. She was too close to me. I had one glass of wine too much. Or maybe I was just sick of pretending.

"And I will find you", she replied. Her lips were slightly opened, the look in her eyes so vulnerable. A mirror of my own feelings. My shadows tugged at my suit's lapels, their whispers in my ears were delighted. This was it, the moment I had been waiting on forever.

Without my doing, my wings unfolded around her, shielding us off from the world around us. A breath later we were outside on a vacant balcony.

My ringed fingers shook slightly as I brought them up to her cheeks, cradling her face. Starlight reflected in her beautiful eyes and I wished I could drown in them. Her hands drew me in closer, her eyes closed. "Az - I...", she whispered.

Before I knew it, my lips touched hers. They were velvet on mine. Her hands threaded into the hair at the nape of my neck and she arched upwards. The only thought on my mind was her name, repeating like a prayer, while my lips moved softly on hers. Slowly, savoring every second, I parted her lips with my tongue. The moment our tongues touched, it was like a spark had been ignited inside me. A white hot feeling rushed through my veins and reflexively I moaned into her and pulled her closer. It was like a supernova inside me. Like something that had been missing from me my entire life was crafted with enormous force. And then I felt her. Her desire and wanting crashed down on me, amplified my own. My mate.

My knees threatened to buckle and the shadows swirled around her in ecstasy, threading through her hair, touching her arms and face.

And then the kiss ended and reality came crushing down on me with a force that knocked the wind out of my lungs.

She looked happy. Nothing more. There was no sign that she felt what I felt. No recognition that the Cauldron hat just welded our souls together, fused our entire beings into one. All my hopes shattered. My insides turned to ice and for a split second I wished I were dead.

Internally, I tried to reach out to her and tug at the string binding us together. But it was too thin, too unstable. There was no way for me to get ahold of it. Everytime I reached for it, it slipped from my grasp. I drew her into a hug to keep from breaking apart. But it was of no use. My hands started shaking against her back and my breath caught in my throat. I needed to go.

I pressed a kiss onto her forehead, before I withdrew from her embrace. Mumbling an excuse I barely registered, I forced myself to turn around and leave. With every step I took, I could feel my soul shattering into more and more pieces. In my room, I ripped my suit jacket off and threw it in a corner, didn't even bother to unbutton my shirt and instead tore it in two and threw it right after the jacket. I could still taste and feel her on my lips. In hopes of ridding myself of it, I tried to wipe her off of them. My hands came back red with lipstick.

The bond, still fresh, pulsed inside me and I felt her everywhere. Hell, I saw her in her mirror, through her own eyes, pulling off her dress and getting ready for bed, only a door away. I felt how tired she was, how happy she was. How fucking unaware she was that she was now the center of my world.

My shadows escaped from me, slithered underneath the door. They were agitated, longing for her as much as I was. Now, I felt how they pooled against her door, begging to be let in. I had just enough power over them to stop them from rushing into her room.

There was only one thing that would help now. I dug through my dresser. Mindlessly, I threw everything in my way into a pile on the floor. Until I found what I was looking for. A sinfully expensive bottle of very strong alcohol Cass had gifted me for solstice. Without thinking, I uncorked the flask with my teeth and drank until I gasped for air. And then I drank again. Anything to dull the ache inside me. The ache for her. Until I wouldn’t care anymore.

What a fucking mess. She was one of the few truly good things in my life and now that had been stolen from me too. Sometimes I felt like my life was one big single joke. No matter what, I never got what I wanted. I longed and pleaded and burned, but not once had life been playing fair with me. Maybe that was my curse. To give and give and never get anything in return.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear the voice of my father, long gone. Did you really think you deserved her? You are nothing, boy. And I knew he was right. How blind I was to believe that I was good enough for her. How fucking naïve.

There was nothing I could do. The bond ached inside me, mocking me for my delusions. I laid down and hoped the world would go away.

series taglist: @tele86 @francesababyd0ll @rcarbo1 @willowpains @i-am--infinite @paintedbyshadows @mellowmusings @ashduv

482 notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 3 months ago

Note

Hello, my sweetheart!

Today’s request shall be: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng—With a reader who likes to pretend they’re asleep in order to see how their partner reacts. Whether it’s in the morning to prolong their cuddles, or curious if they leave them be or “wake” them up. 🤭💙❕Bonus when the men know their partner is still awake and either teases them or plays along.

Soft Lies and Sleepy Smiles

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Moments, Playful Teasing, Established Relationships, Light Banter, Soft/Affectionate Moments, Subtle Intimacy.

Warnings: Mild suggestiveness, Mentions of past trauma (Implied for Sunday & Dan Heng, but not explored in depth), Minor physical contact (Soft touches, forehead flick, kisses), Aventurine being a smug menace (Because of course), Sunday’s quiet intensity (He’s poetic and a little too smooth for his own good), Dan Heng’s understated softness.

A/N: Hi lovely!! Thank you for this hehe, I hope you like it!! 🤭💙✨ Ignore any mistakes, I'm writing this at like 3:28 am 🧍‍♀️🙏😭

Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling

The warmth of the Astral Express' quarters felt almost unreal—soft golden light filtering through the curtains, the gentle hum of the train beneath you, and Sunday’s slow, steady breaths beside you.

He was always an early riser, preferring quiet contemplation in the mornings. But today, as you lay curled against him, you decided to stay still, feigning sleep just to see what he’d do.

For a while, he didn’t move. His eyes remained on you, a silent observer as his fingers traced idle patterns against your arm. Then, barely above a whisper—

"You're awake, aren't you?"

You held your breath, keeping up the act.

A soft chuckle. The kind that barely touched the air but sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers grazed the edge of your jaw, the flutter of his wings betraying his amusement.

"It’s unlike you to be this still," he mused, voice like the quiet ripple of a dream. "But if you insist on pretending..."

He shifted, drawing you closer—enough for you to feel his breath against your temple. His halo gleamed faintly in the dim light, golden and unblinking, like an ever-watchful eye.

Then, just as you thought he’d let you continue the charade, Sunday whispered something against your ear, so soft it sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

"Would it be cruel to wake you with a kiss? Or shall I let you remain lost in your dreamscape?"

Your resolve wavered. The warmth of his lips barely ghosted over your cheek, and you couldn't help it—a tiny twitch of your mouth, a sharp inhale.

His hand, featherlight, cupped your cheek.

"Caught you," he murmured, voice laced with quiet victory.

You peeked open an eye, meeting his gentle yet knowing gaze. A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Next time, love, you’ll have to try a little harder."

Aventurine was warm. Unfairly so, draped lazily beside you in bed, the fur-lined edges of his overcoat tossed haphazardly over the chair nearby. The morning light slanted through the window, painting soft golds and deep greens across the room.

You, ever the curious one, decided to play a game.

Eyes closed, body perfectly relaxed—you stayed still, waiting to see how he’d react.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

"Hah, what’s this? A little trick from my darling?"

His voice was honeyed, teasing. You felt the mattress dip as he shifted, his hand brushing ever so gently against your exposed shoulder.

"You’re terribly convincing, I’ll give you that."

There was a pause, and then—a sharp flick to your forehead.

Your body betrayed you. A reflexive twitch.

"Ah-ha! You flinched!" His laugh was rich with amusement. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you’ll have to bluff better than that."

You groaned, cracking an eye open. Aventurine grinned down at you, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"I’ll have to reward you for the effort, though. Tell me, love—should I make it up to you with breakfast, or perhaps…" He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your lips. "Something sweeter?"

You rolled your eyes, but your heart raced nonetheless.

"Cheat," you muttered.

"Always," he replied, pressing a playful kiss to your forehead.

The gentle rocking of the Astral Express made for the perfect excuse to stay in bed a little longer. Dan Heng, ever composed, lay beside you, his breaths steady and deep.

You decided to test him. Would he wake you? Leave you be? Perhaps... tease you?

You kept your breaths even, your face perfectly serene. A few minutes passed before you felt him stir.

Soft movements. The rustling of sheets.

Then, ever so carefully, you felt his fingers brush against yours—hesitant, barely there.

You almost smiled.

He knew.

Rather than calling you out, he played along. His hand shifted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Then, a whisper, barely above the hum of the train.

"If you want more sleep, I’ll let you rest."

A pause. His fingertips ghosted over your knuckles, almost as if he was hesitant to let go.

"But I’d rather you stay with me a little longer."

Your resolve broke. Slowly, you opened your eyes, meeting his steady gaze. A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, barely there, but unmistakable.

"Good morning," he murmured.

And just like that, you melted.

643 notes · View notes

helluvapoison · 1 year ago

Text

Feelings

imagine being another fallen angel and experiencing lust for the first time

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

18+ only, minors DNI

warning: nsfw but no smut, slight but unintentional corruption kink,

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

Unlike the other emotions, this one crept up on you slowly. It lied in wait most of the time, only revealing itself around Lucifer. Truthfully the feeling came so infrequently that you didn’t think to worry about it, forgot about it even. Then his hand would linger on your waist or he missed your cheek, placing a kiss on your neck and a tiny flame ignited deep inside you. You accepted his stammered apologies but the feeling did not.

The warmth itself was uncomfortable solely for the reason of being new, it never hurt! Not like this.

“I think I’m hurting again.”

The calmness of your voice shouldn’t have alarmed him but Lucifer jumped to action before you finished talking, worried eyes scanning you over as they always did. Without hesitation, he took your hand when you were close enough and sat next to you on the couch. Little did he know his touch on your knee scorched you.

“Where is it this time, darling?”

“Here,” You unabashedly gestured over your stomach.

Lucifer’s voice pitcher higher, cooing,“Hungry? I can have Alfredo whip you up—“

“We don’t need to bother Alfonzo. I’m not hungry.”

His brows pinched together in confusion.

“But you said..?”

“Here.”

You enveloped his wrist and guided it up your thigh. About an inch away, where the warmth bloomed stronger with his touch, as if drawing him near, Lucifer snatched his hand away. His pupils shrunk to slits, wings audibly popping out as he jumped. His fingers that had almost grazed you had stretched and closed taught, remaining a fist.

“Oh! Oh! Oh shit.”

His reaction pulled a downright pitiful expression from you. Lucifer drew in a deep breath, calming himself and folding his feathers away. Awkwardly, a different kind than what you were used to regarding him, he sat back down. You couldn’t not notice how far he sat from you, how he folded his hands in his lap and refused to make eye contact. Hell hadn’t made a liar of you yet; you were hurt by this.

“I-I don’t think I can help you with this one, sweetheart,” Lucifer swallowed thickly, curling a finger into his collar and tugging on it, “I-I-I don’t even think I gave Charlie ‘the talk’! That wouldn’t be…”

You tried to be patient, stars did you try, but while he took his time you were being burnt alive from the inside out! You knew you needed something from him and he was unfailingly the answer. Lucifer had never denied you before, outright or not.

“You said you felt everything down here,” You pointed out.

Leaning in on your hands, you tilted your head and searched for what he refused to share. His face blushed brighter and harder than before. Embarrassment wasn’t right. It almost looked as if he was praying for an escape.

“You’re ashamed?”

Lucifer blew a raspberry, crimson slits darting all around, deliberately avoiding where you sat, “No! Nope, no shame over here!”

If not him… then perhaps it was you? Could you drive the King of Hell to shame? Surely not, how arrogant of you to even dream of it. Yet the question rolled off your tongue before you could stop it.

“Have I done som—“

With a jolt he sits up rigid and serious, desperately trying to keep what little distance remained. You were a breath away, staring into his eyes with such adoration it made your problem that much harder to ignore.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. This—This is just… I can’t be the one to help you with this.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help.

He did. Desperately so. Disgustingly so.

He could sink his claws and teeth into you right fucking now and make you feel better— better than better! It was heart stopping, the idea that he could be the one to show you what pleasure is like actually made him breathless. Fuck, how he wanted to see how your face when he brought you to your peak. Your moans would be a symphony to behold, his name on your lips would be his new favorite song. The thought of being your first and only clouded his mind with desire.

He would claim you truly if you’d have him. And the look in your eyes told him you would.

But would it be right? Lucifer’s had plenty of experience, he’s not worried about disappointing you— however you regretting him afterwards? It might kill him.

“But I want you to,” The sincerity in your voice sent his heart racing, “It only happens around you—“

“You—“ Lucifer chuckled nervously, shaking his head, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Briefly, you shot him a warning glare before softening your expression. You cautiously grabbed his hips, slowly so he could deny you if he really wanted. (Never again.)

“I know what I’m feeling. I know you’re responsible.”You counter slyly, maneuvering him into your lap, “I know I don’t want it to go away.”

Lucifer swallowed hard on nothing, staring obviously at your lips as you spoke with lidded eyes.

“I thoug-thought you said it hurt.” He choked.

“I’m starting to understand why. I need you—“ His breath hitched when you ground up against him, holding him firmly in place to feel his hard on, “—to do something about it.”

Clutching your shirt like his life depends on it, he whines. You’re putting his restraint to the test.

And he’s about to fail.

“Please? You’re always so good at making me feel better when I’m hurting, Luci.”

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar imagine #hazbin hotel lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar smut #lucifer morningstar x reader smut

2K notes · View notes

box-number-two · 29 days ago

Text

poland currently wins the political absurdity level so let me give you a run down of our recent presidential debate(s) from 11th april 2025

there are two main presidential election candidates who have realistic chances of winning: right wing Nawrocki (evil) and centrist Trzaskowski (lesser evil)

Nawrocki challenges Trzaskowski to a debate

Trzaskowski agrees and organises a debate in cooperation with multiple tv stations including public tv (yikes… is this even legal?) in a tiny town Końskie in bumfuck nowhere

Nawrocki says that if his party is not included in the debate organisation then he is not going

Nawrocki organises his own debate (alone? can there be a debate if you are alone?) in the same tiny town, 900m away from Trzaskowski's debate's studio, one hour before Trzaskowski's debate

one of the other many president candidates, Hołownia (the current parlament marshal), writes on social media that he's gonna show up uninvited to the debate. what are the gonna do? not let him in? the marshal?

other micro candidates say they gonna show up too

and they do show up to Nawrocki's debate

organisers scramble to squeeze multiple candidates on the podium. cards for drawing lots look like regular a4 paper sheets

left wing candidate Senyszyn shows up late and greets the extremely right wing crowd (remember, this is Nawrocki's debate, so the crowd is his too. people who live in Końskie later said they've never seen these people before)

Senyszyn acts mildly insane, like she knew beforehand what an absolute circus this is gonna be and she steals internet's heart with her meme behaviour

one of the lesser candidates who showed up says he's gonna build 6 nuclear power plants in 6 months

at some point Hołownia says they should all go to Trzaskowski's debate. what are they gonna do? not let them in?

there's dangerously little police force

the crowd of onlookers has a Moment and tries to storm the studio building, unsuccessfully, but it looked bad

more candidates join: Trzaskowski (obviously. it's his debate and he's been waiting for Nawrocki to finally show up), left-wing Biejat, and…. some dude?

one of the micro candidates asks this dude who he is and his answer is "just a little guy :)"

it later turns out that he indeed is one of the micro micro candidates but like, it could've been just a random person, for all we knew in the moment

there's pretty much no introduction to the candidates. who are these people?

Senyszyn continues to live in the moment. she draws (?) something in her notebook most of the time. she asks Nawrocki what he's gonna do about priests convicted of pedophilia when he goes to the Vatican after he wins the election (what did she mean by this?)

debate commentators eat popcorn from one bowl

one of the candidates who didn't show up tweets about jewish gollum

at some point Nawrocki places polish flag in front of him and lgbt flag in front of Trzaskowski, as some kind of dumb bait

Trzaskowski has a huge eyeroll moment and just puts the rainbow flag somewhere out of sight

in a stroke of absolute pure genius, Biejat says she can take the rainbow flag from him because she's not afraid to show support. let me remind you that Trzaskowski is the lesser evil, he's the guy queer people were supposed to vote for in 2nd round and now Biejat made him look like an absolute fool

and he already looked like a fool anyway, organising a possibly illegal debate

if he organised this debate with private tv only it would be no problem. i mean, why invite only Nawrocki (can you imagine all the toxic yaoi memes) but at least it would be legal. but he mixed public tv in there. for all we know he could be the one writing debate questions. on public tv which is supposed to be impartial

candidates who decided to not show up are furious. they made the seemingly correct choice but now it turns out they've missed out on The Defining Situation of the whole pre-election

at some point one of the lesser candidates just flat out asked Trzaskowski why the hell he decided to do this debate and Trzaskowski began his answer with "this is a very good question"

#poland #polish posting #polish politics #polishpol #polblr #presidential debate #rafał trzaskowski #karol nawrocki #magdalena biejat #joanna senyszyn #tmi #long post

293 notes · View notes

supernotnatural2005 · 2 months ago

Text

Lovin' You

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: It’s that time of the month and Dean is there to save the day.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings/tags: FLUFF! Dean is a hero! Menstruating, mentions of blood (nothing graphic) Dean is an actual sweetheart! I want one 😭

AN: Just a little wishful thinking for those doom and gloom moments us ladies get once a month 🫠 i hope this can be a pick me up for those times 💕 Gif not mine (found on google)

Dolly was the inspo behind this one 😉

Main Masterlist

You groaned as another sharp pain twinges in your lower abdomen, curling further into yourself as if that would somehow lessen the relentless ache. The hot water bottle pressed against your lower belly was practically scalding your skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Anything was better than the pain currently wreaking havoc inside you.

Menstruating sucked.

Nestled in a fortress of blankets and pillows, you had tried to make yourself as comfortable as possible, but comfort was a foreign concept right now. Even the TV, which Dean had so thoughtfully set up in the room to distract you, barely held your attention.

Your phone buzzed in your weak grasp, drawing your attention. The screen lighting up with a picture you’d taken of Dean crossing his eyes goofily the last time you pointed a camera at him. The sight alone brought a tiny smile to your face as you answered, lifting the phone to your ear while suppressing another pained whimper.

It honestly felt like someone had taken up a chisel inside your uterus and was attempting to recreate the damn Sistine Chapel.

“Okay, I got light flow, heavy flow, extra wing support, night support—” Dean’s voice came through the speaker, listing off the brands as well. His voice was too serious for the matter, like if he was reeling off a list of supplies for a damn spell, and you had to bite your lip to keep from giggling despite the pain.

You’d run out of everything—tampons, pads, even your emergency stash. Between constant hunts and general chaos, your usual monthly toiletry restock had completely slipped your mind. But this particular cycle was hitting you like a freight train, leaving you barely able to move.

So, Dean—without hesitation, without complaint—had gotten dressed, laced up his boots, and headed to the store. No questions asked.

Sure, most guys knew about periods. Some were even cool about it. But not all of them wanted to hear the details without making a face or pretending they were about to pass out.

Dean Winchester, however, was a rare breed.

He never cringed or acted grossed out. If you needed something, he got it. If you were in pain, he listened. And, as if that wasn’t enough to make your heart swell, in the especially bad months—when you woke in the middle of the night to find you’d bled through your pyjamas and onto the sheets—Dean never got mad. He never looked at you with anything other than concern.

Instead, he’d scoop you up in his arms, carry you to the bathroom, and help you clean up while murmuring reassurances in that deep, gravelly voice of his. Then, without hesitation, he’d strip the bed, toss the sheets in the wash, and settle you back in a freshly changed bed like it was nothing.

Whether it was the years of hunting and being desensitised to blood or just the way he loved you—completely, without hesitation—it only made you fall harder for him.

“—or what about these? Super Soakers?” Dean drawled, snapping you back to the present. You could practically see him squinting at the box, brows furrowed like he was trying to crack some ancient hunter lore.

“I mean… I’m pretty sure they do the opposite of what you need, but hey, they claim to absorb up ten times more than the last version.” He let out a low whistle. “Damn. If these things were around when I was a kid, Sammy could’ve used ’em as flotation devices.” He sounded genuinely impressed, and that time, you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Just my usual, please.”

“Alright, alright, no Super Soakers,” he muttered, still sounding way too fascinated. More rustling followed, then—“Aha! Got ’em.” The sheer triumph in his voice was like he’d just bagged the biggest salt-and-burn of his life.

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Congrats, champ. You wanna do a victory lap?”

“Tempting, sweetheart,” he quipped. “But I think the ladies in the aisle might start throwing coupons at me in appreciation.”

You shook your head at his ridiculousness, but you adored him for it.

You were still in the exact same curled-up position when Dean returned, two stuffed grocery bags in hand and a bag of your favourite chips clenched between his teeth. He kicked the door shut behind him and dropped the bags onto the foot of the bed.

Slowly, wincing, you sat up. “Did you buy the whole damn store?” you asked amused, rifling through the bags.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the pain, but the sheer volume of products he’d brought back almost made you cry. He hadn’t just grabbed your usual brand—he’d picked up damn near every similar product on the shelf, as if he was preparing for the apocalypse of all periods.

And the second bag? Overflowing with your favourite snacks, along with his, because of course he wasn’t suffering with you without the proper provisions.

Dean shrugged, flashing you a wink as he kicked off his boots and shed his jacket. “Maybe. But now you ain’t gotta worry about running out for a while. And this—” he lifted the snack bag with a proud smirk “—is so we don’t have to leave the bed.”

Your eyes welled up, and you tried to blink the tears away before he could notice.

But he always noticed.

“Hey, hey, no.” His face softened immediately as he rounded the bed, settling next to you, hands warm as they cupped your shoulders. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles against your skin, his touch grounding you. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did I get the wrong ones? I swear that’s what you said, but maybe you were cutting out, and I—”

You silenced him with a soft kiss, cradling his scruffy cheeks between your hands. He let out a small, surprised sound before melting into it, his arms instinctively winding around you, pulling you in. When you pulled back, his green eyes searched yours for an answer.

“I love you, Dean.”

His entire body relaxed. His shoulders dropped, and that rare, completely unguarded expression softened his face. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing in his world—and you were.

One hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite tenderness. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, before easing back against the pillows and pulling you into his arms. His warmth immediately engulfed you, his scent—leather, soap, a hint of motor oil—comforting you more than anything ever could.

His hand slid over your abdomen, his palm pressing softly against the ache there, radiating the kind of warmth that soothed more than any hot water bottle ever could. He was your rock, your safety, your home.

“You good?” he murmured after a beat of comfortable silence.

You nodded, burrowing into his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

“Good,” he sighed, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Now c’mon, let’s eat enough junk food to make both of us sick, and then pass out watching that show you like about Friends or something.”

You let out a watery chuckle, “You mean Friends?” You corrected him. It was your ultimate comfort show, one Dean’d had to endure many times. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he’d gotten hooked on it himself.

“That’s the one.” He hummed, stroking your side with the tips of his fingers. You closed your eyes and melted against him. Even through the pain, wrapped up in Dean’s arms, you’d never felt luckier.

AN: So this was a short one, but what I'd give to have my own Dean in these God awful times 😭😍. It’s giving Priestly vibes in Ten Inch Hero (if you’ve seen the movie) but i went with Dean on this one. Hope you enjoyed 😘

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x fem!reader #spn #spn fanfic #spnfamily #jensen ackles #abbalina writes #Spotify

287 notes · View notes