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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Red Lobster was killed by private equity, not Endless Shrimp

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

A decade ago, a hedge fund had an improbable viral comedy hit: a 294-page slide deck explaining why Olive Garden was going out of business, blaming the failure on too many breadsticks and insufficiently salted pasta-water:

https://www.sec.gov/Archives/edgar/data/940944/000092189514002031/ex991dfan14a06297125_091114.pdf

Everyone loved this story. As David Dayen wrote for Salon, it let readers "mock that silly chain restaurant they remember from their childhoods in the suburbs" and laugh at "the silly hedge fund that took the time to write the world’s worst review":

https://www.salon.com/2014/09/17/the_real_olive_garden_scandal_why_greedy_hedge_funders_suddenly_care_so_much_about_breadsticks/

But – as Dayen wrote at the time, the hedge fund that produced that slide deck, Starboard Value, was not motivated by dissatisfaction with bread-sticks. They were "activist investors" (finspeak for "rapacious assholes") with a giant stake in Darden Restaurants, Olive Garden's parent company. They wanted Darden to liquidate all of Olive Garden's real-estate holdings and declare a one-off dividend that would net investors a billion dollars, while literally yanking the floor out from beneath Olive Garden, converting it from owner to tenant, subject to rent-shocks and other nasty surprises.

They wanted to asset-strip the company, in other words ("asset strip" is what they call it in hedge-fund land; the mafia calls it a "bust-out," famous to anyone who watched the twenty-third episode of The Sopranos):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bust_Out

Starboard didn't have enough money to force the sale, but they had recently engineered the CEO's ouster. The giant slide-deck making fun of Olive Garden's food was just a PR campaign to help it sell the bust-out by creating a narrative that they were being activists* to save this badly managed disaster of a restaurant chain.

*assholes

Starboard was bent on eviscerating Darden like a couple of entrail-maddened dogs in an elk carcass:

https://web.archive.org/web/20051220005944/http://alumni.media.mit.edu/~solan/dogsinelk/

They had forced Darden to sell off another of its holdings, Red Lobster, to a hedge-fund called Golden Gate Capital. Golden Gate flogged all of Red Lobster's real estate holdings for $2.1 billion the same day, then pissed it all away on dividends to its shareholders, including Starboard. The new landlords, a Real Estate Investment Trust, proceeded to charge so much for rent on those buildings Red Lobster just flogged that the company's net earnings immediately dropped by half.

Dayen ends his piece with these prophetic words:

Olive Garden and Red Lobster may not be destinations for hipster Internet journalists, and they have seen revenue declines amid stagnant middle-class wages and increased competition. But they are still profitable businesses. Thousands of Americans work there. Why should they be bled dry by predatory investors in the name of “shareholder value”? What of the value of worker productivity instead of the financial engineers?

Flash forward a decade. Today, Dayen is editor-in-chief of The American Prospect, one of the best sources of news about private equity looting in the world. Writing for the Prospect, Luke Goldstein picks up Dayen's story, ten years on:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-05-22-raiding-red-lobster/

It's not pretty. Ten years of being bled out on rents and flipped from one hedge fund to another has killed Red Lobster. It just shuttered 50 restaurants and declared Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Ten years hasn't changed much; the same kind of snark that was deployed at the news of Olive Garden's imminent demise is now being hurled at Red Lobster.

Instead of dunking on free bread-sticks, Red Lobster's grave-dancers are jeering at "Endless Shrimp," a promotional deal that works exactly how it sounds like it would work. Endless Shrimp cost the chain $11m.

Which raises a question: why did Red Lobster make this money-losing offer? Are they just good-hearted slobs? Can't they do math?

Or, you know, was it another hedge-fund, bust-out scam?

Here's a hint. The supplier who provided Red Lobster with all that shrimp is Thai Union. Thai Union also owns Red Lobster. They bought the chain from Golden Gate Capital, last seen in 2014, holding a flash-sale on all of Red Lobster's buildings, pocketing billions, and cutting Red Lobster's earnings in half.

Red Lobster rose to success – 700 restaurants nationwide at its peak – by combining no-frills dining with powerful buying power, which it used to force discounts from seafood suppliers. In response, the seafood industry consolidated through a wave of mergers, turning into a cozy cartel that could resist the buyer power of Red Lobster and other major customers.

This was facilitated by conservation efforts that limited the total volume of biomass that fishers were allowed to extract, and allocated quotas to existing companies and individual fishermen. The costs of complying with this "catch management" system were high, punishingly so for small independents, bearably so for large conglomerates.

Competition from overseas fisheries drove consolidation further, as countries in the global south were blocked from implementing their own conservation efforts. US fisheries merged further, seeking economies of scale that would let them compete, largely by shafting fishermen and other suppliers. Today's Alaskan crab fishery is dominated by a four-company cartel; in the Pacific Northwest, most fish goes through a single intermediary, Pacific Seafood.

These dominant actors entered into illegal collusive arrangements with one another to rig their markets and further immiserate their suppliers, who filed antitrust suits accusing the companies of operating a monopsony (a market with a powerful buyer, akin to a monopoly, which is a market with a powerful seller):

https://www.classaction.org/news/pacific-seafood-under-fire-for-allegedly-fixing-prices-paid-to-dungeness-crabbers-in-pacific-northwest

Golden Gate bought Red Lobster in the midst of these fish wars, promising to right its ship. As Goldstein points out, that's the same promise they made when they bought Payless shoes, just before they destroyed the company and flogged it off to Alden Capital, the hedge fund that bought and destroyed dozens of America's most beloved newspapers:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/16/sociopathic-monsters/#all-the-news-thats-fit-to-print

Under Golden Gate's management, Red Lobster saw its staffing levels slashed, so diners endured longer wait times to be seated and served. Then, in 2020, they sold the company to Thai Union, the company's largest supplier (a transaction Goldstein likens to a Walmart buyout of Procter and Gamble).

Thai Union continued to bleed Red Lobster, imposing more cuts and loading it up with more debts financed by yet another private equity giant, Fortress Investment Group. That brings us to today, with Thai Union having moved a gigantic amount of its own product through a failing, debt-loaded subsidiary, even as it lobbies for deregulation of American fisheries, which would let it and its lobbying partners drain American waters of the last of its depleted fish stocks.

Dayen's 2020 must-read book Monopolized describes the way that monopolies proliferate, using the US health care industry as a case-study:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/29/fractal-bullshit/#dayenu

After deregulation allowed the pharma sector to consolidate, it acquired pricing power of hospitals, who found themselves gouged to the edge of bankruptcy on drug prices. Hospitals then merged into regional monopolies, which allowed them to resist pharma pricing power – and gouge health insurance companies, who saw the price of routine care explode. So the insurance companies gobbled each other up, too, leaving most of us with two or fewer choices for health insurance – even as insurance prices skyrocketed, and our benefits shrank.

Today, Americans pay more for worse healthcare, which is delivered by health workers who get paid less and work under worse conditions. That's because, lacking a regulator to consolidate patients' interests, and strong unions to consolidate workers' interests, patients and workers are easy pickings for those consolidated links in the health supply-chain.

That's a pretty good model for understanding what's happened to Red Lobster: monopoly power and monopsony power begat more monopolies and monoposonies in the supply chain. Everything that hasn't consolidated is defenseless: diners, restaurant workers, fishermen, and the environment. We're all fucked.

Decent, no-frills family restaurant are good. Great, even. I'm not the world's greatest fan of chain restaurants, but I'm also comfortably middle-class and not struggling to afford to give my family a nice night out at a place with good food, friendly staff and reasonable prices. These places are easy pickings for looters because the people who patronize them have little power in our society – and because those of us with more power are easily tricked into sneering at these places' failures as a kind of comeuppance that's all that's due to tacky joints that serve the working class.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/23/spineless/#invertebrates

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humanjarvis · 30 days ago

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serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay.

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

“A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise.

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell.

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame.

Sylus Qin.

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe.

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive.

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk.

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota.

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon.

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked.

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection.

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong.

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase.

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase.

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery.

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder.

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room.

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth.

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact.

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.”

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.”

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?”

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.”

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale.

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place.

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.”

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post.

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice.

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.”

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face.

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.”

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name.

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is.

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over.

It was time to stare Death in the face.

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably.

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair.

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates.

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve.

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin!

Your heart stops.

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera.

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet.

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives.

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome.

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.”

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway.

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.”

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…”

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked.

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage.

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise.

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny.

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.”

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down.

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more.

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it��cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country.

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy.

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again.

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.”

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot.

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience.

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge.

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours.

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period.

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door.

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go.

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires.

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history.

You’d started simple: his social media.

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck.

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face.

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse?

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history.

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too.

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned.

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate.

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter.

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read.

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer.

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him.

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him.

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him.

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo.

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point.

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done.

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin.

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism.

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :)

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered.

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them.

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind.

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words.

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in.

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair.

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do.

Sylus Qin is here.

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh.

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know.

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you.

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you.

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over.

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show.

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.”

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little.

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan.

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls.

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in.

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided.

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.”

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm.

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification.

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile.

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.”

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance.

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not.

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week.

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime.

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do.

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain.

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe.

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life.

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights.

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme.

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television.

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair.

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips.

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about.

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit.

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you.

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man.

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips.

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair.

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show.

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography.

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine.

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you.

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all.

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left.

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room.

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late.

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place.

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you.

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear.

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response.

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches.

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs.

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit.

“I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.”

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon.

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder.

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.”

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely.

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss.

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight.

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.”

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body.

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls.

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing.

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.”

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal.

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment.

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give.

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you.

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan.

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight.

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room.

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning.

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily.

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker.

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off.

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

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dcxdpdabbles · 26 days ago

Note

More Menace!Danny please he's so funny

"What are you doing in my house?" A young voice whispers as softly as the spring rain pouring outside.

Clark screams, jumping a foot into the air. He wirls around only to come to a standstill as a young teenager, no older than fifteen, stares back at him.

His clothes hung off his body, but it looked more like that was a personal choice for baggy, checkered pajamas. His skin was pale, too pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in months. There were dark circles under the boy's eyes, as if someone had taken purple paint and rubbed it against his face until no amount of washing would get it off.

Bandages were wrapped around his arms and neck. Clark could see a few of them disappearing inside his shirt, indicating there were more treated wounds hidden away. His hair was in disarray, pointing in every direction like the top of a pineapple, but cut short enough that it almost looked like someone with scissors had gone at the strands with a personal vendetta.

In the teenager's closed fist is a chunk of hair.

Clark notices, with a growing sense of panic, that there is a breeze on the back of his head that wasn't there before. Accompanied by stinging is more proof that a good amount of his hair had been ripped out, and if he wasn't Kryptonian, then that would have been a whole lot worse.

If it wasn't for the yank on his hair, he would think he was staring at a ghost.

He gawks unattractively, feeling his heart run faster than the wild rabbits he used to chase out of the gardens with Pa. Clark hadn't heard the boy's approach at all, couldn't even pick up his breathing or his heartbeat.

Wasn't that just alarming? He had come to do an interview on Mr. Wayne's latest charity, one that would assist more than half the city get a college associate, so long as they graduated from a high school within Gotham. It was a generous offer, one the readers would adore hearing in his new Positive column.

Clark was finally catching his big break at the Daily Planet. He has been put in charge of a newspaper column of his choice, and he chose to report on all the good things that were happening. He felt that people chased tragedies too much when new worthy stories were everywhere.

Yes, his column was towards the end of the paper, near the comics, but it was his. It seemed to be doing well, too. Perry had increased his writing space as positive reviews started pouring in. Soon, Clark may even be assigned the big stories, the ones that would be put on the front page.

Mr. Wayne had made a comment about checking in on his son, who had vanished upstairs while Clark was busy setting up a recording device - with Mr. Wayne's permission, of course - when the boy had likely snuck in.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" The boy repeats in a soft voice, but with the new amount of steel entering each syllable. Clark felt vulnerable as he scrambled back a few steps on instinct.

"I ugh, I'm here for Mr. Wayne-"

"If you think you can convince Bruce into your bed, you've got another thing coming," The boy hisses, lurching forward with his feet bent in two separate directions, appearing almost spider-like. Clark yelps, pressing himself against the wall, staring down in horror at what he's half convinced isn't human. "How many broken bones can a body survive before someone dies? You should know, shouldn't you, News Man."

The words are more growled out than spoken, and Clark is half convinced that he could go through with his threat even if he doesn't know Clark is Superman.

"I ugh-"

"Danny, there you are!" Mr. Wayne's cheerful voice breaks the spell as the boy straightens up, twisting his feet back in the direction they have to be and stepping away from the reporter with a nasty scowl.

Mr. Wayne walked over, throwing an arm around the boy and bringing him into an easy side hug that spoke of fatherly love, while beaming at Clark. "Mr. Kent, I've seen you've met my son Danny Fenton-Wayne. Adopted him only a month ago."

Clark stares between the two, drinking in the easy, warm disposition of Mr.Wayne by the darkness that surrounded Fenton-Wayne. If it wasn't for the slightly more effeminate features of Fenton-Wayne, which made him more tragically pretty than Mr. Wayne's classically handsome, they would have looked biologically related.

That and the fact that Mr. Wayne looked like he would cry to hurt a fly, while Fenton-Wayne would set a building on fire just to feel something.

Clark shivered but forced a strained smile on his face. "He's lovely. You must be so proud."

Fenton-Wayne's eyes narrowed in barely concealed violence while Mr. Wayne beamed brighter, "I am!"

Clark prayed he didn't have to see Fenton-Wayne often in the future. He could barely handle Batman breathing down his neck for coming to his city. The other hero didn't seem to like the idea that he was just doing his job, but thankfully, Phantom, the young sidekick of Batman, was holding him off.

Now that kid was the sweetest child he's ever had the pleasure of encountering.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Danny “The Menace” Fenton-Wayne #Clark meeting Danny for the first time #He ripped out his hair #He thouht it was a wig #Danny was still settling into the manor and was very potective of Bruce #He didn't like others in his space #Before Clark knew Batman's and Phantom's ID

758 notes · View notes

ghstyles · 5 days ago

Text

Subtle | FWFW Extra

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WC: 3.2

Summary: Harry subtly, and not so subtly, says he wants to have a baby

FWFW Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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The first instance was so subtle that Y/N almost missed it. They were walking through Hampstead Heath on a crisp autumn afternoon, with the leaves turning gold and crimson around them. A young mother passed by with a stroller, her baby bundled up against the chill. Harry's eyes lingered on the infant longer than usual, a slight smile playing at his lips before he turned his attention back to their conversation about his upcoming studio session.

A week later, they were having breakfast in their sunlit kitchen. Harry was scrolling through his phone while Y/N reviewed case notes for her internship, Grumps watching them both with his perpetual look of feline judgment from his perch on the windowsill.

"My cousin Ellie just had her baby," Harry commented casually, turning his phone to show Y/N a photo of a tiny newborn with a shock of dark hair. "Seven pounds, healthy delivery."

"That's wonderful," Y/N replied, glancing up from her notes. "She looks beautiful."

Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful as he gazed at the image. "Yeah, she does," he said softly, before setting his phone aside and returning to his breakfast.

The third hint came when they were reorganizing the guest bedroom that doubled as Y/N's study. Harry paused in the middle of moving a bookshelf, surveying the room with a contemplative expression.

"This room gets great natural light," he observed, glancing toward the large windows that overlooked their garden. "Good for a nursery, don't you think?"

Y/N looked up from the box of books she was unpacking, a slight furrow in her brow. "I suppose it would be," she agreed cautiously. "Though it works well as a study too."

Harry nodded, seemingly satisfied with her response. "Just thinking aloud," he said lightly, returning to the task at hand.

The hints became slightly more transparent when Harry's sister Gemma visited with her toddler son. Harry spent most of the afternoon with the boy on his hip or playing on the floor, his natural ease with children evident in every interaction. Later, as they were preparing dinner after Gemma had left, Harry's expression was wistful.

"James is getting so big," he commented, chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency. "It goes by fast, doesn't it?"

"Mmm," Y/N hummed noncommittally, stirring the pasta sauce.

"You were great with him today," Harry continued, glancing at her with a small smile. "Very patient when he kept wanting to show you the same toy car over and over."

Y/N laughed softly. "He's a sweet kid. Easy to be patient with."

"Our kids would be like that, I think," Harry said, his tone deliberately casual despite the weight of his words. "Sweet-natured but persistent when they want something."

Y/N nearly dropped her wooden spoon, caught off-guard by the direct reference. "Our hypothetical children seem to have quite the personality profile already," she managed, keeping her tone light.

Harry just smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he returned to his chopping.

The following week, they were shopping for new bedding when Harry inexplicably detoured to the children's section of the department store. Y/N found him examining a tiny pair of pajamas with dinosaurs printed on them, a soft expression on his face.

"Aren't these brilliant?" he asked when he noticed her watching him. "Look at the little feet."

Y/N approached cautiously, eyeing the admittedly adorable sleepwear. "Very cute," she agreed. "But I think we should focus on the sheets we actually came for?"

Harry reluctantly returned the pajamas to the display, but not before adding, "I always loved dinosaurs as a kid. Would be fun to share that with a little one."

Y/N merely raised an eyebrow, steering him back toward the bedding department.

The hints became even more obvious when Harry rearranged his touring schedule, declining several international festival offers that would have kept him away for extended periods.

"Don't you usually do the Australian circuit?" Y/N asked, peering over his shoulder at the calendar on his laptop.

Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Wanted to be home more next year," he explained. "Keep my options open."

"Options for what?" Y/N pressed, sensing there was more to his decision.

Harry swiveled in his chair to face her fully, his green eyes meeting hers with unexpected intensity. "For whatever might come up," he said meaningfully. "Life changes. I want to be prepared for that."

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly, understanding dawning. "Are you rearranging your entire career schedule around a hypothetical baby that we haven't even discussed having?"

Harry had the grace to look slightly abashed, though determination still shone in his expression. "Not entirely," he hedged. "But I'm thinking ahead. Isn't that what responsible potential parents do?"

Y/N shook her head, torn between exasperation and a reluctant tenderness at his planning. "Harry, we should probably have an actual conversation about this before you start declining career opportunities."

Harry nodded, reaching for her hand. "You're right," he acknowledged. "I'm getting ahead of myself. But I'm ready for that conversation whenever you are."

The subtlety was completely abandoned a few days later when Grumps knocked over a potted plant, spilling soil across the kitchen floor. Harry was sweeping up the mess while Y/N scolded the unrepentant cat, who watched the cleanup efforts from the safety of the counter.

"You're a menace in your old age," Y/N informed the orange feline, who blinked at her slowly in what could only be described as feline disdain.

"He's just asserting his dominance," Harry chuckled, emptying the dustpan into the bin. "Probably worried about his position as the baby of the family."

Y/N shot him a look. "The only baby in this family is the twenty-seven-year-old rock star who refuses to put his dirty socks in the hamper," she retorted.

Harry grinned, unperturbed by her deflection. "I was thinking more along the lines of an actual baby," he clarified unnecessarily. "You know, small human, cries a lot, utterly adorable?"

Y/N crossed her arms, unable to avoid the conversation any longer. "Harry."

"Y/N," he countered, setting the broom aside and stepping closer to her.

"You've been dropping hints about babies for weeks now," she said, trying to keep her tone measured. "Some subtle, some about as subtle as a brick through a window."

Harry didn't deny it. "And you've been expertly dodging every single one," he pointed out, though there was no accusation in his voice, only a gentle observation.

Y/N sighed, running a hand through her golden-brown hair. "It's a big conversation to have," she said quietly. "Life-changing."

"I know," Harry acknowledged, his expression softening as he reached for her hands. "That's why I've been trying to ease into it. Apparently not very successfully."

Despite herself, Y/N smiled. "The dinosaur pajamas weren't exactly subtle."

Harry laughed, the sound warm and rich in the quiet kitchen. "I got excited," he admitted. "They had little claws on the feet."

Y/N shook her head, but allowed him to pull her closer, his arms encircling her waist as he looked down at her with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

"So," he said softly. "Can we have that conversation now? The baby one?"

Y/N studied his face, the earnest green eyes, the slight nervous tension in his jaw, the vulnerability he was allowing her to see, and felt something shift inside her chest.

"Yes," she agreed quietly. "Let's talk about it."

Harry's face lit up with such naked hope that Y/N felt her heart constrict. "Really?"

"Really," she confirmed. "But talking is all I'm committing to right now," she added quickly, seeing his enthusiasm. "This isn't a yes to actually having a baby."

Harry nodded seriously, though he couldn't quite suppress his smile. "Understood. Just talking."

He led her to the sofa in their living room, sitting close enough that their knees touched. Grumps followed at a dignified pace, jumping up to claim his usual spot at the far end, watching them with a suspicious yellow eye as if he understood perfectly well what they were discussing.

"So," Y/N began, feeling slightly awkward now that they were actually having the conversation. "You want to have a baby."

Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I do," he confirmed. "With you, specifically."

The clarification made Y/N smile despite her nervousness. "Well, I should hope so," she teased. "Why now, though? We've only been married a year."

Harry considered this, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand. "It's not really about timing in the conventional sense," he said slowly. "It's more that... I'm ready. I feel settled in a way I never have before. My career is established, we're solid, and..." he paused, searching for the right words. "I want to build something permanent with you. Something that's ours."

The simplicity and sincerity of his answer touched Y/N deeply. For someone who had spent most of his adult life in the transient world of entertainment, surrounded by people who came and went, the desire for permanence was profound.

"What about your career?" she asked, voicing one of her practical concerns. "You're still touring, recording. A baby would change all that."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the reality. "It would," he agreed. "But I've been thinking about that. I can scale back touring, be more selective about projects. Work from home more. I don't need to be on the road as much as I used to be."

He squeezed her hand gently. "And I know your career is important too," he added. "I'm not suggesting you give anything up. We'd figure it out together, find a balance that works for both of us."

Y/N appreciated his consideration, though she still had reservations. "It's a huge responsibility," she said quietly. "Once we make that decision, there's no going back."

"I know," Harry acknowledged, his expression serious. "And I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't absolutely certain about us, about our future together."

His gaze held hers, steady and sure. "I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought possible. And I want to share that love with a child, our child."

Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, unexpected emotion welling up at his words. "I love you too," she whispered.

From his end of the sofa, Grumps let out a disgruntled meow, apparently unimpressed by the display of human sentiment.

Harry laughed softly, breaking the intensity of the moment. "See, even Grumps has an opinion," he joked, reaching over to scratch the cat behind his ears. Grumps allowed this attention for precisely three seconds before swatting at Harry's hand with retracted claws, a warning rather than an actual attack.

"I think he's voting no," Y/N observed with a small smile.

"He'll come around," Harry predicted confidently. "Probably appoint himself guardian and supervisor. He already thinks he runs this household."

"Doesn't he, though?" Y/N teased.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around them. Finally, Y/N spoke again, her voice soft but steady.

"I'm not saying no," she clarified, meeting Harry's hopeful gaze. "But I'm not saying yes yet either. I need time to think about it properly. It's a big decision."

Harry nodded, bringing her hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "Take all the time you need," he assured her. "I'm not going anywhere."

Y/N leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "Thank you for being patient with me," she murmured.

Harry smiled, his green eyes warm with affection. "Always," he promised, before closing the small distance between them for a tender kiss.

Grumps watched this exchange with feline disdain before jumping down from the sofa and stalking away toward the kitchen, tail held high. Human mating rituals were clearly beneath his dignity, especially when they threatened to disrupt the peaceful kingdom over which he presided. Some battles, even a cat knew, were lost before they began.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Later that night, as moonlight filtered through the partially drawn curtains of their bedroom, Harry and Y/N lay tangled in their sheets. What had begun as gentle goodnight kisses had evolved into something more heated, their conversation from earlier seeming to have kindled a particular intensity in Harry.

His lips trailed down her neck, lingering at the sensitive spot just below her ear that always made her breath catch. His hands wandered over her body with familiar reverence, tracing the curves he'd come to know so intimately over the past year.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured against her collarbone, his voice deeper than usual, roughened with desire.

Y/N's fingers threaded through his hair, her body arching instinctively as he moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses across the swell of her breasts. He took his time, as he always did, savoring each response he drew from her, the slight hitch in her breathing when he grazed her nipple with his teeth, the soft moan when his tongue soothed the sting.

But tonight, there was something different in his attention, a new focus that became apparent as he continued his journey down her body. When he reached her stomach, his pace slowed deliberately, his kisses turning almost reverential. His large hands spanned her waist, thumbs gently stroking the soft skin of her abdomen.

"So perfect," he whispered, pressing his lips just below her navel. "You'd be so beautiful pregnant."

Y/N's eyes, which had drifted closed in pleasure, snapped open at his words.

Harry didn't seem to notice her reaction, continuing his attentive worship of her midsection. "Our baby would grow right here," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "Safe and loved."

He pressed another kiss lower on her stomach, his hands sliding to cradle her hips. "You'd be the most gorgeous pregnant woman," he continued, his voice a mixture of awe and desire. "Carrying our child."

Y/N couldn't help the giggle that escaped her, a combination of the ticklish sensation of his stubble against her sensitive skin and the sheer transparency of his intentions.

"Harry," she said, her voice tinged with amusement as she tugged gently at his hair, urging him to look up at her.

He raised his head, his green eyes dark with desire but questioning.

Y/N smiled down at him, shaking her head slightly. "I got the hint already," she laughed softly, pulling him up toward her.

Harry had the grace to look slightly sheepish, though there was no real contrition in his expression. "What hint?" he asked with exaggerated innocence, even as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"The very subtle baby propaganda you're currently conducting," Y/N replied dryly, cupping his face in her hands.

Harry grinned, not bothering to deny it. "Is it working?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her palm.

"It's a bit transparent," she informed him, trying to maintain her stern expression despite the warmth spreading through her at his eager enthusiasm.

"Can't blame a man for trying," he murmured, leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss that quickly rekindled the heat between them.

When they parted, both slightly breathless, Y/N regarded him with fond exasperation. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Part of my charm," he agreed without hesitation, his hands resuming their exploration of her body, though he pointedly avoided lingering on her stomach again.

Y/N laughed, the sound turning into a gasp as his fingers found their way between her thighs, discovering how ready she was for him despite, or perhaps partly because of, his transparent attempts at persuasion.

"Fuck," he breathed, his expression darkening with renewed desire. "You're so wet for me."

His touch became more purposeful, circling her clit with practiced precision that had her arching beneath him. "Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against her ear.

"Yes," she gasped, her hips moving instinctively against his hand.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right as his thumb continued its maddening circles. "Or do you want my cock?" he questioned, his crude language a stark contrast to the tender words he'd been whispering moments before.

Y/N moaned, her body tightening around his fingers. "Your cock," she answered without hesitation, past the point of coyness or teasing.

Harry's eyes darkened further at her words, and he withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste her as he positioned himself between her thighs. The sight of him licking her arousal from his fingers with such obvious pleasure sent another rush of heat through her.

"No more baby talk," she warned breathlessly, even as she wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer.

Harry smirked, lining himself up against her entrance. "For now," he conceded, before pushing into her with one smooth thrust that had both of them groaning.

He set a deliberate pace, deep and thorough, his eyes locked on hers as he moved within her. One hand gripped her hip while the other braced beside her head, giving him leverage to drive into her with increasing intensity.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he growled, his composure gradually unraveling as their bodies moved together. "So tight around my cock."

Y/N responded in kind, her nails digging into his back as she met each thrust. "Harder," she demanded, beyond coherent thought as pleasure built within her.

Harry complied immediately, his hips snapping against hers with renewed force. "Like this?" he panted, adjusting the angle slightly to hit exactly where she needed him.

"Yes," she gasped, her head falling back against the pillows as the tension coiled tighter in her core. "Don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it," he assured her, his rhythm becoming more erratic as his own control began to slip. "Come for me, love. Want to feel you come on my cock."

His crude encouragement, combined with the relentless friction where their bodies joined, pushed Y/N over the edge. She cried out, her body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through her.

Harry followed shortly after, driven past restraint by the sight and sensation of her climax. He buried himself deep inside her with a final thrust, her name a rough prayer on his lips as he found his own release.

They remained connected as they caught their breath, Harry's weight a welcome pressure above her. Eventually, he shifted to lie beside her, drawing her close against his chest as their heartbeats gradually slowed to normal.

After a comfortable silence, Y/N tilted her head to look up at him, a mixture of amusement and affection in her hazel eyes. "Just so we're clear," she said, her voice still slightly husky, "amazing sex isn't going to make me decide about having a baby any faster."

Harry laughed, the sound rumbling pleasantly beneath her ear where it rested against his chest. "Noted," he acknowledged, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Though it was worth a try."

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn't suppress her smile. "Like I said. Ridiculous."

Harry merely grinned, unrepentant, as he pulled her closer. "You love it," he murmured confidently.

And as she drifted toward sleep in the warm circle of his arms, Y/N had to admit, if only to herself, that he wasn't entirely wrong.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

a/n: I’d give this man as many babies as he wants

Taglist: @mysunflowerposts @lydiasfalling @panini @ell0ra-br3kk3r @donutsandpalmtrees @sunshinemoonsposts @angeldavis777 @fangirl509east @maudie-duan @indierockgirrl @harryssunflower17 @lizsogolden @daphnesutton @spinninc @behindmygreyeyes @wheredidmyeyesgo @matildasatellite @drewrry @inlikea-coolway @jerseygirlinca @nosebeers @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhund

#ghstyles #fwfw #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut

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p0orbaby · 7 months ago

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First Love

summary: you have a new admirer, alexia isn’t a fan

warnings: none

a/n: i cant remember if this was request or not so if it was i apologise but ive lost it. if not, well done me for thinking of my own plot for a change

word count: 1.2k

You and Alexia arrive fashionably late, because, well, it's Alexia’s family, and you’re not about to sacrifice your sanity to be early for a gathering that’s going to last an eternity anyway. She’s already stressed because she knows every cousin, uncle, and long-lost relative is going to pester her with the usual questions. How’s football? How’s the knee? When are you going to settle down and give your mother some grandchildren? Not to mention, the subtle but unmistakable scrutiny that comes with introducing you—again—like you're the new pet hamster instead of the person who’s been sleeping next to her for three years now.

You’re prepared, though. You’ve got your A-game smile, and you’re ready to nod at all the right moments while maintaining an impressive and unwavering level of small talk. You’re a pro at this by now. You can discuss the weather in ways that would make any other Briton jealous.

The event is held at a distant cousin's place—a sprawling estate that screams “we have more money than common sense.” The house is big, too big. The kind of place where you could lose a child or three and not notice until the next family reunion. The garden is a maze of strategically placed garden furniture, various expensive but uncomfortable chairs that no one sits in, and a kid's bouncy castle that looks like it was imported from the set of some cheesy Netflix original with mediocre reviews.

You’re halfway through your first glass of sangria when you notice him—a small boy, around five or six, with that messy hair that suggests he’s been on a sugar bender since eight this morning. His eyes are locked on you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s got this look that can only be described as pure, unfiltered determination, like he’s decided, at that very moment, that you’re going to be his new best friend, and there’s absolutely nothing you or anyone else can do about it.

"He's cute," you whisper to Alexia as the boy starts to waddle over, his shoes lighting up with every step. Alexia glances at him, then back at you, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.

"Yeah, cute," she says, her tone dry enough to rival the Sahara. You can tell by the way her jaw tenses that she’s already not thrilled with this kid, which is hilarious because you’ve seen her face down a team of professional athletes without breaking a sweat. But a small child? Apparently, that’s a whole different kind of threat.

The boy—let's call him Diego, because of course his name is Diego—sidles up to you with all the subtlety of a charging bull. He stares up at you, his eyes wide and sparkling, like you’re a rock star, and he’s your biggest fan.

"Hola," he says, in that high-pitched voice only kids or cartoon characters can pull off without being annoying. Except, it’s already a little annoying, because he’s completely ignoring Alexia, and that’s a crime in and of itself.

"Hi there," you reply, keeping your tone light and friendly. You glance over at Alexia, who’s now sipping her drink with a look that suggests she’s contemplating how many more family functions she can skip without starting a feud.

Diego looks at Alexia briefly, as if she’s some sort of obstacle, then turns his attention back to you, his smile growing wider. "Wanna play?"

You blink. Play? You haven’t ‘played’ in, what, fifteen years? Maybe more? You’re more accustomed to adult games now, like “Where did I put my phone?” and “How long can I avoid doing laundry?” But Diego doesn’t seem to care. He’s already grabbed your hand, sticky fingers and all, and is pulling you toward the bouncy castle like it’s the best idea in the world.

You glance at Alexia, who’s now watching the whole thing with an expression that would be hilarious if it weren’t so serious. There’s a thin line between her eyebrows that you’ve learned means danger. You try to give her a look that says, “Help me,” but she just raises an eyebrow, as if to say, “You got yourself into this, deal with it”

Before you can protest, you’re inside the bouncy castle, surrounded by kids who are all screaming with the kind of joy only children and maniacs experience. Diego is jumping up and down, laughing like a crazy person, and you’re doing your best to stay upright, which is difficult because it’s been a while since you were five.

Outside, you can see Alexia, arms crossed, watching you with a look that’s a mix between amusement and something else—something that looks suspiciously like jealousy. You bounce awkwardly, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, but Diego is relentless. He’s now trying to get you to jump higher, and you’re seriously starting to consider if this is how you go—death by bouncy castle.

After what feels like an eternity (but is probably just ten minutes), you manage to escape, stumbling out of the bouncy castle like you’ve just survived a natural disaster. Diego is still inside, shrieking with laughter, blissfully unaware of the drama he’s just caused.

You make your way over to Alexia, who’s watching you with that amused, slightly irritated expression still firmly in place.

"Having fun?" she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, tons," you reply, wiping sweat from your brow. "Best day of my life”

"You know, I’m not the jealous type," she begins, her voice low and dangerous, "but what’s mine is mine. End of story”

You can’t help but laugh, because of course Alexia would be jealous of a five-year-old. It’s ridiculous, and yet, somehow, perfectly understandable. "I think I’ve been claimed by someone else," you say, grinning. "You might have some competition”

She rolls her eyes but you can tell she’s not really mad. At least, not in the serious way. "He’s got good taste," she admits grudgingly, "but don’t let it go to your head”

"I wouldn’t dream of it," you reply, leaning in to kiss her cheek, because you know that’s what she wants, even if she’ll never admit it.

The rest of the party is a blur of forced smiles, endless small talk, and more sangria than you probably should’ve had. Diego pops up a few more times, always eager to drag you back to the bouncy castle or show you some new toy, but each time, Alexia is there, gently but firmly steering him back toward his actual family.

By the end of the night, you’re exhausted, and Alexia is finally starting to relax, probably because Diego has finally passed out somewhere, giving up on his quest to monopolise your attention.

As you leave, hand in hand, you glance back at the house, wondering how long it’ll be before you’re back here again, playing the role of the supportive girlfriend in a family that still doesn’t quite get it. But then Alexia squeezes your hand, and you realise it doesn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, what’s hers is hers, and what’s yours is yours, and that’s all there is to it.

Besides, next time, you’ll be ready. You’ll bring your own bouncy castle and show Diego who’s boss.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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gracieeegleegal · 5 months ago

Text

The Misus said so | T. Owens

Tyler Owens x wife!reader

A/N: so I’m obsessed with Glen Powell and of course I had to do a little something with Tyler Owens because Glen looked so good in that movie. Hope you enjoy!

SUMMARY : After chasing a tornado, Tyler suggests the team take a break in his hometown—a place none of them have ever visited, except Boone. To their surprise, they discover that Tyler shares his home with a pregnant woman he refers to as his wife and a young boy he calls his son.

WARNINGS : fluff, Tyler being head over heels for his wife, cuteness, some inaccuracies regarding tornadoes

3.4k words

The sun was just beginning to set as the red truck and van rumbled down the dusty back roads of the Arkansas countryside. Tyler Owens was behind the wheel, relaxed but focused, his hands steady as he navigated the familiar terrain. In the passenger seat, Boone sat with an easy grin, the kind only a best friend could wear, fully at home in the quiet camaraderie of the ride. He occasionally glanced at Tyler, clearly anticipating something more than just a pit stop.

In the back seat, Lily was hunched over her tablet, reviewing footage from Cairo, her drone. “The inflow jets were insane,” she murmured. Boone snorted, swivelling to glance at her.

Boon leaning towards Tyler with a raised eyebrow whispered so only Tyler could hear him. “So, when are you gonna drop the act? I know where we’re headed.”

Tyler chuckled, but his eyes stayed on the road. “Guess it was hard to slip one past you, huh?”

“You think?” Boone replied with a smirk. “What gave it away—oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I’m Jake’s godfather?”

Tyler shushed him, not wanting Boone to spoil the surprise. Of course Boone knew about your existence and of your son. Boone had been Tyler’s best friend for years, even before they started YouTube. He had been there when you guys met, started a relationship, got married, had your son and the last time he was there was for your gender reveal.

Lily leaned forward and turned toward Tyler, a crooked grin plastered across her face. “Alright, Ty, spill it. Where the hell are we going? You’ve been suspiciously quiet since we left the highway. And now you’ve got Boone whispering stuff into your ear. When has he ever been this quiet?”

Tyler chuckled but kept his eyes on the road. “Relax, lily. I told you, we’re heading to my hometown. Figured we could all use a real bed and a home-cooked meal for a change. Motel breakfasts are starting to taste like cardboard.”

Dani, who talked from the radio given that she was behind in the Van, raised an eyebrow. “Your hometown? Tyler you’ve only ever talked about it once, what is there to do here really? Is there some sort of catch?”

“No catch,” Tyler replied smoothly. “Just thought you guys deserve something better. And I figured it’s finally time you meet someone really important to me.”

The rest of the team stayed curious and said nothing more. They trusted Tyler—he had proven himself time and again in the chaos of the storm-chasing world. If he said they were in for a treat, they believed him.

After another twenty minutes of winding roads and open fields, Tyler turned onto a long gravel driveway lined with vibrant green grass. The farmhouse at the end of the drive came into view, its white paint glowing softly in the golden light of the setting sun. Animals roamed nearby, adding life to the picturesque scene.

The team climbed out of the Truck and Van, stretching their legs and taking in their surroundings. The farmhouse was surrounded by rolling fields, with a red barn off to one side and a small garden near the porch. The air was warm and smelled faintly of wildflowers and fresh hay. There was a small lake in front of the farmhouse surrounded by fences.

“Wow,” said Dexter, the least chaotic team member. “It’s… peaceful.”

“Yeah,” Tyler said softly, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia. “It is. Home sweet home,” Tyler said as he approached the house more.

Boone followed his pace, grinning. “Ah, the Owens family ranch. Been too long since I’ve been here.”

“You’ve been here before?” Lily asked, surprised.

“Sure have,” Boone replied. “I’m practically family.”

The front door creaked open, and you stepped onto the porch, wearing a white top stretched slightly over your rounded belly and a pair of jeans. Tyler’s cowboy hat sat snugly on your head, the one he hadn’t worn in years. Your face lit up the moment you saw him, a smile breaking across your lips.

“There’s my troublemaker,” you said warmly, your accent as sweet as honey.

Tyler’s grin widened as he climbed the steps, pulling you into a gentle hug careful not to press too hard against your belly. “Hey, darlin’. You look beautiful.”

Boone didn’t hesitate. “Y/N! Look at you, glowing as always. How’s my niece?,” he said, bounding up the steps to greet you. He hugged you warmly, then ruffled your hair affectionately. “And still stealing hats, I see.”

You laughed. “Good to see you too, Boone. Baby’s fine. And yes, it’s mine now.” You turned back to your husband and hugged him once again. The hug felt like home. After days worrying for your husband he was finally back home and in your arms.

The team hung back awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Dexter was the first to break the silence. “Uh, hi. I’m so confused right now.”

You laughed loudly, your eyes twinkling. You knew the team must be confused, as Tyler had never spoken about you unless it was with Boone. “Y’all must be Tyler’s team. I’m Y/N. The wife.”

Upon the reveal, the team let their mouths hang open in shock. They never imagined Tyler out of all people would be married with a kid on the way. He was always the reckless one, the first to jump into danger. Nobody ever really thought about him potentially having a family, with the way he was. They also didn't expect Boone to have known and let this a secret for so long. That man can never shut his mouth.

Tyler turned back to his team, gesturing for them to come closer. “Everyone, this is Y/N—my wife. Y/N, meet the crew: Boone you already know, This is Dexter, Dani, and Lily.”

You smiled warmly and waved them inside. “Y’all must be starving. Tyler called ahead, so I made enough food to feed an army. Come on in and make yourselves at home.”

As the group filed into the house, Lily glanced at Tyler, her eyes wide with surprise. “You’re married? And… you’re going to be a dad?”

Tyler grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I never mentioned that, huh? Meet the real reason I get back in one piece after every chase.”

The house was cosy, filled with the comforting smells of roast chicken, fresh bread, and apple pie. The dining table was already set, you had clearly gone out of your way to make the team feel welcome.

“This is incredible,” Lily said, taking a seat at the table. “You really didn’t have to go all out for us.”

You waved her off with a laugh. “Oh, please. Tyler told me how hard you’ve all been working. Besides, I saw the live stream of that last tornado. Y’all are insane, by the way. I thought I’d reward your bravery or, well, craziness with a good meal.”

Boone leaned back in his chair, grinning, finally happy to be home. “It’s both, Y/N. And that tornado was a beauty, wasn’t it?”

“Did you see the way the funnel shifted when it hit that open field? Classic EF-3 behaviour.” Tyler suddenly asked as he turned to you. You smiled at the excitement in your husband's voice, nodding towards him. Despite dropping out and never finishing his career in meteorology he was quite well educated in the field of tornadoes.

Dexter nodded, his voice animated. “And the inflow jets—did you catch those? Perfect conditions for a multi-vortex system.”

You chuckled as you started serving the food. “I don’t understand half of what you’re saying, but I could tell y’all were thrilled. It was like watching kids on Christmas morning.”

As the conversation flowed between all of you, a soft noise interrupted. From the staircase next to the dining room came the sound of small, hesitant footsteps.

Everyone turned to see a little boy, about three years old, standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was rubbing his sleepy eyes with one hand, clutching a worn stuffed bear in the other. His curls were tousled from sleep, and he blinked at the group with a mixture of curiosity and shyness.

“Daddy?” the boy said softly, his voice thick with sleep.

Tyler’s expression melted. “Hey, bud,” he said, getting up from his chair. He crossed the room in a few strides and knelt down to scoop the boy into his arms. “What are you doing up? Thought your momma put you to sleep for the afternoon.”

The boy rested his head on Tyler’s shoulder and mumbled, “I Had a dream.”

Tyler kissed the top of his son’s head and held him close. “It’s okay, buddy. Daddy 's here.”

Boone chuckled, leaning back in his chair at the sight of the small kid. “There 's my boy. Come here, kiddo.”

Jake squirmed out of Tyler’s arms and ran to Boone, climbing onto his lap. Boone greeted him with a fist bump. “What’d I tell you about staying up past your bedtime, huh?”

Jake giggled. “Uncle Boone!”

The rest of the team stared, dumbfounded. Dani finally blurted out, “Wait you knew about this?!”

Boone shrugged. “Of course. I’m his godfather and uncle. Perks of being Tyler’s actual best friend.”

“Everyone,” Tyler said, turning back to the group, “this is Jake, our little man.”

Jake lifted his head from Boone's shoulder and looked at the team, his big brown eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces. “Hi,” he said shyly.

Lily smiled warmly. “Hi, Jake. I’m Lily. It’s nice to meet you.”

You walked over and gently ruffled your son's curls. “Jake, these are Daddy’s other friends. They’re going to stay with us tonight.”

Jake’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Yep,” Tyler said, bouncing him lightly. “And you know what? I think they might even make pretty good aunts and uncles, don’t you?”

Jake giggled, his earlier sleepiness forgotten. “Yeah! Now I have more people to play with!”

“That’s right buddy.” Boone smiled, hugging the kid one last time before he jumped out of his lap and went back to his fathers embrace.

The meal progressed with a light-hearted warmth that settled over everyone like a blanket. Boone and Dexter were animatedly recounting their most chaotic storm-chasing moments, while Dani and Lily chimed in with their own tales. Jake sat on Tyler’s lap, happily munching on a slice of buttered bread, his small hands gripping the edges of the plate to keep it steady.

You observed the scene with a soft smile, your hand resting on your growing belly. Tyler caught your gaze as he let his free hand rest on top of the one holding your belly. He smiled down at you. He was happy to be home.

“You’ve done good, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low but full of admiration.

She tilted her head, her smile widening. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Ty.”

The team exchanged subtle glances, sensing the affection radiating between the two. Lily, unable to resist, leaned over to you. “You two are adorable. What’s your secret?”

That caused a laugh out of you. “Oh, it’s no secret. Just a lot of patience and knowing when to call him out on his nonsense.” You shot Tyler a teasing look, and he feigned innocence.

“Hey now,” Tyler said, grinning. “I’m a perfect angel.”

Jake looked up from his plate, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “Daddy’s silly!”

The table erupted into laughter, and Tyler tickled Jake’s sides, eliciting a burst of giggles from the little boy. “Come on Bug, eat all your food. Don’t want you to be hungry later.” You looked at your son as you gently grabbed his bread and gave it to him. Gently caressing his forehead and kissing his cheek lovingly. All while Tyler stared at you with adoration in his eyes.

As the evening wore on, You excused yourself briefly to check on the dessert. Tyler took the opportunity to follow you into the kitchen, leaving Jake to sit back on Boone lap and be entertained by the team.

The kitchen was warm and cosy, filled with the comforting aroma of apples and cinnamon as you carefully pulled the steaming pie from the oven. You moved with practiced ease, placing it on a cooling rack, when suddenly you felt a familiar presence behind you.

“Now, what do I have to do to get my hands on a slice of that?” Tyler’s voice was low and teasing, the grin audible in his tone.

You smirked, not bothering to turn around. “Depends. Are you talking about the pie or me?”

Tyler laughed softly and stepped closer, slipping his arms around your waist, his front pressed against your back. “Both, but let’s start with you.” He leaned in, brushing his lips along the curve of your neck.

“Ty,” you said, your voice half a warning, half a giggle. “We have company, remember? We don’t want Boone to catch us again do we?”

“They’re busy stuffing their faces and trying to keep Jake from giving Boone another black eye,” he murmured, his lips trailing to your ear. “Besides, I don’t get moments like this nearly enough.”

You sighed, leaning back into his embrace. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you’re gorgeous,” he countered without missing a beat, his hands sliding up to rest gently over your growing belly. “And carrying my baby girl? That makes you even more irresistible.”

You carefully turned in his arms, bow facing each other as you rested your hands on his chest. “You’ve got a silver tongue, Mr. Owens. Has it ever gotten you into trouble?”

He grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling. “Only when I’m not careful. Lucky for me, I married a woman who keeps me in line.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re not so cocky now, are you?”

“Only with you,” he said, leaning down until your foreheads touched. “Well, and maybe with Jake when he gives me that little puppy-dog look. Kid’s got my heart wrapped around his finger. Can never say no to him.”

You laughed softly, holding his figure even more, not wanting to let go. You leaned your head on his chest, looking sideways outside the window to the sun that illuminated your home.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he murmured as his chin rested upon your head.

“And you’re a shameless flirt.”

“Guilty,” he admitted, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “But seriously, I just wanted to thank you for this. For all of it. I know it’s not easy having me running around the country chasing storms.”

You turned in his arms, eyes meeting his. “Ty, I knew what I was signing up for when I married you. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, you always come back to us. That’s what matters.”

His expression softened, and he placed a hand gently on your belly again. “And soon, there’s going to be even more reason to keep coming back.”

You placed your hand over his, your smile tender. “She’s going to love you just as much as Jake does. Maybe even more if she inherits your stubbornness.”

He chuckled. “Let’s hope she gets your patience instead.”.

Your expression softened as you traced a finger along his jawline. “You’re a good dad, Tyler. I see it every day in how Jake lights up around you. And I know you’re going to be just as amazing with our daughter.”

He kissed you softly, a lingering tenderness in the way he held you close. “That’s the plan, sweetheart. Keep coming back to you, Jake, and this little one. Always.”

The moment was interrupted by a loud crash from the dining room.

“Jake!” Boone’s voice carried through the house. “Why am I always the bad guy?”

“It wasn’t me!” Jake shouted back, his voice ringing with childlike defiance.

You groaned, pulling away with a reluctant smile. “Guess I’d better rescue Boone before Jake recruits the others against him.”

Tyler laughed, giving you a playful smack on the ass as you walked away. “Don’t take too long, baby. I’m still waiting on that pie—and you.”

You threw him a teasing look over her shoulder. “Behave, Ty.”

When you stepped back into the dining room, Jake was perched on Dexter’s lap, gleefully recounting how Boone had “knocked the chair over all by himself.” Boone stood nearby, arms crossed and feigning offence.

“For the record,” Boone declared, “this kid’s already mastered the fine art of scapegoating.”

“I learned it from Daddy!” Jake said with a giggle, earning a roar of laughter from the table.

You sighed, shaking your head as you started slicing the pie. “I see Jake’s picking up all your best habits, Ty.”

Tyler grinned shamelessly, taking a seat next to you. “Can’t blame the kid for wanting to be like his old man.” He reached over to ruffle Jake’s curls, then turned to you. “But if you want to keep us in line, you’d better bring that pie over here before we all riot.”

You rolled your eyes, setting the pie on the table with a grin. “You’re lucky I love you, Tyler Owens.”

He leaned back in his chair, giving you a wink. “Lucky’s an understatement, baby. I hit the jackpot.”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

As the last bite of pie was finished and the laughter around the table quieted, you leaned back in your chair, feeling satisfied but a little tired. Tyler’s gaze met yours across the table, his expression softening with concern as he stood up, stretching his back.

“We need to clean up.” You muttered under your breath, ready to stand up until Tyler pushed you gently back down to sit.

“Alright, everyone,” Tyler said, his voice carrying the gentle authority that always seemed to get things done. “You’ve all eaten, now it’s time to let my wife take a break. She’s been working hard today.”

Jake, who had been leaning back in his chair, looked confused. “Why do we need to clean up?”

“Because the Missus said so,” Tyler interrupted with a wink, his playful grin lighting up his face. “And trust me, when the Missus speaks, everyone listens.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the playful banter between them, but you appreciated how Tyler always made sure you weren’t overburdened. It was his way of showing care, in everything from big gestures to little moments like this.

One by one, the team began to rise from the table, and soon enough, the dishes were being cleared away. Boone and Dexter were the first to take charge of the plates, laughing as they competed to see who could load the dishwasher faster. Lily helped wipe down the table, while Jake, who still looked a little reluctant, finally took the trash bag outside with Boone’s encouragement.

It didn’t take long before the kitchen was tidied up, and the team filed out to check on the horses. You watched them from the window as they made their way to the stables, chatting with Jake in tow, all smiles and laughter. You felt a contentment settle over you, watching the scene from your peaceful spot inside.

Tyler, noticing that you hadn’t moved from your seat, stepped toward you and held out his hand. “You need a break, too,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

You stood, taking his hand, and together you walked outside to the front porch. The soft evening light bathed the world in golden hues as you made your way to the rocking chair. Tyler sat first, patting the seat next to him, and you sank into the chair beside him, leaning back with a sigh of relief.

Tyler settled beside you, his hand resting gently on your baby bump. His thumb traced slow circles, a tender gesture that made your heart swell. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the gentle rocking of the chair soothe your tired muscles. The sound of the team’s voices echoed from the stables, a distant hum of joy and energy, but it felt far away from the calm you found in this quiet moment.

You rested your head on Tyler’s shoulder, your fingers resting over his hand on your belly. “Tired?” He asked you, noticing your calmness and weight on his shoulder.

“No. I’m just thinking about how much I missed you.”

He kissed the top of your head, wrapping his arm tighter around you. “Missed you more. And I mean it, Y/N. Everything we’ve built here… it’s the reason I keep going. The reason I come back.”

Your eyes glistened as you looked up at him. “You’re the reason this feels like home, Ty.”

He smiled, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you again, slow and sweet. “Then I guess we’re even, Baby.”

#tyler owens x reader #twisters #tyler owens #glenn powell #cowboy #cowboy x wife #wife!reader #cowboy x wife!reader #Tyler Owens x you #Tylerowens #daisy edgar jones #boone twisters #tyler owens twisters #dani twisters #lily twisters #dexter twisters

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chrysanthemumgames · 9 months ago

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Fields of Asphodel is now on sale!

Descend to the Underworld and live among myths as the deity of spring!

Fields of Asphodel is a 1.3 million-word interactive novel by JJ Laurier. It's entirely text-based, without graphics or sound effects, and fueled by the vast, unstoppable power of your imagination.

Forced into an arranged marriage with the God of the Dead, only you can decide what to make of your new life. Befriend misfit deities, repel giant attacks, find the culprit behind the river goddess's mysterious illness, and use your powers to nudge Fate in your favor! Decide what kind of deity you want to be—whether you'll answer prayers, how you'll develop your powers, and what role you'll take in governance.

Play as male, female, or nonbinary; gay, straight, bi, asexual, or poly.

Play as neurodivergent or neurotypical.

Take on the powers of spring and life.

Find love and friendship among the gods of the ancient Greek Underworld.

Develop your abilities and hobbies, and choose the kind of life you want to live.

Grow a garden in the Underworld.

Defend the realm, advise the King, and solve a mystery.

Make a new home, or seize the opportunity to return to your old one.

Can you bring light to the darkest of realms?

---------------------------------------------------------

I am delighted to announce that the wait is finally over. Fields of Asphodel is now available on Steam, the CoG Website, via the Hosted Games Omnibus app, and anywhere else Hosted Games are sold! For the next week, it's on sale for $7.99 (USD), so get it before the price goes up to $11.99!

Thank you all so much for your support through the game's development; it's what made this possible. A special shout-out to my Patrons, to the Discord server crew, and to @gncrezan, who not only makes regular and amazing art related to the game, but who drew the beautiful cover image as well.

If you enjoyed Fields of Asphodel, please consider leaving a review on the platform of your choice. It really does make a difference!

#announcement #release #it's finally here!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

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Besotted 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes

Note: It's hump day, my dudes.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You don’t see Bucky at all the next day. His motorcycle is gone when you leave for work and when you come back. You assume he has his own work to do, or some running around. He did just move in. You try not to take it personally but you are disappointed.

This is a lot more fun than all those other times. You’re not as stressed, not as insecure. Maybe it’s because you’re not hoping for more. Because you took a page out of Angelique’s book and stopped caring. One way or another, you’re going to get rid of your v-card. It doesn’t have to be special, it just has to happen.

On your day off, you decide to get rid of the prickly weeds around the front porch. It's the perfect opportunity for you to show off your shortest shorts and blast some tunes while you’re at it. You put on your rose gold headphone and the best of girly pop.

You smell coffee but don’t see your neighbour. You don’t want to be too obvious. You get down on your knees and pull-on the dollar store gardening gloves. You’re not good at any of this but these damn plants keep scratching your ankles.

Before long, your alternative motives drift away as you wrestle with roots. You yank free a particularly stubborn weed and send up a cloud of dandelion fluff. You sneeze into the back of the glove. A shadow passes over you and a gentle tap lands on your shoulder.

You squeak and drop the leaves. You pull off your headphones and twist to look up at Bucky. Your shoulder tingles where he touched. It’s hard to think someone like him can be so soft.

“I’m headed into town...” he crosses his arms, the cleft in his chin deepening as he mulls his words, “you said you wanted to test out the motorcycle...”

“Oh really!” You exclaim as you look up at him. You focus on his face, even as you’re innately aware of how close your are to something else. “Oh, Bucky, that’s so awesome. I’ve been so excited for this.” You gather up the compost bag and he offers his hand. He hauls you up to your feet and reluctantly let go. “I’ve been so patient.”

He hums, “you can’t wear those. You’ll get burned.”

He looks down at your shorts. You giggle. You pull off your gloves and clutch them together. “I’ll get changed. I have the perfect pants!”

He just nods.

“I’ll wait,” he assures and points over his shoulder.

You grin and spin to rush away, headphones bouncing around your neck. You dump the gloves and bag on the porch and clatter through the door. You stop to wipe the dirt off your knees and strip off your shorts before you get to the bedroom.

You search out the fake leather leggings with all the fake zippers. The sun won’t be kind but you don’t mind. You slip into them and find a strappy red top with a bandana style cut at the hem. The bejeweled letters across the front read ‘sinful’. It’s cheesy but you love it.

You find a pair of sunglasses with thick black cat eyes and trade your sandals for leather booties. You hook your purse across your body as you come out with a jangle of your keys. You zip those away with your phone as you come down the stair.

Your chest jiggles with each step as your upper tummy peeks out beneath the fabric. Bucky looks over and arches a brow. You approach as he takes a helmet from the handlebar.

“Found a spare,” he offers.

You take it and thank him. His eyes skitter between you and the bike. You giggle and tap your heels in excitement. You're genuinely amped up for this.

“It’s so cool!” You say, “oh, will you take a picture of me with the bike?”

He squints and his cheek dimples. He shrugs, “sure.”

“Amazing,” you unzip the small crossbody pouch, “here.”

You unlock your phone, your background a picture of you, Angelique, and another friend, Tracy, your backscreen. You bring up the camera and hand it over.

“Oh, can I get on or?” You face the motorcycle.

“Sure, be careful.”

You put the helmet on and let the straps hang loose. First you pose in front of it and cock your hip. He aims the lens, your flowery blue and purple case looks dainty in his large tattooed hands. Then you cautiously approach. He comes closer and puts his hand under your elbow to help you onto the backseat. You notice the backrest that wasn’t there before and the shining new chrome bolts that hold it on.

You straddle it as he backs up. You stick your tongue out for another picture. Then you smile and give a peace sign.

He lowers the phone and nears, offering it to you. You snag his forearm, “and a selfie? Together.”

He twitches. “I don’t much like pictures.”

“Just a memory. Promise, I won’t show anyone.”

He growls and shows his palms, “what... what do you want me to do.”

“Here, turn,” you direct him, “put your arm around me and get in frame.”

You flip the camera and extend your arms. He moves stiffly and hovers his arm over your shoulders. He smells like oaky cologne. You smile as he growls at his own reflection in the phone. You lean into him and watch his features calm then snap the photo.

“So cute,” you exclaim. “That’s my new wallpaper.” You tap on the three dots and quickly replace the pic of you and your girls, “see.”

“Huh?” He stands straight.

“Everyone’s going to think I’m so badass. I mean, I’m not, but they’ll think I am,” you chime. “Oh, uh,” the straps tickle your neck as you put your phone away, “Bucky, I’m so dumb. Can you help?”

You pinch the straps and flick your lashes at him. He exhales again. You stare at the front of his plain black tee. It clings to his muscles and squeezes his thick biceps. He takes the straps and loops one through the metal ring. His fingertips brush your throat and chin.

He slowly tugs it snug and his hands freeze. He stares at them and his gaze slowly crawls up to your lips. The air turns stolid around you. He winces and puts his hand on the helmet, wiggling it to test it.

“Good to go,” he drags his hand off and turns his back to you.

He grabs the other helmet and pulls it on over his hair. He slides on his sunglasses before he straddles the bike in front of you. He grips the handlebars and takes it off the stand, kicking it back as he easily supports the heavy beast of a bike. His strength is felt in the shifting axel.

“Gotta hang on unless you want road burn,” he says over his shoulder. “Gonna be loud.”

“I can handle it,” you assure him as you lean in and wrap your arms around his middle.

You feel his stomach clench. He turns the key then brings his hand back to turn the throttle, making the bike roar. He walks it back and angles it down the street. He gets it rolling then puts his feet up, zipping off through a tunnel of wind.

You let out a gleeful holler. The rush is unlike anything you felt. Your heart is pumping and your veins are on fire. You hug him tighter and laugh raucously.

He stops at a sign and plants his boots, “you okay?” He calls over his shoulder.

“I’m perfect. I’m-- I’m in heaven!” You answer and wiggle in the seat.

He takes off again. You squeal and cling to him. You watch the smear of the buildings, trees, and pavement. You feel like you’re flying. Not to mention, you’re vibrating. You feel your leggings getting wet. This is more than fun, it’s fucking hot.

At last, he stops and quiets the beast. You look around the plaza as he kicks down the stand. He waits and signals you off first with the tilt of his head. You get off and he follows.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “Boring stuff.”

You look over at the organic shop sign. You laugh, “are you buying gluten free granola?”

“Something like that,” he almost smiles. Almost.

“Hang onto that,” he taps the helmet.

You unloop the straps and hang it from your elbow, “yes--” you have to stop yourself from saying daddy. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or serious at this point. “Sir.”

He eyes you then scoffs, “alright, then, doll, let’s go.”

His cheek ticks and he looks away. He turns his back to you quickly and beckons you with his hands. You follow.

“Doll,” you say.

“Sorry--” he begins.

“I like it. It’s cute! Like a Barbie, right?”

He sniffs and opens the door of the shop, “sure, something like that.”

Or a sex doll? You think to yourself. You nearly dance through the door. This is an amazing day.

He enters behind you. You radiate to the rack of plant-based candies. They are all so colourful. He sidles along to the bin of trail mix. He takes a paper bag and dumps a scoop inside.

“They have any with M&Ms?” You shuffle up next to him. He grunts. “Kidding.”

“Good food,” he mutters. “Nice place.”

“I’ve never been before,” you say. “You’re not vegan? That pie I made had real meat?”

He snorts and shakes his head, “nah, just... try to appreciate the small things, these days.”

“Right. Well, it’s a really cool place—oh, cookies!”

You brush by him and snag up a box of the vanilla glazed shortbread. They look delicious. You turn to him and grin as you show him.

“Small things, right?” You bounce back toward him.

He stares at you a moment, “yeah.” He nods and folds over the top of the paper bag. “There’s... there’s a bar around the corner.”

“Oh, a bar?” You chirp. “How about I buy you a round? For the ride?”

“Mm, I was just gonna run over and deal with... talk to a friend.” He browses as he speaks. “Thought you could wait with the motorcycle.”

“Oh,” you deflate, “whatever you like.”

“Or... you can sit for a drink. Won’t be long,” he shrugs.

“Bucky, I’m all yours. I’ll do whatever you want.”

He coughs and grabs a loaf of ten grain.

“One drink,” he grits out.

👙

You buy your cookies and Bucky his small haul of groceries. He fits it all in his saddle bags as you watch. He comes around and points you around the other side of the plaza. He walks beside you. As you think about how you must look together, you get all fluttery.

You’re tempted to grab his hand but you don’t want to spoil all your progress. After all, he invited you. And now he’s taking you for a drink. Sort of.

He holds the door at the bar for you, greeting the bouncer with familiarity. You look around the dim space. It’s just after noon, there’s not too many people there. He points you to a table.

“What do you drink?” He asks.

“Do you think they have appletinis?” You ask. He blinks. You laugh at him. “Joking, I’ll have a light beer. Any brand.”

“Right, doll, coming right up.”

You sit and watch him go. He talks to the bar tender and points to the table. Then he walks up around the curve of the bar and into the backroom. You narrow your eyes curiously. Huh.

The bartender pulls a tap and pours the pint. He brings it to you. “Miss.” He retreats as if he’s afraid of you. Before you can even thank him.

You pull the tall glass close as condensation hazes along the outside. You taste the thin layer of foam. It’s a bit tangy. You peer around listlessly. This isn’t very exciting.

This isn’t the typical sports bar. There's a pool table and a dartboard but no TVs for the games. There’s leather jackets and skull emblems and a few disarmed guns on wooden plaques.

There’s a thunk from the back of the bar then the slam of a door. You peer over as Bucky emerges and stops at the bar. Without a word, the bartender pours him a dark glass of liquor. He grabs it and marches over to you. He sits and sighs.

“Had to hit the restroom,” he says.

“No worries,” you make yourself drink the beer. Wheaty.

“You make up your mind?” He asks.

“Hmm,” you wipe foam from your lip.

“About the motorcycle. Still want one?”

“I definitely want one!” You grin. He brushes his fingertips over his knuckles. They’re reddened. Is one of them split? Were they like that before?

“It’s an investment. Those new ones are... well, if you’re looking for a vintage model, I know some people. I could do any bodywork you need,” he offers.

“Really? Oh, Bucky, you’re so sweet!” You chime.

His mouth slants, curving at one corner. He takes a swig of his drink.

“Not really, doll,” he rests his chin in his hand. “But for you, I’ll try.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #besotted #marvel #mcu #winter soldier #captain america #avengers

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review-anon · 5 months ago

Note

Personally, if Wenona dies I am gonna tweak, also, she is very pretty

//Good for you.

//Personally I couldn’t care less if she dies but I’m not emotionally invested in her rn.

//She still has time.

#review anon talks #project eden's garden #wenona #people have their reasons to like a character #and i don’t dislike wenona #that’s a very strong word #it’s more like indifference #and disappointment

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airybcby · 1 month ago

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જ⁀♡⊹｡° stranger, that's all i see

( sae itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — the 7th ( and last ) part to my seven petals, all poison series! ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.8k

♡ content — sae itoshi x fem! reader , sae and reader are 30-31 ish , established relationship ( married ), divorce hinted at ( and said toward the end ), one sided relationship, sae falling out of love with reader, harsh sae, tbh idk what else to add :), not proofread!

♡ synopsis — Ten years ago, you fell in love with a rising star in Spain. A whirlwind romance, a quiet wedding, a promise of forever. But forever is starting to feel like a one-sided vow. Sae Itoshi still wears his ring—but the space beside you in bed stays cold. And love, as it turns out, doesn’t survive on silence.

── .✦ when i look into your eyes, a soulmate who wasn't meant to be

You used to think silence was romantic.

In the beginning, there was something beautiful about sitting next to him in a café with nothing to say, yet feeling everything. Fingers lightly brushing over ceramic coffee mugs, eyes meeting across the table, your knee barely grazing his under the small table.

You always thought he was a storm kept still just for you. Even his quiet held weight, meaning.

But now?

Silence is a weight you carry alone.

You stare at the seat across from you—his seat. Your fork scrapes across porcelain as you push asparagus and roasted chicken around your plate, untouched.

Another dinner alone.

Another meal you plated with too much hope.

You still try, out of habit.

You’ve been trying for ten years.

Your eyes flick to the digital clock on the oven.

9:47 PM.

You used to wait.

Now, you just clean up.

You met him in Madrid, fresh out of university, wide-eyed and brilliant with a pen.

You were a translator at first, then a sideline reporter, and then a full-on broadcaster with glowing reviews. Your Spanish lilted and playful, your insight sharp.

You caught his eye with the way you didn’t flinch at his silence. How you challenged him, even when others backed away.

Sae Itoshi was the prodigy.

You were just...you.

He said he liked your honesty. You liked his contradictions. He was all ice, but when he touched you, he burned.

You dated for a year. Engaged the next. Married the one after that. It was fast, but it made sense. You were both dreamers in your own ways. He had a career that stole him from the world. You had a world you were willing to shrink, just to stay in his orbit.

At twenty-four, you thought love was enough.

You’ve grown into a different version of yourself—your thirties are here. Your friends are planning holidays with their kids, attending parent-teacher nights, adopting dogs they name after old musicians.

You show up to everything alone.

“Oh, where’s Sae?”

You used to smile and say, “Training.”

Now, you sip your drink and shrug. “You know him.”

Because you do know him. Or at least, you did.

But that version of him—the boy who kissed you in your rain-wet hallway after a win, the man who promised you Venice and three kids and a house with a garden—is gone.

Or maybe he never existed outside the breathless version of him you imagined in your twenties.

When the season ends, he’s home more. Kind of. You wake up to the sound of him showering. You hear him shuffle around the kitchen, pouring cereal, never coffee. He leaves the bowls in the sink.

He doesn’t ask how you are. He doesn’t notice the way your hand lingers on the fridge, or how your eyes are always just a little too glassy.

It’s not cruel. It’s just...empty. And that hurts more.

The house is quiet—too quiet for something so big. The kind of silence that fills your chest like smoke and refuses to leave.

You stand in the living room with your arms crossed, staring up at the one thing in this house that still feels alive.

A portrait.

Large and centered above the fireplace, preserved like a shrine: your wedding photo.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been standing there, just looking at it. But time doesn’t matter. Not in this house. Not anymore.

You, in that dress you spent weeks hunting for—a soft ivory with a dramatic, low back and a train that shimmered every time you moved. You remember how the lace felt under your fingertips. How your cheeks hurt from smiling too much. How your mother cried when she buttoned you in.

And Sae—

Sae looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world. His hand was at your waist, his mouth pressed against your temple, and the corner of his lips lifted just slightly in a way no one else ever saw.

You remember everything. The flowers you picked out together. The laughter that rang through the courtyard when your uncle accidentally tripped on the runner. The music—God, the music—you two danced to that soft jazz track he liked. He didn’t even want a first dance until he saw how badly you did.

Your fingers tremble as they drift to the ring on your hand.

You twist it, slowly.

You remember the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles when he slid it on. “You sure about this?” he asked, and you’d smiled, breathless. “Always.”

That girl is a ghost now. Her voice lives only in your memories.

You feel your throat tighten.

Then— A voice, sharp and cold, cuts through the haze:

“What are you staring at?”

You jump, heart in your throat.

Sae stands at the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s home earlier than usual. His hair still wet from a shower, his jersey only half-tucked into black sweats.

He looks tired. He always does now.

And the worst part is—he doesn’t even try to look at you.

You swallow the lump forming. “Oh. Just our… our picture.”

You smile, soft and nostalgic, still twisting the ring like a habit you can’t break.

“Oh.”

He looks up at it.

His expression doesn’t change. Blank. Like the photo means nothing.

“We need to take that down.”

He says it like he’s mentioning the weather. Like he’s telling you the laundry’s done. Then he walks off into the kitchen, door swinging behind him.

That’s it. The first conversation you’ve had in weeks.

Just seven words. And not one of them about you.

You stay there for a while longer, staring at the photo. At the girl who thought promises meant permanence. At the man who once looked at her like she hung the moon.

You fight for the first time in weeks one morning, over something stupid.

“You said we’d go visit my parents,” you remind him. “They’ve been asking.”

“I have meetings,” he replies, not even looking up from his phone. “You can go.”

“I don’t want to go alone, Sae.”

He finally looks up, brow slightly knit. “Why not?”

You nearly laugh. It’s not funny, but it is—it’s hilarious how little he sees you these days.

“Do you ever want to do anything with me?” Your voice wobbles.

“What kind of question is that?”

You blink. “An honest one.”

He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”

There it is.

The sentence that breaks you. Not because it’s harsh. But because it’s indifferent.

You leave the room before he sees your tears.

You have the conversation one night in bed.

You can’t sleep, and his breathing is slow beside you, too far on the edge of the mattress.

“You know I wanted a family,” you whisper into the dark.

He’s silent for so long, you think he’s asleep. Then—

“I never asked you to stay.”

It’s a knife without sharpness. A dull blade. And somehow, that makes it worse.

Your breath hitches. “Is that what I’ve been doing? Staying?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because he knows.

And so do you.

The day you leave, he doesn’t fight. Not really.

He just watches you pack a small suitcase. You leave the rest. You leave the house.

You leave the life you waited too long for.

But before you walk out the door, you turn to him. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, still wearing the shirt you folded for him yesterday.

“I loved you so much, Sae.”

He looks at you like he almost believes you didn’t. “You still do.”

You nod. “Yeah. And that’s the saddest part.”

It’s raining when you step into the cab. Of course it is.

But for the first time in years, the silence inside you starts to sound like peace.

Not absence.

Just...quiet.

The apartment you live in now is smaller. There’s no grand foyer. No marble countertops or a view of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. Just one bedroom, a couch you picked out by yourself, and a kitchen with mismatched plates and mugs.

It’s quiet here, too.

But not the kind of quiet that swallows you whole.

This one... this quiet lets you breathe.

Still, some mornings are harder than others.

You’re sitting at your kitchen table, the rim of your coffee cup pressed to your lips but untouched.

Your phone buzzes, face-down on the wood. You ignore it.

You’ve gotten good at that. Letting people reach for you without having to reach back.

But something nags at you. So you flip the phone over.

A headline lights up the screen.

“Sae Itoshi: Better and Better, Even After Divorce.”

At 32, Japan’s prodigal midfielder is aging like fine wine—and nothing seems to slow him down.

Your stomach drops before you can stop it.

The article auto-loads, as if your phone already knew you’d read it.

There’s a photo. He’s on the field in a sharp navy kit. His hair longer than you remember. Still unreadable. Still beautiful in that cold, impossible way.

You skim, even when you don’t want to:

“After a decade at the top, Itoshi continues to impress. His stats have only improved, his stamina unshakable. When asked about his divorce that happened a year ago, the midfielder declined to comment, simply stating, ‘My focus is football.’”

Of course it is.

You set the phone down slowly.

He’s still shining. Maybe brighter than before. And not a single thing has changed.

No stumble. No pause. Just a chapter closed, and a new one opened without you.

You, though?

You left with nothing but your name.

No shared bank accounts.

No alimony.

No custody battles—there was nothing to fight over.

Not even a goldfish to argue about.

You walked away with your clothes, your pride, and a ring in the bottom of a drawer.

And somehow, you’re the one mourning.

Not the man he is now. You don’t even know him.

You mourn the boy who whispered “I love you” in a chapel under Spanish stars.

The man who once kissed your hand like it was sacred.

The version of him who looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

Not the stranger who took his place.

And still—

Still, when it rains, you think of him.

Still, when you cook too much food, you instinctively plate two servings.

Still, when the crowd cheers on your TV and they zoom in on him—jaw tight, eyes ruthless, chest rising beneath that number ten—you feel something tug deep in your ribs.

You press the phone face-down again, like it’ll help the ache go away.

The coffee’s cold now, but you drink it anyway.

Because you’re still learning how to live without someone who’s very much alive.

Because some love doesn’t die with divorce.

It just turns into something you have to shove down til it disappears.

ohhh sae you stupid, stupid man

well, that's the end of this series!! I hope you all enjoyed it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!!

❀ tags: ❀ @kenyuukissme ❀ @irethepotato ❀ @kiyy0mei ❀ @x3nafix ❀ @sugacor3 ❀ @ohagiyo ❀ @reigensuperstar ❀ @nevvynevnev ❀ join the taglist here !

❀ tags for this series: ❀ @silverwings920 ❀ @anqelkoz

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk sae #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #blue lock x reader #blue lock sae #bllk sae itoshi #sae angst #sae x reader angst #itoshi sae x reader #airy's series!#airys series: seven petals all poison

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 25 days ago

Note

Hear me out, the "Dr. Abbot and Dr. Reader with a spouse and a son" thing?? What if Reader's spouse is/was in army too? I feel like it would add more tension

Also, I'm begging for a crumb of "the spouse is not that great/ their marriage is not going well, so Reader ends up with Abbot," anything, im starving (nopressure)

(Adore your writing!)

why did this make me sad????????????????? (thank you tho)

Collateral Clarity | Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbott x Resident!Reader

Jack doesn’t mean to linger.

He should be on his way to rounds. Should be checking labs or reviewing that trauma case from earlier. But something makes him pause near the double doors that look out over the hospital’s rear garden — the little courtyard where visitors sometimes go to talk in private. Where you are now.

You're standing stiffly near one of the benches, arms crossed as your husband paces in front of you, gesturing with the kind of quiet frustration only military men seem to master. Your son sits on the bench, headphones in, head down — clearly used to this.

Jack can’t hear the words, not really. But he doesn’t need to. He sees the tension in your shoulders. The way your husband gets too close. The way your head drops when you speak, like you’re already exhausted before the conversation is even over.

He catches one line, low but hard: “I gave everything for this family. You think this job matters more than being a wife?”

You don’t answer. You don’t flinch. You just stare at him — steady, tired.

Jack's jaw sets. He wants to walk out there, to put himself between you. Not because he thinks your husband would ever do anything — but because he knows what it feels like to be emotionally worn down. And no one should look at you like that. No one should treat you like you’re lucky to be tolerated.

And then something happens.

Your husband notices Jack.

He turns, expression already defensive. “Friend of yours?” he calls, arms crossing.

You don’t look at Jack. You look at your son, hand brushing over his shoulder.

Jack stays where he is. Calm. Measured. Present.

You finally speak, voice cool. “That’s Dr. Abbott. My mentor. My friend.”

There’s a moment — a beat of quiet — where Jack’s eyes meet yours through the glass.

It’s brief, but it’s enough. Your expression softens just slightly. Like you're asking him not to make it worse, even as your eyes plead don’t leave me out here with this alone.

He nods once.

A promise.

Later, you find him in the stairwell. The one place in the hospital no one ever seems to bother him. He’s leaning against the rail, coffee cooling in his hand, brows furrowed like he’s already writing your discharge summary — except it’s you he's trying to assess.

“Thanks,” you say, quietly, sitting beside him on the stairs.

“For what?”

“For not walking away.”

He doesn’t look at you right away. But when he does, it’s gentle. A little sad. A little furious.

“He doesn’t see you.”

The silence says everything you’re not ready to say.

Jack finally breaks it.

“I do.”

It starts small.

Jack doesn’t rush anything. He never does. That’s what makes him so good in trauma — the paradox of steady hands and fast instincts. But with you? He’s even more careful.

After that day in the stairwell, something shifts. You’re not just his favorite resident. Not just the sharpest mind in the OR. You’re the person he looks for when the day gets heavy. You’re the one he finds at the coffee cart with that too-sweet order and tired eyes. And he starts bringing an extra.

Just in case.

You joke like always. Banter, trade jabs, toss around sarcasm like it's sterile gauze. But under it, something’s blooming. Something warm.

Something dangerous.

Your husband deploys again. It’s sudden. Short notice. You barely react. Jack notices that too.

“He’s gone?” he asks softly one evening when you find him alone in the lounge, flipping through patient charts.

You nod, leaning on the counter, your voice calm. “Back overseas for six months.”

“You okay?”

You shrug. “I’m… better.”

He hums, glancing up at you. “You’ve been quieter.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

Jack watches you for a long beat before returning to his charts. “That’s dangerous.”

You smile. “Not if I think about the right things.”

Weeks pass.

Late nights turn into early mornings. You walk him through consults; he talks you down after impossible cases. Sometimes, he makes you laugh so hard your mask nearly slips off in the hallway. Sometimes, you catch him watching you with that look — the one he always wipes away too quickly.

Until the night it doesn’t.

It’s after a brutal double trauma. Your adrenaline is crashing. You’re both still scrubbed in, standing too close in the locker room, too tired to care. And when he looks at you, it’s different. Raw.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whisper, chest still heaving.

“Why not?”

You swallow. “Because I might kiss you.”

He steps forward — just enough for his hand to brush yours.

“I wouldn’t stop you,” he says.

You do kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s all pent-up months of longing, unspoken words, and every quiet moment when his fingers lingered a second too long.

When he pulls back, forehead against yours, you say it:

“I don’t think I love him anymore.”

Jack doesn’t flinch.

“I don’t think you ever really did.”

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfic #the pitt imagine #dr jack abbott #dr jack abbott imagine #dr jack abbott fanfic #dr jack abbott headcannon #dr abbot #dr jack abbot imagine #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbot x reader

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queenofwands89 · 10 months ago

Text

The Storm Within (Part Two) Tyler Owens x fem!reader

Part 1

Summary: Following the events of the first part, a severely injured Y/N lies in a coma while a heartbroken Tyler waits by her side, wondering if she will ever wake up.

Warnings: Hospital, Reader is in a coma, Fluff, Sad Tyler, Slightly angsty.

Notes: I didn't expect so many people to read the first part, let alone want a second, so thank you—it means a lot. I rushed to write this to avoid making you wait any longer, lol. I'm currently accepting writing prompts for Jake Seresin, Tyler Owens, and Glen Powell.

Enjoy byeeee!

Two weeks have slipped by in a blur of sterile hospital corridors and the endless hum of medical machines. Each passing day is a battle against time, unrelenting in its indifference, and Tyler's world has shrunk to the confines of your hospital room.

Tyler sits by your side, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but refusing to close. He's lost count of the hours he's spent watching the rise and fall of your chest, willing you to wake up. The constant beeping of the heart monitor and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator are his only companions.

The rest of the storm-chasing team visits regularly, each holding onto hope in their own way. Boone leaves a fresh bouquet of wildflowers on the bedside table every other day, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the clinical white of the room. Dani brings her laptop, working quietly in the corner, refusing to leave until Tyler is forced to rest. Dexter makes sure Tyler eats, even if it means feeding him himself. And Lilly, with her unwavering optimism, often slips into the chair opposite Tyler, regaling him with stories and laughs to keep the darkness at bay.

One evening, as the crimson hues of the setting sun penetrate the blinds, Tyler is gently persuaded by Lilly to step outside the room, if only for a few minutes. The fresh air at the hospital's small garden is a reprieve he didn’t know he needed. He takes deep breaths, trying to shake off the weight that's settled on his shoulders.

As he walks back towards your room, he overhears a hushed conversation between two nurses. "It's been two weeks, and she's still fighting. It's remarkable," he hears one of them say. A glimmer of hope ignites in his chest. You're a fighter; you always have been.

Pushing open the door to your room, Tyler's heart skips a beat. One of the doctors, Dr. Emerson, is standing by your bed, reviewing the latest results. Tyler rushes in, anxiety and hope warring on his face.

"Any changes, Doc?" Tyler asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Dr. Emerson turns to him, a small, comforting smile on her face. "Her vitals are steadily improving. The brain activity shows promising signs. She's still in a coma, but these are good indicators. It’s just a matter of time."

With those reassuring words, Dr. Emerson gives Tyler a gentle nod before turning to leave the room, the other doctor following closely behind. The soft click of the closing door lingers in the air, marking the transition from clinical observation to personal vigil.

Tyler takes his seat beside you, gently holding your hand. "Hey, beautiful," he begins, his voice soft but steady. "I know you can hear me. I thought I'd share some stories, like old times."

He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Remember the first storm we chased together? God, we were terrified but so exhilarated," he chuckles. "The sky was this angry shade of gray, and the wind was howling like it was possessed. We had no idea what we were doing, but we felt invincible."

Tyler's eyes glisten with unshed tears as he continues. "You kept yelling at me to keep the camera steady while you took notes. I think I was too busy being amazed by how fearless you were. The tornado touched down so close, and we got caught in the downdraft. But you... you never lost your cool. You guided us out of there like it was just another day at the office."

He squeezes your hand gently, hoping for any sign of acknowledgment. "Then there was that time in Kansas. Do you remember? We were staying at that run-down motel, and the power went out during the middle of the night. We ended up sitting in the car, wrapped in blankets, watching the lightning storm. You said it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. I couldn't take my eyes off you."

The corners of Tyler's lips lift into a sad smile as he recounts more memories. "You were always the brave one, Y/N. Like that time we drove into the eye of the storm. Literally. Everyone told us it was too dangerous, but you convinced us, and we did it. And I'll never forget the look on your face when we made it out in one piece."

A silence hangs in the air for a moment, the only sounds coming from the steady beeps and hums of the medical equipment.

"I'm not gonna lie, Y/N. These past two weeks have been the hardest of my life. Seeing you like this... it's killing me. But I know you're fighting. You always do," Tyler says, voice cracking with emotion.

Tyler leans closer, his head resting on the side of your bed. He speaks softly, almost to himself. "You know, Dani was telling me about how you kept her sane during her first storm chase. She said she wouldn't have made it if it weren't for you. And Boone, he's a mess without you bossing him around. Dexter too. None of us are the same without you."

He looks at your serene face, a fresh wave of determination washing over him. "But we all believe in you. We know you're coming back to us. And when you do, we'll be ready with stories and laughs and everything that's been missing."

As the sun sets outside, casting a warm glow over the room, Tyler continues to talk. He recounts every little detail of your adventures together, from the funniest moments to the most heart-stopping ones, painting a vivid picture with his words.

The world is a foggy blur as consciousness slowly begins to seep back into your mind. The silence in the room is broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the medical machines. Your eyelids feel heavy as you struggle to open them, a sense of disorientation clouding your thoughts.

As your eyes finally flutter open, the dim light of the room gradually sharpens into focus. The first thing you see is Tyler, slumped in the chair beside your hospital bed. His hand grips yours tightly, as if even in sleep, he cannot let go. His face is etched with lines of stress and fatigue, evidence of the nights he has spent by your side.

For a few moments, you simply watch him. Even in his exhausted state, there’s an undeniable tenderness in the way he holds your hand. You notice the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble that has grown from days of neglecting himself. Deep down, an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love wells up within you. You realize now more than ever just how much he means to you.

Gradually, you muster the strength to give his hand a weak squeeze, something to pull him from the depths of his weariness. His eyes flutter open slowly, confusion briefly crossing his features before they lock onto yours. Instantly, his face transforms—a mix of shock, awe, and profound relief.

"Y/N..." he breathes, his voice shaky and filled with emotion. Tears pool in his eyes, and you can see him fighting to hold them back, but it’s a losing battle. As the realization washes over him, that you’re finally awake, his tears begin to fall freely. "You’re... you’re awake. Thank God, you’re awake."

A lump forms in your throat, making it hard to speak, but you manage a small smile. "Tyler," you rasp, the single word carrying all the emotions you can't yet express.

He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing fervent kisses to your knuckles. "I love you, Y/N. I love you so much," he chokes out, his voice breaking with raw emotion. "I thought... I thought I’d lost you. I’m so sorry, Y/N. For everything. For the things I said. I was scared and I handled it all wrong."

You can feel the wetness of his tears on your hand, and it breaks your heart to see him in such pain. Gathering what strength you can, you shake your head slightly. "No, Tyler. We both did things we regret. I pushed you away when I should have let you in. But we can’t change the past. We can only move forward."

He nods, his teary eyes never leaving yours. "We’ll fix this. Together," he vows, his voice filled with a newfound determination.

Your smile grows a bit stronger, as you grip his hand with a bit more strength. "Together," you echo, the word binding the two of you in a promise of unity and hope.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Tyler repeats fervently, his tears now mingling with a relieved laugh.

You can't help but let out a light giggle, the sound so sweet to Tyler’s ears. "I love you, I love you, I love you," you reply, your heart feeling lighter for the first time in a long while.

Tyler chuckles softly, his expression softening as he looks at you. "I think the doctors are going to start charging me rent for how long I've been here."

You laugh weakly, the sound like music to his ears. "Well, as long as you don't start claiming squatter's rights. We might have to evict you."

His laughter mingles with yours, the room now filled with a warmth and happiness that seemed impossible just moments ago. "Deal. I'll leave when you do," he declares, his voice brimming with love and commitment.

The path to recovery will undoubtedly be long and arduous, but for now, the hardest part is over. The heavy cloud of uncertainty has lifted, replaced by a glimmering beacon of hope. The room, once cold and sterile, now feels warm, filled with the palpable power of your mutual love and commitment.

As the rhythmic beeping of the machines continues to fill the background, you and Tyler share a moment of silent understanding, knowing that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them hand in hand. "I love you," he whispers once more, the promise of these words a soothing balm to your soul.

"I love you," you whisper back, sealing the bond that will carry you through the days to come.

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