#scribe reader

[softlypossessive]

I’m so glad I stumbled onto your blog! I was wondering if I could request a monster trio headcanon for one piece. I was wondering how would they react to having a s/o on the crew whose role was to be the scribe? She basically set out to sea in hopes of writing the greatest adventure story and she joined the straw hats and decided to write out all of their adventures and stories. How would they value the work she did to ensure the straw hats story would live on? Would they ask her to also write about their blossoming “love story?”

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Monster Trio x Scribe!Reader Headcanon𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, gn!reader (with romantic s/o dynamics) ♡ Warnings: Fluff, supportive bfs, romantic tension, praise for your writing, mentions of legacy/storytelling, love story references, emotional softness, no use of Y/N ♡ Notes: Thank you for the lovely request!! I had so much fun writing this—soft, dream-chasing Strawhat energy is my JAM. This is romantic-coded, but still soft and cozy! These boys adore you and want the world to remember it ~~

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🍖Luffy

Luffy is beyond excited that someone is literally writing down his story

He lit up the first time you told him your dream

At first, he thought “scribe” just meant you liked books

When you explained your dream—telling the greatest adventure story ever so people stuck in small lives could feel free—something clicked

That’s what Gold Roger’s story did for him

He immediately declared that you were going to make people want to be pirates

He constantly interrupts your writing like “HEY! Did you write about the Sea King punch? What about when I kicked Crocodile’s butt?!”

He doesn’t always understand the full weight of what you’re doing, but he respects your dream because it’s yours

He takes it seriously because everyone supports his dream the same way

He’s very into the idea of his rise to Pirate King being written as a legendary tale

He wants people to read it and feel inspired, just like he did as a kid

He’s obsessed with your writing now—brings you snacks, peeks over your shoulder, and grins when he sees his name

He absolutely wants the love story included

Not because he’s super romantic—but because he thinks it’s cool and funny

“Make sure you write the part where I asked you out and you said yes really fast”

You did not say yes fast—he asked twice, but he swears he heard a yes the first time

He gets kind of serious when it comes to your place in his story

“You can put that part in too, right? That I love you? That we sail together?”

It’s not about the mushy stuff—it’s about you being part of the journey

“When I’m Pirate King, I want them to know you were there. You wrote it. That’s important.”

He says it so proudly—like he’s always known your name would be written in history beside his

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You're sprawled on the deck one evening, a gentle breeze stirring your pages. Luffy plops down beside you, upside down like a gremlin, head hanging over the edge of the bench.

“Whatcha writing?”

You smirk. “You.”

“Oooh!” He rolls over eagerly. “Read it to me!”

You hesitate for a second—because this part’s soft. It’s not about battles or meat or dreams. It’s… this:

“He laughs at the sky like it’s an old friend. He loves with the same wild heart he sails with—loud, boundless, impossible to hold. But if you’re lucky enough to be his, truly his, he makes you feel like you’ve already touched the sun.”

When you look up, Luffy’s staring at you wide-eyed. Then he beams—beams—like he’s never heard anything cooler in his life.

“That’s SO COOL!!! Write more! Write the part where I kissed you! And the part where I said I’d never leave you behind! That’s important too!”

He grabs your hand like it’s the anchor holding him to the ship.

“I want people to read that and want to fall in love on the sea.”

⚔️ Zoro

Zoro was confused at first—thought “scribe” was just a fancy word for someone who sat around reading books

Then he saw you scribbling after battle, muttering about footwork and blade arcs, and it clicked

He doesn't ask about your work directly but will silently glance over your shoulder now and then

Especially curious when he spots his name in the margins

One night, you were half-asleep at your desk, and he dropped off a sake cup with a quiet, “Don’t forget to write the part where I saved your ass”

The idea of a love story written about him makes him grumble

“Tch. What’s there to say? You like me. I like you. End of story.”

But later, you find your notes moved slightly and a new entry about Loguetown added—with perfect detail about how he looked at you when you were hurt

You didn’t write it—he did

Zoro doesn’t care about fame or legacy, but he cares because you care

You’ve caught him rereading entries about battles when he thinks you’re asleep

When he reads your writing about him—his resolve, his strength—he gets quiet

“That what you really see when you look at me?” he asked once

When you nodded, he didn’t say more, just trained harder that night

He pretends not to care about the romance stuff, but when you suggest keeping it private, he actually frowns

“Why wouldn’t you write it? It’s real, isn’t it?”

It’s not about the world knowing he’s in love—it’s about the world knowing you’re his

“Put it in the book. Make it clear.”

He won’t say ‘I love you’ out loud a hundred times—but he wants it written. Inked into history. Quiet. Permanent. True.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You find Zoro in the crow’s nest, dozing shirtless with a bottle beside him. Classic. You don’t mean to wake him—you’re just scribbling quietly in the corner—but he cracks an eye open anyway.

“You stalking me?” he grumbles.

You don’t reply. Just keep writing.

“…What are you saying about me this time?”

You smirk faintly. “Want me to read it?”

He shrugs, but the way he leans in says yes.

“He walks like the world owes him nothing. Like pain is just something to cut through. But he’s the one who stands between you and the storm, every time. Even if it kills him. Especially if it kills him. He doesn’t say he loves you. He just stays.”

You glance up. His brows are drawn, mouth tight, jaw working like he’s chewing on glass.

“…Tch.” He looks away, then back at you. “You’re gonna make me sound like some damn tragic hero.”

You shrug. “You kind of are.”

He takes your hand wordlessly, callused fingers curling around your pen-stained ones. Doesn’t say anything else. But you catch him rereading the entry later when he thinks you’re asleep.

🍳Sanji

Sanji is your biggest supporter—like, aggressively supportive

Brings you snacks, checks your wrist when it cramps, makes you tea or coffee without even asking

Fawns over every line you write like you’re the author of his heart (which you kinda are)

“Mon amour, your words will immortalize us! Should I pose for the cover illustration? Shirtless, of course—unless you prefer mystery~”

He’s completely enchanted by your dream to tell stories—especially their story

It’s romantic, meaningful, and he thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in the world

Sometimes you catch him just… watching you while you write. Like the weight of it all hits him out of nowhere

“We’ll be gone someday,” he once said softly, cigarette glowing. “But your words won’t.”

He’s the most emotionally open about what your writing means

Will 100% beg you to read parts of it to him like a bedtime story

And when it comes to your love story? Oh he wants the whole thing

A novella-length subplot with kissing, longing glances, dramatic declarations—he’s all in

“Put in every moment,” he says one night, curled around you as you write

“Every glance, every word I said that made you blush, all of it.”

Not embarrassed at all—he wants the world to know how deeply he loved you

“I want people to read it and feel jealous,” he says with a crooked smile

“That they weren’t loved like I loved you.”

Flirty and ridiculous 80% of the time—“What are you saying about me now? Is it about my devastating charm? My noble soul?”

But that last 20%? Pure, sincere, overwhelming admiration

He knows you’re creating legacy—and he’s honored to be part of it

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Sanji catches you writing at the galley table, nibbling the end of your pen. You don’t even notice he’s there until he’s sliding a plate beside you.

“For the brilliant mind behind our legend,” he purrs.

You roll your eyes. “You wanna hear the part I wrote about you?”

He leans in immediately, chin propped on one hand. “More than I want air.”

You clear your throat, a little bashful now.

“He’s fire, but not just the kind that burns. He’s warmth, too. He’s the hand that feeds, the eyes that linger, the voice that sings when he thinks no one hears. He loves like he’s starved for it—like he wants to feed it back to you in spoonfuls until you’re full. And you’ll never convince him he deserves the same in return.”

Silence.

When you glance up, Sanji looks like he’s been slapped by Cupid and set on fire.

“…Mon dieu.”

His voice is thick. He presses a kiss to your wrist. Then your knuckles. Then your palm.

“You better publish that. I want the whole world to know exactly how ruined I am for you.”

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[brayneworms]

no, you hang up! | shota aizawa

kinktober day three: phone sex

word count. 2.2k

content. phone sex, reader and aizawa are coworkers, mutual masturbation, referenced age gap (once and it's minor + doesn't contribute to their relationship dynamic), dirty talk, no genitals for reader mentioned, gender-neutral reader, teasing (reader calls him names but it's all fairly playful), pre-relationship.

♪ agora hills — doja cat

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

You know it's him before you even look.

Your room is blue-dark, cold; the central heating must have turned off hours ago, still on to warm you to sleep even beneath two comforters. The recent winters were no joke—you walked around town at the moment with dry, blistering lips and dull skin and watery eyes. Even now, as you raise your head from the comfort of your sheets to the arid air, gooseflesh breaks over your skin.

Something pulses; it's what woke you in the first place. Some noise, some shift in the quiet. Outside it's still dark, not yet late enough for the light to start turning greyish and buoyant. It takes a muddled, groggy few seconds as the static in your head starts to clear that you realise it's your phone. 

You grope blindly for it; it's only vibrating, but you're a tepid sleeper at the minute, and it's more than enough to rouse you from whatever fitful slumber you'd managed to fall into. You have to be careful not to forget and turn on your side, put pressure on the sling that binds your arm as you reach under the sheets for your phone as it rings, rings, rings out. 

You slap a hand across the plastic case, lift it with a wince at the cold blue light that shines out like fingernails down a chalkboard. But yeah—when you read the name AIZAWA across the top of the screen in informal white capitals, you can't honestly say you're surprised.

You stab the green button on what's probably the eighth or ninth ring. "Yeah?"

There's a moment where he doesn't say anything. Where the line crackles the way the ozone layer does before the first strike of lightning. "...Did I wake you?"

"Yeah," you say again, returning to your back. Your bound arm gives a twinge of protest. 

"Sorry," he murmurs, in that dry tone of his, the one that rarely manages not to sound clipped and bored. "I guess I didn't realise how late it is."

You pull the phone away, glancing for the first time at the time in the right-hand corner. 02.11am. He did have a nasty habit of letting the night slip away from him—and his regular bouts of insomnia mean the lateness of the hour doesn't always impress upon him as it does for most people—but you suspect there may be more to it than that. There's a hesitance, a reluctance in his voice. 

"It's okay," you say finally. "Have to pee anyway."

The static rises as he huffs down the line. "How's the arm?"

"Feels like roadkill," you mumble, which doesn't make a lot of sense. But sue you, you're tired and the painkillers wore off in your sleep. "Why're you calling?"

Another crackle, a soft shift, like an out-of-tune radio adjusting frequency. "No... particular reason."

As the fatigue starts to clear from your heavy brain, you try to picture it. Shouta Aizawa—evidently not patrolling tonight, given the lack of cityscape din in the background of the call. It's quiet; you can maybe hear the low purr of a ceiling fan. Earlier, he'd shifted, and you'd heard the rustling of sheets. So, he's in bed. Lying there. Alone. Calling you.

He's pretty transparent. But to his credit, you don't think he's trying to be conspicuous. It's not incredibly in his nature. And it's not in yours to call him out on it, either, which he knows. It's why he does it.

Does, not like—like this is a regular thing, or anything. There have been one or two what you like to refer to as unrelated incidents over the eight-year course of your working relationship. A kiss at a New Year's party that lingered a moment too long, the time he took you home after a night at the bar with the other U.A. staff and you couldn't be in the staffroom alone with him for about a fortnight afterwards.

"Just missing the sound of my voice?" you ask, trying not to sound too coy. You don't want to make him skittish, and anyway you have a feeling he hates when you try to play up your (in your opinion) minor age difference. 

Another rustle, quieter, shorter. "...Something like that," he murmurs. His voice is soft, despite the timbre of it reaching down to some pit in his chest. 

"So should I talk?" you press. 

"Sure," he replies.

"About what?"

"Anything." He swallows. "Whatever... whatever you'd like to talk about."

You roll your tongue over your lower lip, suck it for a moment whilst you think. "I miss work," you start. Boring, mundane—testing the waters. "Being stuck at home sucks. And all my friends are my coworkers, so you're all at work every day. 'S pretty lonely."

"I see." There's a hint of strain in his voice, one that makes a dim chord strike somewhere low and pitiful inside you. You cross your legs over each other. "You know we'd visit if we had the time."

"Yeah, I know. I bought myself plants to give myself a reason to get out of bed," you say, casting a glance over at them as they rest on your windowsill. Their leaves wink and shiver in the current of cold breeze let in from the crack in your window. "I have to get up twice to water them. And then when I'm up, I think, I might as well get something to eat, exercise. Shower."

The last work is deliberately provocative, like pressing on a ripe bruise to see when it starts to hurt. Your reward is the faintest hitch of Aizawa's breath. 

"I talk to Hizashi every day," you continue, trying to keep your own voice even. The silence on the other end of the phone sounds deafening, your heartbeat starting to get uncomfortably forceful in your chest. "He texts a lot, about silly things. Keeping me up to date on stuff at the school. It's not the same as being there, but it's sweet that he tries." You pause. "I wish I could see everyone, though. Hey—can I see you?"

You let the question hang. Lining up a hunting rifle to a buck's head, letting it decide to stay or flee. Then,

"Hang on." It comes through gruff and short, but it makes your stomach twist all the same. A moment later, your phone hums with a notification. It hangs, a grey banner at the top of your screen. From Aizawa, with a photo attachment.

Your mouth goes dry as you stretch your thumb to tap it. It's a flash photo of a barely-lit room. You can see dark blue sheets and a grey comforter, and two legs in slouchy grey sweats, cocked apart, shoved halfway down his thighs. But in the crux of the photo—

"Jesus," you blurt before you can stop yourself. You hear Aizawa huff a noise on the other end of the phone, could be laughter, could be something else. It’s not like your entirely inexperienced with Aizawa’s cock, but that was a while ago and there’s a big difference between a drunken sticky fumbling in the dark and seeing it properly, in low warm light, heavy and hard with his hand wrapped around it. His fingers, thick and pale, you can’t help but want them on you. Circled around your ankle, maybe, pulling you apart for him with that quiet, unassuming strength of his. 

“Is that a good or bad reaction?” he asks, and the note of strain is thicker than ever. He sounds strangled. “Should I start worrying—about my job position?”

“Probably,” you answer. “But—no. How long’ve you been touching yourself?”

You hear his breath hitch again at the casual crudeness of your words. “How long’ve you been on the phone?”

A hot red flash zips through you. Before your head has given your body permission, you’ve laid the phone down flat on your chest, speakers buzzing through your shirt as you slip a hand beneath the waistband of your underwear. You go straight for what feels good, finding yourself already embarrassingly ready, shuddering as your fingers brush the most sensitive parts of yourself. 

“You’re such a creep,” you groan, head back against the pillow. Aizawa makes a quick, cut noise in the back of his throat. “One week without staring down my shirt in the staff room and you resort to this?”

“I don’t—” He cuts himself off, sighing shakily. “I don’t stare.”

He does fucking stare, it’s just quite subtle and it took you a while to notice. 

“Yeah, right.” Your fingers curl and search, press and glide. You’re hot and wet, for him, for the first glimpse of lust since your leave of absence began. “Bet you’d do anything for a taste.”

“...Maybe,” he stammers, breathing hard and quick against the phone. Now you can hear a soft stream of sounds coming through, a shlck-shlck-shlck that makes your blood hot and your brain fuzzy. “Maybe I’ve thought about it. Once or twice.”

“Dirty old man,” you say, half-babbling, and he groans low in his throat. You wish you could see him, God you can picture it—head thrown back, thick dark hair splayed against the rumpled pillows like a funeral shroud, sleep shirt ruched up to show the soft pale plane of his stomach dusted with dark spiralling hairs. You’d follow the pattern down to where the hair was thickest, push your hand through to where he was hard and hot as a brand for you. You didn’t get much time to play with him before, restless and lazy and horny off the cheapest champagnes you could order at the bar; he’d been inside you before too long and back out far too soon. 

“I’m n-not…” Hearing his resolve start to crack and fracture is the hottest thing in the world. Your own fingers work faster, jamming at the spots that make your legs gooey and your stomach start to tauten. “Isn’t my fault you look like that.”

Your giggle is breathless, half a moan. “Took that right out of the old perverts’ handbook,” you mutter. “Don’t break a hip on your way over here.”

“Shut up, shut up,” he grunts. “Damn it—shouldn’t have called—”

“I’m glad you did,” you say. Sweat is starting to collect in your armpits and the back of your neck. “Been so bored. This is the first time I’ve felt anything in weeks.”

His breath is ragged. “What do you feel?” he asks hoarsely. 

“Hang on.” The photo you send is conservative compared to his; just a shot of your hand disappearing into the waistband of your shorts. But you hear his stifled whimper, low in his throat, crackling with desperation. 

“God,” he hisses. “You have no idea what I’d do to you.”

“I have—some idea,” you mumble. 

“No, not like before,” he growls. “I was too drunk to do much of anything. What a waste. I’d never let you go if I had you now. I’d make you cum three times before I even thought about fucking you. My mouth, my hands, my thigh, anything.”

You imagine the scratch of his stubble on your inner thigh, or your own legs clamped around the thick muscle of his thigh, and nearly white out. You’re not in control, not of the way your hips cant desperately against your hand or the desperate moan his words pull from you, turning to stifle it into the pillow. 

“I want you inside me so bad,” you find yourself babbling, hot with embarrassment over the desperation in your voice. You sound close to tears. “Jesus—your hands, I’m always thinking about it. Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

He makes a keening, desperate noise, like a starving animal going for food. “Show me.”

You barely hesitate, ripping your shorts and underwear all the way off, and it’s only a few more desperate strokes of your fingers until you feel them flood over, your whole body shuddering and legs twitching. Your chest heaves and you blink up at the ceiling, withdrawing your hand from between your legs. Very awkwardly, you manage balance your phone enough in your slung hand to take a photo, the flash illuminating the mess between your thighs, the gleam of your own spend on your fingers. Before you can let embarrassment get a hold of you prematurely, you send the picture to Aizawa.

The result in instantaneous. He pulls a breath through his teeth. “God—fuck, look at you. So messy. God, I’m—” A choked-off moan, the breathiest noise you’ve ever heard from him as he cums. You lie there, warm all over, your skin singing as you listen to him fall apart on the other side of the phone. The speakers tickle your skin as you scrub a hand down your face.

After, you listen to his harsh panting breath. Then there’s a pocket of silence, the sort neither of you know how to break.

Finally, you cave. “...Feel better?”

“Don’t,” he mumbles. “This was… highly inappropriate.”

“Agreed.”

“I shouldn’t have called.��

“Probably not.”

There’s a pause. “...Is it fine? That I did?”

A smile touches your mouth. “Yeah, it is.”

He huffs. You picture him rubbing at his eyes, drawing the skin inward to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Well, then… yes. I do feel better.”

“Get off work early sometime,” you murmur. “I get so bored around here. Could use the company.”

You’re not sure why, but you think he’s smiling. “I’ll clear my schedule.”

taglist: @deltamel (+ask to join!!)

[alcyneus]

SOFT BLOCKED ・ following @.alcyneus

omg did u see? some random college student roasted actor tooru oikawa on twitter and now his fanbase won’t stop flaming her :/ now oikawa’s flirting with her on the tl to rile her up lol talk abt a modern day elizabeth bennet and mr. darcy… yeesh

12:03 AM ・ 04/07/2025 ↳ 15.4k ♥︎ 42.3k ↻ 14.2k ılıl 90k ➢ 32.4k

taglist is open @.pmgranate ・3h actor!oikawa, enemies to lovers, one-sided pining turned mutual pining, pathetic oikawa, y/n is a hater, ooc characters, fluff, mostly a crackfic, hurt/comfort, mild angst, slight university!au, y/n dgaf, y/n recieves hate from oikawa’s fanbase

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@mayyhaps @thea-herondale @eoniiian @kukkurookkoo @bokutoko @sunarots @renardiererin @lavender-pink-socks @heyhihellowhatsup @sahrberrii @grlcrash @your-mum3000 @kawoala @shozuken @nscuit @angeleilee @captaincyberqueen

𝐚𝐥𝐜𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

[mirangel]

You know how tighnari goes into heat right? Can you imagine if male reader is actually teasing him saying, 'oh my~ dude can't even stop being horny lmao!' or 'aww what a cute fox being horny, can imagine you begging on the ground!' and just making fun of his heat jokingly

And then he got enough of it, so when his heat came. He just pushes male reader to the ground and shows him who's the one is going to turn into a mess

Anyway this is like 8. In the morning and weirdly enough, I am curious to see mad and Dom tighnari

tighnari nsfw drabble 11

cw: amab!reader, bratty reader, tighnari’s in heat

nsfw content below, dni if uncomfortable

aren’t you mischievous, poking fun at a clearly suffering man! he’s humiliated by your incessant teasing, burying his face into his hands. you glide your hands over his tail, his ears, and you’re even so cruel enough to lightly tug at them. he tries to swat your hands away with an uncharacteristically strained smile. he can’t stand this. what man could? but patience is a virtue, and he’s sure to take his revenge once the perfect moment arrives.

yet as you’re laid underneath him with your clothes almost ripped to shreds by his near inhuman claws, you can’t help but tease him. you coo at how cute he looks when he’s irritated, how he must be so desperate to fuck you. well fuck you he did, making sure to dig his nails a little deeper into your hips.

“you’re a lot more bearable to listen to like this.” tighnari scowled, his ears flattened against his head. “my ears are sensitive, i’ve told you many times.” he wants to be gentle to you, he knows he should. he salivates just looking at your weeping cock, and it takes everything for him to not stop fucking you and to suck you dry instead. but every man has his limits, and he will not make exceptions.

how many years late am i? far enough tbh… i hope to get back on track with writing!! i am a little rusty to say the least, not to mention i’m not totally familiar with tighnari. i apologize if this is REALLY ooc!!!

[phonkscribes]

Even if you don't think so.

@mamster-gagglebucks has sent a letter:

Hey, first off I love your writing so dearly, it's wonderful! I have a question and possible trope. I read what Dante, Virgil, and Nero would do if they were with a chubby lover, and how they would react if someone else insulted them for their weight. But what would they do if the one insulting their weight is themself? Like their lover with insecurities that leads them to belittling or putting their own body down? How would they respond?

Terribly sorry for the belated response to this, nearly a year since you first put in the request, but here she comes: a sequel to The More to Love. Crazy to think that it also been a year since that post came out way back in October. Regardless, please enjoy the boys comforting their chubby lover.

Dante

He isn’t a stranger to being concerned with the way he looks. Just human enough to pass, but if you looked, really looked at him you’d see it… the demon inside. He was worried you’d be scared of that when the two of you started dating. Truth be told, he was ready to embrace the frightened look he’d inevitably see in your eyes when he’d have to trigger his devil form. The fiery red scales and the inferno broiling around him deterred lesser demons, but they didn’t scare you. You, in all of your beauty and grace, held his face in your hands after the threat was dealt with. You called him pretty. Pretty! And just like that, his doubts were washed away, gone to the wind when he picked you up into his arms. 

So why was it that you could accept that part of him– every part of him–, but not yourself? Why were you so mean to… to you? 

The way you put yourself down in front of him irks him because how could anyone think such nasty things? I’m too fat, you said, I’d be prettier if I weren’t… and you, you deserve to be with someone who isn’t– 

“Who isn’t… what? So charming? So… sexy?”, he chimed in, getting in the way of your words. It’s all bullshit. He wouldn’t stand for it, and neither should you(even if you’re talking about yourself here.) 

“I don’t get what the issue is here”, he did, but this was something you needed to hear. You needed to know that he didn’t care about your weight or how you looked. You didn’t care about how he looked. 

Before you know it, he’s taken your hands into his own, looking at you with those pretty eyes of his. The eyes you adore. The eyes that bear down on you with nothing but adoration. 

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but you’re fine just as you are. Got that?”, his voice comes out in that hushed little drawl, just for you. 

Dante’s thumbs brush over your hands as he lets go of them to hold your face. 

“But…–”

“No buts!”, he declares, moving closer to wrap his arms around your form. 

His hands are gentle as they are possessive as they coil around you. He’s warm. In the warmth of his embrace, does he give you an appreciative squeeze, leaning his head down to kiss the top of your head. 

“... but if you do want help with that, I’d be more than willing to lend ya hand. We can eat healthier… and exercise, if that’s what you want”

If there were any tears or quiet sobs in the silence, he waits to hear your response. Or, at the very least, wait for you to bring your arms around him. 

“... okay”, you sniffle, “Thank you, Dante”, you smile into his shoulder. 

He has to bite his tongue, only because you’re so damn cute.

Vergil

He can’t understand why this would possibly ever be a problem, or how you could think such things about your body. If it wasn’t causing you any physical discomfort, what was the issue here? Why would he think you’re unattractive because you’re plump? Quickly, before any other more insults towards yourself can leave your mouth, he cuts you off. 

“That is enough”, he’s frowning, but that’s his usual expression. It’s not a matter of what he thinks, but a matter of what you think and how you perceive yourself. Of which is not to his liking, it would not be the first time you’ve said something he did not agree with. 

“If you’re unhappy with the way that you look, then we can change it, but I don’t ever want to hear you say such things about yourself again”, his gaze is cast elsewhere for a moment before he reaches out to you. Tentative, allowing you the choice of whether you want to move into him or not. 

It’s not threatening you, is it? Another thought that comes to mind is if someone else has said something about your weight to you… perhaps a family member or acquaintance of some sort. He doesn’t know to what extent you’ve endured such negativity about yourself for, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let you suffer it for any longer. You aren’t too much of anything, not to him. You’re you, and if there is anything that’s right in this god forsaken world, then it would be you. Not what anyone else thinks, or even what he thinks for that matter. 

“Do you really believe that?”, he asks, his brow furrowing as his gaze finds you again. 

Do you really think those things about yourself? 

“... What if I can’t keep up with you, what if I weigh you down? I don’t want to be… I don’t want to be a burden to you”, are the words you say to him. 

Oh how it burns. How it hurts to hear you think that you could ever be that to him. 

“You never have been, you never will be… regardless of whatever form or shape you are”, he brushes your cheek with the pad of his thumb. That cold stare has thawed, becoming like gentle snow as it catches you. 

The relief that washes over you when you hear his words is a balm to the weariness that plagues you. You tried to brace yourself for his rejection, expecting it to come with an easy or reluctant dismissal, but it never came. His reassurance, his vow, it’s almost overwhelming. Yet he is unyielding, as he ever is. Vergil presses his forehead against yours, letting you cry to get it out of your system. He is here, and here he shall always be, even if you think he ‘deserves’ better or if you’re unsatisfied with yourself. 

He was unsatisfied with himself at one point.

Nero

“What are you talking about..?”, it catches him off guard when he sees you so crestfallen in front of a mirror. 

You had been holding your stomach, gritting your teeth together as you started to list off all the things you thought was wrong with yourself. Always hungry, too pudgy, not enough. Before you can continue he’s already walking closer to you, both hands raised, not that you wanted him to leave or to back off. 

“Woah, woah, woah– stop that… You’re… you’re not too fat for me”, you could hear the waver in his tone, the dip in his voice when he said ‘fat’. Like a puppy whining, as if he had been the one to be scolded. 

Nero tried to figure out what to do with his hands, until they reached to settle on yours. He didn’t pull them away from yourself, but he seemed to be trying to figure out what was wrong. His eyes were searching yours, hoping to find an answer in the depths of them, through the tears and the red puff as you cried. 

“Where is this coming from?”, you hadn’t ever… he didn’t think this would be something you’d be hung up on. “Listen to me, you’re not too fat and being fat doesn’t make you ugly or unattractive at all. I like you like this”, he says quickly, before his hands move up to cup your cheeks. His thumbs brush under your eyes to wipe away the tears as you stand there, hiccuping your breaths, trying to keep it in. 

“Come on, breathe… it’s okay to cry- was it something I said?”, he asks, one brow cocked in concern as he tries to think back on if he had ever mentioned anything about your weight. He could be such an idiot sometimes, and he hoped that he hadn’t made an off handed comment that could’ve spurred you to take it out on yourself, but you had shook your head. 

“You didn’t say anything, Nero…”, you managed when you had started to take breaths for yourself. 

He almost let out a sigh of relief, but you were still upset, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. Really, what… or who, made you cry? Who made you think such awful things about yourself? 

“So why are you… who put all of those dumb thoughts in your head then?”, he asks. 

Who hadn’t? With all the skepticism, all the judgement made on your figure… it was hard to pinpoint where it all began, if not when. When you calm down a bit more, you look into the blue of his eyes, wanting to hear it from him again. 

“Did you really mean that, earlier… when you said you like me like this?”, you ask. 

“Every bit”, he nods, going to kiss your forehead, “And there’s nothing that can ever change that”

[larissa-the-scribe]

I'll try to avoid Dracula-posting too much over here, but I would like to point out that, while Jonathan Harker is often teased for obliviously wandering into the jaws of death, he understood that the Vibes were Off enough to preemptively wish Mina goodbye on day 2. And this is before, well, tomorrow.

Like, he has zero context for supernatural stuff being a thing, of course he wouldn't give up a business trip over what he currently considers to be superstition. He also doesn't know yet that the superstition is about his client being Definitely Not a Vampire. But he is worried, and I would argue that this all sets him up to survive Castle Dracula--because he's going into it already feeling that, generally, things are Weird, so he's quicker to pick up on and observe odd things.

[pandoa]

eyes of your beholder

rook reassures you that you are still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, no matter what your insecurities are

rook hunt x gender neutral! reader

requested by @yvonne67~✰

“Rook… honest opinion…” your voice rang through the decently sized dorm room of a certain Pomefiore vice housewarden. With a hint of hesitation to your tone, you leaned your back against the young man’s pillows and bed as you turned to look at him from his spot seated in front of his desk.

“Do you think I’m… too loud whenever we’re together?” 

Rook, upon hearing the hesitance in your voice, immediately set down the pen and paper in his hands, giving you his full attention, “Hm? Whatever do you mean, mon amour?”

“You know… I am more on the rambunctious side when it comes to personality, and it doesn’t help that my image doesn’t really correlate much with the standards Pomefiore builds as a dorm. People talk, you know. I’m not oblivious to their stares and whispers… I’m also more average when it comes to my looks so…” your sentence trailed off as you avoided the way Rook had been looking at you at that moment. Almost as if he were studying you with each sentence you said.

“You’re beautiful through and through, (Y/n),” he answered back with a sure expression, “But… Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing—”

“It is never nothing, (Y/n).” Rook took a small step towards you, gently grasping your hands as the emerald of his eyes bore into you as if he were gazing through a crystal window to your thoughts. He held your hands delicately, voice now soft and whispering, “Mon ange, please tell me what is going through that radiant mind of yours.”

At that, his words were enough to make you feel as if you were about to crumble. Crumble into a pathetic pile of dust, dirt, and envy which gnawed at your conscience as your true intentions shone past the defenses you placed moments before. Your defenses collapsed all at once with a single utterance from the man in front of you, and he could see you clearer than ever by now. The imperfections and clouded insecurities. The damaged self-confidence and unease. 

He knew what made your mind spiral and twist and turn. What caused that heavy pit in your stomach whenever you would catch yourself glancing at another student at Pomefiore, gaze lingering a little longer than what was socially acceptable as a mere accident. He knew… yet he still hoped that you would be the one who told him directly.

This man… is too observant for his own good, you thought to yourself as you noticed Rook beginning to gently rub his thumb over your hands in a comforting motion, sending a warm flutter through your senses at the reassuring action.

“I just… I was just wondering if there was something that—” you paused for a split second as you pieced together your thoughts prudently, “—That I could perhaps fix about myself. To meet the kind of standards you all set for both yourself and the people around you. Just to, you know, maybe fit the part as your significant other a little better. That’s all.”

“Fit the part?” Rook repeated in disbelief, “Mon ange, you have nothing you need to be proving to others in order for—”

You glanced back up at him with a firm disposition, your stance unwavering and disbelieving in his words, “But there is, Rook. There is.”

“I can assure you there is not,” Rook smiled with a gentle curve to his lips as he took your hands he’d already been holding and guided you off of the sinking mattress of his dorm room, leading you somewhere away from his bed. “Come with me.”

“Where?” you asked as you reluctantly sat up and practically let him pull you to your feet. You had no idea what the huntsman had planned for you this time, yet you still gave into his wishes as he supported your form once you stood up. Albeit, with at least half as much enthusiasm compared to him—but still.

“Just trust me,” Rook’s smile slowly formed into a grin as you both began walking across his dorm room. Passing by the wooden furniture of his desk beside his bed, treading through the soft texture of his white, polka-dotted rug, and past the neatly hung bows and arrows in his room, you and Rook made your way on your short journey and into the familiar doors of—

… The bathroom?

“Now, mon trésor, what do you see?” Rook asked as he guided your shoulders and had you face both of your reflections into the dorm’s gold-accented looking glass with Rook standing slightly behind you.

“The mirror,” you answered back dryly.

“Be serious.”

A sigh escaped your mouth at his insistence for an answer, “Myself…”

“C’est exact! It’s you,” the hunter grinned as he gave you a small applause, glancing at you through the mirror, “And what else do you see in the mirror?”

“I see you.”

“Correct again. I see you, and you see me. A beautiful exchange, don’t you think?” “Rook, what’s the point in all of this—” You tried turning around to face the young man, only for him to promptly grasp your shoulders again and turn your frame to face the looking glass once more.

“And like this beautiful exchange, because you, mon ange, are my beloved partner and lover, we get to see, discover, and adore the things that make us the individuals we are today. To love someone is to see them…” Rook tenderly took hold of your hand again, reaching from his place behind you to grasp it as his voice was laced with an ardent urgency to tell you these words. His eyes bore into your heart as his ability to see things beyond the surface spoke to you in gentle touches and confessions of adoration. 

Then, after Rook had ensured that you were listening to every word, every syllable, and every consonant he uttered, he continued.

“...And I see you each and every second of the day, (Y/n). The world can say what it wants, your mind can continue feeding whatever worries which flood your mind so often, yet absolutely nothing will go so far as to blind me and prevent me from seeing the enchanting parts of you which I so adore.

There is nothing you need to do or change in order to be deserving of the love which I give to you freely. No superficial standard, no judgemental comment, no part you have to play… Nothing.”

“I only want you. Nothing else.” 

Rook finishes his passion-filled explanation, allowing more time for you to take in all that he said and let it imprint itself into both your mind and heart. You watched as Rook’s reflection in the mirror had diverted his gaze from the looking glass and onto you, seeing through you again and again in ways you could not even comprehend. It was almost unfair how he was able to reach you in the deepest depths of your mind. Never giving up on you whenever these waves and storms of emotions struck you. It was almost unfair how he pulled you out of these storms each time, piecing you back together like a beautifully broken piece of artwork.

“Now, if that fact alone still does not satisfy you,” the huntsman then continued as his voice held a much more lighthearted tone to it, “then I will gladly go through every detail about you which I oh so adore, as I have previously mentioned. And once I name each and everything, I will then give an even more detailed reasoning for why I love those parts of you, starting with your eyes, lips, face, nose, cheeks—”

You shook your head hastily, not wanting for him to over do his affirmations, “No, Rook, that isn’t very necess—”

“—eyebrows, eyelashes, waist, legs, voice—”

“Rook, wait—”

“—the little beauty marks and stray marks which decorate your skin, your scars, your hair no matter where it is—” He powered on despite your objections.

“It’s okay, really—”

“—the way your lips shift into a certain expression when you’re thinking, the way your arms never fail to bend at a one hundred thirty-seven degree angle every single time you pull me into one of your spell-binging embraces, the way you—”

Oh, Sevens. You have the dear hunter going off on a tangent now.

a/n: i really pulled out a protractor to try and measure the exact angle my arm would bend hugging a hypothetical rook hunt

[brayneworms]

can you do one where you edge aki hayakawa? PRETTY PLEEEAASSSEEE WITH ALL THE CHERRIES ONTOP

high & dry

featuring. aki hayakawa x gn!reader

content. MDNI, smut, edging, handjobs + the beginning of a blowjob lol, pet names (honey), gender neutral reader + agab not mentioned, sub!aki + dom!reader, established relationship, cursing, mild pet analogy (it’s me what do you expect)

word count. 1.7k

synopsis. aki has a lesson to learn.

notes. minors don’t interact. found this in my drafts from like january so anon if ur still out there i hope u enjoy smile. i take commissions :3

The thing about Aki is that he doesn't mean to misbehave.

The thing about you is that you've never considered yourself overly strict.

But somehow, somewhere in the muddle of this, this being you two and whatever was becoming of your relationship, both of these factors have been thrust into the spotlight and interrogated. The problem is that Aki is a fighting dog whose leash is fraying more with every day, who rushes into conflict with his heart first and his brain struggling to catch up. The problem is that you care for him, despite the awful inevitability of how badly it will end weighing on your mind.

Aki likes to flirt with death, and you like to keep him safe. These factors, as you might imagine, clash frequently.

So—you either become the screeching, shrewish partner, leaving every night a sour argument where you don't face each other where you sleep. Or you take your frustration out in more productive ways. Because, truly—you don't like to yell at Aki. It makes him grumpy and stonefaced but more than that, it makes him hurt. You can see the flickers of it in his dark blue eyes, some fragment of his childhood that never healed properly, like an old wound that bleeds anew whenever you prod it. Tender and painful as skinned knees.

But this, this works for both of you, you think.

His fingers curl up his work slacks, bunching starched polyester between bitten nails. He's looking anywhere but at you, knelt between his legs, cheeks shaded pink beneath the tumbling bangs of ink-dark hair. "You don't have to," he starts, like he always does, ever the gentleman. It makes him a little twitchy to be given pleasure like it's a gift. It's so sweet that it almost makes you feel bad.

You take him in your hand, half-hard and hot, and he hisses. You have a sneaking suspicion, something that's been blooming for a while now, that you may have been the first person to touch Aki like this. The first time you'd slept together he'd had to mumble the names of all the Devils he had contracts with under his breath to last more than a minute inside you.

There's a wound on his hip the colour of a bloody sunset, jagged like a mountain silhouette. It almost seems to mock you as you stroke him loosely, gathering the pearly beads of pre that bloom at his tip as he gets more and more turned on, more sensitive. His chest shakes ones when he inhales, his hands twisting the fabric of his pants uncomfortably. Your slow, patient pace makes him almost overwhelmed, feeling it wrack out from between his thighs in torturously hot, slow waves, makes his whole body shudder.

Once he's hard, you say, "Tell me about today."

Aki grunts, brows furrowing. His hips cant up, once, a silent plea. But your hand has slowed now, so he tenses his jaw and sighs.

"Found a Devil," he says through gritted teeth. "Some a-abandoned warehouse."

"It gave you this?" You use the hand that was wrapped around his cock to stroke over the nasty gash on his skin, and he makes a wonderful shivery noise—both, you think, at the loss of contact to his hardness and the ghost of sharp pain that echoes from your touch along his wound.

"Yeah," he sighs shakily. He looks down at you now, eyes soft, almost pleading. "Could you—"

"You weren't alone, were you, Aki?" you ask, blinking up at him. You think he's starting to get the game now; blood runs up to colour his cheeks darker and his eyes flit away as though in shame. "Didn't you call for backup?"

"Too far away," he says, gritty with irritation. He feels foolish, sitting on the edge of the bed with his dick out. Still hard, despite you not having touched it for about half a minute. "I had it handled."

"You should've waited," you tell him.

"You're killing my hardon," he tells you flatly. You roll your eyes and pick up where you left off; when your hand wraps around him he lets out a shaky sigh and tips his head back towards the ceiling. You'll never tire of how sensitive he is, responding to every touch like it's the first time; when your hand wraps back around him his thighs clench and spasm all over again, and he makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat.

You stroke him, more firmly now, with the occasional focus on his tip. It starts to leak over your hand, and Aki makes a quiet, embarrassed grunt at the sight of it. Privately, you don't mind too much—unlike most guys, Aki has the grace to be abashed by it, which is already enough to put him in your good books—but his humiliation is an added bonus you'd happily put up with some less-than-savoury things for.

You're mean, maybe, in the way a bunny thinks their owner is mean for locking them in a hutch each night. But, you know, the owner only does that for the bunny's own safety.

Sometimes, the owner really does know better.

Aki's thighs twitch; you amuse yourself watching the spasm of the muscles play across beneath the smooth, pale skin, thinking absently of how you'd like to get your mouth on that soft flesh inside. "Y/n," he warns, voice catching, breathy. "I—dammit, I'm gonna—"

You make a thoughtful noise, and then release your grip entirely. Aki gapes down at you, eyes snapping open. "What the hell?" he fumes.

"Say that you should have waited for backup," you tell him patiently. Your positions are some perverse subversion of power; he looms over you, strong legs bracketing your face. By all accounts, you're surrounded as you look up at him. But he's the one looking at you like you've shot him in the chest. His brows knit together in frustration.

"Are you fucking joking?" he gapes. "What is this? You—"

"Aki," you say, so softly that it must frighten him because he stops short, looking at you warily. "You know I care about you, so much, yeah?"

"I—" he looks thrown, impossibly lost. "I guess? Yeah."

"Good." You lean your head on his knee, watching how his throat bobs when he looks at you. His thighs twitch almost indecipherably at the contact, erection showing no sign of flagging. "And you know I want to protect you, and keep you safe? I want you to want that, too."

"I..." Aki's voice is taking on a hoarse tinge. "I know... that."

"Then why do you keep throwing yourself in such dangerous situations?" You unspool a nail up the inside of his leg, and he gasps slightly in anticipation. "What are you going to do next time?"

"I—" he cuts himself off, strangled. "I'm going to... call for backup."

Your finger trails to a halt. "You mean that?"

"Yeah," he says, a little frantically. "I will. I swear. Y/n, please—"

You lean forward, brushing your lips against him. Aki moans, eyes widening as his pupils expound until his eyes are less sodalite and more black-hole. You let your tongue flicker out and trace over the head, tasting him, putting your hands on his thighs so you can feel him strain to hold back. Ever the gentleman, Aki hates to lose control and buck into your mouth. It still happens sometimes, of course, because at his heart he's a needy inexperienced hunter and you revel in the punishment of pretty things. It's mean, you know, to goad him where he's a little helpless.

But the owner knows best. You know how to get him to remember his lesson.

You draw back, pressing a final kiss to the head of his cock like tying the ribbon on a giftbox. Aki blinks blearily at you, mouth slack, expression adorably confused as you wipe at your lips with a thumb.

"What—" he croaks.

"I want you to remember what you said, Aki," you tell him sternly. "I can't reward bad behaviour."

You think he's getting it. Box. Rat. Electric shock. Et cetera.

"Wait," he pleads, brows scrunching together in honest-to-god panic. "I'll remember, okay? I told you I would. I won't misbehave."

"And I want to believe you." Your hand draws soothing circles on his knee and it makes his bottom lip quiver slightly. "So... when you show me you're taking your safety seriously, then you'll get a reward."

Aki's mouth hangs open. "You're serious," he croaks with some shattering finality; he shuts his eyes against the blue-dark, whole body shuddering. "You're fucking... what if I just decide to jack off?"

"You can do that," you shrug. "But I think you know what'll happen if you do."

Aki makes a frustrated noise; he glances down at his erection, starting to flag only slightly. He wants you to touch him so badly; all he can think of is your fingers, your mouth, your hair in his fingers. Or, withholding that, he could at least slide his fingers around himself and get himself off, like he used to mostly infrequently before you.

But if he does that, how long will you hold out for? He knows, with a cold sort of dread, that you can hold out much, much longer than him. He's gotten a taste of it and now he can't be satisfied; it's the one area of his life where he totally lacks any semblance of self-control.

So with a devastated whimper, he reaches down and tucks himself gingerly back into his underwear. He's so turned on it almost stings as his briefs tug on his erection, and it's so much worse when he stiffly tugs up his slacks and buttons them again. For a moment after he just sits on the bed, breathing shakily until he's red in the face, trying not to squirm.

You stand up, brush a lock of his hair back, smiling as he leans pathetically into the touch. There's a lukewarm sweat beading on his brow. "I'm so proud of you, honey. I'm going to start dinner, okay? You stay in here and relax. You've had such a hard day."

Aki's eyes burn into your back as you turn and leave. It takes every modicum of mental fortitude he has not to throw himself on the ground and beg and sob for you to touch him. The thought of going without is almost painful.

He stares down at the faint bulge in his slacks, gripping his own thigh for support. Wonders about grinding the heel of his hand against it, just for some momentary relief.

Aki shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to misbehave. And he does not touch.

[supernaturalscribe67]

Denial

Words: 5,703

POV: 3rd Person

Pairing: Castiel x Male!Winchester!Reader

Warning(s): Language, Winchesters being Winchesters, implied sexual content, awkward 'flirting', Dean feeling the same way about Cas x Reader as Sam feels about Destiel, Fluff, Humor

Summary: The reader does NOT have a crush on Castiel. At least, that's what he keeps saying. Sam and Dean, however, aren't convinced in the slightest. What happens when the classic Winchester shenanigans take it too far? Will the reader's true feelings be revealed?

Request:

hi. i love your work very much. I humbly request a Castiel x Winchester!reader, where the reader is the oldest brother and Cas and the reader fall for each other. Cas and Dean are best friends I feel like so Dean might tease and be like "what are your intentions with my big brother" and Cas is like "...wdym........." bc he doesn't wanna admit he has feelings and meanwhile the reader and Sam are on a minor hunt together or something and Sam is like "so when are you gonna make your move" and the reader is like "!!! i do not have feelings for this baby in a trench coat!!! wdym!!!!!" and so Sam and Dean come together and take matters into their own hands and come up with some shenanigans that make Cas and the reader come together and admit how they feel for each other. just something nice and fluffy and sweet. thank you very much 💕

Anonymous

A/N: Happy Monday! I had a lot of fun writing this and I'm glad to finally be getting it out! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

~ Much Love!

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Dean’s laughter erupted down the hallway as (Y/N) left his room. He couldn’t help but shake his head as he slung his large duffel bag over his shoulder. Just as he closed his door, Sam’s door opened. He came out, clad in his usual flannel and jean combination, his duffel resting at his side. When he caught sight of (Y/N), he smiled. 

“You got everything?” (Y/N) asked.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “Let’s head out.”

The two of them made their way down the hall towards the bunker entrance. Dean’s laugh could be heard getting louder as they walked near the library. Upon closer inspection, they could see Dean and Castiel sitting together at one of the tables, Dean’s laptop between them. A bowl of popcorn sat in Dean’s lap, his cheeks slightly puffed from the handful he had just eaten. Castiel’s head was tilted slightly to the side, eyes squinted as he studied the screen. The sound of Bill Murray’s voice echoed through the speakers.

“The Hell are you two watching?” (Y/N) asked.

“Groundhog Day,” Dean answered, words slightly muffled by the popcorn. “Cas hasn’t seen it before.”

(Y/N) furrowed his brows. “Out of all the movies you could pick from, you pick Groundhog Day?”

“Hey, don’t knock Bill Murray.”

“I’ll knock whoever the Hell I wanna knock. Anyways, you got the keys to Baby?”

For the first time since they approached the archway, Dean turned to look at them. He took in their attire and eyed their bags. 

“Where’re you two going?” He asked as he began to dig the keys out of his pant pocket.

“Buddy of mind in Colorado says they have a Wendigo problem that needs fixing. They can’t seem to track it down, so they need some extra hands.”

“Well, why does Sam get to go but I gotta stay here?”

“It’s a Wendigo, Dean. Bringing more people will make things complicated. Four against one is plenty. Consider this your little vacation.”

Dean sighed. “Fine. I bet it’s Bradley Knox who called anyway,” he said as he tossed the keys.

(Y/N) swiftly caught them with his left hand and pointed at his brother. “For your information, it was, in fact, Bradley Knox.”

Sam’s eyes widened and he frowned. “Oh, what? That jackass? Come on, you never said we would be helping him.”

“Because I knew you were going to bitch about it.”

“Who is Bradley Knox?” Castiel asked, his attention turned away from the computer screen.

Dean reached over and paused the movie. “He’s this dick (Y/N) met when he tried hunting solo. A real piece of work. We helped him out a couple of times, and he just shit-talked us the whole time.” He answered.

“He acts like he’s still in middle school. He smells bad, dresses like a pig, and he talks like one, too. Plus, he wouldn’t stop calling me Sasquatch last time.” Sam added. 

(Y/N) rolled his eyes. “Look, I know he sucks, but he has a hunt, and we need to stop this Wendigo. It’s already killed five people. We just have to get in and get out. That’s it.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Alright, but if he calls me Sasquatch again-”

“Then I’ll make sure to stop him from hurting little Sammy’s feelings,” (Y/N) reached up and pinched Sam’s cheek.

Sam smacked his hand away. “Get off me.”

“Oh, get the stick out of your ass. We’ll be near Denver, so I’ll take you to that new fancy vegan place that opened recently.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, whatever will get you to not bitch and moan the whole trip.” He flipped the keys in his hand. “Alright, we’re heading out. Don’t get into any trouble while we’re gone, Dean.”

Dean scoffed. “I’m not five.” He grumbled. 

“You act like it,” (Y/N) mumbled before he looked over at Castiel. Their eyes met. “Keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Castiel nodded. “I will watch over him.”

“I don’t need a babysitter!” Dean exclaimed.

“I beg to differ. Then, Cas, when Sam and I get back, I’ll show you a good movie that isn’t poorly acted.”

Slowly, a smile formed on Castiel’s lips. “Okay,” 

(Y/N) returned the smile. “We’ll see you later,” he took a couple of steps backward before he turned his back on them.

Sam gave a small wave before he followed his brother up the stairs and out the front door.

*~*

Dean leaned back in his seat when the heavy metal door slammed shut. The movie on the computer was still paused, so he took a moment to glance over at Castiel. He noted how the corners of his lips were still curled upward, his crow's feet and laugh lines prominent. At the sight, he smirked and shifted his body so he was facing him.

“So…” Dean trailed as he sat the bowl of popcorn on the table. “(Y/N), huh?”

Castiel looked over at him, the smile vanishing, and replaced with an expression of confusion. “What about (Y/N)?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “He’s a good guy, right?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“A really good guy?”

“Yes?”

“Would you say you like being around him?”

“I do.”

“Really like being around him?”

Castiel shifted in his seat. “I’m not understanding this line of questioning, Dean.”

“Do you like my brother?”

“I do, yes, he’s my friend. Did I do something that made you assume I didn’t?”

“No, it’s just-” Dean sighed. “You know what? Nevermind. Let’s just watch the movie.” Without waiting for a response, he reached over and resumed the film.

Castiel stared at him for a moment with furrowed brows. After a couple of seconds, he shook his head and returned his attention to the computer.

*~*

The Impala drove smoothly down the nearly deserted highway. Instead of the loud classic rock that normally played through the speakers, Celine Dion’s smooth voice filled the car. (Y/N) sat in the driver’s seat, one arm resting on the window sill while the other held the wheel. Sam took his usual spot in the passenger’s seat.

“So, what info do we have so far?” Sam asked.

“Well, so far, the only thing we know is that the victims were tourists. Some of those people decided to search for a good hiking trail and then, all of a sudden, they were snatched. At least, that’s what’s assumed.”

“Did the victims know each other?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do we know when they got snatched?”

“Kind of.”

“Where they got snatched?”

“Kind of.”

“Does Bradley even know what he’s doing?”

“Probably not.”

Sam sighed and slouched in his seat, running his fingers through his hair. (Y/N)’s shoulders dropped. 

“Look,” he began. “I know it’s not the best scenario, but any start is better than a blank slate. We know a great deal more about Wendigos than Bradley does, so I’m sure we can knock this out of the park, alright? I say we just talk about something else, get our mind off of it for a while, then we-”

“Do you like Cas?”

“What!?” (Y/N) exclaimed, eyes wide, both hands tightly clenched onto the wheel. “No! I, no, what, why would you ask me that?”

“What?” Sam asked innocently, although he couldn’t hold back the smirk that curled on his lips. “I just asked if you liked him, that’s all. You said you wanted to talk about something else.”

“I didn’t mean that!”

“Come on, I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

“Well, I think your hallucinations are back because you’re seeing shit.”

“So…you don’t like Cas?”

“I don’t like Cas! Now drop it!”

(Y/N)’s eyes were glued to the road ahead, which allowed Sam to get a good look at his profile. At the top of his cheekbones, next to his nose, sat a red tinge. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. He pressed his lips together and looked away, holding his hands up briefly in mock surrender. 

“Fine, I’ll drop it.” He said, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Good. Now shut up, Whitney Houston’s playing.” (Y/N) grumbled, reached over, and turned up the music.

I Wanna Dance With Somebody thumped through the metal frame, the brothers silent as they continued their lengthy trek from Lebanon, Kansas to Denver, Colorado.

*~*

Vacation? What could Dean do on vacation? Stuck in the bunker, no less. He could catch up on some television series that he started, but he knew he would get tired of that soon enough. The Impala had been hijacked, so giving her the fine tune he had been desperate to give was out of the question. Bar hopping wasn’t an option, as he trusted no other car than Baby. What kind of hobbies did people his age get into? Crochet? Cross Stitch? Sudoku? Over his dead body.

In the end, Dean sat on his bed, pieces of his handgun scattered across the blanket as he meticulously cleansed each part until they glimmered in the dim lamplight. It was a task he had been meaning to do for a while. He guessed his ‘vacation’ could be used to catch up on all the chores he had held off.

Smoke on the Water rang out through the otherwise quiet room. Dean stopped his action to look at the screen. Sammy Calling… Dean sat the pieces down, grabbed his phone, and accepted the call.

“Hey, Sam. You guys doing okay?” He asked as he settled on the edge of his bed.

“Yeah, we’re about halfway there. Listen, I don’t have much time to talk, (Y/N) just walked into the gas station for a minute. Did you talk to Cas?”

“Yeah,”

“And?”

“He didn’t get it.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I asked him if he liked (Y/N), he said ‘Of course I do, he’s my friend’,” Dean explained with a slightly mocking tone.

“Or, he could have understood what you were asking and just played dumb.”

“I give Cas credit for a lot of things, but this is not one of those times. What about you? Did you ask him yet?”

“I did, and, of course, he denied it.”

“Of course, he did,” Dean rolled his eyes as he laid back against his pillows.

“Get this, though. He was blushing.”

“No way.”

“Yes!”

“And you’re sure it was a blush?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Oh, this is just too perfect. Sam, we have to get those two together.”

“How? Neither of them will admit their feelings for one another. They’re in denial.”

Dean hummed and pursed his lips in thought. “We might just have to get creative. I’m on vacation. I’ve got plenty of time on my hands to think.”

“Yeah, yeah, lucky you.” Sam deadpanned. “Oh, I gotta go. (Y/N)’s coming out.”

“I’ll send you my ideas,” Dean spoke quickly before he ended the call and tossed his phone onto the bed.

Many thoughts formed in his head. Mischievous, Winchester thoughts. If he thought his pranks were good, the ideas that he had to get (Y/N) and Castiel together were to die for.

It had been a personal goal of his for well over a year. He wasn’t ignorant to the passing glances that the two of them gave one another, it was rather gross if he had anything to say about it. He could tell, though, that Castiel’s presence made his brother genuinely happy. If anyone deserved that happiness, it was him. If they got together, perhaps then they could keep their bedroom eyes away from him. If he had to witness it anymore, he was sure to go insane.

As he went to stand from his bed, the familiar clink of metal filled his ears. He glanced down at the scattered handgun parts that littered his bed. With a sigh, he sat back against the pillows and began to reassemble his gun, not caring that the quality of his cleaning wasn’t perfect. Brainstorming could wait until he was finished. He was on vacation, after all.

*~*

“Stupid rich people and their stupid, worthless suits,” (Y/N)’s deep grumble echoed throughout the small motel bathroom.

His brothers snorted in amusement. None of them wanted to dress up for the charity ball they had to attend - as it was necessary to gain intel for their case - so a three-way game of rock-paper-scissors was done to determine which would be unlucky enough to wear the rental suit. For the first time in months, (Y/N) lost. The title of ‘loser’ normally went to Dean, rarely Sam, but the younger Winchesters didn’t want to risk having to put on the constrictive outfit. They seldom rigged the game to get what they wanted, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

Castiel sat at the end of one of the beds, eyes fixated on the bathroom door, brows knitted together. “(Y/N) doesn’t seem too happy,” he commented.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be happy either if I got stuck wearing a suit around old people.” Dean chuckled. 

“What’s wrong with wearing a suit?”

“They’re just uncomfortable.”

Castiel glanced down at himself before his eyes settled on the brothers. “I’m not uncomfortable in my attire.”

“You’re used to it, Cas,” Sam said. “We wear jeans and flannel every day. It’s more practical for hunting. Hell, even getting around in our FEDs costumes is a pain. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Who the HELL thought cuff links were a good idea!?” (Y/N)’s loud voice boomed.

Dean covered his mouth to stop himself from spitting up his coffee. Oh, how the simple struggles of his siblings made him smile. Castiel’s head whipped back around as he stared at the door with a look of worry. Sam and Dean took note of it immediately and shared a knowing look. Dean gestured with his head over to his friend, and that was when Sam turned in his chair.

“You know what I think could cheer him up, Cas?” He asked.

Castiel peered over at him and Sam swore he saw those baby blues light up. “What?” He asked, head tilted to the side.

“Compliments.”

“Compliments?”

“When he comes out, tell him he looks nice.”

“Tell him he looks hot,” Dean interjected.

“Yeah! Tell him he looks hot.” Sam nodded in agreement.

“Hot?” Castiel frowned.

“Trust me, Cas, people love compliments, and saying that someone’s hot is a huge one. It’ll make him feel better almost immediately.” Dean explained.

Castiel considered the advice before he nodded. “Okay, I will tell him he looks…hot.”

Dean beamed and reached across the table to give Sam a fistbump. Sam furrowed his brows and shook his head. Dean’s smile faded before he cleared his throat and placed his hands back down on the table.

It didn’t take long before the bathroom door opened and out came a rather irritated (Y/N). The suit looked and felt foreign on him, a massive step from his usual hunting wear. He adjusted the collar of the jacket before he smoothed out the front. Finally, he let out a sigh and gestured out with his arms in a grandiose fashion.

“How do I look?” He asked, voice monotone. 

Sam and Dean pursed their lips, looked him over, and gave supportive head nods before their eyes shifted to Castiel. (Y/N)’s gaze moved from Sam to Dean to Castiel. Their eyes locked and Castiel immediately looked away, seeming to find his hands easier to look at. 

“You look…hot,” Castiel said.

(Y/N)’s brows shot up and his eyes widened. “I, um, I do?”

“Yes,” Castiel gave a small, sweet smile.

(Y/N)’s lips opened and shut rapidly, as if he were a fish out of water. He let out a breathy chuckle as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks, Cas,”

“Of course,”

A soft smile graced (Y/N)’s lips as their eyes connected for a brief moment. It didn’t take long before his eyes wandered back over to his brothers, who were both sporting wide smirks. He wiped the smile off of his face and straightened up as if he had seemingly forgotten they were in the same room. 

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” He swiftly made his way out of the motel room.

Sam and Dean shared a look before they stood from their spots at the table. Castiel followed suit. When (Y/N) was out of earshot, Castiel spoke.

“He seems better,” he said with a bright, proud smile. 

Dean returned the smile. “He sure does, buddy,” He patted him twice on the back before he wrapped his arm around his shoulders and led him out of the motel room. “He sure does.”

*~*

God bless the Men of Letters and God bless good water pressure.

There were countless amenities the bunker had that (Y/N) loved. The stainless steel kitchen appliances, the massive garage, the memory foam mattress, each of them held a special place in his heart. However, the showers take the cake. Who knew water could get so hot? And who knew water could relax your muscles so well? If there was one thing he loved to do after a long day, it was spend a good chunk of his evening in the shower to unwind. 

All good things must come to an end, though, as he had earned his fair share of lectures from his brothers about conserving the hot water. While he understood their point, he felt like he deserved the comfort after years of abuse in the hands of rusty, weak motel showerheads. And, dammit, he was going to get his compensation. 

As he turned off the water, the bathroom fell into silence. Steam warped around his naked form and covered him like a blanket as he stepped onto the bath mat. He absentmindedly reached for the towel rack, but only came in contact with the cheap metal bar. He furrowed his brows and glanced at his hand to find that the rack was barren. He swore he had placed a towel there before. Above the towel rack, a light pink post-it note hung limply on the wall. (Y/N) frowned deeply, reached up, and grabbed the note. He held it close to his face to be able to see the sloppily written words.

This is for putting Nair in my body wash. ~ Sam

“That little bastard,” (Y/N) grumbled and crumbled up the note in his hand.

When had Sam been able to sneak into the bathroom to take his stuff? True, he had been known to mentally doze off in the shower, and lose all sense of himself in the middle of his wash, which had ultimately landed him victim to countless other pranks, but he would certainly be able to hear if anyone were to enter the bathroom and take his towel not two feet away, right? Regardless, at least he was within the safety of the bunker to do so. Having him space out in a motel bathroom could mean the difference between life and death. In the bunker, all he had was his pain in the ass little brothers to worry about.

With a new wave of irritation and not a care in the world, (Y/N) walked to the bathroom door and opened it. He was stopped dead in his tracks, mouth slightly open as he made to call out for his brother when he noticed Castiel standing directly in front of him, hand raised as if to knock. (Y/N)’s eyes widened and he felt a tightness appear in his chest. His mouth went dry and his heart raced. He was frozen.

“Hello, (Y/N),” Castiel said.

“Uh, hey,” (Y/N) replied slowly.

Castiel glanced down at the object in his arms before he held it out. “Sam and Dean asked me to bring you this. It was freshly washed.”

It took every ounce of willpower for (Y/N) to look down at the towel in Castiel’s possession.

“Thanks,” his voice was small as he accepted and brought it to his chest.

“You’re welcome.” Castiel smiled widely, and it was as if time itself had stopped.

(Y/N) returned the gesture as he found himself lost in Castiel’s gaze, a rather common occurrence as of late. He couldn’t help it. It was as if he were a deer in headlights, or a child staring directly into the deadlights of Pennywise’s true form. However, instead of an impending sense of doom, all he felt was peace, like a world of tranquility lived behind his eyes. A world that he wanted to go to.

“(Y/N)?” Castiel’s voice broke him out of his trance.

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright?”

It was impossible to miss the flicker of Castiel’s stare as he looked over (Y/N)’s body before retreating to his face. One good glance at himself made realization dawn on him. He never covered up. His face turned an undeniably dark shade of crimson as he was quick to unravel the towel he was given to preserve what little modesty he had left.

“Uh, yeah, I’m, um, I mean, yes, I’m okay,” he stumbled over his words. “I’m just gonna,” he slowly edged his way past Castiel awkwardly.

As he walked past, he tripped over his own feet and barely caught the towel before he could be revealed again. He chuckled, but it was more forced than anything.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright, (Y/N)?” Castiel pushed, a hint of concern in his words.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine! Fine and dandy! A-okay!” He continued to answer as he walked backward down the hallway. It didn’t take long before his back came in contact with the cold, stone wall. He jumped and sheepishly fumbled to the conjoining hall. “There’s a wall there,” he muttered with an inelegant chuckle before he turned and made a mad dash down the hallway and away from the bathroom.

His face was on fire, he was sure of it. He knew Sam and Dean did that on purpose, those idiots. A part of him was thankful none of them were around to witness the interaction. Another part wanted them to be near so he could clobber them. Regardless, he knew he would have to get back at them, and he was going to make it his best revenge yet.

*~*

Itching powder? Too basic. Computer virus? Too complex. Hair dye in the showerhead? Possibly. All of the pranks he could think of were either too childish or had been used before over the years. He couldn’t believe he was forced to sit on his bed and scroll through the terrible articles that included titles such as “15 Awesome Pranks Your Sibling Will NEVER See Coming!” and “50 Best And Funny Pranks To Do On Friends”. None of them were helpful. They just seemed to spit the same suggestions of salt in their coffee, fake bugs on their pillow, and post-it notes over their rooms, all of which seemed bland for the level of revenge he sought.

The bedroom door flung open and bounced off the wall. (Y/N) jumped, eyes wide. Dean came into the room, all but dragging a confused Castiel to the bed. Sam followed closely.

“What the Hell is going on?” (Y/N) asked with a look of bewilderment.

“An intervention,” Dean responded as he sat Castiel down on the edge of the bed.

Without a moment of hesitation, Sam and Dean began to retreat to the exit.

“An intervention? Cas, what’re they- what’re you talking about?” (Y/N) stammered as he stood and began to follow them to the door.

He was too slow, though, as the door was shut seconds before he could reach it. He grabbed the door handle in a futile attempt to open the door but found it to be locked.

“What the Hell? Open the damned door!” He shouted and began to pound on the door with his fist.

“Nope!” Dean’s muffled voice came through the thick wood. “Not until you tell Cas how you feel.”

“What are you talking about!?”

“Oh, come on (Y/N)!” Sam exclaimed. “We both see how you look at him! Just tell him!” 

(Y/N) pressed his lips together, nostrils flared. “Open the door!”

“No.” They said in unison.

(Y/N) growled and slammed his fists into the door, causing it to shake on the hinges.

“(Y/N),” Sam’s voice was quieter. “We know how hard it is for you to say how you feel, but we see how happy you are around him.”

“Yeah, and I’m tired of seeing you guys staring at each other all of the time. If I have to see you guys make bedroom eyes one more time I’m going to blow my brains out.” Dean scoffed.

(Y/N)’s jaw tightened as he leaned his forehead against the door. “If you don’t open this door right now, you both are going to feel my wrath.” He growled and venom dripped from his words.

“Ooo, I’m so scared,” Dean spoke in a childish tone.

“Dean,” Sam hissed. “Just, talk to him, okay? We’ll be back in an hour. If you guys have talked it out, we’ll unlock the door.”

With that, two pairs of footsteps could be heard retreating down the hall.

“An hour!? Sam! Dean! Open the door!” (Y/N)’s shouts echoed in the room.

Once more, (Y/N) grabbed the doorknob to try and pry it open, but quickly found his efforts to be fruitless. After a couple of attempts, and the logical side of him begging to not rip the door off the hinges, he pulled back. He ran his fingers through his hair stressfully and turned back to the bed. Castiel sat in the same spot Dean had put him in, hands folded in his lap. (Y/N) sighed.

“I’m sorry you got roped into their bullshit, Cas,” he said with a soft, sympathetic tone as he walked over and sat beside him. “Whenever those two idiots get something in their heads, they won’t rest until they are proven right, even if they aren’t.”

“Are they wrong?” Castiel asked.

“What?”

“Sam and Dean told me you have romantic feelings for me. Are they wrong?” He tilted his head to the side.

(Y/N) opened his mouth to speak, to deny anything and everything his brothers said. However, as he looked over at Castiel and stared into his eyes, he found the words were lost on him. He looked away, hoisted himself off the bed, and made his way over to the dresser. He leaned against it with his elbow, his opposite hand placed on his hip, back to Castiel. A moment of silence weighed heavy on them before Castiel, too, stood from the bed. 

“(Y/N)?” 

“No, they’re not wrong,” (Y/N) said, his voice quiet, almost mute. “I…I like you.” He snorted. “That’s the first time I’ve admitted it.”

“You like me?”

(Y/N) turned back to Castiel. Their eyes met once again, but, that time, neither felt the urge to shy away. Instead, they kept their gaze, as if to read the other’s expression, as words seemed too complex for either one to be masters in. Slowly, (Y/N) took a couple of steps closer to Castiel.

“Yes. More than a friend. More than family. I mean, I don’t even know how to describe it. I get…nervous whenever I’m around you, but I’m the happiest when I am. No matter how terrible of a day I have, you always seem to make it better just by being near. I don’t know if this is what love feels like, but if it is, it’s strong when you’re around, and I never want it to stop.” His voice got quiet, words spoken barely above a whisper.

Again, they stared in silence, eyes searching for words yet spoken. Although only one had the capability of hearing them while the other was left in the dark. Eventually, (Y/N)’s gaze shifted to silent begging, wanting Castiel to say something, anything.

“I feel the same, and I have for a while,” Castiel finally spoke, never breaking eye contact. “I admit, I was scared to share how I felt. I understand the Winchester’s long history with the loss of loved ones, and I feared you would have your reservations about entering a relationship with me. I, too, have some reservations.”

(Y/N) nodded. The Winchesters had a lengthy list of enemies, most of whom would gain immense pleasure from causing as much pain to them as possible, even if it meant they took the lives of the ones they loved most. Being the lover of a Winchester wasn’t for the faint of heart. It was a death sentence. 

“I understand. But, Cas,” (Y/N) reached up and caressed his cheek, thumb brushing gently against his stubble. “I hate to admit it, but I think it took my brothers locking us up in my room to finally realize that I would rather live a short life with you than any life without you.”

Castiel leaned against his touch. His hand reached up to brush his fingertips.

“May I kiss you?” His voice flowed smoothly, like a river.

(Y/N) smiled. “I would be offended if you didn’t.”

Their lips met and, at first, it felt as if they began to float. Then, the spark. The same spark one only seemed to read out in romance novels or those trashy films Dean claimed to hate. A spark of love, adoration, passion, and lust. It was as if all the words left behind spoke loudly in that kiss. Everything they wanted to say, everything they wanted to hear, was translated into the movements of their lips.

When they broke away, they were breathless, faces flushed, pupils blown. Their mouths moved like they wanted to say something more, but it was lost in their need for one another. They had a silent understanding of what they desired. They kissed again feverishly and fell back onto the bed. 

*~*

“Think they’ve been in there long enough?” Dean asked as he chewed on a mouthful of popcorn.

Sam tore his eyes away from the movie for a second to look at his watch. He shrugged. “It’s been almost an hour and a half. We can go see what happened.”

Dean nodded and used the sleeve of his flannel to wipe the butter from his lips. He paused the movie and both brothers stood.

“You remember the rules of the bet?” Dean asked as they made their way down the hallway.

“If (Y/N) confessed first, you owe me twenty, and if Cas confessed first, I owe you twenty.”

“And if they haven’t confessed yet, the bet is off until they do.”

“Do you really think they’ll do it if they’re forced to?”

“Do you have any other ideas?” Dean asked with raised brows. “The last two things we tried got us nowhere. We know they love each other, they just have to admit it. I think having some time alone together should do the trick.”

“Yeah, but we forced them into that situation. I don’t know about you, but that wouldn’t really put me in the romantic mood.”

“You just know I’m going to win the bet.”

“You’re delusional if you think Cas is going to confess first.”

“Come on, have you seen (Y/N) try and talk about his feelings? He can’t do it!”

“Neither can Cas! If anything, Cas is worse about feelings.”

“Look, all I’m saying is-”

“Oh, Cas!”

The brothers froze as their wide eyes shot towards the end of the hallway where (Y/N)’s door sat. It was silent as they waited to see if anything else would happen. When they heard nothing, they began to make their way to the door, slower that time. As they got closer, a rhythmic thump resounded inside the concrete walls, growing louder as they neared. When they were a couple of feet from the room, they stopped. 

“Fuck, Cas! Harder, please!” The unmistakable moans rang out in the wall. Sam and Dean’s eyes grew wider.

“Say my name,” their friend’s voice was practically unrecognizable by the way it growled out the words.

“Castiel!”

(Y/N)’s loud cry was enough to break Sam and Dean out of their daze. Without a second thought, they turned and scurried down the hallway and out of range from the sounds that were sure to scar them for years to come.

*~*

As the sound of rapid footsteps resonated down the hallway and slowly vanished, a sly smirk fell upon (Y/N)’s lips. He glanced over at Castiel, who sat perched on some of the pillows, fully clothed. Once the footsteps were gone, (Y/N) seized the shaking of the headboard and took his spot next to Castiel on the bed. Castiel lifted his arm and (Y/N) was quick to snuggle against him. 

“That should keep them away for a while,” (Y/N) hummed.

“Why was it necessary for them to believe we were having intercourse?” Castiel asked.

“Not only so they would leave us alone, but it’s the first part of the revenge plan I have in store for them for locking us in here.”

“You know, if they hadn’t locked us in here, then we would have never told each other how we felt.”

“Stop trying to justify their actions,” he grumbled.

Castiel smiled and pressed a soft kiss to (Y/N)’s temple. “I, for one, am thankful for their decision.”

“Don’t let them hear you say that, or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“So I’ve come to notice.” Castiel chuckled.

(Y/N) copied his laugh as he wrapped an arm around Castiel’s torso and one leg around his to nuzzle closer. Castiel rested his cheek atop (Y/N)’s head.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” (Y/N) said with a content sigh.

Castiel reached down and softly pressed a kiss on his cheek. “The moments I spend with you make it seem like forever isn’t enough.”

[alcyneus]

04162025 — PARADISE h. iwaizumi x reader

word count 924 warnings this will give you cavities and probably diabetes from how sweet it is

THE MORNING SUN’S RAYS slowly filtered through the sheer fabric of their curtains; warm golden hues touched everything they could reach, painting the room in a soft, sleepy light. The light danced across their sheets, casting soft shadows on skin still warm from sleep.

For a moment, their world was quiet—a bubble of serenity, just the sound of slow breathing and the rustle of linen as one of them stirred, reluctant to let the morning break their spell.

Outside, the city was already pulsing with life—the muffled sounds of cars engines in the distance, a stray dog barking once, twice, before disappearing into the hum of the morning. But none of it mattered here. Not yet.

The clock on the bedside table read 10:32 AM in big, bold letters—late enough to stir, early enough to stay. But here, in the cocoon of their shared stillness, time moved differently. Slower, more gently.

He shifted under the sheets, reaching out with sleep-heavy hands to find her, drawn by instinct more than thought. Skin met skin, bodies molded into each other, a quiet exhale and a small smile before any words. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, her strawberry-scented hair the only barrier between him and the warmth of her skin.

As she leaned into his touched, he couldn’t help but wonder how mornings ever felt complete before her—before the quiet, the warmth, the way she fit so perfectly against him.

He kissed the top of her shoulder, slow and lingering, murmuring a soft ‘it’s ten’ against the fabric of her shirt, an old college shirt that formerly belonged to him. His voice was low, deep, thick with sleep, and rough around the edges—her favorite part of shared mornings with him.

“We should get up.”

She didn’t stir at first, just nestled deeper into the warmth of the bed, her fingers curling against the crumpled sheets.

“Five more minutes.” She whispered.

He huffed a small laugh, the sound low in his throat.

“Pancakes.” He offered, voice a little more awake, yet still rough around the edges. “With those ridiculous chocolate chips you like. And strawberries. I’ll even make the syrup warm and put whipped cream on the side for you.”

The promise hung thick in the air, sweet and sticky like syrup itself but she didn’t move—didn’t even open her eyes. All it did was earn him the slightest twitch of her lips, barely a hint of a lazy smile.

“You say that like you’re actually gonna get up,” she whispered, her voice soft, brushed with amusement and sleep. He smirked lazily, but made no effort to shift. His arm still slung around her like it found its place and it didn’t intend to leave.

“I had full intentions. Was practically halfway out the bed in my head.”

“Well, you can woo me from the kitchen.” She yawned, grabbing at thin quilt on top of her and tugging it up past her nose. Her words were muffled, barely audible over the rustling of the sheets. Yet, she still leaned into him, body seeking the warmth he offered.

He smiled into her hair, pressing a slow kiss to the crown of her head, fingers tracing lazy circles onto the skin of her arms, almost absentminded.

“Well, how’m I supposed to woo you from all the way over there?” He whispered, voice low and fond. “Can’t exactly spoon pancakes into your mouth from the kitchen, now can I?”

She made a soft, sleepy noise that may have been a laugh—or maybe just agreement. Her cold toes brushed against his leg, but he didn’t flinch. Just tucked the quilt tighter around her and adjusted slightly, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“You’re very clingy for someone who just promised pancakes, Haji,” she teased, turning her head to peek at him through half-lidded eyes.

He just rolled his eyes back, but the smile spreading across his face betrayed him. The sheets shifted slightly as he pulled her closer—if that was at all possible—limbs fitting together like puzzle pieces worn in by use. Her hand found his, warm and familiar, and she laced their fingers together under the covers.

“I was really going to make them,” he said again, quieter now.

“I know.”

They fell quiet again. Not because there was nothing to say, but because nothing needed saying. The kind of silence that was full, not empty—the hum of breath, the shift of fabric, the quiet intimacy of two people so used to sharing space that even their stillness fit together.

“Come back t’sleep with me.” Her smile was sleepy and small, eyes fluttering shut. And he knew they were lost again—back in the in-between space where dreams linger and the morning moves like honey.

“Okay.”

The clock blinked 10:58 AM now. The sunlight continued to filter through their curtains, pooling on their floor. Their apartment still remained quiet, and the world outside continued on with the day. It was still late enough to stir. Still early enough to stay. And Hajime Iwaizumi just laid there, arms around her, the familiar weight of her against him, her heartbeat a soft echo beneath his hand.

This was his favorite part of the day. The stillness. The warmth. The way her fingers felt around his. It was his own small slice of paradise, tucked between worn sheets, the weight of love resting quietly in his arms.

And as he fell back to sleep to the noise of her quiet breath falls, he decided the pancakes could wait.

it’s 3am i’m tired. “diya writing fluff in our year old the lord 2025?” <- @mayyhaps’ reaction while beta reading. thank u may for beta reading #iappreciateuverymany (paradise rewrite for u @sahrberrii i hope u enjoy)

𝐚𝐥𝐜𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

[mirangel]

HII RANN ITS BEEN A WHILE SINCE I REQUESTED SOMETHING SOOO LIKE CAN YOU DO ALHAITHAM X HYBRID READER X KAVEH AND LIKE THE READERS IN HEAT LOLOLOL

(I suffer from an unclean mind 😂😂)

monthly heat !

cw: gn!reader, hybrid!reader, heat, slightly omegaverse-y, polyam, kavetham here and there, praise, overstim, degradation, double pounding, dumbification

written by a minor, dni if uncomfortable

you can’t help but drown yourself in the overwhelming feeling of your heat. you practically raided your two roommates’ closets in order to prepare for this after all, but nothing could come close to the two men’s presence themselves. you could hardly breathe, grinding yourself in your beloved architect’s silk pillow, while you bury your face into your scribe’s clothing, begging to no one in particular for them to come home quicker, for them to come home and satisfy your needs. luckily for you however, they came home earlier than they both expected, and they were greeted to a beautiful sight of you humping kaveh’s pillow, while drowning your entire senses in alhaitham’s clothes.

“my… how naughty of you, to be playing with yourself while we’re away.” alhaitham sneers, pinning himself above your needy body while kaveh moves his body next to yours, rubbing the small of your back with his slender hand, using the other hand to rest his head on his fist, a gentle smile on his face. “alhaitham dear, this poor thing’s in heat! we should take care of them, it’s our duty as their mate after all!” the blond chirps, giving a small peck on the other’s cheek before unzipping his pants, with the other following suit shortly.

kaveh is a much kinder man, who treats you like glass as he presses kisses on your body as he mumbles sweet praises into your ear. he tells you how much you fit him perfectly when he slots himself inside of you, how beautiful you look underneath him, moaning when he takes you entirely, encouraging your moans that slip out of your mouth, coaxing you to go further, “tell me what you need, dear bunny.” he coos, caressing your cheek with his hand as he thrusts himself deeper into you.

alhaitham is much rougher, who treats you like the animal you are when he brings you to your peak over and over, he’ll bring you the satisfaction you deserve, despite what his other partner says, he’ll treat you as rough as you want him to go. “my, you little slut, if i had known you’d want this sooner i could’ve fucked you as hard as you want.” he grins, prodding a sensitive spot inside you that makes your legs curl around his waist.

the two of them together are like two devils in disguise, they find ways to satisfy you in unison without even giving each other more than a single glance and a nod, their two cocks pounding your hole with delicacy and toughness in one mixed setting, their ragged breaths in your ear as they mumble and moan about how you good you feel. you can hardly think, but that’s okay, you’re content being like this. your heat may be temporary, but their love for you is eternal.

ok!! i had this marinating in my inbox for a while and unfortunately for me! i am drunk off my shit writing this so this may be poorly written i am so sorry haha

[phonkscribes]

The Greatest Gift of All.

In which you spend Christmas with Vergil and his family. A Christmas special that was totally on time by the way. That I totally didn't forget about. By the way.

The Devil May Cry was more lively than it had been for a time, the jukebox buzzed with life as Dante was in the kitchen, preparing a bowl of eggnog for the handful of people that would be dropping in for the holiday. He could always count on Morrison being here, his old drinking buddy when no one else was around and ‘work’ was slow, and he knew that Lady and Trish would be here as always, but this year would be different. This year, he’d get to spend Christmas with his brother and his old friend. After what felt like ages, they’d finally be out of hell, cleaning up the mess that Vergil had made trying to achieve true strength. Ha, because that had only gone so well the first time. 

Still, he was glad to have him back. Not as an enemy, or a fragment, but him as he wholly was. It felt so wrong to go so long without his twin, back when they were kids, he thought it’d always just be the two of them against the world… but that was so long ago. He’d grown and the hole left in his wake had already began to mend itself when he met the kid, and when he had Lady and Trish there at his side. He wasn’t ever truly alone, not like Vergil was, which makes him all too happy to be able to share the holiday with his twin and the only other person in his life. The little reader from the library by their old home. 

He could hear Vergil coming down the stairs as he stirred the bowl with the ladle, admiring his handy work as he added just one more shot of whisky to the mixture. With the building’s heater and AC, they’d have to keep warm somehow, right? It’s not like Patty was coming over anyway, so they didn’t have to worry much about that. Dante could feel his brother’s eyes on the back of his head as he turned to regard him, a lazy grin on his face as he saw him in a stuffy sweater that looked itchy as hell. The cable knit had a snowman on the front, with a carrot nose and a black tophat to boot. 

On the way back from the store, there was a hat, he would’ve liked to have nabbed for Mr. Grinch over here but Vergil shot him down before he could even suggest they get it. 

“Look who decided to leave his room. I’m finishing up on the drinks over here, but uh, why don’t you go and start decorating out in the front? It’d certainly be a lot of help, Lady and Trish just brought the tree in”, he points to the lobby with his eyes as he decides to pour himself a cup of eggnog. As a little reward for his ‘hard work’. 

“Hmph… very well”, he mused, “Do you know when our little reader will get here?”, he asked, folding his arms at his brother while he flicked his eyes over to the box set up near the door where the evergreen had been propped up with the stand. The tinsel and ornaments were sticking out of the box, and he didn’t doubt that it’d be a hard task for himself… if not tedious. 

“Yeah- they called not too long ago, they should be getting here now”, he hummed as he sipped the creamy concoction, savoring the slight burn from the alcohol as it slid down. 

As if right on cue, the door opens, and you make your grand entrance. You’ve met up with Vergil before this, by mere coincidence at that. He wasn’t looking for you, and you weren’t looking for him, so sure that it was the last you’d ever see of him again. But even so, that didn’t stop him from seeing the smallest hints and traces of you in everything. The way the sun set reminded him of you, of the time before he had taken the yamato and cleaved a path for himself. That you survived his armageddon brought him more peace than he could know, as he found you amongst the survivors trying to rebuild in Redgrave City. 

It felt like you hadn’t changed, like you had remained just as you were on the day that you said goodbye for what could’ve been the last time. You didn’t like it then, telling him that it was just a farewell, that you’d see him again. And you did, the both of you did. But unlike then, he was more mature now. Your nose was red from the cold, your cheeks and even your fingertips held a rosy hue as he appraised you. A part of him disliked how faulty the systems of the agency were, having figured that his businessman brother would have the sense to maintain it better. The cold didn’t bother him much, but he saw the way you pulled your own sweater closer to your form, trying to stay warm. 

Vergil laments that there isn’t more that he could do for you or to offer, and he isn’t sure if you’d like to drink Dante’s eggnog… 

“Hey! You made it in one piece, want some eggnog?”, he heard his brother pipe up as he moved to step into the lobby from the kitchen. 

“Oh- I’m alright, thanks. I think I’ll definitely have some later though”, you pipe up as you step closer to his twin. Vergil’s gaze still sits on you as you regard him with a similar look, your eyes drifting down to his chest, staring at the little snowman on his front before you bring your eyes back up. 

“You’re staring”, your voice is a quiet reminder as he chuckles softly. 

“I’m just… appreciating your outfit. I’m glad you decided to come, as ridiculous as this is…”, he admits, pinching the cheek of the snowman. It’s itchy, but he doesn’t mind it much. 

“Well, that’s sort of the point of an ugly sweater party, isn’t it?”, you ask, wearing that half smile he had missed so much since he had last seen you. It’s a comforting sight. 

You had worn a green sweater, with a fuzzy Rudolph pattern, with the red nose being made of sequins instead of being sewn on. You look off to the side to see the barren tree and its lack of any ornaments or other decorations on it. 

“You haven’t started on the tree yet?”, you ask with a quirk of your brows. 

“Ah… on that you’d have my brother to blame”, Vergil gestured to Dante who held his hands up with a shrug. It’s not that he had been putting it off(it was), but there were just other, more pressing matters to attend to. That’s all!

Of course, they were lucky to get a tree at all on the day of Christmas. If it weren’t for the girls, they’d be treeless(and homeless), just another debt he owed to his partners in crime. More so to Lady than Trish. You don’t linger for very long as you step over to the box and reach in to take something out, a silver ball and some other things. There were lights, and a star, but that was just about it. Nothing to put on the mantle, or even stockings for that matter. You had the feeling that Christmas wasn’t too celebrated within their family, which was fine of course, and made sense. 

Demons celebrating Christ? That had to be a sin. 

“Come on, let’s get started then”, you gave him a little nudge with your elbow, and so Vergil started to get a move on setting up the tree with you. 

At least he’d have some company while he did this. The two of you could even start to catch up some more. Your exchanges ever since he had resurfaced along with his brother from the pits of hell have been brief, given due to his search of work and your own obligations, but you still had trouble getting over the fact that your childhood friend was an aspiring tyrant not that long ago, for his own reasons. The apotheosis of his plans had very nearly cost the world… he wonders how you can bring yourself to consort with such a villain now. The part of himself he cast aside would have a better idea than he, for even now, he struggles. As he loses himself to his thoughts, something tugs at his fingertips. 

“Are you just going to stand there?”, you had asked him. 

“I was merely giving you a head start”, he tactfully replies. 

You seem to know what you’re doing, picking to space out the ornaments as he looks to the box to pick out his own handful of orbs to toss around on the tree. The last time he remembers doing this was when he was still a child. Dante would hurry along with the tinsel, running along the tree while their mother lifted him higher and higher. Then she’d lift him next to put the star on top. He expects to feel pain at the memories rising, a gentle sting, but he can only hear your voice. 

“When I was younger, this was my favorite part of the holiday, not the gifts but decorating the tree. Everyone pitches in, and when we finished we’d have a hot cocoa together”, you mused, warmth blooming in your face as you recalled the memory with fondness. 

You seemed so bright to him then, like you had when you two were leaving the library, and the sun hid just behind your taller frame. Standing next to you, he placed a hooked ball on a branch just above your own, your ornaments not without a pair as you hooked them up together. The silence filled in after your thought, a moment passing before it’s broken again, this time by him. 

“… that sounds… nice. Perhaps after this then, you and I could indulge in a nice drink”, he offered, not without some awkwardness. 

“I’d like that”, you nod, eyes carefully glancing up to his from where you stood. 

So much time had passed, but you still see him. You can still see that haughty little boy that had so stubbornly tried to remove you from his spot in the library all those years ago. The awkwardness in his voice, the way he shifts around, almost as if uncertain with what to do with himself… it’s all so cute. He can try to be stoic, to appear indifferent or detached, but he’s teeming with excitement even if he doesn’t allow himself to say so. You give him a half smile, and he returns it, a smirk stretching across his face as he turns to collect more ornaments from the box. 

“What are you thinking about?”, he asks, pulling the tinsel from the loose bunch it had been haphazardly thrown in. Without care, he could add as he started to untangle it from its fixed position in the worn cardboard. 

“… I don’t know about everything that’s happened in the time we’ve been a part, but I’m glad we got to meet again”, you tell him as you stare at his back. 

Most couldn’t say the same. 

“I was sure you’d have forgotten about me”, he admits, turning back to face you, his arms spread out to get ready to wrap the length of the decoration around the evergreen tree. 

“There isn’t a thing about you that’s forgettable. I don’t know anyone with hair so… silver, or with a face so…”, you take a moment to gesture, “You”, that is to say… “I promised that I wouldn’t forget you”

And you had the mind to call him little prince, just as you had always thought to when you were kids. Vergil laughs, but it’s a soft little ha, like you’d expect. You take one end of the tinsel from his hands as he starts to walk around the tree to dress it up. He could surmise the same thing about you. Every part of you was so memorable to him, carrying a little bit of you with him as he went about his life. Unknowingly dancing along to the same tune of that villain from the book you had been reading then. For all the blood shed and the violence wrought, the greatest gift he had received from it all was the chance to be here before everyone now. 

Most of all, you. 

You, who had only ever stared at him with those adoring eyes. 

He’s stealing glances at you again from beyond the tree, through the branches and the many glittering ornaments as the two of you circle each other from around the tree. He chases after you, picking up his pace by a step until the tree is well adorned. Stepping back, he looks back at it, as you come to join him. The holidays have lost their magic to him, for the greater part, but he cannot deny the thrumming in his chest as he stands with you. It’s missing something though, arguably the most important part of a Christmas tree. You turn to fetch it from the box, looking down and inside to see the dusty little star from within. 

Plucking it out, you give it a good blow, watching as the particles fly off with concealed disgust. Ah, well nothing a quick wipe wouldn’t mend. Vergil steps closer from behind you, his hands coming to appear over your own as he wipes it with his palm. Looking down at it from over your shoulder, something flickers within him. 

“Why don’t you go and put it up”, you muse. 

You don’t lean back into him, just as he goes to pull away, stealing the star from your hands to go and look at the top of the tree. His frame is tall, but it’s just barely out of reach. The little prince leans up on the tip of his toes as he reaches out to put the star on the point of the tree. Your hand slides over to the small of his back, steadying him should he start to teeter and fall. It’s not at all needed, but it shows that you care. He finds himself enjoying it greatly…

”Wow! Great work you two”, Dante pipes up after what feels like an eternity of silence. Vergil hadn’t forgotten he was there, but it startles you. The eldest twin turns to regard his younger brother with a look that the other shrugs off. 

“Yes, well… what have you been up to exactly?”, Vergil quipped. 

“Hey now, I’ve been setting up shop too, see?”, Dante pointed up at the ceiling above them, the both of your eyes trailing up to meet the little green herb that had been strung up. 

“Mistletoe…”, you had correctly guessed. Dante winked at you before he left to go get something else, likely the food for tonight’s party. 

He wasn’t saying it outright, but he was picking up on the tension filling his agency now, hoping this would expedite the journey. Vergil scoffed, then rolled his eyes, finding it stupid. Why did it matter if someone stood under it? He turned to you for a moment, about to comment on it when he held his tongue. The thought hadn’t struck him at all, earnestly. Then he looked away, going to go back to regard the tree. The two of you ended up doing a splendid job, just as Dante had apprised. 

“So about those drinks hm?”, you asked with a chuckle, “There’s a cafe that’s open near here, unless you want some eggnog?”

”I think I’ll pass, let’s go to the cafe”, he agreed, eager to get out of the shop. The ugly sweater he wore was just now starting to itch. Vergil tugged at his collar as you made your way to the door. 

You opened it for him as he walked out, passing Lady and Trish on the way. They had a few bags in their hands. Last minute Christmas shopping huh? At Dante’s expense, undoubtedly. Vergil glanced at them as you closed the door behind you. The snow began to fall in small flakes from the sky, slowly dotting your hair as you walked. He followed just a few steps behind, keeping his pace as you walked. His pale eyes glanced at your hand as you strode down the path towards the little coffee shop you spoke of. 

His hand reached for you before he could stop himself, holding onto your fingers as you walked. You didn’t stop to ask him why, or to think to question it. The cold touch upon your warm hand was a feeling you’d been missing since forever. He fit there, sliding into place like a jigsaw piece. Vergil’s thumb rubbed behind your palm as you curled around his thumb. It isn’t very far, and the golden glow of the cafe glows softly, the light pouring out from the glass windows. 

The inside is just as warm and cozy, with soft jazz playing overhead. The scents of the patrons and brewing coffee and cocoa alike would’ve bothered him normally, and he didn’t feel very comfortable meandering through public spaces like that, but he focused solely on you. 

“What would you like?”, you asked, turning to look over your shoulder, a wry smile on your lips. 

“What did you get when you were a kid?”

“Two hot cocoas then, with little marshmallows and whipped cream”, you tell the barista on hand. 

You watched them make your drinks with some small appreciation as he looked on with a bored expression. It was nothing special, but he would appreciate the end product. You’re still holding his hand even after you pay for the drinks and when the two of you stand off to the side to pick them up. The cardboard sleeve helps to not burn your hands, but it’s not like it’d matter for when you’d step back out to return to the office anyway. Vergil brings the drink up to his lips and goes to take the first sip. It’s still hot, but not so searing that it seriously hurts him, not that it would. 

“How can you drink it like that?”, you ask, waiting for it to cool down enough to not burn your tongue. 

“Like what? It’s perfectly fine for me”, he gives a small smile, almost smug. 

You shake your head, “Doesn’t that burn?”, you question him. 

He shakes his head as he goes back to it, smacking his lips lightly to pass his judgement. It’s a little too sweet for him, but it’s not terrible. Cocoa is a children’s drink after all, but this is what he asked for. He’d take what he was given, refraining from making any complaints. You blow on yours from the little hole in the lid, not wanting to risk it even if you felt compelled for a sip just now. You find it endearing at least, that he was eager to try it enough to not wait for it to get to a comfortable point to drink it from. 

Vergil starts to walk back, guiding you this time back home. 

[fleetingpetal]

⠀⠀──── . + あなたの終わり、私の原点。

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❪ your end, my origin. ❫

ᝰ. eternity streches things out for a long time, but each moment within becomes all the more fragile. such is the unreciprocated sentiment he once held for the very beings he loathed, and to the dove he'd forsaken in a past that had since bid its farewell. but when that dove returned, fervency and yearning sought their return to his already troubled mind. to reach you, and not foresake you again.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀── ꒰⁠ THE WANDERER & THE BALLADEER ꒱⁠˖

𑇢 .⠀this series contains the following: major spoilers for the entirety of the husk of opulent dreams artifact set and the inversion of genesis interlude chapter. this takes place prior to wanderer's development in version 4.8's main event and the reader doesn't posses their memories of him. in case you couldn't tell from the synopsis written above; kuni was basically a piece of shit towards you.

𑇢 .⠀this is a story told from both perspectives, a huge narrative compiled into five individual chapters. there are minor shifts to the reader's perspective, and such will be noted in the ‘additional notes’ section of each chapter.

𑇢 .⠀series debut :: january 3rd, 2025.

⠀⠀✦⠀⌢⠀little sprout's recollection.

⠀⠀✦ ⠀›⠀lost⠀⎯⠀⠀found.

⠀⠀✦ ⠀›⠀foresaken⠀⎯⠀⠀foreseen.

⠀⠀✦ ⠀›⠀brain⠀⎯⠀⠀heart.

⠀⠀✦ ⠀›⠀shielded⠀⎯⠀⠀unyielded.

⠀⠀✦ ⠀›⠀foolish⠀⎯⠀⠀hopeless.

[pandoa]

the henchman: a grimmer tale

where another overblot strikes night raven college, and the prefect is prepared to face the dark magic alongside both grim and their friends to save the day yet again. but... where was grim to begin with?

part two/prologue to this fic in grim's pov !! can be read separately grim x platonic!gender neutral reader

warnings: angst ~based off of the theory that grim eventually overblot and mc will be forced to fight him~

“Grim?” You called out into the empty hallways of your school, searching for your cat-like friend among the deserted classrooms of Night Raven. Through the windows of the college, you sensed that another event of chaos was brewing from the way the sky seemed to darken in black, foreboding smog as students from all over the campus began quickly making their escape from whatever discord that struck the premises of the school. 

Another overblot? The thought crossed your mind as you continued searching for Grim after being unsuccessful with finding him in his usual napping spot back at Ramshackle. Really, the thought of another overblot cursing Night Raven was not a surprising one. For something that was known to be a rare occurrence in a mage’s life, it was awfully common in the school you had happened to stumble upon after being taken away from your life back in your own world. Truthfully, all you wanted to do was to find your dear friend Grim and get this overblot over with.

But since when did things ever go your way in Twisted Wonderland in the first place?

“Grim?” You called out again, this time a little louder, until you spotted the familiar silhouettes of your four friends—Ace, Deuce, Jack, and Epel—approaching you in their usual group. Relief flooded over your senses as you hurried to meet them halfway, a thankful look to your face before you spoke. 

“Hey, have you guys seen Grim anywhere? Maybe somewhere near Ramshackle? I have to go get him before we go out to deal with that overblot again-”

“(Y/n),” Jack’s voice called out your name, his tone stern with a cold warning surrounding it, “Grim is the one who is overblotting. You won’t find him back at Ramshackle.”

You stopped in your own tracks as you turned to your friends. The slight shake in your voice was enough to make a few of them shift in regret. “W…what?” you managed to choke out.

Jack continued with his cold, direct tone, leaving you with no room to truly process what was actually happening, “We don’t know how it happened or what triggered him, but all we know is that Grim is overblotting right now as we speak. You do not want to see the state he’s in right now, not with everything you’ve been through together. It’s not safe either. Even the strongest mage in Twisted Wonderland would have trouble overcoming the blot in Grim.”

“It’s too dangerous to be out there, (Y/n),” Epel explained softly after Jack as he carefully walked closer to you. It was almost as if he was so scared that you would run away from them if he made any impulsive movements. The purple-haired first year then continued to speak while placing a sympathetic hand to your wrist, a gentle tug urging you to turn away from the havoc around you.

“Crowley sent us here to make sure you didn’t try to face Grim…” 

Epel and the rest of your first year friends all watched as your expression turned into one of bafflement at each of their actions. There was no way they were telling you to do what you think they wanted you to do. Grim was their friend too. They cared for him. They loved him as much as you did—or that’s what you always thought. There was no way they would just leave him to destroy himself in flames and dark, oozing blot…

No way.

“And you all were just going to what? Stop me from saving my best friend?” you spat as your eyes twitched in disbelief.

“...It was Crowley’s orders.”

The downcast gaze of each and every one of your friends sent a flurry of rage and anger through your veins. That answer was not enough. Not enough to turn your gaze away from your feline friend who absolutely needed you right now.

“To hell with what Crowley orders us to do!” A yell was heard from your form as you roughly yanked your wrist out of Epel’s grip, twisting to turn your attention back to Ace, Deuce, and Jack as well. 

“I don’t see him helping anytime soon!”

Ace interjected your outburst, clearly trying to at least reason with you. But nothing Ace or anyone else said to you would change your mind. That, you were sure of. “(Y/n), you know we would usually be on your side on this. But this time Grim’s overblot is just too danger-”

“It’s because it’s Grim out there that I have to help now!” You interrupted him back with a strain to your voice as you bit back a crack in your throat. A certain type of vulnerability no one had ever seen from you. Not until now. “He’s the only family I have left to hang on to!” 

“What do you guys not understand?!” 

You continued to shout as the group of first years noticed the small shaking of your hands. “(Y/n)... You know you can’t save everyone…”

… What?

A sharp pang then struck your stomach at those words as your expression contorted and ached into despair. Confusion filled the trembling of your form, the world around you suddenly going silent and suffocating. At that moment, everything surrounding you made you feel as if there were boulders being mounted onto your back as you stared into the grueling eyes of your friends in front of you, their gaze piercing and scrutinizing.

Why were they looking at you that way?

You’d never seen their expressions look so… distraught. Like they were lost and had no idea of what to do next. Even after everything you all had been through together—from dangerous spells, estranged housewardens, and random magical adventures—you still had never seen the faces of Ace, Deuce, Jack, and Epel appear so conflicted. So desolate. They were almost unrecognizable.

“Do you guys really think we should just let him suffer out there alone?” You glance up once more, ignoring their expressions as your voice softened. A sliver of pain was entwined in the way you could barely even bring yourself to finish your sentence.

“Ace? Jack? Epel?” You asked each and every one of them one by one, causing the young men to stand in silence as if even they, themselves, were ashamed of their own actions. A sigh then escaped your mouth at their reluctance to answer. 

“Even you, Deuce..?” You faced him, hoping that at least one of your first year friends would be on your side. But with the way Deuce just stood there, stance unwavering, you realized that for the first time since you met the people of Twisted Wonderland, you were inherently alone.

The deafening silence lasted for what felt like days until you managed to free your legs from the ground to begin slowly walking away, leaving all four of your friends to drown in their own thoughts. They clearly made their choice. And you would make yours. “I… I have to go,” you mumbled as you gradually turned running towards the shaking halls of Night Raven College. The first years remained rooted to the floors of the school as they wordlessly watched you flee, their expressions filled with worry and shame.

A sigh was then heard from Ace as he interrupted whatever thoughts were swirling through everyone’s minds. Walking the same path you had just been on, Ace then dragged Deuce with him as the two followed you into the trembling hallways surrounding you all after attempting to reassure Epel and Jack that they would handle this.

“We’ll go talk to them…” the two promised as they tried to catch up to wherever you had gone…

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“(Y/n)!” Ace’s voice rang in the flaming room, catching a certain prefect’s attention.

“What in Twisted Wonderland are you doing?!”

You turned to face your two friends, Ace and Deuce, with a petrified but unwavering look present in your eyes. Grim was out of control and if Crowley refused to help you for the thousandth time, someone had to stop him. 

Even a mere human with no magical abilities such as yourself would have to do.

“I’m saving Grim!” you replied back.

The Adeuce duo glanced at one another, concern for their friend clearly shown in their facial expressions.

“Saving him?! (Y/n), you’re insane if you think you can stop this!” 

Deuce added on to Ace’s chiding, his tone a bit softer as he gazed at the prefect, “(Y/n), there’s a big chance you won’t survive...”

You sighed, sorrow woven in the next words you said.

“Then I suppose I’m taking that risk. For Grim.” Screeching roars that could destroy one’s hearing enveloped the mirror chambers as the magicless freshman faced their beloved cat companion and friend.

You couldn’t comprehend why your friends tried to stop you. All you had wanted was for Grim to come home. Was that such a difficult thing to understand?

Tears began to threaten your eyes as you made your way towards what was left of the quickly disintegrating Night Raven mirror chambers as you left Ace and Deuce’s unreadable faces behind you. A combination of ashes, dust, and wet tears stung both of your eyes as you practically sprinted towards the raging chaos.

Blue flames mockingly danced around you as the heat radiated onto your sweltering skin. But despite the inevitable obstacles, you remained determined to bring your friend back to you as you took a deep breath, whispering your final string of hope into the smoke-filled air.

“Grim… please just come home… Please.”

a/n: alexa play i bet on losing dogs by mitski

[mellowwillowy]

Yan! Sadist x GN Sadomaso reader

Yan! Sadist: Get the hell off from me. Sadomaso Reader: Nuh-uh, I like hanging around you the most!

Yan! Sadist: How about I hang you dead instead? I will hang you in the front gate of my castle if you want that. Sadomaso Reader: I would prefer a more private scenery… wouldn't want anyone, let alone peasants, see me in such intimate way right

Yan! Sadist: …. I suppose you have a point. Even gouging their eyeballs to feed the fishes wouldn't undo anything. Sadomaso Reader: And that's why I love you even mooooooooooore! (hugs)

Yan! Sadist: Get off from me.

Yan! Sadist: Open your mouth. Sadomaso Reader: Aaahh Yan! Sadist: Attagirl/boy. You choose, this juice or a jug of nails with my cum in it? Sadomaso Reader: The latter! The latter!

Sadomaso Reader: I'm bored… Yan! Sadist: What do you expect me to do? Entertain you by juggling your eyeballs?

Sadomaso Reader: I don't mind but I won't be able to see you clearly if you juggle them. Yan! Sadist: So? You want me to walk you? Like a dog?

Sadomaso Reader: I have a collar and leash~ Let me put it on for you~ Yan! Sadist: Oh, you insufferable brat. Go back to your room. I'm not walking you like that.

Sadomaso Reader: Awww…. bummer.

Yan! Sadist: A present? Yan! Twins: Not from us for sure. It's from your damn lover, Scribe. Yan! Sadist: Not even close. Noel: What's that? Erickson: A dildo? Scribe: Can you guys get your eyes checked? Or do I have to check it myself? Erickson: I don't trust you at all. Get the fuck away from me. Noel: If you don't want the present, you can always give it to me- Scribe: Not a chance. It was a dildo.(He was mostly just being petty to the twins)

[brayneworms]

blood on the bandage, ghost in the room | izuru kamukura

kinktober day two: wet dream

word count. 2.1k

content. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, wet dreams, masturbation, past hinata/reader (flashback), introspection, kissing/making out, handjobs (more alluded to than explicit but still), gender-neutral reader (they use body butter and lip balm which i consider to be gender-neutral)

♪ deadlines (hostile) by car seat headrest

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

Izuru’s dreams wouldn’t make sense to the average person.

They are quick and hard and violent like a surgeon sawing away at you. They are more akin to haemorrhages than anything else. He does not often find recurring imagines in his states of hypnagogia—he knows the common ones. Teeth falling out, turning up to a social event naked, falling from a great height. Maybe it’s an indication of how fear has been cut from him by the root, rubbed down to a polished nub, that these dreams quelled as soon as he went under the knife. 

But—it’s annoying. Actually, it’s the thing that makes him realise he is still capable of feeling annoyed. There are trickles of his old self here. Hajime Hinata. He turns the name over in his head like a coin, faces flashing, green eyes-red eyes, short hair-long hair, ordinary-special. The differences between him and Hinata are strides rather than steps, but the boy insists on clinging to him. He supposes, grudgingly, it makes a certain amount of sense. Izuru had been made from the scraps of Hinata; had scrounged himself to completion from Hinata’s spare rib, for want of a poetic comparison. No effort could erase the boy completely.

And yet what remained of him annoyed. Izuru had no favourite foods (sustenance was sustenance) but sometimes when they gave him custard for dessert his stomach did an involuntary twitch and saliva trickled between his teeth. Izuru logically knew that the four toothbrushes in the pack were functionally identical, yet found himself drawn to use the blue one first, every time. Izuru had no friends, no family, no affection—and yet, and yet, when he saw you… 

It was like Hinata existed in gasps of consciousness, sparks of recognition that Izuru doesn’t know how to reconcile. He sees you across the grassy campus and knows the yuzu smell of your skin because you buy drugstore body-butter with the green lid. He knows the feeling of your hair beneath his hand and how your head fits in the hollow of his neck, that your heart beats slightly faster than the average person at around 89 beats per minute and that you have a mild intolerance to lactose that often doesn’t stop you indulging anyway. 

He is a creature cut from desire; such things have been surgically removed from him, and Izuru can’t imagine missing them. He’s seen the way things like love and lust cause people to fetter away their inhibitors, their sense, their selflessness. Desire makes the world an animalistic one; renounced from it, he is clean. Alone, perhaps, but clean. 

Not lately, though. His dreams have become disturbed. Jittery flashes from a life that is not his, but was, flash through him at night like an old film reel. It’s a feeling he cannot reconcile—Hinata had loved you. Izuru does not. But the body, the flesh remembers, even if the mind is absent. 

The body remembers all too well. Izuru dreams:

A camp bed, all they could afford. Most of Hajime’s furniture has been fleeced for spare yen to pay off the tuition fees for Hope’s Peak (the parents don’t know this debt will be settled with finality some way into their son’s second year, their money paid back in blood). The two of you have to squish up close together to have room for both of you, but Hajime privately does not mind, and he suspects—hopes—that you don’t either. Your presence and touch is not foreign, not by this stage of knowing each other, but it still makes him nervous. He feels like a spring lamb around you, his hands too big, too clammy, god he hopes you don’t notice him wiping them on his sweats every chance he gets. And you, doused in the thin lacquer of premature summer heat, skin glimmering with sweat beneath your loose shirt and shorts. Your knee presses into his, lazy, unshaved, but moisturised always with sunscreen and that body butter he likes. It’s citrusy—lemon or yuzu or something. 

You’re gorgeous. So gorgeous Hajime has no idea how he got so lucky. Some talentless loser—but he has to stop thinking about himself like that, really. You’re not talented either. Not desperate enough to remortgage your house to get into Hope’s Peak on a pity course, either, which he reckons still makes him a damn sight more pathetic than you. It’s fine. Whatever. He’s fine being pathetic around you since you seem to like him anyway. 

You look up at him. Your lips gleam dully with remnants of balm; it smudges up over your cupid’s bow, highlighting the skin there. “What’re you looking at?” you ask, in a tone that makes Hajime think you already know. He feels himself go impossibly warmer. 

“Nothing,” he blusters, fidgets anxiously with his too-big fingers. “D’you, uh, have enough room?”

“Well, no. But it’s fine. I might prefer it this way,” you say.

“Ahaha…” His laugh trails to an awkward stop. “Might you?”

“I might. You could convince me.” 

Ah. Okay. He’s not totally dense; he can pick up a hint. As long as the other person giving it to him is wearing bells and flashing red lights and a siren. He draws in a quick breath, steeling his suddenly galloping pace before leaning forward. His nose and chin brushes against yours, the angle awkward, too close; a spring digs into his thigh as he noses closer, feeling the soft slide of your lip balm on his mouth. It’s too hot to kiss properly, he thinks—no, despairs. There’s little he loves more than kissing you. Sex is good—sex is great—but he stumbles under the sheer pressure of it sometimes. With kissing there’s no real standards to uphold, as long as he remembers to keep control of his tongue. 

Still, he’s a young guy, and his body doesn’t listen to reason all the time. Only a few minutes later he has to pull back with a groan, glancing awkwardly where your hip rests in the cradle between his thighs. “Sorry,” he mutters, flushed to his ears. “Sorry, it’ll, uh, go down. If we stop.”

“Do you want to stop?” you ask. Hajime feels slightly dazed when he looks at you like this; your hair a little rumpled, shirt pulled to one shoulder leaving the other bared, looking up in a way that makes him feel big, loved, though maybe those are the same thing, he doesn’t know. 

“Not… not really,” he stammers, feeling grotesque in the face of his own desire. “But I don’t want to—like—just because it’s there doesn’t mean you have to do anything. I don’t want you to feel like you have to. You can just ignore it.”

Your hand on his knee. Not pushing up, just there, but it still makes hot sparks run up his spine. “I can help. If you want.”

Jesus. Hajime closes his eyes briefly, trying to ignore the way his body hums hotly. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Do you want?”

Of course, I do, he wants to shout. Can’t you see how much I want? I’m made of want. Instead he just gives a shaky nod, forcing himself not to shut his eyes; the vulnerability of it might be too much to bear. You lean forward and he loses himself in the hazy river of your lips against his, the slow lull that kissing you draws him into. Your hand slides slowly up his leg, squeezes at his thigh, kneads his flesh like bread until he feels his bones turn to jelly, until he’s straining against the fabric of his sweats and letting out pathetic choked noises into your mouth. This is what you do, he thinks as he rocks his hips lazily against your hand. You turn him insistent. 

Your hand slips under his waistband. He has a brief moment of panic, wondering when the hell the last time he trimmed or groomed or did anything down there was before your hand wraps warm and firm around him and the thoughts slip straight out of his head. He’s almost sleepy with pleasure as you stroke him, embarrassingly wet already so there’s no give beneath the soft of your palm. 

And he doesn’t have to hide, not with you, not ever, so he bucks his hips up into the tunnel of your hand, seeking something, so close—

And Izuru wakes. 

It’s cold and around him there is a perfect darkness. It is the furthest thing from a sunbathed summer afternoon as there could be. The sheets on his bed are pristine white and starched with something antiseptic. And the biggest difference is that he is Izuru, not Hinata—he is the furthest thing from that boy, that simpleton, someone who could never conceive of what he might one day become, and—

He’s erect.

Izuru blinks down at himself, ostensibly bewildered, which in and of itself is a pleasant change. But no, there’s nothing pleasant about this. It feels—strange, he can feel his skin prickling against his nightwear. He tries to breathe; it’s not as if this is the first time this has happened. Biology still has as much sway over his body as usual, and he knows that an endocrine system is nothing but a hormonal playground until around age twenty-four or twenty-five, and so yes it happens sometimes. He just ignores it until it goes away, which generally happens quite quickly.

He waits. Nothing happens. Every shift against the fabric seems only to make it worse, in fact.

Izuru grits his teeth. He’s not inherently averse to this—it’s new, and new is always a touch more interesting than the same. But it is, perhaps, a worrying symptom of a larger issue. Hinata, still inside his brain somewhere, tucked away like a badly-kept secret, like a loose penny. He’s not a fan of the idea that he may decide to come back out again one day. 

And he knows this is Hinata’s doing, because when he reaches out tentatively to lay his palm flat over the tent in his pyjama pants, it’s your face that flashes through his mind. It’s yuzu body butter and gossamer lip balm, and a noise rises in the back of his throat before he can stop it, something low and soft. His fingers fan out like a spiders’ body, smoothing over the fabric, the dip of his palm pressing against where he throbs. He remembers your hand doing something similar. 

And it’s second nature—or first, he supposes grimly—that slips his hand beneath the loose waistband of his pants. He doesn’t wear underwear to sleep, so there’s nothing but skin and a thatch of hair before the pads of his fingers graze the side of his dick. Izuru hisses, straight through his teeth; his sensitivity is heightened, no doubt from ignoring this side of himself for months. Just taking himself in hand makes his head spin. 

He knows that most people his age think of something when they do this—other people, commonly, but also pornography or some specific fetish. Izuru doesn’t know what to think of—but his body seems to have made the choice for him. The flesh remembers; as he makes the first slow, firm stroke, it’s you he thinks of. The warmth of your breath against his jaw, the soft of your hand on his dick. 

It would feel better, he thinks absently, if it were you doing this instead.

…How absurd. What a stupid thing to think.

But he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, even loathing his own train of thought. He’d thought he’d have to relearn this, but his hands move on autopilot, remembering how he likes to touch, to squeeze, to wait. His thumb strokes over the head, collects the prespend there and the sound that starts echoing from him as he fucks into his hand makes his brain buzz. One of his legs is flung over the side of the bed, long hair a tangle beneath him; he feels out of sorts, clumsy, and the unfamiliarity makes his blood quicken. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, bucks his hips into his hand. He’s close already. It’s barely been ninety seconds. Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine—

“I can help,” you whisper into his ear, some pretty sweet-smelling ghost. “If you want.”

With a strangled cry, Izuru comes into his hand, clamping the inside of his elbow against his mouth to stifle the noise. In the seconds after he’s breathless, heart shredding in his ears, blinking up at the swimming darkness of the ceiling. It’s dizzying—not just the experience, the crash of adrenaline, but the way it makes his perpetual clarity dim for a minute. 

For a moment, he shuts his eyes, wishes that when he opened them he’d see you lying beside him.

Izuru chalks that thought up to one of Hinata’s; these days, it’s getting harder to tell the difference.