#repost to fix some formatting

[lazzarella]

Auto translation from Insta 👇 but AouBoom in the recording studio!!! (230525)

[simplelobster]

IT'S FMABRUARY

Day 8: Homunculus

Now I only decided to participate on the 4th so i had to rush, both to make the pattern, and get the actual stitching and custom hoop done in time.

I really enjoyed it tho and will be doing a few more prompts in cross stitch for the month :)

I'm going to be sharing the pattern I made below the cut if anyone wants to make it as well.

DMC 666

14ct AIDA black

Double thread for crosses, single thread for back stitch.

I made this with a 4 inch hoop in mind so it is rather small (only about 2 1/2 inches both ways), should only take a hour or two depending on skill level.

I would like to say it's beginner friendly, those 3/4 are put in cause I like doing them, and can easily just be treated as regular stitches instead.

If anyone does make this pattern plz tag me! I would love to see :)

[wanderingmind867]

I did it! I made a Justice League Canada concept finally, although I only made one original character. Still, I'm impressed I thought of seven characters (even if it took me months):

Justice League Canada: Originally conceived around 1988 or 1989 when the Justice League Detroit gets a mission in Canada. The mission goes well, and the Justice League gets some contacts in Canada. A year or two after this, the Justice League loses a fight in disastrous fashion and their public reputation sinks even lower. Knowing that the United States has turned on them, the Justice League use their connections in canada to keep the team running. Only one requirement: the team will have some oversight by the canadian government. Nothing too severe. But there will be some oversight and guidelines.

They serve as a Justice League branch solely isolated to Canada and (occasionally) the US states on the Canadian border. In those cases, they closely work alongside the revived Justice Society of America.

Justice League of Canada Founding Members:

1. Martian Manhunter (J'onn J'onzz): When the Justice League Detroit moves from Detroit to Ottawa, only two members of the Detroit team come to Canada: Martian Manhunter and Gypsy. Martian Manhunter acts as the team's leader again, the same way he did back in Detroit. He moves his private detective practice as "John Jones" from Michigan up to Ottawa, giving him a convenient excuse to be in Canada.

He's with the team for their year or two. If this were an actual comic, he'd be on the team for the 20-25 issues. But after a year or two with the team, J'onn leaves to head back to the states. He's gotten an offer from Harley Quinn and Captain Cold to supervise their team of reformed (or semi-reformed) supervillians, and he couldn't say no to the offer. Especially since his brother was on that team.

2. Blue Beetle (Ted Kord): Ted Kord is known as the Canadian Bruce Wayne. Well, maybe not explicitly by that nickname, but that is the type of character he shall be. I wrote so much for his origin that it needed it's own seperate post/note. Which I did make.

3. No name for this character yet, but some Norse and/or Inuit demigoddess or nature spirit. I want something to match Wonder Woman, except with more of the beautiful mystique of the snow and aurora, as well as with more respect paid to the indigenous communities of Canada. I have a well formed image of this character because this is a character type already beaten to death (honestly), but I think we could find a way to make it unique.

4. I don't have a name or backstory for this character yet, but I have two details: they're an elemental who can control the waters, and they're from Vancouver Island. Besides that, I've got nothing. I don't know if they're indigenous or just caucasian, I don't know if they're male or female or neither, I just know they're an elemental from Vancouver Island.

5. The Angel of Dawn/Ange de L'aube (Samantha Guizzon): Samantha Guizzon is a highly skilled CSIS (Canadian Security Intelligence Service) Agent. She's one of their best agents, known for her skill with research, espionage and for her very detailed knowledge of non-lethal combat.

Oh, and she's also got metahuman abilities. She can generate and manipulate light. She got her nickname (Angel of Dawn) because she can use her light powers to form shining hard light wings upon which she can glide through the air. She can also emit blinding light from her body, not unlike a miniature solar flare.

Samantha was assigned to the team to represent Quebec and Canada's francophone community. Originally from Montreal, Samantha is proud to represent Quebec on the team.

6. Captain Marvel/Shazam (Billy Batson): I saw someone say Captain Marvel was from Minnesota. I don't know if that's true, but I'm rolling with it. Mostly because I've seen jokes online before that Minnesota is the US state most like Canada (or at least I swear I heard that somewhere), and now I need to roll with it.

Captain Marvel/Shazam aids the team, but he's not actually living in Canada (like the other team members). Nobody knows why Captain Marvel isn't in Canada, let alone a Canadian citizen. Nobody even knows why he asks strangely naive questions or never stays around too long after missions. Well, maybe Martian Manhunter knows. But the secret is safe with him.

7. Gypsy (Cindy Reynolds): I know that there's a good chance Gypsy was DC's ripoff of Scarlet Witch, so let's take it one step further. Let's embrace the mild plagiarism. Her and Red Tornado will have a brief romance (although theirs crashes and burns a lot faster than Vision and Scarlet Witch's relationship).

When the Justice League Detroit disbands, only three members agree to head up to join the Canadian branch. Martian Manhunter, Gypsy and Captain Marvel/Shazam. The rest of that team stayed back in the states or were otherwise too busy to agree to join the new team.

Additional Members:

8. Booster Gold (Michael Jon Carter): Michael Jon Carter is from Edmonton. But I get really bogged down in backstory. So much so that I had to give him his own seperate post/note. Because I wrote like 7 to 9 paragraphs, too many to share here (especially when I'm trying to write about a whole roster of team members here, not just one).

9. Red Tornado: Although not really Canadian (being an android created in the United States), the Red Tornado is asked to join the team as a personal favour by the Martian Manhunter. Moving to Ottawa and taking on a human identity as university professor "John Smith", the Red Tornado becomes the team's heart and soul.

10. The Geomancer: This is a placeholder name for now, but I have a backstory. Daughter of a PEI farmer, young Emily Harrison is a metahuman with the power to control earth (and more specifically, dirt and soil are her specialities). Emily took over running the farm when her father had to retire, and she now runs it with her dad's best friend, an old, burly acadian man named Jean.

Emily never intended to be a superhero. She was content to just till her fields using her powers, and never have to worry about anyone judging her for them. But then one day the Justice League Canada came to PEI. Because the villian the Justice League was chasing also kidnapped her father, Emily and Jean help the Justice League stop him. This brings her to the notice of the Justice League.

This later, when Martian Manhunter, Captain Marvel and the Angel of Dawn all take absences from the team, they ask Emily and Jean to join the team. Emily was pretty reluctant to join, until she managed to get a promise the league would send her someone to help with the farm when she's doing super hero work.

11. Jean Boudreau: Jean is an acadian man from New Brunswick. A while ago, he moved to PEI to get a job as a farm hand. There he met Emily's dad, and began working on his farm. When Emily inherited the farm, Jean has already been working there for 10 years. He knows Emily the same way he knew her dad, and he wants to help protect her from the judgement of the world

When the Justice League comes to PEI to stop the villian who kidnapped Emily's dad, Jean is outraged. That's his old friend they kidnapped, and Jean will go to the ends of the earth to save him. Similarly, Jean follows Emily onto the Justice League when she joins them to help protect her.

Jean has no superpowers. He's just a strong, older man with all the physical abilities that entails. He does take martial arts training while he's on the league, though. He's also one of (if not) the only member of the team with no secret identity. He's just Jean.

12. Captain Newfoundland: There used to be a superhero called Captain Newfoundland in some old comic strips. I know little about him, but he looks super cool. And I want to take him, add some cool new details, and bring him to a wider audience. I'd add elements of Captain Universe and of The Phantom Stranger.

The last relic of an old alien race which came to earth eons ago, Captain Newfoundland and his kin were the original settlers of Newfoundland. Except back then, it wasn't Newfoundland. Back then, it was called Atlantis. This ancient race of star beings settled on Atlantis. They made it a paradise on earth, lush and beautiful. But then Atlantis fell to a massive volcanic eruption, and all of Captain Newfoundland's people either died or fled back into space. But not him.

You see, Captain Newfoundland was an exile amongst his people. He was friendly to the humans and animals of earth. He took it upon himself to watch over them and care for them. Since his people felt this made him too tender-hearted for his own good, they exiled him to the farthest tip of Atlantis. Funnily enough, this tip was the only part of Atlantis that survived the explosions. It never fell to the seas, and became the place we now call Newfoundland.

Nowadays, Captain Newfoundland is the humble protector of "The Rock". There's just one catch: he needs a host body. Kind of like how the Spectre needs a host body to do his thing, Captain Newfoundland needs a human host body to serve as a conduit between him and humanity. His current host body is an old Newfie, Brian Wellford (name subject to change if I think of anything better).

Captain Newfoundland is not a permanent member of the Justice League Canada. Kind of like the Phantom Stranger, he comes and goes wherever he's needed. Also, he doesn't often leave his stronghold on the east coast.

[kitkat13001]

you’re suiting up for a mission, adjusting the finishing touches of your hero costume, when katsuki kicks the locker room door open with a slam. 

you jump, huffing as you fix your suit. “jesus, i could’ve been naked, y’know,” you snark at him, giving him a playful shove as you pass him to grab your things. 

��but you weren’t,” he’s quick to reply, matching your attitude. “tch, like you’d even take that long suiting up.”

that makes you smile a little. all these years and he’s got your every habit down to memory. 

“yeah, whatever,” you scoff, hiding a bashful smile. 

“big mission?” katsuki matches your pace as you two walk down the hallway, hands in his pockets and trying to act nonchalant.

“yeah,” you reply with a shrug. “some villain’s been giving a bunch of sidekicks the ringer. commission says it’s right up my alley, though. apparently my quirk’s perfect for it.”

you don’t miss the tension in his shoulders though, or the way he keeps glancing at you in the corner of his eye. 

you jerk to an abrupt stop when he grabs your arm before you round a corner, and he steadies you with strong hands on your shoulders. 

his cheeks are pink and he ducks your gaze, intently focused on fixing the collar of your suit. 

“yeah, you’ll do just fine. just…be careful, ‘kay?”

“i always am,” you reply confidently, basking in the way his blush deepens. you stare at him for a moment, waiting for him to look back at you. “you got a crush or something?” you hum teasingly, flashing a shit-eating grin. 

he scoffs, flicking your forehead lightly. “shut up, dumbass.”

you scowl at him and a smirk tugs at his lips briefly as he leans in to kiss your forehead where he’d flicked you.

he releases you after a minute, giving you an encouraging shove down the hall as you yelp from the force of it. “give ‘em hell!”

“i always do!” you call back, blowing him a kiss. 

masterlists — dividers by enchanthings — old event reposting :) playing with new formats

[valentiyne]

𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗍 ᥫ᭡ 𝖻𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: In the heart of Avengers Tower, you are unexpectedly paired with a reclusive Bucky Barnes for a quiet city mission that turns into something far too personal. As the two navigate tight quarters, hidden threats, and lingering trauma, a fragile trust begins to form in the spaces between silence.

Warnings: Mild cursing & mentions of Bucky's trauma

Word Count: 4.3k (not proofread)

Copyright © 2025 Valentiyne. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

The day they brought the Winter Soldier in, I heard the doors to the sublevel medical bay slam open like someone was breaking in. Alarms didn’t go off, so I assumed it was fine. Mostly.

Tony’s voice echoed through the corridors, brisk and sarcastic, a tone I’d come to associate with anything out of his control. Steve’s quieter, more urgent voice followed, trailing behind like a leash trying to hold back a pit bull.

I didn’t see him that day. Just heard the noise.

He stayed below the surface for weeks, buried like a secret in the foundation of the Tower. Nobody said his name unless they had to. I didn’t ask questions. Being the second youngest member of the team had its perks: I wasn’t expected to know everything, and most people assumed I was better off not knowing anything at all.

Still, I caught whispers.

Nightmares. Damage control. Deprogramming.

Hydra.

The word sat like a splinter in the air every time it was said. Everyone felt it. Especially Steve.

I saw him, Bucky, maybe three times. Once, early in the morning, when I shuffled into the kitchen half-asleep and found him sitting at the counter. Silent. Hunched over a cup of black coffee he didn’t seem to be drinking. He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at him, not really. Just enough to clock the metal arm resting on the counter. My breath caught in my throat, but I didn’t bolt. That was my victory.

I grabbed a banana and walked out.

The second time, I was coming back from training. The hallway lights flickered, a glitch they said they were fixing, and I saw his silhouette at the end of the corridor. He didn’t move when I passed. Just stood there, half in shadow, watching me like I was some flickering signal he couldn’t quite make sense of.

The third time, I swear he nodded. It might’ve been my imagination. But something shifted. A blink of recognition.

But no one let him near me.

Tony said it was precautionary. “Kid, it’s not about trust. It’s about, y’know, surviving to see your twenty-first birthday. No hard feelings.”

I pretended to agree.

It was a Thursday when everything changed.

I was up early, too early, slumped at the counter with a bowl of soggy cereal. Nat was drinking black coffee and watching the news with that half lidded boredom she always had in the morning. Clint was nursing a hangover on the couch

Tony strolled in last, sunglasses on indoors like always, holding a cup labeled “WORLD’S OKAYEST GENIUS.”

“Morning,” he said, flicking the TV off with a remote I didn’t even know existed. “Big announcement. Sort of.”

Everyone turned to look at him. Even Clint, who groaned like moving physically hurt.

Steve came in behind him, face already locked in a tight frown.

Tony clapped his hands. “Alright, hear me out, and don’t throw a vibranium shield at my face yet, Cap. I think it’s time Barnes sees a shrink.”

Silence.

Nat arched an eyebrow. “He already is.”

“A real one,” Tony replied. “Not whatever Soviet era hypnosis Steve is trying to pass off as emotional progress.”

Steve crossed his arms. “He doesn’t need a psychiatrist. He needs time.”

“Steve,” Tony said, almost too gently. “It’s been two months. Two months of isolation, nightmare episodes, and one panic attack that almost blew out the med bay’s glass. I don’t want to be the guy who says ‘I told you so’ when Barnes freaks out and throws someone off the balcony.”

Steve’s jaw clenched.

“He’s not ready for normal life,” he said. “And you don’t get to decide what recovery looks like.”

Tony raised his hands. “I’m not trying to start a war, Spangles. Just saying...professional help might be good for him. We’re not therapists. We’re barely functioning people.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint muttered from the couch, raising a limp arm. “I’ve been emotionally stable since 2014.”

Tony didn’t laugh. His expression turned more serious. “Look, the guy deserves help. And whether you want to admit it or not, he trusts you too much to say when he’s drowning.”

Steve didn’t respond. His knuckles went white against the countertop.

I felt invisible in moments like this. Half kid, half soldier, not old enough to be part of the “real” conversations, but too embedded to look away.

Tony finally broke the silence. “I’m scheduling a consult. He doesn’t have to go. But the option should be there. That’s all I’m saying.”

Steve walked out before he could finish.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept hearing something, soft thuds in the hallway, a door creaking open. I sat up in bed, listening.

Then came the screaming.

Muffled. Low. Pained.

My heart raced as I crept out of bed, careful not to make a sound. The hallway was dark, save for the faint emergency lights that ran low along the walls. I followed the noise toward the lower guest quarters, near the elevators they kept locked down.

Then, silence.

I almost turned back, until I saw a flicker of movement through the small window of one of the rooms.

His room.

The light inside was dim, but I could make out the shape of Bucky Barnes, sitting up in bed, both hands clenched in his damp sweat filled hair, shoulders shaking.

He looked… lost.

I didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just stood there.

Eventually, he looked up.

Our eyes met through the glass. For a moment, it felt like time paused.He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

But he didn’t look away.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t violent. But he looked haunted.

Like something inside him had broken loose and clawed its way to the surface.

My chest tightened. And then, like a coward, I turned and ran.

The hallway seemed longer in the dark, lights flickering as my socked feet pattered against polished floors, arms tucked tight to my chest like that might keep the fear from spilling out. I didn’t stop until I was back in my room, door closed, back pressed to the wood as I slid down and sat on the cold floor.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Not because I wanted to protect him, necessarily, I didn’t even know him, but because I knew what Tony would do if he found out. And I knew what it felt like to constantly have nightmares. Nightmares of my life before the tower. Tony would punish Bucky.

Back to isolation. Back to sublevel lockdowns and reinforced doors and whispered speculation.

And even though I barely understood the man, I knew he didn’t deserve that.

So I stayed quiet.

Even when I passed him in the hallway two days later, coffee mug cradled in my hands as I headed to the lounge. Even when I felt his stare crawl across the side of my face. I didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even glance at him.

The team meeting was held in the main briefing room. Floor to ceiling glass walls, too many touchscreens, and chairs that cost more than my education.

I stood up front beside Tony, who was tapping through holographic files like he was picking a playlist instead of choosing who might die next week. Steve stood beside him, arms folded, stern as ever.

Behind me, I felt eyes burning a hole through the back of my skull.

I didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.

Bucky.

I shifted my weight, fingers curling into my sleeves, trying to ignore the electricity crawling up my spine.

Tony flicked a file closed and clapped his hands once. “Alright, kids, here’s the breakdown. We’ve got a recon mission in Prague. Quiet op, surveillance only, don’t get noticed, don’t start a war. Clint and Nat, you’re our shadows on the rooftops. Steve, Bruce, you’re handling the eastern perimeter. No Hulk unless provoked.”

Bruce made a face but nodded. Tony scrolled to the last file.

“Thor and Strange are off world, Peter’s on a field trip, and Spiderbaby's aunt gets real pissed when I drag him out of algebra. So that leaves… our in house intern.” He looked at me. “You’re staying home.”

My mouth parted.

“What? Why?” I said, voice sharper than intended.

Tony shrugged like it wasn’t personal. “Peter’s not here. I’m not sending you alone.”

“But you’re sending Clint and Nat!"

“They’re walking death machines. You’re barely twenty.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Didn’t say you were. But I don’t trust you not to try and impress anyone and get shot in the face.”

Steve’s voice cut in. “She’s trained.”

Tony raised a brow. “And?”

“She’s ready.”

Tony scoffed. “Oh come on, Steve. We’re not doing this.”

“She’s not a rookie. She’s been here longer than Peter. She’s already done the work. What’s the point of letting her train with us if you keep treating her like furniture?”

My heart beat so loud I barely heard them over it.

“She’s not ready.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“She’s not regulated, Steve,” Tony snapped, the easy charm dropping from his voice. “She’s not licensed, she’s not on any agency’s roster, and if something goes wrong overseas, guess who gets blamed? Not you. Not me. Her. I’m not throwing her into a war zone to prove a point.”

Silence.

My face burned. I wanted to scream. Instead, I clenched my jaw and stared straight ahead.

Then a voice from the back of the room, low and smooth and cold like metal on ice:

“Send her with me.”

I turned so fast it made me dizzy.

Bucky stood in the shadows near the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, jaw locked, eyes fixed on Tony.

The entire room stiffened.

Tony blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You won’t send her alone. Fine. Send her with me.”

Steve looked between us.

Tony exhaled through his nose and muttered, “And here I was thinking today would be boring.”

The car ride was quiet.

Painfully quiet.

The kind where the air feels heavier with every passing block, every streetlight flashing ghost-like across the windshield. The city blurred outside , neon signs, rain slick pavement, crowds of strangers who had no idea the kind of chaos that sat just beneath the surface.

I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, hands clasped in my lap. Every so often I glanced at him...Bucky, behind the wheel, eyes focused ahead, his expression unreadable. His fingers, both flesh and metal, tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. It might’ve been nerves. It might’ve been habit.

But he hadn’t said a single word.

Before we left, everyone had looked at me like I was walking into a lion’s den. Bruce gave me a protein bar. Natasha handed me a small blade she said Tony didn’t need to know about. Clint whispered, “Be cool. He’s not gonna kill you. Probably.”

But it was Steve who stopped me just before the elevator doors closed. His hand caught my arm gently, his expression lined with concern.

“If anything goes wrong,” he said under his breath, “if he starts to go sideways… you call for backup.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, though the words throbbed in the back of my skull now like a warning bell.

Sideways.

The word hadn’t left me since.

I snapped back to the present as the car slowed in front of a glowing tower of glass and chrome. A hotel. Fancy. Too many floors. Too many places to hide.

He pulled up to the valet with practiced ease and shifted the car into park. Then, finally, he spoke.

“We’ll stop here for the night.”

His voice was low and rough, like it hadn’t been used in hours.

I looked up at the building, heart thudding.

“Why here?”

His jaw tightened slightly as he glanced up at the hotel’s facade.

“Thief’s in there,” he said. “Probably in the casino. Last ping from the tracker Tony set up puts them inside this place. Room’s booked under a burner name. You and I check in, keep eyes open. Tomorrow, we move.”

I blinked. “You want us to stay in the same hotel as the guy who stole the crystal?”

He looked at me. “We’ll be less noticeable in the crowd than on the street.”

I hesitated, then nodded.

Fine.

We stepped out of the car together, the bellhop eyeing Bucky’s duffle bag like it might explode. I moved quickly, forcing my limbs to act like this was normal. Just another mission. Just another hotel.

The hotel glowed like money.

Warm gold lighting, sparkling chandeliers, and soft classical music piping through the air vents, the kind of place that catered to high stakes gamblers and people with clean shoes. Bucky looked like he didn’t belong, but no one dared to stop him. His face was carved from stone, eyes flat, jaw locked like he was chewing on a threat.

We walked up to the front desk, and he dropped the forged ID and Stark’s burner card without a word. The clerk, a woman in a navy blazer with a name tag that read Michelle, clicked her perfectly manicured nails against the keyboard and hummed.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “We’re nearly full for the weekend. We’ve got a luxury suite with a king bed and pullout couch, or… two single bed rooms. But those are on separate floors.”

I watched Bucky’s jaw tighten.

“No connecting rooms?” he asked, voice like gravel.

Michelle shook her head with an apologetic smile. “Afraid not.”

He exhaled through his nose like someone punched him in the ribs. Then turned slightly toward me, lips thinning.

“One room,” he said under his breath, like the words tasted wrong. “We’ll take the suite.”

Michelle beamed and swiped the card.

I stayed quiet. It wasn’t my call.

We made it to the elevators with a faint chime following us, the kind that sounded fancier than it needed to be. Once inside, Bucky jabbed the button for the twelfth floor hard enough to make the panel beep twice.

“You can have the bed,” he muttered. “I’ll take the couch.”

I glanced at him. “I don’t mind...”

“Not up for debate.”

I swallowed the rest of my sentence and looked at the scrolling numbers above the door.

Then, just as they started to slide shut, a hand shot between the gap.

The doors bounced open again.

A man stepped in.

Late 30s. Slick suit. Sunglasses indoors. He reeked of cologne and overconfidence, and he didn’t hesitate before sliding in right beside me, too close. His shoulder brushed mine.

I stiffened. My eyes flicked toward Bucky instinctively.

Bucky didn’t say anything. But I saw it, the side eye, the slight twitch of his fingers at his side. His stance widened almost imperceptibly, like his whole body tensed.

“Evening,” the man said with a too-wide grin, eyes flicking between us. “Y’all here for the convention?”

My stomach knotted.

“There’s no convention,” I said carefully.

He blinked. “You sure? Coulda sworn I saw signs..."

Then I felt it. The quiet shuffle.

Bucky’s hand came to rest at the small of my back. Firm, steady, not pushing, but guiding. He shifted, smoothly placing his body between me and the man, like he was just readjusting himself.

I stepped back, behind him without protest, pulse quickening.

The man kept talking.

“You two together?” he asked, leaning around Bucky slightly to try and make eye contact. “Not judging, just..."

Bucky turned his head, slow and deliberate.

“Yes,” he said flatly. No inflection. Just a word dropped like a hammer.

The man held his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath.

The elevator kept climbing. The silence turned sour.

When we reached the eleventh floor, the man stepped off. He gave a lazy wave and muttered, “Well, enjoy the suite,” before the doors closed again.

Bucky didn’t move until we were alone.

Then he finally exhaled and muttered, “That guy rubbed me the wrong way.” His hand finally moved from the small of my back, and for some reason, I missed when it was still there.

“You think he was our thief?”

“Doubt it. Too loud. But I don’t like surprises.”

The elevator chimed and the doors opened to the twelfth floor.

We stepped into the hallway in silence, the plush carpet muffling our steps as we made our way to the suite.

“Seriously though,” I said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Thanks. For, y’know… doing the whole ‘bodyguard’ thing.”

He didn’t look at me. Just slid the key card into the door.

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just stay behind me when things go bad.”

The hotel suite was big. Sleek, modern, and too quiet. A king sized bed sat centered against the far wall, sheets crisp and undisturbed. There was a velvet couch near the window and a minibar no one dared touch. It all felt staged, like a showroom, not a place people lived.

I stepped in first, tossed my backpack near the foot of the bed, and rolled my shoulders with a sigh. The tension from the elevator hadn’t left my body yet, still simmering under my skin.

Bucky followed close behind, but he didn’t slow down.

Instead of dropping his own bag, he went straight to work.

He moved silently, gliding from one end of the room to the other, checking every door, every cabinet. He opened the bathroom door, flicked the light on, then off. Looked behind the shower curtain. He opened the closet, pressed the wall, then shut it again. He moved to the dresser drawers, slid them open, checked under the bed. All without saying a word.

I stood in the center of the room, watching him.

“You expecting someone?” I asked, trying for lightness, but my voice came out too soft.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he crossed the room to the window, a tall glass panel that overlooked a tangle of glowing rooftops and streetlights far below. With quiet precision, he undid the lock and opened it just a crack. A breeze slipped through, cool and metallic.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He didn’t turn around.

“I always need an escape route,” he said, like it was obvious. “In case they come back.”

I blinked. “They?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. The wind stirred the curtains.

“Hydra,” he said finally. “Or anyone who thinks I belong to them.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

I looked down at the carpet, heart tightening in my chest. The weight in his voice wasn’t just fear, it was preparation. Like he’d already played out the scenario a dozen times in his head. Like he expected it.

“You’re not theirs anymore,” I said quietly.

He still didn’t look at me.

“You’re safe here,” I added, firmer this time.

He let the curtain fall back into place and locked the window again.

“Maybe,” he muttered, more to himself than me.

Then he stepped back, eyes finally meeting mine, not hard or angry, just… tired. Like the kind of tired that no amount of sleep could fix.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

I rubbed my hands down my arms and nodded toward the couch. “Still want it?”

He looked at it, then at me.

“You can have the bed,” I offered again. “Seriously.”

He moved toward the couch and dropped his duffle bag beside it.

“I’ve slept on worse.”

There was no bravado in it. Just a simple fact.

I didn’t push.

I went to unzip my bag, letting the soft sound fill the space between us, and Bucky crouched down to remove a small pistol from his boot, setting it within reach on the end table before slowly lowering himself onto the couch.

He didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t pick up a phone. Just leaned back, metal arm across his chest, eyes on the ceiling.

I pulled my bag toward the bed and started digging for my pajamas, acutely aware of the man sitting a few feet away on the couch. His presence filled the room like gravity, silent, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Still, I moved like I would at home. Carefully casual.

I disappeared into the bathroom to change, pulling on a pair of pink Hello Kitty pajama pants, faded from too many washes, fraying slightly at the drawstring. I topped it off with one of Peter’s old oversized Stark Industries t-shirts, stolen during laundry roulette a few months back and never returned. It smelled like soap and nostalgia.

When I stepped back into the room, towel drying my damp face, Bucky looked up from where he sat on the couch, one brow lifting in visible judgment.

“Nice shirt,” he said, voice edged with dry sarcasm. “Very intimidating.”

I blinked, then glanced down. “Oh. Yeah. It’s Peter’s.”

His expression shifted, subtle but noticeable, a twitch of his mouth, a slight tilt of his head.

“S'you two dating?”

The question caught me off guard. Not because he asked, but because he sounded… cautious. Not jealous. Just curious in a way I didn’t expect from him.

I snorted and walked toward the bed, flopping back onto the mattress with a bounce.

“God, no,” I said. “Never.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“He’s not my type,” I added, smirking slightly. “Way too sunshiney. And he talks too much. And he uses the word ‘bro’ unironically.”

That earned me the faintest twitch of a smile from him.

Just a flicker. There and gone.

I settled back against the pillows, curling the covers over my legs as the city buzzed faintly through the closed window. Bucky leaned his head back against the couch cushion, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“What is your type, then?” he asked after a moment.

I looked at him, surprised again. But this time, I didn’t deflect.

I thought for a second.

“Someone quiet,” I said finally. “Maybe a little broken. But trying. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I need to talk just to fill the silence.”

His eyes flicked over to me, unreadable.

Then he nodded once.

“Huh." The bed was softer than I expected.

I curled beneath the hotel comforter, one arm tucked under my cheek as I watched the soft light above cast faint shadows across the ceiling. The curtains were mostly drawn, the room dim, but not dark, not really.

That was by design.

Bucky hadn’t turned the lights off.

He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, the tension still written into the lines of his back like he hadn’t exhaled in days. His metal fingers tapped slowly against the armrest, a soft, metallic rhythm in the quiet.

I blinked over at him, groggy but aware. “You’re not gonna sleep?”

He shook his head once. “Not yet.”

“You can sleep, y’know. I won’t let anyone stab you in your sleep.”

A faint snort, the closest thing I’d heard to a laugh from him all day.

“I’m keeping watch.”

I frowned, pushing up slightly on one elbow. “Why?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, "Because someone should.”

I let the silence stretch, watching him from the bed. The steady clink of his fingers on the armrest continued. There was no fear in his face, not in the traditional sense. But there was wariness. A wired kind of stillness, like he didn’t trust the world to stay put while he closed his eyes.

“…You’re safe here,” I murmured again, softer this time. “We both are.”

He didn’t look at me. Just said, “That’s what the last place said too.”

That one hit something inside me.

I settled back onto the pillow, watching him in the dim glow of the room. His shoulders were still squared, eyes fixed on the door.

“You really gonna sit up all night?”

“Better me than you.”

I wanted to say more. Something comforting. Something wise. But the truth was, there was no quick fix for that kind of wound. He wasn’t just watching the door. He was watching the ghosts he knew might show up, because in his life, they always had.

“…Alright,” I whispered after a moment, letting my eyes fall shut. “But wake me up halfway. We’ll take turns.”

No reply.

But a few seconds later, the soft ticking of his metal fingers stopped.

I was just starting to drift, muscles loosening, the steady hum of the city below sinking into the silence of the room, when his voice broke through the dark.

“Hey, kid…”

I blinked my eyes open and pushed up slowly on my elbows, squinting toward the couch.

Bucky was sitting forward again. But this time, his hand moved with purpose, reaching under the hem of his jacket. I watched, confused, as he unbuckled the holster strapped across his ribs and pulled his pistol free. He turned it in his hand once, checking the safety, and then reached toward the small nightstand beside the couch and laid it down with quiet care.

The sound of the metal against wood was soft, but final.

I sat up straighter in bed, blinking. “What are you doing?”

His expression didn’t change. But his jaw flexed.

“If you wake up,” he said slowly, “and I’m not… me, you know what to do.”

The air left my lungs in a quiet rush.

“What?” I asked, a little sharper than I meant to.

He didn’t repeat it.

Just looked at me.

And then, like I was stupid for even asking, he said flatly, “You know what I’m asking.”

I stared at the gun. Cold and matte black. Sitting right next to his elbow like some grim insurance policy.

My throat went tight.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I’m not..."

“If something happens-"

“I’m not going to shoot you, Bucky.”

My voice cracked at the end. I didn’t mean for it to.

He looked down, jaw grinding like he wanted to argue, but what was there to say? He wasn’t asking to be dramatic. He wasn’t even scared. He was just prepared.

And that made it worse.

“I trust you,” I said after a long beat, softer now. “And if something does happen, I’ll handle it. But I’m not going to kill you just because you had a nightmare.”

He didn’t respond. Just leaned back again slowly, eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. He didn’t pick up the gun, though. He left it there. Between us.

“I don’t sleep easy,” he muttered.

“I know,” I whispered.

And with that, I laid back down. I didn’t sleep for a long time. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the vents and the low creak of his leather jacket as he shifted, maybe trying, and failing, to find peace.

The gun stayed where it was. A silent agreement neither of us fully acknowledged.

Bucky hadn’t moved in minutes. He sat leaning back into the couch cushions, one boot still on, head tilted slightly to the side.

I was almost sure he was still awake, until I heard it.

A soft, low sound. Snoring.

Just barely.

Like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but his body finally gave in.

I turned onto my side, curling in a little tighter, the sound of his breathing slow and steady in the dark. There was something strangely comforting about it, the weight of someone else’s presence. Someone who didn’t expect anything from me. Someone who might actually understand what it meant to live half on edge all the time.

And somehow, despite the mission, the strange hotel room, and the pistol sitting six feet away, I felt my eyes start to close.

Sleep came easier than I expected.

For once, neither of us woke up.

[kaleidoscopecth]

Too Bad You’re Married…

MDNI

pairing: ashton irwin x reader

summary: a dangerous meeting with a handsome stranger in a bar leads to the best sex of your life.

warnings: face fucking, unprotected sex, cream pie, squirting, face riding, semi public sex, rough sex, dom! ash, roleplay

word count: 6.6k

title: mascara by deftones.

a/n: BITCH GUESS WHOS BACKKKKK!! sorry for disappearing chat, it seems as though i had a bit of a writers block. the juice i was running on when i pumped out all of the previous fics seems to have run out, but alas here i am! i can’t promise ill be as active as i was before, but i hope you enjoy this little blurb because IT WAS SO FUCKING FUN TO WRITE. this was inspired by a certain line in the song Mascara by deftones. Stick around till the end, i promise the fluff is worth it.

also, thank u soup for being my other braincell when it comes to writing ashton. you hyping me up helped a ton. ALSO TY FOR CHOOSING THE ASH ERA AND PICTURE AHHHH !!!

anyways leave requests if u want.

Copyright © 2025 kaleidoscopecth. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The air in the bar was thick—saturated with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and lingering cigarette smoke, all underscored by the raucous echoes of drunken laughter. You tapped your carefully manicured nails against the sticky tabletop, eyes flitting nervously from face to face, cataloging each stranger with uneasy precision.

The thrill of the night buzzed beneath your skin—sharp, electric, almost unbearable. Your heart pounded erratically in your chest as your gaze remained fixed on the bar’s entrance, each passing moment stretching thin with anticipation. Maybe it was the taboo of it all—the unspoken danger, the uncharted territory you’d sworn never to touch—but the butterflies in your stomach had taken flight with dizzying urgency.

The bartender made eye contact with you again—for the third time in ten minutes. You offered nothing back, just lazily nursed your drink, tracing the rim of the glass with a fingertip. Condensation clung to the outside, slick and cool, and you found mild amusement in watching a droplet race downward, faster than the others.

“Must be some evenin’ if you’re entertaining yourself with a damn water droplet.” The voice—low, accented, tinged with amusement—slid into your senses just as he took the seat beside you.

Your eyes flicked to him. Sandy stubble framed a sharp jaw and hollow cheeks, his dark hair falling messily across his brow. And then—those eyes. Bright green, catlike, studying you with lazy precision.

The corner of your mouth curled into a smirk, slow and knowing. Your gaze dropped—right to the glint of a wedding band wrapped snug around his ring finger.

Instinctively, you twisted your own wedding band, the familiar pressure grounding you as a wave of anxiety surged—unwelcome, but far from unfamiliar. You straightened in your seat, spine stiffening, willing your features into something resembling calm.

“I find that the simplest things can be the most surprisingly amusing,” you hummed, voice dipping into something sweet and slow, almost syrupy. Then, you met his gaze head-on. “You’d probably know that if you didn’t strut around like you’re God’s gift to the Earth.”

His eyebrow arched, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face as his tongue dragged across his lower lip. He nodded slowly, accepting the barb with practiced ease. “Terrifying,” he murmured, raising a hand to flag down the bartender.

His emerald eyes flicked back to yours with a lazy sort of confidence, and a single dimple appeared as he smiled. “You want a refill? For a water droplet rematch?”

You took a breath, steady and deliberate, refusing to acknowledge the way his gaze swept over you like muscle memory—lazy, familiar, sure. Like he already knew the answer.

“Get me something stronger,” you murmured, stretching languidly in your seat.

His eyes followed the arch of your back with a quiet, hungry reverence—the kind of look that sent heat cascading through your limbs.

His smile could undo a person. “A woman after my own heart,” he mused, a pleased hum curling beneath his words. “I like that.”

You rolled your eyes as he turned toward the bartender, ordering two whiskeys neat. Presumptuous. But, annoyingly, spot-on.

“I’m sure your wife could agree,” you said, voice cool and edged.

His gaze flickered back to you, the smile still etched effortlessly into his features. “Let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes trailing down to your lips—lingering—before dropping to your hand.

“Unless you want to talk about that massive rock you’ve got on your finger, too.”

You didn’t reply.

He pressed on, tone light, teasing. “That really is quite the ring,” he said, amusement never fading. His gaze sharpened just slightly, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “You must be quite special, hmm?”

You narrowed your eyes, shifting in your seat. “I thought you wanted to let bygones be bygones?”

“You’re right,” he said with a nod, not even a flicker of shame. “My bad.”

Then he pivoted fully, turning to face you—his body leaning in like he’d known you forever. Like this wasn’t something dangerous.

“My name’s Ashton.”

You paused. Then, evenly, “Y/N.”

Ashton pursed his lips in thought before letting a slow grin curl across them. “Y/N,” he repeated, rolling the name across his tongue like he was testing its weight. The way he said it—deliberate, slow, far too familiar—sent a flash of heat cascading down your spine. “Pretty name.”

You shrugged, biting your lip as you toyed with your glass, carefully considering your next move. “For a pretty woman,” you purred, casting him a look from beneath your lashes. “It fits.”

“Damn right it does,” Ashton murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink—his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “So, enlighten me, Y/N… what’s a beautiful married woman doing in a hotel bar at—” He glanced at his watch. “One in the morning on a Saturday, wearing lipstick that screams bite me?”

You inhaled slowly, gaze drifting over him with a lazy, deliberate hunger.

“Maybe I’m looking for a victim,” you mused, voice laced with danger and promise. Then you tilted your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What about you? What’s a handsome, married man doing alone in a bar… buying drinks for someone else’s wife?”

Ashton raised his hands in mock surrender, though the easy smile on his lips didn’t so much as flicker. “Just being a good Samaritan,” he said with a casual shrug. “You never know what kind of people lurk around at this hour… or the intentions you might encounter.”

“Oh?” you purred, tilting your head as you blinked up at him with feigned innocence. You slowly rested your arm on the table, exposing the delicate inside of your wrist—the soft skin catching in the low light. His eyes tracked the motion instantly, just as you expected. “And what makes your intentions so different from theirs?”

Ashton’s gaze lingered for a beat too long before lifting back to yours, something darker now swimming beneath the surface of his smile.

“Just looking for a way to kill some time,” he said, tone sincere but low. “Something to help with the jet lag, ya know?”

You hummed softly, lifting your glass of whiskey to your lips. “Jet lag,” you echoed, taking a slow, deliberate sip—Ashton’s eyes tracking every movement with the kind of hunger that would put a starved man to shame. A single bead of amber clung to the corner of your mouth. You reached up, wiping it away with the tip of your finger, and let your lips curl just slightly. “And here I thought you were just bored of your wife.”

Ashton let out a quiet, amused laugh—open, easy, a sound that vibrated in your chest. “She does get a little repetitive at times,” he said with a mock sigh, lifting his glass to his lips.

“Excuse you,” you said, feigning offense, narrowing your eyes as you tilted your head. “I’m sure she’s a lovely woman.”

His smirk deepened, eyes flicking once again to your left hand—your very occupied ring finger. “She sure is. Just like I imagine your husband’s quite the catch.”

You rolled your eyes, resting your cheek against your hand. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

Another flash of those damn dimples, and your breath caught just slightly. “The funniest, love.”

You let out a quiet chuckle—soft, reserved, almost unsure. Another sip of whiskey gave you something to do, something to hide behind. “You must be a nightmare at any social event.”

Ashton raised a brow, amused, and leaned into your space without apology. The scent of citrus and musk clung to him—rich, clean, and heady. Your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, involuntarily letting it sink into your senses.

“Only if the conversation’s dull,” he murmured, glancing down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid with lazy ease. “Or if the wives look… particularly restless.”

“Oh, yeah?” you challenged, leaning in just enough to mirror him. “So tell me, Ashton… what is it that you think I’m looking for?”

He moved slowly, deliberately—lifting one arm and dragging the pad of his index finger down the soft skin of your forearm. The touch was featherlight, but it left a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“I think you’re looking for a thrill,” he whispered, voice dipped in heat. His breath brushed your ear. “Something dangerous. Something to remind you you’re not just someone’s well-kept prize.”

Your pulse spiked.

You turned your head toward him—lips dangerously close, eyes locked. There was no hesitation in your expression. You wanted this. You both knew it.

“Mm. That’s a tempting offer,” you murmured. “You are offering, aren’t you?”

Ashton’s grin was slow and wicked, his head tilting like he was insulted by the question. “Darling, I’m not here to talk about your husband’s diamond preferences—though credit where it’s due, the man’s got taste.”

“Hmm.” You let Ashton hang there, suspended in the tension you both had carefully spun, letting the silence tease him just a little longer. The anticipation only sharpened your craving. “Does your wife know you’re out here complimenting diamond cuts?”

Ashton leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice low and full of intent. “I’d much rather be doing more than admiring a ring on your finger,” he murmured, each word soaked in heat. You could feel the warmth of him, pulsing between you like a live wire.

Then he pulled back, slowly—reluctantly—and stood. He towered over your seated frame, casting you in shadow and possibility. His hand reached out, gentle yet firm, tilting your chin up until your eyes locked.

“You take control a lot in your life?” he asked softly, like he already knew the answer.

Your gaze held his, unwavering. “I’m looking for something that’ll let me give that up,” you replied, voice low, deliberate. “Is that what you’re here to compliment now? My willingness to obey? My need to surrender?”

His eyes darkened, hunger flickering across his features like a spark hitting gasoline. His jaw flexed, tightly restrained, and you could feel the war inside him—between restraint and abandon.

His eyes kept darting to your lips, and his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom one. For the first time, you saw something shift—surprise, almost awe—behind the heat.

“Do you want me to test just how compliant you are?” he rasped. “Or do you think your husb—”

“Let’s go,” you cut him off, the heat between your thighs finally boiling over. The game was over. “Take me.”

The air felt sucked from the room the moment your words left your lips. Ashton’s mouth parted slightly in surprise, but you knew there would be no hesitation. And there wasn’t.

His hand reached for you—delicate, yet firm—as his fingers wrapped around your wrist. The moment his skin touched yours, heat surged through your body, sealing your resolve.

The bar blurred into irrelevance as he led you past tables, past strangers who didn’t matter. His pace was confident, deliberate—like a man who already knew the outcome.

The hallways were quiet, save for the occasional couple stumbling toward their own late-night regrets, not sparing either of you a second glance.

When the elevator arrived, you tugged Ashton inside without a word, blindly slapping the correct floor button as he pushed you back against the mirror.

The door slid shut just as your spine hit the cold glass. He caged you there, body pressed against yours, hands gripping the railing behind you as if to anchor you. His eyes devoured your face—lips parted, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.

And then he kissed you.

No hesitation. No pause. Just heat.

His mouth crashed into yours, fierce and ravenous, like he’d been waiting all night to taste you. His tongue slid past your lips without resistance, drawing a soft gasp from your throat as he explored you—confident, controlled, hungry.

His hands wandered too—down the curve of your waist, to your thigh, lifting it slowly. One hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, savoring the heat of your skin, rough fingers skimming delicate lace.

A quiet moan escaped as he bit down on your bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth. He groaned in return when your hips rolled against his, chasing friction like oxygen.

One hand came to your neck, strong fingers bracketing your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath the skin. It made your head spin.

The elevator dinged.

You pushed him back—breathless, flushed—and grabbed his hand, fingers lacing tightly with his as you dragged him into the hallway.

“Jesus,” Ashton laughed, voice low and wrecked. “Impatient, are we?”

You stopped in front of the door, turned on your heel, and grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him down to meet your lips again.

“Just open the fucking door,” you murmured into his mouth, already losing yourself to the next kiss

Not surprisingly, one of Ashton’s hands came up to cup the back of your neck, keeping your lips locked with his as his other hand swiped the keycard and swung the door open.

The two of you backed into the room slowly, the door shutting behind you with a soft click that left no room for hesitation.

Ashton pulled away just enough to shed his jacket, letting it fall to the hotel floor. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city lights seeping through the open blinds—just enough to see by, just enough to want more.

The green of Ashton’s eyes was almost entirely overtaken by the black of his pupils. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as his gaze dragged down your body, sharp and electric. This was different. This was new.

“Strip,” he said, voice eerily calm. Controlled. “And get on your knees.”

You turned, brow raised in a questioning glance. “What?”

“I said strip,” Ashton repeated, each word punctuated by a slow, deliberate step forward. There was no trace of the charming, cheeky man from the bar. This was something darker—something raw, unfiltered, and burning.

You bit your lip, fingers moving behind you to find the zipper of your dress. The seconds stretched, molasses-thick, as Ashton stood still—watching, waiting, hungering.

You slid the dress down your arms, letting the fabric whisper to the floor and pool at your feet.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, stepping closer. His eyes roamed your body like he couldn’t quite decide where to settle. “Keep going.”

Biting your lip, you reached behind your back and unhooked your bra, letting the straps fall slowly down your arms until the fabric slipped to the floor, joining your dress. Ashton had begun circling you like a predator stalking its prey, and the weight of his gaze alone made your thighs instinctively press together in a futile search for relief.

With deliberate slowness, you slid your panties down your legs, stepping out of the lace and nudging your discarded clothes aside. Ashton came to a stop in front of you, and wordlessly, you sank to your knees—eyes locked on his the entire time.

He licked his lips, head tilted slightly, savoring the way anticipation coiled tight in your body. His steps toward you were slow, deliberate, like he was drawing out your need on purpose.

His rough hand cupped your face, his pinky settling just under your jaw, tilting your gaze up to meet his.

“You look good like this, Y/N,” he murmured, voice low and gruff with want. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip, then pressed between them, slipping into your mouth without resistance.

“Your husband’s lucky,” he added, dark amusement laced in the words. “Let’s see just how lucky, though.”

Your breath hitched as his hand dropped to his belt, undoing it with the kind of practiced ease that made your pulse stutter. The other hand left your face to pop the button, then the zipper, his movements unhurried and confident as he pushed his jeans just low enough.

He was already hard—thick, glistening, beautiful.

Your mouth watered at the sight.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your breathing shallow as he stepped in closer. Slowly, he pressed the tip of his cock to your lips, the salty taste flooding your senses as his eyes met yours in a silent question.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your lips parted, and you took him in—slowly, deliberately—just the tip at first. Ashton let out a low moan, his head tipping back as he eased deeper into your mouth.

“That’s my good fucking girl,” he growled, voice rough with pleasure, one hand sliding into your hair to guide you as he hit the back of your throat.

You let your tongue swirl around him, your hand wrapping around the base to take care of what you couldn’t fit. The weight of him on your tongue was addictive, the stretch of your jaw delicious as you began to move—slow, steady, intentional.

“Oh, fuck,” Ashton groaned, his eyes dark and half-lidded as he watched you. “So fucking pretty… just like I knew you’d be.”

His encouragement only spurred you on. You bobbed your head faster, wrist moving in perfect time as your tongue traced the underside of his tip—right where you knew he was most sensitive.

“God, you look like a fuckin’ dream on your knees,” Ashton gasped, his voice coming out rough and breathless. One hand came to brace against the wall behind you, the other still tangled in your hair, keeping you close.

Your lips were stretched around him, swollen and slick. Spit coated your chin, your cheeks flushed with heat. You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, savoring the way his hips twitched slightly with every pass of your mouth.

Then you opened your eyes again—wide, glassy, unafraid—and met his with a look that dared him.

Take it. Take me.

Ashton recognized that look instantly. He smirked, a dark and pleased curve of his lips, and then his hips began to move—slow at first, then harder, faster, more demanding.

He fucked into your mouth with purpose, hitting the back of your throat again and again, and you let him. You gave yourself over to him completely.

“Pretty little thing,” he gritted out, breath ragged. “God, your mouth feels so fucking good.”

You moaned around him, and the vibration made him curse under his breath. It only made him go harder, faster, more desperate. Tears sprang to your eyes from the force, slipping down your cheeks without mercy—raw, messy, beautiful.

“Don’t cry, baby,” Ashton growled, fisting your hair tighter, the pace unrelenting. “You look so fucking pretty with my cock down your throat.”

You could imagine exactly what he saw—your body on your knees, mascara streaked like black lightning across your face, lips swollen and glistening, eyes wet and glassy, mouth full of him. Completely ruined, completely his.

And you loved it.

Without warning, Ashton pulled out of your mouth. You gasped, your throat raw, vision blurred as the world rushed back in too fast. The sudden loss made your body ache.

“You’re such a good little whore f’me,” Ashton panted, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes met his. “But I need to come inside you.”

A whimper escaped before you could stop it. “Please, Ash,” you rasped, your voice hoarse and trembling from the effort of holding him so deep for so long.

“You did such a good job,” he murmured, thumb stroking along your jaw. “Such a good girl. And good girls get rewarded.”

You bit down on your lip, swallowing the moan building in your chest. The slick heat between your thighs was unbearable now, every shift of your body sparking friction you couldn’t ignore. You squirmed, desperate for more.

Ashton leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that stole what little breath you had left. His hand fisted in your hair, anchoring you there as your hands clutched at his shoulders. Your mouths moved together with practiced, hungry precision.

With trembling fingers, you began to unbutton his shirt, pushing his jean jacket off in the same motion. His skin burned under your touch, the heat of him making your own skin feel too tight. His hands found your waist, dragging you into him as the two of you collapsed to the floor in a messy tangle of limbs—your body falling on top of him.

His tongue slid into your mouth again, slow and sure, drawing out a moan that vibrated between your lips. One of his hands roamed your back, the other dropping to squeeze your ass, fingers digging in possessively. The press of his cock between your bodies was firm, heavy, demanding.

You shifted your hips to grind against him, seeking friction, and he groaned against your mouth.

“I want you,” he gasped, pulling back just enough to breathe, “to sit on my face.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs.

“Ride my tongue,” he growled, eyes dark with want. “Until you fucking come. That’s your reward.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, but Ashton’s gaze was already locked on yours—wide, dark, and desperate. Your entire body buzzed like a live wire, and God, you’d dreamed of this. Of his mouth. Of that stubble dragging along the sensitive inside of your thighs.

“Fuck,” you breathed, voice trembling as you took in the sight of him sprawled beneath you—an absolute dream of a man, waiting to worship you.

One of his hands fell away from your back as he propped himself up on an elbow, his eyes burning into yours as he waited.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured, voice low, rough, and sweet like sin. “You don’t get to be shy. Not after you choked on my cock like you were fucking made for it.”

You bit your lip as he leaned back against the floor, lifting a hand to gesture toward his face.

“Up here,” he ordered, voice firm. “Bring that pretty pussy to my mouth.”

There was no hesitation. You moved up his body, thighs bracketing his face as you settled above him. The sight of you—wet, glistening, need dripping from every inch—made Ashton groan like he was in pain.

“God,” he rasped, eyes fixed on you. One hand came up, his finger lightly trailing down your slit, making you hiss. “You’re fucking soaked, baby.”

You began to lower yourself slowly, but it wasn’t fast enough for him. Ashton gripped your hips and pulled you down against his mouth in one swift, hungry motion.

The second his tongue touched you, your moan echoed through the room—loud, helpless. He licked a long, deliberate stripe through your folds, savoring the taste, before circling your clit in slow, maddening motions.

“Oh my—fuck,” you gasped, the words dissolving into a strangled cry as your hands scrambled for purchase on the nearby nightstand.

Ashton’s lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently, then with a little more pressure. Your hips jerked in response, grinding down instinctively, chasing the searing high he was building with every flick of his tongue.

His stubble burned deliciously against the soft skin of your thighs, only heightening the sensation. He alternated between languid, lazy licks and pulling your clit between his lips, suckling it like he had all the time in the world—and every intention of wrecking you slowly.

Your thighs trembled uncontrollably on either side of his head as you rode the delicious flicks of his tongue. When Ashton groaned into you, the deep vibration sent shockwaves straight through your core.

It felt so good—too good. Your free hand tangled in his dark curls, your head tipping back in pure ecstasy as a crescendo of moans spilled from your lips. He encouraged the slow grind of your hips against his mouth, both hands gripping your thighs as you chased your high.

The room was filled with the sound of wet, sinful pleasure—his mouth working you over with no mercy. You chased every swipe of his tongue, every deliberate kiss to your throbbing clit, your hips stuttering with every stroke.

A deep throb coiled low in your belly, tightening fast as your breathing grew uneven and your moans climbed in pitch.

“Oh God, Ash,” you whimpered, voice cracking on his name. “Your mouth feels so fucking good. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Ashton hummed in response, the sound rumbling against you as he squeezed your thighs tighter.

“Come for me,” he growled, voice muffled and rough. “Be a good girl and come all over my fucking face.”

That was all it took.

With one last flick of his tongue, your orgasm slammed into you, stealing your breath and darkening your vision. Your entire body shook, thighs quivering as a sob wrenched free from your throat—his name falling from your lips like a broken prayer.

Your spine arched, hips jerking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Ashton didn’t stop—not for a second—his mouth working you through every pulse, every aftershock, until your cries blurred into whimpers of overstimulation.

By the time you came down, your arms gave out and you collapsed forward, catching yourself on trembling hands. Ashton eased you off his mouth gently, and you rolled off him until you were seated back on the floor, chest heaving.

“Fuck, your wife is lucky,” you muttered, pushing damp strands of hair out of your face as Ashton propped himself up on his elbows, wearing a thoroughly smug grin.

“She is,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction as he sat up and got to his feet. “But I’m here with you… and I’m not finished.”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, trying to piece your mind back together.

Fuck. He never came.

Ashton extended a hand, and you took it. With his help, you stood on shaky legs, and he placed a steadying hand at the small of your back.

“You can handle more, can’t you, sweetheart?” he growled into your ear, sending a fresh shiver down your spine.

He guided you toward the balcony, pushing the glass door open. Warm spring air hit your flushed, naked skin, and you gasped at the contrast—the city lights glowing just beyond the railing, the hum of the night surrounding you like a secret.

“Hands on the railing, babygirl,” Ashton instructed, voice firm as he stepped in behind you and bent you forward.

Your hands flew out to grip the railing, knuckles turning white with anticipation.

Ashton let a hand trail slowly down your spine, the light touch making you shiver. He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” he murmured, voice low and dark. “And I need everyone in this goddamn city to know it. Got it?”

You bit your lip, nodding eagerly, the thrill of his words pulsing between your legs.

He moved your hair gently over your shoulder, exposing the curve of your neck. His lips followed, soft and deliberate, as he kissed the sensitive skin. You exhaled a content sigh, eyelids fluttering as he scraped his teeth along your pulse point.

Then he sucked—slow, deliberate—drawing a deep mark that made your knees nearly buckle.

You could feel the heat of him behind you, the weight of his cock as it was pressed against your ass. Gently, Ashton adjusted his grip on your hips, the warm night air doing nothing for the goosebumps that decorated your skin at every minor touch.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Ashton groaned, voice thick with lust. “You look so fucking good like this—bent over, gripping the railing, dripping for me like the cockwhore I know you are.”

His hands roamed slowly down your back, spreading you open with a deliberate touch that made your breath hitch. You were completely exposed, completely at his mercy—and he reveled in it.

“Keep those hands right where they are, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. His voice softened just enough to make you melt before his fingers teased your entrance.

You let out a stifled moan, your body already throbbing for him. When he pushed one finger inside, your eyes rolled back.

“So fucking tight still,” Ashton hummed, pleased, like he wasn’t already obsessed with how you felt. “Gonna feel so good wrapped around my cock.”

A second finger joined the first, stretching you out, filling you. The sensation was intense, especially with how sensitive you still were—your climax from his mouth barely in the rearview.

You clenched around his fingers, hips shaking, legs trembling from the effort to stay upright. His pace was unhurried, torturous, and you could feel the smirk on his face even without looking.

Then, without warning, he pulled them out, and you whimpered at the loss.

You heard the slick sound before you even saw it—the unmistakable sound of him sucking your arousal off his fingers.

“Taste like fucking candy,” he groaned.

“Ash, please—” you started, only to be cut off by the slow, maddening drag of his cock teasing your entrance. He rubbed against your clit deliberately, and your knees nearly buckled.

“Oh, fuck,” you cried, hips jerking.

He chuckled darkly behind you. “You like that, baby?” he asked, taunting. “Look at you—clenching around nothing. You’re so damn desperate.”

“Ashton, please,” you begged, voice wrecked. Your fingers tightened around the railing, white-knuckled, as your whole body cried out for him. “I need you.”

And finally, finally, he gave in.

The air left your lungs in a gasp as Ashton pushed inside—inch by inch—stretching you open in a way that made your mind go blank.

He bottomed out with a low, guttural moan. “Oh fuck, that pussy’s perfect,” he hissed. “So tight around me, so wet. You feel fucking amazing.”

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises—marks you knew you’d wear proudly tomorrow.

Then he moved.

Without warning, Ashton pulled back and slammed into you, drawing a loud cry from your throat. The sound was lost in the buzz of the city below—but you knew you were only going to get louder.

His hips were relentless, slamming into yours with the kind of force that had your body jolting forward, the railing shaking beneath your grip. Your cries mixed with his breathy groans, the air between you thick with sweat, heat, and need.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Let them hear you. Let this fucking city know who owns this pretty pussy.”

Your head fell forward, resting against your arm as your body trembled with every deep, punishing thrust. The pleasure was blinding—overwhelming—consuming every thought until the only thing you could register was Ashton’s cock driving into you over and over again.

Your legs barely held you up as Ashton continued to pound into you, merciless and relentless. Your skin buzzed with electricity, every nerve ending alive, your moans dissolving into broken, choked-off cries as each thrust hit deeper than the last.

“Right there, Ash,” you gasped, voice echoing into the open night. Anyone could see you—if they stepped onto their balcony or even glanced out a window, they’d be greeted with the filthy, breathtaking sight of Ashton fucking you senseless.

And Ashton wasn’t faring much better. His composure had shattered, his strangled moans mixing with yours, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the night air.

You were gone—completely undone. Your body no longer felt like your own, just a desperate vessel for Ashton to use, to ruin, to worship with every precise snap of his hips. He kept hitting that spot inside you—over and over—that made your vision blur and stars explode behind your eyes.

Your thighs shook violently, every thrust knocking the breath from your lungs.

“Fuck, yes—right there,” you cried, the words barely intelligible, your mouth working around them between moans. But he understood. Oh, he understood.

His grip on your hips tightened like a vice. He knew from the way you were trembling, the way you clenched around him like a vice—you were close. So fucking close.

“You gonna come for me?” he growled into your ear, voice a low, filthy rasp. Each word was punctuated by a brutal thrust that had your hands gripping the railing like your life depended on it. “I can feel it. This tight little pussy’s begging for it. Begging for me to fuck it dumb.”

A choked sob ripped from your throat just as Ashton’s hand left your hip and slipped between your thighs. His fingers found your clit instantly, rubbing tight, ruthless circles that made your back arch and a scream claw its way from your chest.

The only sounds were your cries, the wet slap of your bodies, and Ashton’s ragged breathing at your neck.

“You’re gonna milk my cock dry, aren’t you?” he snarled. “Fucking wring every last drop out of me, you dirty little whore.”

You bit your lip, mustering just enough strength to nod—but even that felt impossible. The pleasure was overwhelming, consuming every thought, every breath, every nerve in your body. Words were out of the question.

“Come for me,” Ashton snarled, his fingers rubbing ruthless circles on your clit. “Fucking come for me. Make a mess, baby—I wanna feel you soak my cock.”

With one final, devastating snap of his hips, your body seized up and you screamed his name into the night. Hot, blinding, electric pleasure crashed over you like a wave, so intense it shattered every thought. You were reduced to nothing but a gasping, writhing mess—your back arching, toes curling, mouth open in a silent cry.

And then it hit.

Just as your orgasm peaked—when you thought there couldn’t possibly be more—your body let go completely. A powerful gush spilled from between your legs, soaking your thighs and Ashton’s hips, the force of it making you collapse against the railing with a broken moan.

“Holy fuck,” Ashton breathed, voice wrecked, completely stunned. “That’s it, baby—good fucking girl. Squirt all over me. Goddamn.”

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The sight of you losing control like that only pushed him further. His thrusts turned savage, unrelenting, and your legs gave out beneath you. Ashton didn’t falter—his hands clamped around your hips, holding you upright as your body went limp.

“Look at this pussy,” he panted, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses across your shoulder. “Fucking soaked for me. You’re a mess, Y/N—the hottest, filthiest fucking mess I’ve ever seen. And I’m not stopping till I’ve come so deep it drips out of you for days.”

You whimpered, exhausted and overstimulated, but fuck if his words didn’t light you up all over again.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, chest pressed to your back, one hand gripping the railing while the other snaked around to hold you still. “You drenched me, sweetheart. You’re mine. You hear me? This pussy—this sloppy, dripping, perfect fucking pussy—belongs to me.”

“Only to you,” you managed to breathe, voice raw as another moan tore from your throat. “It’s yours, Ash. No one else’s. Ever.”

He groaned like he was losing his mind, lips dragging across your skin as he chased his own release. “Fuck, you look like sin,” he growled. “Bent over like a perfect little slut, dripping down my cock, soaking my thighs—you love this, don’t you?”

After a particularly brutal thrust, you let out a strangled gasp.

“I fucking love it,” you sobbed. “I love how deep you are. I love how you ruin me.”

That was all he needed.

One hand fisted in your hair, yanking your back flush to his chest as his other hand slid up to grab your tits, fingers rolling your nipples between them as your head fell back against him.

“God, you’re so fucking filthy,” he hissed into your ear. “Still begging for my cock even though you can barely stand. You squirted all over me and you’re still taking it like a good little whore.”

You moaned loud and broken—speech long gone.

“You want it?” he growled, cock throbbing inside you. “You want me to fill up this tight little cunt? Pump you full until you’re leaking down your thighs?”

“Please, Ash,” you begged, vision swimming. “Come inside me. Fill me up—I want to feel it dripping out. I want your cum fucking everywhere.”

He snapped.

With a loud, guttural groan, Ashton slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock twitched deep inside. You could feel the heat of it—thick, hot spurts filling you, spilling into every inch.

“Fuck—fuck, take that,” he gasped, grinding into you through every last pulse. “Take my cum, baby. So fucking pretty when you’re stuffed full. This pussy was made to be ruined by me.”

You cried out, shaking as the warmth of his release spilled out of you, dripping instantly down your thighs. His hips jerked through the aftershocks, unwilling to let go of the moment.

He stayed there, pressed tight against your back, panting hard, fingers bruising your hips as he came down.

Finally, with a low groan, he pulled out—and the slick sound of his cum dripping out of you made him hiss through his teeth.

Before your legs had the chance to give out, Ashton scooped you up effortlessly, one arm behind your back, the other under your thighs. You sagged into him, boneless and ruined, as he carried you back inside.

He kicked the balcony door shut with his foot, his lips brushing your temple as he carried you through the room. Slowly, he walked you over to the bed and laid you down with care, then padded into the bathroom to grab a towel.

Your mind was still a haze of afterglow and overstimulation, but clarity gradually returned. The trembling in your legs faded, replaced by a deep, warm relaxation that spread through your entire body.

When Ashton returned, he wore a dopey, satisfied smile as he sat beside you. He gently spread your thighs, the towel in his hand already damp with warm water. With careful, tender motions, he began cleaning you up—wiping away the mix of arousal and cum with quiet focus.

You hissed when the fabric brushed over your still-sensitive skin, and Ashton’s head immediately shot up. A stray black curl fell over his eyes as he checked your face for any sign of discomfort.

You slowly sat up, your hand reaching for him. With a soft touch, you brushed the hair from his face. His expression softened as your fingertips skimmed his cheek.

“That was fun,” you murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips.

Ashton grinned, setting the towel aside on the nightstand. “Yeah, it was.” He paused, eyes gleaming with mischief as he added, “Too bad you’re married…”

You arched a brow, already bracing for it.

“To me,” he finished with a shit-eating grin.

You let out a dramatic groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

He burst into laughter, clearly pleased with himself. “Oh, baby, come on!” he said, cupping your face with both hands and forcing you to meet his eyes. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t the hottest sex we’ve ever had.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. “Maybe,” you grumbled. “But did you really have to keep bringing up the wedding band you picked out mid-fuck?”

Ashton grinned, entirely unashamed. “I really outdid myself, what can I say?”

Your glare was unimpressed. “I pity your wife.”

Leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, his teasing fading into something tender. He tilted his head, studying you with the kind of reverence that could only come from someone completely, hopelessly in love.

“She loves me,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” you whispered, nuzzling deeper into his hand. “I do.”

Ashton smiled, flashing you a dimple. “I love you too, baby.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

[lovesick-desires]

VALETUDINARIANISM

YANDERE!VIKTOR X IMMUNOCOMPROMISED!READER — CHAPTER FOUR (FINALE)

‎‎‎‎PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⇠

ABSTRACT: After the collapse of Viktor's commune into pure anarchy, you, with the help of Piltover and Zaun's combined forces, try to stop Noxus and Viktor from his full glorious evolution. However, you have no idea what kind of threat you were facing... AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for giving me this amazing opportunity to write this fic for y'all. I appreciate all the notes, reposts and comments I have received. Sorry if the formatting is a little wonky as I am writing this on my phone, it will be fixed later! CONTENT WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, major character death, season two spoilers, canon divergence, dark themes, yandere behavior, violence, swearing, murder, explicit blood & gore, manipulation, cult behavior, mass death, war WORD COUNT: 2.4k+ VIKTOR'S YANDERE ARCHETYPE: delusional, protective

The war was nothing short of devastating. Corpses of Pilties, Zaunites and even Noxians dappled the once pristine floors of the Piltover town hall like fallen gears from a broken clock, each one a silent testament to the utopia’s crumbling state. Living in Zaun your whole life made you accustomed to death, but nothing could have prepared you to mass homicide of this magnitude. As your gaze shifted around, you tried to hold back your vomit upon seeing a disemboweled Jinxer, her long blue hair a syzygy to her sanguine insides that had been shredded through like nothing more than paper. Holding your gun close, you swallowed back the urge to vomit as you pressed forward, stepping over the desecrated corpse.

The sounds of gunfire and other weaponry created a cacophony with the screams and whimpers of pain from injured warriors. Your gaze shifted around, taking in the damage. Medics were trying to salvage who they could save while others uttered their dying words in unheard whimpers.

You saw a Noxian go to charge at you out of the corner of your eye, her spear aimed for your torso. With an instinctual movement, your arm raised with the gun in your digits. Your pointer finger pulled back, unloading a bullet right in the Noxian’s throat. To this, she gasped and crumpled like the weight of the world pushed her down. Her corpse laid before you, blood pooling from her throat onto the tiled floor.

You just killed someone.

The realization hit you like a sack of bricks, making you feel your lungs feel like they were closing up. Sweat beaded down your forehead as you grabbed the bottle of pills from your pocket, looking at the contents.

Three left.

Jayce must have found one and used it on you when he found you. You had to be careful. As your wheezing intensified, your fingers plunged into the translucent orange bottle, scooping out a white pill. You placed the medication under your tongue, letting it dissolve as your breathing slowly calmed. You couldn’t keep having attacks or you’d run out. Not like you could help it.

Your gaze flickered over to a door that was left agape. Something in you told you to go down there. Gripping your gun tightly, you made a break for the door, entering the room which seemed to be a staircase shaft. You shut the door behind you to hide your escape from the bloodshed outside. A loud bang could be heard down the stairwell, making you peer down the stairs. It was at least ten floors you’d have to run down to get down there. You began to descend the stairs until you heard an echoing voice, one you unfortunately recognized.

“Despite the circumstances, Jayce. I am… pleased to see you.”

Viktor. How was he alive? Didn’t Jayce kill him? However, he sounded different. His voice was distorted and almost robotic in essence.

“There must be some part of you still in there.” You could hear Jayce’s voice soon follow Viktor’s making you realize Jayce could be in serious danger. You began to descend the floors of stairs, your heart racing in your ears:

“I am more than I ever was.” Viktor replied, his tone full of accomplishment. Your footsteps quickened as you kept listening to their conversation, hearing them louder and louder the closer you got.

“Stop this insanity, Viktor.”

“That is precisely my intention.”

Viktor’s talk of ending injustice and famine filling your ears as you raced down the stairs, your conscience urging you to keep pushing despite the burning ache in your legs. Descending deeper and deeper, you heard the sounds of conflict up above dissipated into faint whispers of the agony. The rubber soles of your boots tapped against the stairs as you kept pushing your illness-ridden body beyond its physical limits, feeling as if the world was all watching and cheering you on. The sounds of Viktor and Jayce turning into ones of fighting as you ran down the final story of steps.

With the strength you had, you bursted through the cracked door to reveal a corridor leading to a cut down metal door, still burning a smoldering orange at the edges of where it once proudly stood. Holding your gun at your side, you quickly make haste to the cut down door which left cracks in the glossy tiles underneath it and around the corners.

As you turned the corner, you saw Jayce being held up by the throat by… Viktor? It must have been Viktor, but he looked… different. He changed. His once shorter, pale form shrouded in a blue cloak now stood lithe, elongated, and almost skeletal. His skin now a dark cool grey tone, resemblant of his arms that once reached for you to heal you now strangled someone else. Instead of his usual blue robe, his spindly yet looming form was decorated with a regal black cape with a layer of crimson fabric on the inside, contrasting the gray skin it framed. His face was obscured by what seemed to be a mask… or maybe a new face? It had piercing orange pupils that glowed like miniature suns. His once undulating umber and blonde hair now frayed out from each side, framing where his pale face once was with unsaturated brown strands. In his hand, he wielded his staff now more enhanced with a similar color scheme of his body, dark grey with golden accents. In the center of its undulating spires up top held a levitating blue energy akin to a newborn star.

You couldn’t help but stare until you see Viktor was holding Jayce so tightly around the throat he began to sputter and kick. You had to act fast yet you felt frozen in place, as if your joints locked up.

Move…

Move…

MOVE DAMMIT MOVE!

You snapped yourself out of it, running straight into the danger ahead of you. You had no idea what kind of danger that was before you, but you knew you wouldn’t just let Jayce die.

You couldn’t just let the world die.

Even if you didn’t see it at first, you realized as you were running face first into possible death that there was beauty in the world’s imperfections, even when the world was cold and heartless to you and your ailments. Every ebbing and flowing wave of illness and infection, you brought your head above the murky depths nonetheless. It sucked, yes, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Yes, life could have been better if you could be healthy, but you would have never learned the value and beauty in existence. An existence you wanted to pursue. You wanted to love, you wanted to hate, you wanted to prosper, you wanted to suffer, you wanted to laugh, you wanted to cry.

You wanted to live, regardless of the cards life dealt you. Just because you were dealt a shitty hand didn’t mean that you had to fold and accept fate.

Your digits grabbed around Viktor’s wrist, trying to pry the being who was once a healer away from Jayce’s throat. His eyes flickered to you, giving an air of surprise as well as something else you couldn’t read. His hands instinctively tightened around Jayce’s neck as—

CRACCCCKKKK…

A sickening crack followed by a grunt from Jayce echoed through the room. Jayce’s gasp on his hammer faltered, letting it clatter to the floor as he went limp. The light seemed to leave his now lifeless eyes as you and Viktor were left stunned.

“No…” The word slipped from Viktor as his gaze was fixed on the corpse of the Defender of Tomorrow. You felt your heart racing in your throat as your world went in slow motion. You took a step back as Viktor slowly lowered Jayce to the ground, letting go of his now crushed windpipe. “This can not be happening…”

The healer seemed to be mourning over the loss of Jayce as you eyed the dead man’s hammer. Realizing the Machine Herald’s attention was solely on the corpse, you quietly grab the handle of the hammer, aiming to make as little noise as possible. The hammer was cumbersome and unwieldy, yet you forced your muscles to lift the hammer up, using your dominant hand to reel it back over your shoulder.

You knew what you had to do.

“We were supposed to do this together… as partners.” Viktor muttered, his lithe digits brushing some of Jayce’s hair out of his lifeless pale eyes.

Holding the hammer in both of your hands, you snuck over behind the mourning man as you knew the world rested in your hands. With all the strength you could muster, you swung the hammer down, a cry escaping your exasperated lips as tears blurred your vision.

This ended here.

The impact could be felt vibrating through the muscles of your arms all the way up to your shoulders. Your lungs were heaving, finally feeling a sense of relief. As you slowly opened your tear-filled eyes, they were met with Viktor’s searing orange ones. Panic coursed through you as you realized his third arm was holding up the hammer from making proper impact with his head.

“Clever, very clever.” The healer stated coldly, his distorted voice harboring a hint of something else. His three-fingered hand gripped the handle of the hammer just below the hammer’s head.

With a simple movement, Viktor swung the hammer aside, causing your grip to falter. The momentum sent you flying into a wall, pain radiating down your aching spine. Your gun slid across the cold floor, out of your reach.

“You know, miláček¹, I did not think you had this all in you. I am very impressed.” Viktor derided, his footsteps coming closer to your dazed form as he dropped the hammer to the floor.

You tried to reach in your pocket for your pills as your breathing got shallow, only to find the bottle was crushed by your body with the force of the impact, leaving only shattered orange plastic and white dust that used to be your last two pills.

It was unusable.

Your panicked gaze moved to Viktor’s looming form that drew closer and closer as your wheezing got worse. Scrambling back, you tried to make distance between you and the Machine Herald.

“I see myself in you, miláček. You are like how I once was: weak, sickly, fragile. You suffer in silence, day after day. And what do you get in return? A world that fails to understand.” The healer lamented, his form stood tall before your crumpled one as you stayed wheezing on the floor. “But I do. I understand you, miláček. Being raised in the Undercity with such a detriment was my life too…” To this, Viktor stared right down at your wheezing form as you desperately tried to get up off the cold, hard floor.

“When I was just a frail boy, I met someone: he was a scientist, a genius, and a madman. He showed me something that I was scared of at first: something I could not grasp with my immature mind.” Viktor continued, now pacing back and forth before you as you felt lightheaded and weak, feeling your body fail you once again. “But, with age, I came to understand such a science. I wanted to wield it myself and make a world where people like us could be understood, could be perfected. One so glorious where no one could suffer like how we have.”

Your vision was blurred but you could make out Viktor’s form stood before you. When it felt like everything was crumbling around you and your body failed you, Viktor was there once more. Your eyes locked onto his, feeling the burning sensation his eyes left on you. You knew this was your own option. Moments of your life flashed before your eyes: being a sickly child, suffering in silence for years, trying every experimental remedy to your ailments to no avail, hearing whispers of Viktor’s name on the streets of Zaun, the commune, everything…

With blurry vision, you watch him reach his hand out for your forehead. His hand soon enough met your skin as you felt your consciousness submerged in a pure, warm white.

Soon enough, the white faded into a dark sky, dappled with shimmering stars. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the lighting difference as your body felt… free. Free of pain, free of illness, free of suffering. Your gaze shifted down to your hands, revealing they seemed translucent yet colored with a kaleidoscopic variety of pastel tones mixed with their own tone. You saw your form down to your legs, baffled by the ethereal change.

“Miláček…” Viktor’s voice called out, garnering your attention to his form before you. Once again, he looked different. His once brown hair was now a light, glowing cyan that jutted out at the base of his head. His form looked more well-nourished, bringing a stronger look in comparison to when you first met him. He looked human… well, human enough despite his body being just like yours: painted with pastels mixed with his skin tone in a visual symphony of colors.

“You are scared of the possibilities, I understand that. But, I can assure you that you can trust me." Viktor spoke, reminding you of a simpler time. He offered his hand to you, silently beckoning you to take it.

Despite all that happened, you felt calm wash over you as you looked down at his hand. It was a strange calm, something incomprehensible. Nonetheless, you reached out for his hand, resting your hand in his.

¹ miláček — "darling" or "sweetheart" in Czech

SONG OF THE FIC: DISEASE - LADY GAGA

VALETUDINARIANISM Taglist: @clownery-atits-finest, @unmotivatedbug, @sheepv, @barryatsumu, @killjoy-youngblood, @reiiydained, @frickidyfrog, @lindsay00000, @killjoys-n-whovians, @mourningstarfarms, @featherdusterbelphie, @toogaytofunctiondangit

All Fanfics Taglist: @imhappy1299

Want to join future taglists? Click here to learn more!

OFFICIAL FANFICTION PLAYLIST

ARCANE MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

[mushroom-words]

Hate Me, Waste Me || Tate Langdon

Fandom: American Horror Story Pairing: Tate Langdon x Fem!Reader Words: 1983 Notes: This has been rewritten and reposted from a previous account. It’s being posted from mobile, so I apologize if the formatting is weird. And, as always, if this sort of content isn’t your thing, simply don’t read it. I put warnings in for a reason, baby. Edit: I fixed the formatting on desktop. Warnings: Non-con. Pre-death!Tate. Loss of virginity. Blood. Reader is bitten, smacked, and spanked one time each. Unprotected. Creampie. Forced orgasm (just the body protecting itself). Tate is a possessive little bastard. I think that’s it, but if I missed any, please let me know. Summary: Tate refuses to share you with anyone else and reminds you that you're his friend—no one else's.

MONSTERS LIVED AMONG humans. They adapted to camouflage themselves—to hide under the pretense of being your teacher, your neighbor, your family, your best friend. It was a hard lesson to learn and not one that ever came easily.

You were an outcast at Westfield High. Maybe that was why you and Tate seemed to gravitate towards each other. He was a loner, but it also seemed to be by choice. Like he detested the social interactions and thus separated himself from them. The only person he bothered with was you.

It never occurred to you that there could be a darker reason behind his attachment. You were just happy to have a friend. Even one that wasn’t particularly fond of sharing you with anyone else.

Kyle Greenwell’s voice drifted over the phone line. “You have some neat ideas. You’re actually pretty smart there, (Y/N).”

A blush broke out over your face at the compliment. You’d been reluctant when you had been partnered with him for a project for your Government class. Kyle was the quarterback for the Westfield Wolverines and had recently received a football scholarship to Georgia Tech. He’d never so much as looked your way before being paired with you, but he was actually a lot nicer than you’d thought he would be.

Kyle Greenwell was the kind of guy who seemed to have it all—fit and athletic, intelligent and handsome, charming and funny. He was the kind of guy who shouldn’t have given you the time of day. But you admittedly had stumbled into the line of girls vying for his attention when he turned out to be the complete opposite of what you had expected.

“You think so?” You cleared your throat delicately, biting your lip against your smile. “Yeah, I mean—thanks. You too,” you rambled.

Kyle chuckled warmly. Heat bloomed beneath your cheeks. You held back a wistful sigh at the sound. But then your smile fell victim to confusion when your doorbell rang. The cordless phone cradled your ear as you started to make your way to the front of your house.

“I’d like to brainstorm some more with you, if that’s okay,” Kyle continued. “We could meet in the library during lunch—or we could always meet up somewhere after, if that’ll be better for you.”

You peeked through the window curtains and saw Tate standing at your door. “Yeah, that sounds good,” you told Kyle. “I’ll see you in the library tomorrow then?”

You unlocked the door and opened it for your friend. He smiled, and you returned it but held up a finger before he could say anything. His smile fell into a frown.

“See you the n, (Y/N). Bye.”

“Bye, Kyle.” The line went dead as you pulled the phone away from your ear and gave Tate your full attention. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

Tate’s expression had hardened from what it had been when you’d opened the door. The hairs on the back of your neck bristled. Your smile dropped uncomfortably. Instead of answering, he pushed past you to walk inside.

“So,” he said. “Who’s Kyle?”

“Kyle Greenwell. We’re paired for a project.” You frowned and shut the door. “We’re gonna work on it tomorrow in the library during lunch,” you added, carefully placing the phone back in its cradle.

With your back to him, you missed the flash of anger that crossed his features. You missed how his nostrils flared, the way his eyes darkened from aged hickory to burnt coal. You missed how his body went rigid.

“So you’re leaving me alone.” You didn’t miss the way his voice had tightened, the hint of darkness lacing between the words. Chills skittered up your spine.

Swallowing past the sudden dryness in your mouth, you turned to face him with delicately furrowed brows. “No? We’re just working on a project—”

His hand shot out to grab your chin. The words died out in a startled squeak.

“Stay away from him,” he seethed.

Your eyes rounded. This wasn’t the Tate Langdon you knew. The one you loved like a brother, the one you considered family. You didn’t know who this was.

“Tate—”

“No.” His fingers tightened against your jaw as he yanked your face closer. “Don’t you fucking go near him again. Do you understand me, (Y/N)?”

“You’re hurting me,” you protested. You tried to pull away, but he held firm.

“Fucking say it, (Y/N). Do you understand me?”

As you looked into his eyes, you were looking at an entirely different person. They weren’t the eyes of your best friend. They were black as night, dark as sin—you might as well have been staring into the depths of the devil himself.

Panic started to claw at your chest. You smacked your hands against his chest and shoved him with a desperate cry of, “Let go of me!”

He stumbled back a couple of steps with a swear but was quick to bounce back with what looked to be twice the anger. Tate lunged forward and drew his hand across your face. The sharp impact knocked you to the floor. Your head smacked the corner of the small table against the wall where the phone sat.

Your ears were ringing before the pain settled. Sharp and throbbing and pounding against the inside of your skull. A veil of fog disoriented your head as you blinked heavily through the sludge. You were only vaguely aware of the warmth your blood provided as it trickled from the open wound.

Tate crouched beside you, brushing aside some of the hair that curtained your face. “Y’know, you’re a real fucking bitch sometimes, (Y/N),” he mused.

Your eyes fluttered as you tried to regather your surroundings. His fingers continued to linger against your skin. A touch that once brought you comfort. Even through the daze, you shuddered beneath it now.

He smirked and cocked his head. “You’ve gotta learn, y’know,” he said before abruptly flipping you onto your stomach. His weight settled on you. “You’re mine.”

A quiet groan slipped past your lips in protest of his hips rocking against your backside. Tears slowly began to drip from your eyelashes. Your fingers curled into the polished wooden floor, nails scratching at the finish as you tried to drag yourself away.

Tate laughed again, filled with a twisted joy at having you completely at his mercy. “And where do you think you’re going, baby?” he said, pinning your wrists down by your head.

“Please,” you whimpered. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your damp cheek in what could have been mistaken for affection. The vines of dread tightened around your chest.

He shushed you gently when another whimper fell from your lips. “You have to learn your lesson, (Y/N),” he murmured, dragging the tip of his nose along your cheek. “How will you learn if I don’t teach you?”

Tate lifted up and moved his hands from your wrists to trace the curve of your body. Then your pants and underwear were both ripped down to expose your lower half. You cried out as the cool air brushed against your skin.

Lifting your head, you tried again to pull yourself out from underneath him. You grabbed hold of the panic twisting inside of you to scream out for help. Your voice broke against the rawness of your throat, cracking as it bubbled past your lips.

He chuckled once more and planted his hand against the top of your back to keep you down. His fingers fluttered along the curve of your backside, tapping against the flesh in a taunt to the beat of his own depraved pleasure. Then he promptly lifted his hand and brought it back down in a sharp smack that made her cry out in pain.

Splinters jammed beneath your nails, drawing beads of blood from the sensitive skin underneath. You clawed at the floor when you heard him pull his zipper down. You sobbed, you pleaded, you screamed as loud as you possibly could.

Tate slipped an arm under your waist and lifted your body slightly. He lowered his head until his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, parroting, “You’re mine,” in a snarl that made your heart sink into the pit of your stomach.

Then he was pushing inside of you with no mercy, burying himself completely in a single thrust that utterly ripped you apart. He tore away your innocence like it was nothing. Your mouth popped open in anguish, but the scream that wanted to escape was rendered silent against the burning pain.

“Shit, baby,” he grunted, his hot breath puffing out to paint the side of your face. “You’re so fucking tight. Holy shit.”

Every thrust jerked your body forward. He yanked you back into him each time, his blunt nails imprinting crescents into your flesh. Your silence shifted into raw moans of despair—of disgust, of pain, of heartbreak. They mingled with his grunts and the muttered swears that fell from his tainted mouth.

Your stomach lurched upon hearing how much pleasure he was receiving from your suffering. Snot and tears and saliva coated your face in a display that was both shameful and pathetic. You hadn’t necessarily been saving yourself for anyone, but it was still something you were meant to give away—not have it ripped from your hands.

Tate nipped at the soft flesh between your shoulder and neck. You shuddered as his teeth grazed over the skin. Then he bit down, sinking those teeth into the juncture like a hot knife through warm butter. You cried out as blood—your blood—dripped from the wound. It curved over your skin and splattered in droplets on the floor. It was more than just a bite. It was a mark—a brand on his property.

You were his.

Tate ran his hand along your body and between your thighs. His fingers found your clit. He traced slow circles around it. The gentle touch was a stark contrast to the way his hips slammed against your backside. It wrenched another cry from your throat as you realized your body was reacting to it.

You knew enough about the female body to know that it would do what was necessary for protection. For survival. But feeling the slick between your thighs that did not come from the blood he’d forced from you made you sick to your stomach. You slammed your eyes shut and bit your lip hard to muffle the shameful little moans you felt clawing out of your throat.

Tate took great enjoyment in it. “That’s it, (Y/N),” he encouraged, chuckling breathlessly. “I’m not stopping until you cum. I wanna feel you submit to me.”

He rubbed in tighter circles, applying enough pressure to make your head spin. You sobbed out a pathetic whine as you felt the knot in your lower stomach pulse. It was building up to something strong, something depraved and sinful and wrong—oh, so very, very wrong.

You gritted your teeth against the coiling spring until it snapped. Tendrils of heat erupted from your center and radiated outwards in branches of liquid warmth. It shot through you like streaks of lightning in a stormy sky. Your entire body shuddered beneath him.

His responding groan was guttural, like it had echoed from the deepest depths of his chest. He snapped his hips quicker, harder. The arm barring your waist drew you closer as he stilled. He swore loudly and spilled into you, the new sensation bleeding uncomfortably between your thighs.

Tate slowly let his body relax. He slumped over you, dropping your body back to the floor, where you trembled in the aftershocks of what just happened. The disgust and shame and guilt. It cut you deeper than your spilled blood.

“You’re mine, (Y/N),” Tate panted into your ear, nuzzling your sweaty hair and kissing your cheek. “Fucking mine.”

[swampstew]

Little update on me and mine ~

I know I've been radio silent but I have been BUSY. I will be BUSY. Probably til the summer. Why?

THIS BITCH BOUGHT A RANCH STYLE HOUSE!

So I will be doing renovations, cleaning, and fixing the place up before we officially move into our new swamp. I'm so excited for this transition - what we plan to be our forever home. Which means I won't have the time to do story/fic updates or other events until I am all done with that. It's been a long time coming and I need to nest it up!

What I plan to do in the meantime is - juggle my existing blogs as best as I can. @killercooksblog has been complete in its format for a while, and I am excited to formally announce that Kid's OnlyFans account made a blog page ;) @thecaptainsdeck

Not only does Kid's page have its own site, there is a page dedicated to Killer's new OnlyFans page ~ KillerCam ~ here are some crumbs to give y'all a taste of his thotty side.

KillerCam: Call for a good time | KillerCam: Messy

Additionally, I've mentioned in the past that while I love the following I've built up here - it also feels impersonal unless I'm constantly posting content, which tbh is what most of you are here for anyways. SO --- Check out and follow my sideblog @swampstew-stories ♥

I'm reposting all my original content to this page and using THAT as my writing/requests/canva headers/content page, and keeping my main ~SwampStew~ as just my interaction blog. I'll still keep up some of my posts but will archive the rest. So if ya see a blog posting my stories, it should only be coming from that account :) Pardon the dusty space, I've been agonizing on the theme and media for months until it felt homey.

Please please follow @swampstew-stories for any and all stories by me - past, present and future! This will be the ONLY account I host events for holidays or milestones and requests. I already outlined and crafted an idea for my 1.5K, but if everyone follows the sideblog and we reach 2K, I will lock in and unleash the holy trinity of creation with the idea. I'm talking art, music, and written content. Very few know the details and I promise it is gonna be So Fucking Worth It. That will def be after I move and everything but by then I will have an art studio + writing nook to really immerse myself back into creating fun OP centric things.

Love yas, Raven

[dbz-yaoi-bl]

📜 20+ Years of DBZ Yaoi Legacy Fanfiction. Fanart. Doujinshi. Preservation. Restoration. And We’re Back.

Hey everyone,

Some of you might remember me as Boxer & Rice or Truhania or Lord Truhan—part of the old DBZ Yaoi/BL scene since the early 2000s. Back when Gohan x Trunks ruled fanfiction archives and doujinshis came scanned in potato quality... I’ve been quietly archiving, preserving, and sharing DBZ yaoi treasures for over 20 years.

But like many of you, life hit hard around 2020. Burnout. Illness. Real-life chaos. The site stayed up—but I wasn't there anymore.

Until now.

🔧 The Website Has Been Completely Overhauled

✔️ New Name: DBZ Yaoi BL Hub ✔️ New Mission: Curate & restore the best of DBZ Yaoi/BL history ✔️ New Additions:

1000+ fanfics, doujinshis, fanart — all being re-verified, restored, or remastered

Watermarks removed, summaries fixed, formatting restored

New scanlations, legacy reposts, and unreleased works coming weekly

New navigation, search, and eventually comment/like systems

3-Star community vote system to highlight top-quality fanfics

🎯 What We’re Preserving

Gohan x Trunks / Truhan

Goku x Vegeta / Kakavege

Rare pairs, vintage doujinshi, and 90s BL nostalgia

Scanlated BL comics, legacy art, and digital archaeology

Fanfiction from defunct sites like Saiyan Hideaway (thanks Ma Ginia!)

🤝 How You Can Help

Share your saved content, old fanart folders, or forgotten doujin scans

Comment, upvote, and help highlight fanfics you love

Join the Discord to shape our 3-Star archive

Be part of the DBZ yaoi resurrection 🔥

🌐 Website: https://gohanxtrunks.net/dbz-bl/ 💬 Discord Invite: https://discord.com/invite/hykH8dw

🕰️ And There’s More — The Yaoi Time Machine We’re also expanding to preserve the entire era of classic 90s–2000s yaoi/BL art: Saint Seiya. Gundam Wing. FF7. Ronin Warriors. Evangelion. Only gorgeous art. No dumps. No filler. Just fandom memory, curated with love.

📣 Let’s build the ultimate legacy yaoi archive together. Not just for DBZ fans. But for anyone who believes fandom is worth preserving. We’re live through 2035 and beyond. Let’s plant the seeds now.

Tag your artists. Share the link. Leave a comment. Even one like, one message, one scan can ripple.

Let’s restore the BL fandom’s crown jewels. Together. 💎

—

✨ Reblog if you want to preserve DBZ yaoi history. 🖤 Like if you believe fanwork matters. 📦 Archive before it disappears.

[meimi-haneoka]

Finally it's over: English edition of Clear Card volume 16

Hello hello, I've been waiting for this freaking volume with bated breath (😂) for the past 48 hours, because the surprise of K-USA's accurate revision job on volume 15 back in October 2024 made me raise my bar of expectations quite a lot.

....Alas, you should never do that, especially if something has disappointed you time and time again: getting it right just once doesn't mean it's going to happen again, and most importantly, it doesn't magically erase the poor job they did till now.

So it's March 11th 2025, the English edition of Cardcaptor Sakura volume 16 is out almost one year after the Japanese release: how did they fare?

(all images courtesy of Sarah/Rainbowbee - reposted with permission)

This time around I only saw about 10 pictures of the main story, because apparently that's about how much they fixed. I had seen the preview of the first 22 pages of the volume on Bookwalker (corresponding to a good chunk of chapter 76) and I was so disappointed to see that the translation mistakes they did in those pages were left untouched. But my friend sent me these pics this morning and there is some effort on it. Scarce, not as thorough as with volume 15, but they did fix something. All stuff I had pointed out in my tumblr posts. Starting from this change above, which was quite a serious translation mistake since it made people believe that Lilie had left "the last Card" to Sakura, when it was simply waiting to be called as Momo had told her previously. Lilie had nothing to do with it. It's still true that Sakura shouldn't use "she" because she really doesn't remember who talked to her in a dream, but oh well.

This volume is worth checking out for the redrawn panels and added lines too! Like this panel of Syaoran above. It is usual for CLAMP to correct the panels when the chapters get compiled in tankobon format, so I've had a lot of fun spotting all the differences, all these years.

And then we get to what I consider one of the most emotional scenes of the entire volume, if not of the entire story ✨ I am so, so glad they took care of revising the lines in this scene, because they hadn't gotten them right the first time around. In particular, I'm very glad they correctly made Akiho spell out clearly "Why did you choose to disappear like this?". She wasn't whining about why he left her, or her priority wasn't even scolding him for rewriting an entire world unprompted. The thing that burned her the most was that he chose to disappear. Akiho is questioning him about his self-hate, this act of self-violence that had repercussions on her too, where he chose to sacrifice himself and throw himself away in order to give her what he thought was a happy life. On closer inspection, you could even say CLAMP are trying to make a statement for a way, way heavier thematic here. But I'll leave that to your own interpretation because those are very delicate matters. The way they had creatively translated it before (the words in Japanese didn't really say that) didn't convey this nuance enough, so I'm glad they fixed it.

This. This scene was so important to fix. First of all, because it clarifies that here Sakura is uttering her invincible spell. And then because Sakura now is correctly telling Akiho "As long as you're together" (meaning Akiho and Kaito).

Finally Syaoran doesn't sound like an asshole while he's telling Sakura that he will protect what she needs to keep safe. He doesn't sound like he's saying "I have no f*cking idea what you're doing but whatever, I'll help you out".

Other part that was changed in the Japanese volume: the addition of one line, in relation to the effect the artifact book is having on Kaito. "Even now, it's causing you to suffer".

And this one was added too, with the precious addition of Nakuru clarifying that Yukito's pact with the Tsukimine Shrine has been undone. More precisely, her line in Japanese is "This time around (we) undid it, but please don't go around doing things that require a [payment] anymore".

(the rest under the cut for spoilers about the Special Chapter)

Last but not least, the special chapter ☺️✨ The one that's considered "the epilogue". This had never been released in English as simulpub when it came out on Nakayoshi, so maybe some people will see it for the first time. My biggest concern was this scene. They translated it as-a-matter-of-fact, they didn't explain anything, no translation notes whatsoever (like the ones the Italian or Spanish edition have put)... So yeah, technically they didn't mess it up, it's correct, but they didn't even render a service to their readers, since they'll be left wandering in confusion to find the real meaning of this phrase, in case they don't know it. It's honestly ridiculous that they use translation notes or add text to explain japanese food (like they did in this same Special Chapter, for okonomiyaki - the "Savory pancake delight!" bit was added by them), but then leave the readers oblivious to cultural context like this. So, if you're one of those who don't know, Kaito here is confessing to Akiho that he loves her. The scene is very significative because it goes full circle with the love confession Akiho made to him in the same fashion in chapter 48. Kaito understood not only his feelings, but Akiho's too, and he reciprocates her in the same manner. The intention is made even more evident than in Akiho's case, since Kaito blurts this phrase out in broad daylight 😆

The rest of the special chapter is fine, I have spotted an error with a line Akiho says, mistakenly attributed to Kaito, but other than that it was quite good. I was actually very satisfied with how they emphasized Akiho's strong will towards "standing on her own" and emancipating herself from Eriol's help, whom she is still grateful to. But what made me scream in excitement is Sakura's line while talking to Momo: "My loved one's problems are my problems". Perfect. Straight to the point. Clarifying once and for all that she was never "dragged in", but getting involved with them came naturally as a result of caring for a loved one.

So! While there was so much room for improving this translation, fixing all the mistakes they made during the simulpub and not only a part of them, this volume is still....decent, at least? With some peaks, some translation choices I liked a lot. Some stuff will remain incorrectly translated until a new edition will come out, but we have to come to terms with that. And I find a bit absurd that we had to wait almost one year to get this volume translated in English, but I do not know all the licensing shenanigans going on. I had hoped it was because they were doing an astounding work on it, maybe checking with the Japanese publisher, but 🤷‍♀️oh well. If you still are curious to see all the translation mistakes that happened in simulpub between chapters 76-80, you can check the single posts I made here .

Still, as it's the last volume of this series, and as it carries the precious Special Chapter that wonderfully makes the story come full circle, I encourage everyone to buy it! ✨

It's done. It's over! 🥲

[bartxnhood]

lost in reality | s.h

shawn hunter x fem!reader

summary: lost in his cloud of doubt, shawn thinks you don’t like him. however, when you come to his doorstep one night changes everything.

warnings: none, this one is just pretty short and not that well written lol

requests open

not proofread

Copyright © 2023 bartxnhood. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

“she likes you man, it’s so obvious!” cory is watching his best friend, shawn, pace around the living room. “you’ve seen the way she’s with eric! there’s no way she likes me.”

shawn remembers you interacting with eric. he feels his chest swell with jealousy, the way you touched his arm while you laughed, or the way you pushed your hair away from your face.

he was so frustrated with his own emotions. shawn had loved you for years, he was so madly in love with you that it hurt him.

“think about it” cory starts, pushing himself off the island and walking over to his friend. “she always gets shy around you, she can’t look at you more than a few seconds, or else she starts blushing like…” he tried thinking of a comparison. “well i.. i don’t know what but still!”

shawn finally stopped pacing to look at cory, trying to think back to all the times you had done this. but, still, he wasn’t convinced. “i don’t know man..”

“i��ve been seeing angela, she’s really cool and i like her but..” shawn shrugs, “she isn’t y/n.” cory sighs, crossing his arms. “well at least you could talk to her. figure out what’s going on.”

the following week you spot shawn at the cafeteria and you planned on stopping him in hopes to talk with him. “shawn!” you wave your hand and he walks over. “what’s up?” he offers a smile, standing above you. “i was just wondering if you had time to talk for a sec?” he nodded, “of course, what’s up?”

“well.. you start, it’s kinda about us..” you were about to continue when angela walks up, lacing her arm around his. “shawn!” she grins, “we still good for our date this weekend?” she asks, he smiles fondly and nods, “yeah, of course!” angela grins and kisses his cheek softly before walking away.

shawn turns back to you, his eyebrows raise, “what’s up?” you feel a knot in your stomach and shake your head gathering your things. “nothing.. not important. i’ll see you later.” you say, and stand up and walk away, leaving shawn puzzled.

you’re sat on topangas bed, rambling about how frustrated you are with his shawn had been acting as of late. “it’s killing me!l you plop back onto your back with a loud sigh.

“it’s like..he doesn’t even notice me..” you’re visibly upset and topanga doesn’t know how to comfort you. “maybe he’s just going through something.” she says and you disagree. “no..i know when somethings wrong. i’m his best friend, i know him. but lately, he’s been so different.”

you both fall silent, you’re stuck thinking about how you could fix them. “i have to see him” you say, abruptly getting up from topangas bed and reaching for your jacket, “y/n! it’s pouring out there!” she tries stopping you, concerned for your wellbeing. “topanga, i have to tell him. i can’t just stand by watching him fall in love with someone else.” you turn to your best friend, tears brimming in your eyes. topanga understands, knowing if it was cory she’d be running out in the rain like that.

“please, just be safe.” she nods, giving you a look of sympathy.

“y/n? you okay?! it’s pouring!” shawn opens the door and drags you inside from the rain.

“i love you.” you blurted, fidgeting with your hands. “oh..oh my god..that just…” your hands are shaking and your chest is tight while looking at shawn. “i love you,” you repeat and watch as shawn stands up from the stool and you see the confusion on his face.

“im so in love with you. it’s like i can’t stop thinking about you. you’re like..in me..” you laugh, trying to hold back your tears. “like you’re some kind of disease. i can’t think of anything except you.” now you’re tearing up. “i…i can’t sleep, i can’t eat…” you pause, “i can’t breathe..” your voice is breaking, and you feel the tears on your cheeks. “i just love you all the time… i love you, shawn”

this had been building up in you for so long, and you had to get it out and it felt so much better to just say it.

“you don’t have to say anything or love me back. i just needed to tell you..” you wipe away the tears from your cheeks and start to turn around but shawn grabs your arm, spinning you around to face him.

his touch is so soft against your skin, the way his thumb caressed your cheek made you melt. his eyes were soft, “y/n..” he starts, his voice is soft like honey. you could listen to him speak for hours, his voice could lull you to sleep. “i love you too. i have loved you for years. all i can ever think about is you and how badly my heart aches for you.” he smiles, tears begin welling in his eyes. "this-" he points at his chest "—this belongs to you. always."

you replay his confession over and over, feeling your heart swell with love. shawn is resting on your chest while some random movie is playing on the tv. it was something he had gotten from the movie store. you had thought he had fallen asleep long ago but when he spoke it startled you.

“why do you love me?”

you blink a few times, wondering where this came from. “what?” he sets up, “why do you love me? i..i have nothing to offer you, y/n. i..i don’t have a fancy house or..or anything. why?”

you look at him, mind racing as you try to collect the right words, “i love you because you care, you’re funny, you take time to learn about people, and even though you may get on my nerves” you pause and laugh, your hand rests on his cheek. the pad of your thumb rubs against his cheekbone.

“i love you. i’ve loved you for so long, shawn.” you smile and watched as shawn pulls you into his arms, letting you rest against him. “god, i love you too. y/n.”

[itoshiexx]

behold: the end of the world is near.

synopsis: rin feels you slipping through his fingertips every time you fight, and he's sure he won't survive the heartbreak when you inevitably leave.

pairing: itoshi rin x gn!reader | words: 532 | warnings: established relationship, angst, rin is overthinking and hating himself, this is 100% self indulgent and honestly just word vomit

notes: it’s 3 am, i’ve just cried like a madman and spilled all my pain in this drabble. wrote on my phone so sorry for any mistakes and lack of format. will edit soon.

fighting with you always felt like the end of the world to rin.

when the little daily arguments started to gather into a huge snowball and ultimately become a serious conversation, with some accusations, some screaming and throwing some stuff on each other’s faces, all rin could think of was: this is it. this is the moment they leave forever.

he was no stranger to being left. he was no stranger to the piercing pain that came along with it, too; but somehow, rin knew that it would be a thousand times worse when it came to you.

he knew that if you left, he would never be able to recover from the heartbreak. the love he harbored for you in his strongly guarded heart would spill and consume everything inside of him like a scorching flame, until there was nothing left but the bitter taste of ashes.

he would never breathe the same. he wouldn’t see the world in its full colors, hues and brightness. there would be no point for him anymore, because itoshi rin was certain that the sole purpose of his soul was to love and be loved by yours — and although his love would be eternal no matter what, he knew damn well yours could end at any minute.

in those stupid fights, you could see all of his flaws and idiot mistakes. all of the things he could have — should have — done; all of the ways he should have tried harder and been better. in every word traded between you two, his imperfections would show, and make way to the abnormal abyss inside of him that always devoured any chance of happiness he could possibly have.

he wasn’t meant to be happy. rin knew he was way too broken to live a content life with a love as beautiful as yours. and every bone in his body ached with the awareness that being by your side was a paradise he didn’t deserve.

and no matter how much he tried, he could hardly understand what he felt, why he acted the way he did and how he could fix everything wrong in him to match with your perfection.

one day, you would see just how wrong itoshi rin was for you — or anyone, for that matter, because in this lifetime and the next there would only ever be you for him. and when this day came, you would leave without looking back, grateful for getting rid of such a burden like him, who was holding you back from giving your love to someone that could retribute like you deserved.

and on this dreadful day, the song of the apocalypse would play on repeat in his head until his ears bled and his skin became dust without your love flowing through his veins. amongst the burning sensation of being left behind, once again, because he was too much and not enough at the same time, despair would swallow him whole until he was just a pile of sorrow and regret.

itoshi rin was no stranger to loneliness, but being without you would mean being alone with no one but himself. and that would be the end for him.

© 2023 itoshiexx. do not plagarise, translate, or repost any of my work on here or other sites.

[the-bloody-sadist]

Dancing With Death....

I have NO idea who is interested in this information, or if anybody is left from my Dancing With Death posting stage, but I've finally gotten around to fixing the WORST chapter of DWD that I posted on here (Chapter 3: Minx), cuz good gracious the cringe--BUT ANYWAY. I'll be updating that post or maybe just posting the chapter entirely new? When I finish the rewrite. And I'll delete the old one if I repost it, I think, unless it's got a lot of nice comments or something that I don't want to lose. To be honest, the rest of the chapters I wrote at that time are very cringe and need lots of work, too, but as I've mentioned before, I've been changing it in private and it's hard to update the posts on here because of Tumblr's awful formatting. So I'm sure it'll remain a Patreon thing to be updating the posts for the best draft (never good enough).

REGARDLESS, IF ANY DWD PEOPLE SEE THIS AND YOU'RE INTERESTED, SOUND OFF IN THE COMMENTS I GUESS LMFAO???? I have no idea what else to say. EXCEPT THAT IF THERE ARE A LOT OF YOU, I MAY CONSIDER FIXING THE CRINGE OF SOME OTHER CHAPTERS AS WELL AND MAYBE POSTING CHAPTER 10 HERE, BUT THAT ONE IS JUST ANOTHER EMERMINX CHAPTER THAT NEEDS WORK....OH GOD....

I just wanted to write about Taushin and Angel, man. Why'd I have to go and put Emery as the main dumbass? I have such a hard on for power plays where one guy is just constantly being horrified by the sadism of some other guy and his twink. GOD! Walks away with squidward sound effects

[valentiyne]

𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 ꕥ 𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗍𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗋𝗐𝗂𝗇

Summary: Inspired by "Back to Friends" by Sombr (Ironic, sorry...)

Warnings: Implications of sexual content, swearing & angst of course!

Word count: 7.6k

Copyright © 2025 Valentiyne. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

THE lights on the set were a little too bright for how early it was.

I stood off to the side of the studio, arms crossed loosely over my chest, trying to look like I belonged there..like I wasn’t holding my breath with every question the interviewer threw at the band.

The boys looked good, comfortable on the cushioned couch, joking with each other and flashing smiles that had probably been trained into muscle memory by now.

Luke sat at the far left, one long leg crossed over the other, and Calum, with a baseball cap tugged low, was already laughing at something Michael had said. Ashton sat closest to the interviewer, his fingers drumming lightly on his knee, a faint shadow of stubble along his jawline.

It had been months since I’d seen him in person like this.

“Let’s talk about the new record, Youngblood,” the host said, shuffling her cards. “It’s been called your most vulnerable album yet. A lot of songs that sound like breakups, heartache, holding onto something that’s already slipping…”

Luke nodded. “It’s definitely more personal. We weren’t trying to write a breakup album. But I think we had to get a lot of stuff off our chests.”

My stomach twisted. I already knew what was coming.

The host turned to Ashton, a glint in her eye. “Ashton, you co-wrote most of the tracks, including ‘Lie to Me’ and ‘Why Won’t You Love Me,’ which fans think are heartbreak anthems. Were those songs about anyone in particular?”

He let out a small laugh, the kind that was meant to disarm. “I think every song’s about someone. But… you know, it’s not always that straightforward.”

The host leaned forward. “So are you single now, or…?”

Ashton blinked, caught off guard for the smallest second before his lips quirked into a half-smile. “It’s… complicated.”

A beat. The silence behind the camera buzzed in my ears.

“Oh?” she pressed, clearly thrilled. “Because this photo has been circulating. Want to tell us a little about this?”

She held up a tablet, the screen turned toward the camera, and toward me.

The image was a candid. Ashton and I in a park, laughing about something, his hand on my cheek, forehead pressed to mine like he was telling me a secret. I remembered that day. It was the last day things felt easy between us. Before the fights. Before the distance. Before the silence.

I didn’t realize I’d moved until I felt my shoulder bump a light stand. I straightened immediately, pretending like I’d only shifted weight, but Ashton saw. His eyes flicked toward me, then back to the screen.

The smile he gave was tight.

“That was a while ago,” he said.

The host grinned. “Still look pretty cozy.”

He didn’t respond, just nodded once, gaze fixed on the coffee table in front of him like it suddenly held every answer he couldn’t say out loud. Calum quickly picked up the awkwardness, deflecting the host by talking about some picture of him that was leaked a few years back.

I slipped out of the studio quietly.

I sat outside the green room, sipping on my burning hot coffee that tasted like cardboard and waiting for the adrenaline to wear off. My phone buzzed in my lap. My bestfriend Alyssa.

Lys: Saw the clip... Yikes girl. You ok?

I stared at the screen but didn’t type anything. What was I supposed to say? That I felt like my ribs had been rearranged hearing him say, “It’s complicated”? That I still hadn’t figured out how to stop missing him when I knew damn well I had no right to?

The door creaked behind me. I didn’t need to look to know it was him. I recognized the soft shuffle of his boots and the way the air seemed to tense just before he spoke.

“You alright?”

I nodded, still staring ahead. My phone gripped tightly in my hand.

He stepped around to face me, and I finally looked up.

Ashton. Taller than I remembered. Or maybe I just felt smaller now. His curls were longer, pushed back beneath a beanie, and his arms crossed loosely over his chest like he was guarding something fragile.

“You didn’t have to come today,” he said quietly.

“I was invited by the label."

He nodded, kicking at the floor with his boot. “You saw the picture?”

I laughed, but it came out more like a scoff. “Kind of hard to miss.”

He sat down on the bench beside me, careful to keep some space. Not too much. Just enough to feel like old ghosts were sitting between us.

“I didn’t know she was gonna do that.”

“I figured.” I sipped my coffee, felt the burn on my tongue.

“You’ve been okay?”

That question. The one people ask when they already know the answer. When they’re hoping you’ll lie so they don’t have to feel worse than they already do.

I set the cup down.

“I’ve been around. And I’ve been mad at you, Ashton.”

His eyes met mine then, sharp and unblinking. “I know.”

“I’m mad because you walked away like I was supposed to just understand. Like what we had wasn’t worth a conversation. Like I didn’t deserve an explanation.”

He took a breath, then another. “You’re right.”

I wasn’t expecting that.

“I didn’t handle it well,” he continued. “The band was changing. Everything felt like it was cracking under me. And I didn’t want to drag you through all of it. But leaving the way I did… I still think about it.”

“You should.”

Silence stretched between us.

He looked down at his hands. “I wrote about you, you know.”

I blinked. “Which one?”

“‘Ghost of You.’” A pause. “And a few others.”

That one hurt. I swallowed hard. I had heard it the exact day the album came out, in a grocery store somewhere in Maine. I dropped my grocery basket and made a beeline to my car before the tears started. I felt sick to my stomach.

“It’s weird,” I said, voice quieter now. “Hearing yourself in a song that millions of people scream every night.”

He gave me a small, sad smile. “I didn’t think anyone would know it was about you.”

I looked at him. “I did.”

I don’t know why I said it.

Maybe it was the heaviness in the air, or the way Ashton was sitting beside me like gravity itself had finally gotten tired of holding us apart. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said he wrote songs about me. Or maybe it was just the truth, clawing its way to the surface after all this time.

“You remember that night?” I asked, not looking at him.

He didn’t ask which one. He didn’t need to.

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

I blinked hard, trying to focus on anything other than the pounding in my chest. But memory is a cruel thing, it doesn’t ask permission before showing up.

It was a Wednesday. The kind of evening that hung low in the sky, thick with leftover summer heat and the scent of asphalt still drying from a quick storm. I’d stopped by Ashton’s place under the flimsiest of excuses, he’d left a hoodie in my car, and I didn’t want it “cluttering my backseat.”

Really, I just missed him. Missed the way his voice softened when he was tired, the way he made silence feel like it had shape. We hadn’t defined whatever it was we were doing. I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to.

But that night, something was different. His eyes were rimmed in red like he hadn’t slept, and he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world not slipping through his fingers.

“Stay,” he said, his voice hoarse. Just one word.

And I did.

The music playing in the background was low and fuzzy, some lo-fi record spinning on vinyl like it was melting into the walls. We sat on his couch for hours, our knees brushing, words trailing off mid-sentence. I remember the feel of his hand grazing mine as he handed me a glass of water, hesitant at first, then certain. I remember how quiet his apartment felt, like it was holding its breath right alongside us.

And when he kissed me… God, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t heat or urgency or recklessness. It was reverent.

He kissed me like he needed to memorize the exact way my lips fit against his, like he already knew he wouldn’t get to do it again.

It was wrong. We were crossing the line of professionalism; I was one of the band's producer for christ sake. But we lost all signs of professionalism, along with my morals.

We didn’t talk much after that. Just let the night pull us under. Shirts came off. Fingers fumbled. But there was nothing clumsy about it. It felt like falling asleep in the middle of a storm, terrifying and safe all at once.

His body was warm, his touch careful. He ran his thumb over my cheekbone as he moved deep inside me, his mouth pressed to my collarbone like a prayer. I remember the way his breath hitched, the way he whispered...

“I love you.”

It was so soft I almost missed it. But I heard it. Clear as anything. The words spilled from his lips like they’d been waiting in his mouth for weeks.

And for a moment, I let myself believe we’d crossed some invisible line. That things would change. That maybe, finally, we were choosing each other. I didn't say it back, afraid that it would change things for good.

But when it was over, when the sweat was drying on our skin and the room had gone still again, Ashton pulled away.

Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… deliberately.

He climbed out of bed like it was on fire. His back was to me as he reached for his jeans on the floor, yanking them up in a practiced motion.

My heart was still fluttering in my chest, stupid and soft.

He ran a hand through his curls and let out a breath like he was about to dive into deep water. “You can’t tell anyone what we did.”

The words landed like a slap.

I sat up slowly, the sheet clinging to my chest. “What?”

He didn’t turn around. He tugged on his shirt. “I’m serious.”

I laughed, sharp, bitter. “Are you kidding?”

“It’s not a good time,” he said, finally facing me. “The album. Press. Management already thinks I’m distracted. If they knew..."

I cut him off, heart thudding in my throat. “If they knew you slept with me? If they knew you cared about someone?”

His eyes flashed with guilt. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, Ashton?” I stood now too, my voice rising with every word. “Because it sure as hell felt like it meant something five minutes ago.”

“It did,” he said, too fast.

“Then why are you acting like I’m a mistake?”

He flinched. “I’m not. I just… I can’t have people knowing right now. Everything is too unstable. I’m trying to protect-"

“Protect who?” I snapped. “Me? Or yourself?”

Silence.

That was the last night I let him hold me.

And the last night I worked for the band. He had asked me not to come to the next couple meetings; He was worried the boys would be able to read our guilty faces. I took it a step further and walk away from the company as a whole.

“You said you loved me,” I said again, the memory leaving a weight in my chest that hadn’t dulled with time. “And then you told me I had to keep it quiet. Like it was shameful.”

Ashton looked up at me, his expression drawn and hollow. “I did love you. I still...” he broke off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was doing the right thing. That if I could just keep you away from all of it...the noise, the chaos...you’d be better off.”

“But you didn’t keep me away,” I said. “You just made me feel disposable.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice rough. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

The tears stung before I even felt them fall. “I would’ve stood by you, Ashton. If you’d asked. If you’d just told me the truth. But instead, you made me carry it alone.”

He stepped forward, slow, like he was afraid I’d bolt. “I didn’t know how to choose you without losing everything else.”

I met his eyes, my voice trembling. “That's not fair.. why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I’ve spent the last year writing about you,” he said, voice breaking. “Touring the world with your name buried in every goddamn lyric. And I can’t keep pretending like that’s enough.”

I exhaled shakily, hating how badly I still wanted to reach for him. “So what now?”

He looked down, then up at me with something like hope flickering behind all the hurt. “Maybe we just talk. Maybe we try to be friends again. Or maybe we finally stop lying about what we are."

“I don’t know how to do either of those things.”

“Then let’s figure it out. Together. If you’ll let me.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because love was never the hard part with Ashton.

It was what came after.

The silence between us lingered like smoke, curling into the air even though neither of us dared speak. Ashton’s words still hung in the space between us: honest, heavy, bleeding. And mine, still burning on my tongue, tasted like regret and something too close to longing.

But I didn’t have time to decide what any of it meant.

Because the door swung open.

“Mate, we’ve been looking for-" Calum’s voice cut off mid-sentence as he stepped into the hallway, Luke just a step behind him. Both of them froze when their eyes landed on me.

Luke blinked like he wasn’t sure I was real. Calum’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow grin spread across his face.

“No way,” Calum said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No way. Is that really you?”

I swallowed hard and took a quick step away from Ashton, who immediately straightened like he hadn’t just been standing inches from me with his heart on the floor.

I tried to smile, but it came out uneven. “Hey.”

“Holy shit,” Luke laughed, stepping forward, arms out. “It’s been forever. Y/n... You... look...different. Good. Better than last time we saw you.”

I let him hug me. He smelled like cologne and faint sweat, his embrace warm and familiar in a way that made something in my chest ache. Calum was next, wrapping an arm around my shoulder like it hadn’t been over a year since we last spoke.

Michael stood against the doorway, a bag of chips in one hand as he scrolled on his phone with the other. I didn't expect a welcoming hug from him. After all, Ashton clung to him once we parted ways.

“Didn’t know you were here,” he said, voice warm. “You working with the label again or just visiting?”

My gaze flicked to Ashton before I could stop myself. “Just visiting.”

Calum noticed. His eyes darted between us, subtle, but sharp. He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head slightly like he was clocking the space, the tension.

Luke, blissfully unaware, looked between us all with a grin. “You guys catch up already? Should we give you a minute?”

“No, we’re good,” I said quickly, backing toward the wall, away from Ashton’s reach, away from the truth. “We are done catching up."

Ashton cleared his throat behind me, that guarded look sliding over his face like armor. “They were about to reset the stage, weren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “They want us back in the green room to talk over post-show plans.”

Calum gave Ashton one last glance, a quiet flicker of question in his eyes. Ashton ignored it.

“I’ll be right there,” he said.

The boys nodded and started back down the hallway, Luke tossing one last grin over his shoulder at me. “It’s good to see you. Don’t disappear to Maine this time.”

When the door swung shut behind them, the silence returned, sharper now.

I turned my back on Ashton and busied myself with pretending to check my phone. My hands trembled slightly, so I locked the screen just to keep them still.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Ashton said behind me, his voice softer now, like he was afraid of scaring me off.

I didn’t look at him. “I’m not pretending. I’m just trying not to make things harder than they already are.”

He stepped closer, but not too close. Respecting the boundary. Still… his presence always had a weight to it, like gravity itself bent differently around him.

“You pulled away the second they walked in.”

“Because I didn’t want them to see me falling apart,” I snapped, sharper than I intended.

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not falling apart.”

I finally turned to face him, blinking against the sting in my eyes. “Then why does it feel like I’m barely holding on?”

His expression crumpled, just for a moment. Then he nodded.

"Dont you have a show to be preparing for." It came out harsher than I intended, but maybe I was just being irrational and wanted to be alone.

“I’ll give you space,” he said calmly, turning to walk away.

I waited until he was a far enough distance before finally saying the words I buried for months.

“How can you just go back to being friends with me?”

I wasn’t even sure he’d hear me. But he stopped, his boots stopped thudding down the hallway.

Ashton froze. His shoulders tensed beneath the soft fabric of his flannel, and for a second, he just stood there, back turned, like he was deciding whether to keep walking or come back.

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable.

“We slept together, Ashton.” I said loudly, my voice almost echoing.

He flinches, looking around embarrassed. The words sliced through the stillness like a blade.

He blinked, once, as if trying to process the way my voice shook. Like he wasn’t expecting me to say it out loud. Maybe he thought I’d keep pretending with him, keep tiptoeing around the past we never really buried.

“We slept together,” I repeated, quieter now. “You told me you loved me. And now you want to talk like none of it happened?”

He looked wrecked. Not in a loud or obvious way, but in that quiet, soul-deep kind of grief. The kind people carry when they know they did the thing they swore they never would.

His lips parted, ready to answer, something, anything...but the moment shattered.

“Yo, Ash!” Luke’s voice called down the hallway, upbeat and completely unaware. “They need us back for post-roll. You comin’?”

Ashton’s head dropped just slightly. Like he didn’t want to turn away from me. But he also didn’t know how to stay.

His eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, everything in them was wide open. Regret. Longing. Fear. The echo of every version of us that could’ve been.

Then the wall went back up.

He took a slow step back toward the direction of the stage, toward the voices calling his name.

“I’ll call you,” he said softly, almost like a promise.

I stayed behind, still trying to catch my breath, wishing it didn’t feel like I was drowning in everything I didn’t say.

Later that night, I lie on my bed in the dim glow of my bedside lamp, staring blankly at the ceiling. Shadows play along the plaster, and every quiet hum of the city outside echoes like memories of what once was.

My mind drifts, unbidden, back to a night in the studio a year before, when Youngblood was nothing more than a dream taking shape in the boys' whispered ideas. Before Ashton and I slept together.

The air in the studio was thick with creative energy and the scent of coffee that barely masked the underlying buzz of fretless guitars and beat-up drumkits. I still remember how the soft hum of amplifiers and the clatter of instruments mingled with our laughter...raw and unguarded. Ashton and the boys had gathered in that familiar space, each of us desperate to carve out something real in the chaos of sounds and scattered ideas.

I sat on an old, battered couch that creaked under every shift of my weight, when Ashton and I ended up side by side. Our legs tangled together without us even noticing at first, a fleeting, gentle contact that felt like an apology, or perhaps a confession, of what was unspoken between us. In that moment, our barrier cracked.

Ashton leaned closer, his voice soft despite the hum of the mixing desk behind us. “What if we…” he began, a lopsided smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his eyes bright with something like hope and fear combined. We’d been bouncing ideas off each other all night, weaving lyrics that hovered between heartbreak and redemption. Every word felt laced with meaning, our very souls pressed into the shared creation.

I could still feel the warmth of his skin against mine, the subtle brush of his hand near my knee as we scribbled down lyric ideas on a notepad. We sat so intimately that it felt as if the entire world had slowed down, leaving just the two of us cocooned in our creative bubble. Our whispered suggestions and half-finished verses spilled out in a conspiratorial murmur, blending with the distant howls of guitars strumming in tune with our hearts.

But creativity, like love, has its moments of fragility. Before long, the energy in the room shifted. The rest of the band: Luke, Calum, and Michael, were growing restless. Frustration began to tinge their words as they circled back to discuss redoing a riff or tossing around changes that clashed with our mood. Voices were raised, and the tight focus of that intimate session splintered into a disjointed discord of opinion and irritation. There were pizza boxes or half eaten chinese takeout cartons sprawled across the studio, almost reminding me of them when they first started music. A twang of nostalgia shook my bones.

I looked toward Ashton, expecting him to mirror my quiet desperation for a break. And then, almost impulsively, I stood. “I’ll get us some snacks,” I declared, half-laughing at the absurdity of it all, a bout of rebellion against the chaos. “Maybe a little break will help clear our heads.”

Before I knew it, Calum was at my side. “I’m coming with you,” he said immediately, his tone laced with a warmth that reminded me of simpler times, back when being together wasn’t a secret or a puzzle. We left the studio, stepping into the cool night that felt like a balm, like quiet understanding after an exhausting argument.

Outside, under the buzzing fluorescent of a vending machine, Calum and I found a brief reprieve. The machine whirred as it dispensed a packet of chips, the sound oddly soothing against the residual echoes of the studio.

The fluorescent lights of the hallway buzzed faintly overhead, humming like static against the soft rhythm of my sneakers on the scuffed linoleum floor. Calum walked beside me, the hem of his hoodie clutched in one hand, the other buried in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched in that way he always did when things inside the studio got too tense.

We didn’t say anything at first.

The vending machine buzzed to life as I fed in a crumpled dollar. I pressed a button for chips, something salty and safe. The silence between us settled thickly until Calum finally broke it.

“So,” he said casually, watching the bag drop. “You and Ash. What are you guys?”

I paused, hand still inside the vending slot, fingers curling around the foil packet. “What do you mean?”

"Don't do that.. You know what I mean.”

I glanced away, peeling the bag open, letting the scent of fake cheddar distract me. “We’re friends.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out with a tone dipped in disbelief.

I shoved a chip in my mouth. “We are.”

Calum leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest. His voice was softer this time. “Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

I swallowed hard, the crunch of the chip suddenly loud in my ears.

He didn’t stop. “Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds after long sessions. Or disappear for hours at a time. Or walk around with that look on their face like they’ve got something sacred no one else is allowed to touch.”

I let out a breathy laugh, but it came out thin and strained. “You’re being dramatic.”

He didn’t laugh with me.

“You’re lying to yourself,” he said, voice low and careful, not judgmental, not cruel. Just… honest.

I turned my back to him, suddenly fascinated with the vending machine’s warped glass. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You sure about that?” he asked quietly.

Before I could answer, something caught my eye. My reflection overlapped with the view behind the glass, and there, through the wide window into the studio, was Ashton.

He was staring at us.

One hand rested against the neck of Luke's guitar, the other holding a pen loosely by his side. His head was tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on me and Calum like he hadn’t even noticed the boys talking around him. Like he’d forgotten the whole damn world.

The second our eyes met, he blinked and looked away, too fast. Like he’d been caught in a moment he hadn’t meant to be in.

I felt my stomach flip.

Calum followed my gaze, and something unreadable passed over his face. He didn’t say anything else. Just pushed himself off the wall and grabbed a granola bar from the machine, quiet again.

We didn’t speak as we walked back to the studio.

But I carried the weight of that look Ashton gave me all the way to the door.

The hum of my bedroom was all static and silence.

I’d been lying on top of my covers for over an hour, the overhead light off, the bedside lamp dimmed to a warm flicker. Outside, the city buzzed faintly through the cracked window, a distant rhythm that felt detached from everything inside me.

And then… it buzzed.

My phone, where it sat face down on my chest, lit up with a name I’d told myself I wouldn’t wait for.

Ashton xx

My breath caught and I fumbled around my sheets, trying to break my hand free.

I stared at the glowing screen like it was a question I didn’t know how to answer. The phone vibrated gently against my sternum, pulsing with every ring, and I counted to four before picking it up. Not because I needed the time to decide.

But because I didn’t want to seem too eager.

“Hello?” I answered, careful to keep my tone flat, casual. Like I wasn’t replaying every word we’d said earlier in the hallway. Like I hadn’t just been staring at the ceiling reliving that night in the studio with Calum. With him.

Ashton’s voice came through soft, a little hesitant. “Hey.”

I could hear the rustle of movement in the background, like he was walking somewhere, maybe pacing, maybe outside.

“I hope it’s not too late,” he added quickly. “I just got out of a meeting and- Look I just… wanted to talk.” I glance at the clock that I just so happen lost track of, and notice it was ten after midnight.

“It’s fine,” I said, shifting slightly on the bed, letting my voice dip into something nonchalant. “I wasn’t really doing anything.”

A beat of silence.

“Were you gonna call if I didn’t?” I asked, one eyebrow quirking like he could see me through the line. I meant it as a tease, but there was a sharpness under it I couldn’t quite dull.

He hesitated. “Yeah. I told you I would.”

“You tell me a lot of things.”

That landed heavier than I intended.

On the other end of the line, Ashton went quiet again. Not defensive. Just… still.

“I’m not trying to mess with your head,” he said eventually. “I know I’ve done enough of that already.”

“You’re not,” I said softly. “I just… don’t know what this is. Or what it’s supposed to be.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t feel like it should be nothing.”

I looked up at the ceiling again, phone pressed to my ear, fingers curled into my blanket. The memory of his stare through the studio window still lingered like a fingerprint on glass.

“I’ve tried so hard to pretend it didn’t matter,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

We were both quiet again, breathing into the same fragile space.

Ashton exhales into the receiver. “I’d rather… I’d rather do this in person.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“I mean, we’re talking now,” I say, pretending to keep it casual. “Might as well rip the Band-Aid off, right?”

“No,” he says, and it’s not unkind, it’s just quiet. Final. “Not like this.

I hesitate, biting my lip. “Okay, then… when?”

He’s silent again for a beat too long, and then his voice comes, careful. “I’ve got that interview with Zach Sang tomorrow. And then there’s the radio taping Wednesday. Thursday we’re flying out to New York for Fallon, and...”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Ash. You don’t have time.”

He tries to cut in, but I keep going. “It’s fine. We don’t have to meet in person. I get it. Life goes on. You’re busy, and this, whatever this is, doesn’t fit neatly into a schedule.”

His voice slices through mine, sudden and sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make this smaller than it is.” His breath catches like he’s holding something back, something too heavy to say all at once. “I owe you more than that.”

My heart squeezes.

I swallow thickly. “You don’t owe me anything, Ashton.”

“I do,” he says, softer now, like it hurts him to say it. “You let me into your world when I didn’t even know who the hell I was. You stood by me while I burned everything down and pretended I was fine. You gave a shit when I didn’t. And then I pushed you out. I can’t make that right over the phone.”

There’s something so raw in his voice I have to close my eyes.

“I want to look you in the eye when I explain,” he adds.

I exhale, long and slow. “Then when? Because every day you just listed is full.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then his voice, low, careful, asks, “Would you come to a show?”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“The first date of the tour. We’re in L.A. next Friday. You could come early, hang out backstage. After the show, we could talk. I’ll make sure no one else is around.”

I hesitate. My mouth opens, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say. The thought of standing in that crowd, watching him on stage again, feels like opening a wound I’ve worked hard to pretend doesn’t exist anymore.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to see that.. Especially debuting the album that's supposedly written all about me,” I whisper.

There’s a pause.

And then he says it, quiet, breathless, like a prayer.

“Please.”

That one word carries everything. All the apologies he hasn’t said. All the weight he’s been carrying. All the nights we never talk about.

My throat tightens.

And even though every part of me is screaming that this could hurt all over again, something softer inside me whispers back.

“Okay.”

The concrete under my feet is cold, even through my boots.

I stand just behind the heavy black curtain, out of view, flanked by techs and crew members adjusting cables and mics and lighting cues like it’s any other night. But it isn’t.

The crowd beyond the curtain is electric.

A sea of voices echo in the stadium, the kind that vibrate in your bones even from backstage. The kind that makes your pulse quicken even when you’re not the one performing. The sound builds in waves: cheering, screaming, chanting, all for them. For him.

I can hear Luke’s low laugh. The clink of a beer bottle. Calum shouting something about his amp. Michael’s voice in response, teasing and loud. The boys are warming up, loose, wild energy spinning between them. It feels like they’ve done this a thousand times, and maybe they have. But to me, right now, it feels like standing on the edge of something I’m not sure I’m ready to fall into again.

I run my palms down my thighs, wiping off the nervous sweat, then clutch the fabric of my jacket tight in my fists. My heart is knocking against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Then the lights cut.

The stage goes black and the crowd erupts.

Their names boom over the speakers, and suddenly the boys are running past me, silhouettes lit by strobes, instruments in hand and grins plastered to their faces. Luke throws a fist in the air. Michael’s already waving to the crowd. Calum flips his pick and catches it midair like muscle memory. Ashton is the last to pass, and for a brief second, our eyes meet in the dark.

Just one look.

But it roots me to the floor.

He disappears onto the stage, swallowed by the roar of a crowd that’s already in love with them.

The lights explode into color. Music crashes into life.

They open with an older track, one the fans scream every word to, their voices rising above the speakers. I step closer to the curtain, peeking through the gap. The boys are lit up in gold and white and deep purple, the kind of lighting that makes them look bigger than life. Calum’s bass thrums in my chest. Luke’s voice is rich and effortless, slicing through the stadium. Michael spins toward the mic with a smirk, tossing out a line that makes the entire crowd scream louder.

And Ashton. God.

Ashton is behind the kit, head thrown back, arms sharp and fluid, completely in his element. His hair’s wild, curls clinging to his forehead, sweat already gleaming on his skin. Every movement is controlled chaos. A storm with a rhythm.

They play two more songs before the lights dim again.

Luke steps forward, catching his breath as the audience quiets enough for him to speak.

“Alright,” he says into the mic, grinning. “We’ve got something special for you tonight.”

The crowd screams.

“We’ve been working on this new album for a while now,” he continues. “It’s different. It’s raw. Probably the most honest thing we’ve ever done.”

Calum nods beside him, his smile crooked. “It nearly killed us, but we made it out alive.”

The crowd laughs, shouts, claps.

Luke turns slightly, looking toward Ashton as if silently inviting him forward. Ashton rises from behind the drums, slinging a mic from its stand and stepping up to the front.

My breath catches.

His voice comes low and steady through the mic. “This album… it’s about change. About the people who pull you apart and the ones who quietly put you back together when no one else is looking."

The crowd stills a little. Leaning in.

Ashton’s gaze drifts out across the stadium, but I know he’s not really looking at them. His fingers wrap tightly around the mic.

“It’s about mistakes. Regret. Forgiveness. Second chances.”

He pauses, eyes scanning the crowd, and for the briefest second, they land backstage.

I freeze.

“It’s about someone who meant more to me than I ever really knew how to say,” he continues, his voice softer now. “Until I nearly lost them.”

The crowd is hushed now, the weight of his words pressing through the silence.

“I wrote these songs because I didn’t know how else to say it. So if you’re here tonight...." his voice pauses slightly, but he swallows it down- "this one’s for you.”

The screams return. Louder than ever. But all I can hear is the echo of his voice.

And that word: you.

It hits my chest like a stone in water. Rippling.

The show ends in a flood of noise.

The lights dim with a slow fade, the final notes of the last song still ringing in the air as thousands of voices echo one last cheer into the arena. The kind of sound you feel in your spine. The kind of sound that once made me proud, and now just makes me ache.

Backstage is chaos again. Crew members scramble to tear down equipment, sweaty towels are tossed over shoulders, water bottles are passed around like currency. Everyone’s moving in different directions, hugging, shouting, laughing. High-fives and adrenaline fill the air.

And I’m still standing in the same spot, half-hidden behind a curtain, heart in my throat.

I feel him before I see him.

That warm, unspoken presence like the sun after a long, cold morning.

Walking toward me, his curls damp and stuck to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come down from the high. His black jeans hang low on his hips, and his shirt is gone, tossed somewhere along the way, leaving his skin flushed and glistening under the dim hallway light. A towel is draped around the back of his neck, forgotten.

And God. I hadn’t seen him like this in so long.

That version of him. The one that glowed under stage lights. That burned from the inside out.

My eyes drop to the floor for a second, cheeks flushing hot. I suddenly feel sixteen again, like I’ve wandered into something I shouldn’t be allowed to witness.

He slows when he sees me, something softer taking over the adrenaline in his expression. Nervous now. Or maybe shy.

We just stare at each other for a second, the space between us filled with the ghosts of every unsaid thing.

“You stayed,” he says, voice low and a little breathless.

I nod. “I said I would.”

He smiles faintly, stepping closer. Close enough that I can see the way his fingers twitch slightly at his sides, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch me.

“I didn’t know if you’d make it to the end,” he admits.

I shrug, trying to stay casual, but my voice is soft. “I almost didn’t.”

His smile fades just a little. “Was it too much?”

“No.” I shake my head. “It was… a lot. But not too much.”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening a little.

“Can I just say,” he adds, wiping a bit of sweat from his temple with the towel, “you look good. Different, but… good.”

I laugh quietly, looking down at my hands. “You’re one to talk. You’re....” I gesture vaguely toward his bare chest, cheeks burning hotter. “You’re kind of… half-naked.”

He grins, finally catching on, and yanks the towel off his neck, swiping it over his chest and shoulders. “Right. Sorry. Force of habit. The shirt kind of… disappears after the second song.”

“You never used to do that,” I tease, glancing up through my lashes.

He shrugs with a sheepish smile. “Guess I didn’t have as much to prove back then.”

I look at him for a long second. “You don’t have anything to prove now.”

His expression softens again, and the air shifts. Slows. The noise around us fades to a low hum, distant.

“I meant what I said,” he tells me quietly. “About the album. About you.”

I nod slowly, throat tight. “I know.”

“I didn’t write it to get you back. I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to carry it anymore.”

We’re quiet again. Not awkward. Just… suspended in something fragile.

His voice is quieter now. “Do you wanna come with me? Just for a bit. Somewhere we can actually talk?”

I hesitate.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because I don’t know what talking might do to me tonight.

Still, I find myself nodding.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Okay.”

And as Ashton leads me through the backstage hallway, hand barely brushing mine like he’s afraid of asking too much too soon, I realize something.

He didn't tell the boys I was coming.

The dressing room is small and dimly lit , just a single bulb above the mirror and the muted glow of streetlights filtering in through the window slats. The hum of the city beyond the arena is a dull ache against the silence inside, like the world knows to stay quiet for us tonight.

I sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, fingers twisting the hem of my sleeve.

Ashton paces the room for a few moments, still wound up, still caught somewhere between the stage and here. His chest rises and falls with leftover adrenaline, his curls sticking to the back of his neck, the towel now forgotten on the floor.

Finally, he sinks onto the couch beside me, body warm and buzzing with life. Neither of us speak right away.

Then I notice his hands.

Red. Raw. Split open just at the curve of his knuckles , the brutal, familiar aftermath of playing too hard. Of giving too much of himself to the drums. To the crowd. To the songs that bled out of him.

“You’re bleeding,” I murmur, barely above a whisper.

He looks down at his hands, almost like he hadn’t realized. “Yeah. Happens sometimes when I forget how to hold back.”

I reach for him before I can think twice, my fingers brushing over his, careful. Gentle. There’s a faint tremble beneath his skin, not from pain, but from me. From this.

He watches me as I graze a thumb over his palm. There’s something unspoken caught in his throat. His eyes, tired and open, hold that familiar storm I’ve seen before, but now it’s quieted. Honest.

“I don’t want this to go away again,” he says suddenly.

My hand stills in his.

He swallows. “Whatever this is between us… I can’t lose it again. I’ve tried pretending it didn’t matter. I’ve tried burying it in songs and cities and shows, and it doesn’t work. You leave holes in my heart when you’re gone.”

The words hang there between us: raw and vulnerable and unpolished.

“I don’t know what I am to you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “A mistake. A memory. A ghost. But I know what you are to me. You’re the part I never got over. The one that still shows up in every verse I write. And I don’t want to write around you anymore.”

I don’t speak.

I just slide my hand fully into his, fingers threading between the torn skin and callouses and everything he’s carried alone for too long.

And I squeeze.

He breathes out like he’s been holding it for months.

“I don’t know what this is either,” I whisper finally. “But I’m tired of pretending it didn’t happen. And I’m tired of wondering if you still think about me.”

He lifts my hand and presses it to his lips, eyes closed.

“I never stopped.”

We sit like that for a long time. The sound of the city humming through the window. His heartbeat steady under my palm. My thumb gently tracing the edges of his broken skin.

[elysianmoongeist]

Back at it again with some new terms that I figured should finally get an “official” coining post. Please don’t repost anywhere, but feel free to add to sites like Pluralpedia as long as it’s linked back to here properly.

Doppelfigur (or off-brand if you will) — (Typically) a fragment that forms based on another system member that is similar to that member, but at least one aspect is fundamentally different such as appearance, personality, source, etc. May also fill that member’s role temporarily, such as a doppelfigur of a host may temporarily take on a pseudo-host role.

Impression — A system member whose formation was heavily inspired by someone or something, but not enough to be considered an introject. Without that inspiration, this member would have formed radically different.

Fragment Well — A location in headspace - often fixed - that serves as a metaphysical gate to layers that store fragments. Typically, fragments will stay in the well until they are fully developed. Once they leave, however, they are unable to return unless fragmented again. As such, these layers are inaccessible to regular, fully-formed members, with rare exceptions. The well can also be considered sentient. In gateway systems, this can be a gateway for collecting fragmented souls from astral planes, intentionally or not. Fragment Wells are often watched over by a designated Wellkeeper, or any other similar role.

Wellkeeper — A member whose job is to keep watch over and upkeep the Fragment Well. Considered a subtype of Gatekeeper and/or Caretaker. These upkeeping activities can look different for every system.

Terms are free to use by anyone but I’m accepting of all system types so take that as you will. Stay safe drink water have fun 💪🏼