Summary: don't be in his way when he sees you. [wc 1.1K] [ao3]
Warnings: soulmate au, a smidge of angst, otherwise fluff
Request: @sellyoursoulforagoodname So like. . . soulmate AU with Adult Zuko . . . or perhaps my boy Haymich . . . . perchance? (first time requesting from you so forgive me if I've fucked it lmao, just lmk if I need to edit)
The first words your soulmate ever says to you appear somewhere on your body. For most people, it’s something sweet. Something simple.
Hello.
What’s your name?
I’ve been waiting for you.
Yours?
They showed up like a scar.
“Don’t get in my way.”
—
You remember the day they appeared. Sharp, dark lettering curling along your wrist like it had always belonged there. You were young enough to hope it meant something else—something better.
Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was playful. Maybe your soulmate was… intense. You built a hundred softer meanings around it. You had to. Because the alternative? Was that somewhere out there was a person who would look at you—your soulmate—and see you as an obstacle.
Years pass. You learn to hide it. Sleeves. Bandages. Casual movements that keep your wrist turned away from prying eyes. Because people talk. And when they see your words, they don’t smile the way they do for others. They hesitate. They pity.
—
You meet him during a moment that doesn’t feel like fate. It feels like survival. Everything is chaos—shouting, heat, the sharp crack of something burning too close—and you’re trying to get out of the way when you collide with someone. Hard.
You stumble back, heart racing — and then you hear it. Low. Sharp. Frustrated.
“Don’t get in my way.”
Your entire world goes quiet. No sound. No movement. Just the echo of those words—your words—ringing in your ears. Slowly, like your body already knows before your mind catches up, your gaze drops to his face.
The scar is the first thing you notice. Angry. Uneven. A mark that tells a story you don’t know yet. But his eyes—they’re what hold you. Golden. Intense. Flickering with something you can’t quite place. Anger, yes—but beneath it? Something deeper. Something tired.
His expression shifts. Noticing. Tracking the way you’ve gone completely still. The way your hand has drifted—instinctively—to your wrist. His gaze follows. And when he sees i everything changes.
You watch it happen in real time. The irritation fades first. Then the sharpness. Then something else slips through the cracks—something raw, something almost… horrified.
“No,” he says under his breath.
Not angry. Not defensive. Just—struck.
Your throat tightens. Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t soft or gentle or magical. It’s heavy. Awkward. Too real.
“You…” your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. “You said—”
“I know what I said.” It’s quick, but not harsh. More like he’s cutting himself off before it gets worse. His eyes flick back to your wrist. Then away. Like he can’t stand to look at it for too long.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds, quieter now.
And somehow? That hurts more. Because he doesn’t know you. He couldn’t have meant anything else.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, forcing your hand to drop back to your side. “It’s fine,” you say automatically. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him look at you again. Really look this time. And whatever he sees, he doesn’t like it.
“It’s not fine.” The words come out low. Firm. Not arguing with you. Correcting you.
A strange silence settles between you. Not empty. Just… full of things neither of you knows how to say yet.
“I’m—” he starts, then stops. Zuko. He doesn’t strike you as someone who apologizes easily. But you can see it—the way he’s struggling with it, like the words don’t come naturally. “I didn’t know it would be you,” he finishes instead.
It’s not an apology. But it’s honest. And with him? That might matter more.
You swallow, nodding faintly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I figured.”
That should be it. The moment. The end of it. But it isn’t. Because he doesn’t leave. And neither do you.
Days pass. Then weeks. Somehow, you keep ending up in the same places. The same paths crossing over and over again like the world is quietly insisting on something neither of you is ready for.
Zuko keeps his distance at first. You can feel it. Measured. Careful. Like he’s trying not to make things worse. But he watches you. Not in a possessive way. In a… thoughtful one. Like he’s trying to understand something he didn’t expect to matter.
The second time he speaks to you directly, it’s different. Softer. “Are you… alright?”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “…yeah.”
A pause.
Then, because you can’t help yourself— “That’s not exactly ‘don’t get in my way.’”
For a second, you think you’ve gone too far. His jaw tightens. His shoulders go stiff. But then— A quiet, almost reluctant huff of breath. “…I’m working on it.”
That’s how it changes. Not all at once. Not in some sweeping, romantic moment. But in small things. He starts showing up. Not announcing himself. Not demanding your attention. Just… there. Walking beside you instead of ahead. Slowing down without saying anything. Making space.
One day, you trip over uneven ground. It’s minor—barely anything—but his hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can fall. “Careful.”
You glance at him, something warm flickering in your chest. “…not in your way?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not anymore.”
Another time, someone shoves past you in a crowded street. Zuko’s reaction is immediate. He steps between you and them, presence sharp, protective in a way that feels instinctive. Effortless. Like it’s always been there.
You start to notice the shift. Not just in what he does— But in how he looks at you. The tension is still there. The intensity. But it’s… different now. Softer at the edges. Like he’s unlearning something. Like he’s choosing something new.
—
“You know,” you say one evening, sitting beside him as the sky burns gold and red, “most people get nicer first words.”
He huffs quietly. “Yeah. I figured.” A beat. “…sorry.”
It’s quiet. Almost reluctant. But it’s real.
You glance at him, surprised. “For what? You didn’t know.”
His gaze drops, expression tightening. “I still said it.”
Something in your chest aches. Because you can see it now— the guilt he carries. The way he holds himself accountable, even for things he couldn’t control.
“You’re not that person anymore,” you say softly.
He looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe that. “…I’m trying not to be.”
You shift a little closer. Not much. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. “You’re doing a pretty good job.”
There’s a long pause.
Then, carefully like it matters more than he wants to admit— Zuko lets his shoulder lean into yours. “You’re not in my way,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
His gaze flicks to you, steady. Certain. “You never were.”
updated June 14 2026. Going through some of the lists sporadically and placing dialogue prompts in their respective sections. My focus this time around is enemies/lovers prompts.
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
Summary: don't be in his way when he sees you. [wc 1.1K] [ao3]
Warnings: soulmate au, a smidge of angst, otherwise fluff
Request: @sellyoursoulforagoodname So like. . . soulmate AU with Adult Zuko . . . or perhaps my boy Haymich . . . . perchance? (first time requesting from you so forgive me if I've fucked it lmao, just lmk if I need to edit)
The first words your soulmate ever says to you appear somewhere on your body. For most people, it’s something sweet. Something simple.
Hello.
What’s your name?
I’ve been waiting for you.
Yours?
They showed up like a scar.
“Don’t get in my way.”
—
You remember the day they appeared. Sharp, dark lettering curling along your wrist like it had always belonged there. You were young enough to hope it meant something else—something better.
Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was playful. Maybe your soulmate was… intense. You built a hundred softer meanings around it. You had to. Because the alternative? Was that somewhere out there was a person who would look at you—your soulmate—and see you as an obstacle.
Years pass. You learn to hide it. Sleeves. Bandages. Casual movements that keep your wrist turned away from prying eyes. Because people talk. And when they see your words, they don’t smile the way they do for others. They hesitate. They pity.
—
You meet him during a moment that doesn’t feel like fate. It feels like survival. Everything is chaos—shouting, heat, the sharp crack of something burning too close—and you’re trying to get out of the way when you collide with someone. Hard.
You stumble back, heart racing — and then you hear it. Low. Sharp. Frustrated.
“Don’t get in my way.”
Your entire world goes quiet. No sound. No movement. Just the echo of those words—your words—ringing in your ears. Slowly, like your body already knows before your mind catches up, your gaze drops to his face.
The scar is the first thing you notice. Angry. Uneven. A mark that tells a story you don’t know yet. But his eyes—they’re what hold you. Golden. Intense. Flickering with something you can’t quite place. Anger, yes—but beneath it? Something deeper. Something tired.
His expression shifts. Noticing. Tracking the way you’ve gone completely still. The way your hand has drifted—instinctively—to your wrist. His gaze follows. And when he sees i everything changes.
You watch it happen in real time. The irritation fades first. Then the sharpness. Then something else slips through the cracks—something raw, something almost… horrified.
“No,” he says under his breath.
Not angry. Not defensive. Just—struck.
Your throat tightens. Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t soft or gentle or magical. It’s heavy. Awkward. Too real.
“You…” your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. “You said—”
“I know what I said.” It’s quick, but not harsh. More like he’s cutting himself off before it gets worse. His eyes flick back to your wrist. Then away. Like he can’t stand to look at it for too long.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds, quieter now.
And somehow? That hurts more. Because he doesn’t know you. He couldn’t have meant anything else.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, forcing your hand to drop back to your side. “It’s fine,” you say automatically. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him look at you again. Really look this time. And whatever he sees, he doesn’t like it.
“It’s not fine.” The words come out low. Firm. Not arguing with you. Correcting you.
A strange silence settles between you. Not empty. Just… full of things neither of you knows how to say yet.
“I’m—” he starts, then stops. Zuko. He doesn’t strike you as someone who apologizes easily. But you can see it—the way he’s struggling with it, like the words don’t come naturally. “I didn’t know it would be you,” he finishes instead.
It’s not an apology. But it’s honest. And with him? That might matter more.
You swallow, nodding faintly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I figured.”
That should be it. The moment. The end of it. But it isn’t. Because he doesn’t leave. And neither do you.
Days pass. Then weeks. Somehow, you keep ending up in the same places. The same paths crossing over and over again like the world is quietly insisting on something neither of you is ready for.
Zuko keeps his distance at first. You can feel it. Measured. Careful. Like he’s trying not to make things worse. But he watches you. Not in a possessive way. In a… thoughtful one. Like he’s trying to understand something he didn’t expect to matter.
The second time he speaks to you directly, it’s different. Softer. “Are you… alright?”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “…yeah.”
A pause.
Then, because you can’t help yourself— “That’s not exactly ‘don’t get in my way.’”
For a second, you think you’ve gone too far. His jaw tightens. His shoulders go stiff. But then— A quiet, almost reluctant huff of breath. “…I’m working on it.”
That’s how it changes. Not all at once. Not in some sweeping, romantic moment. But in small things. He starts showing up. Not announcing himself. Not demanding your attention. Just… there. Walking beside you instead of ahead. Slowing down without saying anything. Making space.
One day, you trip over uneven ground. It’s minor—barely anything—but his hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can fall. “Careful.”
You glance at him, something warm flickering in your chest. “…not in your way?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not anymore.”
Another time, someone shoves past you in a crowded street. Zuko’s reaction is immediate. He steps between you and them, presence sharp, protective in a way that feels instinctive. Effortless. Like it’s always been there.
You start to notice the shift. Not just in what he does— But in how he looks at you. The tension is still there. The intensity. But it’s… different now. Softer at the edges. Like he’s unlearning something. Like he’s choosing something new.
—
“You know,” you say one evening, sitting beside him as the sky burns gold and red, “most people get nicer first words.”
He huffs quietly. “Yeah. I figured.” A beat. “…sorry.”
It’s quiet. Almost reluctant. But it’s real.
You glance at him, surprised. “For what? You didn’t know.”
His gaze drops, expression tightening. “I still said it.”
Something in your chest aches. Because you can see it now— the guilt he carries. The way he holds himself accountable, even for things he couldn’t control.
“You’re not that person anymore,” you say softly.
He looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe that. “…I’m trying not to be.”
You shift a little closer. Not much. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. “You’re doing a pretty good job.”
There’s a long pause.
Then, carefully like it matters more than he wants to admit— Zuko lets his shoulder lean into yours. “You’re not in my way,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
His gaze flicks to you, steady. Certain. “You never were.”
Summary: Stephen feels familiar with you but he doesn't quite know why.
WC: 1k
Warnings: none? soulmate au?
read on ao3! Tag List
The night was quiet in the Sanctum Sanctorum, save for the soft hum of arcane energy that lingered in the air. Stephen Strange stood in the dimly lit library, his fingers tracing the edges of a weathered tome, lost in its pages but distracted by something deeper—an almost unshakable feeling that something was missing. It was a sensation he couldn't quite place, like a persistent whisper he could never quite hear clearly enough to understand.
Then, the door creaked open, and a soft voice broke through his reverie.
“Stephen.”
He looked up, his sharp features softening slightly as he met your gaze. You were standing in the doorway, the faintest hint of a smile on your lips. The air around you seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow, a gentle aura that wrapped around you like a second skin. Your magic—botanical manipulation and healing—was always subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space.
You weren't just beautiful, though that much was obvious to anyone who’d ever looked at you. It was something else, something deeper. The connection between the two of you stretched beyond this lifetime, beyond this reality. And though Stephen didn’t understand it fully, he knew it was undeniable.
You closed the door behind you and stepped further into the room, the warm light from the candles flickering across your face. The flowers that had once been so bright and vibrant in your presence were now blooming softly in the corners of the room, their petals glowing faintly.
“Busy?” you asked, your voice carrying that familiar warmth that never failed to ease the tension in his chest.
“Not really,” Stephen replied, closing the book with a soft snap. He pushed it aside and looked at you, though his eyes held a distant curiosity. “What is it, Y/N?”
You raised an eyebrow, crossing the room to stand before him. “You’re always lost in those books, Stephen,” you teased softly, your fingers brushing his. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like the entire universe had paused. The touch of your hand on his sent a ripple of recognition through his chest, as though some long-forgotten memory had awoken.
He blinked, his breath catching for a moment. He knew you, he knew you.
But not from this life.
A ripple of images flashed behind his eyes—another life, another time. The two of you, in a meadow filled with flowers, your hands entwined as you whispered secrets to one another. The feel of your breath on his skin, the warmth of your touch. It was a feeling of peace, of home, but it was fleeting, vanishing before he could fully grasp it.
“Stephen?” you asked again, your voice a little quieter this time, concern lining your features.
He blinked, shaking his head as if to clear the sudden onslaught of memories. “Sorry. I... I just had a moment.”
You frowned slightly but didn’t push him. Instead, you stepped closer, your magic wrapping around both of you like a protective cocoon, filling the room with the scent of fresh earth and growing things. “Is everything alright?”
Stephen swallowed hard, unsure how to explain what he had felt—the recognition, the weight of it. The connection between you wasn’t new, but it felt like something more than just fate. It was as if the two of you had known each other across lifetimes. He couldn’t put it into words, but the magic between you—the way it pulsed in time with his own heartbeat—spoke a truth his mind couldn’t yet comprehend.
“I think I remember you,” he said finally, his voice rough with the raw honesty of his admission.
You blinked, your expression softening with understanding. “You remember me from before, don’t you?”
The words hit him like a wave, crashing over him and pulling him under. Before.
“Yes,” he whispered, his hands shaking slightly as he reached out for you, his fingers brushing your wrist. “It’s all coming back now. We were... together before. Weren’t we?”
You smiled softly, your eyes bright with emotion. “Yes. We’ve been through this many times, Stephen. We’ve always found each other.”
Stephen’s heart stuttered in his chest. “How... how is that possible?”
You stepped closer, your hand resting gently on his chest. “We’re soulmates, Stephen. We always have been. I was always the one who healed you, and you... you taught me how to grow. It’s not a love that ends with each life; it simply changes, evolves.”
The weight of the truth settled around him, and he could feel the stirrings of his own magic responding to yours, the bond between you two undeniable. In this life, he had been so lost in his pursuit of power, in his quest to protect the world, that he’d almost missed the most important thing. You.
And now, with you standing before him, he realized what he had always needed, always longed for, even before he had understood the magic of it.
“You healed me before,” Stephen murmured, his voice thick with the depth of emotion he’d been holding back for so long. “You fixed me, even when I didn’t think I could be fixed.”
You smiled, your touch gentle as you cupped his face in your hands. “I heal because of you, Stephen. You taught me the importance of growth—of not just mending what’s broken but nurturing it so it can flourish.”
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “And now... now I understand. It wasn’t just about the magic. It was about us. All of this time... all of these lives. I was meant to love you, wasn’t I?”
You kissed him then, soft and slow, the magic between you building with every touch. There was no rush, no need for urgency, just the slow, steady rhythm of two souls reuniting after a long, long time apart.
When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling. “Yes. You were always meant to love me. And I was always meant to love you, Stephen Strange.”
As he held you, feeling the quiet power of your connection fill every corner of his being, Stephen knew this was just the beginning. In this lifetime, he would make sure to never let you go, to always nurture the love between you, to grow with you in every possible way.
After all, love was magic—and he had finally found his true spell.
Request: @eleniblue Shirtless Men Loki Request: Loki notices Reader always staring at him even when she thinks he doesn't notice. Loki decides to tease her by having her "accidentally" catching him shirtless. She blushes in embarrassment. Loki then makes sure she always sees him shirtless.
Summary: you keep running into loki shirtless... you know he's doing this on purpose. [wc 386] [ao3]
Warnings: shirtless loki
A/N: this is ALOT smaller than what i wanted it to be,.. but meh.
Shirtless Men Series
You really thought you were subtle. You weren’t.
Loki had noticed it days ago—the way your gaze lingered just a second too long whenever he moved, how you’d suddenly find something very interesting on the floor or wall the moment he looked your way. It was almost… charming.
So naturally, he decided to have fun with it.
The first time it happens, it’s completely “accidental.”
You turn a corner in the compound—and freeze. Loki stands there, mid-motion, pulling a shirt over his head… except he hasn’t gotten that far yet. The fabric is still in his hands, and for a moment, he’s just there. Bare shoulders, pale skin, completely unbothered.
Your brain short-circuits. “Oh—! I didn’t—I mean—sorry!” You spin around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, face burning.
Behind you, there’s a pause. Then a soft chuckle. “You do realize,” Loki says smoothly, “that walking away now only makes it more suspicious?”
You refuse to turn back around. “I said I was sorry!”
“And yet,” he continues, voice laced with amusement, “you’re still standing there.”
You bolt.
It keeps happening. Too often. He’s in the kitchen one morning—no shirt, casually leaning against the counter like this is completely normal.
You walk in. Walk right back out. He smirks into his coffee.
Training room? Shirtless. Library? Shirtless—with a book, like he’s trying to look scholarly about it. Once, he even opens the door like that when you knock.
You stare at him for a solid two seconds before covering your eyes. “Is this—are you doing this on purpose?!”
“Doing what?” Loki tilts his head, completely innocent. “Existing?”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he steps a little closer, voice dropping just enough to make your heart trip, “you keep finding me.”
You peek through your fingers despite yourself. Big mistake.
He notices immediately. Of course he does. That smirk returns—slow, victorious. “Ah,” he murmurs. “There it is again.”
Your face somehow gets even hotter. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” And annoyingly? He sounds very sure of that.
—
He doesn’t stop after that. If anything… he gets worse. But now there’s a pattern—you rolling your eyes, pretending not to look… and him very deliberately making it difficult not to. A silent game. One he’s clearly winning. And honestly? He loves it.
Summary: don't be in his way when he sees you. [wc 1.1K] [ao3]
Warnings: soulmate au, a smidge of angst, otherwise fluff
Request: @sellyoursoulforagoodname So like. . . soulmate AU with Adult Zuko . . . or perhaps my boy Haymich . . . . perchance? (first time requesting from you so forgive me if I've fucked it lmao, just lmk if I need to edit)
The first words your soulmate ever says to you appear somewhere on your body. For most people, it’s something sweet. Something simple.
Hello.
What’s your name?
I’ve been waiting for you.
Yours?
They showed up like a scar.
“Don’t get in my way.”
—
You remember the day they appeared. Sharp, dark lettering curling along your wrist like it had always belonged there. You were young enough to hope it meant something else—something better.
Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was playful. Maybe your soulmate was… intense. You built a hundred softer meanings around it. You had to. Because the alternative? Was that somewhere out there was a person who would look at you—your soulmate—and see you as an obstacle.
Years pass. You learn to hide it. Sleeves. Bandages. Casual movements that keep your wrist turned away from prying eyes. Because people talk. And when they see your words, they don’t smile the way they do for others. They hesitate. They pity.
—
You meet him during a moment that doesn’t feel like fate. It feels like survival. Everything is chaos—shouting, heat, the sharp crack of something burning too close—and you’re trying to get out of the way when you collide with someone. Hard.
You stumble back, heart racing — and then you hear it. Low. Sharp. Frustrated.
“Don’t get in my way.”
Your entire world goes quiet. No sound. No movement. Just the echo of those words—your words—ringing in your ears. Slowly, like your body already knows before your mind catches up, your gaze drops to his face.
The scar is the first thing you notice. Angry. Uneven. A mark that tells a story you don’t know yet. But his eyes—they’re what hold you. Golden. Intense. Flickering with something you can’t quite place. Anger, yes—but beneath it? Something deeper. Something tired.
His expression shifts. Noticing. Tracking the way you’ve gone completely still. The way your hand has drifted—instinctively—to your wrist. His gaze follows. And when he sees i everything changes.
You watch it happen in real time. The irritation fades first. Then the sharpness. Then something else slips through the cracks—something raw, something almost… horrified.
“No,” he says under his breath.
Not angry. Not defensive. Just—struck.
Your throat tightens. Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t soft or gentle or magical. It’s heavy. Awkward. Too real.
“You…” your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. “You said—”
“I know what I said.” It’s quick, but not harsh. More like he’s cutting himself off before it gets worse. His eyes flick back to your wrist. Then away. Like he can’t stand to look at it for too long.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds, quieter now.
And somehow? That hurts more. Because he doesn’t know you. He couldn’t have meant anything else.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, forcing your hand to drop back to your side. “It’s fine,” you say automatically. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him look at you again. Really look this time. And whatever he sees, he doesn’t like it.
“It’s not fine.” The words come out low. Firm. Not arguing with you. Correcting you.
A strange silence settles between you. Not empty. Just… full of things neither of you knows how to say yet.
“I’m—” he starts, then stops. Zuko. He doesn’t strike you as someone who apologizes easily. But you can see it—the way he’s struggling with it, like the words don’t come naturally. “I didn’t know it would be you,” he finishes instead.
It’s not an apology. But it’s honest. And with him? That might matter more.
You swallow, nodding faintly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I figured.”
That should be it. The moment. The end of it. But it isn’t. Because he doesn’t leave. And neither do you.
Days pass. Then weeks. Somehow, you keep ending up in the same places. The same paths crossing over and over again like the world is quietly insisting on something neither of you is ready for.
Zuko keeps his distance at first. You can feel it. Measured. Careful. Like he’s trying not to make things worse. But he watches you. Not in a possessive way. In a… thoughtful one. Like he’s trying to understand something he didn’t expect to matter.
The second time he speaks to you directly, it’s different. Softer. “Are you… alright?”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “…yeah.”
A pause.
Then, because you can’t help yourself— “That’s not exactly ‘don’t get in my way.’”
For a second, you think you’ve gone too far. His jaw tightens. His shoulders go stiff. But then— A quiet, almost reluctant huff of breath. “…I’m working on it.”
That’s how it changes. Not all at once. Not in some sweeping, romantic moment. But in small things. He starts showing up. Not announcing himself. Not demanding your attention. Just… there. Walking beside you instead of ahead. Slowing down without saying anything. Making space.
One day, you trip over uneven ground. It’s minor—barely anything—but his hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can fall. “Careful.”
You glance at him, something warm flickering in your chest. “…not in your way?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not anymore.”
Another time, someone shoves past you in a crowded street. Zuko’s reaction is immediate. He steps between you and them, presence sharp, protective in a way that feels instinctive. Effortless. Like it’s always been there.
You start to notice the shift. Not just in what he does— But in how he looks at you. The tension is still there. The intensity. But it’s… different now. Softer at the edges. Like he’s unlearning something. Like he’s choosing something new.
—
“You know,” you say one evening, sitting beside him as the sky burns gold and red, “most people get nicer first words.”
He huffs quietly. “Yeah. I figured.” A beat. “…sorry.”
It’s quiet. Almost reluctant. But it’s real.
You glance at him, surprised. “For what? You didn’t know.”
His gaze drops, expression tightening. “I still said it.”
Something in your chest aches. Because you can see it now— the guilt he carries. The way he holds himself accountable, even for things he couldn’t control.
“You’re not that person anymore,” you say softly.
He looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe that. “…I’m trying not to be.”
You shift a little closer. Not much. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. “You’re doing a pretty good job.”
There’s a long pause.
Then, carefully like it matters more than he wants to admit— Zuko lets his shoulder lean into yours. “You’re not in my way,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
His gaze flicks to you, steady. Certain. “You never were.”
Request: @eleniblue Shirtless Men Loki Request: Loki notices Reader always staring at him even when she thinks he doesn't notice. Loki decides to tease her by having her "accidentally" catching him shirtless. She blushes in embarrassment. Loki then makes sure she always sees him shirtless.
Summary: you keep running into loki shirtless... you know he's doing this on purpose. [wc 386] [ao3]
Warnings: shirtless loki
A/N: this is ALOT smaller than what i wanted it to be,.. but meh.
Shirtless Men Series
You really thought you were subtle. You weren’t.
Loki had noticed it days ago—the way your gaze lingered just a second too long whenever he moved, how you’d suddenly find something very interesting on the floor or wall the moment he looked your way. It was almost… charming.
So naturally, he decided to have fun with it.
The first time it happens, it’s completely “accidental.”
You turn a corner in the compound—and freeze. Loki stands there, mid-motion, pulling a shirt over his head… except he hasn’t gotten that far yet. The fabric is still in his hands, and for a moment, he’s just there. Bare shoulders, pale skin, completely unbothered.
Your brain short-circuits. “Oh—! I didn’t—I mean—sorry!” You spin around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, face burning.
Behind you, there’s a pause. Then a soft chuckle. “You do realize,” Loki says smoothly, “that walking away now only makes it more suspicious?”
You refuse to turn back around. “I said I was sorry!”
“And yet,” he continues, voice laced with amusement, “you’re still standing there.”
You bolt.
It keeps happening. Too often. He’s in the kitchen one morning—no shirt, casually leaning against the counter like this is completely normal.
You walk in. Walk right back out. He smirks into his coffee.
Training room? Shirtless. Library? Shirtless—with a book, like he’s trying to look scholarly about it. Once, he even opens the door like that when you knock.
You stare at him for a solid two seconds before covering your eyes. “Is this—are you doing this on purpose?!”
“Doing what?” Loki tilts his head, completely innocent. “Existing?”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he steps a little closer, voice dropping just enough to make your heart trip, “you keep finding me.”
You peek through your fingers despite yourself. Big mistake.
He notices immediately. Of course he does. That smirk returns—slow, victorious. “Ah,” he murmurs. “There it is again.”
Your face somehow gets even hotter. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” And annoyingly? He sounds very sure of that.
—
He doesn’t stop after that. If anything… he gets worse. But now there’s a pattern—you rolling your eyes, pretending not to look… and him very deliberately making it difficult not to. A silent game. One he’s clearly winning. And honestly? He loves it.
Request: Please could you try creating an angsty Deanarthur? Dean's world famous self esteem issues (THANKS DAD) related angst but Arthur won't stand for it. He can drag in any of the usual Spn crew in to help. Maybe ending on an emotional note? That would be lovely please and thank you 🍒 @inimitablebiscuit
Summary: Dean feels worthless after losing a kid on a hunt. Arthur calls in reinforcements to help him cope. [wc 1.2K] [ao3]
Dean doesn’t say it outright at first. He never does. It shows up in smaller ways—quieter, harder to pin down. The way he shrugs off praise like it’s a bad joke. The way he disappears after hunts instead of sticking around. The way his laughter sounds… thinner.
Arthur notices. Of course he does. Arthur Ketch notices everything. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”
Dean doesn’t even look up from the bottle in his hand. “Yeah? Adds character.”
Arthur stares at him from across the bunker library, unimpressed. “You’ve been back for six hours,” Arthur says coolly. “And in that time you’ve managed to avoid medical attention, proper conversation, and apparently, any semblance of self-preservation.”
Dean takes a slow drink. “You done?”
“No,” Arthur snaps. That gets Dean’s attention. Barely—but it’s something. Arthur crosses the room in sharp, precise steps, grabbing Dean’s wrist before he can pull away. “You’re injured.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s never the point with you,” Dean mutters, trying to yank his arm back.
Arthur doesn’t let go. Of course he doesn’t. “Then enlighten me,” Arthur says, voice low now. Controlled in that dangerous way. “What is the point, Dean?”
Dean laughs—short, bitter. “You wouldn’t get it.”
Arthur’s grip tightens. “Try me.”
There’s a beat. A long one. Dean looks at him—really looks this time—and something cracks just slightly at the edges. “…it doesn’t matter,” he says, quieter now.
Arthur goes still. Because that tone? That’s not deflection. That’s something worse. “It does matter,” Arthur says, softer—but no less firm. “You matter.”
Dean huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, that’s—no. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That,” Dean gestures vaguely, frustration bleeding through now. “Say things like that like they’re true.”
Arthur blinks. Once. Slow. “…they are true.”
Dean pulls his arm free this time—but not to leave. To pace. Restless. Agitated. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters. “You didn’t see—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
Arthur watches him carefully. “See what?”
Dean shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Dean—”
“Nothing, okay?” he snaps, louder now.
Silence falls heavy between them. Arthur exhales slowly. He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone.
Dean frowns. “…what are you doing?”
Arthur doesn’t look up. “Solving the problem.”
“What problem?”
Arthur presses call. “You.”
“Don’t—Arthur—”
Too late. “Hello, Samuel,” Arthur says crisply into the phone.
Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve gotta be kidding me—”
“No, I assure you, I’m quite serious,” Arthur replies, eyes still locked on Dean. “Your brother is being insufferable.”
A pause.
Arthur’s expression darkens. “Yes. Again.”
“Ketch,” Dean warns, low.
Arthur ignores him. “Mm. Yes, I’ll put you on speaker.” He does.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice crackles through.
Dean closes his eyes. “I hate both of you.”
“Yeah, well, get in line,” Sam shoots back. “What the hell is going on?”
Dean doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.
Arthur tilts his head slightly. “He refuses to acknowledge that he’s injured,” he says calmly. “Or that his continued existence holds any value whatsoever.”
Dean scoffs. “Wow, dramatic much?”
Sam goes quiet on the other end. Too quiet. “…Dean,” Sam says carefully, “what happened on that hunt?”
Dean clenches his jaw. “Nothing.”
“Dean.”
“Drop it, Sam.”
Arthur steps closer again, voice cutting in—sharp, unrelenting. “No,” he says. “We will not be dropping anything.”
Dean turns on him. “Stay out of it!”
“No.”
The word lands like a gunshot. Dean freezes. Arthur doesn’t back down. Not even a little. “I have watched you throw yourself into danger without hesitation,” Arthur says, voice tight now, controlled but burning underneath. “I have tolerated your recklessness, your stubbornness, your complete disregard for your own well-being—”
“It’s called doing the job—”
“It’s called self-destruction.”
Silence. Heavy. Final.
Dean’s breath stutters. Just slightly.
Arthur steps closer. Slower this time. More careful. “…you think I don’t see it?” he says, quieter now. “The way you treat your life like it’s expendable. Like it’s already over.”
Dean doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
“Say something,” Sam murmurs from the phone.
Dean ignores him.
Arthur doesn’t. “Tell him,” he says.
Dean shakes his head.
“Tell him,” Arthur repeats, firmer.
Dean’s hands curl into fists. “…I messed up,” he mutters finally.
Arthur doesn’t let it slide. “How?”
Dean swallows. Hard. “There was a kid,” he says, voice rough. “Possessed. I—I hesitated.”
Arthur’s expression shifts—just slightly. “And?”
Dean laughs—but it breaks halfway through. “…and I was too slow.”
Silence.
Sam inhales sharply. “Dean…”
“He died,” Dean finishes, barely audible now.
The room feels smaller. Tighter. Like it’s closing in. Dean drags a hand through his hair, pacing again, spiraling faster now that it’s out. “That’s what I do, okay?” he says, words coming quicker, harsher. “I mess things up. People get hurt. Or worse.”
“Dean—”
“I’m serious, Sam. It’s—it’s a pattern. You ever notice that?” he laughs again, hollow. “Everyone around me? They don’t exactly get happy endings.”
Arthur moves. Fast. He grabs Dean’s jacket, yanking him to a stop. “That is enough.” Dean startles, eyes snapping to his. Arthur’s expression is different now. Not controlled. Not detached. Furious. “You will not reduce yourself to a tally of tragedies,” Arthur snaps. “Do you understand me?”
Dean blinks, thrown.
“You think you’re the only one who’s made mistakes?” Arthur continues, voice rising. “The only one who carries guilt? I have done things that would make your ‘pattern’ look like a minor inconvenience.”
Dean opens his mouth— Arthur doesn’t let him speak. “And yet,” he presses, grip tightening, “I am still here. I am still trying. I am still—” he falters, just for a second. Just enough.
Dean notices. Of course he does. “…why?” Dean asks, quieter now.
Arthur exhales sharply. Because that’s the question, isn’t it? “…because someone once decided I was worth saving,” Arthur says finally. “Even when I didn’t believe it myself.”
A beat.
His gaze locks onto Dean’s. “And now I’m returning the favor.”
Dean’s throat tightens. “…I’m not worth it.”
Arthur’s grip hardens. “Yes. You are.”
“No, I—”
“Yes,” Arthur cuts in, voice low and fierce. “You are. And I will not stand here and listen to you argue otherwise like some petulant child.”
Sam lets out a quiet, almost relieved breath over the phone. “…thank you,” he mutters.
Arthur ignores him.
Dean’s eyes are glassy now. He looks away. “…you don’t know that.”
Arthur softens. Just a fraction. “I do,” he says.
“Based on what?”
Arthur doesn’t hesitate. “…based on the fact that you’re still trying.”
That lands. Hard. Dean’s shoulders slump, tension draining out of him all at once like something finally gave way. “…I couldn’t save him,” he whispers.
Arthur’s grip loosens—but doesn’t let go.
“You cannot save everyone.”
“I should’ve—”
“You tried.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
Arthur’s voice softens, but there’s steel in it still. “It was all you had.”
Dean finally looks at him again. Really looks. And there’s something different there now. Not fixed. Not healed. But… quieter. “…I hate this,” Dean mutters.
Arthur huffs, almost amused. “Yes. Growth is often quite unpleasant.”
A weak, reluctant huff of laughter escapes Dean. It’s small. But it’s real.
“Dean?” Sam cuts in gently.
Dean sighs. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
A pause.
Dean glances at Arthur. Still there. Still steady. Still refusing to let him fall apart alone. “…yeah,” Dean says finally. “I think—I think I will be.”
Arthur releases him then. But his hand lingers for just a second longer than necessary. Grounding. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’m not finished arguing with you yet.”
Dean snorts, scrubbing at his face. “Yeah, I figured.”
And this time, when the silence settles, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.
If you post any mcu or Spn content (gifs, fics) PLEASE reblog/comment or like this so I can follow you 🥺🥺 need more gifs on my blog and I’m am DESPERATE or even if you tag your faves 🥺🥺🥺
Request by anon: Anonymous asked: Hey, I have a Castiel request, hope it’s ok! They say if you hear a high pitched ringing in your ears sometimes it’s angels near you-what if readers always had that on and off but once she meets Castiel realises the ringing sound is to do with him where he’s always been around watching over her 🥰❤️
Summary: you finally find the reason for your pains. [wc 837][ao3]
Warnigns: fluff, first time meetings
The ringing had always been there. High, thin—like the world holding its breath too long. Doctors called it harmless. “Probably just tinnitus,” they said, tossing the word around like it explained everything. Like it meant something.
But it didn’t feel harmless. It came and went in strange moments. Not loud enough to hurt—just enough to interrupt. To make you pause mid-step, mid-thought, like something unseen had brushed past you.
When you were little, you used to ask your parents about it.
“Do you hear that?”
They never did.
So you learned to live with it. It got worse when you were alone. Late nights. Quiet rooms. That soft, persistent ringing threading through the silence like it belonged there more than you did.
Sometimes, you swore it felt… intentional. Like it wasn’t random. Like it was watching you back.
The first time you saw him, it was deafening. Not the room. Not the city. Him. The moment he stepped into your space, the ringing spiked—sharp and overwhelming, like glass vibrating on the edge of shattering. You clutched your ears, stumbling back.
“Make it stop—!”
And then there was nothing but silence. Silence. Complete. Sudden. Wrong.
You looked up. And there he was. Trench coat. Disheveled. Eyes too blue, too knowing—locked onto yours like he had been searching for you for a very long time.
“I apologize,” he said, voice low, steady. “I didn’t intend to cause you distress.”
You blinked. “…you—what?”
“The sound,” he clarified. “You perceive it when angels are near.”
Your stomach dropped. “No,” you shook your head, stepping back again. “No, that—that’s been happening my whole life.”
A pause.
Something flickered across his face. Not confusion. Not quite. Recognition. “I know.” The words didn’t land all at once. They settled. Slow. Heavy.
“What do you mean you know?” your voice came out smaller than you wanted.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that unnervingly focused way. “I have been assigned to you for a long time.”
Your chest tightened. “Assigned…?”
“To observe. To ensure your safety.”
A beat.
“…you’re joking.”
“I do not joke.”
Right. Of course he didn’t.
You laughed anyway—but it cracked halfway through. “That ringing—” you swallowed, hands trembling slightly now, “—you’re telling me that’s you?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between you. Except it wasn’t silent. Because now that you were really paying attention, there it was again. Soft. Faint. Lingering just beneath your thoughts. And it wasn’t random. It shifted when he moved.
Your breath caught. “…you’ve always been there.”
Not a question.
His gaze softened—just barely. “Yes.”
Memories hit you all at once. Every quiet night that felt less lonely than it should’ve. Every moment you thought you were being watched—but never felt afraid. Every near-miss. Every almost accident that somehow didn’t happen. Every time the ringing got louder right before something went wrong—and then faded when you were safe again.
“You’ve been watching me?” your voice trembled now, but not from fear. Something else. Something deeper.
“I have.”
“For how long?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Since you were a child.”
That should’ve been terrifying. It should’ve sent you running.
But instead. your eyes stung. Because suddenly, every moment of unexplained comfort made sense. You were never alone. Not really. “…why?” you whispered.
It wasn’t accusation. It was something softer. Fragile.
His answer came just as quietly. “Because you were never meant to be unprotected.”
The ringing swelled again—but this time, it didn’t feel intrusive. It felt… Warm.
You took a slow step closer.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t look away.
“…so every time I heard that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “that was you near me?”
“Yes.”
“…even when I thought I was completely alone?”
A pause.
Then, softer, “you were not.”
Something in your chest gave way. You laughed again, but this time it was wet, breathless. “That’s—” you wiped at your eyes quickly, embarrassed, “—that’s kind of creepy, you know.”
“I have been told that before.”
“…but you still did it.”
“Yes.”
Another step closer. Close enough now that the ringing was stronger—but not overwhelming. Just… present. Like him.
“…did you ever want to talk to me before this?” you asked quietly.
His expression shifted again—something almost human flickering through. “Yes.”
Your heart skipped. “…then why didn’t you?”
His answer was simple. “I was not permitted to.”
That hurt more than you expected. “…but you wanted to.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
You looked at him for a long moment. Really looked. At the way he stood too still. The way his eyes searched yours like he was still learning how to see you up close instead of from a distance. Like this—you—was something new, even after all this time. “…well,” you said softly, stepping the last bit closer, “you’re allowed to now.”
The ringing steadied. Not sharp. Not overwhelming. Just there. Constant. Grounding. And for the first time in your life— It didn’t feel like noise. It felt like him.
Summary: Thor's still having nightmares about the events on the ship and losing his people. You calm him down. [WC 922] [AO3]
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort
Request Hey! I'm here to request a Thor x reader fic where Thor has a nightmare about when Thanos took over his ship, and he has to relive it and watch everyone die again. This time, you also get killed. he watches you die in his arms, but then he wakes up and you comfort him. Thank you!! @ nonny
The ship is too quiet. That’s the first thing Thor notices. Not the kind of quiet that brings peace—no, this is the suffocating kind. The kind that presses against his ears, that makes his skin crawl. The kind that means something is wrong.
“Stay close to me,” he tells you, voice low, tight.
You nod, your hand already in his. Warm. Alive.
He clings to that. Then— A sound. Metal groaning. A scream. Everything shatters at once.
The ship erupts into chaos—Asgardians running, pleading, falling. Smoke floods the corridors, thick and choking. Thor turns, searching, trying to find his people, to gather them, to protect— but he already knows.
He remembers. “No…” he breathes, voice cracking.
Not again. Not this.
The air shifts. Heavy. Ominous. A presence that steals the breath from his lungs before he even sees him.
Thanos.
Towering. Unstoppable. Inevitable.
Thor steps in front of you instantly, pulling you behind him. His grip tightens around your hand like he can anchor you to this world through sheer will alone.
“Do not let go of me,” he says, sharper now. Desperate.
“I won’t,” you promise.
But the universe has never been kind to Thor’s promises.
The attack is merciless. He fights—gods, he fights—but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands. Every blow he lands means nothing. Every scream around him cuts deeper than the last.
And then, just like that, you’re gone. Your hand slips from his. Thor whirls around, panic slamming into him like a physical force. “Y/N?!”
There you are—on the ground.
No. No, no, no. He’s at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees so hard it barely registers. He gathers you into his arms, lifting you, cradling you against his chest like he can somehow piece you back together just by holding you close enough.
“Stay with me,” he begs, voice breaking. “You must stay with me—”
Your hand trembles as it reaches for his face. Even now… you’re smiling at him. “Hey…” you whisper.
“No,” he chokes. “No, do not—do not speak like that. You will be fine. I swear it. I swear it—”
“Thor…” Your fingers brush his cheek, smearing something warm. Blood. He doesn’t care. He leans into your touch like a man drowning. “You have to let me go.”
“I will not!” His voice cracks into something wild, something unrecognizable even to himself. “I have lost everything. I will not lose you as well—do you hear me?!”
Your eyes soften, heartbreakingly gentle. “You won’t,” you whisper.
And that’s when he realizes.
This is how it happened. This is how it always happens.
“I am here,” he says quickly, frantically, like he can outrun fate if he speaks fast enough. “Look at me. Stay with me—stay—”
Your hand slips. Your body goes still. And something inside Thor shatters beyond repair. “No.” It comes out hollow. “No… no, no—!” He pulls you closer, shaking, his forehead pressing against yours as if he can force life back into you through sheer closeness.
“I was not strong enough,” he whispers, voice collapsing under the weight of it. “I was not fast enough… I failed you…”
Everything goes silent again. Just like before. Just like always.
Thor wakes with a violent gasp. His entire body jerks upright, breath tearing out of him like he’s been drowning. His chest heaves, his hands gripping at nothing—searching, searching— “Y/N—!”
“I’m here.” Your voice. Soft. Real. Alive.
He freezes. Slowly—hesitantly—he turns his head. And there you are.
Sitting up beside him, eyes wide with concern, your hands already reaching for him. Alive.
“You’re here…” he breathes, like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“I’m here,” you repeat gently, moving closer. “Hey… it’s okay. It was just a nightmare.”
A nightmare. But it felt so real. Too real. Thor’s hands come up, almost unsure, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you too suddenly. But then you take them yourself, pressing them against your cheeks.
Warm. Breathing. Real.
The sound he makes is somewhere between a sob and a broken exhale as he pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it almost hurts. You don’t complain. You just hold him back.
“I saw you,” he murmurs into your hair, voice shaking. “I saw you die, again… in my arms. I could not save you. I could not—”
“Hey,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to cup his face. “Look at me.” He does. Reluctantly. Fearfully. “I’m right here,” you say softly. “I’m okay. Nothing happened. You didn’t lose me.”
His eyes search yours, desperate, like he’s trying to find any sign that this isn’t real either. “You promise?” he asks, and it’s so small, so unlike him it makes your chest ache.
“I promise.” You guide his hand to your heartbeat, steady beneath his palm. “See? Still here.”
Thor lets out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against yours. His eyes close, and for a moment, he just stays there, grounding himself in you. “I do not know what I would do if I lost you,” he admits quietly.
Your arms wrap around him again, softer this time. “You won’t,” you murmur. “Not tonight. Not ever, if I can help it.”
He almost smiles at that—almost. Then he pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest, one hand still resting over your heart like he needs the constant reassurance.
Summary: you never assumed doing laundry would be the death of you. [wc 1.3K] [Ao3]
Warnings: fluff, humor, shirtless Thor
Shirtless Men Series
You agreed to train with Thor. That was your first mistake. Your second mistake was assuming it would be normal.
“Balance,” Thor declared, pacing in front of you like some overenthusiastic golden retriever in a warrior’s body. “Strength. Awareness. These are the pillars of battle!”
You nodded, stretching your arms. “Great. Awesome. Love pillars. Where’s your—” You turned. Paused. Blink. “…shirt?”
Thor followed your gaze down at himself like he’d only just noticed. “Ah,” he said, completely unconcerned. “I removed it.”
“I can see that,” you said. “I’m asking why.”
He rolled his shoulders, muscles shifting like he was actively trying to make your life harder. “It restricts movement.”
“It absolutely does not restrict—Thor, you have worn shirts into literal war.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “And I have since learned.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, proud. Glowing, even.
You turned away, dragging a hand down your face. “This is already a disaster.”
“Come,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Strike me.”
“I’m not—what?”
“Attack,” he clarified, spreading his arms slightly. “I will not defend.”
“That feels like a trap.”
“It is not.”
“That feels like a lie.”
Thor grinned. “Then prove me wrong.”
You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself. You could do this. Ignore the… everything. Focus. You lunged forward. You did not make it two steps before your brain went, wow that is a lot of exposed skin, and your timing completely fell apart.
Thor caught your wrist easily. Too easily. “You hesitate,” he noted, tilting his head.
You tried to pull free. “No, I don’t.”
“You do,” he said, stepping closer. “Your eyes wander.”
“They do not wander.”
“They wander,” he repeated, very calmly, as his thumb brushed—lightly—against your pulse point.
Your breath hitched. Traitor. “I am literally looking at your face,” you argued.
“For now,” he said.
Oh, he was enjoying this.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“This,” you gestured wildly at him. “All of… this.”
Thor leaned in just slightly, voice dropping into something softer, warmer. “If my presence unsettles you,” he said, “perhaps you should train harder.”
You scoffed. “Oh, I will.” You yanked your wrist free and tried again—faster this time, sharper.
He blocked. Of course he did. Again. You tried again. Blocked. Again— He caught you by the waist this time, momentum pulling you straight into him.
You froze.
There was a very noticeable lack of fabric between you and him.
Thor looked down at you, eyes bright, amused, entirely too aware. “You are improving,” he said.
You stared up at him. “Put a shirt on.”
“No.”
“…Thor.”
“Again,” he said instead, already stepping back, already resetting like this wasn’t completely unfair.
You groaned, but followed. And the worst part?You kept trying.
You were being productive. You wanted that to be known. This was a rare moment of responsibility—laundry sorted, detergent measured, everything running smoothly. You even folded a few things already, stacking them neatly on the table like someone who absolutely had their life together.
Peaceful. Quiet. Functional.
Then Thor walked in. “…have you seen my tunic?”
You didn’t even look up at first. “Depends. Which one?”
“The red one,” he said.
You nodded, still focused on folding. “Gold trim?”
“Aye.”
“In the washer.”
There was a pause.
Then, “…you have placed it in the spinning water machine.”
You finally looked up. And immediately wished you hadn’t. Because there he was. Tall. Damp-haired from a recent shower. And very, very shirtless. You blinked once. Twice. Processing error. “…you’re not wearing anything.”
“I am wearing trousers,” Thor corrected, glancing down briefly.
“That is not the point!”
He frowned slightly. “It seemed unnecessary.”
“Clothing is not unnecessary, Thor, it’s—” you gestured helplessly. “—standard!”
He stepped closer, peering into the washer like it had personally betrayed him. “How long does it remain trapped within?”
“It’s not trapped,” you said. “It’s being cleaned.”
“It did not request this.”
“You didn’t wash it!”
“I intended to.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious. You grabbed the nearest towel and shoved it into his chest. “Here. Use this.”
Thor looked at it. Then at you. “…why?”
“Because I can’t—just—cover yourself!”
He draped it over his shoulder.
You made a noise of pure frustration. “That is not covering anything!”
“It is present,” he argued.
“That is not the same!”
Thor smiled then—slow, amused, dangerously entertained. “You are flustered,” he observed.
“I am not flustered.”
“You are speaking louder.”
“I always speak this loud!”
He stepped closer. Too close. Water from his hair dripped onto your arm. You absolutely noticed. “I did not realize Midgardian laundry came with such… consequences,” he said.
You crossed your arms, refusing to back up. “The consequence is that you learn to own more than one shirt.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Or none at all.”
“No.”
“It is efficient.”
“It is not efficient!”
“It saves time.”
“It causes problems!”
Thor leaned in slightly, voice lower now, teasing. “What problems?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “…this,” you said finally, gesturing between you.
He glanced down. Then back up. “And what is this?”
You felt your face heat. “You being impossible.”
Thor laughed bright, loud, completely delighted and finally, finally, took the towel and actually draped it properly around himself.
“There,” he said. “Compromise.”
You exhaled. “Thank you.”
A beat.
“…you’re still staring.”
“I am not!”
He grinned.
You hated him a little.
The sky didn’t warn you. One second it was clear, the next there was rain. Heavy. Sudden. Cold enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
“Are you kidding me—” you gasped, sprinting for the nearest overhang, already soaked through by the time you made it. You wrung out your sleeves, shivering. “Great. Perfect. Love this.”
Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. And then you noticed him. Of course. Thor stood in the middle of the courtyard like he belonged to the storm—head tilted back, eyes half-closed, rain pouring over him like something summoned.
“Thor!” you called. “Get over here!”
He turned, hair already slicked to his shoulders, expression bright. “You hide from it,” he called back.
“Yes, because I don’t have a death wish!”
He laughed. Actually laughed. And instead of coming toward you, he lifted his arms slightly like he was embracing it. “You Midgardians deny yourselves simple joys!”
“Hypothermia is not a joy!”
“It is refreshing!”
“IT IS FREEZING!”
He finally started walking toward you. Slowly. Very slowly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. And then, because apparently the universe had decided you didn’t deserve peace, he reached up, grabbed the collar of his already soaked shirt… …and pulled it off.
You stared. You absolutely stared. Rainwater traced down every line of him, catching the light, and your brain just— “…why,” you said weakly, “would you do that.”
“It was already wet,” he said simply.
“That is not—how is that your solution?!”
He stepped under the overhang with you, close enough that you could feel the cold radiating off him. “You are shivering,” he noted.
“Yes, because I’m human!”
“Then take this,” he said, draping the soaked shirt over your shoulders.
You recoiled. “It’s wet!”
“So are you.”
“That doesn’t make it better!”
Thor tilted his head, studying you. Then, very gently—he adjusted it anyway, pulling it more securely around you. His hands lingered for half a second longer than necessary. “You are warm,” he murmured.
“I’m literally not.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
You glared up at him. “That’s not because of the temperature.”
“Mm.” He didn’t move away.
Rain hammered against the ground just beyond the overhang, loud enough to fill the silence that suddenly settled between you.
You became very aware of how close he was. Of the way water still dripped from his hair. Of the fact that he had, once again, no shirt.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you said quietly.
Thor’s mouth curved slightly. “Perhaps.”
You huffed, looking away—only for him to reach out and gently tilt your chin back toward him.
“You could step away,” he pointed out.
“…I could.” You didn’t.
Thunder rolled again, softer this time. And Thor—still smiling, still entirely too pleased—leaned just a fraction closer.
Request: @saiyanprincessswanie Hi it’s me again. does a little wave I’m thinking of Mobster Thor x Female Reader. Childhood friends separated by the rise of the family business but reunite as adults. “You’re mine, and I’ll burn everything down before I let you go."
Summary: you come back home after being years away. Only to see what's been made of your childhood best fried Thor. [wc 963] [ao3]
Warnings: reunion, Mafia Lord Thor, Childhood friends, angst
The first time you see him again, the world doesn’t feel real. It’s loud—too loud. Glasses clinking, bass humming through the floor of the upscale club you never would’ve stepped foot in years ago. But none of that matters, because across the room Thor is staring at you like you never left.
He’s bigger now. Broader. Sharper in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with power. The kind that stains a man from the inside out. His suit is immaculate, tailored like a second skin, but it does nothing to soften him.
If anything, it makes him more dangerous.
And his eyes— God. You remember those. Golden, warm, once filled with laughter as he dragged you through muddy streets, hands sticky with stolen candy, promising you the world like it was something he could just give you. Now? Now they look like they’ve already taken it.
“…You shouldn’t be here,” someone mutters beside you. You don’t even register who.
Because Thor is moving. People part for him without being asked. That’s new. That’s wrong. He used to be the one knocking into others, grinning, unapologetic. Now the room bends around him like he owns the air. Maybe he does.
Your heart is pounding too fast by the time he stops in front of you.
For a second—just a second—you think he might smile. But he doesn’t. “…Took you long enough.”
Your breath catches. That voice hasn’t changed. Still deep, still threaded with something warm beneath the rough edges—but there’s steel in it now. Something unyielding.
“I didn’t know you were back,” you manage, though it sounds weak even to your own ears.
A flicker crosses his face. Not anger. Not quite. Something worse. “You didn’t look.”
The words land heavier than they should. You swallow. “Thor—”
“Do not.” His tone drops, quiet but absolute. “Do not say my name like you did not vanish without a word all those years ago.”
Guilt stabs, sharp and familiar. “I was a kid. We both were. Things changed—”
“They did,” he cuts in. And then he steps closer. Too close.
The air shifts. Tightens. Your back nearly brushes the bar, but you don’t move—not when his hand comes down beside you, caging you in without touching you.
“I stayed,” he says, voice low. “I fought for every inch of what my father built. I bled for it.” His jaw tightens, eyes searching yours like he’s looking for something buried. “And you?” he continues. “You disappeared to Gods only knows where for years. You left me without so much as a goddamn goodbye.”
You want to argue. To defend yourself. To explain the fear, the way your family pulled you away when his name started getting whispered in the wrong circles, when “Odinson” stopped meaning neighbor and started meaning power.
But none of that comes out. Because there’s something in his expression that stops you. Something raw.
“…I thought it was better,” you admit quietly.
A mistake.
You see it the second his face hardens.
“Better?” he echoes, almost disbelieving. “To leave me in that world alone?”
Your chest tightens. “You weren’t alone, Thor—you had your family, your men, your—”
“I had no one who knew me before it.” His voice cracks—not loudly, but enough. Enough to feel like something breaking beneath the surface. “No one who remembered who I was before I became… this.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Dangerous. Then his hand finally moves—not to grab, not yet—but to tilt your chin up just slightly. Enough that you can’t look away.
“And now you stand here,” he murmurs, softer now, but somehow more terrifying. “After all these years… like you think you can simply walk back into my life.”
Your pulse stutters. “I didn’t come here for you,” you whisper, even as your body betrays you, leaning into the warmth of his presence.
A lie.
He knows it. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “No,” he agrees quietly. “But you are here now.” And then his grip tightens. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind. To claim. “You always did have a way of finding me.”
Your breath comes shallow. “Thor…”
His thumb brushes your jaw, rough, grounding, devastatingly familiar. “You’re mine.”
The words are quiet. Certain. Not a question. Not even a demand. A fact.
Your stomach flips, something tangled between fear and something far more dangerous. “You don’t get to decide that,” you manage, though it comes out weaker than you’d like.
For a moment, he just looks at you. Really looks. And then something dark flickers behind his eyes. “Don’t I?”
The music swells around you, but it feels distant—like the world is falling away, leaving just the two of you caught in something inevitable.
His forehead nearly touches yours now, voice dropping to something that feels like a promise carved in stone. “I built an empire from nothing,” he murmurs. “I have torn men apart for less than what I feel for you.”
Your breath hitches.
“And you think,” he continues, softer still, “that I will let you walk away again?”
Your heart is racing too fast, your thoughts slipping. “I’m not the same girl you knew—”
“Neither am I.” There’s no hesitation in it. No apology. Just truth. And then— His hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you just close enough that you feel his breath against your lips. “You’re mine,” he repeats, voice low, unsteady in a way that betrays just how much this matters to him. And then, quieter—more dangerous than anything he’s said yet: “And I’ll burn everything down before I let you go out of my site ever again.”
Request by anon: Anonymous asked: Hey, I have a Castiel request, hope it’s ok! They say if you hear a high pitched ringing in your ears sometimes it’s angels near you-what if readers always had that on and off but once she meets Castiel realises the ringing sound is to do with him where he’s always been around watching over her 🥰❤️
Summary: you finally find the reason for your pains. [wc 837][ao3]
Warnigns: fluff, first time meetings
The ringing had always been there. High, thin—like the world holding its breath too long. Doctors called it harmless. “Probably just tinnitus,” they said, tossing the word around like it explained everything. Like it meant something.
But it didn’t feel harmless. It came and went in strange moments. Not loud enough to hurt—just enough to interrupt. To make you pause mid-step, mid-thought, like something unseen had brushed past you.
When you were little, you used to ask your parents about it.
“Do you hear that?”
They never did.
So you learned to live with it. It got worse when you were alone. Late nights. Quiet rooms. That soft, persistent ringing threading through the silence like it belonged there more than you did.
Sometimes, you swore it felt… intentional. Like it wasn’t random. Like it was watching you back.
The first time you saw him, it was deafening. Not the room. Not the city. Him. The moment he stepped into your space, the ringing spiked—sharp and overwhelming, like glass vibrating on the edge of shattering. You clutched your ears, stumbling back.
“Make it stop—!”
And then there was nothing but silence. Silence. Complete. Sudden. Wrong.
You looked up. And there he was. Trench coat. Disheveled. Eyes too blue, too knowing—locked onto yours like he had been searching for you for a very long time.
“I apologize,” he said, voice low, steady. “I didn’t intend to cause you distress.”
You blinked. “…you—what?”
“The sound,” he clarified. “You perceive it when angels are near.”
Your stomach dropped. “No,” you shook your head, stepping back again. “No, that—that’s been happening my whole life.”
A pause.
Something flickered across his face. Not confusion. Not quite. Recognition. “I know.” The words didn’t land all at once. They settled. Slow. Heavy.
“What do you mean you know?” your voice came out smaller than you wanted.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that unnervingly focused way. “I have been assigned to you for a long time.”
Your chest tightened. “Assigned…?”
“To observe. To ensure your safety.”
A beat.
“…you’re joking.”
“I do not joke.”
Right. Of course he didn’t.
You laughed anyway—but it cracked halfway through. “That ringing—” you swallowed, hands trembling slightly now, “—you’re telling me that’s you?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between you. Except it wasn’t silent. Because now that you were really paying attention, there it was again. Soft. Faint. Lingering just beneath your thoughts. And it wasn’t random. It shifted when he moved.
Your breath caught. “…you’ve always been there.”
Not a question.
His gaze softened—just barely. “Yes.”
Memories hit you all at once. Every quiet night that felt less lonely than it should’ve. Every moment you thought you were being watched—but never felt afraid. Every near-miss. Every almost accident that somehow didn’t happen. Every time the ringing got louder right before something went wrong—and then faded when you were safe again.
“You’ve been watching me?” your voice trembled now, but not from fear. Something else. Something deeper.
“I have.”
“For how long?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Since you were a child.”
That should’ve been terrifying. It should’ve sent you running.
But instead. your eyes stung. Because suddenly, every moment of unexplained comfort made sense. You were never alone. Not really. “…why?” you whispered.
It wasn’t accusation. It was something softer. Fragile.
His answer came just as quietly. “Because you were never meant to be unprotected.”
The ringing swelled again—but this time, it didn’t feel intrusive. It felt… Warm.
You took a slow step closer.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t look away.
“…so every time I heard that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “that was you near me?”
“Yes.”
“…even when I thought I was completely alone?”
A pause.
Then, softer, “you were not.”
Something in your chest gave way. You laughed again, but this time it was wet, breathless. “That’s—” you wiped at your eyes quickly, embarrassed, “—that’s kind of creepy, you know.”
“I have been told that before.”
“…but you still did it.”
“Yes.”
Another step closer. Close enough now that the ringing was stronger—but not overwhelming. Just… present. Like him.
“…did you ever want to talk to me before this?” you asked quietly.
His expression shifted again—something almost human flickering through. “Yes.”
Your heart skipped. “…then why didn’t you?”
His answer was simple. “I was not permitted to.”
That hurt more than you expected. “…but you wanted to.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
You looked at him for a long moment. Really looked. At the way he stood too still. The way his eyes searched yours like he was still learning how to see you up close instead of from a distance. Like this—you—was something new, even after all this time. “…well,” you said softly, stepping the last bit closer, “you’re allowed to now.”
The ringing steadied. Not sharp. Not overwhelming. Just there. Constant. Grounding. And for the first time in your life— It didn’t feel like noise. It felt like him.
