#Custom Home Door Mats

[choerrypuffs]

red velvet hearts.

pairing: bad boy!donghyuck x baker!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

synopsis: you patch up a boy with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, only to find out that he has quite the sweet tooth.

author’s note: why do i keep injuring hyuck in all my fics lmao??? anyways i tried to write his character a bit differently than i usually do to challenge myself so please let me know how you guys like it! also remember, ladies: this is fiction. you cannot fix him <3

warning(s): brief description of injuries, mentions of violence, maximum amounts of cringe and melodrama

playlist: all my ghosts by lizzy mcalpine ― heart eyes by coin ― close to you by gracie abrams ― sidelines by phoebe bridgers ― the alchemy by taylor swift

RECIPE 1. TIRAMISU

“This is not what I meant when I said you need your back blown out.” 

“Not funny. I almost died,” you grumble as you wrap the back brace around your torso. You hate the immediate relief you feel from the support it provides, no longer able to tell yourself that it’s really not as bad as it seems―which only makes you angrier. 

“Throwing your back out while lifting a giant bag of flour and nearly getting crushed to death by said flour is genuinely the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Yeri, your best friend (derogatory), snorts as she shakes her head. “I wish you had cameras in the storage room because I want to see that shit so bad.”

“Thank you for the brace. You can get the hell out now.” You roll your eyes. 

“So, what are you going to do now? Aren’t you swamped with orders?” Yeri asks, ignoring you completely. 

You have no clue what you’re going to do now. It isn’t just orders you have to worry about fulfilling; it’s also the freshly baked pastries that you have to sell every morning. After a year of blood, sweat, and tears, the bakery that you built from the ground up is finally starting to gain some stable business. So, of course, you chose now of all times to try to lift a bag of flour over your shoulder like you were Dwayne The Rock Johnson. 

“I think I’ll have to hire some temporary help,” you answer begrudgingly. 

“You could sound less like someone is holding you at gunpoint,” Yeri snorts, “Come on. It had to happen sooner or later anyway.” 

“I was handling things just fine on my own.”

“Were you, though?” Yeri raises an eyebrow, gesturing to your current state. 

You fear you walked right into that one. “Shut up and help me make some posters.” 

The two of you eventually manage to whip up some haphazard “Help Wanted” posters, the letters written in glitter pen and Yeri’s clumsy bubble text. You tried your best to fill in the empty gaps on the construction paper by placing Pompompurin stickers that you normally give to customers’ kids all over it. The posters look like a nine-year-old girl’s school project gone wrong, but you hope it’s charming enough to catch some attention. 

By the time you and Yeri finish hanging up all the posters, the sun is already starting to set, and all you want to do is go home and put a heating pad on your back. After saying bye to Yeri, you start making your way back to the bakery to lock up. Once you arrive, you notice a figure dressed in black slumped over in front of the door. You can see their shoulders rise up and down as they take in labored breaths, leaning against the glass door for support. 

Every rational fiber in your being screams at you to not approach the stranger alone, but it’s not like you can just leave this person at the front of your place of business. Cautiously taking a step forward, you squat down to eye level with the stranger, wincing slightly from back pain. Through the sweaty and matted mess of his brown fringe, you can see that the stranger is a young man around your age. However, his face is absolutely battered: bloody (and almost certainly broken) nose, split lip, black eye swollen shut, and a jagged cut on his cheek. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t show it, keeping his head hung down.

Gingerly placing a hand on his arm, you give him a small shake. “Excuse me? Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?” 

His brows furrow, and he opens an eye (the only one he’s probably able to open) with a wince before lifting a finger and putting it against his lips. You notice that his knuckles are completely scraped raw. 

“Not so loud. I’m okay,” he answers. 

“You don’t look―” 

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles with a guttural growl that slowly drawls into a sputtering gurgle before dying out all together―leaving a long silence to hang between the two of you.

After another beat, he gives you a sheepish smile. “You got anything to eat?” 

You stare at him for a moment; his face is flushed, pink all the way down to his neck. 

And like a stupid horror movie character who opens the door to a room that clearly screams danger, you nod. 

.

.

.

Fortunately, he―Donghyuck, as he introduced himself―ends up not being a crazy ax murderer. 

Unfortunately, you find yourself awkwardly sitting in your closed bakery with a virtual stranger, fiddling with a first aid kit while watching him absolutely devour a piece of leftover tiramisu that you had in your fridge. If the situation wasn’t so insane, you might actually think it was pretty funny. For someone who looks the way he does, this current picture of Donghyuck absolutely doesn’t suit him―bruised chipmunk cheeks stuffed with ladyfingers and cocoa powder stuck on his split lip. 

When he’s finished, Donghyuck looks over at you with a mesmerized expression on his face, as if you just fed him ambrosia. There’s a softness to his face that you didn’t think could exist underneath all that grime and dried blood. 

“That was…delicious,” he breathes. 

“Thanks,” you snort, pushing a glass of water towards him. Unsurprisingly, he chugs it in the blink of an eye. “I still think you should get those injuries checked out, though.” 

“Nah, I’ll rub a little spit in them and it’ll be fine,” he shrugs. 

“Don’t be gross,” you sigh, scooting your chair closer to him as you set the first aid kit on the table. “Now, come here.” 

Donghyuck reluctantly dips his head, and you carefully cup his jaw for support, disinfecting and applying ointment on the cuts and scrapes on his face. You also clean up the dried blood near his nostrils and on his bottom lip, and he doesn’t flinch even when you accidentally brush tender areas like his broken nose or the gash on his mouth. Instead, he stays perfectly still, leaned back in the chair with his forearms resting on his thighs and fingers nonchalantly laced together. 

He keeps his gaze trained on something past your shoulder, and you also try your best to focus, but it’s hard to keep yourself from staring―especially when his demeanor has changed so much. He’s so calm and quiet in such a cold, ruthless manner, as if he’s physically steeling himself from pain―like he’s done this a million times before. Occasionally, you feel his eyes swipe across your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and it occurs to you how close the two of you are. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the heat of his skin against your palm and fingertips, and you rip your hand away from his jaw. 

Clearing your throat, you move onto his hands, dabbing his raw knuckles with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol before placing large band-aids on them. Despite your best efforts, it’s hard not to notice how slim his long fingers are or how surprisingly clean his nail beds are for someone who’s covered in blood. You keep your head completely bent, fighting the urge of looking up and possibly meeting his eyes. 

“There, all done,” you announce a little too loudly. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, “for the cake and for this. For helping me.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t do much,” you blurt, still avoiding eye contact as you clean up the table. However, you notice in your peripheral that his gaze follows your movements, almost hesitantly, before he asks: 

“So, you’re hiring?” 

You click the first-aid kit shut, blinking a few times before turning back to him. He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

“I―yeah. How did you know that?” you ask, puzzled by such a random question. 

Donghyuck points at a poster that you didn’t even know you left here, sitting on the table right behind you. You realize that he was probably looking at it while you were patching him up. 

“That poster that says ‘help wanted.’ With the Pompompurin stickers. I’m actually in between jobs right now, so if you would have me―”

“You know Pompompurin?” you interrupt him. It’s not that important and should not stand out to you as much as it does. Yet, you can’t help but grin at the fact that someone like him knows about a tubby Golden Retriever character with a name that sounds like a mashup of the English language’s most adorable onomatopeias. 

Donghyuck trails off, stiffening as if you just found out his deepest, darkest secret. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to speak but unable to formulate a response―an excuse, rather. Instead, he just lets out an airy cough, putting a hand over his mouth and turning away from you in an attempt to obscure his face. Despite his best efforts, he can’t hide his glowing red ears and the way his earlier coldness melts away.

“I―yeah,” he responds, words slightly muffled by his hand. 

You struggle to maintain your composure as you gnaw on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. Fighting a smile in your voice, you finally say: 

“The pay won’t be that much, but you’ll get a bunch of free desserts at the end of the day. Are you okay with that?” 

It takes him a moment to process that you’re offering him the job, and you watch his eyes light up and a warm smile overtake his face. There’s still a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, clashing with the purple bruising and swelling of his injuries. 

“I’d love nothing more.”

Suddenly, it occurs to you that Donghyuck somewhat reminds you of a tiramisu. 

He may look a bit rugged and grimey, bitter like coffee, but in actuality, underneath it all, he’s soft and fluffy (but not too sweet) like a mascarpone filling. 

RECIPE 2. BLUEBERRY PIE

“Are you out of your mind?”

You cringe away from your phone, hurriedly turning the volume down. “Damn, you don’t have to scream like that.” 

“You should be the one screaming,” Yeri hollers. “I better not come over one day and find your body stuffed in the freezer or something.”

“I thought you wanted me to hire someone!” 

“Not some random dude off the side of the street who was covered in injuries and doesn’t even have any baking experience,” Yeri hisses. 

“I don’t need him to bake. I just have him working the front counter and doing all the heavy lifting when I get my ingredient shipments,” you protest. “Did you think I would really just hand over all my orders to some random dude and go party it up in Cancún or something?” 

Yeri is silent for several seconds before asking, “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

“What?”

“So you did know what I meant when I said you needed your back blown out.” You can hear the smugness in her voice. 

“Yeri,” you say tiredly, “please be serious.”

“I am serious. You’re the one being unserious,” she retorts. “Yesterday, you acted like you would rather sacrifice your firstborn child before hiring a part-timer, and now look at you. Dickmatized.” 

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“So, when do I get to meet him―”

You quickly hit the button to end the call and shove your phone into your pocket, letting out an exasperated sigh. You definitely won’t be hearing the end of that for a while. Your face feels warm for some reason, and you decide that you need a coffee break. After you finish making it, you pour yourself and Donghyuck a cup. 

You peek your head out from the curtain that separates the kitchen and the front counter to see if Donghyuck is busy. He’s politely chatting with an elderly woman, and your eyes nearly pop out of your head when he takes out the entire tray of egg tarts in the glass display and wraps it up for her. The woman happily hands him a wad of bills and waves him goodbye. After putting the cash in the register, Donghyuck turns around and catches you in the middle of gawking. 

“Oh, Y/N. I was actually just about to head back there. We’re out of egg tarts for the display,” he says nonchalantly. 

“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” you whisper loudly, “Was that Mrs. Kim? Why the hell did she order a dozen egg tarts? That woman can barely finish a single cookie.” 

Donghyuck blinks, clearly confused, whispering back, “She asked for my recommendation, so I said egg tarts since no one had bought any yet, and she said she would take all of them.” 

You pause, things finally clicking. Grinning knowingly, you say, “You know, having you work the front is doing wonders for sales.” 

“I don’t understand.” He furrows his brows. 

You laugh, handing him his cup of coffee. “I’m talking about your face card, Donghyuck. You’re too handsome, so you’re flustering the customers.” 

“Are we not whispering anymore?” he asks awkwardly. “Besides, that’s not true. Look at the state of my face right now.” 

His injuries have faded significantly, but the bruising and cuts are still there. You want to tell him that superficial wounds can’t mask the warmth in his caramel-brown eyes, the fullness of his cheeks and the sharp jawline, and the air of mystery that enshrouds him and draws people in. 

But you don’t. 

“Well, for someone who’s only been working here for two weeks, you’re doing superb. Injuries or not.” 

And it’s true. You’ve always preferred to work alone because you’re the only one who understands how you want things done. You naturally assumed it would be a hassle and a waste of time to try to explain to someone else when you could just do it yourself, but Donghyuck never seems to need an explanation. In fact, he knows before even you. 

He gets to the bakery three hours before you, cleans and preps all the equipment you need for the day, unloads the ingredient shipments, and is already manning the front counter by the time you arrive like it was no big deal at all. He also seems to have a sixth sense of knowing when you’re about to do something you shouldn’t be, even though you downplayed your back injury. He’s somehow always there―moving all the stuff you keep on the top shelf to somewhere within your reach even though you insisted that the rickety wooden step stool you use is perfectly safe, cleaning up a glass beaker that you accidentally shattered, taking out the trash during his breaks, checking in on you when you skip lunch. He even turned down his first paycheck, saying it’s repayment for patching him up and feeding him. 

Donghyuck is so perfect that sometimes you wonder if you’re being set up, like maybe he’s secretly embezzling money from the cash register―which would be a more viable theory if he didn’t drive an Audi to work everyday. 

“Thanks for the compliment. And the coffee,” Donghyuck says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He gingerly takes a sip and makes a strangled noise, a mixture being choking and retching, before slapping a hand over his mouth. 

“Are you okay? Was it too hot?” you ask worriedly. 

“No, it’s just…really bitter,” he mumbles, words muffled in his hand. 

“Oh,” you blink, “Sorry. I drink black coffee, so I forgot to ask if you wanted creamer and sugar. Come on, there’s some in the back.” 

The two of you head to the kitchen, and you watch him dump an exorbitant amount of creamer and sugar in his coffee, the dark roast swirling into something more akin to milk tea.

“You know, there might be some chocolate milk in the fridge if you’d rather that,” you tease. 

His head shoots up, those doe eyes lighting up. “Really?” 

“No,” you trail off awkwardly, “Sorry, I'm just messing with you.” 

It’s a bit adorable that you can visibly see him being disappointed in there not being chocolate milk before growing embarrassed, looking down at his cup. He turns away from you, but you can see the flush on the back of his neck. 

“You really have a sweet tooth, huh?” you laugh. 

“Pretty lame, right?” 

“Why would that be lame? You’re talking to someone who owns a bakery, in case you forgot.” 

Donghyuck smiles at you, and it’s sugary sweet like buttercream frosting. He looks at you like you just said the most wonderful thing in the world; in fact, he always makes you feel like that, no matter what you say or do. “I guess you’re right.” 

“What’s your favorite dessert?” you blurt, needing a distraction urgently. 

He pauses briefly. “I don’t think I have one.”

That actually surprises you. “You don’t? Even though you love sweets so much?” 

He laughs, the sound harsh and rough, and it almost makes you flinch. “I’ve never really had an opportunity to have many until now.” 

There’s clearly weight behind his words, but you know you’re not in a position to ask any further. A selfish part of you wants to be important enough to him that you are in a position to know more, but you’re all too aware about him very purposefully keeping you at arm’s length. 

“Well, you have plenty of time to find out,” you quickly continue, pretending not to notice. “Actually, I’m going to a blueberry farm tomorrow because I’m thinking about adding blueberry pie to the menu. When I get back, I’ll bake one for you, and you can be the first to taste test it!” 

“You’re going by yourself?” Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course. Who else would I go with?” 

“Me. I’ll go with you,” he replies immediately. 

“But it’s, like, a forty-five-minute bus ride to the farm. Plus, coming with me to get ingredients isn’t part of your job description anyway,” you explain. 

“I can’t come with you on my own free time?” he asks, tilting his head. “Besides, I’m worried about you overexerting yourself with that back injury. A bumpy bus ride definitely isn’t going to help, so I’ll drive us there.” 

“You’re going to drive that fancy ass car to a farm? You do realize it’s going to be dirt roads, right?” You cross your arms. 

“I think I’ll live. Besides, what makes you think this is the only fancy ass car I own?” He gives you an amused smile. 

“You’re joking, right?” You stare at him. 

He hesitates for a moment. “Yes.” 

“That doesn’t sound―”

“What time are we leaving tomorrow morning?” 

“...Seven.”

.

.

.

Unsurprisingly, Donghyuck picks you up right on time, not a minute too early or late. As the universe would have it, it rained the night prior―meaning all the dirt roads are now rivers of mud. You wince every time you heard a splat of mud hit Donghyuck’s pristine white car, but he seems to pay no mind to it. The two of you arrive at the farm within twenty minutes (he found a shortcut), and because you came so early, you get the entire farm to yourselves. The staff arms both of you with a large wicker basket each before setting you loose onto the massive property. 

“Okay, make sure to pick the fat ones. The small ones are super tart, so avoid those,” you instruct Donghyuck. “We’re going to fill these baskets to the brim and get our money’s worth.” 

“You got it, Captain.” He salutes. 

You give him a determined nod and a thumbs up before turning to your respective side and beginning to pick the blueberries. The two of you work without much fanfare or conversation, and it’s a silence that lingers between you comfortably. It reassures you to hear the sound of the bushes rustling from Donghyuck working; his companionship alone relaxes you. 

Eventually, when the sun starts peeking through and the weather grows warmer, both of you decide to take a break. You find a spot in the shade before sitting down, pulling out snacks and bottles of water from a backpack Donghyuck brought along. 

“I have a surprise for you,” you tell him, trying to hide a smile. “Close your eyes.” 

He eyes you suspiciously but does so anyway. You fish out a handful of unripe blueberries wrapped in a handkerchief from your pocket and feed some to him. His reaction is nearly instant the moment he starts chewing them; you watch as his face puckers up from how sour they are and his entire body shrivels into itself, a shudder running through him. He’s polite enough to not spit them out, but you’re not polite enough to resist pointing and laughing at him. Throwing your head back, you laugh so hard that your stomach starts to hurt. 

“Oh my God, your face!” 

“Ugh,” Donghyuck groans, taking a big gulp of his water. “I should’ve known you had sinister intentions from the start.” 

“I didn’t think you’d react like that,” you finally manage to say after catching your breath. “You really can’t handle anything except for sweet stuff.” 

“Are you having fun bullying me?” He rolls his eyes. 

“So much fun,” you say in a sing-song voice. 

Donghyuck tries to continue feigning annoyance, but he can’t help the low chuckle that rumbles in his chest. His eyes always soften when he looks at you, and his gaze is intimate like a lover’s―gentle, tender, unwavering, and vulnerable. But his warmth is always fleeting, and he only allows you glimpses of it through the unmoving walls that he’s erected around himself. 

You wish he wouldn’t indulge you so, terrified you’ll try to cross the line he’s drawn between the two of you. 

“What are you thinking about?” Donghyuck asks, trying to read your expression

“About the delicious pie I’m about to make when we get back,” you smile. 

“I see,” he responds, though it’s clear he isn’t convinced. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You better be. This is how I’m paying you back for driving me here,” you nod. 

“Instead of that, pay me back by telling me what your favorite dessert is,” he suddenly says. “I do still want the pie, though.” 

“That was random,” you snort. “Why do you want to know my favorite dessert?”

“Because you asked me, but you never told me yours.” 

You suppose he has a point, but you find it ironic that he wants to know more about you when he refuses to offer you even a modicum of information about himself. Despite this, you tell him anyway because you are obviously the fool here. 

“If you must know, it’s red velvet cake,” you sigh. 

“Why?” 

You don’t answer at first, carefully thinking about if you’re ready to be vulnerable in front of him―still a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger who loves sweets. A virtual stranger who is a bit of a messy eater. A virtual stranger who knows Pompompurin. A virtual stranger who worries about you even when he’s not on the clock. A virtual stranger who gently tells you to be careful whenever you try to do something dangerous, whispering, “I’ll do it instead.” A virtual stranger who allows his luxury car to be caked in mud for you. 

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life,” you finally say. “I baked it for my mom’s birthday, and I think I ended up being more excited than her.” 

Donghyuck stays quiet, gauging your reaction. 

“I was in college, studying to be a doctor like everyone else in my family. So, like a dumb young person who thought that dreams were more important than money, I dropped out of college and went to culinary school. My parents told me I was ruining mine and their lives, disowned me, yada-yada―a bunch of depressing stuff, you know. Eventually, I graduated, took out a huge loan, and opened up my own bakery. Worked a bunch of part-time jobs until my business could stand on its own. Now here I am. Still in debt, though,” you laugh awkwardly. “But I’m not doing too shabby. I was able to hire you, so at least I have a little cash to spare.” 

He still doesn’t say anything, so you find yourself starting to ramble. You’re really not sure what possessed you to trauma dump on him like that. 

“You know, a lot of people talk shit about red velvet cake because they say the only thing that makes it special is the red food coloring,” you hurriedly explain, “but that’s not true. The cream cheese frosting is super important too. Also, I always say love is the most important ingredient of all. As a baker, you’re kind of baring your heart to the customer, and isn’t it kind of cute that red velvet cake is red like a heart? Okay, please say something now or else I think I’m going to projectile vomit.” 

Donghyuck reaches over and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. His fingers brush over your temple, which makes you sharply suck in a breath. You almost lean into his touch, but you catch yourself. His hand slightly lingers on the side of your neck, like he wants to bring your face closer, but he eventually pulls away. 

He searches your face, and you’re not sure what he’s looking for―if anything. Rather, perhaps he’s not searching. Perhaps he’s committing your features to his memory, as if the way you look right now is something he wants to remember forever. 

“You’ve worked hard, Y/N,” he says softly, voice slightly hoarse. “This is long overdue, but congratulations. You achieved your dream, and don’t let anyone ever discount that. Not even yourself.” 

You wonder how long you’ve waited to hear that. You’re not even sure you knew you needed to hear that. But when Donghyuck says it, it hits you just how long and hard you’ve worked all on your own without a single break. Throughout the years, you’ve really only ever heard, “I’m sorry that happened.” When was the last time someone congratulated you? When was the last time you congratulated yourself? 

You surge forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in his shoulder. Donghyuck cradles you against him, one hand wound tightly around your waist while the other is tangled in your hair. You can feel his chest rise up and down as he holds you. He smells like lavender soap and a bit earthy from being outside, and the warmth of his skin against your cheek makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep in his arms. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“No, thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. 

You’re not sure why he’s thanking you instead, but what you are sure of is that you’re crossing the line, taking a step towards him and wondering if he’ll meet you halfway. 

.

.

.

“Tada!” you announce cheerfully, setting down the freshly baked blueberry pie onto the table. 

Donghyuck claps excitedly. “Holy shit, it looks amazing.” 

“I’m still trying to figure out the right portions for the filling, so let me know if you think there’s too much or little,” you tell him as you hand him a slice. 

Without even answering you, he stabs his fork into the pie and almost eats the entire slice in one bite, seemingly unbothered by the steam still rising from it. 

“Be careful. You’re going to burn your tastebuds off. I’m not letting you eat it for shits and giggles, you know. This is for research purposes.” You cross your arms. 

“It’s perfect, Y/N. I’m serious,” Donghyuck says after swallowing. “The filling isn’t too sweet, and the crust is airy and light.” 

“Well, alright, Gordon Ramsay. I think we’re going to be adding a new menu item then,” you smile. “Think you can get Mrs. Kim to buy a dozen of these?”

“I don’t think she’ll need much convincing with how good these taste.” 

“You’re so easy,” you tease. “All I need to do is feed you. Anyways, I’m going to clean up here, but you should head home. It’s getting late, and you wake up way earlier than me.” 

“I’ll help,” he insists. 

“Go,” you order, pointing at the door. “I can handle it.” 

He looks conflicted but eventually relents when you threaten to physically kick him out. Before he leaves, he turns back to you and says, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Why do you keep thanking me?” you laugh. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had this.”

“What? A blueberry pie?”

Donghyuck pauses, a slight wonder in his expression, as if he’s realizing his answer for the first time as well.

“Peace.” 

And you think maybe this is a step forward for him too. 

RECIPE 3. CREAM PUFF

It’s quite surreal how easily and naturally you and Donghyuck fall into a routine together. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, two weeks becomes two months. You’ve learned the little things about him, like how he always swipes some icing before you can fill up the piping bag or that he’s not a coffee drinker at all (more of a hot cocoa person) or that he purses his lips when a dessert he’s testing tastes off (no matter how hard he tries to hide it) or that he involuntarily sticks his arm out in front of you when he wants to stop you from doing something you shouldn’t. 

You also notice that he sometimes comes into work with injuries. They’re not nearly as bad as the first time you met him, but it’s hard to ignore a bruised cheek or bloodied knuckles. He always has a reason for them, whether it’s tripping down the stairs or accidentally falling down and scraping his hands on the concrete. You can tell by the way he laughs it off that he doesn’t plan on telling you the truth, so you laugh with him. The two of you, having taken only a step towards one another, find yourselves completely immobile now. 

He always does this: envelops you like a cloud but disappears the moment you reach out for him. 

You’re honestly not sure why he’s still here. Your injury has long healed, and he clearly doesn’t need the abysmal pay you’re giving him. He feels like he’ll slip away at any moment, fleeting like a warm spring breeze, and you suppose time flies by when you know it’s limited. Despite knowing that, you can’t help but desperately want him to stay. 

“I think it’s cute how hard he’s working,” Yeri randomly says one day as she eyes Donghyuck prepare orders in the front. He’s in the middle of a lunchtime rush, so he doesn’t even notice the two of you watching him like weirdos.

“Well, that’s what I’m paying him to do,” you reply, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, I think the money is the least of his worries here,” she hums, taking a sip of her coffee. 

She has a point, but you’re pretty sure she’s implying something else as well. Just as you go to ask her what exactly she means, you hear a loud clatter. Flinching, you turn your attention back to Donghyuck and realize that he’s dropped a tray on the floor. However, the tray is the last thing on your mind when you see the expression on his face. It’s a mixture of horror, anger, and almost sadness―like he’s finally come face-to-face with whatever he’s been running from. It makes your blood run cold. 

Donghyuck is looking at a boy around his age; the boy has dark hair, a mole under his eye, and a grim expression. More importantly, he’s covered in injuries too. 

“Who is that?” Yeri whispers. “Why does Donghyuck look like he’s seen a ghost?” 

Maybe because he has, you want to tell her. 

Donghyuck grabs the boy's arm, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and mumbles something to him. When he turns around and meets your eyes, he looks pained and fearful as if you witnessed something you shouldn’t have.

“Is it okay if I take my break early today?” he asks calmly, though the tremor in his voice gives him away. 

You nod hesitantly, unable to force yourself to speak. You watch him as he drags the boy out; when he passes you, you can tell how tightly his body is wound right now. His jaw is clenched, a muscle spasming as he tries to control himself, and every step he takes seems labored. He’s running on pure adrenaline right now, like he’s physically steeling himself. 

However, you don’t think he’s ever appeared so incredibly alone before. As you watch his back disappear further and further from your view, you’re unsure if he’ll ever return, and you never imagined how terrifying that would be. 

.

.

.

The cream puffs aren’t rising.

You’re crouched in front of the oven, watching the dough remain flat and lifeless. You should’ve known better than to attempt to make cream puffs on such a shitty day, especially when pastries like these are so sensitive to the environment and atmosphere. Even though you know you should probably just scrap them and try again, you wait for just a little longer, hoping that maybe if you wish hard enough that they’ll magically start to rise. 

But then again you suppose that no matter how hard you try, no matter how careful you are, no matter how perfect the batter is, no matter how much time you spend time piping them, no matter how much you want them to rise, they won’t. 

You decide that Donghyuck isn’t like a tiramisu at all; he’s sensitive and delicate and elusive and frustrating like a cream puff. 

“Y/N, they’re burning.” 

Losing your balance and nearly falling over, you gasp loudly. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear Donghyuck walk into the kitchen, nor did you smell the undeniable scent of something being burnt to a crisp. 

“Oh, fu―!” you curse, hurriedly opening the oven and casually suffocating both you and Donghyuck with a hot plume of air. Sputtering, you look around and grab a random rag from the sink before reaching for the cream puffs. 

“Wait, stop!” Donghyuck stops you with an outstretched arm, his hand pressed to your side. “Let me do it.” 

He gently takes the rag from your hand and removes the tray of charred cream puffs from the oven, dumping them into the trash before putting the tray in the sink and running some water on it―just how you like it. 

Letting out a relieved sigh, he turns back to you and asks, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to make a mistake like that. You didn’t get burned anywhere, did you?” 

When you don’t answer immediately, Donghyuck rushes forward and grabs your hands, carefully examining your fingers and arms. “Wait, are you hurt? Where? Tell me where you got burned. We have to cool it down with some lukewarm water. And don’t just say you’re fine. Burns are not a joke, Y/N―why are you looking at me like that?” 

His hands are calloused and rough, and you can still see scabs from where he tore his knuckles, yet he touches you like you’re the delicate one. He’s covered in fresh and old wounds, yet he looks so panicked at the thought of you having a scratch. 

“Shut up,” you whisper furiously, ripping your hands away from him. “From now on, don’t ask me another question. It’s my turn to ask you questions.” 

He blinks, a bit stunned by your reaction, but it’s clear he knows what you’re about to say. He goes to reach for you again but decides against it. “Okay.” 

“Who was that guy?” you demand. “Why are you always covered in injuries? Why did you lie to me? Who are you?” 

“He’s an old friend,” Donghyuck starts quietly. 

“Do you treat all your friends like that?” 

“When I don’t want to see them.” 

You wait for him to continue.

“Before I met you, he and I and a few of our other friends worked…odd jobs for cash,” he explains, and he looks like he’s choking on every word. “The jobs usually entailed us hurting people and also getting hurt. I did a lot of shit I wasn’t proud of. At the time, I didn’t really care. It was just nice to feel something, whether it was the adrenaline rush from doing the punching or the pain from being punched. I got a bunch of money, bought a bunch of expensive stuff, but none of it mattered. Eventually, I just felt nothing again. I didn’t even have the energy to loathe myself anymore. So, I took one last job, got the shit kicked out of me, and then I left. That’s when you found me―”

He inhales, and his eyes flicker towards you. He gazes at you so longingly, as if you were impossibly out of his reach, that you can’t help but involuntarily take a step towards him. 

But he steps back. 

“I thought that working here would make me feel like a human being again, but I didn’t realize how much I would―” He pauses again. “I thought working here would be a nice reset for me, but I naively thought that I could completely leave my past behind. My friends eventually found me, and I guess I care about those reckless assholes more than I thought because they managed to convince me to take on a few more jobs with them. That’s why I’ve been coming to work with injuries. But I’m done. I cut them off for good when they walked into this bakery. I don’t want…I don’t want our past to tarnish this place. I want to keep this place a beautiful, warm, and pure safe haven that you worked so hard for it to be. That’s why I lied to you, Y/N. I’m a coward to the bone, and I was envious of you. I was ashamed to admit it to you. You, who had the courage to chase after your dream. You, who had the kindness to help a good-for-nothing asshole like me. I only want you to have happy memories from now on, and I am not one of them.” 

“Are you going to leave?” you ask softly. 

“I probably should,” he answers shakily. 

“What’s stopping you?” 

“Just…one reason.” 

“When you say it like that, it makes it sound like the reason is me.” 

Donghyuck laughs bitterly, and his eyes drag across your face like every movement hurts him.

“You know it’s you. It’s always been you.” 

When you reach for his hand, he turns away like just the warmth from your body heat burns him. So instead, you take a step back. 

“I won’t ask you to stay, Donghyuck, I won’t chase you. I’m going to wait right here, and it’s up to you if you're going to meet me halfway.” 

RECIPE 4. RED VELVET CAKE

When your alarm clock goes off the next morning, you seriously consider just not showing up to work. It’s not like you can be fired for being a no-show when you’re your own boss, after all. 

And it’s not like you have any employees who will be expecting you. 

You’ll just apologize to Mrs. Kim and your other regulars later. You’re allowed to have a day where you just rot in bed and feel sorry for yourself. 

However, no matter how much you tell yourself that, you find yourself crawling out of bed and getting ready anyway. You can’t seem to brutally crush that small glimmer of hope that Donghyuck might still be there, no matter how hard you try. When you see yourself in the mirror, you recoil in horror. Your eyes are almost swollen shut from the amount of crying you did last night, and your face is sallow and lifeless. 

So much for putting on a brave face, you think wryly to yourself. You tried so hard to look tough, when in reality, you bawled your eyes out and even considered praying to God for Donghyuck to stay. It’s a humiliating and humbling reality check. 

“Stand up right now,” you sharply tell yourself in the mirror. “He’s just some guy. Get it together.” 

You do your best to clean up your appearance and make the trek over to the bakery. It takes another internal pep talk before you can make your way to the door. After you finally walk up, you see that the lights inside are off. Your stomach sinks, and your eyes start to burn. Even though you’re holding the handle, you can’t bring yourself to open the door. It’s an outcome that you expected, yet you wonder why it hurts so badly. 

“You liar,” you mumble to yourself, “You said you only wanted me to have happy memories.” 

Once you make your way inside, you numbly head towards the kitchen, trying to remember what exactly you have to do today. Oh right, now that he’s not here, you also have to make sure all the ingredients are prepped first. 

When you walk into the kitchen, you do a double-take. 

The whole place looks like it’s been completely ransacked: used pans and utensils piled up in the sink, two opened boxes of cake mix, containers of ingredients without lids on on the tables, random lumps of flour and egg shells strewn about― 

And right in front of the oven is Donghyuck, flour in his hair and frosting on his nose. He’s holding a cake stand with…you think it’s supposed to be a cake on it? The shape is mangled and haphazardly cut, but it has echoes of a heart. The frosting is a hot mess, as if a bird with diarrhea shat all over the cake. The batter is clearly underbaked and makes the cake look gooey in a bad way. 

“Um, I promise I’ll clean all of this up in a second, but I wanted to surprise you,” Donghyuck starts awkwardly. “It’s not perfect, but I tried making a red velvet cake for you.” 

You stare at him, still not sure how to react. 

“You once said that baking is like baring your heart to the customer and that love is the most important ingredient of all,” he laughs softly to himself. “I think love is the only ingredient I managed to get right, but I’m baring my heart to you now, Y/N. I’m sorry I hid everything and lied to you, but I’m in love with you. Hopelessly so. All my life, I’ve chased a feeling, not knowing what it was. But now I do. I don’t think I knew how to feel until I met you. I never once thought I would ever have a purpose in my life, but you make me want to be a normal, proper member of society. Your dream is my dream. I want to wake up at 5AM and sell egg tarts with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.” 

Donghyuck sets the cake down on a table in front of you, and you notice that his fingers are dyed red from the food coloring. It almost reminds you of when you first met him, except his injuries have been replaced with red food coloring, flour, and cream cheese frosting. 

“This cake is terrible,” you smile, “how did you butcher it that badly when you used cake mix?” 

You watch him blush all the way down to his neck, as he sheepishly looks away. “Don’t make fun of me. I really tried my best. I stayed up watching tutorials―” 

Leaning across the table, you cup his face with both hands and kiss him, brushing your thumbs across his cheekbones. He tastes like frosting, hot cocoa, and your prayers being answered. The way he kisses you back is bruising, dizzying and knocking any coherent thought out of your head, his hands finding your hips and anchoring you to him. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest and most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.

When you finally pull away, it takes you a moment to regain feeling in your legs. Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing against yours once again as the two of you try to catch your breath. 

“I think I’m going to have to fire you, though,” you whisper. “You know, with me being your boss and all. The power dynamic is too weird.” 

He hums, pausing for thought. “Then how about I become your business partner?” 

“What?”

Donghyuck reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet, pulling out a shiny and fancy-looking credit card. He hands it to you without much fanfare. 

“I have a lot of money, you know. So I’m going to invest in your business. Use it as you’d like,” he casually announces.

You stare at him, your jaw hanging wide open. He never tried to hide from you that he was rich, but he never told you that he was rich rich. 

“Well, damn! Why didn’t you show me this earlier? I would have forgiven you a lot sooner,” you tease, slapping him on the arm. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? I’m quite the gold-digger, you know.”

“When I told you to use it as you’d like, I meant me as well,” Donghyuck replies, shrugging.

“You’re insane.” You hope he can’t tell how much your face is burning up. 

“I guess I am,” he laughs, and you don’t think he’s ever looked so free. You want to tell him that you hope he only has happy memories from now on too. You want to tell him that you’ll rewrite all of his scars with sugary and fluffy desserts so that they won’t ever hurt again. 

And for the first time in your life, you feel it too.

Peace. 

EXTRA

“So, have you figured out what your favorite dessert is?” 

Donghyuck stirs slightly, groaning, as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. He slips his hand under your shirt (well, technically it’s his shirt) and rests it on your bare hip bone. 

“Why aren’t you asleep?” 

“Because I’m curious.” 

“If I answer, will you let me rest?”

“Depends on how good your answer is.” 

“Blueberry pie. That’s my answer.” 

You smile against the crook of his neck. 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life.” 

[writersdrug]

omg you mind holy wow i love your brain i would never come to lobotomize you omgomg by god i need more bartender!simon you recently mention, maybe abt how they interact and develop? idk i really dont care what exactly you write, i js need any words from you abt bartender!simon

Hmmmmmm I have some headcannons!

You show up for work thirty minutes early because you're NOT risking losing this job.

Simon sometimes lets you bang on the back door for a few minutes, yelling for someone to let you in, until Soap gets tired of hearing it and opens the door. Simon finds it funny.

You think Simon is the owner of the pub until Price comes in one day with cash for your tip payout. You screamed as soon as you saw him walk in through the backdoor, thinking you were being robbed.

Simon barely managed to swing into the kitchen and grab you around the waist before you pummeled Price with an empty beer keg.

Price later told Simon he thought you were a perfect addition to the team.

You do your tips at the end of the bar every night as Simon polishes the glasses across from you. Lets you have one drink on the house.

First floor is the restaraunt/pub, second floor is the pantry/walk-in fridge/office where Price does money work, third floor is the studio apartment where Simon lives (Price discounted it for him).

When it's slow, you and Simon and Johnny all take a smoke break in the alley out back - you don't smoke, but you talk to them while they share a cig, complaining about customers together.

You bring it up to Simon that you've noticed how Johnny always comes to the front of house when Kyle brings the new kegs in, "Simon, need ya to check somethin' - ah, hey, Garrick!"

Simon scoffs at your revelation. "Jus' now seein' that?"

You live ten blocks away from the pub and ride your bike to work. Simon let's you stuff it in the alley for safekeeping.

If you're feeling especially sporty, you pop in your earbuds and take your skateboard. Simon nearly had the breath sucked from his soul when he saw you zipping by the window the first time.

You mop front of house because Simon hates it. Simon restocks the to go boxes because you can't reach the top shelf where the overflow sits.

You tried to pour a lager once when Simon was busier than usual. After watching you attempt it, he banned you from doing it ever again.

You enter Pino grigio in the POS as "peeno greeshio" and Simon hates it, but you love the way Soap cackles from the kitchen when he sees it.

Kyle sometimes sticks around to help you drag the new beer kegs up the stairs, and he shows you how to connect them to the taps.

You're constantly begging Price to set up a Karaoke machine in the corner of the bar. He says when you can afford it, you can buy it.

You broke the soda gun once; you and Soap were frantically filling container after container with tonic water while Simon was on his back under the bar, cursing and trying to turn the water off.

Monday mornings are deep-clean days, and everyone has to participate. You're all wearing sweats and bleach-stained shirts, pulling out the stove, sweeping behind the kegs, dragging the mats into the alley to clean them, emptying the fridge and scrubbing the entire thing.

Simon doesn't like to think too much about how hot you look in your sweatpants, ratty t shirt, and sweaty, flushed skin when you're exerting yourself.

You're constantly thinking about how those sweatpants hug his hips, those muscles in his arms flexing, and the grunts he makes when he's shoving the stove back into its place.

Simon gives you full permission to return any nasty attitude the customers dish at you.

After you go home for the night, Simon often finds himself lying on his bed, one arm behind his head and the other hand on his chest, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the day - and they're all centered around you

[misctf]

Halloween Treats

Trent (right) and Derek (left) took pride in their status as fitness influencers. The young gay couple happily posting their daily adventures and travels to share with their growing fanbase. And the two certainly made sure to drop just enough thirst traps to get people paying attention. They offered supplements, online training, diet recommendations etc. to their customers. And on Halloween, they offered some strong opinions.

“You may be tempted by all the junk food,” Trent said, while walking with his boyfriend, “But if you want a body like this, you gotta resist.” He flexes his bicep to really drive home the point.

“Healthy habits start young.” Derek continues, “Which is why this year, we’re not handing out junk. We’ll be offering healthy choices.”

The two smiled and Trent gives his boyfriend a quick kiss on the cheek. Night came quick, and the two boyfriends happily handed out their healthy snacks to the hordes of trick-or-treaters. A few gave dirty looks, while others outwardly expressed their dismay at the lack of candy. But Trent and Derek felt good. The night was winding down and the two sat on the couch, watching TV. When the doorbell rang, they grabbed their healthy snacks and got ready to greet another trick-or-treater. But when they opened the door, there was no one there. Just two candy bars on their welcome mat.

“Odd.” Trent comments, “What’s this?”

“Oh it’s been awhile since I’ve had one of these.” Derek smiles, holding up the candy bar, “I used to love these when I was a kid.”

“We should probably just toss it.”

“Aw come on, babe.” Derek says, “We’re good all year.”

And before Trent could get another word in, Derek took a bite. A big smile formed on his face and Trent couldn’t help but laugh. His boyfriend was right- they could afford one treat. The two closed the door and went back to the couch, where Trent opened his candy bar. And when he bit into it, he felt a wave of euphoria wash over him. A smile forming on his handsome face.

“Oh wow, that’s good.” Trent mumbles, looking over at his boyfriend. Derek was licking his fingers, having finished his candy bar.

“I kinda want another.” Derek mumbles.

Trent goes to say something, but he pauses. There’s something off about Derek. Since when did his boyfriend have stubble? And did his face look rounder?

“Hey...”

“Ugh, its so warm in here.” Derek continues, pulling off his shirt.

Trent gasps when he sees his boyfriend’s torso. His chiseled abs were covered in a layer of soft fat. His firm pecs were starting to sag. A waft of pungent BO fills Trent’s nostrils.

“Babe?” Trent asks, eyes still wide.

“What...?” Derek looks down and gasps, “Oh my god!” His hands move to his growing abdomen and he gasps as they fill with his growing gut, “Babe! What’s happening...”  He belches and his gut pushes out even further.

“I don’t...” Trent winces when he feels his stomach grumble, “No... oh god no...” He whispers as he removes his shirt and looks down.

His eyes aren’t met by his usual Greek god physique. Instead, he stares at his expanding abdomen, as layer after layer of flab build upon themselves. He can feel its heaviness and the new weight he carriers. And he groans as his toned arms also fill with fat, eliminating his picturesque, toned biceps and triceps. He feels his flabbier arms and cringes. It took years to build up his physique. How was this happening? But his thoughts are interrupted. He scratches at his face as scraggly stubble starts to grow in. He quickly whips out his phone and points the camera at himself.

“This isn’t possible.” He gasps, taking in his new form.

He hates how unkempt his hair and new beard appear. His double chin an unwanted addition to his once chiseled face. He looks lazier- uncaring even. Years of working on his body apparently undone in an instant. He gasps as he feels Derek grab a fistful of his gut.

“Fuck babe...” Derek moans, “I love this.”

Trent can’t believe his ears. But as he looks into his boyfriend’s eyes, he notices something off. They appear dim. Uncaring. Lazy. The spark in them gone. Derek pushes himself so that he is now straddling his boyfriend. Their guts pressed together, their moobs sagging. He kisses Trent, running a hand along his scratchy beard.

“Babe... Derek...” Trent groans, “This isn’t...”

But he can’t get the words out. He instead grabs the jiggly flesh of Derek’s fat ass. It feels so good and Trent can feel his thoughts slowing. His exercise routines are becoming foggy. His strict diet, macros, and healthy lifestyle all start to become jumbled.

“No... please not my memories...” He begs softly, starting to enjoy the way his gut feels. How pleasant it feels pressed against his boyfriend’s.

But he can’t stop it. Any memory of a gym session or a workout routine are lost to him. His favorite meal prep recipes gone. And not just from his mind. All the things he saved to his phone, all his progress in the gym that he tracked diligently- all of it disappears, as if it was never done. Their pantry empties of any healthy snack, instead filling with salty chips and candy. Protein shakes become soda. Their home becoming messy and filled with unwashed clothes and dirty dishes. A new lifestyle in both mind, body, and environment. Trent is initially horrified as a wave of laziness and hunger fill his emptying mind. But the former athlete can do little as he gradually accepts this new life. His grumbling stomach snaps him back to reality.

“Oh babe.” He moans, planting a sloppy kiss on Derek’s lips, “Let’s take this to the bedroom.”

And as the two continued to devour any junk food they could get their hands on, it became clear to them that this was just the beginning. They’d continue to get larger and larger. Unable to do anything to stop it, yet enjoying the feeling of their new flabbier bodies. Besides, Halloween was a time for treats. At least now they’d be able to appreciate that.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Domestic Life

Summary: Glimpses of your relationship with your wives.

Warning: pregnancy and pregnancy symptoms, mission injuries, small amount of angst, fluff

Word count: 7.6k

Note: All italicized parts are flash backs

You were up when the door opened and the sound of little feet entered your room, but you pretended to be asleep. “Be quiet,” Evan whispered. We don’t want to wake mommy.” You wouldn’t classify it as a whisper, but it was quieter than your daughter, Olivia.

“Then help me up,” you heard them struggle to climb onto the bed and felt the blankets move as Olivia used it for leverage; you grabbed it so she wouldn’t fall. Opening your eyes slightly, you watched your daughter, who was the spitting image of your wife, crawl over to you. You moved quickly when she was close enough and trapped her underneath the blanket. Her squeals and laughter echoed in your quiet room. It made the loneliness disappear. “Livie, help me. Help!” It was easier for your son to climb onto the bed and hang off your back. You let go of Olivia, and she was able to free herself.

“Alright, uncle, uncle,” you laughed and lay down on your back, your kids on both sides.

“Are they coming home today?” Olivia asked. You nodded and ran your hand through her long brunette hair. It was rare for your wives to go on missions. They were only used to provide advice, but sometimes, they were needed. It never got easier, and it still filled you with anxiety. You knew it wasn’t easy for them to be away from you and the twins.

*

It was a slow day. Well, every day was slow, but today was unbearable. It had to be the heat. Even if people had car problems, why would you leave the air conditioner? You were surviving on lukewarm water and a hand-held fan. The guys in the back weren’t doing much better, surrounded by cars and tools.

The bell ring startled you since you weren’t expecting anyone to come through the front door. A girl around the same age as you walked over to the desk. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, and her blue eyes were striking. You noticed a few things. Right away, you knew she was not from here. You knew everyone from your small town and the surrounding area. Second, she was wealthy; her wristwatch was more than you made in a year. “Well, hello, stranger,” you said with a smile. “I don’t think I know you.” She looked down at the outfit she was wearing.

“Do I look that out of place?” You shook your head.

“I just know everyone in this small town,” your final observation was that she was attractive. “What can I do for you?” The stranger leaned against the desk.

“I’m having some car trouble, and you guys are the only mechanic,” which was true. It was good for business.

“Pull your car up to the garage, and I’ll have the guys take a look at it,” she thanked you and ran out the front door, almost tripping on the welcome mat. You chuckled and walked to the back. To your surprise, the guys were already pulling in a black BMW, and a blonde stood beside it. She offered you a small smile and turned her attention to the brunette when she approached her. It was unfair how attractive they both were. The dark-haired stranger was wearing a white linen top with faded blue jeans. Her pair of high-top Converse shoes were well-worn. Now, the Blonde wore a yellow plaid skirt and a long-sleeved shirt tucked in. You were shocked that she was wearing a long sleeve in this heat.

While the guys were looking at the car, you offered them water and a place to sit in the area with an AC. You were practicing good customer service not because you found them attractive, not at all.

Their names were Kate and Yelena, and they were passing through on a business trip. The guys said that their transmission needed to be replaced. They blamed the heat, but fixing it would take a few days. Maybe it was a little selfish that you were happy the car would take a few days to fix. You enjoyed your time with the duo every time they came in to check on the vehicle.

You liked Yelena’s dry humor, accent, and the small smile she would give Kate. Kate was cute when she stumbled over her words and was easy to fluster and blush. You knew they would be on their way once their car was fixed. Their time here was limited.

Months passed, and you still thought about the Blonde and brunette. What were they doing? Was Kate annoying Yelena with her music choice? Did they make it safely to their destination? They consumed your thoughts even in such a short time they were in your life.

On a busy day at the shop, two familiar faces walked up to the desk with your go-to coffee order and smiles that still made your heart flutter. Five months after they left, they returned to ask you on a date. It was the fastest, yes, you said.

*

“Mommy, I’m hungry!” Olivia wined. She had Yelena’s appetite; she was always hungry.

“Well, we can’t have that,” you smiled. I’ll start breakfast if you two take the pups out,” the twins agreed and were quick to climb out of bed. You were slower getting up, stretching when your feet touched the ground, and brushing your teeth. By the time you walked into the kitchen, Fanny and Lucky were chasing the twins outside, and their dog bowls were filled with food.

Now, it was your turn to uphold your end of the bargain. You decided on scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast with jam. A simple breakfast that you’ve prepared so many times.

*

Long distance took a lot of work. It consisted of video chat dates, constant text messages, phone calls, and longing to be with your partners. It was a unique balancing act, especially since you were dating two superheroes.

It lasted two months. One day after work, you stumbled into your apartment expecting to find it empty. However, Yelena was there raiding your kitchen. “You have no food,” you jumped at the sudden voice. “Do you not eat”? You stared at the Blonde, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. “I expected you to be happier to see me,” she smirked.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, quickly dropping your bag and closing the distance. You hugged her tight, finally feeling at peace after a long day.

“I missed you,” she said simply and kissed your forehead. “And I want to talk to you about something,” a rush of anxiety passed through you. “All good, I promise. Go clean up while I figure out what to make for dinner.” As you headed to your room, you heard her mumble, “She is as bad as Kate.” That made you smile.

Yelena was able to make a pasta dish. It was better than the TV dinner you were going to heat up in the microwave. Over dinner and a bottle of wine, Yelena asked you to move to New York City. There was nothing holding you here. Your mother passed away, and your father left you when you were five years old. So you agreed. You put your two weeks in and packed up your apartment to move to the big city.

You met their dogs, which you’ve received so many videos and pictures of, started your new job while going back to school, and fell into a routine consisting of you waking up first, making breakfast and coffee, and starting on any schoolwork that needed to be done. Yelena and Kate would do their superhero duties while you went to work. You tried to routine who cooked dinner, but Yelena was the better of you three.

It was a big adjustment for you, but you enjoyed it.

*

While you were loading the dishwasher, the doorbell rang. You racked your brain on who it could be and dried your hands to turn on the tablet connected to the security system. Your wives were a Black Widow and the former CEO of Bishop Security, your home had the best security system. Smiling, you saw who was at your front door. “Olivia, can you get the door for me?” You called and continued to load the dishwasher. Your daughter huffed but stood up from her spot on the couch. You counted down until she figured out who was at the door.

“Auntie Nat! Auntie Ria!” she yelled, and you heard the grunt of your sister-in-law as Olivia threw herself at her.

“What is your mom feeding you?” Natasha questioned. “I feel like you are getting stronger every day.” The door closed behind them.

“Mama is teaching me how to fight!” Olivia told her aunts. You dried your hands and joined the group in the entryway.

“Against my wishes,” you smiled. Evan was already dragging his cousin, Nicholas, outside, and you had enough time to ruffle his hair as he passed. “Not that I’m thrilled to see you guys. I wasn’t expecting company,” you said, giving the couple a quick hug while Olivia dragged their youngest, Lauren, outside to join the others.

“We thought we’d surprise you,” Maria said.

“Are you hungry? I just made breakfast.” Natasha shook her head.

“We ate before we came over,” the three of you walked out to the back porch to watch the kids and dogs run around. The sight made you smile. “They are coming home today, right?” You nodded.

“I’m not sure when,” you looked at the redhead. “I got a text from Kate right before you guys came over. Things are taking longer than expected,” you rested your hands on your stomach and played with the wedding ring.

“It’s going to be okay,” Maria tried to reassure you. “They will always come home to you and the kids.” You knew that. They promised before every mission that they would come home. Natasha placed her hand on your shoulder and squeezed it.

You were jealous of Natasha and Maria. They were fully retired from active missions and spent their free time training newer agents. They would be fine and come home.

*

One of the hardest things about living with Kate and Yelena was seeing the effects of their job firsthand. It was easier to hide it from you when you lived miles away. No matter how late they got home, you checked over them and helped clean every cut and bruise. In the beginning, they found you on it, but they learned it was for your benefit. You needed to make sure they were okay.

You pushed Fanny and Lucky as you walked into the apartment. The dogs could smell the treats in your bag. “Guys,” you laughed. “Back up,” you managed to set your bag on the chair. They sat without a command, their tails wagging so fast they could generate wind to power a city. You pulled the treats out and handed them to them. They took off to their beds to enjoy it. Not even your phone ringing disturbed them. It was Natasha.

You remembered how terrified you were when you were introduced to the Black Widow. She was intimating and was looking after Kate and Yelena’s heart. If she needed you, Natasha would text you. She never called. Your heart leaped into your throat. Kate and Yelena were on a mission, not Avenger duties. Kate was helping the Black Widow free Widows who were still under the Red Room’s control. “Hello,” you answered.

“Don’t panic,” it sent you deeper into a panic as you sat on the couch.

“Natasha, that did not help,” the redhead laughed. “Are they okay?” She sighed.

“Bruce is looking them over now. Kate got them to the compound before she passed out,” Natasha explained. “They both haven’t woken up yet.”

“Nat, I-”

“I know,” she cut you off. “Maria is already on her way to get you and the dogs. Pack a bag, and I’ll see you soon, okay?” She nodded.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon,” you hung up and stayed frozen on the couch. You knew you needed to get stuff together—clothes for you, your schoolwork, and food for the dogs. But you couldn’t move. You reran the last conversation you had with them in your head. It was quick, maybe five minutes, because you had to walk the dogs before going to work. You didn’t tell them you loved them, and maybe it was too late.

*

Luckily, Natasha wasn’t in the mood to converse as she led you down to Med Bay. Your mind was spiraling, and you were barely holding it together. “They look a lot worse than they are,” she warned you before opening the door. Honestly, you felt nothing. It was like a calmness washed over you. They lay motionless in the beds next to each other with wires connected to machines. You locked all your emotions into a small box and tucked it away. Because if you felt anything, you would break. Maybe Natasha was talking. Perhaps she explained the list of injuries that Bruce and Helen had to fix. It was all white noise to you. “Come find me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” the door closed behind you. This world wasn’t normal to you. That the girls you loved with all your being put their lives on the line for strangers. It made no sense to you. You slumped in the chair between their beds and grabbed their hands. You hated how cold their hands felt; they usually would be so warm against yours. “Hi, my loves,” you whispered. “I’m here. I’m right here and not going anywhere.”

Natasha made sure you spent only some of your time by their side. You had to take breaks, and you were not in the position to say no to the Black Widow. So you took care of yourself because you knew Kate and Yelena would give you an earful if they found out otherwise. It was rare you were at the compound, so it was nice to get closer with the other members of the team. They helped keep your sanity as each day passed, and their condition was the same.

You were outside with Wanda, sitting on a picnic blanket and reading a book. Sometimes Lucky or Fanny would bring a ball over, and the witch would use her powers to throw it. “I’m jealous,” you told her. “My hand would be covered with drool.” Wanda laughed.

“How are you?” She asked. “Has Helen figured out why they haven’t woken up yet?” You shoved your bookmark into the spine of your book and closed it.

“I’m okay?” you questioned. There was this numbness that surrounded you. It felt unreal that they were hurt. With all the stories they told you, they seemed untouchable. “I just miss their hugs.” You missed a lot of things—their touch, the sound of their voice. Wanda smiled.

“They’ll come back to you,” she said. “It’s gross how much they talk about you.” You felt your body heat up but rolled your eyes. They always promised they would come home.

For the past few days, you slept in their bed. Now, it seemed lonely and cold. You walked down to the med bay and sat down in the chair. “I hope you know I will wait forever,” you whispered. “And I love your teammates, but it’s kind of lonely with you two. The world seems a little too quiet.” You felt a few tears finally fall down your cheeks. “Just come back to me whenever you are ready.”

Delete Created with Sketch.

“Do you think we should wake her?” The voice was muffled.

“That can not be comfortable,” that was Kate. So, the first voice must have been Yelena’s. “We know she can be moody when she sleeps in a weird position.”

“Not moody,” you grumbled, but Kate was right. Your neck was already starting to hurt. You heard laughter.

“Are you sure about that, Princess?” Slowly, your eyes opened, and you blinked a few times to see your girlfriends awake. They were awake—alive and awake. Kate chuckled. “She has that same dazed look on her face like when we asked if she wanted to be our girlfriend,” you thought they were messing you up at first.

“You’re up,” you said. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah-” you didn’t give Yelena time to finish before flinging yourself at the Blonde. She grunted at the impact. The dam broke. The feeling of her heart beating against yours caused a sob to escape. “Sh, dorogoy, sh,” Yelena cooed and kissed your temple. “I know, I know.”

“Thought I’d lost you both,” you heard Kate climb out of bed and sit beside Yelena. Her hand rubbed circles on your back to help calm you down.

“We’ll always come back to you, sweetheart,” Kate said. “You are stuck with us. Forever.”

Forever. That sounded nice.

*

It was Maria’s and your job to make lunch while Natasha distracted the little ones outside. You decided on something simple: a ham and cheese sandwich, slices of watermelon, and chips. It was also a meal that could make you nauseous. “Yelena told Natasha you were getting another dog,” Maria said while cutting into the watermelon. You groaned and threw your head back.

“I told her she could get another dog when she fully retires. I am not taking care of three dogs and three to two kids,” you wondered if Maria caught your mistake. She laughed.

“Have they said when they’ll be done?” You shook your head. They loved the lifestyle. You wondered if they loved it more than the family they had back here. You caused a lot of fights. But you couldn’t dwell on it or answer Maria’s question; you heard the distinct sound of Olivia’s squeals and hurried footsteps.

“Mommy! Mommy!” She ran into the back of your legs. “Auntie Nat said she would eat me,” you laughed.

“Oh yeah,” you said, continuing to make sandwiches. “Why is she going to eat you?”

“Because she’s hungry!” She answered like it was the most obvious thing. “And she said you were taking too long to make lunch,” that bitch! Maria laughed at her wife’s antics.

“Go tell Auntie Nat that if she eats you, she won’t get any lunch.”

“Okay! I love you!” She cheered and ran back outside. You shook your head, smiling fondly. You loved your little family and couldn’t wait to add to it.

*

You always wanted to be a mother and experience the feeling of bringing life into the world. Maybe it was your good relationship with your mother before she passed. However, you were scared to bring it up to your girlfriends. Their relationship with their own mother was complicated; one was in jail because she was working with the tracksuit Mafia, while the other was responsible for controlling her and other Black Widows. So, it was a little complicated.

You wanted to bring it up to them, and if they hated the idea, you would make peace with that. Yelena put the finishing touches on dinner while you poured some wine and set the table. You were going to ask them tonight. Someone brought in a baby at work today, and your mind began to create fantasies of Yelena and Kate with their children. You knew they would get mothers with how they interacted with the Barton kids, and Morgan made your ovaries explode.

“Princess,” you felt Kate’s arms around your waist. “Where did you go just now? I’ve been calling your name.”

“Sorry,” you smiled. “Long day at work.” She kissed your neck.

“You know you could always quit,” you rolled your eyes and pulled away from her embrace. You grabbed two glasses. “You’d make a sexy housewife,” you chuckled.

“You’d have to make me your wife first, Bishop,” you sent a wink over your shoulder and walked over to the table. If they knew you were distracted, they didn’t bring it up. They talked about their day and filled in the empty silence. You felt Yelena’s hand on your thigh, feeling the cool metal of her rings on your skin.

“Alright,” the Blonde said. “What’s going on?” You sighed and swirled the wine around in your glass.

“Do you guys want kids?” Yelena’s hands tightened her hold on your thigh. “If you don’t, that’s fine. I will completely respect that, but I’ve been wondering and thinking and-”

“Princess,” Kate cut you off. “Breathe,” you nodded, and you felt Yelena’s thumb dig into your skin to help you calm down. “Do you want kids?” She asked when you calmed down slightly.

“I want whatever you want,” Yelena said, shaking her head.

“That’s not what she asked, detka,” you sighed and leaned back. You placed your hand on top of Yelena’s.

“I love the life we have right now,” you admitted. “But I’ve always seen myself as a mom,” you glanced at the dogs who were eating their own dinner. “To children who walk on two legs instead of four,” your joke got a laugh out of two girlfriends. The two heroes looked at each other; they could always talk to each other without using words.

“We’ve been wondering when you’d bring it up,” Kate smiled.

“You are not very subtle when you watch us with the Barton kids,” your face flushed at Yelena’s teasing tone.

“Answer mine,” you whispered. “Do you guys want kids?” Kate took your free hand and played with the ring on your finger.

“I think we are ready to expand our family,” you looked at the archer and then at the Blonde, who nodded.

“I need to hear you say it, dorogoy.” Your Russian wasn’t good, but you loved the smile on Yelena’s face when you tried to speak it.

“I would love to start a family with you two.”

You decided to carry since it was impossible for Yelena, and Kate was actively training and going on missions. For the first try, you agreed to use Kate’s eggs and a sperm donor who matched Yelena’s features. The hardest part was keeping it from your friends and family. You went to a private doctor in the city. Each day during the process, you became more and more grateful for Yelena and Kate.

In the first round, you had your hopes up, and it broke your heart when you got your period. The second round hurt, but it didn’t sting as much as the first one. Yelena and Kate were tempted to call it off by the third attempt. They sat the emotional toll it was taking on you. You blamed yourself. You were the problem on why you couldn’t get pregnant. You asked for one more try.

It was Wednesday. Yelena met with Sonya, and Kate had lunch with Fanny and Greer. You were walking home after your manager told you to take a half day. All day, you felt off, like a nagging voice was in the back of your head. It made you second-guess everything. Luckily, your boss knew what you were going and allowed you to go home. Before you entered the apartment, you stopped at the corner store and bought two pregnancy tests.

The dogs greeted you when you came home and sniffed the brown bag to see if you had anything for them. You apologized and promised to get them something next time you went out. Walking into the bathroom, your stomach twisted with anxiety and fear. Should you have waited for Yelena and Kate? What if it was positive? Or worse, negative. Your heart couldn’t take it. Still, that uneasy feeling crawled in your stomach. So you opened both boxes and read the instructions. It was easy: pee on a stick, place on a flat surface, and wait 5 minutes. Easy. When you were done, you placed them on the counter and washed your hands.

It was a mistake to take them. You were being silly and dramatic. As you were about to throw away the tests, you heard the front door open, followed by the dogs greeting your partners. “Princess?” Kate called out. “Are you home?” You thought about staying quiet, but you left your bag downstairs.

“Bathroom,” you said. “Upstairs.” You closed the door and leaned on the wooden door, keeping the results locked away. You heard the footsteps of both Yelena and Kate as they walked up the stairs and into the bedroom. “Hi,” you forced a smile, but they looked at you with concern.

“What’s wrong, data?” Yelena asked. You sighed.

“I got sent home because I wasn’t feeling right, and I stopped at the corner store to get two pregnancy tests,” their eyes widened.

“What did the test say?” Kate asked. You shrugged.

“I panicked and left them on the counter,” Yelena chuckled. “Don’t laugh at me,” you frowned. The Blonde took your hand and led you to the bed.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Yelena reassured you with a kiss. “Tell us why you panicked.” Kate knelt in front of you.

“If it’s negative, I don’t think my heart can take it,” you sighed. “I want this to work so bad, but what if it’s me? Maybe I’m the problem,” the archer shook her head.

“This is not your fault,” she said. “We knew this was going to be difficult.” Yes, you knew it would be challenging, but it felt impossible.

“I just want to give you both a family,” you felt tears form in your eyes. Yelena pushed your head down on her shoulder and kissed your head.

“We are a family, baby. You, me, and Kate.”

“And Fanny and Lucky. We can’t forget our favorite troublemakers,” Kate teased. You smiled and whipped away your tears. “Do you want me to go check the tests?” You hesitated but nodded. You were too anxious to move, but also you felt very comfortable against Yelena. Kate stood up and kissed you softly. “No matter what it says. We love you,”

“Love you too,” you whispered and watched Kate enter the bathroom. Yelena played with the hair at the base of your neck and hummed a simple tone. It was soothing, and you slumped into her. For the first time all day, you felt that nagging presence disappear. It was impossible for you to notice it with Yelena so close to you.

“Do you think she got lost?” Yelena mumbled in your ear. You giggled and slapped her softly on her leg. Finally, Kate came out with the tests in her hand.

“Positive,” she said. You stood up quickly, looking at the tests in her hand. She was right. Both read positive.

“I’m pregnant,” you said in disbelief. Suddenly, you were engulfed in the arms of your girlfriends. You felt their tears on your skin. You were going to be a mom. Finally.

*

“Thank you for stopping by,” you said and hugged Natasha. “I appreciate the distraction.” You separated from the redhead and watched Maria strap in their very sleepy kids in the car. Carefully, she closed the car door and joined you and her wife on the front steps.

“So, when are you going to tell them?” You titled your head at Maria’s question.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” you said. Natasha rolled her eyes.

“You do realize you are trying to lie to two former Avengers,” you rolled your eyes. You managed to keep your first pregnancy a secret from them. You wondered if they were still a little bitter about that.

“When they get home,” you gave in. “I took the test two nights ago,” Maria was the first to pull you into a hug, carefully, and whispered congratulations into your ear. Once Maria was one, Natasha took her wife’s spot.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For loving her and giving her a family.” You felt overcome with emotions, so all you could do was nod. You watched the couple get into their car and leave. Walking back into your house, Evan and Olivia were asleep on the couch. You loved it when they came over because they made nap time easier. Carefully, you picked up Olivia and Evan and carried them into their room.

What Natasha said to you wasn’t the first time she’s said it. The first time was when you told her about your pregnancy. The second was when she met her niece and nephew. Then at the wedding and now again. Still, it made you emotional.

You felt honored to love Yelena and be loved by her. It was your greatest accomplishment.

*

Yelena and Kate were more nervous than you as you lay on the medical bed waiting for the doctor. “I love you both,” you started. But you need to calm down, or you will go wait in the waiting room.”

“Sorry, Princess,” Kate kissed your forehead. Yelena’s leg was still shaking as the doctor came in to perform the ultrasound. It was a big day, so you understood where the anxiety was coming from. It would be your first time seeing your son and/or daughter.

“Alright, are you ready?” The doctor asked. With your consent, she lifted your shirt and put the cold gel on your skin. You shivered, which caused Kate to laugh at you. You glared at the archer. “Looks like we have a healthy baby,” she showed you and your girlfriends that was developing.

“It looks like a little alien,” Kate commented. Yelena scuffed, hitting the archer on the arm.

“Do not call your son or daughter an alien,” you smiled at the Black Widow.

“That leads me to the next question: do you want to know the genders, or will it be a surprise?” You planned on having a gender reveal party planned by Laura once you told her. Wait. Pause. Genders?

“Genders?” You questioned. The doctor smiled.

“Congratulations,” she smiled. “You are pregnant with twins.” Twins. Twins?! You weren’t having one baby but two. The doctor explained that twins were common throughout the IVF process and that you looked at your partners to see their reactions. The news shocked them, but you could see the excitement and relief on their faces. You were healthy. The babies were healthy. That was what mattered to them.

*

Keeping a secret was hard, especially one as big as this. Since Clint was fully retired, you saw the man less than Natasha and Maria. However, the Bartons liked to take trips to the city, which resulted in big family dinners. This time, Natasha and Maria were hosting. You walked up the front steps with a salad in your arms. “Are you excited?” Kate asked.

“Nervous,” you said. You were going to tell all of them today. It wasn’t going to be a big deal. Yelena was going to tell her sister and Maria, Kate had Clint, and you would tell Laura.

“We have to do it as soon as possible,” Yelena rang the doorbell. “Natasha already suspects something.” She was a Black Widow; that was not surprising. Nathaniel opened the door and hugged Kate and Yelena tight. You were in charge of the salad, which was tactical. The youngest Barton liked to show his affection with tight hugs, and your girlfriends were highly protective of you. You ruffled the boy’s hair and walked into the house.

Laura was in the kitchen while Clint, Natasha, and Maria prepared drinks at the bar. “Good luck,” Kate mumbled and kissed your temple. Your girlfriends said hello to Laura before joining the others. You placed the salad in the fridge.

“How can I help?” You asked.

“Can you measure out some flour and grab the baking soda?” Laura smiled. You nodded and got the ingredients she requested. You worked in silence, but your eyes kept glancing at your girlfriends. Kate gave you a thumbs-up.

“So, I was wondering if you have any leftover baby stuff?” You asked as you mixed up the dry ingredients. Laura thought for a moment, held tilted to the side.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “We may have donated a bunch. Is your job doing a donation?” You smiled and shook your head.

“No, I was asking for us,” you shrugged. Laura froze while mixing the wet ingredients with the dry as if her brain was trying to piece together what you said. Before she could say anything, you heard footsteps rushing over to you.

“You’re pregnant?” Natasha questioned. You nodded. It surprised you when the redhead pulled you into her arms and hugged you. “I can’t believe you kept it from me, you bitch.” You laughed at her comment.

“Careful, sestra,” Yelena warned. You rolled your eyes at her protective nature. “She’s got two in there.”

“Twins?!” Laura exclaimed.

“Twins,” you repeated. The day was filled with congratulations, celebrations, and so much love.

*

Sighing, you stood in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open. You were hungry, but you had no idea what you wanted. The twins wanted the strangest combination of foods. Kate and Yelena were saints through it all - the morning sickness, the odd late-night cravings that required them to leave bed and go to the store. “Oh,” you touched your stomach as you felt a kick. “Well, hello there,” you smiled. “I was wondering when I would start feeling you.” It was the part you were the most excited about feeling your little ones. It made it feel so real. However, seeing some of the videos of hand prints on people’s stomachs did scare you.

“Princess, who are you talking to?” Kate asked, walking downstairs.

“Come here,” you held your hand and closed the fridge. You took Kate’s hand and placed it on your stomach. “Just wait,” you smiled. It took a second, but soon, you felt a kick. Kate’s face lit up in surprise.

“Is that-” You nodded. “That is so weird,” you chuckled, and another kick. “I think they like the sound of your voice.”

“Maybe they like yours,” her eyes went to yours, then to your stomach.

“Hi, little ones,” Kate whispered. I’m your mum.” You smiled and blamed the pregnancy hormones when tears ran down your cheeks. I’m so excited to meet you and teach you how to hold a bow and arrow. Don’t cause your mom too much pain, okay?” You put your arms around her neck and pulled her into a hug.

“You are going to be a great mom,” you said. She hugged you back.

“So are you.”

Delete Created with Sketch.

“Lena,” you called for the Blonde. You wanted to go for a walk, but you needed help putting on your shoes. “Yelena,” you said again. Kate was meeting with America at the Sanctum with Stephen. So it was you, Yelena, and the pups. The Blonde was upstairs preparing the room for the twins. The plan was to stay in the apartment until the twined turned one. Looking for a new home while pregnant and preparing for newborns was tiring. Sighing, you stood up and walked up the stairs—one hand on your belly and the other on the railing. You found Yelena on the floor of the twin’s room. She was midway through building a rocking chair. However, she was flipping through one of the parenting books she bought when the doctor confirmed you were pregnant.

She was lost in her own world, unaware that you were standing in the doorway. You let her sit there, but she stared at the same page for a few minutes. You made your presence known. “Baby,” she finally looked up.

“Dorogoy,” Yelena stood up and rushed over to you, her hands resting on your stomach. “Are you okay? Is it the babies?” You shook your head. You looked at your girlfriend, taking her face gently in your hands. There were dark bags underneath her eyes. How long has she been struggling, and you missed it?

“I’m fine,” you said. “What’s wrong, baby?” Yelena hesitated.

“Nothing,” she lied. You frowned and brought her into your arms for a hug. Her body was tense against yours, but soon she slumped into you.

“Tell me what’s going through that pretty head of yours,” you softly spoke. Yelena stayed quiet but it was okay. You would hold her as long as she needed, even if your back started to hurt. Finally, she mumbled something you missed. “What?” You questioned. She repeated herself, but still, it was hard for you to hear. “Baby, I can’t help if I can’t hear you,” you pulled away from you.

“What if I’m not good enough to be a mom?” She asked. Your heart broke. “I have done many bad things,” you knew some of those ‘bad’ things. You never saw them as bad. She was forced to be a pawn, and she was trying so hard to remove all the red. “What if I hurt them? I can not -” she shook her head. You felt the twin’s kick. They could sense Yelena’s emotions. You took her hand and placed it on your stomach.

“They are causing quite a commotion in there,” you smiled. “I think they can sense their mama is upset.” Yelena laughed, tears freely running down her cheeks. She kept her hands on your stomach.

“I love them so much already,” she admitted.

“I know you do,” Almost every night, Yelena would rest her head on your stomach and speak Russian to them. It was your favorite part of each day. She made sure to make meals that were safe for you. Whenever you needed a message, Yelena was the first to volunteer. “You take such great care of me and the babies, Lena. You are going to be a great mom,” she opened her mouth to argue, but you shook her head. “You deserve this life. You deserve to have a family and to be happy,” you wiped away her tears. “I know you will protect and love these troublemakers with your entire heart.”

“What if I mess up?”

“Then you mess up, but we will mess up together,” you kissed her softly. “Now, my back hurts. Do you think I can get a message?” Yelena chuckled, a smile finally on her face.

“Your wish is my command, my love.”

*

Delays were par for the course. At the beginning of the relationship, dates were missed or had to be rescheduled. You spent nights worrying sick because the mission took longer. When you received a text from Yelena that they were going to be home late, you understood, but it broke Olivia and Evan’s hearts. It was why you caved when they asked to stay up late after dinner to watch a movie. They lasted halfway through Frozen 2, and you were quick to follow them to sleep.

You woke up to your kids being moved, and you immediately grabbed them. “Easy, Princess,” it took a moment for your sleep-induced brain to see Yelena holding Olivia. “It’s just us.”

“You’re home,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. Kate smiled, and you couldn’t help but fall more in love with her.

“Go to bed, baby,” Yelena said. “We’ll put the little ones to bed.” You nodded and kissed your kids before heading to your room. You sat at the foot of your bed and waited for them, stretching your neck. Sleeping on the couch always put a strain on your neck. Yelena was the first in the bedroom. Her hair was wet, and she wore one of Kate’s tracksuits. They must have stopped at the compound before heading over here. “I missed you,” she admitted and kissed you softly. Kissing Yelena was your favorite. It was hard for the Black Widow to vocalize her feelings, but the way she kissed you said enough.

“I missed you too,” you smiled. “Are there any injuries?” She shook her head. “Promise?” she twirled around in a circle. You saw nothing, but she looked tired. “Do you want me to braid your hair, or do you want to go to bed?”

“Can you braid it? Kate is not good at it,” you smiled and nodded. She went into the bathroom to grab the supplies you needed. Kate came in while she was there. Before you could ask if she was okay, she kissed you. Kate was always an aggressive kisser when she came home. It took your breath away.

“Hi, baby girl,” she said. You smiled.

“Hi, Katie,” the archer rolled her eyes. The Black Widow came out of the bathroom with a hair brush and a ponytail. You moved to the center of the bed so she could sit before you. Kate kissed Yelena before going into the bathroom herself. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” You asked, sitting up on your knees and beginning to brush her hair. She hummed.

“Tired,” she whispered. “And I missed you and the twins,.” You wanted to say you missed her too ,and the twins were heartbroken when they were delayed. But that wasn’t going to help.

“Your sister and Maria came over,” you told her. “Someone told them we are getting another dog,” you chuckled as Yelena tensed up.

“I do not know who told them that,” she said. “Maybe it was Livie,” but it probably was Olivia. You knew she would join your wife’s agenda no matter what it was. You kissed her cheek and finished the braid.

“Princess,” you looked at Kate, and your eyes looked at the pregnancy test in her hands. “Is this real?” You wanted to say you would never joke about a positive pregnancy test after the hell you went through the first time, but you nodded.

“I took the test two days ago,” you said. Kate’s blue eyes filled with tears. Yelena stood up and took the test from Kate’s hand.

“It worked?” Yelena’s voice cracked. You nodded.

“Much easier than the first time,” your vision began to blur with your own tears. The Blonde moved to hug you, and you felt her tears against your skin.

“We are getting a new four-leg child and one with two,” she said. You pulled away from her.

“Yelena Belova,” you sternly said. “I told you we are not getting a third dog until you fully retire. I am not taking care of three dogs and three kids by myself.”

“Could be twins,” Kate said, laying behind you in bed. She placed her on your stomach underneath your shirt. Goosebumps form on your skin. You loved the feeling of Kate’s hands, warm and calloused.

“If you knocked me up with twins again, I might divorce both of you,” you teased and rested your body on Kate, melting against hers. Yelena crossed her legs and took your hand. She looked lost in thought. You squeezed her hand, and she looked at you.

“This was our last mission,” she told you. “We are missing too much here, and I do not want to fight anymore.” You were proud of how well you kept your excitement masked. Part of you believed that the only thing that was going to stop Yelena and Kate from going on mission was an injury or maybe even their death. But she was right. She deserved it. They both did.

“I guess I can make room for both of you,” your body shook from Kate’s laughter. The Blonde rolled her eyes and laid her head on your stomach. She kissed it and mumbled something in Russian. You glanced at Kate over your shoulder, and she smiled fondly at the Blonde.

“I love you both,” she said.

“Love you too,” you weren’t expecting a response from Yelena as she was fast asleep, a protective hold on your stomach.

Sometime in the future

Soft kisses on your shoulder drew you out of sleep. You tried to ignore it, but your lips traveled up your neck. “I know you are up, Princess,” you felt Kate’s breath against your neck. “We have a busy Saturday morning. Lena is starting breakfast.” You groaned and burrowed your face deeper into the pillow.

“I wouldn’t be so tired if someone wasn’t so needy last night.”

“If I remember correctly, you weren’t complaining,” you heard the smirk in her voice. You rolled your eyes and climbed out of bed, stretching your hands above your head. You felt her eyes gaze over your naked body.

“Can you keep your hands to yourself if we shower together?” It was the fastest you’ve seen her get out of bed.

*

“I thought I was going to have to call the Coast Guard,” Yelena teased as you entered the kitchen. You kissed her cheek.

“Don’t be jealous,” you pinched her back, and she yelped. “So,” you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “What’s the plan of attack?” You asked. Saturdays were always busy in your house. With five kids, four dogs, and a cat, it seemed everyone needed to be somewhere. Soccer bags needed to be packed, paint brushes to be washed, and pointe shoes needed new ribbons.

It was hectic, and sometimes you felt like you were pulled in a hundred and one directions, but you had your wives by your side to help. “Are you listening?” Yelena smiled.

“Yes,” you lied. She gave you a pointed look, which you ignored, and wrapped your arms around her waist.

“Incoming!” You heard Kate yell, followed by your three oldest running down the stairs. This was normal. Your home was loud, crazy, and chaotic but full of love. You burrowed your face in the crook of Yelena’s neck and kissed the skin you could reach.

“Thank you,” you whispered against her. “Thank you for loving me and giving me a family.”

[jjscrybaby]

prompt 19: ‘here’s my number.’

jj maybank x fem!reader | fluff | (reader has hair, no use of y/n, first meeting.)

not proofread and also not my best, i’m trying to get back into the hang of writing so i figured that maybe if i start posting my stuff it could give me the motivation again. hope you enjoy! :)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

JJ was sure he knew everyone that lived on the island. Whether they were a Pogue or a Kook, 9 times out of 10 he’d heard of them. Whether it was because there had been a scandal about Mr Anderson cheating on his wife with his secretary, or Mimsy hooking up with Topper Thornton at the most recent kegger, he’d heard of them.

So, when he checked over the itinerary for the delivery’s he was doing for Heyward he knew exactly who lived in the house he was heading to. An older couple, been on the island since they were kids, rich but not overly snobby. He walked up the driveway and knocked on the door, expecting the elder woman to open it since her husband’s recently broken his ankle. He had to do a double take when the wooden door was pulled open and the girl that stood there was anything but an old lady.

You were beautiful, hair tied up in a ponytail and pretty eyes that stared back at him. You looked a little tired, sporting a tee and baggy shorts that he assumed still costed more than his rent based on the logo.

“Hello?” Your sweet voice brought him out of his thoughts, mouth parted as he just stared at you.

“Oh, uh, sorry. Maybe I have the wrong house?” He looked around in confusion. The number was right, but last he checked there wasn’t a beautiful girl living in this house.

“Who are you looking for?” You questioned. He said your grandparents last name, making you nod. “You’ve got the right house.”

He just nodded slowly, handing you the two bags of groceries. They always ordered an absurd amount of bread. “Right. I didn’t realise they had a roommate.”

You giggled at his words, putting the plastic bags down — Kiara wouldn’t be happy — and grabbed your handbag from the side to get out your purse. “I’m their granddaughter.”

“Ohhh.” That made more sense. They didn’t seem the type to look on Craigslist for someone in need of a home. You held a twenty out to him. “Uh, it’s already paid for.”

“A tip,” you explained, nudging your hand closer to him. “Can’t be enjoyable walking around in this heat with all those heavy bags.”

“This is my last stop,” he shrugged, still not accepting the money. He wasn’t sure why, normally he’d be grabbing at it with greedy hands; maybe even trying to talk you into giving him more. Thats what he did with all of Heyward’s other customers.

“Just take the money,” you laughed.

“Twenty’s a bit much,” he argued, tapping his foot against the stone floor.

You hummed, giving him a look he couldn’t read. “Then how about you help me carry my last box upstairs. That mixed in with the delivery seems to add up to twenty.”

If any other Kook asked him to do such a thing he’d say no. He’d probably piss on their plants just for good measure. But you were something else, your little smile did something to him that he refused to acknowledge.

“Sure,” he agreed, stepping into the house. He rubbed his shoes against the mat, not wanting to trail dirt on the white carpet.

“Thanks. My back is killing me,” you complained, leading him further into the house where only a few boxes were left.

He read over them. Clothes. Blankets. Teddies. His face scrunched up in confusion. “Are you movin’ in?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Did you need anything? Some water or coffee or something?”

“Water, please.” He followed you into the kitchen, it was bigger than his entire shack. He leant against the counter, watching you reach up to the glass cupboard. “Where are you from?”

“Uh… all over really. My parents never enjoyed sticking to one place. I’ve been travelling for the last year. I was gonna go home, but after finding out my grandad’s getting more clumsy and my nan can’t take care of him herself I figured I could come help,” you explained, filling his glass with water and ice.

“That’s nice of you,” he murmured. He hadn’t seen either sets of his grandparents since he was a baby. His mom’s parents didn’t reach out whatsoever, not since she dipped, and his dads sent him a birthday card with a twenty each year. If they needed help, he’d probably pretend he didn’t see the message.

You just shrugged, taking your hair out of the pony just to re-do it. “They’re the reason I could afford, like, everything. Plus, I’m expecting some good karma.”

“Good karma?” He chuckled, accepting the cool glass from your hand. “Is that a real thing?”

“Who knows. But if it is, I want it,” you smirked. “So, you’re a delivery boy?”

He shook his head, putting the glass down on the marble counter. “Nah. I’m a busboy at the club, but my friend’s dad does the deliveries and I needed some extra cash.”

“Makes sense,” you murmured. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he responded. He crossed his fingers that you were the same age, you looked young, but for all he knows you could be thirty and just really hot for your age.

“Me too,” you grinned. He smiled back toothily.

“Cool. So, uh, the boxes?” He asked.

For the next half an hour, he helped you carry up boxes. Your room was on the third floor, in the attic technically. It was bare, just a bed and a closet with a bathroom connected. He couldn’t blame you though, you had just moved in.

Once you were done, you walked him to your front door and held out the twenty again.

“Nah,” he murmured, waving you off.

Your face fell. “What?”

“I don’t need it.”

“You just helped me out for the money, so take the money,” you argued. “I should probably give you more than twenty.”

“How ‘bout this… you could thank me in another way,” he suggested.

“Like what?” Your eyebrows furrowed, head tilting as you looked up at him.

“Could let me take you to dinner sometimes,” he shrugged nonchalantly, although on the inside he felt like he was going to burst.

Your eyes widened in surprise, staring at him for a moment before a soft smile appeared on your lips. “Yeah. That seems fair.”

“Cool,” he grinned. “You got a pen?”

“Sure.” You walked a bit further inside the house, opening up a draw and handing a pen to him. He took it from you and pulled out an old receipt for gas from his pocket. He scribbled over it, a cheesy smile on his face as he handed it back to you.

“Here’s my number, I’m expectin’ a call,” he stated, giving you a wink.

You laughed, pocketing the receipt. “You’ll get one.”

“Cool. Uh, see you soon then,” he said, walking out the front door with a pleased look on his face.

You watched after him, waving as you closed the door. You definitely hadn’t moved to Outerbanks to find a man, but you definitely weren’t going to complain. You pulled out the receipt and giggled at what was sprawled on it. Below his phone number was a little note.

Call this number. You’ll have no regrets ;) - JJ

[hai7ani]

cocky motherfucker Rindou who works at Murasaki Sports that loves annoying you whenever you come by the store. he's a bit of a jerk with the way he acts, but still gives you staff discounts at checkout and a free sticker whenever you pop by because you once brought along your laptop while shopping and it had many weird alien, cat stickers on the cover. he recommends you a specific skateboard and he makes you buy it afterwards, claiming it's for making him waste saliva on explaining boards to a non-skater, but sets it up for free anyway and tells you the best spots to skate in the city. the board's not even for you anyway 一 you meant to buy it as a gift for your skater cousin, but okay, thanks, you'll pass along the message to your cousin, you guess... (you started skating ever since that day and gifted your cousin a pair of socks from New Era instead.)

you don't even know him that well 一 he's a friend of a friend of a friend from high school and you'd only met him once properly at a club party about a year ago when he accidentally got beer all over your shirt and threw you his expensive Carhartt jacket before running away. and then he somehow manages to befriend your BeReal later that night, reacts the middle finger to every post you make and you'll react it right back at him with a pissed off look on your face. he comments stuff like 'shit music' and 'u need a better playlist, hmu' when he sees whatever song you've been listening to when you take a BeReal but is always the first one to react to them.

he's still kind of sweet though. likes rapping along to whatever's playing on the speakers in store (you don't like to admit it, but you must say, he does have great music taste as he claims), but you'll always catch him twisting the volume knob to the left even though KOHH is playing whenever you come by to replace your wheels (of the skateboard he made you buy) or shop for a new cap and he's so cocky about it every time too. one time he made you wait for him about 15 minutes to close up the store and you expected to walk together to the train station until he turns the other direction and you hear beeping followed by car doors unlocking. "aren't you dumbass getting in?" he's already one foot in his car (a fucking Nissan GTR) with his left brow raised when you turned around 'cause you thought he disappeared into thin air and then stare at him dumbfounded as he starts the engine. ?????

he visits you at your own store (literally just opposite of Murasaki Sports) whenever you're in during his break and annoys the hell out of you. you sell phone cases and he likes trying on every single one he picks up only to never buy them and places them about 6° to the left that he knows make your skin crawl from the asymmetric position, but you'll catch him helping you tidy up the other out-of-place on-display phone cases and greet random customers that come in, as if he is the one working here and not you, and then only he tosses you either a Pocari or a Cola as a refreshment when he's gotta get back to work. he gives you (forces you to let him give you) a ride back home whenever your timing matches and'll quietly make sure the A/C isn't facing your face when you accidentally fall asleep in the passenger, but tells you to never sit in his car again 'cause he claims you get hair all over his seat and the sand-trapping mat below. ("y'all ladies and your hair-fall problem...")

one time your father caught the two of you bickering in the car over who's bar of Snickers it was but to him it looked like the two of you were kissing because of a perspective problem and he got so damn flustered. simply stepped into your home with his shoes on, scurrying after your old man to explain that nothing ever happened and then fist bumps your dog on the head who actually hates him like crazy, but doesn't bark at him this time. your mother makes him stay for dinner that night and you think that maybe he isn't so bad after all 一 as your best friend once suggested 一 when he makes your mother laugh like crazy (you realise then that he's a smooth talker with the elders) over dinner and your father starts asking him about sports attire because he's been wanting to get into jogging. but he keeps stepping on your toe under the table and you think he's deliberately annoying you but really, he just wanted to make you make your mother stop feeding him shrimp (he's allergic.)

[kechiwrites]

property lines

dark!steve rogers x neighbour!reader

kinktober countdown: day two (facefucking).

synopsis: your neighbour is inappropriate, and you aren’t quite sure how to broach the subject.

wc: 2.2k

cw: dark content, non con, oral (male receiving), femme language + afab!reader, pet names, internal victim blaming, pet names (sweetheart), a touch of misogyny

author’s note: day 2 brings us more dark!steve, i fear i may be incapable of writing him sincerely. he’s just a little too perfect. I like to take off a bit of the shine. thank you @katsukikitten u r my muse.

Your neighbour is inappropriate, and you aren’t quite sure how to broach the subject. Mostly because you can’t be sure if he’s doing it on purpose or if he’s just overly friendly. Maybe it’s the signals you give off, bringing a plate of thick, sweet, cheesecake brownies over to the recently sold house next door, hoping to make a new connection. Suburbia can be isolating, and with all of your friends shaking ass in the city, you need to branch out. It really isn’t the kind of home you figured a single man like Steven Grant Rogers would buy, but then again, you lived in your suburban palace alone, willed to you by your late grandmother and only in need of a few renovations.

He’d been so bright, when you first met him, with a perfect white smile and twinkling blue eyes. He’d been happy to accept the desserts, even happier to return the plate a day later, extolling the praise he and his poker buddies lauded on you over the taste. You’d shrugged it off, “The least I could do for a neighbour. I’m just glad you all liked them.” 

Secretly though, the compliments had thrilled you, especially once you’d gotten a glimpse at the aforementioned “poker buddies”, the whole lot of them, handsome, built, big. All too happy to fix leaky pipes and paint fences in exchange for chocolate cream pie or a dish of homemade lasagna. But Steven  - “Steve, please”  -  was your most loyal customer, always lending a hand, pausing during his early morning jog to check up on you while you watered your flower beds, asking how your book is going, what you do in that “big old house all by yourself” when you aren’t working on “the next great American novel”, of course (his words, not yours).

It’s fine at first, a little disarming to be at the centre of his white hot attention, burning your flesh like he had you under a magnifying glass on a perfect sunny day. But eventually it’s not fine, eventually Steve Rogers takes more and more steps over the property line of overly friendly and into the front yard of wildly overbearing. Eventually, Mr. Rogers insists on weekly visits, popping into your house by using the spare key under the mat he shouldn’t even know about. Slinging his muscled arm over you during the neighbourhood block party, and your neighbour’s son’s 5th birthday party, and the Fourth of July barbeque. He fixes your car without you asking, brings in your groceries when he sees you unloading them in your driveway, brings your mail to you during his daily jog. It’s helpful sometimes, yes, but it’s also suffocating. And you were going to set him straight. You were! But it’s hard, hard to stare into the face of a suburban god, the literal king of the neighbourhood and tell him no. It’s hard to tell him that he’s making you uncomfortable, that you’d like for him to stop being so goddamn friendly all the time. 

So maybe a little of it is your fault. Maybe you should’ve been clearer on your boundaries. Maybe, when handsome, strapping Mr. Rogers came to your front door to ask you to essentially cater one of his poker nights, you shouldn’t have stayed to serve the food, playing happy little housewife in front of Steve’s friends, bringing them cold beers from the fridge and sitting next to Steve, playfully making faces at his hand, then plating up dessert when he asked you to. But it felt good to have his attention. His favour. So when “the boys” start to head home, laying praise and amazement at your feet, you’re sufficiently buttered up for Steve to ask yet another favour of you. It’s not much, of course. Just a little help with cleanup. Then he’ll escort you home himself. After all, there are some real sickos out there.

So you agree. What’s the harm, right?

The harm, it just so happens, comes quickly after you finish drying the dishes Steve washes. You slide the last plate, towel dried as best you could, into his cabinets, sighing in contentment at a job well done. The harm is when Steve turns you around and presses you against the sink, water soaking into the back of your blouse, making the fabric cling to your skin. You stay there for a minute, not processing what’s happening, ready to laugh off another inappropriate joke from Steve. 

You don’t really get the chance.

Two heavy hands clap down on your shoulders, exerting pressure on you until you crumple to the floor, knees hitting the tile of Steve's kitchen painfully. You yelp, struggling against him, pressing, then beating your fist against his tree trunk legs. 

"Stev-" you choke on his name when your neighbour unzips his trousers before you, undoes the fly of the pair you helped him pick out, with him bent over your shoulder while you held his phone, his front pressed close to your back. Pulls his half hard dick out of pants starched and pressed with the iron he'd borrowed from you because his was "on the fritz" again. 

"Open up." He cajoles, and you pin him with an incredulous, confused stare. No. No. This is all wrong. He doesn’t act like that. Steve Rogers isn’t like that.

The hand he doesn't use to stroke himself grabs your jaw, squeezing until you open your mouth, squeezing til it hurts. A sharp, purposeful punch of his hips is all it takes for him to make use of the opening. All it takes to put every little joke, boundary crossing, and stray touch into startling, horrifying perspective.

“It was the baking.” He whispers above you. “Peggy never baked, which was fine.” He sighs above you like he isn’t pistoning his cock deep into your throat with reckless abandon. “But I missed it, y’know? And you, you bake how angels ought to, sweetheart.” 

Tears stream down your face while Steve uses you, dragging your dazed, crying face back and forth on his hard-on. On a particularly strong thrust, he broaches your throat. Your eyes roll up, until he can barely see the perimeter of your irises, and you warble out a miserable moan, begging, all while wrapped around his dick, for a reprieve. Your head is pinned to the counter behind you, and even though you shove against the muscle of his thighs, Steve brooks no quarter.

“Just take it,” he coos, like he wants you to swallow cough syrup, “it’ll be over soon.” his breath stutters when your lips brush against his balls. Steve moves one of his hands to cup the back of your head, keeping you as close as possible when he comes down your throat, groaning in pleasure while you struggle to swallow stream after bitter stream of his seed, lest you choke on it or fucking drown. 

He finally releases you, and you pull back so fast you bang the back of your head on his pristine white counters. The pain radiates through your scalp, grounding you in the moment, cementing you to the spotless linoleum floor of Steve Rogers’ kitchen. You’re both panting, eager to fill your lungs with gulps of air. 

“Whew.” He sighs, hands on his hips, like that took a lot out of him. “I didn’t mean to get so rough with you, just didn’t expect the struggle.” He chuckles, patting you on the head. “But you settled down quick, didn’t ya?” His tone takes on…contentment? Happiness? 

No. That’s not quite right. 

It’s pride. Steve is looking down at you, your spit and cum slick mouth, the weepy, watery state of your eyes, and the disarray of the hair he’d used as a handle, with pride.

Your stomach roils.

He bends low and you flinch away from him, smacking your head on the countertop again. He cocks his head at the involuntary movement, and smiles at you. A familiar, warm thing. One that made your heart flutter with pleasure, beat fast with your own surge of pride when he accepted a pie, or offered a compliment. Now it does the same, your heart speeds up, your palms itch curiously, and your brain doesn’t know if you’re happy or sad. Doesn’t know if it craves those smiles anymore. 

“Just wanna set you on your feet. C’mon.” He speaks quietly, like he’s soothing a frightened animal, and hooks his hand under your armpits, heaving you up with the same startling strength he'd used to face fuck the fight out of you.

“It’s okay.” You bleat, voice as wobbly and unstable as the pair of legs struggling to keep you upright. And it’s not, it’s far from okay, the taste of him lingers in the back of your throat and if you think about it for even a second more you’ll throw up all over his shiny floors, on those godforsaken pants.

“I admit,” he laughs, ducks his head with that small town charm he does so well, “I wanted to last longer. But you were too good.” He winks at you, like you share a secret. Like you’re in league with each other.

He staring, waiting for you to say something, arches a brow like it’s your line and you’re fucking up the show.

But there it is again, that smile, sunny and open, and so pristine.

“Let’s get you home.” He herds you towards his front door, hand glued to the small of your back, his pinky finger stroking the skin exposed by the riding up of your still wet shirt. The two of you walk into the balmy summer air, and the spaces in between the black night, punctuated with the occasional white streetlight, designate your path home. Some of your neighbours’ houses are still illuminated, their warm yellow windows denoting the presence of life. You wonder what goes on behind their doors, you wonder if someone is having a good night somewhere close to you.

You come across your door faster than you were prepared for, the cheery yellow paint job Steve and James had done for caramel apple pie, mocks you. The way he’d smiled in your face, touched you, laughed. Steve shifts next to you, holding onto your extensive tower of pyrex and tupperware, for an instant your blood runs cold at the prospect of Steve inviting himself in, like he’s done so many times before. Not to bring in groceries or put together a dresser, but to pin you prone to the carpet of your bedroom and smile at you.

“So!” He turns, “Same time next week?” You gawk at him, and when you don’t say or do anything, he stoops and slides your extra keys out from under your Garfield emblazoned doormat. The jingle of two, simple metal keys against the little bell shaped key-chain makes your head pound, your blood boil. He unlocks the door, and gestures for you to take a step indoors. You raise both hands, palms upturned so he can give the keys back, so you can hide them, or melt them, or flush them down the toilet. Instead, you get to watch him slip the key-ring into his pocket, before he places your dishes into your uplifted open palms. “I gotta say, the lemon bars were a hit.” He tweaks your nose between his thumb and forefinger, his compliment tempered by the greedy shine in his eyes. You nearly scratch your own eyes out when you get that pleased, soft tingle in your chest.

He smiles and you salivate. He compliments you and your heart responds. He’s proud and your brain tells you ‘I’m happy’.

Why hasn’t it gone away? Will it ever go away?

“Maybe those brownies again, the cream cheese ones?” His voice is hopeful, soft and pliant, like he’s worried you’ll say ‘no’.

Like there’s a world where he’d take no for an answer.

You nod, a jerky, quick gesture that rattles your brain around in your skull. “Sure. Yeah.” You answer, sweaty hands slipping against tempered glass and plastic lids. “Yes. Brownies.” Steve beams, clapping his hands together, once, loud, drawing your eyes to the brutish width of them.

“Fantastic. I can’t wait.” He jogs down your front steps, and the fist secured around your lungs loosens with every step he takes away from you. He pauses at the side walk, one foot still on your property, the other poised to leave it.

“We make a great team. Don’t we?” He turns to you, and this time, he isn’t smiling. This time, his eyes cut through the night and the streetlight and the foggy haze of misfortune clouding your brain.

And the fear finally comes.

You kick your door closed, and you lock your door, and you drop your pyrex and tupperwear and serving spoons in the sink and you lock your windows and you get into bed, still dressed for a poker night you had no business being at, and you pull the covers up and up and over your face.

But the fear doesn’t go away.

And neither will your neighbour.

god i want him so bad. tomorrow, captain soap.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

support city girls who bought $50 of baked cheesecake today, reblog what you like.

[deanbrainrotwritings]

— LIFE AIN’T EASY WHEN YOU'RE A MYTHICAL CREATURE

SUMMARY : you don’t suspect that dean has been in the shadows of your life for months, but he’s managed to make you his friend. he feels hopeless about making you fall for him, and it’s worse when you agree to go on a date with someone unexpected.

PAIRING : vampire!dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), baker!dean, kidnapping, stalking (it’s only hot if dean does it), angst, unhealthy obsession, yandere!Dean, possessiveness, soft Dean, reader isn’t perfect, vague chronic illness, panty kink, masturbation (m.), dumbification, a bunch of kinks actually, kinky!dean, sub!dean, jealousy, and more to come

WORD COUNT : 5.2k

A/N : this series will soon fill the square for stockholm syndrome on my @jacklesversebingo card. back to the baking bc it’s so fun and cute to write dean like that. also, their relationship is going somewhere, or is it!? muahahah. xx

Deep in thought, Dean carefully sliced through the soft, warm dough with a sharp knife. The rolled up cinnamon rolls slowly took shape as they were severed from each other along the lengthy roll. Each was cut one-inch thick, all almost perfect and similar from years of experience. The delicious spicy aroma of sweetened cinnamon filled the space around him, keeping him in his affectionate state as he thought of you. 

He usually had a handful of customers this early in the morning but never so many that he couldn’t work slowly and do the work all alone. If he hired anyone, it would only make it difficult for him to be relaxed and all by himself. It’s safer. With the speed he worked at, he didn’t need the help anyway, and with the time… he didn’t want to talk about the time. 

Today, he didn’t have a problem with the idea of not seeing you—if it meant you were resting. It could have been either because he had been at your home or because he understood now how you spent most of your precious time. Perhaps it was all of those things, along with his sudden concern for your health.

Which was why he didn’t expect you to walk through the door.

It was Saturday. A too-early, cold Saturday morning. 

He wanted you to sleep in, but he was thrilled that you were there anyway, letting in the chilly air as you clenched your fists tightly at your sides and shivered cutely. You brushed your hair off your shoulder with reddened fingers and Dean briefly abandoned the dough to admire you.

You looked more beautiful than he remembered. Could it be real, that you were so stunning? So, so breathtaking in that crisp morning sunlight as it poured over your body like glittery gold; with your delicate features, your skin bitten by the cold morning air, and your lips lightly chapped. 

He wished someone could paint you. He wished he had picked up the hobby a lot longer and had the skill to do so himself. To paint the gentle wisp of your hair, the ethereal angles of your face, the plump shape of your lips, your glimmering eyes, and the elegance of your body. All on his own, because only he could capture every exquisite detail of you.

He was pulled away from his thoughts when he heard the way your lips brushed against each other as you murmured, “so fucking cold.” 

He grinned adoringly, silently wishing to kiss your lips until they were bruised and warm. Your teeth clicked against each other quietly and you subtly shuffled on the mat in front of the door before walking normally towards him. 

Your gaze slowly lifted to meet his own and your body visibly relaxed as the warmth within the bakery finally encompassed you. Dean relaxed his grip on the knife and let his shoulders drop, copying your movements subconsciously. 

“Hey,” you grinned, standing in front of him and rocking on your feet with your hands behind your back shyly as you looked up at the menu. 

He blinked. Was this real? Were you really here? Was the universe trying to embarrass him for what he’d done most of the night? He swallowed, his eyes glazed over at the memory of you naked. 

“Hey,” he whispered, smiling softly. 

“What have you been up to?” You wondered, letting your eyes move over him once again. Dean looked down at the abandoned cinnamon rolls he’d been making, he thought about your question, and felt a little bit guilty. 

What was he up to, you asked? Stalking you, going into your house illegally, stealing your things, and thinking of you. Oh, and also jerking off to the image of seeing you naked, using your underwear that he’d stolen from your drawers. 

Dean had eagerly peeled off his clothes as soon as he got home. 

His clothes were strewn across the floor but the things he’d stolen from you, he’d thrown on his bed. Except for your underwear, he held onto that. He knew if he were human, he’d be burning red in the face with pinkish splotches spreading down his freckled neck and chest. 

All he could think of was you. 

And he’d been resisting the urge to touch himself every time his cock would harden at the thought of you for so long that he felt like he was going to combust if he refused any longer. 

He settled into his bed and slowly dragged his calloused palm along his dick. Everything was done languidly despite his impatience, despite the sensitivity becoming nearly unbearable in between his legs. Slowly, behind his closed eyes, your silhouette became more solid and more vivid—like a dream made true. 

He swiped away precum and dragged it down along his cock, imagining that it was your spit instead. He moaned. The thought of you naked, breasts bared to him, just in the lace panties he’d stolen, leaning above him on your knees with a small smirk on your soft lips, made his stomach clench. 

“Fuck,” he whined, trying to keep the fantasy alive. He imagined it was your hand wrapped around him, soft and small, slowly moving up his painfully hard cock. 

“Dean,” you’d say his name the way you said it the first day he met you. You’d rub your thighs together and keep torturing him with gentle strokes. He’d take it because he finally had you and he didn’t care about anything else. “You wanna come so bad, don’t you?” You’d taunt, because he knew you were secretly wicked. 

He wouldn’t even be embarrassed when he nodded dumbly, squirming as you waited for every dribble of precum to fully slicken his cock. He’d take every degrading comment as you slid your fist his base to tip, and he’d watch stupidly like a devout man as you touched yourself with your free hand.

Your fingers would pinch and brush against your nipples until they were tight, you’d teasingly squeeze your breasts, and then you'd sneak your hand inside your underwear to rub at yourself. He would only beg pathetically for you to let him touch you, but you’d never allow him to. 

You’d just keep moving your hand up and down until he was glistening wet, hot and red at the tip, and throbbing in your soft palm. “God, look at you,” you’d tease. He’d drop his eyes from your naked body to watch his cock and the way it looked in your grasp. “You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?” 

“Fuck, yes,” he’d grunt steadfastly. 

“Yeah, you’re so good for me,” you’d praise, because finally you had something you could control. Something that would change and adapt to your every need because you were his purpose. You were what he was meant for—who he was meant for. 

And he’d moan loudly, bucking his hips upwards involuntarily, and shoving his cock fast into your hand because you finally recognized it. He’s good for you. Only you. 

Maybe once he was stupid and desperate, you’d bring yourself closer. You’d drag your soft, warm lips across his cold skin. You’d drag your tongue across his neck and suck gently behind his ear and he’d still moan at the sensation. 

Your hot mouth and hotter breath would drive him crazy. Your warmth, once you leaned over him completely, would make him feel alive again. And your warm hands would move over his body, desperate to feel every inch of him because you needed him as bad as he needed you. 

“I want to fuck you so bad, Dean,” you’d murmur against his ear and then you’d drop your warm cunt down over his cock without warning. He’d moan softly as you gently rubbed the lace covering you over his painfully-hard cock. He’d be able to feel how hot you were between your legs and how wet you were as the soaked lace stuck to your folds. 

He rubbed the cotton of the crotch of your lace underwear against his cock with a moan. He stained it with his precum and continued to tease himself as he imagined that you were on his lap, rubbing your clothed pussy against his cock. 

You’d definitely torture him this way. 

You’d pant against his mouth and balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders, rocking your hips against his. The lace would make him more tender and more desperate to finish, but he’d wait for you. As you undulated your hips and lifted yourself up just to drop your pussy back down, he’d finally be able to touch you. 

His name would slip from your lips breathlessly and he’d bury his face in your breasts, licking, biting, and kissing at them until you were puffy and tender. You’d praise him for all the pleasure you felt and your words would be stemmed in affection and warmth.

He’d claim you with bruises on your soft body and he’d mark you with light bruises from his mouth on your breasts, shoulders, and neck. His bites would only be surface level and visible by redness and never by a wound. But you would be his entirely. And he would be yours completely. 

“I’m so close,” you’d warn him and he’d plead for you to let go. And when you finally came, you’d moan his name a dozen times, and he’d feel your body tremble above his and he’d hold you up. He’d continued to grind against your pussy until you found yourself again. “Come for me, Dean. I want to see you.”

And he’d finally come. His entire body would feel the release and he’d shout your name because you’re all he’s ever wanted. “That’s right, Dean. Look at me.” He’d force his eyes open just to watch you and your amazement as his cum covered your thighs and his stomach. “You’re so hot, baby.”

Dean wished he could stay in his fantasy, but instead, he opened his eyes to reality. To his darkened room and the moon as it hung above him instead of you. He swallowed hungrily, his throat was dry and he forced himself to look down at your ruined underwear now covered in his release. 

He bit his lip as he clutched onto your dampened lace underwear. And closed his eyes, smiling softly as if all of that had really happened. 

“I’ve, uh- nothing.” Way too guilty Dean, relax, this is the woman you love. “Just trying out some new recipes. What about you?” For the first time, Dean realised you had dimples as you chewed on the inside of your cheeks. You looked cuter, if that were somehow possible.

“Workin’,” you answered with a small smile, “I’m gonna do some unpacking so I can just get it over with. I’d come here more often, but work is so chaotic.” You would? Did that mean you thought of him? Or did you mostly think of the food? He wished you would add why. Maybe you wouldn’t tell him, but offering to help you unpack was a great opportunity for him to insert himself into your life. Unfortunately, you started talking before he could ask, but he kept it close. “You said you were trying new recipes. Anything I can try?”

“I made a few giant pop tarts earlier,” he admitted and hesitantly resumed slicing through the roll. He wanted to keep watching you, to notice every change and every detail in your face as you spoke and looked around curiously. 

“Oh really?” Your voice changed, more curious and excited than before. He looked up and smiled, setting the knife down now that he was finished. 

“Yeah, wanna try it?” 

“Yeah, soon as you’re not busy.” Your eyes flickered down to the unbaked cinnamon rolls he’d forgotten all about. You grinned playfully when he looked back up at you after slowly following your gaze. He chuckled. He appreciated your consideration, but leaving you was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“Alright, I’ll finish up and get to you in a bit.” 

He picked up the cinnamon rolls and put them into a tray as you walked away to sit at a nearby table. He stole a quick glance at you as soon as he got to the back with the tray carrying the cinnamon rolls to make sure he could safely put them in a baking pan and put them in the oven faster than humanly possible, but not so fast that you’d be a little too bewildered. 

He waited patiently after he’d finished and listened to you as you tapped on the screen of your phone. You laughed quietly occasionally and he assumed you were texting someone or watching a video with the sound off. He couldn’t stand the thought of you talking to someone else and he also couldn’t stand not being there to see you smile. 

So he stepped out of the back to get your attention and you instantly looked up at him, still trying to stop your soft laughter. He smiled at you and your flushed cheeks and your watering eyes. You shut your phone off and got up to meet him at the counter again. 

Still, even surrounded by sweet sugary pastries, all he could smell was your flowery perfume. The heat of your body, from your blood, made him hyper-aware of you. You were a giant blossoming tree in the middle of a meadow, calling to him in a bed of pretty flowers. You were the most beautiful, always, among everything. 

Your eyes flitted over his face, always so curious and confused in your eyes, but content in your smile. He wished to read your mind, to compel you to spill your truth and make your thoughts known to him. What did you see? 

He forced himself to look away from your eyes to retrieve a medium tray containing what looked like a literally large pop-tart. The top-centre was coated in pink frosting and had white sprinkles, the sugary scent filled the small area between you and him. 

“Strawberry filling,” he informed you, because he wanted your feedback. He wanted to know what you were thinking, always; but he didn’t want to ask that of you.

“Ooh,” you grinned, “my favourite. I'll buy it.” He blinked at you. Most people asked for samples before buying something they’ve never tried before. 

“Want a drink with it?” He asked, starting to package it for you. You hummed softly.

“Anything with vanilla. Surprise me?” You surprised him with your request and he nodded dumbly. Were you always going to choose something different? Would he never be able to memorise your single favourite order and have it ready for you whenever you found yourself in his bakery? 

He turned around and looked at the coffee machine, the coffee beans, the syrups, spices, and everything else, wondering what would go perfectly with vanilla. What was something that was so beautiful in flavour? Something that tasted the way he thought you would? Your skin, of course, not in a cannibalistic or vampiric way. What would your skin taste like when he pressed his lips to it, when his tongue smoothed across your flesh, when he sucked at your body?

You entertained yourself again on your phone, but this time you were quiet. For about ten minutes he looked over at you as he worked on your drink, adding the perfect mixture so that the final product alluded to you—at least to him. 

You knew you were being watched. He figured by the way you bit your lip and hugged yourself with one arm as you played some game on your phone. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help himself. You were the most magnificent being in the whole universe. More wonderful, more unique, and more intriguing than the Hercules-Corona Borealis Great Wall. 

It's how he ended up making a vanilla-lavender latte.

He handed it to you once he’d finished, the sun was shining a little brighter now behind you, against tinted windows. It was the perfect choice for a drink, as the sun created a celestial aura around your body, you didn’t know it. You never did. 

“Is it okay if you try them now and tell me what you think?” He wondered if he was asking too much. He’d take it like a champ if you rejected his offer. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable, but he also couldn’t be so afraid that he’d never get to make a move and see the outcome of his choice. 

You blushed and your brow twitched inquisitively, but after a few seconds you agreed. “Sure.” 

You opened the paper bag and plucked the corner of the pop-tart, large enough to capture the filling and the frosting at the top. 

He watched your mouth as it opened, your tongue as it held the treat, and then your lips shut around it. And he snapped his eyes up to yours watching you. Your cheeks burned timidly, and your eyes stared directly at his name on his chest, at the black word lined over his pink shirt above a white long sleeve. 

However, you quickly relaxed and your eyes brightened as you chewed. You moaned softly and moved your eyes up to Dean, using your face to say everything. You thought it was good and Dean was a little too preoccupied with the way you moaned. The softness of it, slightly drawn out as the jam and bread sank into your tastebuds.

“That’s really good,” you told him cheerfully once you’d finished, then you moved on to the latte. You held it in your hands for a few seconds to test the heat of it in your palms and lifted it up to your lips. You took a few careful sips and your eyes became more vibrant. “It’s so good,” you moaned, then you licked your lips, and Dean had to keep himself in check. “How are you so good at this?”

He chuckled and opened his mouth, but a gust of wind followed by three young women swept through the door and stole your attention from him. They giggled, one of them stared directly at him and the other two whispered to each other, something about Dean being hot. He didn’t care. 

“How much is it?” You asked, immediately turning back to him. His face fell and his mouth opened and closed. He didn’t want you to leave yet, but you suddenly became guarded all over again. He sighed and made his way over to the cash register to, once again, lower the price and wait as you collected your things before paying. 

“Bye, Dean,” you murmured with a rueful smile.

“Um, bye,” he said stupidly, watching as the small group of women took your place. “Wait!” He called after you and made his way to you when you stopped to regard him with a lifted brow. Your eyes dropped down to his legs and quickly back up to his face. Did you just check him out?! Focus, Dean. “I wanna help you… unpack,” he added the last word after your confused face said everything. 

“What? No, you’re busy here,” you blushed, and looked down at his feet. Just accept his help!

“I, uh…” Shit, what excuse could he make. “I can get off an hour early and I’ll meet you at your place,” he suggested. You still looked unsure and chewed on your lip as you thought it over. “If you're worried about my tiredness, don’t be. God knows I have too much energy at the end of the day, and can't ever sleep.” He knew you’d take his words as an over-exaggeration and you conceded with a sigh. He grinned and you smiled with a roll of your eyes at his triumphant expression. “I should get back to work…” he wanted to touch you now that you were so close to him, looking so soft and sweet. Now that he could feel your warmth a little more, like he’d been pulled even closer to your orbit, he almost wanted to just reach out and kiss you. 

He just clenched his fists and bid you farewell again. He’d barely turned around to watch the three women stare judgmentally at you and him. He grimaced. 

“Dean,” you stopped him. He turned to look at you without faltering, dazzled by the amusement in your voice. “You need my address, don’t you? And my phone number?” 

“Oh, right,” he was embarrassed. Wait, your phone number? He grabbed his phone from his back pocket a little too excitedly and handed it to you, unlocked. Only after you’d searched his phone for his contacts did he hope he didn’t leave anything inappropriate about you open. 

You handed him his phone and smiled softly. You appeared indecisive and he waited for you patiently, he’d always wait for you. And he was glad he did. You stepped closer and he held his breath, your warmth felt like sunfire now. You raised your hand, brushed your fingers against the softness of his cheek down to the stubble near his jaw. He knew you felt the unusual coldness of his skin when your touch lingered, but he hoped that it was because you felt as fluttery and breathless as he did. Then you dropped your hand. 

“Sorry, you had a bit of flour on your face, but I guess it’s part of the job.” He could feel your blush even more now, it didn’t matter seeing it, just the feeling of your body reacting to being so close to him was making him feel like a feral animal.  “It’s kinda cute so don’t even worry about it,” you shrugged and then blinked after realising what you said. You flushed and stuttered, “uh, bye, Dean. I’ll see you later.” 

He blinked as you made your way out before he could process what you said and the way you’d touched him. His mouth was agape and he really thought he might just start singing. You thought he was cute after all? And you felt so warm. 

He smiled boyishly and turned around dreamily, almost ignoring the three women he’d forgotten completely about as he found his place back at the counter to take their order. 

After a few hours, once he was sure you were home safe he texted you—after thirty minutes of deliberation: hey, it’s Dean. 

He knew his heart would be hammering against his chest only because he couldn’t stop clenching and unclenching his fist as he waited. Only a minute had passed when he saw you read his message, and he started to pace and tried to ingore his phone as he attended to his costumers. 

And you’d responded after a few long minutes: hey, dean, do you like burgers?

4 months later — January, 2024

Dean had to admit, you played the mystery card fairly well. 

You were relatively quiet and preferred to listen, which was hard because there was a lot Dean couldn’t say to you. 

Even though you’d both hit it off the day he helped you unpack the heavier items in your home, there was still something in the way. 

He knew that was the reason why you and him had a minimal distance that neither of you could crossover. He wished you were braver, but mostly, he wished he were braver. If he didn’t feel like he had too much on the line, because he did. Any information of his past could put you in danger and if he told you about himself and you didn’t accept him, that could put him in danger. 

He was completely fixated on you and trying to close the gap between you and him that he had missed so much about the real world. But he couldn’t help it, you inspired him. Since he met you, he’s made dozens of new recipes and mixtures that reminded him of what you’d taste like or what you smelled like. 

And when he wasn’t using work as a distraction for when you were busy at work yourself, he spent his time scrolling through your social media. Now that you had included him in your life, it was easier to keep track of you and the things that you perhaps wouldn’t share with him or anyone else unless it was behind the safety of a screen. 

He knew about your colleagues, new friends, and even managed to find your professional account. It was how he got to know you a little better, seeing you from your years in highschool and throughout university. He read people’s comments on your posts, their niceties and their relationships with you. He looked over all your followers and the people you followed back. 

He was just going to have to be content with what he had so far with you. He’d probably have carved his own heart out if you ended up falling for someone who wasn’t him. The only thing keeping his heart intact was the fact that you never spoke to him about anyone and when you did tell him about someone, it was because they’d upset you somehow.

It took everything in Dean’s body to not do something extreme about those people in your life. From your horrible colleague who never shared important information about work with you, to your irritating friend Nico who would “wait” for you to end up falling for him. It would be petty and dangerous. 

And that infuriating part of his brain would sneer at him that he was no different than Nico. But he was! Dean was not pretending to be your friend so that you would miraculously realise he was the one for you. He wasn’t good to you because he wanted an advantage, he was good to you because he knew it made your life easier. He did things for you without you knowing because he loved you. He didn’t want anything in return, not even your love. That’s not why he did what he did for you. 

He’d always keep you safe. He’d do anything for you, for the rest of your life. Even if the moment never came, that you’d never loved him as much as he loved you. 

Now, here he was, watching you from his spot behind the counter as he kneaded the dough to make a new batch of doughnuts. He couldn’t help himself; you were always worth looking at.

He loved watching you. 

You made cute faces when you were focused and you’d eventually find comfort as you sat in the corner alone working on your projects. He’d smile at you and you’d smile at him and it was perfect. It felt so intimate that you were just there with him. That there were no words that needed to be spoken. The space between you, filled with people and food was never enough to stop the way blood rushed up to your cheeks whenever he caught you looking at him.

There was no one who caught his attention anymore, but he still knew how to play it off—for frequent visits that he’d benefit from finally. Some things never changed. Unfortunately, he felt that this was the only way to keep his bakery open when he was so enthralled in your life. He may not lure women to their deaths for a nest, but he sure did lure them into his bakery so they invested in his business. 

He’d considered that maybe his customers weren’t shallow, that it wasn’t true that he was attractive and that was his only worth. He hated thinking that it didn’t matter how good or bad he was at baking because to the people who frequented his bakery, he was pretty and that’s all that mattered. He hated having to settle for it, if it was what brought business to his bakery. 

At least you were more interesting than that, he knew you were honest, and he knew when he’d really screwed up a recipe. It took him a while to get Mexican sweet bread right but you were the perfect person for that. 

His phone buzzed in his back pocket and he pulled it out, brows furrowed, mouth still in a pout. He smiled effortlessly at your name as the text notification lit up his screen.

You: You okay?

He looked over at you and smiled reassuringly. Were you watching him the whole time? Oh, God, you were. He now realised your laptop was shut and you were sitting facing the front of the bakery instead of facing your laptop. 

You looked down at your phone and started typing. He stared at you as you chewed on your lip and knocked your knees together, restarting your fidgeting habit. He only looked away to read your messages. 

You: I think I want a concha

You: And maybe some coffee

You grinned at him when he lifted a brow at you, but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. You were already restless, it wouldn’t help you to have more caffeine.

Dean: You sure about that coffee? It’s almost 6. 

You: Make it small

Dean: Decaf

You: Fine :(

He laughed. You were so adorable. He felt it warm and bubbly as it rumbled through his chest and he heard the way you blushed. It made his body feel wild and tender every time he felt you became flustered. You laughed demurely and your fidgeting stopped momentarily.

He shook his head and put his phone in his pocket. Your wish was his command. He couldn’t bear to look at you for a second longer, you were made to be adored and loved by him. 

When he walked over to you, coffee and sweet bread in hand, he sat down in front of you. You smiled cheerfully and leaned forward curiously, pulling the coffee into your cool hands. “What?”

“Nothing, just bored,” he shrugged with a smile. You hummed softly and brought the cup to your lips. You moaned at the flavour, he felt the warmth of it pouring down your throat and spreading through your torso. “Got any plans this weekend?” 

You paused to look away and stared at the lid of your coffee as you brushed your fingers against the cardboard sleeve. Then, you relented. “I’m going on a date, actually. On Saturday.” 

Dean felt his heart sink. His face emptied every emotion and he was glad you didn’t look up. 

“Oh,” he muttered tightly, “do you.. like… the guy?” 

Now, you looked up at him. He rearranged his face to smile softly. You shrugged, noncommittal. God, woman. He was not interested in hearing a yes, but he also hated the way you kept everything close to the chest unless it was eating you up inside. How could he hate something about you when he loved you? No, he was just jealous. Your mystery was part of your charm and knowing things about you that others didn’t, demonstrated your trust in him. No one else had gotten that close to you and he knew it because you dedicated a vast majority of your free time to him. 

“He’s alright,” you faltered again. “It’s Clayton.”

The fucking mechanic? You're joking. 

-> heartbeats and flatlines

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[abbyslovergirlxo]

-Bad Idea-

ELLIE WILLIAMS x FEM!READER

What happens when your drunk ex sends you flowers? Who knows. But regardless, anyone would agree it’s a pretty bad idea.

tw; moping, terrible drunk decisions, slight smut (if you squint), cursing

—————————————————————————

“shit shit shit— oh my fucking— shit!”

Ellie had tried to wipe her eyes in a desperate repetition. But when her bank statements kept reading;

TRANSACTIONS

3/7/2023 Saturday: — 62.75 FROM; Flowers and Friends

It was hard to not accept the facts. Ellie could typically hold her liquor, but as of late she wasn’t herself. You and Ellie had been broken up for two months and she had deluded herself into thinking it left her mind. But whenever a touch of liquor or weed hit her system, suddenly she was missing you so bad that she couldn’t help herself from getting out of hand. Case in point being, her spending over 60 dollars while trashed to send to your doorstep.

She called the company a multitude off times, always receiving the same frustrating answer.

“Sorry ma’am, cancellations are not prohibited after the 12 hour order mark.”

Ellie cursed herself for over sleeping with a pounding hangover. Maybe if she woke up a couple hours earlier she could’ve saved herself eternal embarrassment. At least that was until she remembered that the only way you’d know if it was her if there was a note. She was cross faded out of her mind, no way she wrote anything that wasn’t gibberish, if she wrote anything at all.

“Wait! Was there a note attached or anything?”

“One second ma’am— let me just look right here… right, okay. Yes there’s a note attached.”

Ellie cursed silently into the air. She took a deep breath and looked up to the sky in a phantom type of prayer.

“Could you tell me what it says?”

“Absolutely. It says ‘Miss you so much baby. I can’t stop thinking about you and your nose. Your nose is so fucking pretty. And your hair. And just you. You’re so pretty. Please talk to me. Please please just talk to me. These flowers reminded me of you. They’re so pretty. I miss being inside of you. I miss us so mu—‘. Um…yeah. That’s pretty much it. It seems like you ran out of room to type.”

She was going to die. She was truly going to die. Ellie was grateful with how calm the customer service worker was. This probably was no doubt her most indecent moment and she couldn’t handle it if the lady on the phone was laughing at her.

Ellie gripped her phone till her knuckles turned a hued white, she was so fucking angry at herself. She was the one who broke up with you and her she was, going crazy.

“Do you have an estimation of when the flowers will arrive?”

“…Says around 2 pm.”

She didn’t even bother with a thank you as she ended the phone call. It was 1:45. You lived 20 minutes away. It would be close but it’d be better than doing nothing.

She swiped her eyes off her nightstand and was in her car before she could even blink.

After an almost car accident, two people flipping her off, and cutting people off, Ellie had finally made it to your apartment. She stomped her way up the steps that led to the second floor. Her lungs were practically screaming at her but she was so close.

2:03 pm.

Her breath got caught as she saw that familiar door mat. She had wiped her black converses on it a million times, a sort of tradition wether or not her shoes needed it. Made her feel like she was at home, her way of marking her territory. That bright yellow doormat with the corny quote that Ellie had clowned you for too many times.

“ Bee My Guest! 🐝 “

She had gotten so lost at just the sight of your front door that she hadn’t noticed the bouquet of flowers next to it. Quite a large one as well. If she hadn’t been a nervous wreck, she would’ve admired her taste. The flowers were gorgeous and she wanted nothing more than to give them to you. But she knew it wouldn’t be right and it’d be wrong. It had been months, why do something like this now?

With a sudden slowness she walked over to your front door, picking up the flowers and frowning. She had wished this were under different circumstances. That this was her on a random weekday, turning up to see you. Surprising you with flowers and soft kiss.

But that wasn’t the case. And she had gotten carried away at the idea of you. With a shake of her head, she checked the time.

2:14

Eleven minutes of admiring you literal door. Yeah, it was time to go.

“Ellie?”

Her head whipped up that sound. That sound she had been yearning to hear for literal months. She had spent many night looking over videos of you, hearing the way you spoke. It never beat the real thing, clearly.

She didn’t move, just staring at you with your pink tote bag and white sundress. She didn’t miss the way your bra was doing wonders for your chest. Fuck, was she looking?

“Um…”

You raised your brow, observing the sight infront of you. Your ex-girlfriend with a black graphic tee, green boy shorts and her favorite converses. Her hair had gotten longer but nonetheless still pulled into that familiar bun. She looked…good. You could tell she was hungover, you had been with her for too long to not know. But still she looked good, she always did.

But seeing your ex at your front door wasn’t the strangest thing, it was her holding a bouquet of flowers. This wasn’t what you expected to come home to after buying a book from your local Barnes and Nobles.

You should be pissed, sad or annoyed. But you were none of those. You wanted to be. But you had missed her. All you could feel was that familiar need for her and a touch of confusion.

“Did someone die?”

“Yes.”

Not her best lie, and after seeing your look of concern she couldn’t handle it.

“Sorry, no. Nobody died. I just— I didn’t mean to come here.”

“Oh…okay. Be safe on the way back?”

You shuffled towards your front door, brushing past her. This was so awkward and you felt ridiculous for actually thinking she came here for you. It was obvious she did, who shows up at their exes apartment complex with flowers? But clearly she didn’t want you enough to admit it. And that hurt more than you wanted it to.

With a silent curse you finally managed to get your key out of your bag. You appreciated it for all the space but it felt like you were digging through a damn vast hole whenever you needed something.

Before you could even open your door, you felt a hand on your shoulder making you look back.

“I missed you. Well I mean that I— I miss you. Now. I’ve missed you for a while. I hope that’s okay. I wish…we were okay.”

She was nervous. You tell by the way she bit down on her lip and her thumb fiddled with her ring. You were too. And you looked down at her hand, feeling sheepish about how warm it was on your skin.

It took no time for her to notice before she yanked it back. You frowned a little.

“Ellie why’d you come here? And with… flowers?”

She sighed a little, contemplating wether or not to save her dignity and leave. Pretend she never proclaimed her persistence of missing you and block you, or she could just be a human and talk to you. She had showed up like this unannounced and the least you deserved was an explanation. She didn’t want you to always wonder what could’ve happened.

“Can I come in?”

……………………….……………………….………………

“Didn’t we talk about getting cross faded? Mixing drugs and alcohol is not good for you Ellie.”

“That’s what you got from all of that…”

“Well that, and the fact you only miss me when you’re not sober.”

“That’s not— I always miss you. I just don’t know how to control it when I’m not sober. Exactly why I ordered these flowers last night.”

You grinned a little, finding it all a little funny. When she first came into your apartment that reeked of brown sugar and vanilla, it was as awkward as one would expect.

But you and her had been together for 3 years before you broke up. As her story strung out and you gave a her a cup of peppermint tea, the tension slowly evaporated.

“Right…and you did all of this just to still get caught with the flowers. Honestly Els, it would’ve been less embarrassing if I had just seen them on my doorstep.”

Ellie shifted on your white couch at the sound of the nickname. She hadn’t heard it in forever and it made her want you even more. She wasn’t even sure where this conversation was headed but she knew she didn’t want it to end.

“The note though. Would’ve given me away in a heartbeat, and I’d probably never show my face again.”

She let out a laugh at the thought. You furrowed your brows and put down your minions mug to stare at her.

“What note?”

You caught she sudden panic in her face. Ellie had purposefully left out the embarrassing note she had left on the flowers and didn’t plan on saying anything about them. The flowers now sat on your glass coffee table right next to the pink coasters.

“Note? Shit I’m probably just mixing things up. This teas like really good, you got anymore?”

You looked at Ellies nervous smile and then at the flowers. She looked at you and then back the flowers. Then you both locked eyes again. Her eyes squinted into a silent plea of ‘don’t do it.’

As if she knew you’d still do it she reached towards the flowers at the same time you did but to her horror you plucked the note card before she could stop you. You ran towards your kitchen, getting behind the island while scrambling to rip the paper out of the envelope.

Ellie didn’t hesitate to run offer you but she couldn’t quite get you with you way you kept leaping around the kitchen island just far away enough so she could grab you.

“Okay okay y/n. Let’s just talk about this? The note is just gibberish. I was drunk out of my mind and it’s just random stuff jumbled on there. It’s just so stupid. Please just—“

She reached her arm out to grab you which you dodged and moved in the opposite direction against the marble island corner.

“Give it to me. Please.”

“You’re rambling, you’re nervous.”

“Okay Sherlock, just hand me the note.”

With a quick, “nope” , you looked at the flower embroidered card and began to read out-loud.

“Miss you so much baby. I can’t stop thinking about you and your nose— really Ellie? My nose?”

She groaned as you managed to dodge her again.

“To be fair, it’s a very nice nose.”

“Uh huh… ‘And your hair. And just you. You’re so pretty. Please talk to me. Please please just talk to me. These flowers reminded me—“

“Wait! If you put the card down I’ll give you a weeks worth of weed. You know I have the best dealer and I promise you if you just give me the card I’ll swing by later and give you some. Please y/n I am literally begg—“

“Hush. I already buy from your dealer, I stole their number from your phone after that one time you smoked me out in Jersey.”

“Wait what the fuck?”

“These flowers reminded me of you. They’re so pretty. I miss being inside of you. I miss us so much?”

Ellie’s head was thrown down in a storm of shame. This was much more embarrassing than hearing the lady on the phone say it. Not to mention the way you impersonated Ellie’s voice while you said it. She was feeling like a little bitch and she even felt slightly betrayed. When the fuck was Mick going to tell her that he was selling you weed? She made a mental note to murder him and another mental note to never see you again.

“Fuck this is so embarrassing.”

After your laughter died down, you looked over the words again. Letting it all sink in. It was funny, you couldn’t lie about that.

But it was also a bit sad. You missed moments like these, with you and Ellie joking around. You missed her making you laugh and grabbing your waist from behind while you cooking in that very kitchen. The way she used to beg you to make that peppermint tea whenever she got off of work.

And she did say she had missed you, but was that enough? What even was this? Were you guys going to become friends? Get some closure and never see each other again? Or was there something more? Was it going to be Ellie and Y/n again? Or was it just you hoping that it’d be more?

The questions racked your brain. And your mood dropped quicker than you’d liked. Ellie now looked up at you after noticing your laughter swelter.

“Shit babe are y—fuck sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that, it’s just…I don’t know.”

“Ellie…what do you want out of this?”

“I—“

“You broke up with me. I thought that you didn’t want me anymore. Do you even want me anymore?”

“I want you so much I can’t even fathom it.”

“What do you want out of this?” You repeated your question.

“I don’t know… what do you want?”

“No, don’t do that. Don’t leave it up to me Ellie. That’s not fair.”

She shook her head as she moved near you, this time you didn’t move back. Allowing her to pull at your dress.

“I’m not trying to be unfair y/n. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing. I want whatever you want.”

“You broke up with me…”

“I know…I’m so sorry.”

You pushed her hand away from your dress gently. She was too close and it was making your mind jumbled.

“Look Ellie. I’ve missed you to. Too much. And I don’t want you to say something and not mean it. I don’t want you to feel cornered into caring about me.”

“I could never stop caring about you. I never stopped y/n.”

You stayed silent, getting suddenly scared at how real this all was. No matter which way this went it would be a drastic change. If she left and never saw you again you’d have to deal with a second heartbreak. If she wanted to be friends you knew you’d say yes and have to see her too much for your own comfort.

And if she wanted to get back together…well that was a monster all on its own.

“What do you want out of this Ellie?”

From your tone of voice, and it being the third time you said it, Ellie knew she had to give a definitive answer now. You deserved that. She didn’t deserve you, but she wanted to.

“I want you. I want us. I’ll be so good to you, I promise.”

You looked at her with pouty face. This was all you wanted to hear for the past couple of months and you finally got it. You didn’t want to get hurt again.

She met your eyes and tried to communicate with just those.

You remained silent. To which, she gripped the waist area of your dress fabric to bring you closer. She wrapped her arms around you and pulled you into a hug making you sigh into her neck.

She rubbed palmed circles onto your back.

“You want us back together?”

You nodded into her cologned skin.

“Yeah?”

You whispered out a soft, “Yes Els. I want us.”

She grinned into your hair, this was the first time one of her bad ideas turned into something good. But as she smelled that familiar coconut shampoo in your hair, she knew it wasn’t a good idea. It was fucking amazing idea.

She kissed your forehead.

“I really meant it when I wrote that I miss being inside of you.”

You whined a little, “Show me, Els.”

[evermoredeluxe]

How Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour Took Over the Entire World

By Chris Willman

By Alissa Gao for Variety

On the morning that Taylor Swift’s “Eras Tour” is about to begin a three-night stand in Dublin, the older gentleman taking charge of my passport at airport customs has clearly had his fill of Swifties, probably processing them by the hundreds already today. When I reveal myself to be one too — despite being arguably the wrong gender, inarguably old and lacking a telltale “Lover” mascara star over my right eye — his disdain is palpable. Suddenly, I’m getting way more screening questions than anyone not on a watch list should. “What do you like about her?” he sneers, peering up over specs.

This is probably the wrong time for me to point out Swift’s Irish heritage, or to assert that she is this generation’s James Joyce. (The original king of the Easter eggs, right?) I wouldn’t really go that far — I’m only on record as doing my best to certify her as this century’s Beatles. Trying to figure out how to answer him, the past 18 years of extolling Swift in print flash before my eyes. I end up murmuring the bare minimum: “Um, her songwriting.” This seems to disturb him further. He snaps back: “Aren’t they all the same song” — a slight pause, and I know what’s coming next — “about her breakups?” Then, abruptly, he stamps me through, sparing me a detour to Interpol for more grilling.

In the cab into town, the driver is blasting a local talk-radio personality sharing his dismay about the fans of an awful superstar taking over his country. The host reads an email sent in from a hater who says, “A year ago, when tickets went on sale, my partner and I made a reservation to take our kids out of the country this Friday morning. … Thank you for creating a safe space with your show.” I start to wonder if Swift might have met her match at the Cliffs of Moher.

But from my drop-off forward, the next three days are like living in a Swift-topia. The mile and a half to Aviva Stadium each night is like Disneyland when it shuts its doors early for an affinity group. Whether stopping in the pubs or walking through the charming neighborhood of Victorian brick homes adjoining the fancy new stadium, there’s that warm feeling of people who are united by one quality: They are all super in touch with their feelings — or else they wouldn’t be Swift fans. And they all are happy to stop on the street or over pints to talk about poetical expression. (Well, except for the occasional taciturn, invariably straight young male who has signified his supportive-plus-one status by wearing a jersey bearing the name of Swift’s Super Bowl beau, Travis Kelce.)

So it is that I end up chatting with a middle-aged gay man in a sequin-covered shirt whose female companion whispers to me, while he steps away to trade friendship bracelets with a 10-year-old girl and her mum, that Swift’s music just helped him through a difficult breakup. The girl then runs off to trade her homemade bracelets with a pair of high-helmeted Dublin policemen loaded up to their own elbows with friendship swag — unexpected accessories for long arms of the law.

All the stories about American Swifties swarming overseas to catch “The Eras Tour” turn out to be true: You couldn’t swing a neon golf club around here without hitting a Yank. Approximately one out of every five fans I approach is visiting from the States — and the jubilation they’re feeling about the night’s impending concert is compounded by the fact that nearly all of them financed a European vacation and a concert ticket for roughly the same amount they would have paid on a secondary ticketing site for a typical four-figure ticket to one of last year’s predatorily repriced U.S. shows.

Remember the venerable stereotype of the Ugly Americans, brusquely trampling over refined Europeans in their travels? Thanks to Taylor Swift, who has a gift for laying out global welcome mats, this is the summer of the Spangly American.

At the stadium on night one, just down the row from me are a group of millennials from New Jersey, several in glam unitards inspired by the “Lover” or “1989” portions of the career-spanning show and looking like they were costumed by Swift’s own designer, with fake jewel-encrusted microphones to match. I ask how many hours went into perfecting these nearly pro-grade outfits.

“About 80 hours for mine,” says Megan McLaughlin. “Hers probably longer,” she adds, nodding toward one of her sisters, Margo Steinberg. “She knows all the glues and the best gems.” Indeed, confirms Steinberg, “I was working on mine since January. And, yes, I did quit my job to finish it!” She adds, when I ask if she cares to share any secrets to a particularly good look, “You have to use the B-7000 glue.” (A third sister, Amelia McLaughlin, admits she resorted to buying her spangly dress off Etsy — “I was doing a PhD, but I had to match these girls’ enthusiasm” — while a fourth, Carolyn McLaughlin, skipped the glitter and went for a red dress that matches Swift’s from the “I Bet You Think About Me” video.)

Certainly, there is an element of cosplay to many of the fans’ outfits. Some have seen footage of the new segment Swift added to the tour beginning in April 2024 — devoted to her most recent album, the 31-song “Tortured Poets Department” — and have managed to manufacture gowns that look like they’re made of paper and feature lyric excerpts printed on them in script, à la Swift’s custom-made Vivienne Westwood dress. I meet a group of American women who became friends as literature majors in college who have “Tortured Poets”-themed outfits, one duplicating the Westwood dress and the other with handmade printouts of the latest album’s lyrics pinned all over her black dress, as if she were literally pulling pages out of Swift’s playbook.

It’s the devotion to lyrics, even more than glitter, that is most impressive about the bespoke outfits fans have concocted for the occasion. There are scores and scores of Swifties wearing homemade T-shirts — sometimes singular, sometimes matching with a friend, like walking Burma-Shave signs. Some of the messages are obvious, like the dozens of laddies wearing “It’s me, hi, I’m the husband/boyfriend/father, it’s me” shirts. (Bet that seemed really original at one time.) But a lot of them refer to more obscure songs or stanzas, as if every nearby street or stadium loge section is full of human Easter eggs, begging to be unpacked. It’s hard to think of any other superstar in the history of stadium tours who could have inspired as much fan-crafted clothing rooted in the power of words.

Combos of middle-aged mothers and their teen or 20-something daughters abound; some of them have seized on Swift’s mentions of her own mother, Andrea, to come up with their T-shirt ideas. On Lansdowne Road, I talk to a mum whose red-on-black shirt says, “Had to listen to all this drama,” accompanied by a daughter bearing the legend, “And here’s to my mama.” (This is a reference to Swift’s song “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.”)

Later, in a stadium Guinness line, I chat up a pair of thirsty locals, the daughter’s shirt reading “I call my mom, she said …,” with the mom’s shirt completing the thought: “It was for the best.” (Damn it, I had to Google to recall that’s from a “1989” Vault track that came out last year.) I ask the daughter if she had to explain to her mom what she was wearing. “She’s 52,” she replies. “I don’t think she knows.”

Age is really no guarantor of not getting it — the popular #SwiftieOver50 hashtag on X proves that. Although outnumbered, plenty of older people are unaccompanied by a minor, or by anyone who has been a minor in the past 20 years. I approach a middle-aged couple, Jean Sebastian Conley and Natasha Gagne, again bidden by their matching shirts — “Who’s Taylor Swift?” and “Who’s Travis Kelce?” They turn out to be French Canadians who found their 206-euro SRO tickets to be a steal compared with the extravagant resale prices they briefly considered back home after being shut out of the initial on-sale. I ask what attracted them to Swift since, unlike so many others here, they didn’t grow up with her.

“I really fell in love with her with the ‘Folklore’ album,” Conley says, referring to her low-key Grammy-winning album recorded during the early months of the pandemic. “I think different audiences and older audiences found her through that and ‘Evermore’ because they were more singer-songwriter, a little bit rougher indie music, and that’s what we like most. So that’s how I got hooked.” For her part, Gagne says, “I like everything she represents. And when she redid all her masters, that’s where I thought she was a lady boss.”

It’s a reminder that, for however many mini-narratives Swift packs into the three hours and 20 minutes of an “Eras” show, there are really four or five years of backstory that feed into the audience’s shared awareness. When she sings the ominous ballad “My Tears Ricochet,” accompanied by a coven of stone-faced dancers, at least some fans will understand it as a distant reflection of her very public feelings about the men she considers her business bêtes noires, Scooter Braun and Scott Borchetta, who bought and sold (respectively) the rights to her first six albums, spawning much vitriol as well as four “Taylor’s Version” rerecorded albums to date.

When the dancers put their grins back on, Swift plays an ebullient excerpt of a very recent “Poets” bonus track, “So High School,” which every person in the crowd will know is inspired by Kelce. There are some breakup songs of recent vintage too — yes, Mr. Customs Man! — like “The Smallest Man in the World,” which may or may not have cost Matty Healy, the 1975 frontman and former Swift paramour, a night of sleep.

The whole tour is themed around not just the newer records but the rerecordings that have made every older album in her catalog feel improbably fresh. It was, quite possibly, the single most baller move in the history of the record industry … and led to the career-retrospective concept for what is already unquestionably the biggest tour in the history of popular music.

Any discussion of the charms of fandom isn’t meant to forestall discussion of “The Eras Tour” as big business. The numbers are fuzzy because Swift’s camp does not release grosses from her shows, unlike nearly every other artist at the stadium or arena level. Even when the tour wraps after 20 months on Dec. 8 in Vancouver, it seems likely those numbers will continue to be guarded with a zeal on par with the government of North Korea’s. Many industry experts believe the gross will approach or even surpass $2 billion.

What is known for certain — even without a confirmation from Swift World — is that she broke the all-time tour-gross figure when she hit the $1 billion mark, whenever exactly that might have been. The two trade publications that specialize in the touring industry have slightly differing estimates: Billboard calculated a cumulative gross of approximately $900 million when she took a break at the end of 2023, figuring that she would crack $1 billion shortly into the tour’s resumption in April, while Pollstar estimated that she had passed $1 billion by the conclusion of last year. Any way you guesstimate it, Swift took less than a year to break the previous record of $939.1 million, which Elton John grossed with his “Farewell Yellow Brick Road” tour across nearly three years of shows.

One source close to the production said early in the “Eras Tour” era that her average gross each night is $14 million. Others believe that is a highly conservative estimate, with a possible total that on at least some nights edges closer to $17 million. One remarkable aspect is that this does not include the revenue from any inflated resale tickets — which, as anyone who has tried to get tickets through Vivid Seats or StubHub knows, mostly have gone for several times their face value. It was little publicized, but Swift had “dynamic pricing” turned off for her ticket sales, possibly to avoid the controversies Bruce Springsteen encountered when the face value on some of his tickets leaped to the four-figure range upon their first sale. Swift left money on the table by not participating in the scalping of her own tickets, which had an average price of around $230 and topped out at $499, excepting VIP packages, which zenithed at $899 — all well short of what some other superstars ask nowadays. Of course, neither Argentina nor anyone at Wembley Stadium ahead of Swift’s opening night performance in June will be crying for her when she’s in reach of $2 billion without the resale inflation … not to mention the hundreds of millions of dollars in merch.

(This is extraordinary also because Swift hasn’t done any press to promote the tour, except for when she was selected as Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in December. But she doesn’t need to — the tour is constantly being celebrated on social media with every outfit change. And it’s also become so huge, it’s featured more A-list sightings than the Oscars, from Julia Roberts to Tom Cruise to Stevie Nicks, who had the surprise song “You’re on Your Own, Kid” dedicated to her in Dublin.)

Benson Boone, whose “Beautiful Things” is the most-streamed song of 2024 in the U.S. and the world, says he felt dwarfed when performing as the opening act at one of Swift’s seven shows at London’s Wembley Stadium. He has forever committed to memory the exact attendance figure he was given for the night: “89,497,” he says. “Just her stage alone is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen — 300 feet of it!” he says. “I took in every moment. It was cool for me to experience another artist’s world and learn from it. I want to work that hard and be the captain of my ship.”

Although it’s maddening to a media that likes official box office reports and can’t get them, it’s easy to see the wisdom in not flaunting those figures if you’re a superstar artist who counts on being seen as relatable. Swift certainly is proud of breaking records — she posted a tweet when “The Tortured Poets Department” spent its first 12 weeks at No. 1 on the album chart, one of only three albums in history to do so. But she’d rather count fan impressions than dollars. By the same token, she doesn’t publicize or confirm acts of generosity that leak out, like the sizable food-bank donations she makes in every city she tours, or the $100,000 bonuses that the tour’s 50 truck drivers reportedly got for Christmas.

An addendum to all this is how the “Eras Tour” film — released last fall, less than halfway through the actual tour — grossed just over $180 million domestically and $261 million globally, beating the records set by Justin Bieber’s concert film in the U.S. and Michael Jackson’s globally. Massive big-screen spoilers only heightened, rather than diminished, resale demand for the shows yet to come on the 152-date tour and helped precipitate the movement among Americans to head overseas, to make up for the supply found sorely lacking at home.

“She is the torchbearer for the live industry,” says Andy Gensler, editor of Pollstar. “It’s nothing we’ve ever seen before, and it’ll be a long time before we see it again. Her timing was exquisite: The pandemic created this yearning and hunger for live entertainment like nothing else in our history, so she couldn’t have picked a better time to go out.” Pollstar called last year a “historic golden age” for touring, as the top 100 global tours collectively surpassed $9 billion — up 46% from 2022 — with Swift obviously contributing a significant chunk of that total. (This year, the trade reports that overall tour attendance is down, with flat grosses, representing a slight reckoning for the live industry that, obviously, isn’t impacting “Eras.”)

“What my partners and I talk a lot about is how it’s one thing to have a big tour in North America. It’s another thing to have an equally big tour wherever you are in the world and to do doubles and triples in these markets,” says Bernie Cahill, an Activist founding partner and manager of acts including the Grateful Dead and the Lumineers. “It’s an anomaly. It’s not normal. And don’t forget, you’re going into what I call asymmetric venues, which are venues that are not really built for music; these are venues that are built for football games or soccer games and can be very challenging to do music. And they get it right every time — Louis Messina [Swift’s tour promoter since her earliest days] and his team are world-class.” But for all that globe-trotting, he notes, “there are some artists that you see do a show and you know they don’t even know what city they’re in. I always feel like Taylor knows exactly where she is. She has a relationship with that city or that market and those fans and she’s connected to them in ways that are very authentic, that you can’t fake.”

The one big snafu in the rollout of “The Eras Tour” occurred in November 2022 when the Ticketmaster system melted down after too many North American dates went on sale at once, causing thousands of fans to experience long delays. The on-sale broke the all-time record for tickets sold in a single day at 2 million, but it also nearly broke the world’s largest ticketing platform. Swift herself was Teflon in this situation, as the blame fell on a ticketing system not capable of handling so much of the Swift-loving world at once. And although most of the problems people have with Ticketmaster are different from what fans faced in the “Eras Tour” debacle — mainly, hidden fees and monopolistic practices — it could have big legislative consequences anyway. Dean Budnick, co-author of “Ticket Masters: The Rise of the Concert Industry and How the Public Got Scalped,” believes that the Swift hullabaloo was the main catalyst for Congress enacting reform. “There’s no question that perhaps there’s gonna be some meaningful change in ticketing as a result of what people experienced with that on-sale.”

That sense Cahill spoke about of the singer making it clear to an audience she knows exactly where she’s at is in full force in Dublin. Swift introduces the “Folklore”/”Evermore” segment by suggesting that she had a spiritual locale in mind when she started writing that more intimate material, locked in during the first part of the pandemic. “It keeps me up at night all year long: Which era is the most Irish?” she half-jokes to the crowd. “I’m gonna make a case for it being ‘Folklore’ … This album’s imaginary world had a whole aesthetic — like I lived in this cabin in a really green, nature-y, moss-covered landscape. You see where I’m going?… Another thing that I think makes it more Irish than the other eras is, ‘Folklore’ was all about storytelling. And I know you hear this a lot, but you guys are naturally gifted storytellers, right?”

Later on, Swift will cement the local connection by playing, as a “secret” surprise acoustic song, “Sweet Nothing.” She doesn’t have to give the crowd any explanation for that: From the first notes, Irish Swifties will immediately recall that the lyrics reference to the coastal town of Wicklow. The real cherry on top of the show for locals at any international Eras Tour stop, though, comes with a customized moment each night during “We Are Never Getting Back Together” when the spotlight is put on backing dancer Kameron Saunders for a couple of seconds, as he blurts out something locally appropriate, and cheeky. One night in Dublin, it’s the Irish catchphrase “the neck of ye!”; on another, he yells out “pog mo thoin,” meaning “kiss my ass!”; the massive, knowing laugh that inside joke gets makes it clear this isn’t entirely an audience of American tourists after all.

But the basic theatrics and emotional currents remain consistent from show to show. If Swift is surprisingly reticent to make her “Eras Tour” numbers public, that may be, in part, her desire to keep the focus primarily on a personal fan connection. Music industry veterans are taken aback by Swift’s ability to be giant and intimate onstage. “She’s a master marketer of herself — and she is not afraid to be vulnerable to her fans,” says Michele Bernstein, who runs a consultancy that works with stars like Drake. Bernstein could almost be quoting the lyrics of “Mastermind,” where Swift describes herself in almost comically omniscient terms, then dives into a bridge about how no one would play with her as a little girl.

People like my guardian of the customs gate may complain about Swift’s songs centering on her romantic splits, but that subject matter magnifies her own insecurities and weaknesses, expressed in genuinely eccentric wordplay, in ways that keep the audience in thrall to someone they perceive as a humble underdog as well as a veritable cage fighter. She could do a $10 billion tour someday and still keep the crowd enraptured by how she measures up to, or rallies to exceed, the smallest man — or men, or Kardashians — in the world.

This plays out in the “Eras” show in all sorts of symbolic ways, like the new segment in the “Tortured Poets” section where she seems to have fainted from the vapors of failed romance. Dancers in tuxedos try to revive her while a swing version of “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart” plays over the PA. A pair of women dressed as nurses fit her with what looks like a majorette’s uniform — or, with all its off-white stripes, is it really meant to resemble a straitjacket? The resemblance is probably not coincidental. Swift fans know there’s nothing like a mad woman.

The most exhilarating moment that has been added to the show this year has her gliding down the ramp on a platform, appearing to anyone at floor level like she is levitating like the witch she makes herself out to be in “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?” Taylor Swift: She was Agatha all along!

Yes, there is much to unpack. But in Dublin and in every other city where “Eras” has alighted, there is also pure inspiration for those who maybe haven’t always felt like they’ve had a voice, whether it’s her LGBTQ+ fan base or, well, women. It’s a modern transmutation of Beatlemania in which Swift manages to be all four Fabs, and a mirror, as well as object, of that gaze. You don’t have to be a woman to experience the explosion of pure female joy that takes place on a mass scale at an “Eras” gig, but for men, it doesn’t hurt to have a healthy sense of where you might sit on the female spectrum.

Outside Aviva Stadium, two young Londoners have formed their own two-woman straight-gay alliance: One is wearing a shirt with the hand- drawn words “You’re obsessive and crazy,” and the other’s shirt has the phrase “You’re gay,” each with an arrow pointing to the other. This echoes the original lyrics to Swift’s 2006 oldie “Picture to Burn,” which was rerecorded after some were offended by “gay” as a possible teen epithet. “I am obsessive and crazy, and she is gay,” laughs Zoe Gibson, pointing to her friend, India Day. “We want to bring back the original lyrics. We never found them homophobic — we want to reclaim it.” Day adds, “We’ve listened to her since we were 4 years old, so obviously there’s the nostalgia factor. But for me, she speaks on quite a lot of issues like gay rights and feminism, and all of her songs perfectly sum up the experience of being a woman.”

Some of the shirts are apropos for Pride Month. Seeing a boy of no older than 15 or 16 wearing a homemade “But Daddy I Love Him” shirt (the title of a “Tortured Poets” fan favorite), it’s easy to imagine some courage was required to don that apparel. Along the same lines, I spot any number of women making their own statement in shirts with the modified exclamation “But Daddy I Love Her.”

Gay or straight, 6 years old or 60-something, female or just female-allied, the crowd inside gets its sway on early in the show, with the arrival of the gentle, waltz-time “Lover.” It’s not one of the big set-pieces of this nonstop Broadway-style production — the spotlight is just on Swift and her acoustic guitar — but it might be the one where the entire audience feels like it’s at a four-minute campfire. No wicked witchiness here, just winsomeness.

Down on the floor, I’m seeing what amounts to a Taylor Swift mosh pit: gangs of two or three or five young women, ignoring the fact that Swift herself is just yards away from them on the ramp. They’re singing and acting out every last line to each other, as if the superstar isn’t even towering right over them. A waste of their euros? Hardly. Swift will capture their full attention again as the show proceeds, but in the moment, she isn’t just a superstar — she might be the world’s greatest community organizer.

[brandedmats]

Creative Home Door Mat Designs to Personalise Your Entryway

Your home’s entrance is the first thing that greets guests, making it the perfect canvas to showcase your personality and style. While a traditional “welcome” mat is always a classic choice, why not take your entryway to the next level with creative and unique home door mat designs? From humour to inspiration, there’s a doormat for every homeowner looking to make a statement. Read this article for more details!

[eliima141]

please can you make a part 3 of dragon price, deer reader?

(Sorry for the late post, Ive been working on a personal story. I will try to make smaller posts in the future to improve my writing.)

NSFW below (minors DNI)

Dragon hybrid! John Price x Deer hybrid! hybrid reader

• After he lured you successfully into his cave he had already started digging out rooms for his future children on the other side of the den. Each room hastily made to be filled soon as possible. Installing thick wooden doors to keep them safe.

• Reader had to adjust to Prices schedule, Hibernations and heats? Don’t worry he’s got it covered. Brings in extra food right before his hibernations in winter, he has a internal water source so its not an issue. And don’t worry if Reader gets horny, he gives Reader full permission to ride his cock all they want. If Reader does end up riding his cock during Prices hibernations his dreams quickly turn dirty. He’ll let out grunts of pleasure and sometimes trap you between his giant biceps and mattress then roll his hips into Reader until they’re a soaked, sobbing mess and John wont even know cause he’s in a deep sleep, he wont know of the times he “accidentally”overstimulated Reader to the point of passing out. Little does Reader know John can feel by the weight of his balls if user had been using his cock or not. Plus near the ends of his hibernations John slightly wakes up but not fully, meaning he retains the memory if Reader used him, even if the memory’s are fuzzy

•Gosh his mating season is even worse. Spring and winter being so close. One season he’s completely knocked out and the next he’s a very hungry, horny beast. As soon as he wakes Reader better be near or he’ll fuck anything that smells the slightest of them. Reader packed their favorite plushie and it sleeps with them every night? If you’re not there he’ll fuck your plushies, pillows, panties. Anything and everything that reminds him of Reader. If your right next to him he’ll pounce, quickly removing your panties, boxers, shorts- whatever you have on- and breed you, his cock reaching all those delicious spots he couldn’t reach unconscious, making up for all the lost time together in one fuck.

•I imagine Johns cave in a more secluded area of the British mountains. Not exactly a snowy area but not exactly fully thawed. He would have a thick wooden door built for a man of his bulk. Who knows, maybe after his sweet deer moves in he’ll get some plants and a welcome mat to decorate outside.

I imagine his cave to look like this. The thick wooden door more visible as you step inside the bulky entrance too large for John himself.

•John will let Reader turn his cave into a home. All they need to do is ask for the supply and he’ll get it and make it happen. Custom cribs? He’s got it, actual lights other than shitty candles? fine, even if be doesn’t see the point of such “tacky” designs. Reader knows he’s fully down bad when they’re pregnant and she has him busting his ass building wooden archways between the sculpted hallways-another project from Reader- that makes their cave even more homey. You can already hear him groaning and getting his Material ready whenever Reader says they want windows and a balcony.

• With each dragon hybrid out there, there is toxicity. He doesn’t let Reader outside, until they have children of corse cause only then does he know Reader wont run from him. What kind of Deer hybrid would leave their young children? Even then he keeps Reader close, his dear children closer. Keeps Reader on more strict rules than their children. Only he can bathe reader-unless he’s hibernating- He expects Reader to know how to do anything, make a special meal from when he was growing up, fix a broken bed frame, ect. Luckily he’s doting on the children will only be strict towards important things. Not leaving at night, staying close in the forest, treating their mother respectfully. Over all John is a good man, amazing father, and an even greater partner. Other than his few issues!

Thank you guys for reading! Ill take recs on more hybrid stuff, I don’t mind dabbling in Alpha omega beta dynamics. Just request and I’ll see if Im comfortable writing the content.

[aftxnrxbxtics]

into the pit

William Afton x f! reader

Summary: don’t stay too late at fredbear’s… or you might end up getting chased and fucked in the ball pit.

Warnings: dub-con, predator/prey dynamic, age-gap, mentions of murder and kidnapping, choking, aggressive sex, innocence kink, forced creampie, william being a sick bastard as always.

A/N: i had this idea for a long time and now i finally decided to write it, so i hope that you all enjoy it!! <3

You’re used to this. Every saturday you spend the entire afternoon at fredbear’s family diner, just to eat ice cream and play the arcade games for hours, nonstop, wanting nothing more than to collect enough tickets to trade in prize counter in exchange for that springbonnie plushie that you’ve always wanted.

Usually the restaurant is crowded, full of kids running around and happy families eating pizza while watching the animatronics performing on stage. But today is different, it’s almost empty.

You try not to think much about it, it’s been raining all day, so probably the heavy storm and thunders are what caused the lack of customers. However, it’s better for you, this time there’s no kids telling you that it’s their turn to play.

Without any distraction, you lose track of time, and before you know it you’re all alone and it’s completely dark outside. What a mistake. You should’ve gone home a while ago.

Just one more game, that’s what you promise to yourself, one more. But when you check the pocket of your jacket, there’s no fazcoins left. You already used all of them, and you’re out of real money too.

Fuck.

Maybe if you check your other pocket…

“I think you need more of these” a deep voice startles you, causing your heart to beat faster. And when you look up, you find a familiar face, it’s Mr. Afton.

You don’t know him, but you always see him around, and as far as you know he’s one of the owners. He seems kind, or at least that’s what you think when you see him there, close to you, offering you a bunch of shiny fazcoins.

You hesitate a little bit, but you end up taking the fazcoins off his big hand. It’s just a nice gift, right? accept it and don’t be rude.

“Thanks” you mutter, more shy than ever, nervously playing with the coins.

You’d be lying if you said that you don’t find him attractive, even though he’s way older than you, perhaps in his late forties, and there’s a hint of grey starting to appear in his hair and beard.

Something in him is extremely alluring, but you don’t know exactly what it is. Maybe it’s his towering height, his authority, or the fact that he’s always well dressed in suit and tie. You have no idea, but it makes you feel like a deer in headlights.

“Uh… i should go home already” you tell him, leaving the coins in your pocket. “Sorry for staying so late”.

William doesn’t answer, he just stares as you hurriedly make your way through the empty restaurant. You’re so sweet, so naive, if only you knew that there’s no way out. You’re trapped and he’s about to have some fun.

Of course, the main entrance is locked and chained, once you notice a shiver runs down your spine.

“You’re not going anywhere” William speaks, and even though you’re not looking at him, it’s obvious that he has a big grin on his face.

Run. That’s the only thing your instinct tells you. Don’t try to open the door, just run and hide.

So you do it. You start running as fast as you can, quickly thinking about which place would be the best to hide, behind the stage? the bathrooms? the kitchen? no, that’s too obvious. Your last option is the playground, if you’re lucky he won’t look there.

You go inside it, thankful for the padded mats muffling the sound of your footsteps, and there it is, the ball pit. You always see the kids playing hide and seek on it, so it must be deep enough for you to fit as well.

Trying to not make too much noise, you dive into the pit, hiding yourself under the colorful balls. It doesn’t matter that your body is trembling in pure fear, just stay still and wait until morning, don’t move.

But do you really think that you can outsmart someone like him? it’s his restaurant, his fun place, and he already knows every hiding spot. Every. Single. One.

Long minutes pass by, and it makes you think that you’re safe there, but in reality it’s nothing more than his twisted games.

When you least expect it, his hand reaches inside and pulls you out to the surface of the pit, in such an aggressive manner that causes your shirt to tear open. Still, you try to scream and fight, but all your effort is in vain, there’s no way for you to escape the grasp of a man who is almost twice your size.

Both of his hands wrap around your neck, squeezing hard, just without the intention of cutting you air flow. He still needs you alive.

“I thought about killing you” William confesses, his raspy voice now more intimidating than ever. “But i think you’re way too pretty to die, so now i have different plans for you”.

“Just let me go, please” you beg, grabbing his wrists, as if your desperate words would change anything. “Please”.

Actually, your pleading eyes and weak voice only make his cock grow hard inside his pants. He loves when someone begs him for mercy, it’s a power dynamic that he always wins.

“Just spread your legs, let me get what i want, and i’ll let you go” he says, taking his hands off your neck and slowly dragging his fingertips down to your exposed chest.

You’re scared and you know that it’s wrong, but you do as you’re told, you spread your legs in an inviting way, allowing him to see your lacey panties under your skirt. You’ve always liked him after all, so the thought of him using you instead of murdering you doesn’t sound as bad.

What you will never know is that he’s had a certain fixation on you too. Since the first time he saw you roaming around the restaurant a few weeks ago he knew he had to put his hands on you. At first, he wanted to ruin your innocence just by taking your life away, but when he realized that you were already a woman his depraved fantasies went somewhere else.

“Such and obedient girl” william says, his long fingers tracing the straps of your bra. “I like that”.

Suddenly, he pulls the fabric down, freeing your tits. And oh, and young body like yours never disappoints, you look so perfect and so soft. Your round tits, still firm and with pretty nipples, only make his gray eyes go almost completely dark in lust.

He can’t wait to see what else you’re hiding under your clothes.

His hands travel down, caressing your thighs, relishing on the tenderness of your skin. And even though he has seen many women before, none of them compares to you… you’re fragile and so fucking innocent.

God, if only you were a few years younger he’d really enjoy tearing you apart.

When his fingers reach your panties he just pulls them to the side, revealing your pussy already glistening with arousal.

“So wet for me” William growls, using his thumb to spread your wetness and rub your clit. “You want this, don’t you? who would have thought that you’d be a total slut”.

You don’t even pay attention to his mocking words or the chuckle that he lets out, you’re just focused on the pleasure he’s causing. His calloused thumb against your sensitive nub feels too good, way better than when you used to touch yourself while thinking about him.

He’s too experienced, so much that just a few more circles on your clit cause a moan to escape from your lips. But once he hears it he stops abruptly, taking his hand away, there’s no way that he’s gonna let you cum so soon.

You open your half-lidded eyes to protest, but then you see him making his way through the colorful balls to position himself between your open legs.

And for a moment, while he’s distracted unbuckling his belt, you think that maybe you could escape and make a run for the back door. But you don’t even dare to try it. Both of you know how bad that would end, so you stay still, just watching as he frees his hard cock.

He’s thick and veiny, leaking beads of precum out of his pink tip, and the mere sight of it makes you regret your decision. You don’t really think you’re capable of taking him inside you, however, it’s too late, before you know it he’s pushing into your tight pussy.

It hurts, so you try to push him away, placing your hands against his broad chest. But it’s useless, William doesn’t care at all, he just laughs at your pathetic attempts and continues having his way with you, burying his cock to the base inside your warm hole.

He doesn’t wait for you to adjust to his size, his movements are careless and aggressive, thrusting hard even if your eyes are filled with tears.

But soon enough, the pain starts to fade away, leaving only the sting of his cock stretching you open. And William seems to know that, he notices the way your body reacts and how your hands slowly stop trying to resist him.

“That’s it” he growls in a condescending manner. “Stop crying and focus on me.”

You don’t answer, everything is happening too fast and your mind is a mess, but when he leans closer, caging you under him, you have no other option but centering you attention on him and nothing else.

You hold onto his purple shirt and close your eyes, allowing yourself to get lost in the moment, even though you’re surely going to regret it for the rest of your life.

Each drag of his cock feels like nothing you’ve had before, and you can almost swear that you feel every vein and ridge, along with the mushroomed tip bullying your cervix with each violent thrust. And you’d never admit it, but you kinda like getting fucked in such an animalistic way, allowing him to take out all of his frustration on you.

The squelching noises and your whimpers are obscene, and the smell of sex is starting to gross you out, so you bury your face on his neck, inhaling his manly scent instead, a rare mixture of cigarettes and cologne.

His breathing is ragged, you can feel the warmth of it on your shoulder, and soon his thrusts start getting deeper, causing a delicious friction of his hairy pelvis against your clit.

“You feel so good- fuck” William groans, losing his mind over how heavenly your walls grip around him. “You’re so fucking tight. You were made for me, and now finally i get to fill you up with my cum, claiming you as mine forever”.

Your mind is clouded by pleasure, so you don’t realize the danger of his words, but his possessiveness sends you over the edge. You come undone with a muffled cry, arching your back as you let your orgasm take over your body.

You ride out your high, feeling pure bliss until your legs end up shaking. And William is close too, you can tell by the way his muscles are tensing and how his thrusts lose rhythm.

That’s when your heart drops, remembering what he said just a minute ago.

“Don’t cum inside. Please.” you plead, on te verge of tears again, not really wanting to deal with the consequences of it. “Don’t”.

But he just puts a hand over your mouth to shut you up. “I’m not asking for permission”.

Your muffled whines and how your pussy clenches out of fear and desperation is exactly what he wanted. Nothing more enjoyable for him than to cause such emotions in someone vulnerable under his power. You’re the perfect little victim.

William can’t resist it anymore, just a few more thrusts and he cums, grunting as shoves his cock deep inside you one last time, filling you up with his sticky seed.

He empties himself to the last drop and then falls on top of you, not wanting to pull out yet, just staying inside your hot pussy while he catches his breath. He’s an old man after all, he needs a few minutes to recover from a rough fuck.

Once he’s done, he slides out slowly and starts fixing his clothes, not really paying attention to you. He’s indifferent, and now that his fun is over you think that maybe he’s just gonna leave you there, feeling used and filthy, on your own to find your way out of the restaurant.

But he doesn’t. When William buckles his belt again, pretending like nothing happened, he stares down at you once more. You’re still shy, trying to hide your exposed body while looking up at him with big teary eyes, like a wounded animal.

How can he leave you there in such state? He’s not that bad… is he?

So he picks you up on his arms, bridal style, carrying your weight so effortlessly as he walks out of the playground. And you rest your head on his chest, too weak and sleepy to even try to escape from his hold. But weird enough, you don’t feel fear anymore.

“I think i’m gonna keep all to myself” William’s voice seems distant as your eyes begin to close, finally resting after the sudden rush of adrenaline. “You’ll be staying in my basement for a while…”

[imagine-darksiders]

A little respite...

A short Death/Reader oneshot about birthday presents, mugs, and how a Horseman without a heart isn't necessarily heartless. Enjoy! <3 xxx

---

Birthdays, Death supposes, carry far greater significance when one only has a finite number of years in one’s lifespan.

If there’s anything he’s grateful for, it’s that modern humans seem to have tailored their annual celebrations to smaller, intimate gatherings, which, in his opinion, are far more tasteful than the ostentatious and plethoric affairs those pharaohs used to throw. If the Horseman thought he’d have to wade through a veritable ocean of humans just to get to your front door…. Well. He certainly wouldn’t have been best pleased, to say the least.

Nestled within the cup of his palm and safely hidden from prying eyes is a small, unassuming parcel. It doesn’t look like much, deliberately so. The tiny thing is wrapped in some old parchment he had to pilfer from Azrael’s study. It was the first and only thing he could think of after he belatedly recalled how humans like to peel away a layer of paper before they can lay eyes on whatever has been pre-emptively hidden within it.

You became quite prickly once after he pointed out the aimlessness of the custom.

‘Some traditions,’ he begrudgingly yielded after several hours of trying to see past your cold-shoulder, ‘are better left undisputed.’

Trudging along the newly rebuilt street in the direction of your home, Death makes every conceivable effort to avoid the stares and shocked gasps from the few humans who are still milling about in the golden light of the evening.

Even after the Resurrection and the frequent comings and goings of the Horsemen, angels, makers and even the occasional demon, Humanity still hasn’t grown accustomed to seeing the Grim Reaper skulking about on their planet.

In the corner of an eye, he sees a man haul a small girl into his arms and scurry to the opposite side of the street, and it takes everything in the Horseman not to sigh.

It isn’t long before he finds himself turning onto the short, gravel path leading up to your front door. His footfalls make no sound on the loose stones, and the parcel is starting to carry weight in his palm now.

Coming to a halt on the step, his eyes drift down to the faded mat by his boots that reads ‘Welcome.’

The Horseman scoffs, as he does every time he sees it. Sometimes you’re too hospitable for your own good.

Giving his shaggy head of hair a bemused shake, he reaches for the doorknob, only to pause.

Another custom best left undisputed… Humans don’t like it if you enter their home unannounced.

Curling his hand into a fist, he instead gives the wood three, solid raps with his knuckles before letting his arm drop back to his side, briefly giving a thought to what it must seem like for an onlooker to witness the ancient Nephilim ceding to human habits.

With a grunt, he leans back on his haunches to wait, idly counting the cracks that have formed in the plaster surrounding your doorframe, each one betraying the frequency of visits made by his younger sister, Fury. It’s a wonder the entrance is still intact with how often she barges in and out, scuffing the paint and chipping off wooden flakes with her armoured shoulders.

Sometimes she forgets that while she might have the slightest build of the Horseman, she’s still unconventionally large from the average human’s point of view. Regardless, you haven’t said a word to her about the marks, as far as Death is aware, and somehow, he doubts you ever will.

His ears prick towards the sound of shoes trotting hurriedly across linoleum, approaching your front door.

“Coming! Coming!” your voice calls out, instantly shaking loose that little fragment of unease that sits between Death’s ribs every time he comes to your home and waits outside the door. There’s a private part of him, a part he’ll never reveal, that dreads the day he knocks without receiving an answer.

The handle rattles, a lock slides out of place, and once again, he hears you speaking from the other side of the wood.

“You guys are early!” you laugh, “I haven’t changed yet, but I’m-“

Your sentence trails off into silence as the door is tugged open and you poke your head into the light outside, brows scrunching together as your eyes fall upon a pale, cadaverous chest.

Blinking, you dart a look up, only to gasp at the sight of an all too familiar bone-mask tilting down towards you, inclined in acknowledgement.

“Death?” you gape, your expression falling open in shock.

Another oddity of humans, he finds. Even when you can clearly see what’s right in front of your nose, you still feel the need to ask for clarification, as though you can never fully trust what your eyes are seeing.

“In the flesh,” he says, gesturing up and down at his emaciated waist and sinewy chest, “I’m pleased you still recognise me, given our months apart.”

And it has been months. Six and three days, to be exact. Not that he’s counting.

It happens the moment he drops his arm back to his side. Like the sun rising over the peak of a dark mountain, your face bursts open with bright, glimmering warmth.

The corners of your mouth retreat from each other, spreading your lips into a grin so wide that your cheeks round out and squeeze your eyes halfway shut with unbridled delight as a laugh gushes out of you, bouncy and awestricken.

“Death!” Without warning, you bound across the threshold and - showing no hint of a reservation - throw your arms around the Horseman’s lean torso, burying your face into the concave dip below his chest, “Oh my god! I didn’t think I’d be seeing you today!”

And because he still hasn’t grown used to your displays of affection, Death forgets the etiquette and freezes in place, arms hovering rigidly above your own and his chin tucked into his neck, as though he’s mildly alarmed at your sudden proximity.

And because you know he isn’t used to affection, you don’t hold him hostage for long.

Pulling away only seconds later, you sweep a hand through your hair, clutching loosely at the strands as you take a step back and give the Horseman a quick once-over, beaming all the while.

“I can’t believe you actually made it! This is the best birthday ever!”

Well, if that isn’t the most flattering thing he’s heard all year.

“Oh! Would you like to come in?” you ramble on, stepping aside and sweeping your hand into the hallway behind you, “I’ve got people arriving for a party, but not for, like, another hour. So, you can stick around or…”

“Ah, regrettably, I can’t linger for long,” he interrupts, holding up a palm to quiet you. He truly can’t stay. And not just because he’s disinclined to ‘party.’

He’s heard whisperings of a demon uprising stirring in a city across the sea. He and War have made plans to travel there under the cover of darkness to investigate, and he’s already behind schedule. He notices that you make a considerable effort not to let your expression droop, though he can tell by the pinch of your lips that you’re disappointed.

He… hopes he can make it up to you with the tiny package hidden safely within his palm.

Clearing his throat, Death flexes his fingers, wrestling with doubts for a moment before he gives himself a mental kick and forces his hand out from behind his back, thrusting the parcel under your nose.

“Here,” he grunts as he gives it a gentle shake, willing you to take the damn thing rather than continue to blink down at it in surprise, “I understand gifts are customary on one’s… birthday, hm?”

… For a long time, you don’t say a word. You merely look at the Horseman’s palm as though he’s holding a live grenade, your eyes round and wide and uncertain. In fact, you remain silent for so long, that for once, Death is the one who feels compelled to explain himself.

“I… wrapped it,” he ventures, frowning behind his mask at the parcel, “… Although, I suppose it isn’t very good, is it.” Now that he's presented it to you, he's only just noticing how shoddy and rushed the job must look. In fact, he realises he must have stolen parchment that Azrael was in the middle of writing on, judging by the ink smudges that are only half hidden beneath the thin twine he used to bundle the whole thing together.

Mind racing, he scans your expression for tells, anything that’ll clue him in as to whether he’s made a mistake in bringing you something at all…

Perhaps… he was misinformed. It might be a grave insult to give a human something on their day of birth. Damn that half-wit brother of his, Strife. If he’s fed Death another lie to make him look foolish in front of you, why, he’ll-

A soft touch alights upon his palm.

Death’s gaze snaps down to see your tiny fingers curling tentatively over the parchment, and it takes a lot of concentration to keep his appendages from twitching as you slide the parcel out of his palm, brushing your thumb over his in the process.

“You… got me a present?” you ask gently, staring down at it before flicking your eyes up to peer at the Horseman from beneath your lashes.

Slowly, he retrieves his arm, giving it a shrug and sniffing, “It’s nothing particularly special.”

But you’re already pulling at the twine's lacklustre knot, delicately peeling away crinkled parchment to reveal the gift inside.

When you finally unfold all of the paper, a soft sound of wonder escapes your parted lips, and your face is illuminated in a soft, green glow.

It’s a flask. A tiny flask no larger than your thumb, cut from thick, crystalline glass and stoppered at the top with a chunk of cork. The flask itself has had a silver chain welded to the neck that glints in the sunlight as you bring it closer to your face to peer inside. Clinking around behind the glass, you spot a piece of shard, green as a summer field, glowing prettily like a captured firefly, small and dainty but luminous enough to cast its light through its crystal prison.

“I’m sure Muria could have made you something prettier,” the Horseman mumbles, “I’m no maker. But, I always did have a knack for crafting these talismans… You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to convince Fury to carry one…

“…Death…” you breathe.

“Yours is modified, of course," he ploughs ahead, clearing his throat, "Now, it won’t keep you safe indefinitely.” There's a pause, and you think you hear him mutter ‘yet’ under his breath before he continues, “But it will serve as a shield, of sorts. If you’re ever injured-“ Reaching out, he taps his nail against the glass. “- This will bear the worst of the damage. So long as you wear it, your skin will be harder to break. Your bones will only splinter where they might have shattered. You will be, in a word, protected.”

You can’t reply for a moment, your throat is too clogged with things you don’t know how to say.

You know this talisman. You know it because you’ve seen the one Fury keeps tucked beneath the high neck of her cuirass. She insists that Strife and War carry them too, though the brothers have yet to relinquish that secret to you just yet.

Nephilim’s Respite. It’s a protective trinket made by the eldest Horseman to safeguard his brothers and sister on their travels.

Death made them for his siblings. His family.

And now, here you are, holding the self same talisman in your hand.

You try to maintain your composure. You really do try. But when you blink, you’re slightly dismayed to find your vision blurring and a warm dampness tickling your lower eyelashes.

“Ah,” Death utters, drawing his head back to regard your gathering tears, “You’re crying. That… wasn’t my intention.”

A watery laugh tumbles out of your mouth, and you raise your unoccupied hand to sweep a wrist across your eyelids. “It’s oka-“ you start to sniff, though the Horseman jumps in before you can finish the thought.

“If the gift isn’t to your liking,” he concedes, reaching out to take the talisman back, “I can always-“

“-No!” Clutching the gift defensively to your chest, you throw Death a scandalised look, tears trickling lazily towards your chin, “It’s perfect, it’s just – it’s so much, Death! My god, I got you a mug for Christmas!"

And a fine mug it is, he reflects. Bone china, a yellow warning label with 'Warning, prone to sarcasm' scrawled across its surface in thick, black lettering.

It's one of his most preciously guarded items. He almost fed War's remaining arm to Harvester when the younger Horseman knocked it off his table.

But... you're fretting, and his reminiscing of the the humorous crockery will have to wait.

"You... accept the gift, then?" he asks, halfway convinced your eyes are misted over because he'd committed a faux-pas he isn't aware of.

There are times when Death wonders if you must think him quite dense. Such as now, for example. Short of throwing your hands above your head, you positively erupt in exasperation as you exclaim, "Wh-! Of course I do! This is the kindest thing anyone's done for me in my life!"

"Kinder than saving said life?" he quips, "Repeatedly?"

You only shoot him a wide, watery grin in response. Tossing the parchment over your shoulder, you hurry to slip the silver chain around your neck, clutching the flask delicately in a palm and thumbing the glass with fond, gentle strokes.

"I'm never taking this off," you murmur around a beaming smile.

Grunting, the Horseman folds his arms across his chest and replies, "See that you don't. With how attractive you are to trouble and disaster, this is the most efficient way to ensure you are kept relatively safe when I... when one of us isn't around to keep an eye on you." Pausing, he quirks a thoughtful brow behind his mask and adds, "Well... I suppose I could always enlist Nathaniel to play human-sitter..."

Your bright, incredulous peal of laughter cuts him off, but before he can lament on how much different he is now for allowing himself to be interrupted by a human and feel no malice, you suddenly plant a hand on his chest, spreading warmth from the tips of your fingers straight through to the hollow cavity that used to house his heart.

Death's mask tips down, his golden eyes calm, but curious as they fold into yours, old and new, sharing a moment of vulnerability on the steps of your home.

"Thank you, Death," you tell him sincerely, but oh so softly, "I mean it. Thank you."

And then, as if the thanks alone isn't quite enough to break a chip off his unassailable walls, you rise onto the toes of your shoes, reaching a hand up to hook a finger beneath the chin of his mask and drawing his head down inch by inch. Death, taken wildly aback by the boldness of laying your hands on the Executioner's mask, forgets himself, and follows the tug of your will until-

A layer of solid bone may separate you from the Horseman's skin, yet he'd still swear he feels the tender press of a warm, guileless mouth against his own, just for a moment, then you withdraw almost as soon as you leaned in, releasing his chin and letting your arms flop back to your sides.

"Well," you say, voice a little pitched like you've caught yourself by surprise, "Again, um... Thank you..."

Slowly, Death draws back to his full height, resisting the sudden urge to press his fingertips to the space near the bottom of his mask.

"Don't suppose you've got time to come in for a cup of tea?" you blurt.

And if the Reaper's thin, pale lips twitch up at their corners unbidden... Well... There's a reason he decided to keep his mask, after all.

[cs-fox]

TEEN SIMON RILEY TROPE

cut bench!simon riley . 16 years old

______________________________________________________________

What a great first job, your parents promised you. Working at your local pizza joint!

That’s what you thought, as well. Most of the workers there were two or three years older than you, besides the shift runners in their early twenties, and of course, your manager.

The second you had turned fourteen your parents decided you needed a job, needed some responsibility. So they made you organise your walks to work and a carpool - usually with the friendlier shift runner or delivery driver - so you could get home after those four hour shifts you hated.

Since being trained to deal with customers, you’d been put on sauce bench - the name speaking for itself. You stood at a bench and sauced pizzas for hours at a time.

The only positive of this was your position in front of cut bench.

This was because more often than not, Simon worked there, cutting pizzas with - not always precision - but definitely something.

Not that you’d ever exchanged more than a few words with the sandy-haired sixteen year old, but you had certainly exchanged glances. It was pretty much old news every time his eyes snagged on yours as he walked in to start his shift.

He was always fashionably late, in stark comparison to your infallible earliness, and you had the pleasure of watching as he slouched in, eyes tracing up and down your form in that apron and skinny jeans you always wore.

He barely ever chose to speak to you, unless you both were working a late shift and were alone in-store. It didn’t help that you seemed to stumble over your words whenever he opened his mouth within a two-meter radius of you.

You’d heard about Simon’s multiple girlfriends. He wasn’t a very faithful guy.

So you tried to stay away, at least for as long as you could.

Until he hitched a ride home in the same car you had lined up.

When he opened the door and plonked himself down in the backseat beside you with a groan, you sat up fast, boots scraping on the car’s floor mats as you subconsciously tried to make yourself appear smaller. Oh, God, this is so embarrassing…

Simon turned slowly, his eyes meeting yours for a long moment, before he muttered his address to the driver.

You couldn’t help but stare, his angular jaw and dilated brown eyes always a point of interest. He looked much older than he was, due to the fact one of your shift runners kept offering him cigarettes he couldn’t refuse.

He said, after a very awkward silence, ‘Pretty busy tonight, huh?’

You sighed, nodding. ‘Fuck - it was awful. Never want to sauce another classic crust in my life.’

Simon snorted a laugh. ‘We should swap. I don’t fancy cutting any more pizzas. Ever.’

‘Me - cut bench? And I’ve heard the stories of your time on sauce bench, mister. I don’t think our managers would be too happy.’

‘Pfft. I’m still good at everything in store.’

‘The way John talks about you, I’d hope so.’

John was one of your shift runners, a friendlier but short-fused man in his early twenties.

For another five or so minutes, you sat in silence. Simply trading glances, until the car stopped. You had pulled up two streets over from your own house, within comfortable walking distance - you assumed that was what the driver had intended until Simon’s door opened and shut.

You gave thanks to your driver and clambered out of the car as well, calling out to Simon. ‘Hey - I live a few streets down from you.’

He turned, tilting his head. ‘You gonna walk home? At ten o’clock? This street is sketchy as hell.’

You flushed. ‘Um…’ you really hadn’t thought this one out.

‘C’mon. I’ll walk you home. What’s your address?’

You mumbled out an answer and he fell into step beside you. Slowly, surprisingly easy conversation came, until you realised you’d basically bumped into your front door without noticing.

‘Well…’ you tried awkwardly, but Simon cut you off suddenly.

‘Can I get your number?’

______________________________________________________________

my favourite trope now. be prepared for more parts.