#I KNOW this isn’t how it happened but let me have this. I have things I think about and art is how I get them out before they eat me

[guzmawife]

🍓: he had no job when i met him but now he works at a high school as an errand boy / security (his children attend said school). hes the guy they call in when a real teacher needs to use the bathroom so he can watch the class. or to retrieve some papers from the printer. go get me that thing boy.

🍒: probably just chilling at home with snacks and movies and fast food. or chillen at the beach. 🏝️

🍎: tapu cocoa.. we all know dis.. hot sweet drinks…

🍉: hes not religious other than believing that a higher power exists. hi arceus..

🍑: totally more comfortable giving gifts. hes used to taking care of others so it’s pretty natural for him to be giving. he has no issue receiving but its not rlly a priority since he didnt come from much so hes used to not rlly asking for much.

🍊: i make him peel it. he knows my paws and claws have to stay clean… he’s comfortable with getting dirty and i am not!

🥭: no i domt think so. his dad was a prick and said shit like. Youre not a woman so you dont need those. fuckkkk that guy.

🍍: probably him being mentally manipulated and abused! 😿 killing all the people that taught him he wasn’t anything and made him feel like he had to act out in order to prove himself to others. hhhggffg. he deserves to be loved.

🍌: he likes to be in the dark. das it. no specific reason why.

🍋: he would probably change his hothead nature bc he doesn’t like how quickly he gets upset and makes bad decisions. and his hairline.

🍋‍🟩: he tells people if you squish bugs more will keep showing up. as a joke. heehe. sorry im gonna squish them still im a pussy.. thats probably why they keep showing up though. i have an actual curse. maybe he’s right man…

🍈: he thinks fate is bogus and if you want something to happen you have to make it happen.

🍏: hes bisexual and questioning demisexuality, he learned of his bisexuality through being in denial of liking the same sex and being like. This is ruining my tough guy personality. This can’t be. but then it kept happening and he was like man fuck this whatever. what the hell sure. he became normal. he’s still figuring out the demisexuality, to put it simply he just doesnt want to engage in sexual acts with anyone unless he has a genuine connection to them. it also just feels better for him. sorry for airing out your business Anywayyyyyy. Anyway.

🍐: he’s a nail biter its kinda gross sorry man. his nails are short always so i make him do short nail tasks since my nails are usually pretty long. i think he bounces his legs sometimes too. he knows i hate that shit thou so he tries not to. usually i just leave so he can shake all he wants. then hes like what wait no….

🥝: he would totally let me do his makeup. we’re both pretty lazy when it comes to makeup so we don’t so anything complex. i just do mascara and corner highlights and SOMETIMES lipstick and that’s it. #autistic i cant stand having too much shit ok my face. this isn’t even about me brah. he does simple makeup too since he’s just not super experienced. he just tries things sometimes but he’s not a professional. he just wants to look cool.

🫒: he’s a big hugger he squeezes too tight but it feels good though…. (´ ω `♡) he likes to be hugged too! yey!

🫐: definitely more of an artist he actually keeps a sketchbook. right brained yeah.

🍇: if we never met i think he might still be getting himself into some trouble tbh. he’s pretty stubborn.

🥥: he draws he plays games. he works out. he cooks. i think he would want to get into gardening but his location doesn’t allow for it since it’s always fucking raining.

🍅: i think he would get me testosterone or something that i can’t possibly get safely right now. or like. my own living space. or some rare pokemon card / plush that costs more than an organ online. sigh. or probably 1 billion dollars. muhehw.

🌶️: he drinks ginger ale. ginger ale the ultra cure.

🫚: hes not picky. he cant eat beans bc hes allergic to them. but i dont think hes picky since he has to make sure his kids eat first. so he eats whatevers left from them. leftover amalgamation.

🥕: he didnt like them but he ate them anyway bc his parents were mean :(

🧅: he cries when hes angry like super fuming. and when hes thinking about his past. hes just mad at himself for what happened and how he handled things. Basically. getting manipulated and taken advantage of makes him upset and he cries. he doesnt cry at movies unless he relates to them.

🌽: does bugs counts as animal. He likes dogs. and isopods. and other sea creatures.

🥦: pet peeves are getting called ‘boy’ or ‘kid’. i used to call him boy all the time just by habit and he would Not like that. “I’m not a boy. I’m a man. stop callin me dat…” okaaayyy whatevar. he doesnt have an issue with me calling him dude tho. despite being his lover. which is a little funny. um what else. people not knocking before entering. leaving empty cartons and stuff in the fridge or cabinet. ppl telling him he looks tired. or people calling him old. not that he has an issue with old people (😽) but its like. How did you even reach that conclusion.

🥒: hes afraid of ultra beasts a little.. specifically uh whats its name. nihilego. that bird that i hate. middle finger emoji. hes like. a little more hesitant with UBs than regular mons. he’s also got a fear of getting lost.

🥬: beige flags auumm i hate his ugly fucking sunglasses. and when he says. ya boy (pinches the space between my brows). peeing with the door open. he does that thing where u can feel him looking at you waiting to turn around during the movie so he can kiss you. theres probably more. im very good at complaining.

🫛: he loves to think of new pet names for me to see how i will react. he’d be like. “goodnight honeypie” and id be like “oh…. yeah… 😽” he also likes them too but most of the time i just call him musham or guzma bc i like saying his name. then he’s like. Why dont you call me anything else…. (sad puppy eyes). he likes when i call him mumu or honey. i calll him princess sometimes but its rare. princess is like his top pet name for me. meeooww. sometimes i call him Boss. thats For when. Im teasing Him. That one Makes his Ears turn Red. For special Occasions. meow.

🫑: he’s had a number of near death experiences so he’s pretty afraid of death. he has no lofty life goals. he just wants his family safe. wants to travel too and have good genuine relationships.

🥑: not super niche but cosmetics and nail art. he also likes cooking and insects and drawing. just things he grew to like from being around his family. or trying to distract himself from his own issues.

🍠: he likes to go to the beach and sit listening to the waves (same). he also likes to paint his or others nails when he’s bored. “gimme yer hands i wanna try sumn”. yknow.

🍆: favorite scent is meeeeeee… i kid i kid. probably like. Ugh. baked goods. Sugar smell. Rain smell 👎🏾 i hate rain smell but he likes it. i don’t think he has any specific least favorite smells other than the usual like peepee and caca yknow.

🧄: allergic to beans

🥔: he makes japanese curry a lot. easy to make in large portions for his 75million children. i like rice so he usually makes rice dishes for me. i don’t cook very often but when i do its cultural foods since he doesn’t know those recipes. he likes those. yom. he wants to learn baking but just hasn’t had the chance or motivation.

🍄‍🟫: i think he would wanna be a mewtwo or something. super strong and cool nonchalant. if we’re talking irl mytho creatures, cerberus. that guy cool as shit. #swagger.

this took me three whole days to answer. enjoyable experience rlly made me think. sorry for any typos i used swipe typing for parts of this 😿.

@sylvie-wants-your-dogs hi : )

the ULTIMATE f/o infodumping ask game!

(this is gonna be a long one...)

🍓 - disregarding the career your f/o currently has, what other career would they consider going into, if given the chance?

🍒 - if your f/o and you spend a day doing anything, anything at all, what would they do and why?

🍎 - what's your f/o's favorite drink? any drink, alcoholic or non alcoholic!

🍉 - is your f/o religious? what's their opinion on religion or spirituality?

🍑 - is your f/o more comfortable giving or receiving gifts? why? do they have any preferences on gifts they like receiving?

🍊 - if you asked your f/o to peel an orange for you, what would they do?

🥭 - did your f/o have stuffed animals growing up? do they still have stuffed animals? do they have a favorite?

🍍 - if you could change any one thing about your f/os backstory/character, what would you change? why?

🍌 - does your f/o have a vendetta against The Big Light™? what kind of lighting do they prefer?

🍋 - if your f/o could change one thing about themselves, what would they change and why?

🍋‍🟩 - is your f/o superstitious? is there any habits they follow or quirks they have to follow said superstitions? like not opening umbrellas indoors to avoid back luck?

🍈 - does your f/o believe in fate? do they thing everything is preplanned out by the universe or a higher power, or do they think that the idea of fate is bogus? why?

�� - if you have any queer headcanons for your f/o, how did they realize they were queer?

🍐 - does your f/o have any nervous ticks or idle quirks they do? like mindlessly tapping on a desk or fiddling with their hair when they're stressed?

🥝 - would your f/o ever let you do their make-up? what does their make-up process look like? is it simple? complex?

🫒 - what kind of hugger is your f/o? do they give good hugs? do they like hugs? do they like receiving hugs?

🫐 - is your f/o more of a writer or an artist? would you say your f/o is more left or right brained?

🍇 - if you and your f/o never met, what do you think your f/o would be doing right now?

🥥 - what hobbies does your f/o have? is there any hobby they would like to get into that they haven't tried out yet? what is it?

🍅 - if your f/o could buy you any gift in the world, whether it exists or not, what would they buy you? or, if they could make you something, what would it be?

🌶️ - does your f/o have any remedies they follow when they get sick? like taking a shot of whiskey to get rid of a fever?

🫚 - is your f/o a picky eater? is there any foods they will not under any circumstances, gun to their head, eat?

🥕 - when your f/o was little, did they dislike vegetables? do they still dislike them?

🧅 - what makes your f/o cry? do they get emotional at sad movies or books? do they only get emotional under very rare circumstances?

🌽 - does your f/o have a favorite animal? what is it? are they scared of any animals?

🥦 - does your f/o have any pet peeves? things that just really really get on their nerves? what are they and why?

🥒 - what's your f/o afraid of? do they have any phobias? anything minor they're scared of?

🥬 - what are some beige flags your f/o has? so, not bad, but not nessecarily good either. just. "oh. you do This."

🫛 - how does your f/o feel about pet names or nicknames? do they like them? hate them? what are their favorites and least favorites to be called and to use?

🫑 - how does your f/o feel about death? are they afraid of it? is there anything specific they'd like to do before they die?

🥑 - is there any niche topics your f/o is interested in? what are they and why do they like them?

🍠 - what are a few of your f/os favorite pastimes or things that they do when they're bored?

🍆 - does your f/o have a favorite scent? why is it their favorite? do they have a least favorite scent?

🧄 - does your f/o have any allergies? food or otherwise?

🥔 - does your f/o have any food dishes they make often? is there any foods you make for your f/o that they enjoy?

🍄‍🟫 - if your f/o could be any mythological species, what would they be? if your f/o is already a mythological species, would they ever want to be human?

I recommend practicing reblog karma ! people love infodumping about their f/os :) I also recommend sending more than one emoji at a time,,, there are Many here...!!!

[calypso-rt]

lodge retreat!

with the insufferable Rafe Cameron

-> Pt. 1: roadtrip!

-> Rafe x F!reader

-> read part 1 for context por favor i promise it's good

The second you step out of Rafe’s car, the crisp mountain air hits you: fresh pine, damp earth, the lingering chill of early morning. It would be breathtaking if you weren’t immediately tackled by a blur of white linen and wild curls.

“Oh my God,” Kiara shrieks, squeezing the life out of you. “I thought you died.”

You grunt, winded. “Good to see you too, Kie.”

JJ appears right behind her, grinning. “We were taking bets on how you’d show up. My money was on a dramatic helicopter entrance.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, my other option was walking, so.”

Kiara finally pulls back, eyes darting behind you, and when she sees who drove you here, her jaw drops.

“No.”

Rafe, ever the picture of smug confidence, leans against the car like he owns the entire lodge. “Yes,” he says smoothly.

Kiara turns to you in pure betrayal. “Him?”

You rub your temples. “It was him or missing your wedding.”

JJ claps Rafe on the back, laughing. “Damn, man. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“What day?” Rafe asks, feigning innocence. “The day she begged me for a favor?”

Your nostrils flare. “It was not begging.”

Kiara gapes at the two of you, looking suspiciously between you and Rafe like she’s trying to solve an actual crime scene. “What the hell happened on that drive?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly.

“Everything,” Rafe says at the exact same time.

Kiara narrows her eyes. “Okay. We’ll circle back to that.”

Before you can protest, the wedding party descends, groomsmen, bridesmaids, old friends, enveloping you in greetings and chatter. And of course, Rafe slides into the mix way too easily, laughing with JJ, charming the bridal party like he belongs here.

Then, the worst thing imaginable happens.

One of the groomsmen nudges JJ and nods toward you and Rafe. “Damn. How long have they been a thing?”

You nearly choke. “We are not—”

“Oh, since forever,” Rafe says smoothly, throwing an arm over your shoulders.

JJ grins. “Right? About time they admitted it.”

Kiara looks ready to combust with questions. You? You’re mentally calculating the fastest way to throw yourself off the nearest mountain.

This weekend just got way more complicated.

...

“This has to be a joke,” you say flatly.

The front desk attendant offers you a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid not. Since you arrived late, the only room we have left is our Honeymoon Suite.”

You blink. Then blink again. “Our what?”

Next to you, Rafe lets out a low whistle, his amusement practically radiating off him. “Damn, sweetheart. Didn’t know we were taking the next step so soon.”

You elbow him in the ribs. Hard.

The attendant clears her throat. “It’s a king-sized bed, private balcony, en-suite jacuzzi…” She hesitates. “It’s also… heart themed.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Of course it is.”

Rafe, ever the menace, grins. “Sounds perfect.”

“It is not perfect,” you snap. “It’s a disaster.”

“C’mon,” he leans in, voice teasing. “What’s the worst that could happen? You fall madly in love with me?”

You glare. “I’d rather sleep in the car.”

The attendant winces. “Actually, overnight parking isn’t allowed on the premises.”

You curse under your breath.

“Guess that settles it,” Rafe hums, reaching for the key. “Honeymoon Suite it is.”

You stare at the room key in his hand, then at the front desk worker who clearly wants no part in this mess. Finally, with a deep sigh, you snatch your bag off the counter.

“This weekend just keeps getting better and better,” you mutter.

Rafe chuckles, slinging an arm around your shoulder as you stomp toward the suite. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no denying the warmth creeping up your neck.

...

The second you step into the suite, you stop dead in your tracks.

“Oh. My. God.”

Rafe lets out a low whistle behind you. “This is… something.”

It’s worse than you imagined. Scratch that, it’s a nightmare.

The entire room is decked out in nauseatingly over-the-top romance décor. The bed is massive, covered in silky red sheets with actual rose petals scattered on top. There’s a heart-shaped jacuzzi in the corner, an abundance of dim mood lighting, and, just to really drive the point home, two fluffy white robes embroidered with Mr. and Mrs. hanging by the bathroom door.

“I’m gonna be sick,” you mutter.

Rafe chuckles, strolling inside like he belongs there. “Gotta say, I’m kinda touched by the matching towels, wife.”

You glare. “I’m assuming divorce is included with the stay.”

He smirks, tossing his bag onto the bed. “Careful, sweetheart. Talk like that and people might think you actually like me.”

You throw your bag at him.

He catches it easily, laughing as he plops down onto the bed. “Gotta admit, this is kinda nice.” He bounces slightly. “Bed’s comfy.”

“You mean the bed,” you deadpan. “Singular. One.”

Just as you start looking for anywhere else to sleep, Rafe props himself up on his elbows. “You know,” he muses, “we could set some ground rules.”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

He holds up a finger. “Rule one: no kicking me in your sleep.”

“Fine. Rule two: no hogging the covers.”

Rafe snorts. “Baby, I am the covers.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He laughs, catching it with ease, but then his expression softens. “Seriously, though,” he says, sitting up. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I can take the couch.”

Your stomach flips. It’s the first time he’s dropped the teasing act, and for some reason, that throws you more than the heart-shaped bed.

You cross your arms, avoiding his gaze. “It’s fine. We’re adults. We can survive one night.”

Rafe watches you for a beat, then nods. “Alright, sweetheart. Just don’t go falling in love with me in your sleep.”

You roll your eyes, but for the first time since stepping into the room… you don’t completely hate the idea.

...

The fire crackles, sending embers drifting into the cool mountain air. Laughter and music fill the night as people gather around, drinks in hand, wrapped in the golden glow of the flames.

You pull your sweater tighter around you, balancing a cup of something warm in your hands as you take in the scene. JJ and Kiara are at the center of it all: her curled up against his side, his arm slung over her shoulders, both of them grinning like they already know tomorrow will be the best day of their lives.

“Didn’t think they’d actually make it here, did you?”

Rafe’s voice is low, teasing, as he steps up beside you.

You smirk. “Oh, not a chance. I had a whole bet going on whether they’d call it off or elope somewhere at the last minute.”

He chuckles, nudging your shoulder. “And what was your money on?”

You take a sip of your drink. “Elope. With JJ’s track record? I figured he’d panic and drag Kie to Vegas.”

Rafe hums in agreement, watching as JJ dramatically dips Kiara in front of the fire, making her burst into laughter.

“They’re disgustingly cute,” you say, scrunching your nose.

“Painful to watch,” Rafe agrees.

A comfortable silence settles between you. The night is crisp, the fire warm, the stars impossibly bright against the inky sky. You steal a glance at Rafe. His profile sharp in the firelight, the usual smugness softened into something… calmer. Almost thoughtful.

He catches you looking. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

Before he can press, JJ’s voice booms across the clearing.

“Alright, listen up!” He stumbles a little as he climbs onto a log, lifting his beer like a toast. “Tomorrow’s a big day. Huge, actually. Probably the biggest day of my life—”

“Probably?” Kiara cuts in, arching a brow.

JJ grins. “Definitely the biggest day of my life.” He throws an arm around her, pressing a dramatic kiss to her temple before turning back to the group. “And I just wanna say… I love all you guys.”

A chorus of cheers erupts around the fire. Pope hollers, Sarah claps, and someone (probably John B) yells, “Simp!”

JJ flips them off. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But for real… wouldn’t wanna do this without you guys.” His gaze sweeps over the group, landing on you. “Even you,” he adds with a smirk.

You roll your eyes. “Wow, I’m honored.”

He winks, then shifts his attention to Rafe. “And you? Didn’t think I’d catch you dead at my wedding.”

Rafe smirks, tipping his beer in JJ’s direction. “What can I say? Your bride’s best friend begged me to be here.”

You elbow him, but JJ just cackles. “Now that I believe.”

The night stretches on. More drinks, more laughter, more warmth. At some point, you find yourself sitting next to Rafe on a log, legs stretched out toward the fire.

It’s easy, being here like this. The banter, the teasing, it’s all still there, but something’s different. Softer. Less sharp edges, more… something else.

You glance at Rafe again, and this time, he’s already looking at you.

Neither of you say anything. It doesn’t feel like you need to.

...

Rafe looks good in a suit. Too good. And it’s annoying.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it shouldn’t matter. But as you glance across the ceremony space: rows of chairs lined up against the stunning mountain backdrop, JJ standing at the altar, fidgeting slightly as he waits for Kiara, you can’t help but notice the way Rafe carries himself.

The dark navy suit, perfectly tailored. The way his hair is effortlessly styled, like he barely tried but still somehow managed to look infuriatingly good.

You drag your gaze away, focusing on the moment. Kiara appears, breathtaking in her dress, and JJ’s jaw literally drops.

The ceremony is beautiful, full of soft vows and inside jokes and that overwhelming kind of love that makes your chest ache. You should be focused on them.

But every time you glance up, Rafe is already looking at you.

He doesn’t smirk like usual. Doesn’t tease. Just holds your gaze for a beat too long, like he’s reading every thought you don’t want to have right now.

You swallow hard and turn away.

Afterwards, the reception is in full swing. The string lights cast a golden glow over the outdoor dance floor, laughter and music filling the air. People are already tipsy, the speeches are done, and JJ is dramatically twirling Kiara around.

You’re nursing a drink, enjoying the moment, when someone slides up next to you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You glance up at the guy, Nate something, a friend of the Pogues, someone you’ve talked to once or twice at parties. He’s charming enough, leaning in slightly, a slow smile on his face.

You smile back, making casual conversation. It’s harmless. Just friendly.

Until you feel a presence at your side.

You don’t see Rafe approach, but suddenly, he’s there. Close. The warmth of him practically pressing into your space as he casually—too casually—rests a hand on the small of your back.

“Nate,” Rafe says, voice smooth but cool. “Didn’t know you were still hanging around.”

Nate chuckles, clearly oblivious. “Could say the same about you, man.”

Rafe’s fingers press just slightly against your back, the touch light but unmistakable. “Yeah, well. Some things are worth sticking around for.”

You blink, glancing up at him. What the hell does that mean?

Nate hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Right. Well…” He offers you a quick smile. “I’ll see you around.”

As soon as he’s gone, you turn to Rafe. “Okay, what was that?”

He doesn’t move his hand. If anything, he steps in closer, voice low in your ear.

“We were supposed to dance first.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not the words that get you, it’s the way he says them. The quiet intensity. The way his fingers linger, the way he looks at you like he’s just now realizing something himself.

You should pull away. Should roll your eyes and brush it off like you always do.

But for some reason, you don’t.

Then, the music shifts, something slower, something golden-hued and dreamlike, and Rafe takes it as a sign.

His fingers slide from the small of your back to your hand, and before you can process what’s happening, he’s leading you onto the dance floor. Your heart stutters as his palm finds your waist, the other curling around your fingers, holding you close but not too close.

“You’re serious about this?” you murmur, trying to sound unaffected, but your voice is softer than you mean for it to be.

Rafe smirks, tilting his head. “What, afraid I’ll step on your toes?”

You scoff, but the breathless feeling in your chest betrays you. He moves easily, naturally, guiding you in slow circles beneath the string lights. The world narrows to the warmth of his hand, the quiet push and pull between you.

“I thought you’d be terrible at this,” you admit.

He hums. “I’m full of surprises.”

The glow of the reception wraps around you both, the background noise fading into something distant, unimportant. His thumb brushes against the side of your hand absentmindedly, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Your gaze flickers up, catching the way he’s watching you, like you’re something worth memorizing.

“Some things are worth sticking around for,” he says again, softer this time.

And suddenly, you realize.

He wasn’t just talking about the party.

…

You wake up warm.

Which is strange, because you remember falling asleep on the farthest possible side of the bed, a clear, respectable distance from Rafe.

And yet, there’s an arm draped over your waist. A steady rise and fall against your back. The slow, even rhythm of his breathing, inches from your ear.

Oh.

You blink, still half-asleep, brain sluggish as it tries to process the situation. You should move. Should untangle yourself before he wakes up and starts smirking about it. But it’s early. So early the sun is barely creeping through the gauzy hotel curtains. And the bed is warm, and comfortable, and…

Rafe shifts behind you, murmuring something incoherent, his grip unconsciously tightening, pulling you closer.

You freeze.

Okay. Okay. This is fine.

Maybe if you just—

“Stop thinking so loud,” Rafe mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

Your breath catches. “I—”

His arm flexes slightly, like he’s debating letting go. But he doesn’t.

“You were hogging the covers,” he says, voice scratchy. “Had to do something.”

“You are the covers,” you murmur back before you can stop yourself.

A slow chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Told you.”

You should shove him away. You should, because this is ridiculous. But you don’t.

Instead, you let yourself relax, just for a second. Let yourself exist in this quiet moment, where neither of you are arguing, where his warmth seeps into your skin, where it’s easy to pretend that this—whatever this is—is normal.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You drool in your sleep,” Rafe says, lips twitching.

You shove him. Hard.

He laughs, rolling onto his back as you sit up, yanking the covers away from him. “I do not.”

“Oh, you definitely do.” He stretches, arms over his head, looking far too smug for someone who was just cuddling you in his sleep. “Like, full-on, pillow soaking, completely unattractive—”

You grab one of the decorative heart-shaped pillows and smack him with it.

He grins, dodging easily, sitting up as you swing at him again. “Whoa, whoa… violence already? And here I thought we were having a moment.”

You glare, but your pulse is betraying you, thrumming a little too fast. “We were not having a moment.”

Rafe raises a brow, tilting his head. “No?”

“No,” you insist, scrambling off the bed. “It was the sleep deprivation. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That explains why you didn’t let go.”

You throw another pillow at him.

He just laughs, shaking his head as he watches you storm into the bathroom. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

And the worst part?

You can still feel the ghost of his arm around you.

Taglist: @drewstarkeyslover, @honeybee270, @melsbels-zip, @rafeycameronsgf, @vanessa-rafesgirl, @amel1ee

(tagged everyone asking abt a pt 2) <3

[sageshouldknowbetter]

In Defense of Mark S

Post S2E4, Helly is going to be mad at Mark. I can’t see a way around it. He not only didn’t know someone else was “behind the wheel” of her body, he continued romantic pursuing of that person… thinking it was her.

But though Helly has valid reasons to be angry, a) victim blaming isn’t okay and b) I can totally see why Mark didn’t realize something was amiss!

First: impossibility and sheer absurdity. To Mark S, it would be unthinkable for an outie to ever enter the severed floor. That’s a violation of his universal laws, immutable as gravity.

Water is wet. Coffee cups fall down when you knock them off the table. And outies do NOT come down to the severed floor, because the chips are spatially triggered.

And sure, he knows about the OTC and that it’s theoretically possible — but why would any outie want to, and why would Lumon ever LET them? If he ever thought, “Oh, Helly’s acting strange,” Mark’s mind would go through a million different logical steps before landing on something outlandish as that.

Maybe she’s sad she was alone when she woke up during the OTC. Maybe she’s just having a bad week. Maybe she’s acting differently around him because of their first kiss. The idea that she’s being possessed by another being? Never would have occurred to him!

Remember how his outie plays into this as well. Irving B has the subconscious of some kind of anti-Lumon revolutionary with the paranoia that only comes from a military background. (“She’s a mole!”) Of course he clocked her.

But Mark? Mark Scout a) doesn’t know the entire family of his CEO, and b) has the subconscious of a history professor grieving his wife. While Irving’s outie’s knowledge bled through to him in the subconscious of his dream, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mark’s subconscious was actively TRYING to suppress any suspicious thoughts.

Of course it’s Helly. It NEEDS to be Helly. Because Mark’s brain is tired of grieving. His subconscious will shut down any accusations that she’s acting differently and cling to the idea because she CAN’T be gone, right? It’s not happening again… right?

And then we circle back to the first kiss. Mark S is in love — head over heels — with Helly R. He’s trying to find Gemma, sure, but that’s for his outie’s happiness, not his own.

If you’ve had one, do you remember your first crush? Remember the butterflies in your stomach and how much you were laser-focused on your own behavior? “What should I say?” “How do I look?” “Am I being weird? Why is she looking at me like that?” Mark S doesn’t notice Helly R is off because he’s too busy worrying about how he comes across to her. And because he has no idea she’s Helena, he has every reason to believe that’s how she’s thinking about him, too! He thinks they’re both dorks in love trying to figure things out. Irving doesn’t have this disadvantage — he’s on the outside and can see everything play out.

All I’m saying is I get it. I hope Helly at least kind of gets it too. What I’m wondering is, will Mark even tell Helly about his assault? Will he hide it out of some misguided belief that it would make her even more angry? Will she yell at him, not knowing that he’s a victim of someone wearing her own face? Much to think about.

[softlypaintedseafoam]

as soft as a misty rain

synopsis. it's all typical sanji; there's no deeper meaning to his actions. until it isn't all typical sanji and there are many meanings to everything he does.

pairing. vinsmoke sanji x f!reader

word count. 1.3k | masterlist

content warning. recently established relationship, allusions that sanji's past is more complicated than he lets on, reader has a defined devil fruit ability

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

one of two reposts i'm doing today with my valentine's day event nearly completed. this fic was a gift for my friend @hash-slinging-slasher-trash and i wanted it over here too

Sanji has always handled you with care.

There is nothing to realize. It’s an objective fact that has been apparent from almost the very moment you met on Charmed Enclave. Aside from children, there are very specific individuals Sanji will always be gentle with. An enthusiastic softness, eager and ready to serve at the drop of a hat.

I’m not special, you had told yourself, clutching Zoro’s previous warnings tightly. He does this for every woman, with or without a pulse.

It didn’t matter how many treats he brought you, reserved solely for you.

There was no deeper meaning to when he held out his hand to help you down a few steps.

Nor did it matter if he’d push Zoro onto a puddle for you to walk across like a coat taking in all the liquid, amusing as it had been.

It’s all typical Sanji.

The question is raised when it isn’t typical Sanji; that is what makes your skin buzz as Sanj’s fingers thrum across your own. What makes your chest warm as you watch as he wraps a cloth around your palms and your fingers, how he touches you as if protecting a thousand treasures.

“I won’t lie and say the Nervy Nervy Fruit isn’t useful,” Sanji murmurs with a sigh. “But if you can’t feel pain, how are you supposed to recognize your limits? Like the other day.”

You chuckle sheepishly and Sanji’s expression is uncharacteristically sharp, unamused at the display. You are sure he will be sour about your turning off your pain receptors to test the heat of the stovetop a while longer. The blond has been fretting over you like a mother hen even since. “I’ll try to be more mindful,” you promise when your chuckles subside, letting your gaze rest on your connected hands. As of now, you’ve only dulled your senses to a light discomfort. Enough to feel everything without wanting to croak from your injuries. “But this time I was distracted, I normally don’t singe myself when I check how hot the stove is.”

That does little to sway Sanji in your favor.

“I’ll be more careful,” you dramatically let your head hang as if you’re being reprimanded by your boss.

“You’ll make Chopper sad otherwise,” despite his words, Sanji sounds satisfied with the conclusion. “Think about Chopper. That’s what you told me, remember?”

Your shoulders shake with hearty laughter, “don’t use my words against me,” you beam brightly with a hint of challenge. “And you should be thanking me. Quitting smoking is going to help you in the long run. What if they started calling you Black Lung Sanji? What would you do then?” Not to mention with how impressionable the young reindeer is, the last thing you want is to see him attempting to take a smoke break between patients.

With how hectic things tend to get for the Straw Hats, it is too easy to envision.

Sanji’s cigarettes and lighter had to go for the greater good.

As your laughter subsides, a comfortable silence settles over you both.

“So,” you feel possessed to break it. Comfortable as it may be, you fear you’ll drown in it. Sink deeper and deeper in it until you do something foolish, whatever foolish thing that may be. It’s easy to drown as a power holder, it is why you are always careful around the water’s edge. What happens when you find a piece of the ocean you aren’t afraid to fall into, however. You’ve never been prepared for that. “Have you always wanted to become a cook? I know that’s what you were doing before you joined the crew.”

At your query, Sanji’s eyes shine like a child’s, “it is.” As if he’s water flowing over a dam, Sanji tells you about his home in the East Blue. The floating restaurant, the Baratie ー a concept you’ve never certainly thought possible ー and the fighting cooks that reside in it.

He tells you about Zeff and the many cooks that joined his ranks over the years. Laughter falls from your lips as easily as the stories leave Sanji’s. 

The Baratie sounds more like the Waffle House restaurant chain throughout your home island than anything else. At the tail end of Sanji’s story about how a line cook named Peter got into a fist fight with three drunks and a cranky chicken, you finally ask, “what made you love cooking so much?”

“I’ve always enjoyed it, but I’d say my mom is the one who really encouraged it,” he tells you thoughtfully, his hands moving slower against your own as he recalls the woman. He should have long since finished, you know, but you don’t mind that he’s stalled in his ‘wound tending efforts’. It’s nice feeling as if it is only you on the ship when in reality you are just the only ones awake. “I liked making her lunches, not that I was always good at it. But even if it tasted like garbage, she always ate it,” the blond’s dark eyes are miles away from where you sit on the Sunny. “Then she’d ask me to make her something else again.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” you try to imagine what such a gentle person looks like. I think you probably look a lot like her. A good portion of the woman’s character certainly had been imbued in her son. He’s always been gentle and kind, you’ve seen it in how he treats Chopper.

It’s easy to baby the crew’s smallest member, but there is something unique in how everyone does it. Sanji was meant to be a father. It’s a thought that flusters you, but you know it is true regardless. It’s a bit too soon to think about that though.

“It,” Sanji’s gaze doesn’t meet yours as his thumb brushes over the back of your cloth-covered hand. You aren’t able to dwell long on what exactly your newly minted boyfriend means, however, as he continues on. “will probably be easier meeting Zeff than my mother. He’s a stubborn old fart but he means well. You’ll like him. Just don’t believe anything those jackasses at the Baratie tell you about me. I just know they put up that god awful wanted poster of me where everyone can see it.”

A giggle slips from your lips at Sanji’s distressed expression and you recall how he begged for you to pretend the portrait didn’t exist. 

It’s easy to imagine all the cantankerous characters he mentioned growing up with. Zeff, Patty, Carne and you can easily picture the boisterous men hanging Sanji’s wanted poster for all to see like proud parents and uncles. Ones very good at teasing their group’s baby. The men who made Black Leg Sanji ‘Black Leg Sanji’.

“I can’t wait to meet them.”

Sanji pauses at your words before he lips stretch into a dreamy smile and you let yourself arrogantly assume he’s picturing the same things you are. “I can’t wait to introduce you to them.” With that, his tending to your hand is finished, cloth gently knotted so it can’t move. “I’m no Chopper, so he’ll probably have to redo it once he wakes up.”

You smile at his handiwork, “thanks again.” You think that will be the end of your little moment, but rather than let your hand go Sanji holds your fingers a touch tighter.

“Can I kiss your hand,” the cook asks earnestly, dark eyes reserved yet hopeful.

“You don’t have to ask permission for that,” your chest burns a gold the color of Sanji’s hair. It’s unfair how easily he gets your heart pounding like a drum. In spite of your words, he doesn’t lean forward an inch. “Of course you can,” you grumble, eyes darting to a particularly interesting piece of wood in your embarrassment.

The hair of his chin dances across your skin like raindrops.

[bonesxbows]

Unforgettable (Alastor X Reader)

My Masterlist

Everyone at the hotel seems to be overlooking you, talking over you, acting as if you're not really there. Though it's not on purpose, you know they don't really mean to be ignoring you, it still hurts. Everyone except Alastor. He's the first to notice when you start to shut down and slink away. 

(WARNINGS)

Autism spectrum reader

Selective mutism behaviors

Negative self talk (slight depression/overthinking)

Mentions of addiction 

I’m having the most wonderful time in college so far! (insert upside down smiley face here) Anyway this is based on something that happened recently so it’s 100% entirely self indulgent, I’m relying on writing for comfort right now and ya’ll are along for the ride so enjoy! Also I’m sorta undiagnosed on the spectrum so this isn’t entirely accurate but it is based off of my own experiences, if any of it comes off as offensive to anyone just let me know and I’ll be more than willing to change it. Comments and likes are highly appreciated, I feel like my writing has been in a slump lately so PLEASE let me know if this is any good

Banners by @strangergraphics

You were in your room, laying on your bed with your eyes closed, hands neatly folded on your stomach, and fingers mindlessly fidgeting with themselves. Wordless jazz drifted through the air, broadcasted through an old radio; a gift from Alastor. One that you cherished, the soft noise always doing wonders to soothe your restless mind. You often wondered if that was part of his intention when he had given it to you, if he had known about your condition even back then.

There was a knock at your door, but the visitor didn’t wait for you to answer before opening it. The radio magically shut off on its own once it sensed an intruder. You peeked open an eye, seeing a blurb of blonde hair poke into your doorframe. 

“Heya! We’re meeting down in the lobby for another group exercise, it’d be super if you could join us!” Charlie told you, her attitude as bubbly as ever. She didn’t wait for you to reply before skipping off down the hallway, leaving your door open in expectation for you to follow her. You sighed, getting up and doing just that, not really having much of a choice if you were still going to stay here.

Everyone had already beaten you down there, all congregating together and conversing. Though from your standpoint it sounded more like arguing. You grimaced from the noise but carried on, trudging forward to join the crowd. Alastor sensed your presence almost immediately, whipping his head in your direction once you were close. His smile grew tenfold at the sight of you. He patted the empty space of the couch next to him, silently beckoning you over. You relaxed just a little, Alastor’s presence easing some of the tension this social gathering had brought upon you. As soon as you sat down next to him he snaked his hand around your hips, pulling you closer into his side and resting his claws on your thigh.

The conversion around the two of you continued, though it was getting harder to keep up with what was going on. 

“This is Hell, toots! Ain’t exactly a walk in the park to jus’ cut it off cold!” Angel was standing in front of Charlie, all four arms raised in defense. 

“I get that, Angel, but we can’t exactly allow this sort of behavior forever. I’m open to ideas. Suggestions? Is there a way to ease out of this sort of thing?” She rebutted. You figured they were talking about someone’s addiction, possibly Angel’s himself’s, or maybe Husk’s. Either way, you wanted to help, they were both your friends. 

“Charlie, I-” 

“Ease out? Are you kiddin’ me? Do you know how addictin’ they make this stuff? It’s on purpose, baby! Once you’re hooked it’s for life!” 

But Angel beat you to it. Your words just weren’t fast enough. But you didn’t give up, maybe they just hadn’t heard you?

“That’s true, but-”

“There’s got to be something out there, some kind of cure. Right? Maybe we just haven’t found it yet. Come on, don’t give up hope just yet!” 

Charlie interrupted you this time. She flashed Angel a hopeful smile, but ironically she had just knocked all wind out of your sails. You deflated, defeated, and crumbled in your seat. Any hope that they would listen to you fizzled behind your eyes. You curled into yourself, watching them as they continued their little argument, embarrassment and frustration clouding your mind. You wanted to help, had information that could help, but it was like you were invisible. 

Invisible to all, except Alastor. Who took extreme note of the way your face fell when you kept getting talked over. Who noticed how your always pleasant smile vanished and never came back. And how you tried to practically disappear into the side of his coat. 

Irritation pulled at the corners of his smile, making his eyes twitch. 

When the conversation was more or less over, tempers cooled enough that everyone was at peace again, you were quick to excuse yourself, getting up and fleeing before anyone, especially Alastor, could stop you. You ran, head hung low, not even looking where you were going, just hoping your feet would instinctively carry you back to the safety of your room. Your brain was fuddled, one thought led to another, which led to another, which snowballed into a self-loathing mess. So much of a mess you almost face-planted into the wood of your door. Luckily you stopped in time, huffing a sigh and kicking yourself for not paying attention, before you pushed the door open and walked inside, slamming the door behind you. You threw yourself onto your bed, not caring what went flying where, just caring enough that your embarrassed face could be covered by enough fluff and plushness to not be seen by anyone. 

That is until your radio tuned back to life again, nearly making you just out of your skin at the sudden noise. It flickered through static but eventually evened out to the jazz that had been playing earlier. The peaceful music made your heart ache. You felt stupid. 

Oh, Alastor…your Alastor. You loved how safe and comforting he made you feel, but he deserved better than to put up with your weird antics and moods. 

“Darling? Are you alright?”

As if the radio tuning had been a prelude to his arrival, he had shadow-stepped into your room not three seconds later. You sprang up at the sound of his voice, turning around to see him standing near your desk, leaning against his elbow propped up on top of your radio. You opened your mouth to reply, but yet nothing came out, the words becoming stuck like thick cotton in your throat. So you simply shook your head instead, your gaze falling down to your lap. Your heart hammered in your ears. 

Stupid. You were being stupid. Overreacting. As usual. Just talk to him. 

You didn’t notice him walking over towards you until he was near, sitting down next to you on your bed, resting his cane against a nearby wall. He placed a claw underneath your chin, guiding your face upwards to look at him. He used his thumb to gently tug at the corner of your lips, pushing it upwards into a lopsided smile. One that didn’t stay, your face falling as soon as he removed his finger. 

He sighed at the sight. Though he wasn’t upset, not with you. His smile was compassionate, caring. A rare one he only ever showed you, but worry creased his brow. “You didn’t deserve that treatment, you know. I’d kill them if I could.” 

At that, he earned a small, fleeting, smile. His bloodthirstiness was endearing at times. 

“Ah, there's my darling. Can you use your words, ma chérie?” 

You shook your head again. Your vocal chords failing you, seizing up in your throat. This selective mutism of yours wasn’t new. 

“That’s alright. How about we go up to the studio, hm? Just me and you. I’ll even let you pick out a few records to play on air. How’s that sounding?” He tilted his head towards you, smile glinting with persuasion. 

You nodded eagerly, the thought of being in a safe space alone with Alastor already easing your mind. 

He stood up enthusiastically off your bed and held out a hand for you to do the same. “Wonderful. Shall we be off then? Best get to it while the record player’s still hot!”

(Song: It Had To Be You by Isham Jones)

You were sitting cross-legged on Alastor’s desk, flipping through his collection of records, while he continued on with his broadcast. “Duke Ellington”, “Fats Waller”, “Ethel Waters”, and “Isham Jones” all shuffled through your fingers, names that you had come to recognize over the countless times you had spent up here with Alastor. You handed him the last one your fingertips touched. His grin grew at your selection as he shut off his microphone. 

“A fine choice, dear, a fine choice indeed!” He pulled the black disc out of its sleeve, slotting it into the machine and dropping the needle down onto one of its grooves. The sound of upbeat trumpets and an accompanying jazz band filled the broadcasting studio, the same song playing to any and all tuned in to Alastor’s radio station. He began to hum along, pushing his chair back and hopping up, gently pulling you off of the desk with little warning. You clutched onto him as he grabbed you, your feet dangled mid-air for a moment before you found your footing, earning a chuckle from Alastor as you kicked at nothing. 

But eventually, you found purchase on the ground again, and when you did he began to glide you along, guiding you in circles around the room, one hand in yours and the other firmly around your waist. You kept your free hand on his chest, trying to keep your feet up with his. He didn’t take you dancing often, but when he did you were always reminded of just what time period he originated from. He was a natural, humming along to the tune floating through the air as he graced across the floor himself, leading you with him as he went. When he flicked his wrist and spun you in place you felt something inside of you loosen, easing up after the earlier events of the day. 

“Alastor?” You called out his name. There was a flash of surprise across his face at first, no doubt he had become accustomed to the silence, but it quickly gave way to fondness. He pulled you closer to his chest, slowing down his movements around the room. 

“Yes, ma chérie?” Static purred in the back of his throat. 

“Thank you, for…for all of this.”

He hummed in response, placing a gentle and quick kiss on the tip of your nose. “Anything for you, my doe.”

[universefcb]

↬❥Calm drawing

Hector Fort x Fem!Reader

sy: After a fight with his mother, you ask to paint his tattoo.

a/n: I really hope it's what the person asked for, and I apologize if there are mistakes, English is not my native language.

Based on this request

warnings: Cute, cute, cute, cute. Did I say cute?

He ran his hands through his hair, taking deep breaths to try to calm himself, but the anger still throbbed inside him.

“This isn’t going to end well…” he muttered to himself, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Hector?” His girlfriend’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

He opened his eyes and saw her sitting on the bed, a sketchbook open on her lap and a worried expression on her face.

“What happened now?” she asked, putting the notebook aside and sitting on the edge of the bed.

Hector snorted, throwing himself into a chair in the corner of the room.

“The usual. My mother thinks she can decide everything for me. Who knows what's best for me, as if I were still five years old.”

“Did you guys argue about your career again?”

He nodded, running his hand over his face.

“She thinks I’m wasting my time. That I should be focusing on other things. I’m just trying to do things my way.” She sighed. She’d heard variations of this outburst countless times before. She knew Hector didn’t talk much about his feelings, but when he did open up, it was always about this—the weight of expectations, the need to prove himself.

She stood up and walked over to him, crouching down beside him. Hector and his mother had a great relationship, but their fights over the boy prodigy's career were straining their relationship.

“Do you want to take your mind off things for a bit?” She smiled, caressing her boyfriend’s hands.

“What do you mean?” He looked at her, confused.

She smiled and stood up to grab her paint box from the dresser. Then she pointed at his arm.

“Can I paint your tattoo?” Hector raised an eyebrow. Letting a sideways smile appear on his face.

“Paint my tattoo?”

"Yes. Just for fun. Who knows, maybe it will help to ease this tension?” He hesitated. The tattoo on his arm was something important to him, a symbol he carried with him. But at the same time, the idea seemed so absurd that it almost brought a smile to his face.

“As long as you don’t do anything stupid,” he said, crossing his arms and she smiled in satisfaction.

“Trust me.” Hector let out a surprised sigh as you sat on his lap, making the gaming chair move back a little. And you separated the paints and brushes.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, watching her open small bottles of ink.

In a slow movement, he brought his hand to her waist, squeezing it lightly.

“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll improvise,” she replied, dipping a brush in the blue paint.

The first touch of the cool ink on his skin made Hector shiver slightly, but he soon got used to it. She started with light strokes, filling in the details of the tattoo with soft colors. Little by little, the image on his arm began to take on new life, transforming into a vibrant mix of blues, violets, and golds.

Hector watched the process in silence, feeling his anger slowly dissipate. Her touch was careful, almost therapeutic. With each stroke, he felt his muscles relax.

“How’s it going?” he asked after a few minutes.

“I’m not done yet. It has to wait,” she said, focused.

He smirked. His fingers traced lines on her thigh, making her shiver. Hector threw his head back, feeling a little calmer.

“Who would have thought that painting my tattoo would be your favorite pastime.” You laughed, adjusting yourself against his body, making the chair move again.

“You’re my canvas now. You should be honored,” she joked.

Hector laughed, shaking his head which was still thrown back.

After a while, she stepped back to examine her work. Using a cloth, she made small adjustments, ensuring that the colors blended perfectly.

“There! Now you can look.”

Hector raised his arm and examined the transformed tattoo. Before, it was a monochromatic and serious drawing. Now, it was a true watercolor work of art. The colors flowed organically, giving it a new dimension.

“Wow…” he muttered, impressed.

“Did you like it?” She smiled, satisfied.

“It’s amazing. I never thought I would like this, but… I guess it did me good.”

She rested her head on his shoulder.

“Sometimes we need a little color to remind us that things aren’t just black and white.”

Hector looked at her, and for a moment all the weight of his argument with his mother disappeared. Maybe she was right. Maybe life didn’t have to be so rigid, so full of pressures. Maybe, every now and then, you needed to let someone add a little color.

He smiled before pulling her by the neck and placing several kisses on her lips.

“I love you so much,” he whispered against her lips, and she laughed lightly.

“I love you too, my player.” She ran her hands down his torso, stopping at the bottom of his belly.

He pulled her into another kiss, this time slower and wetter. His tongue entwined with hers, in a beautiful fight for space and a desire to explore every corner.

Their lips parted and they laughed, pressing their foreheads together, just standing there enjoying each other's breathing.

Your like is important and helps me a lot. Don't be a ghost reader!

[yara0546]

Hey can you do 7dream love languages? 🧡

Nct dream | Their Love Language with You

Pairing: nct dream x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Comfort, relationship.

Note : English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any grammatical errors, because I sometimes use a translator in some sentences.

Disclaimer : This is a work of fiction from our imagination. It is not intended that the plot, theme, original characters, idols, etc. portray any real-life events/people. Plagiarism is NOT tolerated on this blog. If you believe we have copied an existing authors’ work, please message us privately. thank you and enjoy :)

Masterlist

Mark

Mark isn’t the best with expressing emotions, but when he realizes how much words mean to you, he makes an effort.

You sigh, looking out the window of your shared apartment. “Sometimes… I just wonder if I’m enough.”

Mark’s eyes widen, setting down his guitar. “What? What are you talking about? Of course, you are.”

You hesitate. “You don’t say it often. I know you care, but I just—”

Mark gently grabs your hands. “Hey. Listen to me. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I mean it. You make my days better, you’re my safe place. I love you, and I’ll remind you as many times as you need, okay?”

Your heart flutters at his sincerity. “Okay.”

He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “I’ll say it every day if it makes you feel secure. Because you’re more than enough for me.”

Renjun

Renjun doesn’t always say how much he loves you—he shows it.

One evening, you come home exhausted, barely able to keep your eyes open. “Renjun, I—”

Before you can finish, he gently pushes you toward the couch. “Shh, just sit. I got this.”

You blink as he brings over a tray of hot soup, tea, and your favorite snacks. “You cooked?”

He nods, his ears turning red. “You’ve been working too hard. I don’t like seeing you so tired.”

You smile, touched by his thoughtfulness. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

He huffs, but his lips twitch into a smile. “Just eat. And don’t think of anything else, okay? I’ll take care of everything.”

Jeno

Jeno isn’t overly affectionate in public, but with you, he’s all about physical touch.

You sigh, rubbing your temples after a long day. Jeno notices immediately, pulling you into his arms. “Rough day?”

You nod against his chest. “Yeah.”

Instead of saying anything, he just holds you, rubbing soothing circles on your back. His warmth melts away your stress.

“You always know what I need,” you mumble.

He chuckles, resting his chin on your head. “That’s ‘cause I know you better than anyone.”

You close your eyes, letting yourself relax in his embrace. With Jeno, actions speak louder than words.

Haechan

Haechan believes love is best shown through time spent together.

“Let’s go out!” he announces one evening.

You glance up from your book. “Haechan, it’s late.”

“So? We can go get late-night snacks. Just you and me.”

You hesitate, but the sparkle in his eyes convinces you. Soon, you’re walking down the quiet streets, hand in hand.

Haechan grins, swinging your arms. “I just wanna be with you, you know?”

You smile. “Even if it’s just for snacks?”

“Especially if it’s for snacks,” he teases before his expression softens. “Nah, I just… love spending time with you. Doesn’t matter what we’re doing.”

Your heart swells with warmth. “Me too.”

Jaemin

Jaemin’s love language is a mix of touch and words.

One evening, you’re sitting beside him, feeling insecure. “Do you think I’m… good enough?”

Jaemin frowns and immediately pulls you into his lap. “What? Who put that thought in your head?”

You shrug. “I just… feel that way sometimes.”

He cups your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re perfect to me. And if anyone ever makes you doubt that, tell me so I can fight them.”

You giggle, but your heart flutters at his sincerity. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only for you,” he says, pressing kisses to your forehead. “I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”

Chenle

For Chenle, love is shown through thoughtful gifts.

“Open it,” he says, handing you a beautifully wrapped box.

You blink in surprise. “But… it’s not a special occasion.”

He shrugs. “Who cares? I saw it and thought of you.”

You open the box to find a necklace with a charm shaped like something meaningful between you two. Tears prick your eyes. “Chenle… this is perfect.”

He grins. “Well, duh. I have good taste.”

You hug him tightly. “Thank you.”

He laughs but hugs you back. “I just want you to have little things that remind you of me.”

Jisung

Jisung is shy about affection, but he shows his love through time spent together and subtle touches.

One afternoon, he drags you to the practice room. “I want to teach you a dance.”

You pout. “But I’m terrible at dancing.”

He grins. “I’ll help you.”

As he guides you through the steps, his hands linger on your waist, keeping you steady. “See? You’re doing great.”

You laugh. “Only because you won’t let me fall.”

“Of course not,” he says softly, holding your hand tighter. “I’d never let you fall.”

Your heart skips a beat. Maybe dancing with Jisung isn’t so bad after all.

[wendichester]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ happier³,

summary. after sam's confession, you can't deny your feelings anymore.

pairing. sam winchester x reader ft. dean winchester ; angsty!

wordcount. 1086

notes. just shocked. heartbroken. going absolutely insane with this series!

⋆.˚ ★— read part 1, part 2 + dean's ending

The bunker feels different now.

You don’t know how, exactly. The walls are the same, the air is the same—heavy with lore books and coffee, gunpowder and old leather. But something about it feels off, like the foundation has shifted beneath you and you don’t know how to walk steady anymore.

Because Sam left.

And Dean? Dean barely looks at you.

The last thing you remember clearly is standing between them, Sam’s confession hanging in the air like an exposed nerve. The way Dean turned away, the way he asked you if you loved Sam, the way your throat closed up before you could answer—

And now here you are. Days have passed. Maybe a week. Maybe more. The time feels meaningless when all you can do is think.

Sam isn’t here. He didn’t take much—just a bag, his laptop, a few weapons—but he’s gone. He left without another word, and you don’t even know where he went. Maybe that should be your answer right there. Maybe if you truly loved him, you wouldn’t have let him walk away. Maybe if you truly loved him, you would’ve chased him.

But you didn’t.

And yet…

You don’t sleep. Not really. Not without thinking of Sam’s eyes, how they softened when he looked at you. Not without remembering the way he always listened—really listened—when you talked, the way he knew when you needed silence and when you needed a joke. Not without thinking about how easy it was to just be with him, to exist beside him without effort or expectation.

Dean loves you. You know that.

But Sam sees you.

And it’s that realization—the quiet, slow, earth-shattering realization—that makes you sick.

Because what kind of person are you, to love one brother while holding the hand of the other?

Dean is quiet when you find him in the kitchen.

He sits at the table, nursing a beer, his jaw tight as he stares at nothing. It’s been like this ever since Sam left—short conversations, no teasing, no warmth. Just silence.

You sit across from him, tucking your hands in your lap. The words sit heavy on your tongue, but you need to say them. You owe him that.

“I think I love Sam.”

Dean exhales sharply through his nose. It’s not a surprised sound. He’s known. Maybe he’s always known.

“I figured,” he says after a moment. His voice is rough, distant. “You gonna go after him?”

Your heart twists. “I don’t know where he is.”

Dean lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Bullshit. If you really wanted to find him, you would.”

And there it is. The truth, laid out bare. You’ve been waiting for someone to say it, and now that he has, it stings worse than you imagined.

“I never meant to—”

“To what?” Dean snaps, finally looking at you, green eyes burning. “Never meant to fall for him? Never meant to lead me on?” He scoffs. “That’s comforting.”

You flinch. You deserve that. “Dean, I didn’t want this to happen.”

“Then why did it?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice breaks. “I didn’t realize it, I didn’t—” You squeeze your eyes shut. “I love you, Dean. I do.”

Dean leans forward, forearms braced against the table. “But not like you love him.”

It’s not a question.

Tears burn behind your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Dean studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he pushes back his chair, standing up without a word.

“Dean—”

He holds up a hand, shaking his head. His throat bobs, but when he speaks, his voice is even. “Go find him.”

You don’t move.

“You want him?” Dean says, jaw tight. “Then go.”

And so you do.

It takes three days to track Sam down.

You follow a trail of credit card charges—cheap motel rooms, gas stations, diners. He’s been moving every couple of days, never staying in one place too long. It makes you sick, knowing he left because of you.

When you finally find him, it’s in a small, rundown motel on the edge of nowhere. His car is parked outside, the headlights catching in the rain-soaked pavement. Your hands shake as you knock on the door.

There’s a pause. Then, finally, the door creaks open.

Sam stands there, barefoot in jeans and a worn hoodie, hair messy, eyes tired. He blinks at you like he’s not sure you’re real.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His eyes widen and you can clearly see you were the last person he thought would be on the other side of the door. “What are you doing here?”

You take a shaky breath. “I think I love you.”

Silence. Then—

“You think?”

Your chest aches. “I know.”

Sam exhales sharply, looking away, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You can’t just—” He swallows. “You can’t just say that.”

“But it’s true.”

His jaw clenches. “And Dean?”

“I told him,” you say softly. “I ended it.”

Sam stares at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, suddenly, he lets out a breathless, almost bitter laugh. “Shit.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until Sam reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek. His touch is hesitant, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You broke up with Dean.”

“I had to.”

Sam shakes his head, but his hand doesn’t leave your face. His thumb strokes your cheek, slow and careful.

“You broke his heart,” he says quietly.

“I know.” A tear slips down your cheek. “I never meant to hurt him.”

Sam swallows hard. “But you chose me.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “I did.”

A beat of silence. Then—

Sam exhales, something breaking in his expression, something raw and aching and real, and suddenly his hands are on you—gripping your face, pulling you in. His lips crush against yours, desperate and searching, and you melt into him like you’ve been waiting forever.

He tastes like coffee and rain and something inherently Sam, something safe and familiar and right. His hands tremble against you, like he can’t believe you’re here, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

But you’re not going anywhere.

When you finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, Sam breathes out your name like a prayer. His hands cup your jaw, his thumbs brushing over your skin.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” he murmurs.

You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Then don’t let go.”

Sam’s lips ghost over yours, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Never.”

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @mrs-pondwater19 ⋆ @lmg14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @myceliumsunshine ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20

[occamstfs]

MuskMask Up

Found footage of the missing persons Eddie Leon and Bowen Chen, last seen vlogging at a new gym with a mandatory mask policy. Well documented is what seems to happen when one forgets theirs.

Mixing it up a bit! Diary entries within a short metanarrative police investigation- Meat of the story is coworkers bulking up at an advanced rate after borrowing masks from the gym, hope you enjoy! -Occam

The following footage was found by the now missing-in-action Detective Smith during a missing persons investigation of civilians Eduardo “Eddie” Leon and Bowen Chen. If you have any information on the whereabouts of the pair or Detective Smith please call APD with information.

February 1st:

The scene opens with Eddie’s face inches away from a tripod he’s setting up. Behind him, stretching outside the entrance to a gym, is coworker Bowen Chen. Eddie smiles once he sees the camera has begun recording and backs away to start the first vlog on his journey to better health. Hopping up and waving both hands with abandon, he does just that.

“Heyyy guys! Today’s day one of hitting the gym with Bowen! Obviously he knows what he’s doing so this whole thing should be a piece of cake- I mean look at him!” He gestures to his friend mid-drink of water and Bowen quickly chokes it down before shyly responding. Face blushing pink as he’s clearly not nearly as comfortable on camera.

“Ah, uhm- Yes. Hello, audience? I’ve been ah uhm, steady? At the gym for a few years now and Eddie was wondering if I could show him the ropes. Sooo, uhm.” Eduardo was very clear that he was going to be doing a vlog about the whole thing but Bowen had no idea how much a camera would put him on edge. Seeing him flounder and hearing every word come quieter than the last Eddie quickly picks up the slack.

“So yeah! We’re going to a new gym that opened up, all their ads brag about retention rate and quick results which is what I’m all about haha!” Seeing a man in a face mask come through the automatic doors behind him Eddie claps his hands and tacks on, “OH! They also still require face masks which, I don’t mind,” he playfully grasps his friend’s jaw causing blush to return over a shy grin, “it does mean you might be seeing less of this little cutie’s face but so it goes~ When in Brome hee hee!” 

Bowen’s phone goes off as a timer set to ensure the pair stretch for long enough comes to an end. He then chastises Eddie for spending so long of their prep time vlogging before crossing his arms and resetting the clock to make sure his trainee stretches. Eddie quickly turns off the vlog with a wink, “Yikes already on his bad side haha~ See y’all later!”

February 9th:

“Helloooo guys~ Took my mask off real quick to record this.” He pauses to sniff the air and almost gags as he smells the musk of the gym, usually covered by his mask. “God is this what all gyms smell like?” Looking down at his sweat stained body and glistening chest he grimaces as he guesses he’s certainly not helping. Shaking it off he returns to his vlog, “Hm. I’ll edit that out- Helloooo Guys! You would not believe how much progress I’ve made already!”

He does a small flex and it’s clear he has put on more weight than would be expected, or rather more weight in a week than should be possible. “No one tells you how much you have to eat to put on mass, guys! Or I guess- Bowen told me huh?” He giggles and then jolts upright and turns the camera to his trainer working at a machine. “Speaking of gains there Mr. Mass is himself.” Behind the lens Eddie continues, “I forgot my mask today so the sweetie let me borrow his. Hear that ladies? This hunk’s also a gentleman. Someone get a ring on that finger!”

As Eddie continues to film Bowen’s reps it’s clear that something besides the effort is causing him discomfort. In fact it almost seems like the workout isn’t bothering him at all as he rolls his eyes before bending down to put more weight on the machine. With a free hand he plugs his nose to have the slightest moment of freedom from the musky scent that must be distracting him. Then as soon as he grunts through his first rep at the new weight a figure appears behind him, wearing a mask over the whole of his head and taps on his shoulder before clearly preparing to confront him.

“Oop, oh shit-” Eddie whispers, too far from his trainer to know what exactly the little confrontation is about, but after a few gestures to his maskless face it’s pretty clear. The sound of Eddie quickly putting his mask back on can be heard behind the camera as across the gym Bowen clearly nods a few times, assumedly acquiescing, motioning to pack up and head back later. He apologies and gestures for Eddie to head to the locker room but then the sweaty masked man waves him off and pats him on the back, pulling out a mask from his sweatpants.

Bowen’s gasp is loud enough to be heard enough on camera as he backs into the machine in shock as the brute holds out a mask retrieved from his sweaty pants. He waves his hands clear as day that he’s not about to put on that must-be stained mask. Eddie quickly gets off his machine and starts to head over check in on his friend. He knows Bowen hates attention and is wont to fold at any confrontation but surely he’s not about to be pressured into putting on that dirty rag.

Keeping the camera trained on Bowen just in case, he’s too focused on the shot to really notice the fear in the man’s eyes as he stares up at the masked figure. And then, with a gulp, Bowen shakily accepts the mask, close enough to read lips one could just about make out Bowen’s whispered apology, “I’m sorry sir it won’t happen again” And then he does the unthinkable and puts on the dirty mask. Eddie reacts quietly enough only for the camera to pick up, “Jesus Christ- Bo!? What are you doing?!” 

After the masked man pats Bowen on the back, harder than one surely should, and offers a rough handshake, he departs. The camera captures a few more frames as Eddie walks the final few feet over. While not covered in sweat, it’s clear that the mask on Bowen’s face is wrinkled and has a small dark patch in its corner. Either from the workout or from the anxious confrontation, the trainer is clearly breathing heavily. 

With each breath his eyes begin to glisten glassy. Staring off into the middle distance he adjusts his pants and seems distracted as each heaving breath strives to be deeper than the one that came before, as each gasp of musky air tries to instill more of the essence trapped within the wretched mask. His eyes almost begin to cross in the last frame before Eddie puts his phone in his pocket, leaving the last few seconds of the recording audio only. “Uhhhhm, Hey Bowen? What the fuck was that?”

There is a few seconds pause followed by the sound of presumably Bowen swallowing saliva before he answers “Oh! Uhhh yeah? I don’t know dude?” “Dude?” “Sorry my head feels like it’s swimming, Eddie? That was so uhh, intense-” The sound of adjusting clothing again comes through, someone pulling on the elastic band of their underwear.

Realizing the whole confrontation only happened because he forgot his own mask, Eddie apologizes, “That wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t take yours. Look we can swap if you-”“NO.” Silence follows once more before Bowen continues, “No I uhm- don’t mind br- Eddie. How about we call it there and head home?” Eduardo agrees and the pair head off to the locker room. After a few steps the recording ends.

February 15th:

The image begins as usual of Eddie from afar, though the sound of weight’s clanging is far louder than usual. After a few false starts interrupted by the din of falling metal, the vlogger walks a few feet away and begins talking to the camera, “Hey everyone, quick update this time-” Flexing to himself he takes a moment to address his continued growth before in the distance he hears brash, deep laughter and what little of his face is revealed makes his worry clear as day.

“I’m still chugging along but Bowen has, well blown up? Ever since the last vlog when that asshole made him wear a dirty mask it’s almost like he’s a totally different person? Here, look-” Eddie quickly pans the camera over to a man almost unrecognizable resting on a bench. Beyond having arms as large as Bowen’s legs should be, the man’s demeanor is indeed entirely different. He flexes his arm and moans to himself as he sees a central vein pushing against the strained shirt sleeve.

“Is it steroids? Do you think? OH! He’s also started using the masks the gym provides- Are there like, inhale-y steroids?” The vlogger quickly heads to the web to research, paying no mind to what the lens catch as the camera unintentionally witnesses the massive man lumbering up from his bench, leaving an unwiped sweat stain in his wake.

Massive pecs bounce with each step and thighs strain his shorts as he makes his way over to Eddie, “YO! Edster- Come help me stretch!” Eddie flinches as he’s shouted at, groaning uncomfortably he obeys his trainer. Forgetting he was taking a vlog at all he sets his phone down. The air fills with groans, cracking bones, and almost deliberately loud grunts from Bowen.

“You know I seem to remember you wanting to not put on too much weight Bo?” 

There’s a deep guffaw, “Pshyeah, but y’know, when the muscle-bug bites huhuh!” The sound of his sleeves straining from a performative flex covers up his breathy moan from hyperextension. “Woah bro, why do you look so down?”

Clearly not thinking his mood would be caught by a man whose only gear has suddenly become self-obsessed, Eddie stumbles, “Well I don’t know, I guess? I’m just worried about- You just seem a little different is all.

“Huh.” There’s a long silence interrupted only by the buzz of music and clanging weights far off. Then there’s a quick gasp as in one motion Bowen stands and hoists Eddie into the air, “woAH! Bo! Put me down!” 

“Huhuh no bro I get it- You don’t know why you’re not seein’ results as good as mine I totally get it!” Eddie grunts and gags in arms that truly could snap him in half, “Ugh B- you’re so sweaty ple-ugh.” Squirming in the behemoth’s grasp his face is forced into sweaty pecs that promptly stain his mask a dark blue. “God you’re going to get your b.o. All over me dude-” 

There are a few more seconds of complaint before Bowen finally drops his little buddy. Picking up his phone there’s a look of concern or questioning on his face, any number of thoughts soar through his mind, has Bowen always been that tall? Why has he grown so much? What happened to him, is it going to happen to me? And then he takes a deep breath. A sigh in relief or irritation, it’s unclear, but it doesn’t matter. The camera gets a much better glimpse this time as the gym-goer breaths in the oh-so musky, mask filtered air.

Under the mask his mouth squrims into a grimace, but already eyes begin to give way to thoughtless longing. With another breath one twitches while the other falls open wide, wanting nothing more than to mainline the scent directly into his nervous system. Pupils dilate large enough to almost hide his cacao irises before a meaty hand pats him on the back, “Earth to Eddo- Bro? You comin’ to wash up or what huhuh!” Jarred back to sentience, Eddie nods and follows him, the recording ending a few moments after.

February 22nd:

The camera alights on someone unrecognizable baring his torso for fans he doesn’t yet have, though the glazed look in his eyes is more than enough hint to prove it is the vlogger before he introduces himself. “Yoooo guys! Back at it again with Bowen, how’re we lookin?”

Eddie flexes a thick bicep and smirks under his mask, adjusting it as he laughs. It’s deeper, slower, a far cry from his usual giggle. “oh yeah, I’ve been usin’ the gyms masks just like Bowen said. And I gotta say, I think they’re the real secret of this place, I’ve just been packin’ on muscle since I started borrowing them.”

Standing to his side, Bowen makes himself known, somehow even bulkier than last time. Veins criss cross his forearms and shoulders stretch wide enough that it’s a wonder he was able to even get the suctioned compression shirt om. The thin elastic straps of his mask almost snap as he speaks up, the meek camera-shy man he once was clearly erased from his mind, “I’m saying Ed! Don’t know why you were holdin’ out on trying them after seeing how much I’ve grown!” Bowen crosses his arms and his top is stretched to his limits.

Eddie laughs before his eyes go dull as laughter leaves him with no choice but to take yet another deep breath. Lost in a thought that seems to never come, his words are barely audible enough to be caught by the camera almost mistakable for a moan, it may as well be one. He whispers “need more.” Drawn out like a death knell his vocal chords creak as they lengthen. And then, the camera captures the impossible.

It looks as if it’s edited. Arms go limp as they hang lower, bloat larger, heavier, barely staying in their sockets before his shoulders similarly bulge into thick balls of muscle. Pecs that have existed for less than a month push his sweaty tank top to its limits. The bench on which he rests creaks under his weight as thighs send tears through athletic shorts that were already too tight to wear. 

Behind him, his massive trainer’s eyes widen as he pauses his workout to stare at Eddie’s growth. Hungrily watching as individual strands of muscle flex and surge. Were his own mask not already sweat-stained, the drool frothing from his mouth may be more apparent. Bowen lets his weights clatter to the floor as he staggers close and leans in close to Eddie’s neck, sniffing like a predator, releasing something in between a whimper and grown as his scarred palms clench at his prey-apparent’s biceps, still bulging larger in his hands.

Bowen’s chest, over doubled in size since he began frequenting this gym, produces a rumble low enough to barely register as words. Through his mask he teeths the man’s neck, “Think I got another idea to get some gains Eddie.” This stirs the man from his reveries though does not for minute stop his growth as he bolts to his feet, almost falling forward from the new weight on his chest. Surely he would have had the man about to work him out maintained the iron grip on his arm.

Not another word is heard from the pair as they swiftly retreat to the locker room. The tripod continues filming until Eddie’s phone dies and contains little else of note. Other gym goers wander around the background, all of them masked and many of them stare forward with the same glazed eyes as they sit at various machines, laughing to themselves, breathing heavily, and lifting more with each heaving rep. Just before his phone dies and the recording ends, the man who gave Bowen his mask collects the tripod, through his mask a smile is clear on his face.

On March fifteenth newly promoted Detective Archie Smith follows up on a lead from coworkers of the missing men that the pair had recently started hitting up the Musclerade Gym. something about vlogging. The detective didn’t care. Miraculously, almost immediately did he find a pair of men who identify as Eduardo and Bowen. The only thing is-both resolutely deny ever having worked in an office building. Beyond that, it barely takes a glance to tell that despite their names and races that they cannot be the men in question. By sheer body weight alone, it’s impossible

Sure Mr. Chen looks healthy enough in his license photo but that massive hunk that stands before him could punch straight through the Detective. With a gulp Archie finds his eyes desperately wanting to trace the powerful muscles, begging for his attention through spandex and strained nylon. He finds his attention drawn to his own crotch as he can’t help but trace the veins on ‘Eduardo’s’ flexing arms to a hairy armpit dripping with sweat. Before he’s lost to his lusts however, he comes to his senses as the acrid musk pouring from both men sears his nose.

With a grunt he shakes off the beyond unprofessional distraction and meets the eyes of both men, neither too pleased to see the officer in their space. He fakes a smile and turns to continue his investigation before being intercepted by a man who seems to be of some authority, pulling him off to the side. Only his eyes are visible which sets Archie on edge. “What seems to be the problem officer?”

He explains his case and the mystery man calls the pair over, their harsh glares soften and Eddie laughs as he’s reminded of his little vlogs. Apparently the pair are trainers at the gym which despite some strange ping at the back of his mind, ignoring something screaming from his gut, when he sees their sculpted forms, smells their noxious odors, he can’t help but believe them. The masked man even offers to give him the recorded film, that is as long as he’s okay adhering to the gym’s guidelines while he waits.

There’s a glint in the eyes of both massive men now standing behind him as they each dislodge wrinkled masks from stained pants that have clearly suffered at least one gym session. Prepared to suffer more discomfort than this to sate his curiosity he throws on one of the hopefully unused masks. It’s at this point that the case goes cold. 

This recounting of events, along with a copy of Eduardo Leon’s ‘vlogs’ were found sloppily scrawled on some magazines near the shredded uniform of Officer Smith. It doesn’t seem to be his handwriting unless he were racing quite hastily against, well. I haven’t quite the idea what. I suppose it is of some note that they were next to a bloated member of the gym who didn’t have any I.D. on him. His clothes seemed to be from a lost and found as they didn’t fit quite right. We were unable to further investigate his identity, but without a doubt it simply could not be Officer Smith.

The junior officer who retrieved the evidence could scarcely spend five minutes next to the man, and given Smith’s predilections towards order and cleanliness it simply could not be him. Unfortunately the state of the gym put the officer in such unease that he did no further investigation. It’s a shame as when an investigation team was sent the following day it was as if the gym was never there. I am not one for flights of fancy, it is my belief that the whole situation was simply some drug front, perhaps steroids. At any rate should you see, or perhaps smell any of these men. I advise caution. And under no circumstances should you borrow one of their face masks, obviously.

Included above are to our best knowledge are the most recent sightings of Bowen Chen, Eduardo Leon, and finally a third depicting Eduardo alongside who we believe to be the man of interest found nearby Officer Smith’s uniform. It seems they haven’t stopped growing, that is, if this all isn’t some wild goose chase. Again, if you have information do report to APD. Though please refrain from submitting any, biological material. We have lost enough of the forensics department to this mania as is.

[multific]

Back From The Dead

Simon Kalivoda x Reader

Summary: Months after Simon Kalivoda’s tragic death, you visit his grave, never expecting to see him again. But Shadyside is full of horrors. And maybe, just maybe, a miracle. 

Shadyside had a way of swallowing people whole, leaving nothing but ghosts behind.

That’s what you told yourself when you stood at Simon Kalivoda’s grave, fingers tightening around the bouquet of flowers in your hands. 

It had been months. 

Long enough for the town to move on, long enough for people to stop whispering about the massacre. 

But you never moved on.

How could you? 

He wasn’t just another name on the news. He was Simon. 

Loud, ridiculous, reckless Simon who swore he’d live forever.

And yet here you were, talking to a headstone.

“I hate this,” you muttered, kneeling in the dirt. “You weren’t supposed to go out like that. Not you.” Your voice cracked, and you clenched your jaw. “And now I’m standing here, talking to you like a crazy person, hoping you can hear me wherever you are.”

The wind howled through the trees, rustling the leaves around you. A chill ran up your spine, but you ignored it.

“I miss you,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “More than I thought was possible.”

A sharp crack echoed through the cemetery. It was like twigs snapping underfoot. 

You froze. 

Slowly, you turned, expecting some drunk kids messing around. But there was no one there. Just rows of gravestones, shadows stretching long beneath the moonlight.

You swallowed hard and turned back. 

Only to come face to face with Simon.

Your breath caught, the world tilting sideways. You couldn't even scream.

He looked… real. Solid. Alive. 

Not a ghostly figure or a vision, but Simon.

He was standing there in his stupid ripped jeans and an oversized hoodie, hair messy as ever.

Your heart hammered. “What the-”

“Holy shit.” His voice was rough like he hadn’t used it in a long time. His wide, disbelieving eyes scanned you before he let out a breathless laugh. “I-am I dead? Wait, no-was I dead?”

You stumbled back, hands shaking. “This isn’t real.”

Simon looked just as freaked out as you, staring at his own hands before touching his chest. “I-this is so fucked up.” His eyes flicked back to you, desperate. “Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?”

You didn’t know what to say. You could barely breathe. Your mind screamed at you to run, but your heart-your heart told you to move closer.

“Simon,” you whispered.

His eyes softened. “It’s really you.”

Tears blurred your vision as you reached out, hesitantly brushing your fingers against his arm. Warm. Real.

He was real.

That was all it took. Suddenly, you were throwing yourself at him, and Simon caught you without hesitation, arms wrapping around you like he’d never let go. 

He smelled the same, faint cologne, cheap shampoo, a hint of candy.

“I thought you were gone,” you choked out against his shoulder.

Simon exhaled shakily, squeezing you tighter. “Me too.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “What happened? I-” He swallowed hard. “I remember the axe. The pain. And then… nothing.” His brows furrowed. “How the hell am I here?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

Simon let out a breathless laugh. “God, I missed you.” His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away the stray tears. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if this is real and I get a second chance...” He swallowed hard, searching your face. “I don’t wanna waste it.”

Your throat tightened. “You never wasted anything, Si.”

He huffed. “That’s not true. I wasted so much time pretending I didn’t want more with you.” His voice dropped, more serious than you’d ever heard it. “I want it now. If you’ll have me.”

You didn’t answer. You just kissed him.

And when he kissed you back, warm and alive and real, you knew one thing for certain.

Simon Kalivoda might have died that night.

But somehow, some way, he had come back for you.

And this time, you weren’t letting go.

Shadyside is full of horrors. And maybe, just maybe, you were allowed a single miracle. 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[bestalbertcamuslover]

In the Name of Commitment

↳ Masterlist

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✯ pairing:  Sebastian Vettel x GF! Reader ✯

✯ content warnings: none ✯

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The sun glowed a bright orange as it dipped below the horizon, drinks and laughter flowed effortlessly among her group of friends, each accompanied by their current partners. It wasn’t something they often did, but every once in a while, the group would invite their significant others to join.

Sebastian’s arm rested casually on her thigh, completely at ease. He knew what her friends were like—cynical, much like her, the kind of women you’d call quintessential 21st-century women: independent, versatile, open-minded, and, as previously mentioned, deeply cynical.

“Yeah, she’s on her second marriage already,” one of her friends commented, or rather gossiped.

“I just don’t get why people keep getting married,” another friend interjected with a soft chuckle, sipping from her drink.

“Exactly. It’s just a piece of paper,” the first friend added.

“A piece of paper that seems to screw everything up,” y/n chimed in with a subtle grin. “Like, how many people do you know who are actually happily married?”

This wasn’t an unfamiliar conversation for the group of friends, but their respective partners seemed more surprised by the topic. Sebastian, at least, was. His future plans undoubtedly included marriage. Still, he stayed quiet. The conversation was lighthearted, and there was no need to turn it into a debate. Yet, he remained silent for the rest of the hangout—offering occasional nods and smiles, but not much more. He was definitely pondering what her aversion to marriage might mean.

She squeezed his thigh after buckling her seatbelt, a gentle smile on her face. “You okay?”

He glanced at her, instantly noticing her contentment from the hangout—the kind of brightness someone exudes after having a good time. “Yeah,” he said, “just exhausted.”

“You want me to drive?” she asked with a subtle smirk.

“Yeah, not happening,” he chuckled, still remembering the scratch that had magically appeared on his car the last time she drove.

She shot him a playful glare as he started the car. Silence filled the space again, hovering somewhere between comfortable and uncomfortable.

“Seb, are you sure you’re okay?” she asked again.

He glanced at her for a split second before turning his eyes back to the road. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone lacking firmness. “It’s just… something you mentioned has been nagging at me.”

“What thing?” she asked, her voice tinged with subtle amusement.

“The stuff you and your friends said about marriage,” he replied, looking at her briefly before focusing on the road again. “Marriage is in my future plans, and so are you.”

“Oh,” she said, her tone softening with a hint of apology. “So, you want to get married someday?”

He nodded. “It’s what most couples do, you know?” he said, his tone a mix of seriousness and dry humor.

“I mean, don’t you think it’s a bit archaic and pointless? It’s just an institution that lost its true meaning a long time ago,” she argued.

He glanced at her again, an amused expression crossing his face at her sudden expertise on the topic. “And symbolically? Nowadays, it’s about commitment. Don’t you want that?”

“Do we really need to get married to symbolize commitment?” she asked with a subtle grin, giving his thigh another gentle squeeze after noticing how seriously he was taking this.

“Well, yeah,” he replied, still a bit serious.

“It’s not like I’m against it. If it’s something that matters to you, then it’s fine,” she conceded.

Sebastian glanced at her again, his expression softening. “You’d do it just because it matters to me?”

She shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Marriage might be pointless, but making you happy isn’t.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s the most cynical yet romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

She grinned. “I contain multitudes.”

He let out a deep breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “You know, it’s not just about the piece of paper or the tradition. It’s about standing up in front of everyone we love and saying, ‘Hey, this is my person. And I choose them, forever.’”

She bit the inside of her cheek, studying him for a moment. He meant that. Every word of it. And damn if that didn’t make her heart squeeze a little.

“Forever’s a long time,” she mused.

“With you?” He shot her a small smile. “Not long enough.”

She giggled, resting her head back against the headrest. “You and your sentimental one-liners.”

He laughed, the tension between them dissipating entirely. “You love them.”

She rolled her eyes but squeezed his thigh again, this time lingering a little longer.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ authors note: I've been watching too much SATC lol

English is not my first language and I hope you liked it <3

[sincerelybubbles]

"I love you" warnings: none, fluff, written forever ago and reread and edited to shreds ||||

The first time Spencer says, "I love you," it’s an accident.

It happens in your kitchen again, but this time it's quiet. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, and the soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound between you. You're leaning against the counter, trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes, while he stands a few feet away, watching you with that careful gaze of his, the one that makes you feel like he's analyzing you but not in a clinical way. No, Spencer looks at you like he’s memorizing every tiny detail, tucking it away in some secret place in his mind where he keeps things that matter most.

You’re mid-yawn when he says it, so casual you almost miss it.

"I love you," he murmurs as he passes you a cup of coffee, like it's just something that slips out when he isn’t thinking.

Your fingers nearly fumble around the handle, and your whole body goes still. Your stomach twists in on itself, because you've thought about this moment a thousand times. How it would feel to hear it, how it would sound in his voice. You just didn't expect it like this—so offhanded, so natural, so completely without fanfare.

Spencer doesn't realize what he’s done at first. He takes a sip of his own coffee, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and in an instant, you see it—the delayed reaction, the widening of his eyes, the way his throat bobs as he swallows too hard.

"Oh," he says, like he's just processed his own words, and the air in the room shifts. "I—" He swallows again. "That wasn't—I mean, it was, but—"

You bite your lip, unsure if you should help him out of his flustered state or let him dig his own grave for another second.

"You mean it?" you ask, voice small. You hate how insecure you sound, but it’s there, that creeping uncertainty that whispers: maybe he didn’t mean to say it at all.

Spencer's hands tighten around his mug. "Yes," he says, barely above a whisper. "I mean it. But I didn’t want to say it like that. I wanted it to be special."

Warmth unfurls in your chest, battling the self-doubt that always seems to lurk just beneath the surface. You set your mug down before you drop it and step closer, reaching up to touch his cheek. His skin is warm under your fingers, and you feel him exhale, long and slow, like he’s been holding his breath.

"It is special," you tell him. "Because it's you."

Spencer lets out a soft laugh, a little self-deprecating, shaking his head. "You deserve something more than an absentminded confession over coffee."

"Stop that," you scold gently. "You always act like you have to prove something to me. You don’t. Just being with you is enough. You are enough."

His eyes flicker with something deep—something you almost can’t bear to look at because it’s so raw. He nods, absorbing your words like he’s trying to believe them, and then, after a beat, he tilts his head.

"Do you…?" He trails off, hesitant, the Spencer who still second-guesses when it comes to emotional things.

You take a breath, feeling your pulse in your throat. The truth is, you've known for a while. Maybe since the moment he showed up at your work with lunch, or when he called just to make sure he hadn’t done something to mess things up. Maybe it was the first time he kissed you, or maybe it was even before that, in the little moments where he let himself be fully himself with you.

"I love you," you say, because it’s true, and because he deserves to hear it.

Spencer blinks at you like he can’t quite believe it, and then, before you can say anything else, he kisses you. It's not hurried or desperate. It’s slow and reverent, like he’s savoring the words on your lips. His hands come up to frame your face, gentle but firm, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. "I’ve never had this before," he admits, so quiet you almost don’t hear it. "I don’t always know what I’m doing."

You smile, brushing your thumb over his cheek. "Neither do I. We’ll figure it out together."

He nods, closing his eyes for a moment, just breathing you in. And then he exhales a soft, "Okay."

It’s not a grand declaration, not fireworks or an earth-shattering moment. But it’s real. It’s steady. It’s love, spoken in small moments, in morning coffee, in nervous laughter, in the spaces between words. || you can consider this a continuation of "it's a date" if you squint.

[banana-can-do-art]

Guys I just finished the well it’s not the entirety of Riddle’s dream there’s still like an hour and a half that hasn’t been translated on Gasmask’s channel but I finished the part that they did translate and omg heeelp this is the best dream yet. This is so sad omg I have to ramble about it also all translations I’m using are from gas mask on YouTube.

First of all omg he’s so happy it’s making me sad. Also him saying that he would be tired of everything being the same all the time right after I made that post rambling about how his implied OCD causes him to always do everything in a “samey” manner I aaaaagghhhh. And he’s saying that he’s going to have a chaotic band because in his dream he isn’t upset when things aren’t in order and he can just let himself be happy. You can’t do this to meeee! But there’s more!

Look he’s happily breaking the rules and feeling no anxiety about it whatsoever. (OCD be gone). In his dream world he can do what he wants with no terrible parents or mental illness holding him back. Look at him he’s adorable. And then we have this though agghhh.

This is so sad! When Ace and everyone tells him about what he’s like in real life as though they are talking about another person, Riddle immediately hates the person they are describing. Because he doesn’t like who he is irl. In fact, Riddle even says here that he hates school and studying and that it makes people miss out on the fun things in life. It’s so sad because who he actually is irl is the complete opposite of what he wants to be. He’s so isolated and self loathing I can’t.

Also in the dream Riddle isn’t even a mage. Because he doesn’t even actually like doing magic because all of the joy was sapped out of that for him because he’s always expected to do it perfectly. He never just gets to do magic because he wants to or because it’s fun but rather only because others expect and pressure him too. It feels like the idea of a hobby losing its charm and fun when people have to make it into their jobs. (I hope that doesn’t happen to me heeeelp)

Also I felt so bad for Trey during this because he knows the most about Riddle’s reality and he is the entrenched in it himself. Riddle’s mom screamed at him for five hours as a child and he’s scarred from everything that happened with Riddle and his mom as a kid and yet now he’s supposed to just walk into Riddle’s house like nothing’s wrong. That must be so jarring and unsettling. Props to Trey for managing to do that honestly that’s freaking terrifying.

Also I can’t with all of those pictures on the wall. What do you mean he hates his real life so much that in his dreams his entire memory has become fabricated. His real life memories are completely different from his dream memories. And what do you mean that in his dream his parents are together and they love him and neither of them are mages and he just lives a happy and normal life?! What do you mean?!

Also, even though his parents love him in the dream, his mom has been so awful to him irl that even though everything is fake he can’t even actually picture her face saying nice things to him so it’s just the house talking to him. That’s so awful!

Also then we get this whole reference to the scene in Alice in wonderland where Alice has the big tears and people are drowning. Except it’s tea this time lol. Also Riddle crying that he wants to get out of the house is so sad even in his dreams he can’t escape agshdjdjdj. Omg Cater is so funny in the drowning scene though, he’s just like stop crying we’re gonna drown lmao. Also I know Chenya is fake but it is still so unbelievably funny how he is literally drowning in tea and yet he just has this huge smirk on his face the whole time lol. Chenya’s so silly.

Also the house became so creepy omg I saw someone saying it looks like an rpg maker horror game and like it really does! Specifically I think it really looks like Sunny’s house during the truth sequence of Omori.

Speaking of rpg maker horror games, Malleus was really channeling his inner rpg maker horror villain this update. Poor Idia lol. My condolences to Idia, he’s become the main character of an rpg maker horror game. I dunno Idia if we are going for Omori parallels then maybe you should open that door.

And then later when he gets pulled deeper the dream reflects false desires. To have control over the dorm while everyone bows down to him is was he thinks he wants but not his actual true desire. That’s why in the second layer of his dream even though he is in power, he still seems miserable because we know that he doesn’t even want to be a mage in the first place, much less have all of these rules.

And then Chenya pushes him over and he gets tangled in his cape lmao. That was so funny and then the screen is just Riddle with his feet in the air lmao. That outfit is not conducive to getting up from a fall.

But omg when the darkness is telling him that in the dream they respect him while irl he is isolated it’s so sad. Because he knows that irl his rules and strictness (and OCD) isolate him and that’s why it’s so difficult for him to make friends. He understands that he is lonely because he is a control freak like this, and yet it’s the only thing that he knows how to do because it’s all he’s been taught. (And also because he’s mentally ill you see).

This is all so sad I can’t. Twst! How could you do this to me?!

Anyway, in conclusion punk band Riddle is the most amazing thing to ever grace my eyeballs just look at him. We need a Riddle vocaloid band rhythm game spinoff immediately actually. Also his new fit is absolutely slaying look at him go!

Now I must wait in agony for the next hour and a half or so to be translated by the great and amazing fandom hero, gasmask.

[supernotnatural2005]

Headcanon: Comforting you after a loss.

Pairing: Dean x reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader

Warnings/Tags: Mentions of loss, angst, fluff, established relationships

AN: This is just a little something for @jackles010378, I'm sorry you're going through a difficult time, and hope this cheers you up some ❤️

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester

Dean isn’t great with words when it comes to grief—he knows there’s nothing he can say to take your pain away.

But he’s damn sure not going to let you go through it alone.

The moment he sees the heartbreak in your eyes, he'll pull you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he'll murmur, pressing a lingering kiss to your crown.

He would stay like that for as long as you needed, grounding you in his warmth, his security.

In the following days, he would watch over you like a hawk—not smothering, but making sure you’re eating, drinking, and not shutting down completely.

He’ll cook you your favourite food, even run in to town to get you your favourite cheeseburger if that's what you wanted.

If you can’t sleep, neither does he. He’ll stay up, letting you rest against him, running his fingers through your hair until it finally lulled you to sleep

And when the grief feels unbearable, when you finally break down in front of him, he'll just hold you, whispering soft reassurances.

“You don’t have to be strong for me, baby. Just let it out. I’m right here.”

He never rushes your healing, never tries to fix what can’t be fixed—he just loves you through it, in the way only Dean Winchester can.

Beau Arlen

Beau doesn’t pretend to have all the answers, but he knows one thing for sure—you’re his, and he’s not going to let you go through this alone.

The first thing he does is hold you.

Not just some half-hearted hug—no, he wraps you up in his arms, pressing slow, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, your forehead.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he'll murmur, his voice thick with emotion. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

He checks on you constantly—bringing you coffee, making sure you eat, running his fingers over your back in soothing circles when you can’t bring yourself to get out of bed.

And when the silence in the house feels too heavy, he takes you on a drive—windows down, his hand resting over yours on the gearshift.

“Just us, baby,” he says softly. “Breathe.”

At night, when the weight of your grief is too much, he pulls you onto his lap, cradling you against him.

“I wish I could take this pain away from you,” he admits, pressing his lips against your shoulder. “But I’ll carry as much of it as I can, darlin’.”

He'll hold you for as long as you need, whispering sweet reassurances between soft, lingering kisses, letting you cry into his chest if that’s what you need.

Beau Arlen isn’t just your man—he’s your safe place, and he’ll spend every day reminding you of that.

Soldier Boy/Ben

Gif by @becauseofthebowties

Ben doesn’t do emotions. Not really.

He’s spent decades brushing off pain, cracking jokes, and punching his way through problems.

People cry? He rolls his eyes. People break down? He walks the other way. That’s just how he is.

But you? You’re different.

When he sees you hurting, something inside him tightens, and for once, he doesn’t have some snarky comment locked and loaded.

Instead, he stands there, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, unsure of what the hell he’s supposed to do.

At first, he tries to be himself about it—gruff, no-nonsense.

“Hey, shit happens. People die, the world keeps turning.”

But when you don’t react, when you just sit there looking so damn lost, he feels something foreign creeping in. Worry.

So, he does the only thing he can think of—he pulls you into his arms, tight, unyielding. His grip is almost bruising, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

“I got you, baby,” he mutters against your hair, his voice rough but lacking its usual edge. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

He’s awkward about it—comfort isn’t his thing—but for you, he tries.

He sticks close, hovering even when he pretends he’s not. He won’t outright ask if you’re okay, but suddenly, he’s around more.

Sitting next to you, brushing his fingers against yours, silently daring you to take his hand.

When the grief finally crashes over you, when you collapse against him in sobs, he stiffens at first—old instincts screaming at him to run.

But then he melts, wrapping you up in his arms, pressing rough kisses to the top of your head.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. "I got you.”

That night, he doesn’t leave your side. He pulls you into his chest, holds you close, fingers tangled in your hair.

“You’re not alone, doll,” he whispers, voice raw. “Not anymore.”

And maybe he’s never said those words before, but for once, he means every damn one of them.

AN: Okay so this was a new one for me. A first try at Headcanon's 😅 I hope I've done it justice and cheered you up a little @jackles010378 ❤️

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy/Ben Tag List:

@happyfxckinghorrors @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @bettystonewell @nancymcl @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @paganvamp @deans-baby-momma @ladykitana90 @riteofpassage77 @jackles010378 @spnaquakindgdom

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: Hold On Too Tight

Warning: This is going to be a very dark side of things, including smut, codependency, deferred addiction, jealousy and emotional issues. MDNI, 18+

You loved Marshall with everything you had. You’d been through his worst and stayed, just like you promised. You’d seen him high, you’d seen him angry, you’d seen him fall apart and pull himself back together. But now, years into his sobriety, you were seeing a different side of him—one that made your heart ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

Because Marshall had always been protective, but lately, it had turned into something else.

The constant check-ins, the way he needed to know where you and the kids were every second of the day. If you didn’t answer a text fast enough, he’d call. If you were late coming home, he’d be pacing by the door, jaw tight, hands in his pockets, eyes dark with worry.

At first, you brushed it off. After everything he’d been through, maybe this was just his way of staying in control. But tonight, when you’d come home twenty minutes later than you said you would—stuck in traffic, nothing serious—he’d lost it.

"Where the hell were you?" His voice was sharp the second you walked through the door, his body tense like a live wire.

"I told you, I got caught up—"

"You should’ve called," he snapped. His eyes flickered past you to the kids, who were already heading upstairs. He lowered his voice, but the intensity was still there. "I didn’t know where you were. Anything could’ve happened, Y/N."

Your chest tightened. "Marshall, nothing happened. You’re acting like I disappeared—"

"You were supposed to be home twenty minutes ago!"

You exhaled sharply, setting your bag down on the counter. "You have to stop this."

His expression flickered, something vulnerable flashing in his eyes before he masked it with frustration. "Stop what?"

"This. The constant calls, the worrying, the way you freak out if I don’t answer my phone the second you text. I love you, but I feel like I can’t breathe."

His jaw clenched, and he turned away, running a hand down his face.

"I just—I need to know you’re safe," he muttered, voice rough.

"I am safe," you insisted, stepping closer. "And so are the kids. But, Marshall, this isn’t normal. You’re holding on so tight it’s suffocating."

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Then he exhaled shakily, shoulders slumping.

"I just…" He swallowed hard, his voice quieter now. "I can’t lose you."

His words hit you like a gut punch. You reached out, resting a hand on his arm. "Marshall, you’re not going to lose me."

His head dropped, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "That’s what I thought about Proof."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"I thought he’d always be there," he admitted, his voice breaking. "We were supposed to grow old together, still talk shit when we were sixty. And then one day, he was just gone. Just like that."

Your heart clenched. You knew how deeply Proof’s death had cut him, but he rarely talked about it—not like this.

"I was so fucked up back then," he continued, shaking his head. "I buried it. Drowned it in pills, in alcohol, in music. I didn’t deal with it. And now, after all these years, it’s like… I’m finally feeling it. And it scares the hell out of me."

Tears burned at the back of your eyes.

"Baby," you whispered, stepping closer, wrapping your arms around him. He didn’t hesitate, burying his face in your shoulder, his breath shaky against your skin.

"I know I’ve been too much," he murmured. "I just—every time you leave, there’s this voice in my head that says maybe you won’t come back."

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. His blue eyes were glassy, full of pain.

"I will always come back to you," you promised. "But you have to let me live, Marshall. Let us live."

He nodded slowly, exhaling as he leaned into your touch. "I’ll try."

"That’s all I ask."

You kissed him softly, and when he pulled you back into his arms, it felt different—less desperate, more grounded. Like he was finally ready to loosen his grip, just enough to let love in without fear of losing it.

---

Marshall had never been good at dealing with emotions—especially the raw, unfiltered kind that made his chest tight and his mind restless. Vulnerability had never come easy to him, and now that he had finally let himself break in front of you, something inside him felt exposed.

Normally, when he felt like this—like he was unraveling—he’d reach for a bottle, a pill, something to quiet the noise. But not anymore. That wasn’t an option.

So instead, he reached for you.

You barely had time to react before his hands were on you, gripping your waist, pulling you against him. His mouth crashed against yours, desperate, urgent, like he needed to feel something that wasn’t fear or grief.

"Marshall—" you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hands sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

"Need you," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, pleading. "Need to feel you."

You could feel the tension radiating from his body, the way his fingers trembled slightly as they moved over you. He wasn’t just craving sex—he was seeking refuge, something solid to hold onto when everything else felt like it might slip away.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t hesitate. If he needed you, you’d be there.

You let him take control, let him push you back toward the bed, his breath heavy against your skin. His hands were everywhere at once—gripping your hips, sliding up under your shirt, pulling it over your head before his lips found your neck.

"You’re mine," he muttered, almost to himself, like he needed to say it out loud. "Only mine."

"Always," you breathed, threading your fingers through his hair. "I’m not going anywhere."

That was all it took. His restraint snapped, and suddenly, clothes were being stripped away in a haze of heat and desperation. He was all over you—kissing, biting, worshipping every inch of your skin like he was trying to memorize it.

By the time he finally sank into you, a shuddering breath left his lips, his forehead pressing against yours. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you close, like letting go wasn’t an option.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice tight with emotion. "You feel so good."

You ran your hands down his back, grounding him, reminding him that you were here, that he wasn’t alone.

"I’ve got you," you murmured, wrapping your legs around him. "Let go, baby."

And he did.

He moved with raw intensity, pouring everything he couldn’t say into every thrust, every kiss, every desperate grip of your body. You took it all—his pain, his need, his love—meeting him stroke for stroke, giving him the solace he craved.

When he finally came undone, his body trembled against yours, his breath ragged, his heartbeat erratic. You held him close, running your fingers through his damp hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

For a while, he just lay there, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

"You okay?" you finally whispered.

He nodded against your skin, exhaling slowly. "Yeah… I just—" He swallowed hard. "Thank you."

You cupped his face, making him look at you. "You don’t have to thank me for loving you."

His eyes softened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw something other than fear in them.

Maybe he was still healing. Maybe the ghosts of his past would always linger. But as long as he had you, he’d never have to face them alone.

---

The room was quiet except for the sound of Marshall’s breathing—still a little uneven as he lay half on top of you, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. The weight of him was grounding, his body warm against yours.

You ran your fingers through his damp hair, your nails scratching gently at his scalp. He hummed in response, shifting slightly to press his face into the crook of your neck.

"You okay?" you murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. His arms tightened around you, holding you a little closer, like he was still coming down from the emotional high of everything that had just happened.

"Yeah," he finally said, voice hoarse. "I think so."

You kissed the top of his head. "You sure?"

A slow exhale left his lips. "I just… I hate that my head does this shit." His voice was quiet, almost embarrassed. "I was fine, then suddenly, I wasn’t. And instead of dealing with it, I needed to lose myself in you."

Your hands slid down his back, rubbing slow circles. "Marshall, that’s not a bad thing. You didn’t run. You didn’t shut down. You reached for me instead of something else."

He let out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, but I can’t keep putting all my shit on you like that. It’s not fair."

You tilted his chin up so he had no choice but to look at you. His blue eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but there was something else there, too—fear, doubt, maybe even guilt.

"You’re not putting anything on me," you said firmly. "We’re in this together. You don’t have to handle everything alone, and you sure as hell don’t have to feel bad for needing me."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I just… I don’t want to be a burden."

"You’re not," you whispered, kissing him softly. "You’ve spent so long carrying the weight of everything by yourself. Let me help."

He exhaled shakily, nodding against your touch. "I’m trying," he admitted.

"I know," you said gently. "And I’m proud of you."

Something in his expression shifted—like he wasn’t used to hearing that. His fingers curled against your waist, holding on like you were the only solid thing in his world.

After a moment, he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him so you were lying against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, his fingers brushing lazily up and down your spine.

"You’re too good to me," he murmured.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his skin. "Someone’s gotta be."

His chest shook with a soft laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was real, and you held onto that.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The weight of the night settled around you, but this time, it wasn’t suffocating—it was something else entirely. Something safe.

Marshall let out a long breath, like he was finally allowing himself to relax. "Stay here?"

"Always," you promised.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe—just maybe—he believed you.

---

You noticed it almost immediately.

The way Marshall started gravitating toward you more—physically, emotionally, in every possible way. It was subtle at first. A hand on your thigh when he was feeling restless. A deep, lingering kiss when stress was gnawing at him. The way he’d pull you into his lap when he seemed lost in his thoughts.

But then it became constant.

Anytime something triggered him, anytime he got overwhelmed, he found you. His need for you was insatiable—not just sexually, but in every sense. You were his anchor, the thing he clung to when the urge to numb himself became too strong.

And tonight was no different.

You were in the kitchen, cleaning up after putting the kids to bed, when you felt him before you saw him. His presence was a weight, heavy with tension, the air shifting as he came up behind you.

"Hey," you murmured, placing a dish in the sink before turning around.

His blue eyes were dark, stormy, filled with something hungry. His hands landed on your waist, gripping just a little too tight.

"Bad night?" you guessed softly.

He nodded, exhaling harshly. "Yeah."

You studied him, taking in the tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed like he was trying to hold himself together. You knew that look—knew exactly what it meant.

"What do you need?" you whispered.

"You," he rasped, pressing you against the counter, his hands sliding up your sides. "Always you."

His lips crashed against yours, and you barely had time to react before he was lifting you onto the counter, stepping between your legs, molding himself against you like he needed to consume you.

It was always like this now—desperate, intense, as if you were the only thing keeping him from spiraling.

His hands slid under your shirt, rough palms ghosting over your bare skin, and you shivered.

"Marshall—" you started, but he cut you off with another searing kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours, stealing your breath.

"Please," he murmured against your lips. "Need to feel you."

You knew what this was—knew that this was how he coped now. Any time he would’ve reached for a bottle, a pill, a vice, he reached for you instead.

And you let him.

Because if he needed you, you’d be there.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer. "I’ve got you," you whispered, just like you always did.

And as he pressed his forehead against yours, as he lost himself in you the way he used to lose himself in substances, you realized something.

You were his addiction now.

And you weren’t sure if that was a good thing—or something that would break you both in the end.

---

It took longer to see your own descent into the madness.

It started slowly.

At first, you didn’t notice. You thought it was just normal, just love. The way you reached for Marshall when you felt overwhelmed, the way your body sought his when the weight of the day sat too heavy on your chest.

But then it became constant.

You found yourself craving him in ways that had nothing to do with sex—though that, too, had become its own form of solace. It was his touch, his presence, the way his hands on your body could silence the world, the way his lips against your skin could make everything else disappear.

You didn’t just want him anymore. You needed him.

And that scared you.

Because it was the same way he needed you. The same way he used to need his vices.

The realization hit you one evening as you sat curled up on the couch, staring at your phone, anxiety twisting in your stomach. It had been a long day—the kids were acting up, work had been stressful, and now, Marshall was late coming home from the studio.

Your fingers hovered over his name, already ready to call him.

You could feel it—that restless, gnawing feeling in your chest. The same feeling he got when you were late, when he couldn’t find you.

And suddenly, you understood.

You weren’t just leaning on him anymore. You were clinging.

The door opened before you could spiral any further, and your head snapped up. Marshall stepped inside, dropping his keys onto the counter, running a hand through his hair. He looked exhausted, but the second he saw your face, his expression softened.

"Hey, baby," he murmured. "You okay?"

You weren’t.

But instead of answering, you got up and walked straight into his arms.

His body stiffened for half a second before he melted into you, wrapping you up, pressing his face into your hair.

"Rough day?" he asked, his voice low, knowing.

You nodded against his chest.

He let out a deep breath, holding you tighter. "I got you," he murmured.

And God, did you believe him.

That’s what scared you the most.

Because you weren’t sure where he ended and you began anymore.

And maybe… maybe neither was he.

---

Marshall sat at the dining table, scrolling through his phone, absently picking at the breakfast you’d made. You barely noticed at first—you were too busy helping your daughter pack her school bag, making sure everything was in order before rushing out the door.

"Mommy, did you know Daddy’s leaving tomorrow?" she asked suddenly, stuffing a notebook into her backpack.

Your body went rigid.

Marshall’s head snapped up, eyes immediately locking onto yours.

"What?"

Your daughter, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, zipped her bag and looked up at you with big, curious eyes. "Yeah! He said he’s going to LA for a whole week."

A whole week.

You turned to Marshall, your pulse kicking up. "You didn’t tell me you were leaving tomorrow."

He looked guilty, like he hadn’t meant for you to find out this way. "I—" He ran a hand down his face, exhaling. "I was gonna tell you today. I swear. I just… I didn’t wanna stress you out."

You stared at him, your chest tightening.

A week.

The room felt smaller. Tighter. The thought of him being gone that long made your stomach twist in ways you weren’t prepared for.

You swallowed hard, forcing a tight smile for your daughter’s sake. "Okay, baby, go get your shoes on."

She nodded, skipping toward the front door. The second she was out of earshot, you turned back to Marshall.

"A week, Marshall?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of it was heavy.

He sighed, pushing his plate away. "I know. I know it’s a long time. But it’s business, baby. I can’t not go."

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your breathing steady. "I just… I wasn’t ready for this."

He pushed his chair back, standing, immediately closing the space between you. "I wasn’t, either," he admitted, resting his hands on your waist. "I’ve been dreading it."

You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. "What are we supposed to do for a week?"

His jaw tightened. "We get through it. One day at a time."

You searched his face, seeing the same fear reflected in his eyes. He wasn’t just worried about leaving—you could feel it. He was scared of what would happen without you.

"You gonna be okay?" you whispered.

His hands tightened on you. "I should be asking you that."

The truth was, neither of you had an answer.

And that was the scariest part.

---

The house felt too quiet without him.

It had only been a day since Marshall left for LA, but the absence of him was suffocating. You tried to distract yourself—kept busy with the kids, cleaned rooms that didn’t need cleaning, scrolled mindlessly on your phone. But nothing helped.

Because every time you turned around, you expected him to be there.

You could still feel him—his presence woven into the walls, his scent lingering in the sheets. But it wasn’t enough.

And you weren’t the only one struggling.

Your phone buzzed for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Marshall: What are you doing?

You sighed, curling deeper into bed, phone in hand.

You: Trying to sleep. You?

Marshall: Trying to not lose my fucking mind.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the phone.

You: It’s only been a day.

Marshall: I know.

A pause.

Then another text.

Marshall: I don’t know how to do this without you.

Your chest ached.

Because you felt the same way.

You: You don’t have to do anything, baby. Just breathe.

His reply came instantly.

Marshall: That’s the problem. Breathing is harder when you’re not here.

Tears pricked at your eyes. You wiped at them, frustrated, because damn it, you shouldn’t feel like this over one week. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

But it was.

Because you weren’t just missing him—you were withdrawing from him.

And the worst part?

You didn’t know how to stop.

---

By the third day, you were unraveling.

You barely slept, barely ate. Every time you closed your eyes, you imagined Marshall lying next to you, his arm draped over your waist, his steady breathing grounding you. But when you reached for him in the dark, all you found was empty sheets.

You hated this.

Hated how much you needed him.

It wasn’t just loneliness—it was physical. Like your body didn’t know how to function without him. Like every nerve ending in your skin was wired to his touch, and without it, you were short-circuiting.

And Marshall?

He was spiraling, too.

Your phone barely left your hand because every time you set it down, it buzzed.

Marshall: Baby, call me.

Marshall: I don’t care what time it is, I need to hear you.

Marshall: I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.

Marshall: Please, baby. Just pick up.

It was 2 a.m. when you finally caved, pressing the call button.

The second he picked up, you heard it—the unsteady breathing, the barely concealed panic.

"Baby," you whispered.

"Fuck, I thought you were asleep." His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

"Couldn’t sleep," you admitted. "You?"

He let out a shaky breath. "Nah. I keep thinking about you. About how I used to be fine doing shit like this, but now…" He trailed off. "Now I don’t know how to be without you."

Your chest tightened. "Me neither."

Silence stretched between you, heavy, charged. You could picture him—pacing in his hotel room, running a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to jump on a plane and come home.

"I don’t like this," he muttered.

"Neither do I."

"I keep thinking… what if something happens? What if you need me and I’m not there?"

"I do need you," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

That was all it took.

"You want me to come home?" he asked, dead serious. "I will. Right now."

Your heart clenched. "Marshall, you can’t."

"The fuck I can’t," he shot back. "I don’t care about this trip. If you say the word, I’m on the next flight."

Tears welled in your eyes because you wanted to say it. Wanted to beg him to come back because the ache in your chest was too much.

But you couldn’t.

"You have to stay," you whispered. "You need to do this."

He cursed under his breath. "I don’t give a fuck about this, you are what I need."

His voice cracked at the end, and that was when you knew—he wasn’t just struggling. He was breaking.

"Marshall," you breathed, gripping the phone like it was the only thing tethering you to him. "Just breathe, baby. I’m right here."

His breathing was ragged, uneven. "Talk to me."

You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his voice settle you. "Remember the last time you left for a trip? How you told me I was the first person you wanted to see when you got home?"

"Yeah," he rasped.

"I’ll be waiting, just like last time. Just like always."

His breathing slowed.

For the next hour, you stayed on the phone, whispering to each other in the dark, holding on like it was the only thing keeping you both from falling apart.

Because maybe it was.

---

By the fifth day, you weren’t sure if you could take much more.

You were barely functioning—going through the motions for the kids, pretending everything was fine when, really, you felt like you were coming apart at the seams. Every hour dragged by, the silence of the house pressing in on you like a weight you couldn’t shake.

Marshall wasn’t doing any better.

His texts had become more frantic, his voice more strained every time you spoke. You could hear it in him—the barely-contained panic, the exhaustion, the way he struggled to keep his shit together just long enough to make it through whatever bullshit meeting he was stuck in.

And tonight, he finally cracked.

Your phone rang just past midnight, and the second you answered, you knew something was wrong.

His breathing was erratic, uneven.

"Marshall?" you asked, sitting up in bed.

"I can’t fucking do this," he rasped. His voice was raw, wrecked. "I can’t—baby, I need you."

Your stomach twisted. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don’t fucking know," he admitted, voice shaking. "I just—I feel like I’m crawling out of my fucking skin. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t breathe without you."

His confession knocked the air from your lungs.

Because you knew that feeling.

You felt it every second he was gone.

"Baby," you whispered, gripping the phone tighter. "Just talk to me, okay? I’m here."

"I’m fucking losing it," he choked out. "I feel like—like I need something to take the edge off, but it’s not even about that anymore. It’s you. You’re my fucking fix, and I—" His breath hitched. "I don’t know what to do without you."

Tears burned your eyes. "Marshall…"

"I almost left," he admitted. "I almost fucking walked out of the meeting today, booked the next flight home. I don’t care about this deal, about the money, about any of it. All I care about is you."

Your heart clenched.

Because you wanted that. God, you wanted it so bad it hurt.

But you also knew if you let him come back early, if you let this spiral control both of you, it wouldn’t stop.

He had to get through this.

And so did you.

"Baby, listen to me," you said, voice trembling. "You’re gonna get through this. We are. Just two more days, okay? That’s it. And then you’ll be home, and I’ll be in your arms, just like always."

He let out a broken sound, something between a sigh and a sob. "I don’t know how to do this without you."

"You don’t have to," you promised. "I’m right here."

Silence.

Then, finally, his breathing evened out, his body slowly coming down from the panic.

"I love you," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

"I love you too, baby," you whispered. "Now try to sleep, okay? I’ll be here when you wake up."

He didn’t respond, but you knew he was still listening.

And so, you stayed on the line, listening to his breathing, grounding yourself in the sound of him.

Because even with thousands of miles between you, he was still the only thing keeping you whole.

---

The next morning, you woke up with your phone still clutched in your hand, the call with Marshall long disconnected. You blinked against the harsh light streaming through the window, heart sinking as the reality of another day without him settled in.

Two more days.

You could do two more days.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But as the day dragged on, the emptiness gnawed at you. You weren’t fine—not even close. You felt jittery, like something was missing, like you were constantly reaching for something that wasn’t there.

And then there was him.

His texts came constantly, short bursts of need that made your chest ache.

Marshall: I hate this.

Marshall: I don’t even remember why I agreed to this trip.

Marshall: Baby, just tell me to come home. I will. Right now.

You: Two more days.

Marshall: That’s too fucking long.

You closed your eyes, exhaling shakily.

That night, after putting the kids to bed, you curled up in your shared bed, pulling his pillow close, inhaling his lingering scent. It was the only thing keeping you grounded, the only thing making you feel like he wasn’t completely gone.

Your phone rang, and you answered before the first ring even finished.

"Hey," you breathed.

"You in bed?" His voice was low, tired, but desperate for something—anything—to hold on to.

"Yeah," you whispered. "You?"

"Not yet. Can’t stop thinking." A pause. "Can’t stop missing you."

You swallowed hard. "Me too."

The silence between you was thick, charged with everything you both wanted to say but couldn’t.

"I need to touch you," he confessed suddenly, voice rough with longing. "Need to feel you, baby."

Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your spine.

"Marshall—"

"I know," he murmured. "I just—I don’t know how to do this, baby. I don’t know how to be this far from you and not lose my fucking mind."

Tears burned your eyes. "I don’t either."

Another pause.

"I don’t want to go another night without you," he admitted. "I don’t give a fuck if I have to be up at five. Just… stay on the phone with me. Please."

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. "Okay."

So you stayed, whispering to each other in the dark, breathing in sync, pretending the distance between you didn’t exist.

Two more days.

You just had to survive two more days.

---

The last night without him felt like the longest one yet.

You barely made it through the day. Everything felt dull, colorless, like the world wasn’t quite right without him in it. The kids were your only distraction, but even they noticed the way you kept glancing at your phone, waiting for it to light up with his name.

And when it finally did, you answered before the first ring even finished.

"You okay?" His voice was low, strained, like he’d been holding his breath all day.

You swallowed hard. "I don’t know."

He sighed, and you could hear the exhaustion in it. "Me neither."

Neither of you spoke for a moment, just listening to each other breathe. It was the only thing keeping you both grounded, the only thing keeping the panic at bay.

"You know what’s fucked up?" he muttered finally.

"What?"

"I’ve been counting the hours. The minutes. Just waiting for this shit to be over so I can get on that fucking plane."

Your chest tightened. "Me too."

Another silence. Then—

"I don’t wanna sleep without you again." His voice was barely above a whisper, but it sent a shiver down your spine. "I don’t even wanna close my fucking eyes if you’re not here when I open them."

Tears burned your eyes. "Just one more night."

"That’s one too many."

You pressed your face into his pillow, inhaling deeply, willing it to be enough. But it wasn’t. It never was.

"Baby," he murmured, voice thick. "Can you just… talk to me? Keep me with you, even if it’s just for a little while?"

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. "Okay."

So you talked. About everything and nothing. About the little things—the way the kids had argued over what movie to watch, the way the house felt too big without him. He told you about the meetings, the way he kept zoning out because all he could think about was you.

And when the exhaustion finally started to pull at you both, you whispered, "I love you."

"I love you more," he murmured. "I’ll be home soon, baby. Just hold on."

You fell asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear, his quiet breathing the only thing tethering you to sanity.

Tomorrow, he’d be home.

You just had to make it until then.

---

You woke up with a sense of relief so deep it felt like you could finally breathe again. Today was the day.

Marshall was coming home.

You spent the morning moving on autopilot, trying to keep yourself busy, trying not to count the hours until his plane landed. The kids were excited, asking over and over how much longer until Daddy was home.

And then your phone buzzed.

Marshall: Baby… don’t freak out.

Your stomach dropped.

You: What happened?

It took him a minute to respond, which only made the panic creep in faster.

Marshall: My flight’s delayed. Some bullshit about weather. I don’t know how long yet.

You stared at the screen, hands shaking.

No. No, this wasn’t happening. Not when you were this close to seeing him again.

You called him instantly, pacing the kitchen as he picked up.

"Hey," he said, voice tight with frustration.

"How long?" you demanded.

"I don’t know. Could be a few hours. Could be—fuck, I don’t even wanna say it—overnight."

Your chest tightened. "Marshall…"

"I know," he said, voice thick with irritation and something deeper—something close to panic. "Baby, I swear to God, the second they clear this flight, I’m on it. I don’t give a fuck what time it is when I get there."

You sank into a chair, gripping the phone like it was the only thing keeping you steady. You had been barely holding it together as it was. You needed him home.

"I can’t do another night without you," you whispered, voice shaking.

His breath hitched. "Don’t say that."

"It’s the truth."

"I know," he admitted. "But you can. And you will. Just like I will. Because we don’t have a fucking choice."

Tears pricked at your eyes. "I don’t care about choices. I just want you here."

"You think I don’t?" His voice was rough, raw. "You think I’m not losing my fucking mind over this?"

Neither of you spoke for a moment, both too close to the edge.

Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. "Baby… I need you to breathe, okay? For me."

You forced yourself to take a shaky breath. "I don’t know how to do this."

"Yeah, you do. You’ve been doing it. We both have." A pause. "It’s just a few more hours. Maybe a night. But either way, I am coming home to you."

You nodded, wiping your eyes. "Promise?"

"Swear on my fucking life."

You exhaled slowly, gripping onto that. Onto him.

"Okay," you whispered. "I’ll wait."

"That’s my girl," he murmured. "Now stay on the phone with me. Just for a little while."

So you did.

Because it was the only thing keeping you both sane.

---

The moment Marshall stepped through the front door, everything in you screamed to run to him. To throw yourself into his arms, to press your face into his neck, to feel him, breathe him, let his touch remind you that he was finally, finally home.

But the kids got to him first.

“DADDY!”

They swarmed him, tiny bodies colliding against his legs, their excited voices overlapping. Marshall barely had time to drop his bag before he was kneeling down, pulling them in, wrapping them up in the same arms you had been aching for.

You stood back, watching, your hands clenched at your sides.

He met your eyes over their heads, and for a split second, you saw it—the same desperation, the same need, the same barely-contained urge to close the space between you.

But not yet.

“Missed you guys,” he murmured, voice thick, pressing kisses to their foreheads. “You take care of your mom while I was gone?”

They both nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! But she missed you so much.”

Marshall’s gaze snapped to you again, something dark flickering behind his eyes.

“Oh yeah?” His voice was casual, but you knew him. You knew exactly what he was thinking.

Your face burned. “They’re exaggerating.”

“No, we’re not!” your daughter insisted. “She kept looking at her phone all day! And she barely even watched movies with us.”

Marshall smirked at that, like he was tucking that information away for later.

You crossed your arms. “Are you guys done exposing me, or—?”

They giggled, already dragging him toward the couch, talking a mile a minute about everything he had missed. He let them, letting them climb onto him, his hands and attention fully on them.

And you sat on the other side of the room, watching.

Waiting.

Holding it together.

It was agonizing.

Every part of you was screaming to touch him. To sink into his warmth, to breathe him in, to let him pull you under the way only he could. But you couldn’t. Not yet.

So you smiled, you laughed at their stories, you played the part of the normal, functioning wife and mother.

But under it all, you were burning.

And so was he.

Because every time you caught his gaze, his fingers flexed, like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense. He was listening to the kids, responding at the right times, but his eyes—his mind—were somewhere else.

On you.

Hours stretched on like that—forced restraint, barely-contained tension.

And then, finally, finally, it was bedtime.

The kids clung to him, protesting, wanting just one more story, one more hug, one more minute. And he gave them all of it, because of course he did.

But then they were asleep.

And the second their bedroom doors clicked shut, everything snapped.

Marshall turned to you, chest rising and falling like he had just run a marathon, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with something desperate.

“Come here,” he rasped.

And before he could even finish the words, you were already in his arms.

The second you were in his arms, everything else disappeared.

Marshall’s hands were on you everywhere—gripping, pulling, claiming. His fingers dug into your hips, dragging you against him, like he couldn’t get you close enough, like he needed to feel every inch of you pressed to him to believe this was real.

His breath was ragged against your ear. “I fucking need you.”

You barely had time to let out a shaky breath before his lips were on yours, hot and desperate, swallowing down every bit of longing, every second of the past week spent apart.

Your fingers tangled in his hoodie, pulling, yanking, needing more, needing him.

“I swear to God,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough, wrecked, “I almost lost my fucking mind without you.”

“You did,” you whispered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He huffed a breathless laugh, but his grip on you only tightened. “And you?”

Your forehead pressed to his, breaths mingling. “I don’t think I’ve breathed since you left.”

His eyes darkened, his jaw clenching. “Then let me fix that.”

And then he was picking you up, carrying you to the bedroom, his body covering yours before the door even fully shut.

For the rest of the night, he made up for every second you spent apart.

And when you finally collapsed against his chest, tangled in his arms, his lips brushed your forehead, whispering against your skin—

“Never again.”

And you believed him.

[malk1ns]

february 7 @ rangers, 3-2 win

NEITHER of them playing??? my god, they're purposely trying to make this harder on me i think.

previous installments: 1 2 3 3.5

Whenever Sid isn’t allowed to travel with the team, he chafes.

Normally it’s from injury. The dark days of the concussion and neck injury aren’t that far behind him, but even with those memories lingering in his mind Sid’s much more used to the monotony of being out hurt: check-ins with Vyas, long sessions with the trainers, at-home rehab exercises, and not a lot more. At least he gets out, though, to Cranberry for his appointments and PPG to watch home games, and in his free time whenever he wants to go.

This is different. Sid and Geno are supposed to be sequestered, stuck in Sid’s house while the team waits to see if the pregnancy took and the lawyers argue over Geno’s unplanned mating bite.

The first few days were the worst. Geno was distraught, barely able to be in the same room as Sid without looking like a kicked puppy, and constantly on the phone spitting out upset-sounding Russian as he paced through Sid’s home.

Sid gets it, kind of. Geno’s a professional, this is part of what he does for a living, and he made a mistake, tied himself to Sid without meaning to because he lost control in the middle of what was essentially a job for him. There’s no easy hockey comparison, but Sid imagines making a mistake of that magnitude during a game and thinks he’d probably be reacting much, much worse than Geno is.

The bond Geno tore into them isn’t going away, though, and eventually he drifts back to Sid’s side.

He’s hesitant at first, tentative and apologetic, but Sid eventually manages to convince Geno that he’s not mad.

It’s not how he expected to get bonded, really. But Sid had come to terms years ago with the fact that it might not be up to him. He spent his entire life being warned that alphas can’t always control themselves around an omega in heat—that’s why he had to be so careful once he got a little older and realized the value of his breeding rights.

And he could do worse than Geno.

Sid doesn’t go more than a couple hours without having flashbacks to Geno holding him down and crooning in his ear while his knot swelled inside him. His face gets hot and his scent must turn, because Geno always looks at him.

He won’t touch Sid, though, no matter what Sid does.

Part of why they’re stuck inside is because the team is convinced that Geno’s too aggressive to be in public. The unexpected bite is held up as fairly damning evidence, and the specialists argue that in the early days of the bond settling Geno might catch someone looking at Sid and go feral.

There’s a part of Sid that wouldn’t mind seeing that, but he really, really doesn’t think it would happen. Geno had one moment where he lost control, sure, but he’s been respectful to a fault since, even when Sid’s been trying his best to change that.

They sleep in the same bed because the one time Geno tried to use the guest room neither of them got more than half an hour of sleep. Sid initially hoped that maybe he could start something that way, but Geno stays on his side of the bed, touching Sid’s hip gently before pulling back.

It leaves Sid cold every night. He’s determined to change things. Technically he won’t know if he’s pregnant or not for another week when they’re able to run a blood test, but Sid knows his body intimately, and he knows it didn’t take this time—and the idea of having to wait for Geno’s touch again until he goes into heat next is untenable.

“Fuck,” he swears, letting the knife clatter from his hand and leaping back from the kitchen counter. “Oh, damnit.” 

He sticks his finger in his mouth and eyes the knife balefully. He’d woken up before Geno for the first time all week and had the idea that he’d have breakfast waiting when Geno came downstairs, set out on the table like a good little omega might for their alpha. 

Instead, his finger slipped while he was trying to chop tomatoes for an omelette and now he’s bled all over the cutting board.

“Sid?” comes Geno’s sleepy voice, and Sid cringes, turning to face the kitchen door.

“Morning,” he mumbles around his finger, watching as Geno frowns around the room and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

“You hurt?” Geno says, ignoring Sid’s apology and the mess in favor of crossing the room and tugging Sid’s hand down from his mouth, cradling it in his own palms. “Oh, lyubimyy, you’re bleed, let me help.”

He tows Sid over to the sink, running cool water and pushing Sid closer to the counter so he can stick his hand under the stream. Geno stays close behind him, a tall, warm presence at Sid’s back, and Sid shivers.

Geno curls his hand around Sid’s hip. “You okay?” he says quietly, leaning down to peer over Sid’s shoulder at his hand. “Looks like it’s not so bad.”

“Yeah,” Sid says breathlessly, pulling his finger back from the water and fumbling for a paper towel. “I think probably just a bandage and I’ll be fine.”

He steels himself for the rush of cold when Geno steps away from him, but it doesn’t come. If anything, Geno presses against him more, sliding his hand from Sid’s hip to his low belly.

Sid goes still. He’s afraid if he so much as breathes too loudly, Geno will realize what he’s doing and put that respectful distance between them again.

“Don’t think it take this time,” Geno says, rubbing his palm over Sid’s stomach. Sid wants to go liquid, to fall back into his alpha’s arms and let Geno have his way with him, but he grits his teeth and stays upright. Geno’s scent this close, calm and happy with an undertone of arousal that’s become all too familiar—and frustrating—to Sid over the last two weeks, is almost too much; Sid’s going to start slicking up his sweatpants soon.

“It didn’t,” he replies breathlessly, shifting his hips back the littlest bit, pressing against Geno’s body. “I mean…we won’t know for sure until they test me next week, I guess, but I don’t feel like it did.”

“Hmm,” Geno hums. He’s still moving his hand over Sid’s body, slow and warm. “Guess we have to try again.” He puts his face down to Sid’s neck, rubbing their cheeks together before he inhales open-mouthed over Sid’s scent glands, fitting his teeth to the marks he left. “Smell so good,” he groans, pulling Sid flush against his body.

Geno’s tongue on Sid’s neck almost sends him into a swoon. His throat has been so sensitive since he woke up the day after Geno bonded them; the slightest touch is enough to make his skin prickle and send shivers down his spine. Geno’s focused attention is almost too much, and Sid gets hard so fast he feels dizzy.

“Geno, please,” he gasps, reaching back blindly and groping at Geno’s side.

Geno’s mouth drags down the back of Sid’s neck as he sinks to his knees, yanking Sid’s pants down and shouldering his legs apart.

Sid doesn’t even have time to feel embarrassed before Geno has his tongue up his ass.

“Oh fuck,” Sid gets out, bracing himself against the counter just in time to stop from falling. Geno’s big palm on the small of his back encourages him to lean forward and stick his ass out further.

Sid’s face burns, but the shame of the position falls away as Geno spreads him open and licks at him, obscene in the morning quiet of the kitchen. Sid’s dripping wet now in response to the stimulation and Geno’s arousal, and all he can do is hold on.

Geno’s holding Sid so tightly Sid wonders if he’ll have bruises later, dark purple fingerprints smudged all over his ass and thighs. They’ll hurt when he sits down. The thought makes his dick throb, and if Sid weren’t so unsteady on his feet right now he’d reach down and take himself in hand.

Geno pulls back and presses two fingers to Sid’s hole, pushing in with no warning and no pause. Sid jolts, but Geno curls his fingers and strokes against something inside him that makes Sid’s stomach twist.

“So tight,” Geno murmurs. “I’m only one who has you like this, yes?” He pets the rim of Sid’s hole with a third finger, ducking down to suck at Sid’s balls.

“Yes,” Sid wails, legs shaking as his dick twitches and leaks up against the cabinets. “It’s just you, it’s just you, please.”

“Shh, sweetheart,” Geno soothes. “I get you there.”

If Sid were able to do more than clutch at the edges of his sink and moan, he’d beg Geno to tug him down onto the floor and knot him right there in the kitchen. He feels frantic, hot all over and desperate for more, but all he can do is gasp open-mouthed as he stares blindly out the window above the sink and let Geno do what he wants.

Geno knows exactly what to do, how hard to thrust, when Sid’s ready for him to add a third finger and worm his tongue in alongside. And when Sid’s so close he’s practically out of his mind, scrabbling at nothing on the countertops, Geno knows when to wrap his other hand around Sid’s dick and stroke him once, twice, until Sid’s coming all over his nice wooden cabinets.

He almost falls, but Geno catches him around the waist and eases him down, positioning him in Geno’s lap. Geno’s dick is between his legs, nudging against his balls and over-sensitive dick, and Geno wraps his arms around Sid’s waist to move him, humping up between Sid’s thighs as he chases his own pleasure.

Sid lets his head fall back against Geno’s shoulder, turning his head into Geno’s neck and mouthing at his tendons. Geno’s scent glands are right there, and Sid thinks he might be drowning, totally surrounded in scent and the feel of Geno’s arousal building in the back of his mind where the bond is.

When he scrapes his teeth against Geno’s glands, not even enough to leave a mark, Geno shouts, clutches him close, and comes all over Sid’s legs.

Sid clenches his thighs around Geno’s knot, shivering at the feel of it pulsing against him. That was in him not two weeks ago, and if Sid gets his way he’ll have it in him again soon.

He’s not letting Geno avoid him, avoid this, anymore. Geno mated him, and Sid wants everything that’s meant to go along with that. And Sid always gets what he wants in the end.