#I could be wrong about this but I think this is how it probably went

[jan-pipijan]

ok this is a follow on from my last post about Theodora (ik i called her aliya in the last post but i realized while writing this one that theodora works better), a woman priest in a fallout like post apocalypse.

What is the character’s go-to drink order? (this one gets into how do they like to be publicly perceived, because there is always some level of theatricality to ordering drinks at a bar/restaurant)

for being in public she'd stay sober, so i suppose something like a shirley temple, assuming there's ginger ale and grenadine. im going to assume that most of the time thats not available, so then it'd probably be something very low proof. if she's at someone's house and they dont have a way to purify water she'd probably teach them how to make a simple charcoal and sand filter.

if she's at some bar/restaurant she's probably either eating, evangelizing, or socializing. if she's just out with friends she'll probably drink some, maybe even get a little drunk but she'd probably keep a lid on it. while im thinking about her drinking i could see her taking the loss of her priest/mentor pretty hard and spending some more time at the bar. if she's eating by herself she's probably in her own world and will just ask for water with whatever she's eating, also theres a very good chance she'd be working on something or other. if she's evangelizing then she's definitely staying as sober as she can, but if the person she's talking to is drinking she might order something alcoholic but low proof.

2. What is their grooming routine? (how do they treat themselves in private)

for a post apocalypse they bathe surprisingly often, before mass on sunday morning. they also make their own soap and shampoo with animal fat that they get from hunters and butchers as tithe.

to get to the meat of the question tho, she's may take a little worse care of herself than most folks, she doesnt have these words for it, but she has what we would call ADHD and autism so she's prone to hyper focus and forgetting to eat regularly.

3. What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go? (Gets you thinking about socio-economic class, values, and how they spend their leisure time)

i am Very excited to answer this one, bc the question itself is wrong.

in short (this was going to be shorter as i went to get some food, but its actually plenty long already) in the local community, most folks are subsistence farmers and hunters (she herself is from a farming household) but ever since she "flew the nest" as we would say, she's been either training under the local priest or has been the local priest.

in post apocalyptic conditions, any strong communities that arent just a single family unit would have alot less 'tit for tat' bartering than you would think, and would mostly work on the idea of "ill help you when you need it because i know youll help me when i need it". in her town (which for writing purposes will just be my home town) most folks would be farmers, and anyone who isnt a farmer would be some kind of specialist in this or that trade (hunters, butchers, tanners, leatherworkers, smiths, brewers, &c.). as a priest in this community Theodora (Theta) would likely serve her community in Several ways; most recognizably she would be leading mass and teaching the community (her parishioners) important skills for living in the post apocalypse (passed down through generations as a means of keeping the community afloat). on top of the normal "love God love your neighbor dont demand people pay you back if you give them something" she would also be giving practical advice couched in (what we would call) religious language; skills like crop rotation, water purification, even folk medicine.

of course, given that she is helping her parishioners survive in the wasteland, her parishioners would help her live as she needs: providing her food and drink; helping with upkeep for the church; farmers may give her grain or bread for the Eucharist, brewers may help her find wine or may even give her wine if they have a vineyard; maybe even some of the youth in town would be acolytes (basically the priest's apprentice) to ensure that when Theta dies, someone will be able to fill her role in the community. (i could go into a tangent about the place of death in a community like this, but i wont. suffice it to say: theres a reason that the Anointing of the Sick is a sacrament and that its listed before holy orders and matrimony.)

that's all before we really get into her role as a 'magic' specialist; she would probably spend time blessing folks homes, storehouses, farms, tools, &c. or how she would probably be keeping the best track of the passing of time so she can know what days are holy days, therefore allowing her to help the farmers keep track of the passing of seasons. and taking care of the spiritual (and likely mental) needs of her parishioners.

all that to say; she takes care of and helps organize, unite, and educate the community, and her community helps take care of her in return.

for any normal person, that would be an exhausting job, but, Theta has been touched by God and chosen from among her people to serve God and them (she is very autistic and gains enough energy from the tedious bookish parts of being a priest to serve her community)

well... thats more than i thought i would write about that.

4. Do they have any scars or tattoos? (good way to get into literal backstory) 

oh absolutely. scars are far more common in the wasteland than they are here and she's less likely to notice when she's injured anyway so she absolutely has a whole bunch of scars.

im not so sure about tattoos. i could see tattoos surviving the bombs, but in the town i think tattooing would have to be rediscovered. im sure there's somewhere in town to get tattoos. that being said modern tattoo machines need electricity so unless someone (some wired nerd w/ old world blues) gets that working they might not be all that common. i feel like if someone was scrounging through the town looking for old world novelties theta would help them. also once tattoos are a thing theta would 100% one honoring her mentor and maybe some about faith and time, maybe a memento mori

5. What was the last time they cried, and under what circumstances? (Good way to get some *emotional* backstory in.) 

oooh, maybe this is getting into spoilers, but im the writer so its ok. after theta's priest died (i should get that man a name) she went to "talk to the bartender" about it; the bartender, recognizing theta was in a Bad Place™ recommended she go talk to the (technically catholic but whatever) priest in the next town over (which is actually the bartender's hometown (she left for backstory reasons)). theta went, cried, learned about catholic last rites (i think the last rites in the BCP could do better),

6. Are they an oldest, middle, youngest or only child? (This one might be a me thing, because I LOVE writing/reading about family dynamics, but knowing what kinds of things were ‘normal’ for them growing up is important.)

probably a middle child of a small handful (ive decided her dad left her mom when she was pretty young and she was raised mostly by her mom, but also she spent alot of time at church as a kid which is how she became the priest's apprentice).

over all families as a social unit would be alot more relevant then than they are now, just because capitalists benefit from the atomization of the family. over all in that respect the town would be the historical norm where this society (and especially the US) is the fucked up outlier

7. Describe the shoes they’re wearing. (This is a big catch all, gets into money, taste, practicality, level of wear, level of repair, literally what kind of shoes they require to live their life.)

theres a joke in Only Fools & Horses where the road sweeper, trigger, has gotten an award for using the same broom for 20 years, therefore saving the local counsel money. when his friends doubt that a broom could last that long, trigger helpfully lets them know that the broom's had 17 new heads and 14 new handles in those 20 years. i imagine theta's shoes are a lot like triggers broom. all in all there what we would call leather sandals (probably made by the local leather worker) that she brings in every once in a while when they need new soles, straps, maybe resizing when she was a kid.

im making good time (after writing a 3-4 paragraph essay (also no i wasnt i got the numbering wrong and had to redo it))

8. Describe the place where they sleep. (ie what does their safe space look like. How much (or how little) care / decoration / personal touch goes into it.)

this might not be how it shakes out exactly, but it'll give you the vibes.

when Theta was an acolyte, maybe 15 or 16, the priest (in conversation with theta's mom, of course,) decided that she'd be his apprentice. part of being an apprentice meant living in the church and doing a lot of the boring work of being a priest (calculating calendars, preparing orders of service, transcribing, copying, &c). so the priest (im tired of calling him the priest so hes going to be *drum roll* Fr. Samuel) brought her to a small room with a desk for writing, a bed frame to put a mattress on, and a great big bookshelf full of pre-war books (of which sam's read like, 3. maybe). sam, theta, and theta's mom (drumroll2.mp3, Nadia) brought theta's mattress from her house to the church. done that that bit of tedium theta hulled up in her new room, and in about a year or two, she's read the whole bookshelf. more often than not she has at least a few books on her desk (a bible, bcp, her journal, maybe a calendar or a book of tables).

that story didnt quite go where i thought it would but oh well. her room is fairly clean. the floor is basically completely clear save a couple rugs (one at her desk and on at her bed). her bookshelf is kinda cluttered but her desk is usually some kind of mess, books, notebooks, broadsides. she went scrounging through a prewar shop further in town and found a handful of corkboards to put things on which helped, but her desk is still a mess. for a few years after she started keeping the daily offices she had an improvised kneeler next to her desk because she'd "ask the woodworker to put in a real one later"

9. What is their favorite holiday? (How do they relate to their culture/outside world. Also fun is least favorite holiday.) 

i think it'd be advent/christmas, and that she'd be an outlier for liking it as much as she does. id bet after a few generations their christmas would look a lot less like ours and a lot more like a medieval christmas, which is to say a community feast in the middle of winter. (now that i think about it i think it'd be more interesting if the town were somewhere far enough north for there to be snow. great lakes? that'd be a good excuse to have some sailing.) over all winter would be pretty boring, and i think this is when (as a kid) she'd have the most time to spend reading the bible, thinking about God, pestering Fr. sam about theology, &c, and i think that something she'd find particularly interesting is the Incarnation, for which christmastide is dedicated. i think after a while she would get a case of the old world blues and eventually learn about the tradition of gift giving on christmas, so she'd commission this and that from whoever would make that thing, and then on christmas night she would lead a vigil, during which she could sneak out the back, get the things for her fellow townsfolk and quietly deliver it to them (leaving it either near their door or wherever they keep their firewood to keep with the 'gifts down peoples chimnies' of it all (wow i keep having more and more to say about these than i was expecting))

10. What objects do they always carry around with them? (What do they need for their normal, day-to-day routine? What does ‘normal’ even look like for them.) 

WELL ITS FUNNY YOUD ASK (i already detailed this in a different post let me paste it in here)

she has a messenger bag that she always has on her or near by with several books. among them a bible (or two, or three depending on her patience for the kjv), a copy of the book of common prayer (it was her priest's copy and they've been using it to keep track of apostolic succession on top of its liturgical use), a notebook of prepared liturgies (she uses that and the daily office lectionary to say the daily office, but she also has last rites fully copied in it which are a mix of the episcopalian and catholic last rites, she also has the rosary and the devine mercy chaplet, the latter she says over the dead or dying before last rites), a small calendar (which is copied from another, larger calendar book she keeps at the church which has a 19 year calendar to keep track of the metonic cycle, a 28 year calendar she uses to keep track of normal time, a table for calculating easter and other unfixed holy days, and notes on how you could maybe use astronomy to derive the year if you weren't keeping track of it), and maybe a pre war novel shes reading for fun. as much as i clearly had to say about it, all that doesnt weigh all that much, without the big calendar (which i realize now is basically an almanac) it comes out to less than 10 lbs.

So my problem with most ‘get to know your character’ questioneers is that they’re full of questions that just aren’t that important (what color eyes do they have) too hard to answer right away (what is their greatest fear) or are just impossible to answer (what is their favorite movie.)  Like no one has one single favorite movie. And even if they do the answer changes.

If I’m doing this exercise, I want 7-10 questions to get the character feeling real in my head. So I thought I’d share the ones that get me (and my students) good results: 

What is the character’s go-to drink order? (this one gets into how do they like to be publicly perceived, because there is always some level of theatricality to ordering drinks at a bar/resturant)

What is their grooming routine? (how do they treat themselves in private)

What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go? (Gets you thinking about socio-economic class, values, and how they spend their leisure time)

Do they have any scars or tattoos? (good way to get into literal backstory) 

What was the last time they cried, and under what circumstances? (Good way to get some *emotional* backstory in.) 

Are they an oldest, middle, youngest or only child? (This one might be a me thing, because I LOVE writing/reading about family dynamics, but knowing what kinds of things were ‘normal’ for them growing up is important.)

Describe the shoes they’re wearing. (This is a big catch all, gets into money, taste, practicality, level of wear, level of repair, literally what kind of shoes they require to live their life.)

Describe the place where they sleep. (ie what does their safe space look like. How much (or how little) care / decoration / personal touch goes into it.)

What is their favorite holiday? (How do they relate to their culture/outside world. Also fun is least favorite holiday.) 

What objects do they always carry around with them? (What do they need for their normal, day-to-day routine? What does ‘normal’ even look like for them.) 

[arachnidseyes]

❆ Stave off the cold ❆

❆ Damian Wayne x gn! Reader ❆ Reader and Damian have a near death experience that brings them closer together ❆ Older! Damian as always ❆ w.c: 1.2k ❆

Cuddling didn't come natural to Damian. Maybe it didn't come natural to you either. In the beginning, when you would spend the night together, you'd usually just sleep side by side. Feeling each others weight in the bed next to you, the occasional reaching out for a hand or an arm to hold. The closeness was enough for the both of you.

Until that one mission that went wrong.

You were both stranded in the icy tundra, just the two of you. You weren't even sure if you were still on earth, having been teleported there during a fight in Gotham with a bad guy of the week. Your coms were on the fritz, all you could make out was “help- way- hour-” before the line cut. You knew the league would be able to get to you in at least a couple hours but looking around the desolate landscape, the wind cutting through your cheeks, snow blinding your eyes, you weren't sure you could last a couple hours.

Looking at Damian, you could tell he was thinking the same thing. You both searched for a cave, a rock, somewhere to hide from the howling wind. It was useless, there was nothing but flat icy earth and blowing snow for miles.

It was too windy to build a fire. You were both in your hero get-ups and though Gotham gets cold, you were wholly unprepared for this climate.

He took your hand and sat you down on his lap. He held you so close and you knew he was so angry he couldn't do more to protect you from the icy wind. You tried to regulate your breathing like he did, you tried so hard but you felt like your blood was slowing in your veins, your skin felt thin and brittle.

You both clutched each other closer when the wind picked up, snow piercing through the air, cutting through skin, seeping into the flesh. You knew the snow he was sitting on was melting under him, you knew he was taking the brunt of it all. But you also knew if you tried to fight, even if you could through your chattering teeth, he'd just say, “I am trained for all kinds of environments, you aren't.” in that blunt but warm way. So, you sat in silence, waiting it out.

It was jarring to feel so cold while being so close to him when he usually runs as hot as a furnace. You tried to give him as much of your heat as possible, pulling him into you, but you don't think it helped much. You tried not to panic when you realised you couldn't feel your toes. You didn't tell him, you were sure it was the same, if not worse for him.

You tried to slow your heaving, the frigid air felt painful to breathe. You shut your eyes so the snow wouldn't get in and you didn't even register how tired you suddenly felt. Damian jerked you awake, shaking his head against yours as a silent plead. You bring him into the crook of your neck, his ice-cold nose against your neck making you shiver, and you held him there, as an apology.

You had no idea how long it was (you later find out it was a mere 2 hours) until help arrived. You only vaguely remember being picked up out of Damian's arms as you tried to struggled in protest.

You remember the wind suddenly stopping. Still, warm air and quiet footsteps on metal ground. You faintly registered you were on a ship and that the league had arrived but all you could really think about was Damian. A calm voice tells you,

“It's alright.”

You were too busy looking around, trying to see or hear where-

“He is alright, please show me your hands.”

You do as the voice, who you registered as J'onn, says and slowly feel warm blood returning to your fingers. The martian was holding some gadget to your hands, probably checking for hypothermia. All you could think about was why he wasn't doing this for Damian. (He was actually doing the exact same thing to Damian with his telekinesis.)

He takes off your shoes and wet outer layers of clothing despite your delirious refusals of it being too cold, you fought and swore at him. (Poor J'onn. You later apologized timidly, to which he just said, "It is alright, I was just relieved to find you unharmed. Though I did learn a few new expletives.")

You were put in what felt like a tanning bed, it was so warm and toasty you couldn't fight it anymore. You fell in and out of consciousness for awhile. One moment you close your eyes and the next you open them and Damian’s right was next to you, already sleeping peacefully with you in your human toaster oven. You drifted off, finally knowing you'd both be okay.

You later found out that he'd deliriously climbed out of his own little heat bed and into yours. You still laugh, imagining J’onn just standing by, letting him clamber into your heat bed instead of stopping him.

Since that day both you and Damian have been very different about cuddling and physical touch in general. When before, he would insist he runs too hot to cuddle, now he insists you use his body heat to help you sleep. He always makes it sound like he wants to cuddle for your sake not his own but you both know that's bullshit.

Usually you end up with your head on his chest, his arm around your waist. His hand will always find yours, holding it against his chest, your pulse soothing him to sleep while you feel his slow beating heart.

With the issue of heat, you came up with the brilliant idea of Damian just never wearing a shirt to bed, or pants, or- he shoved you into the pillow before you could finish the rest. You both find you don't mind waking up in the morning a little sweaty if it means you get to feel each other all night, close and warm and alive.

You think he took advantage of the fact that nobody teased him for this sudden closeness right when it started. During family movie nights you'd usually just sit next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a blanket and a bowl of popcorn.

Now, Damian always has his arm around your waist, fingers twitching every now and then, feeling your body heat. Your legs are always at least half way on top of his under the blanket. You'll rest your head on his shoulder, occasionally murmuring comments about the movie like when a character does something stupid or when a scene looks pretty.

You can tell the difference is a little jarring for the rest of the bats but to their credit, they managed to keep most of their teasing inside. (Due to the whole near death experience thing.)

Damian thinks of you when it snows now, when the wind picks up while he's on patrol. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and smiles. You always text him on nights like these, asking if he's on patrol and how he's doing. (You think you're being slick but you're not.)

You both were brought closer, and while it was from a terrible experience (Would not recommend.) you found a new way to appreciate each other. Whether that be through a small touch, a firm hold or a simple text.

❆

[comatosebunny09]

nightcap | sylus

sum: sorry for being horny on main. just needed an excuse to write something about his voice. cw: written with femme reader in mind but no gendered terms for genitalia, phone sex, guided masturbation, voice kink, praise, pet names, 1.9k wc, influenced by @threadbearsweater and their beautiful mind, only this went in the opposite direction, mdni tracklist: roar - the boyz

The phone rings once.

“Sweetheart,” he answers, voice warmed milk and honey in your earbuds. “Miss me already?”

You huff a quiet, subdued laugh. Roll your eyes, face turned towards the ceiling. “Maybe.”

Fabric shifts on the other end. Leather squeaks. He’s probably in his office. And then, he chuckles—that wretched, deep, rolling thing that threatens to drag you out to sea.

“You’re in bed, aren’t you? Couldn’t sleep?”

You suck your lip between your teeth. Instinctively shoot up on the bed, scanning for anything that would indicate he’s watching you. You relax when you find barren walls bathed in the amber creep of the setting sun.

Are you truly that predictable?

“So what if I can’t?”

A slow breath out. A smirk curling at the end of it. More rustling. He’s leaning back. Probably with the phone held in a cruelly massive hand to his ear, body in an easy slouch, features soft, almost boyish. Only with you.

“Well, since you went through all this trouble to contact me, you must be in need of a distraction.”

Your eyes flutter shut at the disarming pitch of his voice. The crackles of fire beneath. On an exhale, your muscles uncoil.

“Or maybe I do miss you.”

The declaration hangs in the air like a spider’s web subjected to a gale.

He’s quiet.

You stiffen, throat clicking as you swallow, wondering if you’ve said the wrong thing. But then—

“You shouldn’t say things like that when I can’t be there with you.”

It’s heavy with cruel intentions, coiling around your spine, barbs rooting themselves in your vertebrae. The feeling spiders through your extremities, making them tingle.

Laughing it off, you ask, “Why not?”

A constrained breath out follows. You picture his jaws rigid. Eyes shuttered. Brows knit. Fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Because I’ve been struggling to remain focused all day without you at my side.”

Your breath hitches at that. Subtle, but he catches it. Nothing makes it past him.

Fragments of a few nights prior piece themselves together in your mind. You could never forget the texture of those hands—that voice—burned into your skin.

Your silk robe falls open, crisp air on your bared midriff. Purely coincidental. Certainly not a consequence of your hand roving down your body to settle on your fluttering stomach.

Shallow breaths unfurl towards the ceiling. “Tell me something, Sylus.” Your tone is raspy with something unmistakable.

“Hmm?” A smile there. Intrigue. “Like what, sweetheart?”

“Anything. Just…talk to me.”

The pressure around you shifts as if he’s physically manifested in your hotel room. As if he’s commanded the particles to bend and warp to accommodate him.

Tinny static prickles between you for a moment longer before another creak. The soft clank of something set down on a hard surface—maybe a drink he’d been nursing before you called.

“I can’t stop thinking about how you looked in my kitchen. In my shirt with your hips moving like that. You knew I’d come in and want to ravage you all over again, didn’t you?”

You squeeze your thighs together to ward off a pleasant pulse. You nod to the slowly settling dimness like he can see you, your breath tight.

“I should’ve bent you over that counter. Tasted you. Reminded you of who you were made for. I was too gentle with you that morning. You didn’t want gentle, did you, sweetling?”

“Sylus.” His name sprawls out like a litany. The room spins. You blink rapidly through the golden haze, trying to keep your mind afloat.

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” His voice eases into something condescending. Halfway indulgent. Doting. “Does it hurt, sweet thing?”

You release a shaky, barely-there sound, thighs squeezing and unclenching as you roll from side to side, stomach dipping beneath your palm with each labored breath out. With each flutter of sensation like a moth testing its wings for the first time.

He clicks his tongue, followed by a laugh as fine as sawdust. “I can hear you fidgeting, sweetheart. Those pretty thighs pressing together. Your fingers pulling at the sheets.”

You glance at the hand beside your head, fisting the comforter. Of course he knows. You’ve been squirming since the first syllable left his mouth. You wouldn’t put it past him to have bugged your room, either.

“I hate being away from you,” you admit around a groan, face shielded by your hand scrubbing down it.

“I know. I can’t say I care much for the distance, either. But you’re not alone. I’m right here with you. Just focus on me.”

His timbre tapers into something dangerous. Something familiar. Your stomach tightens with anticipation. You find your body taut with every flicker of sound, every breath, every rustle of clothing.

“Touch yourself for me. Just your thighs for now. Nice and slow.”

And there it is. That tender instruction. A provocation.

Face hot, you heed him as if his voice threads around your hand like his Evol, guiding it himself.

Your fingers drag along the inner span of your thighs, and your breath shudders with each scrawl of your nails. They’re not quite where you want them. Where you need them. And they’re not his. But it’s satisfactory for now. Good enough to make you tremble.

“There she is. My good girl. You’re so good when you listen.”

“Sylus—” Sharpness carried on a hiss, your hips rucking up off the mattress to hump nothing.

“Shh.” If at all possible, his voice steeps lower. Your belly swoops with it. “No need to rush, my love. Let me help you.”

You melt against the sheets once more, though the tension refuses to unthread itself. Your knees fall open, softened from the husk of his voice, fingers tip-toeing further south. Close, heat radiating from between your legs, but not close enough to smother the fire.

“Lower,” he whispers, soothes. “Move your hand lower. But not completely there. Not yet.”

You graze the inner cut of one thigh. Shiver, abdomen clenched tight.

“Tease yourself. Just like I would if I were there. I wouldn’t give you what you wanted right away. I’d make you beg. Show me how much you crave me.”

Your hips undulate slowly, chasing the friction of shadows, of the phantom press of his body between your legs, a whimper caught in your throat.

“Mm. You’re responsive tonight, kitten. So sweet when you want something. I can practically see the look on your face right now. You’re biting your lip, aren’t you? Trying not to beg. So needy for me. So perfect.”

Fuck it.

You quake when your fingers dip lower, grazing where you swell. Where you burn with the imagery of his digits in place of yours. It’s a relief when your hand cups your sex. When your fingers press to the seam of it, a saturated patch already staining your underwear. Your head lolls back, lips parting with sticky breath in.

“When I have you in my arms again,” he continues, tone equally ragged as if the thought of you getting off unwinds him like a spool of thread, “I plan to make you forget everything.”

Twitching, sputtering, you press the heel of your palm against the apex of your thighs, and pleasure explodes in a flurry of phosphenes behind your shuttered lids.

“Everything?” you echo.

“Everything. Your job, your name, your body. You’ll only know the sound of my voice. The feel of my hands. My mouth. My body against yours. How good you’ll feel when I’m nestled deep inside you.”

His chair squeaks once more. He’s adjusting. Slinking down, legs spread. More than likely palming the thick throb of his cock, head back.

Breathless, so deliciously feverish, you hang onto every jittering breath, humping into your hand. Only the taste of his name sits on your tongue, spilling out in broken hymnals.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that.”

His voice works as an anchor. Cinder blocks dragging you further below the murky surface towards the sea floor. You don’t want to come up.

“You’re doing so good for me.”

A buckle clinking breaks through the static, followed by a zipper tugged down. A groan rolling like thunder. Relief.

“I can hear it. Your breath hitches every time you come close. So gorgeous when you fall apart for me,” he drawls as if to draw the attention away from his own torment.

You’re guided by instinct now. A burning need to be filled, sated, shepherded by the deep curl of his voice. By the memory of his mouth on you. Eyes shining like rubies uncovered in a cave as he sank to his knees between your legs, spreading them apart with gentle strokes before rewarding you for your patience.

“You want to come, don’t you?” It’s hardly a question. More of a statement, tucked beneath the amusement blended with pleasure. “You want to come with my voice in your ears and my name in your throat.”

Your attempt at a ‘yes’ comes out as a fractured plea.

His breath corks in his throat. He’s holding himself back. Abstaining from his pleasure in pursuit of yours. Always so considerate, even with miles and oceans between you.

“Then come, sweetheart. Let go. Give it to me. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

That sparkling rush spiders up your body as you press more into your sex. As you grind against your palm. The sensation spires in your stomach, stretching itself taut like a steel wire.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, panting in tandem with you. “Come for me. Nice and loud, sweet girl.”

Aided by his voice and the imagery of him feeding his cock into his palm, the line snaps. Frays, leaving sparks of electricity in its wake.

You’re quiet at first. Until the pleasure rolls over you like waves retreating towards the sea. Your pelvis surging off the bed, you shudder through it, Sylus’ name rolling around in your mouth, and your eyes burning with a hot wash of tears.

He lures you down from the sky with gentle praise. Binds you to your skin, voice syrupy as whiskey left to chill in the freezer.

“That’s my girl. My princess. Breathe through it. So proud of you. So good for me.”

Feeling slowly returns to your fingers. You’re staring up at the ceiling when the phosphenes recede, the kaleidoscope of colors draining away to reveal your room bathed in a film of grey.

The sun’s fully seated itself beneath the horizon.

You blink sluggishly, your body reminding you of its weight as you sink into the mattress. “Sylus,” you finally breathe, curling onto your side into yourself.

“I know, sweetheart,” he pacifies, the lust making way for affection. “I miss you, too.”

Grabbing a pillow from the headboard, you hug it tight as if your lover will appear in its place if you squeeze hard enough.

“Sleep,” he tenderly instructs. “Dream of me. I’ll stay on the line.”

As if tuned to his command, your eyes slip shut, a tired smile rounding your lips. You nestle into the pillow, curled around it like a baby koala, Sylus’ voice still a delightful echo in your ear.

[equius]

i come from the midwest, smack dab in the middle of the bible belt, and gun laws are fairly lax out there, especially when it comes to gun owners and open carry policies. it was not uncommon for me to see holstered guns at people's hips at places like the gas station, walmart, or even just walking around my small hometown.

when you're a kid, you don't think too much about it. when you get older, you start to notice more. you learn about gun violence, you see news about school shootings and deaths from firearms and you start to get paranoid. you become hyper-aware of people who are carrying weapons openly, and then later on, you start to worry about people who have conceal-carry licenses. people who could have a gun in their backpack, who could sneak it into a movie theater, library, or a church. you think about it a lot and you worry about it. i know i have had my fair share of this kind of fear. let me tell you what really helped me to overcome this fear.

my mom has always been extremely conservative. i'd wager that she'd be down the qanon rabbit hole by now if i hadn't forced her to stop using instagram and engaging in facebook groups. i told her that she needed a hobby, something to get her out of these internet spaces. did not expect her to turn to firearms as a hobby. given her political views, her conservative beliefs, and the kind of circles she had been running with for years, i thought the worst of her hobby. i assumed that she was now just a gun-toting maniac who would shoot a gay person or something. but i was wrong. she started working at a local gun range, and got involved in women's shooting groups where she met lots of women from different backgrounds; it's actually more common than you'd think for leftist/progressive women and lgbt folks to be part of women's gun groups. they often seek the means to defend themselves, and groups like these welcome them with open arms. my mom did, too. as time passed, she became even more involved, and wanted to get certified as a firearms instructor. she has always loved teaching things, and she worked hard to obtain whatever certificates she needed that allowed her to host classes and teach people about gun safety and things.

and then one day she asked me to come visit the gun range with her. she wanted to show me her hobby. at first i was extremely against the idea, guns scared me and i wanted nothing to do with them. however, i had to remind myself that she is a certified instructor, and that she would never let anything harm me. so i went. i met her coworkers at the range; they're all openly carrying, and they were very kind people. we spent a couple hours in the range together; it was very loud and overwhelming, but i paid attention as best i could. she spent a lot of time teaching me basic gun safety, letting me use a practice gun before i was able to use a real one to fire at paper targets. i did better than i thought i did. it was actually kind of fun.

i'm not saying that my opinions of guns changed overnight. but it did help to go to an environment where it was nothing but guns, and learning how to use them safely made me realize that basically everyone out there also knows gun safety. the majority of people who open-carry in public, whether it's able to be seen on their hip or concealed in a backpack, are usually just regular-ass people. people like my mom and my stepadad who just enjoy guns and want to be able to protect themselves, or should a situation arise, be able to protect others. yeah, there's a guy in franklin, indiana, who carries an AR-15 or some shit who parades it around downtown and acts exactly like that stereotypical insane gun person, and it's important to understand that even in that conservative town where probably over 50% of the residents have guns, that guy gets made fun of by everyone. they think he's acting a fool, and that he's giving gun enthusiasts and owners a bad name. most people you will meet who carry guns are not going to be like that guy. if they are conceal-carry people, you won't even know that they have one. they're not waiting for the moment to use it; they're carrying it for the event that they might need to.

regardless of how you choose to feel about guns, just remember that one, there is genuinely nothing you can do to stop people from carrying them. all the laws in the world could be passed to forbid people from carrying them, but people would still do so. what i would suggest is that you familiarize yourself with the gun laws in the area that you live in. see what's permissible and what isn't. think about what you're truly afraid of in regards to firearms, and pinpoint what you could do or research to alleviate yourself of that fear. gun laws exist for a multitude of good reasons; people like criminals, gang members, and other unsavory characters will always have access to firearms and will always carry them no matter what; gun laws allowing normal people like you and i to carry them ourselves is what can protect us from people like that.

look into local firearm groups. look for women's shooting clubs. visit a gun range and just look around; you don't even have to do anything there. ask questions from the employees; they're all very autistic about guns and would love to talk to you and answer your every question. someone would also be thrilled to teach you about gun safety and even instruct you how to shoot.

taking ownership of this very real fear is something that i would mandate for everyone who also has this fear. i have been there myself, and i have since then worked on my fear and have done more to educate myself about firearms, researched my town's gun laws, and met a good handful of gun owners who were also very sane, normal people. it really helped to readjust my mindset, and helped me learn that not every gun owner is an insane maniac just itching to shoot up a place somewhere.

and if you don't want to do any of that, i would suggest therapy. because all of that extreme fear and paranoia you're experiencing is not healthy in any way, and i sincerely hope that you can find a way to assuage it someday. please feel free to dm me if you have any questions about anything, i'm happy to answer what i can, and my mom would be happy to answer what i can't.

Americans - how do you function in daily life knowing there could be a gun on the same street / in the same bus / in the same Walmart as you? At any given moment? Like how do you not go insane with fear? I am genuinely asking.

[calcifiedunderland]

hey so how do you think the octo dorm boys and Ruggie would deal with a reader who grew up on some rough streets in a kingdom/city there’s gangs and men selling snakeoil constantly there.. This reader is overall nice, just wants to have peace and fun, but if Floyd threatens to squeeze this reader all threatening, this readers just like “Do it! Bitch! We’ll see who ends up in the medical bay!” With zero fear, staring Floyd down. (Ruggie attempts to pick pocket this reader, grabs his hand, and reader ruffles his hair, “awe that’s cute you thought you could steal from me. A for effort”)?

💌Request received! Thank you for your message~

I’m having fun with these headcanon requests lol 🥰 enjoy!!

Ruggie Bucchi

💛For whatever reason, Ruggie got a different vibe from you. Like you knew more than you were letting on. You were still really sweet and kind to everyone, so he just brushed it off. After all, it was unusual for NRC students to be as kind as you for nothing in return.

💛Ruggie got the feeling you and him weren’t too far off from each other. You didn’t always talk about your past, growing up on rougher streets and dealing with schemers.

💛At some point, he’d taken to gently teasing you. And old habits did die hard. He saw you with your wallet in your back pocket, nearly about to fall out, and he grinned. You hadn’t even noticed him either. He’d just nick it and replace the money later~… or so he’d thought.

“I know your games, Ruggie.”

He stopped, feigning wide-eyed confusion. “Huh? What do you mean, Prefect?” Your wallet was now tucked into his back pocket, perfectly concealed by his oversized blazer. You had no idea he was there. He’d made no sound.

You clicked your tongue, angling your head to the side softly. “Aww~” you strode up to Ruggie, reaching behind and plucking your wallet from his back pocket. You then reached up and ruffled his hair.

You smiled at Ruggie, but a chill went down his spine. Your eyes were icy as you stalked up to him, hands still clutching your wallet. “It’s cute you think you can steal from me~”

You ruffled his hair, watching him grimace and fix it as he watched you go. You looked over your shoulder, waving your wallet with a hint of mischief in your eyes, “A for the effort though~ It was good for your first try!”

Azul Ashengrotto

💙To Azul, you’re not a major threat. Sure, you may have a lot of friends and connections on campus, but you have a kind disposition and no magic at all. He figures that, since you have no bark nor bite, you probably need others to defend you. Surely he could help you there~

💙He had Jade and Floyd look into your background discreetly. When they discovered that you’d grown up on rough streets, dealing with gangs and dubious sellers, he didn’t fully believe it at first.

💙That all changed when he made the mistake of trying to swindle you into a deal. He messed with the wrong person…

Azul smiled at you, “this is beneficial to both of us. You’ll be running errands here and there, and getting paid. Simple as that.”

Azul had managed to stop you as you were scampering around the school on some errand. It was just you and him alone. You watched Azul with wide eyes as he held the golden contract closer to you, smirking. “Perhaps I could even offer you more benefits if you’d agree to be an anemone~”

You, on the other hand, seethed. You were tired of being swindled by this half-rate takoyaki. A scary look came on your face, and for a moment Azul’s eyes widened. “You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”

You leaned in close to Azul, and he shrank back a bit. “You’d better not mess with me anymore! Thought you learned back then, but if you want more, then I’ll give you more!” Azul blinked rapidly before composing himself. He’d never expected you to react like this. Perhaps you weren’t just bark and no bite.

You glared at him before walking off in a huff. For a moment, Azul observed you with a curious look in his eye, before smirking. He pushed up his glasses, a new plan rapidly forming in his head. He called after you, “Prefect, perhaps we can discuss this further!”

Jade Leech

💙You knew Jade Leech was a schemer from the moment you saw him. You kept that thought to yourself though, but you just continued to intrigue him the more time went on.

💙You weren’t particularly combative or imposing, Jade mused, but you were resourceful. He’d quietly watched you get out of scrapes and scuffles by simply avoiding any funny business, and somehow you smoothly dodged any of his attempts to fluster you. Oh, you were a fun little shrimp indeed~

💙While collecting information for Azul, he’d managed to corner you in the Botanical Gardens. He tried to fluster you, teasingly taking your notebook and holding it out of reach. He grinned down at you, mismatched eyes glinting. What would you do now?

Jade fully expected you to curl in on yourself, blinking your lashes up at him in a flustered state. You merely leaned in, tilting your head up in challenge.

“You wanna go toe to toe with me?” You straightened yourself up, getting in Jade’s face just like he was getting in yours. He was surprised (and sadistically delighted) to see the fire in your eyes.

“You wanna try something with me,” you seethed, a on your last nerve because so help you, you were exhausted, “then we’ll see who ends up in the medical bay.” You stared down Jade.

He backed off, still smiling charmingly. “I see,” he said, eyes glinting as he watched you frown in confusion. “Huh?” He hummed, “here you are. I hope to see you soon, Prefect.” Jade had a mysterious look on his face as he handed you back your notebook, turning and walking out of the greenhouse. His grin only widened, heart thumping. This was intriguing.

Floyd Leech

💙Floyd doesn’t really think too much of you at first. Usually you’re just normal, bubbly, boring Shrimpy who tries to make everyone get along. It’s fun watching you try to keep the peace between everyone.

💙Floyd’s interest eventually piqued when he saw you take on some guys who were trying to mess with you. Does Shrimpy have a secret bossy side?

💙Try as he might, Floyd could never get you to show that side to him. He’d mess with you, poke you, but you usually took it in stride. Until he managed to choose the wrong day.

You were this close to throwing someone out of a window.

You’d been given a boatload of tasks by Crowley, who’d gone missing hours ago, not to mention you had to dig Grim, Ace, and Deuce out of more trouble. You were at your wits end, and now you had to deal with a giddy Floyd who wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Shrimpy~ you’re no fun! You’re so boring lately.” Floyd loomed closer to you. He had a crazed look in his eyes, “maybe I oughta give ya a lil squeeze~” he expected you to shrink back, maybe even plead with him.

He was shocked (but honestly delighted) when you got in his face. “Do it, Leech! We’ll see who ends up in the medical bay!” You looked him dead in the eye, your own face looking as crazed as him.

Floyd just stared at you. Onlookers slowly backed away, no one who yelled at Floyd normally walked away without a bruise at least. They didnt expect Floyd to throw his head back in laughter as you stomped away, grumbling. He trotted after you, still giggling, “Shrimpy! I knew you weren’t boring after all!”

I couldn’t bring myself to be mean to Ruggie I’m ngl. Giving the octotrio a taste of their own medicine is fine any day tho 🥰 Anyway thanks for reading!!! I’m working through the requests fic by fic, I’m hoping to finish them all up soon!! Xoxo Calci~

[pillow-coded]

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 11

Summary: After a week of silence, Spencer finally comes back with hope. But Y/N’s guard is still up, and one broken toy shatters more than just plastic. Couple: Spencer Reid / Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warnings: Angsttttt, big argument Word Count: 7.8k

A/N: I’ll post chapter 12 in a couple of hours, I’m sorry for the delay, it’s just been a busy day for me.

Series Masterlist

My whole life, I’ve been running away from anything that gets too overwhelming. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad—if it’s personal, I shut down. I could be standing in a warehouse, talking an unsub down with a gun to my chest, and feel completely fine. But the moment someone asks how I’m really doing, or what I want, or whether I meant that look, that touch—I run.

Like the pile of unopened mail on my kitchen counter—bills, medical forms, probably something from the Bureau about my insurance renewal. I know I should open them. I don’t.

Or like the time my old professor from Caltech left a message. There’s an open guest lecture slot, and he wanted me to consider coming back. Just for a day.

I listened to the voicemail. Then deleted it.

Never called him back. Never told anyone it happened.

Because going back to Caltech would mean confronting who I was before. Before the BAU. Before the trauma. Before addiction hollowed me out and stitched me back together wrong. And I’m terrified that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.

Or maybe it’s like the way I dodge the entire subject of Cat Adams with such precision it should be studied.

The case is closed. She’s in prison. That should be enough.

But the other day, when Garcia casually mentioned a stray cat outside her apartment—I froze. My entire body went still. It was just a phrase. A cat. And still, I heard her voice.

I’ve never told anyone what Cat really said to me. What she made me do in that visitation room. How it made me feel—less than human. Like a puppet with strings I didn’t know I had.

JJ knows, She was there that day, and unfortunately, saw what I think is the worst part of me. She’s tried to make me talk about it a couple times, says it’ll be good for me. I just keep it all locked away, convinced silence is strength. Pretending I’ve moved on. Pretending it doesn’t crawl under my skin at night.

I told myself I wouldn’t run from them. Not this time. That I’d let myself want something soft. Something good. That maybe I could stay.

But last week proved I haven’t changed at all.

Because the second her lips touched mine—I ran.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

I shouldn’t have left. That’s the part I keep circling back to—not the way she looked at me, not the shift in the air between us, not even the fact that I pulled back like a coward. It’s the leaving. The silence I left behind.

One second, her breath was on mine, and the next, I was halfway down the hallway, keys in hand, pretending like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just come inches from either ruining everything… or finally admitting to myself that maybe, just maybe, I deserved them.

It’s been a week, and I still can’t stop thinking about it. About her. About the way her eyes flicked down to my mouth, like she’d been waiting. About how I should’ve just leaned back in—cupped her cheeks—and kissed her like there was no tomorrow.

We haven’t talked much since.

She wasn’t texting or calling, which I was going crazy without. You’d think I would’ve texted myself, but I was too ashamed of what I’d done to do anything about it. Too ashamed of the way I ran. Of how easily I reverted to old patterns—retreat, repress, pretend.

I kept rereading our old messages like they might offer a roadmap back to whatever we were before. Before I let silence answer for me. Before I turned my back on something that felt dangerously close to real.

Every time my phone buzzed, my heart jumped—stupidly, breathlessly—until it wasn’t her. And then I hated myself a little more for hoping.

I tried to distract myself. I worked late, cleaned my apartment, reorganized my books. But nothing helped. Not really.

Then Maddie called.

She got Y/N’s phone somehow and managed to dial me—probably by pure chaotic magic, the way only five-year-olds can.

“Hello?”

“Spencer!” Her voice was so bright. So completely unaware of the tension humming underneath everything. And it undid me.

“Hi, princess,” I said, already smiling. “How are you?”

“I miss you!”

“I miss you too, sweetheart.”

“Can you come to my house to play Princess Hospital with me? Mommy said she’s busy.”

“You have to ask your mama if I can go, Mads.”

“I did. She keeps saying tomorrow.”

That made my heart sink.

Not getting texts or calls from her was already enough to keep me pacing, checking my phone like an idiot. But this—hearing that she was deliberately pushing me off—was worse. It wasn’t just silence anymore. It was avoidance. Distance. Intentional or not, it felt like rejection. And it hurt more than I expected it to.

And Maddie, in her sparkly, sugar-spun innocence, didn’t even know she was delivering the final blow.

“Maddie, I told you not to grab my phone, sweetie…”

I heard her voice in the background—closer with each word, low and tense and unmistakably hers. My pulse picked up instantly.

“Who did you call?”

There was a pause. A soft shuffle. Then nothing but static and breath.

And then—

“Spencer?”

She didn’t sound mad. Not exactly. Just surprised. Guarded.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—Maddie just… she called me, I—”

“It’s fine,” she cut in. Too quickly. Too politely.

That made it worse somehow.

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” I tried again, even though the apology felt clumsy in my mouth. “I can go—”

“No. It’s okay. Really.”

Another silence.

I could practically hear her deciding what kind of boundary to build between us.

Then, finally:

“She really wants to see you.” She paused briefly, “So… if you’re free tonight, you can come over.”

She didn’t say I want to see you too.

She didn’t say much at all.

But I clung to it anyway.

“Okay,” I murmured. “I’ll be there.”

I almost wanted to cancel.

But I didn’t.

Because even if she wasn’t waiting at the door, even if her smile didn’t reach her eyes, I’d still show up.

All I could do now was try to stay.

So I grabbed the stupidly over-wrapped box I’d been holding onto all week—Maddie’s favorite glitter pen set and a plastic tiara that looked absurdly like the one she wore last time. I told myself I brought it for her, but maybe I just needed an excuse to come back.

The drive felt longer than usual. Every turn, every red light, every street sign was too familiar, too full of memory.

The streets I used to look forward to driving through—the ones I’d memorized like a favorite book, now just felt like approaching a cliff edge I’d built myself.

By the time I parked, my palms were sweating against the steering wheel. My chest felt too tight. I checked my reflection in the mirror, fixed my hair even though it wouldn’t help, and grabbed the bag.

I hesitated at the door.

There used to be a rhythm to this. Three soft knocks. Maddie shouting before the door even opened. Y/N smiling like I belonged there.

This time, it was quieter.

I knocked.

One breath.

Two.

And then— The door opened.

Y/N stood there, hair pulled back messily, sweater sleeves pushed up. She looked like she hadn’t slept much.

Her eyes flicked over me, then to the gift bag, then back again.

“We were just setting up the operating room,” she said.

A smile. Small. Careful.

“She has glitter flu,” she added.

I nodded, trying to mirror her ease, even though everything in me felt brittle.

“I brought backup supplies,” I said, lifting the bag slightly.

That made her smile a little more. Barely.

“Come in,” she murmured, stepping aside.

So I did.

Because no matter how quiet things had gotten—how tense or off or unfinished—this still felt like the only place I wanted to be.

Even if I didn’t know where I stood anymore.

“Spencer!!!!”

Maddie’s voice cracked through the room like a firework, shrill and delighted and entirely unaware of the undercurrent between her mother and me. She came barreling out of the hallway in mismatched socks and a pink tutu, a toy stethoscope slung around her neck like a badge of honor.

“You’re late! The unicorns are already in surgery!”

I barely had time to brace myself before she threw her arms around my legs in a glitter-dusted hug.

“I brought backup,” I said, holding out the gift bag.

She gasped like I’d handed her a golden ticket. “Extra supplies! Mommy, he brought extra sparkles!”

Y/N gave a small smile from across the room. Quiet. Guarded. Still hard to read.

I wanted to hold onto Maddie’s excitement. Let it fill the spaces that had grown sharp and quiet. I dropped to my knees beside her, letting her pull me toward the couch where her hospital setup had completely overtaken the living room floor.

“Dr. Sparkle, reporting for duty,” I said softly.

Maddie giggled. “You’re gonna help me save Princess Glitter-Belle!”

So I did.

“Mommy, are you gonna play with us?”

Y/N looked up from the couch, where she was curled with a book she clearly hadn’t turned a page of in the last minute of us setting up the makeshift hospital.

“Oh honey, I’d love to… but I’m tired,” she said gently, offering Maddie a small smile. “I think I’ll only watch this time.”

Maddie didn’t question it. She just shrugged and went back to diagnosing Princess Glitter-Belle with a severe case of Rainbow Rash.

But I noticed.

Y/N usually threw herself into these games, made up entire subplots, played the Evil Queen or the Royal Nurse with accents and flourishes Maddie found hilarious. But tonight, she barely looked up. She just held the book like a shield, nodding along to our make-believe surgery like it was background noise.

I glanced at her more than I should’ve. She didn’t meet my eyes, but I knew that she was aware of my glances and stares.

And I don’t know why, but that hurt more than if she’d been outright cold.

It was like being near her was the punishment. Like this was the consequence of me running away from her attempts at a connection beyond of what we had.

“Princess Glitter-Bella,” Maddie began, her voice suddenly full of urgency, “she ate too many glitter muffins and came into the hospital very early this morning. She asked for the best doctor at the hospital. She’s been waiting all day, Dr. Sparkles. What will we do?”

I forced a smile. Played along.

“Well,” I said, adjusting my invisible glasses with exaggerated seriousness, “she just has to drink some pixie dust.”

Maddie gasped. “We ran out!”

She looked at me with big, panicked eyes, holding her stuffed unicorn to her chest like a nurse awaiting orders.

“Then…” I paused, pretending to think, “we’ll have to make some from scratch.”

“How?”

I leaned in and whispered, “Three sprinkles. Two butterfly kisses. And a secret from someone’s heart.”

Maddie squealed. “I have the sprinkles!”

She darted off toward her art bin in the corner.

And for a second, I looked up again—back toward Y/N.

Still on the couch. Still holding that book. Still not looking at me.

And I couldn’t help it.

All I could think about was what she could possibly be thinking.

“Dr. Sparkles, I brought the sprinkles!!” Maddie announced, breathless and triumphant, holding up a tiny plastic cup filled with glitter.

I smiled at her enthusiasm, but it didn’t quite reach all the way.

“Good,” I said, adjusting my voice to sound steady, warm. “Now we just need the butterfly kisses and the secret from someone’s heart.”

Maddie paused, tilting her head like she was genuinely considering it. “Can I give the butterfly kisses?”

“Of course,” I said.

She leaned over to kiss the stuffed princess doll right on the forehead, giggling to herself. Then she turned back to me with all the seriousness a four-year-old can muster.

“Okay, but… what about the secret? Are you gonna tell one?”

I looked at her. At the innocence in her eyes, the kind that didn’t know what it meant to keep things locked away.

I felt something heavy stir in my chest.

I could’ve said anything—made up a new rule, changed the subject. But my voice came out quieter than I intended.

“I think…” I glanced up again. Toward Y/N. Still quiet. Still turned just slightly away.

“I think sometimes the secret stays a secret,” I murmured. “Even if you really want to share it.”

Maddie didn’t seem to notice the shift in tone. She just shrugged. “Okay! We can just use my secret.”

She leaned in close and whispered something into the doll’s ear that I couldn’t hear.

Then she looked at me and beamed. “Now she’s gonna feel all better.”

God, I hoped so.

Because I wasn’t sure I could say the same for myself.

“Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom,” Maddie chirped, already getting to her feet, tiara bouncing with each step.

“Alright, sweetie,” Y/N said softly, setting her book aside. “Do you need help?”

Maddie shook her head, determined. “Nope. I’m big now.”

We both watched her disappear down the hall, the echo of her little footsteps fading around the corner.

And then—quiet.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful. The kind that prickles under your skin.

I stayed where I was on the floor, suddenly aware of how still everything had become. The living room, the leftover glitter, the space between us.

She was standing now, by the edge of the couch. One arm crossed loosely over her stomach, the other hanging at her side. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sweater like she didn’t know what to do with them.

I looked up at her, and for the first time all evening, she looked back.

Really looked.

Her expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not cold. Just… tired. Worn down by something I couldn’t quite name.

I swallowed.

“Y/N…” I said her name softly, a question tucked into the sound.

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped from mine. Then she shook her head—barely, like she was shaking something off.

“I’m fine,” she said.

That lie sat heavy in the space between us.

“You’re not…” I speak out, which was strange for me. This was usually the part where I hid within myself. “You’ve barely spoken to me since I got here… you’re just sitting there, not even reading—”

“Who says I wasn’t reading?”

“You’ve been on the same page for five minutes now…. I just kinda thought you’d join in to the whole… glitter pink hospital.”

“I’m just feeling under the weather.”

She said it too smoothly. Too quickly. Like she’d rehearsed it. Like maybe she’d planned to use that excuse no matter what I said tonight.

I let out a quiet breath, sat back on my heels. Tried not to let the sting show too much.

“Oh,” I said, nodding like I believed her. “Right.”

A beat passed. Two.

I picked up one of Maddie’s stuffed animals and turned it over in my hands, like maybe if I focused hard enough, it’d stop the pressure from tightening in my chest.

“I just thought…” I swallowed, still not looking at her. “I thought maybe something was wrong. With us.”

The silence that followed that word—us—was louder than anything Maddie had said all evening.

I finally looked up.

She was already looking at me.

And she didn’t say a thing.

“Dr. Sparkles! a new patient has arrived! she needs urgent care!”

Maddie’s voice rang out from the hallway like a lifeline thrown too early.

Y/N blinked, her gaze breaking from mine in an instant. Whatever had been forming behind her eyes—whatever she might have said—was gone.

Swallowed by the sound of little feet padding across the floor.

Maddie charged back into the room, cradling a stuffed giraffe in her arms like it was on its last breath.

“Her name is Princess Longneck. She fell off the castle tower and broke her magic glitter dress!” she said breathlessly, placing the giraffe between us.

I looked at it. Then at Y/N.

She was already backing away, returning to the couch, to her book, to safety.

Back to pretending.

“Better get to work,” she said, voice too light, too even.

I turned back to the giraffe. Nodded.

“Of course,” I murmured. “We’ll do everything we can.”

But my heart wasn’t in it anymore.

Not with Y/N sitting just a few feet behind us—quiet, guarded, clearly still hurting because of me. Because I ran.

I should apologize. I should kneel in front of her right now, tell her how sorry I am. That I panicked. That I left because the moment felt too good, not because it didn’t mean anything. I should tell her I haven’t stopped thinking about it, about her, about the way her eyes flickered shut like she was waiting for—

“How can we help her?” Maddie ask, tugging on my sleeve.

I didn’t hear her.

I was too busy wondering if it’s too late. If she’s already decided I don’t belong here anymore. If the door I walked out of last week is the one I won’t be walking back through.

“Dr. Sparkles!”

I blinked. Maddie was staring up at me now, wide-eyed, her bottom lip starting to wobble.

“You’re not listening,” she whispered. “Princess Longneck’s really sick, and you’re supposed to help.”

“I…” I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I got distracted.”

She frowned. “But you never get distracted.”

I smiled, weakly. “I know. I’ll do better.”

I reached for the giraffe again, but my hands felt heavy. Everything did.

Across from us, I could feel Y/N’s eyes on me. And for the first time tonight, I didn’t look back.

Because I didn’t think I could handle what I’d see.

“Maybe you need some snacks. I’ll go get my brownies!”

Maddie got up and scrambled to the kitchen.

Y/N followed a beat later. Quietly. No words, just a soft shuffle of feet and the rustle of her sweater sleeve as she pushed herself off the couch.

Except… I didn’t know where she went.

I didn’t hear the fridge open. Didn’t hear Maddie call out to her. Just silence. Like she’d slipped out of the room—maybe the apartment—altogether.

And she left. She really left.

I sat there on the rug, surrounded by plush animals and glitter band-aids and cardboard crowns, and I just—

I didn’t want her to go.

I wanted her here. I needed her here.

I needed to look at her. Talk to her. Say something real and hear her say something back.

I needed to hear her voice, her laugh—the kind of laugh she used to give me, effortless and warm, the one that always made me feel like I wasn’t too much.

I needed to know I hadn’t ruined everything.

I stayed sitting there on the rug, unmoving, while Maddie’s voice drifted faintly from the kitchen. I couldn’t make out the words—just the rhythm of her excitement, the clinking of something plastic—but Y/N’s voice was missing from it. And somehow that absence felt louder than anything else.

She was still here. Somewhere. Maybe only a room away. But it didn’t matter. It still felt like she was gone.

I missed her.

God, I missed her—and she hadn’t even left the house.

I missed the way she’d lean on the doorframe and smile at whatever nonsense Maddie and I were doing. I missed how she’d chime in with some absurd diagnosis of her own—“I think this princess has a case of sparkle fatigue. Only solution is snuggles and juice.” I missed the way she used to look at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. Like I was something she was still trying to figure out but wanted to understand.

I missed her voice. Her laugh. Her eyes when they softened. The way she always offered tea when I came over, even though I always said yes and barely drank it. I missed the quiet conversations we’d have after Maddie fell asleep—the ones that made the world feel smaller, safer.

And I missed the feeling I used to get in this apartment. That maybe, for once, I belonged somewhere.

It was stupid. It had only been a week.

But it also hadn’t. Because this wasn’t just about time—it was about what it had started to feel like. What she had started to mean to me. What Maddie had started to mean.

I had this picture in my head, this fragile daydream of what it could’ve looked like if I hadn’t run that night. If I’d just stayed. If I’d kissed her.

Would she be curled next to me now instead of retreating behind rooms and walls?

Would her eyes still light up when she saw me?

Would she be sitting on this floor, a toy tiara crooked on her head, laughing at whatever diagnosis Maddie threw out next?

Instead, she was gone.

Still within the walls of this home—but unreachable.

And I hated myself for being the reason why.

“Spencer?” Maddie’s loud voice cut through my thoughts.

She was standing in front of me, holding a small plastic plate with a brownie crumbling at the edges, her brows furrowed with something like worry. I realized—she must’ve called my name a few times already.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, sitting up straighter, forcing my voice to be light. “What were you saying?”

“I brought you the brownies,” she said, her voice small now. Like she was unsure if she’d done something wrong.

“Right,” I nodded quickly. “Thank you. That was really sweet of you.”

She smiled, but it was softer than usual. Dimmed. Like even she could feel something was off.

She placed the plate carefully beside me and sat back down, fidgeting with one of her stuffed animals in her lap.

“Princess Longneck said you seem sad,” she mumbled after a moment, not looking at me.

That hit harder than it should have.

I looked down at the toy in front of me, the half-finished surgery, the glitter scattered like shrapnel around the living room carpet. Then up, toward the hallway where Y/N had disappeared.

I forced a smile for Maddie’s sake, even if it didn’t reach all the way.

“Tell her I’m just tired,” I said gently.

But I think we both knew that was a lie.

The past week felt like moving through water—thick, slow, impossible to breathe in. I kept telling myself it didn’t matter, that it was just a simple rejection, a moment that passed. But my body didn’t believe me.

I’d reach for my phone and stop myself. I’d think of something funny to tell him, something Maddie said, something small and inconsequential—and I’d freeze. Because I didn’t know if I was still allowed to share those things with him anymore.

It wasn’t the rejection itself that gutted me. It was the aftermath. The space he left in the room when he walked out. The fact that he never looked back. The fact that I did.

I got up from the couch, no explanation, I just needed space. A breath. A wall between us so I could stop wondering if I’d imagined everything we were building.

But I didn’t go far.

I stood just around the corner, back pressed against the kitchen entryway, listening to them. Listening to him.

I needed to know if he was still himself. If he was still ours.

And for a moment, it almost felt like before.

Until I heard the edge in Maddie’s voice when she said, “Princess Longneck said you seem sad.”

I leaned in slightly, just enough to glimpse them from where I stood.

Spencer looked like a man unraveling slowly—still trying to smile for her, still showing up, but barely holding the seams together. I wanted to reach out. I almost did.

Then he said, “Tell her I’m just tired.”

But it was obviously not that.

He was just as bothered as I was over the events of last week.

“Why are you tired? Is it because of your superhero job?”

Spencer let out a soft laugh, barely audible. The one he did when he was trying to mask how close the words landed.

“Did your mommy tell you about that?” he asked.

“She says we don’t see you a lot because you’re out there fighting bad guys… is it true?”

A pause.

“Yeah,” he said gently. “It’s true.”

I swallowed hard.

I had said that. Weeks ago, when Maddie had insisted on seeing him every single day of the week. It was meant to be a comfort. A distraction. Something whimsical and heroic.

From my spot in the hallway, I could hear the silence building again.

Then Maddie asked, “Do you miss me when you’re gone?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. Long enough that I had to close my eyes and brace myself for what he might say.

“More than you know,” he finally murmured.

And it cracked something in me.

Because I believed him.

Even after everything—after the kiss, after the distance, after a week of cold space and half-sentences—He was still here.

“Did you miss mommy?”

My breath caught.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood frozen in the hallway, fingers curling tighter around the edge of my sleeve.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. For a heartbeat, all I could hear was the faint hum of the fridge behind me, the light clink of Maddie fidgeting with her toys.

And then, barely above a whisper:

“Yeah. I did.”

That was all.

Simple. Unadorned. No explanation. No hesitation. Just yeah, I did, spoken like a truth he hadn’t meant to say out loud. Like something he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head but never dared to release until now.

His voice had that quiet pull to it—soft, reverent, full of something that sounded too close to longing. Like he wasn’t just answering Maddie’s question, but mine too. The one I’d been too afraid to ask: Did any of it mean something to you? Or was I the only one who felt it shift?

And maybe I was reading into it. Maybe I wanted to. But I could still feel the echo of it ripple through me, slow and deep, settling somewhere beneath my ribs—warm, sharp, uninvited. That kind of ache you get when you realize you’ve been holding your breath for days and didn’t notice until someone says something kind enough to make your chest hurt.

I hadn’t even seen his face, but I heard him. I heard how careful he was with it. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to miss me, but couldn’t stop himself from doing it anyway.

I stayed there, still pressed against the wall, heart knocking hard against bone. Not moving. Not daring to breathe. Because if I did—if I stepped around the corner and looked at him now—I didn’t know what I’d do. I didn’t know what I’d say. Only that I wanted to. That I missed him, too. And maybe I always would.

before I could step back in or say anything at all—

Snap.

A small, hollow crack echoed from the living room.

Maddie gasped. “You broke it!”

“You broke Princess Longneck’s tiara!”

I stepped out from behind the kitchen wall just in time to see it unfold.

Maddie was standing in the middle of the living room, clutching the now-cracked stuffed animal to her chest, staring at Spencer like he’d done something unforgivable. He still held the small plastic tiara in his hands, one piece barely clinging to the other. His face—God, his face—was already tight with panic. Regret.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said gently, crouching down, holding the pieces up. “I was just trying to straighten it, and it cracked. But it’s okay—we can fix it, I promise. I’ll find glue, or tape, or—”

“No!” Maddie’s voice came out shrill, close to the edge. “You weren’t paying attention! You weren’t even listening!”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and her tiny frame started to tremble—breath hitching, shoulders rising. She was unraveling fast.

And Spencer was trying. God, he was trying.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay, sweetheart, let’s take a breath, alright? Can you do that with me? In and out—just like we practiced—”

He’d done this before. He’d helped her through bigger meltdowns than this. In grocery store aisles and crowded sidewalks and quiet nights when she couldn’t sleep. He knew the drill. And normally, it worked.

But this time—it wasn’t.

And I could see it in his posture. The way his shoulders pulled in tighter. The way his voice cracked at the edge of too much.

“Maddie,” he said, a little louder, a little firmer, still trying to hold onto the moment. “It’s just a toy. We can fix it, or I’ll buy you a new one”

Wrong move.

She flinched. Her lip trembled. “It was a big deal to me!”

And then—

“Madeline, that’s enough.” Spencer snapped. Not a yell. But too loud. Too sharp. His voice cut the air like something final.

She froze. The tears stopped, suspended. Her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes flooded all over again—but this time, she didn’t scream.

She just looked… hurt.

And for a second—just one breathless second—everything stopped.

Time slowed. The room blurred at the edges. And all I could see was Maddie’s face, crumpling in confusion. All I could hear was Spencer’s voice still ringing in the air, too sharp, too unlike him.

How could it be that the same man who fell asleep on my couch with my baby curled against his chest—the same man who once sat on the kitchen floor with her for hours just to convince her that monsters weren’t real—was now the reason she looked like that?

How could he go from tracing butterflies on her back during a meltdown to snapping her name like it was something to be ashamed of?

I blinked, stunned still. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he hadn’t meant it. I knew that. But that didn’t matter. Not when Maddie was standing there like that—silent, shaking, shrinking in front of him.

Not when the air between them had turned from safe to something sharp.

And in the space of that one breath—I moved.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

My voice cracked through the room like a whip—sharp, louder than I intended, but I didn’t care. It cut through the silence, through the tension, through the part of me that still loved him. Because Maddie was crying. And he’d made her cry.

Spencer turned slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d really heard me. His eyes were wide, stunned—like I’d knocked the breath out of him. He stood up from the rug, stiff and uncertain, still holding the broken tiara in one hand like a white flag he didn’t know how to wave.

“It was an accident,” he said, voice quick and uneven. “I didn’t mean to break it—I was distracted, and then she—”

“You don’t get to raise your voice at her.”

The second the words left my mouth, the whole room changed. The air thinned. Maddie sniffled once behind me, and then—

She bolted.

A blur of pink and glitter and tears, sprinting down the hallway toward her bedroom.

“Maddie—!” I called out, but the door slammed before I could even take a step.

The sound echoed behind us. Then… silence.

I turned back to him. Slowly. Deliberately.

“You don’t get to raise your voice at her,” I repeated, quieter this time, but firmer. Sharper. “I don’t care how frustrated you were. I don’t care what broke or what she said. That is not how we do things in this house.”

His hands dropped to his sides, the tiara slipping from his fingers and landing on the rug with a dull plastic clatter.

“I wasn’t yelling,” he said again, but this time his voice had no conviction. “I was trying to help. She was spiraling and I just— I didn’t know what to do.”

“She’s four,” I snapped. “She’s allowed to spiral.”

“I know that—”

“Do you?” My throat was tight. My heart pounding. “Because that didn’t sound like someone who knew what she needed. That sounded like someone who lost his patience.”

Spencer’s mouth opened—then closed.

And in that beat, that terrible beat of silence between us, I realized what I’d known since the second he raised his voice:

Something had cracked.

And it wasn’t just a tiara.

Spencer took a small step toward me, like he didn’t realize he’d done it. Like his body was still trying to close the distance even while his words failed.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” he said, softer now. “I didn’t even raise my voice that much—just enough to get her to stop.”

“Yeah, well, she did stop,” I shot back, eyes narrowing. “Did you see her face? You scared her, Spencer.”

He flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said again, and it sounded like it hurt him to say it. “I panicked. I was trying everything else and nothing was working—she was crying and screaming and I thought maybe if I just—”

“What?” I cut in, voice low, bitter. “If you just snapped, she’d listen better?”

He looked at me then, really looked. His mouth opened, but the words caught somewhere behind his eyes.

“She was spiraling,” he repeated, helpless. “I just wanted to help. I’ve read about this, I’ve seen how to—how to regulate when a child’s in distress—”

“Yeah?” I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He blinked.

“I’m trying,” he said finally. “I know I messed up, okay? I know. I’m not saying it was the right way to handle it. But I love her. I care about her. I’m doing my best.”

And for a second, I wanted to let that be enough.

But I couldn’t.

Because my daughter was behind a closed door, crying.

And the man standing in front of me—the one who’d held her, protected her, made her laugh on the worst days—had raised his voice just enough to undo all of that.

And then I heard myself say it. Quiet. Fractured.

“You’re not her dad, Spencer. So stop trying to be.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Irrevocable.

His face didn’t change right away. He just stood there, eyes locked on mine like he hadn’t quite heard me correctly. Or maybe like he had—and was still trying to believe I’d actually said it.

I watched it hit him in waves.

The first was shock. Then something like heartbreak.

He blinked once. Slowly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

And for a second, I hated myself.

Because I hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not with that edge. Not like I was pushing him out of something he’d never been properly let into in the first place. But I had. And it was already too late to take it back.

Spencer dropped his gaze. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curling into nothing.

“Right,” he said softly. Barely more than breath. “Yeah.”

He nodded once, tight and mechanical, like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I should go.”

“No—” I stepped forward, the word catching in my throat, but he was already moving.

“No, it’s okay,” he said. And this time, he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound anything. Just… tired. Hollow. “I get it.”

He walked to the door without looking back. No dramatic exit. No slam. Just the quiet click of the lock behind him as he slipped out of our home like he’d never been part of it at all.

And I stood there, heart in my throat, hands shaking, staring at the door like it might open again.

It didn’t.

And for the second time in a week, he left without a word.

Only this time… I was the one who pushed him.

I didn’t move.

Not for a second.

Then another.

The door had already closed. I heard it. I felt it. The finality of it echoed in my bones, louder than his footsteps ever could. But my body wouldn’t register it yet. I just stood there, like if I stayed still long enough, maybe time would rewind. Maybe I’d hear his voice again. Maybe I’d stop myself before the words left my mouth.

But they had. And he was gone.

My chest felt tight—like something was sitting on it, pressing down inch by inch until my breath was nothing but a whisper. My arms hung useless at my sides. My fingers trembled. My legs didn’t feel like they belonged to me anymore.

And then—

I sank.

Slowly, like the floor had given out beneath me. I folded at the knees, lowering myself down as if I could disappear into the carpet, into the glitter, into the wreckage we’d both left behind.

I pulled my legs to my chest, arms around them.

Not to feel small—though I did.

But to feel contained. Like if I didn’t hold myself together, I’d come apart.

My hands were shaking. My throat ached. My jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

I didn’t know what I had just done.

Didn’t know if it was right. Or irreversible. Or both.

I kept replaying it—his face when I said it, the way he blinked like it stung, the way he didn’t even argue. The way he just left. The one man who’d actually stayed for once in our lives—walked away without me stopping him.

And I let him.

I told him to stop trying to be something he never claimed he was.

But wasn’t that the whole thing?

He never had to say it out loud. He just was. Every time he showed up, every time he read bedtime stories, every time he tied Maddie’s shoes or picked glitter out of her hair without complaint—he was.

And I’d ripped it away.

Because I was butt-hurt over him not calling us a family at the planetarium—when we weren’t. Not really. Not officially. Not by name.

But God, did it still sting.

Because I was hurt over the rejection of my kiss. Even if he hadn’t meant to reject me. Even if he’d looked like he wanted it just as badly. He still left.

And I’d taken all of that—all the bruises I didn’t let heal, all the hope I refused to admit I had—and I used it like a blade.

I said the one thing I knew would cut him where he couldn’t cover it.

You’re not her dad.

Because saying that felt safer than asking why he didn’t kiss me.

Because pushing him away felt easier than waiting around to see if he’d do it first.

Because love, when you’ve been hurt enough times, doesn’t always come out gentle.

Sometimes it claws its way out—sharp, defensive, mean. And by the time you realize you’ve drawn blood… they’re already gone.

And now he was gone.

I buried my face in my knees, but no tears came at first. Just that silent pressure behind my eyes, the kind that builds and builds and doesn’t know where to go. My body didn’t even know how to cry properly—I just sat there, paralyzed. Hollowed out.

But Maddie was still crying.

Behind a closed door, down a short hallway, in a room filled with stuffed animals and tiny tiaras and stories I’d promised her would never end like this.

I had to move. I had to.

For her.

I was her mother. I had to be the one who stayed steady, even when everything inside me felt like fire. Even when my chest felt carved out. Even when I couldn’t breathe.

But I couldn’t stand yet.

So I sat there a moment longer—shaking, burning, breaking.

Letting it hurt. Letting it ruin me.

Because maybe it had to.

And then I’d get up.

And knock on Maddie’s door.

And tell her it was okay to cry.

Because someone had to say it.

Someone had to make sure she didn’t burn with us.

That thought steadied something in me.

Not enough to fix anything. Not enough to stop the ache. But enough to breathe again—just barely. Enough to unclench my fists and feel the carpet under my palms. Enough to look up at the hallway and remember who was waiting for me at the end of it.

I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, even though I wasn’t sure when the tears had started falling. I hadn’t noticed. They’d just… happened. Like the body finally catching up to everything the heart had been screaming.

My legs felt stiff as I unfolded them. My knees popped when I straightened. My hands trembled when I reached for the wall to steady myself.

But I stood.

And then I walked.

One foot. Then the other.

Down the hall where the light was dimmer. Where the door was closed. Where the silence on the other side felt thicker than anything I’d just left behind.

I lifted my hand. Let it hover just an inch from the wood.

My fingers curled in.

Then I knocked. Gently. Barely audible. Like I was afraid I’d break her, too.

“Maddie?” My voice cracked on her name. “Can I come in?”

Silence.

I closed my eyes. Pressed my forehead to the door.

I could hear her breathing on the other side now. That small, sniffling rhythm she always made when she was trying to be brave. Trying not to cry out loud.

I turned the knob slowly, pushing the door open just wide enough to see her—my baby girl, curled on the far corner of her bed, tiara long gone, hair mussed, fists wiping furiously at her cheeks even though the tears hadn’t stopped.

“Oh, honey…”

I crossed the room without thinking, without breathing. Just moving.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me—just let out one of those tiny hiccupped sobs she always tried to hold in when she thought being strong meant staying quiet.

“you can cry, it’s okay.”

Her lip wobbled at that. And then she did. Just let go, quietly, her little body shaking with each breath she tried to hold in. I sat down on the edge of her bed and reached for her, careful and slow—just an open arm, a silent promise that I was there when she was ready.

And she came.

Maddie leaned into me like something in her had finally given permission. Like my arms were gravity, and she’d been floating for too long. I pulled her into my lap and curled around her, tucking her head beneath my chin. She was warm and trembling and heartbreakingly small.

I exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.

“I didn’t mean to be bad,” she whispered, voice so soft I almost didn’t catch it. “I just… I really liked the tiara…”

My heart cracked again.

“You weren’t bad, baby,” I said, rocking her slowly, forehead to her hair. “You were sad. And mad. And that’s okay.”

She sniffled again. “Spencer yelled.”

“I know.”

“Is he mad at me?”

“No,” I said instantly, my throat tight. “He’s not mad at you, sweetheart. He just panicked.”

“It was just a toy,” she hiccupped, “but I really liked it…”

“I know, baby. I know.” I kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was the only real thing left in the world. “It’s okay to be upset. You loved that tiara. It’s okay to feel sad.”

She nodded into my chest, her tears dampening my shirt. Her arms wrapped tightly around my waist like she was afraid I’d vanish too. And I let her hold me like that. Let her cry it all out, without rushing her, without trying to fix it.

“Please tell him to come back, Mommy,” she whispered. “I don’t want him to leave.”

And there it was.

The final blow.

The one that left me breathless.

I looked at her—my baby, my entire world—and I wanted to say yes. I wanted to promise her that I’d fix it. That he’d walk back through the door and everything would be okay again.

But I couldn’t.

So I held her closer, eyes stinging, and said the only thing I could:

“It’s late, sweet girl. Maybe tomorrow.”

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[thechaoticcherub]

WIP Whenever

Thanks so much for the tag @evolnoomym !!!!

This is from something i’m working on with dad!joel. Its going to be a mini series of fics all related to each other but able to be stand alone fics!

Tw:incest, catholicism, religious trauma

“F-father Reyes?” Joel asked, he had sat up in bed and was rubbing his forehead, trying to get his brain working. Immediately his mind went to when the last time he had been to confession, or even mass had been…god damn that Catholic guilt.

“Yes, I’m calling because your daughter is here…and I’m assuming this is as much news to you as it was to me,” As soon as Father Gabriel Reyes spoke those words, Joel was standing up to go check in your room. His first thought was that Father Reyes had the wrong girl, the wrong family but he needed to check anyway.

“What?” He asked.

“Yes, I refrained from calling the police because I know her and you and thought I should contact you first.” Joel hurried across the hall, but he already knew from the sight of your door standing ajar that you would not be in your bed. Fear rushed through him, like tidal wave after confusing tidal wave.

“I’m coming now,” Joel spoke into the phone as he stood in your doorway, staring at your bed. It looked…staged. As if you had purposely folded your blanket back just so and slid from the bed, leaving it looking like a gaping maw. Empty of his child who he had so obliviously assumed was sleeping soundly nearby.

Joel didn’t remember much about getting dressed and finding his keys. He remembered nothing of the short drive from the house to Holy Trinity. It was a drive he had done so many times before, with you that he could have done it in his sleep-apparently you could walk it in your sleep because that was the only explanation. Your sleep walking had started again. Only now it had graduated from jaunts into kitchen when you were six years old to jaunts down the middle of the night suburban streets to your old church.

When he reached the nearly empty parking lot, he parked haphazardly. The night time disturbances of the last few weeks felt like they were getting odder and odder and this was one that he could not abide. It was one thing to have a nightmare and shriek in the night. It was one thing to beg to sleep in his bed…even if that had it’s own set of problems. But this…this was a different level. Leaving your home. Leaving him to wonder how the fuck you managed to get somewhere this far away.

When Joel walked to the doors of the church he caught sight of the cleaners leaving, they gave him a look that might have been judgement. Joel hurried past them and into the narthex where he saw Father Reyes waiting for him, looking flustered.

“Father Reyes,” Joel said, “I’m so sorry about this-I’m guessin’ she’s sleepwalkin’” Joel said.

“Yes, I believe she is. I came in when the cleaners called me and said there was someone in the nave. I sat with her but I didn’t think it would be a good idea for someone other than family to wake her.” He explained. Joel was barely listening, he was looking around, trying to see if he could catch sight of you.

“Yea, probably a good idea, shit-“ he broke off, “I mean…yeah, I don’t know what’s goin’ on with her.” There was a moment when he looked back at Father Reyes that he could see that judgement he had seen on the cleaner’s faces appearing on his face, but then it was gone and he was back to his holy self. After the moment passed he felt himself wanting to ask the pastor something but he wrote it off as a ludicrous question and turned to go get you.

When he walked into the Nave, he saw you immediately, you were sitting three pews back from the front. You were seemingly staring up at the cross. Joel could shake the eeriness of it. Something about the shadows, the stained glass, the statues and looming cross made the hairs on his arms stand up. This was one of the most holy places you could be in and yet, Joel felt wrong as he walked down the aisle towards where you were sitting. Maybe he had just seen The Exorcist too many times.

There was barely any light in the nave, some filtering in from the Narthex and whatever moonlight gleamed in through the tall stained glass. Joel reached your pew and sank down in the space next to you. You were still, looking forward, your hair in front of your face covering your eyes. Your body was leaned forward slightly, your hands twisted together in your lap. You were in just your nightgown.

The thought of you out walking down the backroads all alone in nothing but your pajamas made Joel feel sick to his stomach. He reached out and gently brushed your hair back away from your face. Your eyes were open but they stared blankly upwards at the cross.

“Babygirl,” Joel whispered to you, trying to ease you back to reality. When you were little and would sleepwalk into the kitchen, or into his room, he would softly and gently coax you back to bed. You would never remember it in the morning, you would giggle, your nose scrunching when he would relay it all to you. He longed for that giggle again, the nose scrunch on your beautiful face. Even now, addled, sleep stuck in your eyes, he couldn’t help but notice how genuinely pretty you were. The curve of your lips as they pouted even now, the way your deep breathing pressed your breasts-

Your head rolled around, uncanny in its swiftness, to lock half lidded eyes on him. Your eyes saw him, but there was no sparkle of recognition, or acknowledgment, or any of your typical life. Your eyes were nothing like his daughters, except there you sat, looking like you, smelling like you, breathing like you, but the creep in the back of Joel’s neck contradicted his senses

Tagging:

@mani-pedro @strang3lov3 @cosmickid-inmotion @toxicanonymity @cvntoid @magpiepills

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.

Urgh the worst 🙄

Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-

Period👏🏻

He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.

Good trouble I would say 🤭

Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs. 

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.” But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.

Oh he means it and I'm sure is willing to show it too 🙂‍↕️🤭

“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”

Ohh he is going all in

His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”

And he goes after it right away

“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”

Period

Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye. 

I agree

“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?” Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.

Alpine is the true judge of character

 “Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air. 

“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring.

He is so stright forward, i can't 🤭

He 100% means it!

Starting Over

Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You're ready to start over, and your neighbor makes a lasting impression.

Word Count: Over 3.7k

Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, asshole ex, Alpine appearance, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)

A/N: Here we are! My trailer park!Bucky intro. We're calling this AU Diamond in the Rough. Thanks to the nonnies and everyone who has asked about him. He's here, @ellethespaceunicorn, @targaryenvampireslayer, @vunblr, @vesearlee, @startcarvingdarling, @thezombieprostitute, @buckybarnesfic (sorry to anyone I missed)!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Your life went up in flames recently all thanks to the match you struck. If people asked your parents, your friends, your old boss, or your now ex-boyfriend, they’d likely say it was a mid-life crisis or form of rebellion to get some sort of attention. The truth was that the fuel had spread for years, daring you to light it all on fire, and you did when you finally had enough. You wouldn’t say the old you was dead and that you were reborn, but you weren’t who you were yesterday either. 

This was the start of a different, and hopefully happier, version of you.

Staring at the worn down trailer in front of you, you hadn't made your way inside just yet. While your place with your ex had been large and open and new, this place had seen better days. It needed a fresh coat of paint to start, a new door and windows. It was sinking in that this was really going to be your new home, and it made you happy. 

“I’ll bring you back to life,” you whispered, determined to give this place the TLC that it deserved. If you poured yourself into this, maybe it would fix something inside you, too. You certainly didn’t need your ex or anyone else to help.

You looked over at your car, your beautiful Mustang, which had everything you thought to pack. Your bed and other furniture wouldn't get delivered until later, but that was okay. It hurt to think so much of your life, what defined you, could be boiled down to material possessions, but weren't you fortunate since so many had much less? Maybe unpacking as much as you could today would occupy your time and thoughts.

Like finding a new job, something you truly wanted to do and not what was expected of you. 

Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.

“I have a bet on how long it’ll take you to come crawling back to me. Can’t wait to see you on your knees with those pretty tears when you beg for forgiveness, Pumpkin. And let’s face it, on your knees is where you belong because you’re nothing without me.” 

A surge of anger flooded your veins as you reread it. Even now he expected you’d come back with your tail between your legs where he could look down on you. He had another thing coming. “Trust fund prick,” you muttered, your finger hovering only for a moment before you blocked him. You should’ve done that the moment you dumped him, but doing it now in front of your new home, it felt more right. 

Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-

“You lost?”

You turned at the sound of the deep voice just feet behind you, trembling ever so slightly when you saw the man that husky voice belonged to. The sight knocked the very breath from your lungs. You were used to being surrounded by guys who paraded themselves as men, but they were little boys playing dress up. But the man in front of you? He was all man.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.

The kind of man you should stay away from, but wanted to chase after you.

He slowly licked his bottom lip before he asked, “Cat got your tongue, Sweet Cheeks?”

Your face felt like it would go up in flames. Being attracted to what you believed was a new neighbor wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. “No, and I’m not lost,” you replied, gesturing to what was now your home. “I live here now.”

You could see why he thought you were lost since it was obvious you weren’t from around there. When you looked for a new place, you purposely picked an area far from your old place. If you had stayed close, it wouldn’t have severed the ties enough. It would’ve made your leash longer and that wouldn’t do. 

“Is that right?” He looked you over from head to toe and your mouth went dry when he smirked, the kind that likely disintegrated panties. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

The ruggedly handsome man held his hand out for you, and you only just realized he was wearing rings. What would it feel like if they dug into your skin? And, yes, you may have glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for the welcome,” you said, taking his hand. 

Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs. 

Jesus, you needed to keep your libido under control. You just got out of a relationship. Weren’t you just thinking moments ago how you didn’t need a man?

“I’m Bucky,” he said against your skin, reluctantly releasing your hand. “You wanna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’?” 

You told him your name, the sound barely above a whisper. He hummed and repeated it. Never once did you think your name sounded sexy until he said it.

“Why are you calling me Sweet Cheeks?” you asked. Did he call every pretty woman that? Not that you were full of yourself and thought you were drop-dead gorgeous, but you had some confidence in your looks.

He chuckled, a throaty sound that made you want to hear it again. “Well, I hope you don't mind me being forward, but…” he began.

You tensed up a little and looked down at yourself. Was he going to make a comment that you didn't belong there? That you stood out like a sore thumb? You were dressed down, but still looked pristine as you always did, a habit instilled in you that you had to look put together no matter if you were crumbling inside. Appearance meant everything to your family, and you needed to let that expectation go.

“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.”

You blinked and looked behind you to get a look at yourself. “Excuse me?” you asked. Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn't one of them. 

“I saw you from behind and stared for a good minute, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you, before I walked over. You have the kind of ass that should be worshipped. Could make a grown man cry,” he said, your heart speeding up and your core throbbing. “And then you turn around with the face of a fucking angel and I swear my heart stopped,” he added, putting both hands on his chest for emphasis. “Givin’ me a heart attack over here.”

You almost laughed because he couldn’t be serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. In fact, he scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. “That’s… no. My ass isn’t that great. Neither is my face,” you said. It wasn’t to fish for a compliment, as nice as it would've been, because while you had some confidence in yourself, you didn’t have that great of an ass.

But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.

“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”

Your words were stuck in your throat, not used to being the center of someone’s attention that way. “I’m sorry, but we just met,” you said, unsure of how else to respond. He didn’t know you, apart from your name, and he was talking about worshipping your ass and looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole?

It was… kind of flattering. What would you have to be upset about? Weren’t you mentally telling your libido to calm down at the sight of him? You were attracted to him, he was just the one being brave enough to vocalize his attraction to you.

His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”

Your mouth parted again. Well, he was certainly forward and that didn’t bother you. It was better than the fake people you surrounded yourself with before spouting pretty lies. “You want me? You don’t know me and I could be a taken woman,” you pointed out.

“I’ll get to know you if you let me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I see a ring or indentation on your finger, so I don’t think you’re married or engaged. And I sure as hell don’t see anyone here helping you with your stuff, so I’m guessing you’ve been single for a while or you recently got out of a relationship,” he said, taking a look around to make his point before he focused on you once again. You weren’t at all upset that he noticed your bare finger since you had looked at his, too. “You wanna be a taken woman?”

Was it that obvious that you were all alone? “So what if I did just get out of a relationship?” you asked. There was nothing wrong with getting out of something that wasn’t right. 

He smiled, not pushing when you didn’t answer his question. “Then he’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And what better way to get over someone than getting under another?”

“I dumped him,” you clarified, not knowing why you needed him to know that. Your ex was likely spewing to everyone that he dumped you to save face, but that’s not what happened. “And I’m already over him.”

You should’ve felt guilty for that, but he wasn’t your forever and you weren’t his. He was free to find someone who fit with him better than you ever did. You were free to find your own happiness. 

“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”

You finally let your laugh out and you swore you heard him groan. Did he like the sound of your laughter? “You really are forward, and I just said I don’t need to get over him.”

“I said I’d help you forget about him,” he said, taking a step forward and smiling when you didn’t step back. You weren’t some wilting flower he’d pluck from the soil. “Just let me fuck him from your memories and I swear you’ll thank me when I’m done.”

You frowned. Did he think you were an easy lay, or was he picking up on your attraction to him and running with it? “I haven’t even moved into my trailer yet, so maybe you should let me get settled before you continue to… I don’t know, harass me.”

His eyebrows shot up and the amusement died in his eyes. “Harass you? That’s not what I’m doing,” he swore, taking a step back to give you space. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you or came on too strong.”

The apology took you by surprise and slowly warmed you inside. Not many people ever apologized to you for anything. “No, I’m sorry. Harass wasn’t the right word,” you said. It was just flirting. Very… strong flirting. “But if that isn’t it, what are you doing?”

He smiled after a moment, that spark back in his eyes. “Just grabbing an opportunity when I see it. Life’s too short not to,” he said.

You respected that perspective. “Is that what I am? An opportunity?” you asked. Something to get out of his system?

“I think you’re a lot more than that and that you may be running from something,” he replied, tilting his head. “Are you running from something or someone?”

He asked like he genuinely cared and you didn’t know how to process that. “I wouldn’t say I’m running,” you said, though you were running in a way, running from the life you no longer wanted. “More like I finally closed a chapter.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and helping you write a new chapter.”

“You say that like it’s a sure thing,” you said.

When his eyes swept over you again, it didn’t look like he was checking you out. It was as if he was trying to figure you out. “‘Cause it is,” he said, glancing at your door before you could say anything to his cocky remark. “Can help you out with repairs if you’d like.”

“I might take you up on that,” you said since you didn’t really have a clue what you were doing when it came to the handyman type of stuff. You could pay him, too. “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘might’,” you teased when he smiled. 

Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye. 

What was his story? Who was the man behind the swagger and tattoos and rough edges? Did he grow up here or did he make a choice like you? 

“I run my own shop. I’m very good with my…” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Tools.”

You laughed again, louder than before, and his smile widened. “You really are something, Bucky,” he said.

“Love hearing you say my name,” he whispered, heat pooling in your gut before he pointed at your car with a whistle. “And she is a beauty. You ever need any help with her, you let me know.”

You agreed. She was a beauty. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll take me for a ride or something like that?”

“Oh, I'll give you a ride,” he said in a low voice. “As many as you want.”

You ignored the ache between your thighs. “Not today, Bucky. I need to unpack.”

“One sec, Sweet Cheeks.”

“...Is that seriously what you’re going to call me?” you asked as he rushed to his trailer. It was ridiculous, but you didn’t hate it. You sure as hell liked it better than Pumpkin.

“‘Til the day I die,” he called back, whistling when he opened the door. “C’mere, girl. I got someone I want you to meet.”

Your brows furrowed. Who was in there who would possibly want to meet you? Did he have a kid?

You weren’t prepared for a white ball of fur to curl up in Bucky’s waiting arms. “And who is this?” you asked when he strolled back over. The image of such a beautiful cat in his arms was one that would put a smile on your face for days to come.

“This is Alpine. Found her near my shop a while back, starving and shivering. Nursed her back to health and she’s been by my side ever since,” he said, affection written all over his face. There was no bragging in his tone and that made you appreciate his story more. “Al, meet our beautiful new neighbor.”

You weren’t about to preen since he called you beautiful. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, tentatively holding a hand out to her when she lifted her head and regarded you with bright eyes. “Hi there.”

Alpine stared for a few seconds before she sniffed your fingertips and rubbed her head against them, encouraging you to pet her. You felt Bucky’s penetrating stare when you gently stroked her fur. “She’s a great judge of character,” he said, swearing under his breath. “I’m such a dick.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. He was a very forward flirt, but you didn’t get the impression that he was a dick.

“I didn’t ask if you were allergic,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Fuck.”

Your heart turned over. No one you knew would’ve ever considered that. “I would’ve told you right away if I was allergic,” you assured him, smiling when Alpine purred. “I’m glad he was able to nurse you back to health. I’ll bet you watch over everyone around here, don't you?”

You could just imagine her being a little guardian and your heart twisted. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get a pet. Like your trailer, you could shower a pet with love, too. 

Alpine surprised you when she moved forward and pressed her head to yours. “Fuck me,” Bucky whispered when she curled up again and closed her eyes. “She really fucking likes you.”

“Maybe she’s just being nice,” you said. 

“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?”

Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.

“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring. 

“Oh, my god,” you giggled, not dignifying him with any other sort of response to his question. Because if you pictured him eating your pussy, your legs would start shaking and you were altready hot and bothered enough thanks to him. “I really should start bringing my stuff in,” you said. You really needed to look over your resume, too, and find a job sooner rather than later.

“Say bye, Al.” He lifted her paw to give you a wave as she meowed. 

You smiled and gave her a wave, too. “Bye bye. Thank you for the warm welcome.” It was a smooth tactic bringing his cat out. You imagined she helped win a lot of people over if his charm didn't.

“Wait,” Bucky said when went to turn away. “You sure you don't need any help? I don't mind doing any heavy lifting.”

“I can manage,” you answered. You had to get used to doing things on your own now. “But I appreciate it.”

“If you change your mind-”

“I’ll let you know.”

He frowned, but nodded. “One more thing,” he said, nodding over to a clearing. “Potluck lunch two days from now. You should stop by. Give you a chance to meet everyone.”

“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “I can bake something,” you said. Something delicious that would leave a good impression on the neighbors. 

He raised an eyebrow. “You bake?”

“Yeah, I like to bake. Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, whatever I feel like.” You shrank in on yourself, waiting for the inevitable laughter or insult. 

But it didn’t come.

Bucky merely stared when he ran his tongue over his lips. Did the man ever keep his tongue in his mouth? “Now, I think it’s only fair that I get to taste your sweet cheeks and I don’t know if I want to share.”

You shook your head. Surely you hadn’t heard him right. “...You mean my treats?” you asked. 

“Cheeks, treats, all of it. Bet it’ll all melt on my tongue,” he replied with a wink and turned away, giving you the chance to check out his ass when he slowly walked away. He spoke about worshipping your ass, but you couldn’t take your eyes off his. 

“You cocky son of a bitch,” you whispered with a smile. Of course you heard him right, and you bet he ate like a starved man. “Keep dreaming,” you called after him. 

“Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air. 

“Fuck me,” you breathed out, your shoulders shaking as you laughed because that just happened. 

You didn’t know how the rest of the day would go, but you did know that your new home and neighbor were going to make for a very interesting and exciting chapter in your new life.

Okay, lovelies. What do we think? Talk to me. Let me know if you love him as much as I do. And let me know where you think this is going. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[writteninessence]

Backstage Pass pt. 3 idols!Hyunjin x Felix x Chan x manager!reader

Chan stepped back, and you remained frozen.

“I won’t kiss you until you ask me to,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ll be here. When you’re ready.”

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, 18+ NSFW, black!reader implied, though not directly stated, fem-aligned, polyamorous dynamics, established emotional tension, unresolved romantic tension, smut, jealousy/possessiveness, light power dynamics, rough kissing, multiple partners kissing reader, partial nudity, lap sitting, breast play, oral teasing, no penetration (yet), but heavy heated buildup, I am indeed an unreliable narrator, emotional vulnerability, reader doesn't choose-she wants them all, probably a couple that I missed Word Count: 3.5k+ Tags: @chasinghxran @aria-again @skyearby @jinniesgirl @imagine-all-the-imagines Enjoy <3 Backstage Pass Backstage Pass pt. 2

Two and a half weeks.

That’s how long it had been since their confessions.

Two and a half weeks since they stood across from you in that tiny conference room, stripped bare of their pride and saying words they hadn’t dared to say until everything was too messy to hide.

‘We want you.’

‘All of us.’

‘We don’t want you to choose.’

And they’d meant it; you could see it in their eyes, feel it in your chest.

That was the problem.

You were still pretending you could do your job like none of it had happened.

That first week was brutal.

Every meeting, every rehearsal, every van ride was wrapped in a thick, electric silence—not tense like before, but still heavy, almost intimate, like a secret none of you knew what to do with.

They didn’t push, not with their words, because their bodies spoke loud enough.

It wasn’t flirting, not really. Every interaction was edged in something warm, something soft. Every glance held for just a second longer than it should have, and every touch lingered like they didn’t want to be the first to let go.

And you… You were a mess beneath the surface.

Because now you couldn’t unsee it.

The way Felix looked at you like you hung the moon, or the way Hyunjin’s eyes flicked to your mouth every time you talked. The way Chan… didn’t say anything at all, but moved like he’d always belonged near you.

You found the earrings after a long, hellish day of shoot delays and weather drama.

Gold, dainty, sun-shaped.

They were sitting in a black velvet box on your desk with no note, no name.

But you didn’t need one.

Felix had been beside you that day in Tokyo, so many months ago. You’d paused in front of a street vendor, admiring those same earrings, and said something offhand like “Those are cute.”

That was it.

You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

You found him curled on the studio couch the next morning, hoodie over his head, laptop open in his lap. When you stood in front of him, he didn’t even pretend not to notice you.

“They reminded me of you,” he said, voice soft, like saying it any louder might scare you off. “You don’t have to wear them.”

You did wear them.

Not that day, but three days later, when your hair was pulled up and the earrings were the last thing you clipped on before heading out the door.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his smile lingered when he saw them.

Hyunjin gave you pure chaos.

It was a random Tuesday, and you were juggling two calls, three schedules, and a makeup artist who insisted on using the wrong foundation shade on everyone.

You were already on the verge of snapping when he appeared beside you, arm outstretched.

In his hand was a tall iced coffee, oat milk, and honey — your exact order.

You looked at him, one brow raised. “And what’s this for?”

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“It was on the way,” he muttered.

Liar.

There was no way that drink was just on the way unless he’d sprinted across the street between call times. But you took it anyway, sipped it, and let the sweetness sit heavy on your tongue while he watched you with that unreadable expression.

Your whispered thanks went unanswered, but you saw the way the corner of his mouth tilted upwards before he walked away.

Chan didn’t give you anything.

No notes. No little surprises.

What he gave was worse.

He gave you space.

He didn’t crowd you, didn’t flirt. He didn’t steal lingering touches like the others did. He just watched the way you moved. Noticed when you were overwhelmed and kept Hyunjin from pushing too far. He pulled Felix back when his emotions started spilling into his actions.

You were the manager, but he was managing you in ways you couldn’t admit.

And that made you feel seen in a way that wrecked you.

Chan let you have your little two-week break before approaching you. 

It was after a performance—small venue, high energy, adrenaline still buzzing through the air. The others had gone to clean up, but you stayed, checking on mic packs and final counts.

He’d stayed too, because of course he did.

You tried to act like it was normal. Just another post-show wind-down.

But you felt him behind you. His heat, his presence.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just… existed there. Close enough to feel but not touch.

Then—“You alright?”

You nodded. “Tired.” Busied yourself wrapping up some wires before responding, “You?”

“Yeah.” A pause, then, “No.”

You turned, already finding his eyes locked on yours.

“I hate this,” he said.

“Hate what?”

“This waiting, pretending. Walking around like I didn’t say what I said.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. And opened again.

“Chan—”

“I know you’re scared,” he said quietly. “So I’ve been patient, I’ll keep being patient.”

“But it’s messing with your head? Mine too,” you admitted.

He stepped closer.

“I think about you all the time.”

The air snapped taut between you.

“And not just in the ways you’re afraid of,” he added, voice like gravel and silk. “I think about what it means to hold you when you’re tired, or to make sure you eat. To be someone you trust, not just someone you want.”

Your throat burned.

His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—fingers ghosting over your jaw. You should’ve stopped him.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You could feel his breath now.

Your noses brushed.

If you leaned in—

Someone called your name down the hall.

The spell broke.

Chan stepped back, and you remained frozen.

“I won’t kiss you until you ask me to,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ll be here. When you’re ready.”

And then he walked away.

And you just stood there.

Still wanting.

Still waiting.

Still unraveling.

And then you slipped. You hadn’t meant to, not really, but another week had passed since your almost kiss with Chan, and your walls were beginning to crumble. You couldn’t pretend anymore.

Couldn’t pretend you weren’t unaffected, or untouched.

You were already in too deep.

But you didn’t confess, didn’t chase them down, and fall into their arms.

You just started letting yourself… show it.

Little things.

Moments that slipped out when you weren’t watching yourself.

Felix noticed first.

It was subtle, very intentional.

You were in the van—he was rambling about a late-night snack he’d made with some weird combo of honey, cheese, and bread. It sounded awful. He was so proud of it.

He was mid-laugh, voice bubbling, when you reached over without thinking, plucked a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and brushed your thumb across his lip.

He froze.

Eyes wide, voice faded.

Your fingers hovered just a second too long.

And then you pulled back like it was nothing.

“Crumb,” you said, voice neutral, like your skin wasn’t still buzzing from the contact.

He blinked slowly, his entire expression shifting—open, reverent, a little wrecked.

And when you looked out the window, you could feel him watching you.

The whole ride home.

Hyunjin wasn’t as easy to throw off.

He flirted too naturally, too often.

But that day, he was painting in the lounge, headphones on, smudges of soft pink across his fingertips. You passed behind him, reading off updates from the new photo schedule.

When he looked up at you, a smear of paint on his cheek, you didn’t stop yourself.

You licked your thumb and leaned in, gently swiping the mark from his skin.

He held completely still.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

You wiped it away, eyes focused on his mouth, just briefly. 

“There,” you murmured. “Pretty again.”

His mouth parted, but no words came.

You walked off without waiting for a response, heart hammering, palms tingling.

Behind you, his breath hitched audibly.

And you knew exactly what you’d done.

Chan was last.

And with him, you didn’t touch.

You didn’t have to.

It was a rehearsal day, full of stress. One of the choreographers was riding him too hard, pushing for corrections mid-routine. You were across the room, watching him grit his teeth, jaw flexing, patience fraying.

He caught your eye, just for a second.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

You held it.

Steady and calm..

Your expression didn’t say I’m your manager.

It said I see you. I want you to breathe. I want you to come to me when you don’t know where else to turn.

You didn’t smile, didn’t speak.

You just gave him that look.

And something in him shifted.

His posture straightened, his movements snapping back into control, like your gaze alone had steadied him.

Later, when he passed you in the hallway, you let your fingers trail along the hem of his sleeve as he walked by.

Barely a brush.

But he stopped walking for a full two seconds before continuing.

You didn’t look back.

That night, you were barely in your hotel room five minutes before the knock came.

Hard and quick. Urgent almost.

You opened the door to find Hyunjin, hoodie on, jaw tight, breath shallow like he’d sprinted from the elevator.

“You trying to kill me?” he asked without preamble, eyes burning.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That thing you did earlier,” he snapped. “The paint. The ‘pretty again.’ You think I’m gonna sleep tonight after that?”

You opened your mouth to respond when the door swung open again, Chan this time.

His shoulders were tense, his eyes sharp. When he spoke, his voice was low and deadly calm.

“You two already started?” he said, stepping inside. “Great, let’s all talk then.”

Your stomach dropped. “What the hell is going on—”

And then Felix burst in behind them.

He didn’t speak.

Just slammed the door shut behind him, chest rising fast, curls a mess, lips parted like he was trying to catch up to his own heartbeat.

Hyunjin turned to you. “I want to know what that touch meant.”

Chan folded his arms. “I want to know why you looked at me like you could see through my soul.”

Felix’s voice cracked when he finally spoke.

“I want to know if you’re playing with us.”

Your hands went up. “Hold on. You’re all barging in here like you’re not the ones who confessed your feelings and turned my whole life upside down—”

“You touched my face like I was yours,” Hyunjin cut in. 

“You looked at me like I was your anchor,” Chan growled. “I’ve been holding back, and you know it.”

“I’m losing it,” Felix whispered, and his voice made the room stop.

All three of you turned to him.

His gaze was locked on you.

Flickering.

Pained.

“I can’t keep doing this. Pretending I’m okay with crumbs. I’m not.”

“Felix—”

He crossed the space between you in two strides.

Lifted his hands.

Placed them gently, but firmly, on either side of your face—his palms warm, trembling, framing you like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

His forehead touched yours first.

He didn’t speak.

He just breathed.

And then—he whispered it.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because you were already falling forward, already chasing the heat of his mouth before he even moved.

And when his lips met yours, everything else disappeared.

There was no hotel room.

No Chan, no Hyunjin.

Just the crush of Felix’s kiss, soft and aching, his mouth moving like he was memorizing you, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second he met you.

He pulled back slowly.

Eyes glassy, breath shaky.

“…You didn’t stop me,” he whispered.

You looked at him.

Then at Hyunjin.

Then at Chan.

And said, voice low, and shaking:

“…I didn’t want to.”

You didn’t breathe.

None of you did.

Felix’s kiss still lingered on your lips, and the weight of your confession—“I didn’t want to”—hung in the room like smoke after fire.

Three boys stood before you.

One had kissed you.

The other two?

Staring, shocked.

And then—

Hyunjin scoffed, a low and dangerous sound, almost amused.

“Oh…” he said, stepping forward, voice dark with something unhinged. “We’re stealing kisses now?”

Your heart slammed against your chest.

“Hyunjin—”

He was already in front of you, hand in your shirt, fist clenched around the fabric near your collar like he didn’t trust himself to be gentle.

He yanked you forward.

Your chests collided.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

Hot.

Mouth crashing into yours with none of Felix’s softness—all hunger, all sharp edges and frustration and ‘God, I’ve wanted this for too long.’

He didn’t give you time to gasp.

Didn’t let you think.

Just took.

His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, gripping—not to hurt, but to hold you there.

Like he was scared you’d run.

Like he’d chase you if you did.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was wrecked.

“You kissed him. You kissed me.”

And then—

A hand on his shoulder.

Not aggressive.

Just there.

Hyunjin froze, breath heaving.

There was Chan.

Still silent, still unreadable.

His fingers curled tightly around Hyunjin’s hoodie, tugging once.

Hyunjin’s jaw clenched.

He let go of your shirt and stepped back, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Chan didn’t speak until Hyunjin was clear.

Then he looked down at you.

And oh God—

That look.

That slow burn in his eyes.

Like he’d waited.

Like he’d let them go first.

But now?

Now it was his turn.

His hand rose to cup your cheek—bigger, rougher, and steady.

“You sure you don’t want to choose?” he asked quietly.

Your breath caught. “I—”

He didn’t wait for you to respond.

He kissed you to silence.

And it was devastating.

Not rushed.

Not angry.

Just deep and possessive in a way that made your knees buckle.

His lips moved slowly, like he wanted you to feel every second of it, like he had all the time in the world but no patience left at all.

When he pulled back, you were dizzy.

Your body leaned forward, chasing him without realizing.

And from behind—Hyunjin’s voice.

“Yo,” he snapped, breathless. “No fair.”

Chan’s thumb brushed your lip, smug. “Didn’t see your name on her, did I?”

Felix, from the side—still flushed, still watching with wide eyes: “…I’d like to file a complaint.”

You actually laughed, and it was the only thing that kept you from collapsing right then and there.

Because now?

There was no going back.

Your breath was still shaky.

Your shirt wrinkled from Hyunjin’s fist, your lip still tingling from Chan’s last kiss, and you swear Felix’s scent is still on your skin.

The air feels wet with tension. Heated.

You can’t tell if your legs are trembling from adrenaline or desire.

But then Felix moves, and you forget how to think altogether.

He’s in front of you again, gently shoving past Chan. His hands are curling around your waist, eyes wild with something soft and wrecked all at once.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs.

Then his lips are on yours once more.

And they’re starving.

Not just want—but relief. Like he’s been waiting, needing, holding it back, and finally—finally—he can kiss you the way he’s been dreaming about.

His hand slips beneath your shirt—just at your waist, not going further—but his thumb traces a slow circle on your skin, and your knees damn near give out.

But a warm body presses into your back, holding you up.

Hyunjin’s taller; you feel him before you hear him—his breath on your neck, fingers curling over your hip, grounding you like an anchor tied to a storm.

You gasp into Felix’s mouth.

And Hyunjin laughs. Low and dirty.

“You let him have you first?” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s cute.”

Felix growls softly against your mouth but doesn’t stop kissing you.

Hyunjin’s hands slide up your sides, over the curve of your ribs, until he tilts your face back—gently—and replaces Felix’s kiss with his own.

And his is rougher, hungrier.

He kisses like he’s trying to break a rule, with one hand fisted in your hair, while the other traces down your front until you whimper into his mouth.

That’s when Felix shifts—he’s kissing down your neck now, whispering something you can’t hear, but feel all the way down your spine.

You’re shaking, and then Chan’s voice cuts through the haze.

Calm. Dangerous. Full of command.

“She’s mine.”

Before you can blink, Hyunjin’s pulled away, and you’re yanked forward, pressed full against Chan’s chest, his hand cradling the back of your head like you’re precious.

And then—he kisses you.

Slow. Deep. Dominant.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for the right moment to end you.

And now that it’s here, he’s going to take his time.

His tongue drags along yours in a rhythm that makes your spine arch.

Your hands fist into his shirt, clawing at his chest for something real to hold onto because the rest of you is floating.

You feel Felix still kissing your shoulder.

Hyunjin’s hands are back on your waist, mouth brushing the side of your throat.

Your brain stops, and you can’t breathe.

You barely whisper, voice wrecked: “Wait… who’s—who was—”

Someone groans against your neck.

“Does it matter?” Hyunjin murmurs, biting just under your ear.

Another mouth is back on yours—Felix this time, you think—but it’s getting hard to tell.

Your body sways. Someone’s hand is on your thigh. Another at your back. Another tugging gently at your wrist.

Three mouths. Three voices.

All saying your name in three different languages of worship.

And for the first time—

You don’t want to choose.

You want this.

All of it.

You’re not sure who kisses you next.

Lips blur together, tongues tangle.

Your name becomes a prayer in three different voices—low, desperate, and reverent.

Hands roam your waist, your thighs, your arms—like they can’t decide what part of you they need to memorize first.

You’re barely holding onto reality when a pair of arms suddenly scoop you up from behind.

Strong and solid, and your gasp is swallowed by Felix’s lips.

But your back lands against a firm chest a second later, your thighs pulled over thick legs, your body dropped straight into a lap.

And when you blink—oh, you’re in Chan’s arms.

His hoodie’s already gone, and his skin burns against yours. His thighs are spread wide under you like a throne.

His arms wrap around your waist like he doesn’t plan to ever let go.

“Finally,” he mutters into your ear. “Been dreaming of this since day one.”

Then—

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt.

And lift.

You let him, and now your top is gone.

You’re bare from the waist up, sitting in Bang Chan’s lap, surrounded by two other men whose eyes go dark with need.

You cover yourself on instinct—but Hyunjin’s already kneeling in front of you, his mouth at your chest, his hot breath grazing your skin. His eyes drag up to meet yours as he grits out, “Don’t you dare.”

He moves your hands away with a growl, kissing you right on your nipple.

His tongue follows, flattening to drag a slow lick across the hardened peak, and it’s filthy.

He doesn’t ask, he takes.

Then Felix’s shirt hits the floor behind you with a soft whump.

He’s pressing kisses down your arm now, murmuring “So soft… so fucking pretty…” between each one.

Chan’s hand slides up your thigh, splaying across your stomach, his voice low and rough in your ear:

“Still want all of us?” he breathes.

You nod without thinking.

“No, baby. I need to hear it.”

You exhale shakily, writhing in his lap as Hyunjin’s tongue flicks.

“Yes.”

Felix nips your shoulder.

Hyunjin moans.

And Chan?

Chan pulls your head back and kisses you like he’s going to make you say it again with your entire body.

Hyunjin groans, unlatching from your breast just long enough to declare: “You taste like everything I’ve wanted.”

You arch into him, your fingers tangling in his curls, nails grazing the delicate skin of his neck, desperate to mark him as much as he’s marking you.

Your senses spiral—skin tingling, lips swollen from their kisses, your chest rising and falling too fast.

You can’t tell where one man’s touch ends and another’s begins; it’s a symphony of sensations, a dance of lips and hands and whispered names.

Chan’s mouth captures yours again, slow and demanding, tongue teasing, searching, claiming.

Hyunjin’s hands travel lower, sliding beneath your waistband, fingertips tracing the sensitive curve of your hipbone, cherishing hearing you gasp.

Felix’s lips find the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing, sucking a bruising kiss that leaves you breathless.

Your hands roam over their bodies—over firm shoulders, along hard arms, under shirts that have long since been discarded.

The heat between you all is a tangible thing, thick and heavy and impossible to ignore.

You’re drowning in desire, in affection, in the messy, beautiful chaos of being loved and wanted by three men who see you—truly see you—in every breath and every touch.

And as their lips and hands claim you again and again, you know, deep in your soul, this is just the beginning.

To be continued

-E

[apothecaryscript]

About a Short Story "Sazen's Secret"

Today, this short story was released online by official website of HERO bunko. I have just read the contents, and found that my guess was correct.

Sazen found Loulan lying on the snow and took her to a cabin to treat her wounds. Sazen used to know the doctor who was exiled from the rear palace with Taihou's daughter, imprisoned in a room in the stronghold by Shenmei, and forced to create an elixir of immortality for her. He is also the one who taught Suirei how to make medicines. Sazen used to carry foods to the doctor's room and sometimes helped him make some medicines, so he could treat Loulan. Before Sazen found Loulan, he had stolen some books from the burning stronghold, and Loulan noticed the books in the cabin and asked him "Please bring them to the capital, for the sake of this country." When Loulan recovered, they went their separate ways. She said to him, "You should become an apothecary. That's probably your calling." He laughed and said "That can't be true."

That's the outline of this short story, which is connected to the opening episode of the next season. If you want to read it in Japanese, please see here.

――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――

Sorry for posting about this, before posting my memo for the final episode.

In the last scene of Ep.47, a man who was a guard of the stronghold found something shiny in a bush. His name is Sazen, 左膳(さぜん), and he will appear in the next season and beyond. This scene doesn't exist in the original novel. I thought this scene would continue in the final episode, but it didn't.

Sorry if I'm wrong since this is just my guess, but I think the thing shining in a bush was Maomao's hair stick and Sazen would find Loulan lying on after falling off the balcony. The reason why I think so is because I noticed that there was a short story titled "左膳の秘密/さぜんのひみつ/Sazen's Secret" that was a special bonus for purchasing the original novel in the past. Sazen is not a doctor but he knows a little more about medicine than the average person, and he could help Loulan. Otherwise she could not have recovered from that state and escaped to the port town on her own, without being noticed by the soldiers around the stronghold. Her life was saved because the hair stick caught the bullet and she fell on soft, fallen snow, but she was still bleeding and too flamboyant overdressed to hide.

Unfortunately, we can't buy and read that short story now. When the 9th volume of the novel was released, if you bought 2 specific items at Animate, an anime goods store, you could get a bonus in exchange for your receipt. Just for your reference, I attach the photo of a leaflet of the campaign.

Orange-colored "復刻SSペーパー" seems to be the one. It says "全2種", which means there were 2 versions, and I don't know if the story was only one "Sazen's Secret" with 2 different pictures, or there was one more other short story.

Attached below is a screenshot of an online flea market site where they are for sale.

I'm very curious about it but I don't think I'd buy it at that price... although I understand it's not too expensive, considering the rarity of the product. (In fact, I can see other sites where the SS was purchased for around 10,000 yen.)

The author Hyuga sensei said on X that she had requested to animate it to the anime production staff, and actually the scene where Sazen found something shiny was animated in Ep.47, so I believe they'll provide us something in future. I can't wait but I'll wait...

[aftersunsz]

MY LOVE, MY LIFE (SIDNEY CROSBY)

summary: the day of baby crosby’s birth is here! oh and so are the playoffs!

warnings: giving birth

what to expect series

an: since i have never given birth, i’m going off of details i remember from my sister’s pregnancies (I wasn’t present during the actual birth lol but i was there before she had my nephews) and some research so please correct me if I’m wrong!

May 28th, 2017

His phone had buzzed six times in twenty minutes. Calls from his coach, his agent, his teammates, but he never picked it up.

“Just tell them, Sid, they’re worried.” Vivien groaned from her hospital bed.

So he did just that. He took his phone out and saw all the good luck and congratulations text messages from his friends, family and team. He quickly sent them an update on both Vivien and the baby and put his phone back in his pocket.

But now he was too busy holding Vivien’s hand, wiping the sweat from her forehead, whispering to her that she was doing so good, even when her fingers dug into his arm and her voice shook from exhaustion. Every now and then, a nurse would enter the room to check on them.

They’d arrived at the hospital around 2:00 am. Her contractions had started slowly the night before—cramping and discomfort that came and went. Vivien kept saying, “It’s probably Braxton-Hicks. I’m just tired,” while Sidney sat beside her on the bed and subtly timed each wince she tried to hide.

By midnight, she couldn’t walk through them anymore.

By 2:00 a.m., her water broke in the car.

By 3:00 a.m., Vivien was the most uncomfortable she had ever been.

-

A nurse named Andrea had entered the room to check how dilated Vivien was. 4 cm so far. She dimmed the lights, lowered the bed, and rubbed her shoulder when the pain began climbing faster than expected. After letting the couple know about Vivien’s current dilation, she left the room to give them privacy.

Vivien gripped Sidney’s hand tightly as another contraction tore through her. “God, this hurts,” she gasped, her body trembling. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Hey, you’re the strongest woman I know. I’m right here,” Sidney scooted his chair closer to his wife’s bed. He grabbed her sweaty hand and pressed light kisses on it. “You’re doing so good, so so good.”

“I really love you so much.” Vivien smiled through the pain.

“I love you and our baby so much.”

He adjusted her pillow. Pulled the blanket up to her chest. Brushed damp hair from her face. Between the times when she was calm, he texted their families with updates:

Sid

Still at it. Viv is incredible. She’s at 4cm now. Baby’s taking their time. Love you all.

-

Around 10:45 a.m., progress stalled. Vivien had been in labor nearly nine hours, and she was only 8 centimeters dilated. She was exhausted. Her epidural had taken the edge off, but she could still feel the mounting pressure.

The OB, Dr. Whitaker, gently explained, “The baby’s head is slightly tilted. It’s not uncommon, but it can make pushing more difficult.”

Sidney’s jaw clenched. He hated that she was in pain. “Is the baby okay?”

“They’re doing well so far,” Dr. Whitaker said. “But we’ll need to monitor closely.”

“Sid?” Vivien mumbled weakly.

“Yeah? You need anything?” Sidney was right by her side.

“You have to win the damn cup . . . so we can put lovebug in it.” She continued. She remembered Sidney mentioning how badly he wanted to win the Stanley Cup and put his son or daughter in it. It seemed like the universe was slowly granting him his wish.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Sidney chuckled as he kissed her forehead. “I’ll win for my girls.”

By noon, Vivien’s fever spiked. Nurses applied cool cloths to her forehead. Her heart rate elevated. The baby’s began to show decels—brief dips during contractions.

-

It was long. Grueling. A full hour of pushing with barely any progress.

Andrea rubbed her back while another nurse helped count aloud. “Push, Vivien—one, two, three . . .”

Sidney stayed at her head, murmuring encouragement between pushes. “You’re almost there, Viv. You’re doing so good.”

Vivien cried at one point—frustrated, terrified, overwhelmed. “I can’t, Sid. I can’t do this.”

“Just a little bit longer and soon we’ll have a baby with us. You’re the bravest person ever, you can do this.” He kissed her sweaty forehead.

After 14 hours of labor, and sweat and tears, their baby entered the world. A tiny, slippery cry filled the room.

Vivien collapsed back against the bed, sobbing—not from pain, but from sheer relief. Sidney’s breath hitched as he saw the nurse lift the baby. In that moment, he felt tears come down his face. He was a father and Vivien was a mother.

“It’s a girl!”

Sidney laughed through tears, gripping Vivien’s face in his hands. “It’s a girl, Viv. We have a daughter. You gave us a baby girl.” He kissed her lips.

The baby was placed on Vivien’s chest, vernix still clinging to her skin, red-faced and wailing. Vivien stared down at her, speechless, one hand shakily cupping her daughter’s head.

Sidney leaned in, whispering “Hi, Lovebug.”

She was named Anais.

Vivien had seen them name pop up in a book she read years ago when she was in school and immediately fell in love with it. Sidney had suggested Sofia as the middle name. Anais Sofia Crosby was born just in time to see her father win another cup.

Sidney ignored every call, every text from the team. The only thing that mattered was this moment.

Vivien’s voice cracked. “We made her.”

“You’re incredible, Viv, you brought her to us.” Sidney reminded her.

Vivien looked over at their daughter again, her voice barely a whisper. “My love,” she said, “my life.”

He updated the family with one photo—Anais’ tiny hand curled around his finger—and a text that simply read:

Sid

She’s here. 5/28/17. Anais Sofia Crosby. 7lbs 2oz. Strong like her mom.

[beewildered]

I will also comment, as someone who actually knows what the fuck I'm on about because I've researched this specific overlap:

Gender is a performance; even if you think that gender is just whatever genitals you have, you would still agree that things like presentation, gendered social rules, and the expectations put on us as men or women are completely and arbitrarily made up. It's a whole rotten pile of social norms that we are expected to follow because we happened to be born with a penis or a vagina. Autistic people are notoriously bad at social norms, it's literally one of the things that gets you the diagnosis in the first place, so obviously autistic people are bad at performing gender. But autistic people being trans is only half the story: autistic people are also seven times more likely to be gender non-conforming than their allistic peers. It's not just identity, it's the entire concept of gender as a societal role.

Now, the actual reasons for this are unknown, because you can't really go around asking a bunch of autistic people why they're trans, and there aren't really many theories on it because for some it's not seen as important research and for others they simply don't know how to approach getting this information or how to talk about it in a respectful way. But, as someone who is autistic and gender non-conforming, I have a couple of theories.

Rigid thinking in gender roles. I'd imagine a good chunk of autistic people who are binary trans people went "oh, I like makeup and skirts and feminine stuff. Must be a girl, then" or vice versa. And yes, this means that there are probably autistic people who aren't trans, and just took the concept of these roles a bit too literally. But there are probably also a ton of them who tried to be gender non-conforming and realised that it wasn't just the performance of it that felt wrong.

Complete detachment. We hate social norms, they suck, we wish we never had to get involved. But there is a way out! It's called agender, and it's literally just feeling like you have no connection to gender. And a lot of autistic people feel that way, there is a huge agender-autism overlap. Could also potentially fall under the first one slightly, I can definitely see the internal monologue of "I don't know what gender is supposed to feel like, so I'm assuming I just don't have that feeling at all". But regardless, there are a lot of agender or otherwise gender neutral autistic people who just felt like stepping out of the ring altogether. No need to perform a gender that you don't have.

Unique experience. Again, gender is a social expectation, and most autistic people view it with disgust. But we still view it, and very differently to most people if we're going by the rest of the social expectations that we think suck but everyone else thinks is a core pillar of socialising. There is even the specific (and controversial) label of "autigender" to describe this exact experience: not necessarily that autism made you trans, but that autism gave you a unique experience of gender identity and that in turn might have led you to trans identities. Cis people could also be autigender — they can still be a cis woman/man but believe that their autism has made them think about their femininity or masculinity in a way that's different to allistic people. Maybe they see it as a social expectation that they're okay with; some autistic people go all into gender conforming rather than gender non-conforming.

Anyway, it's just a theory, I've nothing to back it up but vibes and personal experience. But I can assure you, no one is exploiting autistic into ignoring social expectations, because we do that anyway.

[incognitowarlockwhumpblog]

chef mis-steak

The galley was unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Most of the crew had gone ashore to explore the new island they'd docked at, leaving only Sanji and Zoro aboard the Thousand Sunny. Sanji preferred it this way sometimes—the peaceful rhythm of meal prep without Luffy's constant requests for snacks or Usopp's chatter filling the air.

He was working on tomorrow's bread, kneading the dough with practiced efficiency while keeping an eye on the soup simmering on the stove. The familiar dance of cooking that had been second nature for years.

That's when everything went wrong.

A sudden lurch of the ship—probably from the changing tide—sent Sanji stumbling sideways. His palm shot out to steady himself and landed squarely on the hot burner beside the soup pot.

"Shit!" The curse tore from his lips as he yanked his hand back, the smell of burned flesh hitting his nostrils. The pain was immediate and intense, radiating up his arm like fire.

In his haste to get to the sink, his other hand knocked against the cutting board where he'd left his knife. The blade caught his forearm in a clean slice, and suddenly there was blood mixing with the burn.

"Damn it, damn it—"

"What the hell happened?"

Sanji spun around to find Zoro standing in the doorway, his usual lazy expression replaced with sharp concern. The swordsman's eyes immediately went to Sanji's injured hand pressed against his chest and the blood dripping from his other arm.

"Nothing, just—" Sanji started, but Zoro was already moving.

"Sit." It wasn't a request. Zoro's hands were gentle but firm as he guided Sanji to a chair, his touch surprisingly careful for someone who lived by the sword.

"I'm fine, moss-head. Just a little—"

"You're bleeding all over my galley," Zoro interrupted, though there was no heat in his voice. "Let me see."

Sanji wanted to protest, to insist he could handle it himself, but the pain was making him dizzy. He reluctantly held out his hands.

Zoro's fingers were surprisingly gentle as he examined the burn on Sanji's palm. "This is bad, cook. When did you last clean the first aid kit?"

"Last week," Sanji managed, trying not to think about how close Zoro was standing, how he could smell his familiar scent of steel and sea salt.

Zoro retrieved the medical supplies and knelt beside Sanji's chair. "This is going to hurt," he warned, before beginning to clean the knife wound on Sanji's forearm.

Sanji hissed through his teeth, his free hand instinctively gripping Zoro's shoulder. "Easy, you muscle-bound oaf."

"I am being easy." But Zoro's touch became even more careful, his brow furrowed in concentration. "How did you manage to hurt both hands at once?"

"Ship moved. Lost my balance." Sanji's voice was tight with pain. “I’m usually better at this.”

"You never lose your balance in the kitchen."

It was true. Sanji had sea legs better than most of the crew, could cook in the worst storms without spilling a drop. But he didn't want to admit that he'd been distracted lately—distracted by the way Zoro's training clothes clung to his chest, by the rare moments when the swordsman's guard was down and he'd catch glimpses of something softer underneath.

Zoro finished bandaging the cut and moved to examine the burn. His fingers traced the air just above Sanji's palm, not quite touching. "This needs cool water first."

He helped Sanji to the sink, supporting his elbow while carefully positioning his hand under the gentle stream. The relief was immediate.

"Better?" Zoro asked, and Sanji realized how close they were standing. He could see the flecks of gold in Zoro's dark eyes, the small scar on his chin that he'd gotten as a child.

"Yeah," Sanji whispered.

They stayed like that for several minutes, Zoro's hand steady on Sanji's arm, both of them watching the water flow over the burn. The intimacy of the moment settled around them like a warm blanket.

"You take care of everyone else," Zoro said quietly. "Who takes care of you?"

Sanji looked up at him, surprised by the question. "I don't need—"

"Everyone needs someone, cook."

There was something in Zoro's voice, something vulnerable that Sanji had never heard before. When he met his eyes, he saw the same longing he'd been carrying himself.

"Zoro..."

"Let me," Zoro said simply. "Let me take care of you."

Sanji nodded, not trusting his voice.

Zoro turned off the water and gently patted Sanji's hand dry with a clean towel. His movements were careful, reverent almost, as he applied burn cream and wrapped the palm in soft gauze.

"You're good at this," Sanji observed, watching Zoro's focused expression.

"Had plenty of practice on myself." Zoro's lips quirked in a small smile. "Though I prefer taking care of you."

The admission hung between them, heavy with meaning. Sanji felt his heart racing, but not from the pain this time.

"There," Zoro said, finishing the bandage. But he didn't let go of Sanji's hand. Instead, he lifted it carefully and pressed a soft kiss to the gauze covering his palm. "All better."

Sanji's breath caught. "Zoro..."

"I know you can take care of yourself," Zoro said, his thumb tracing gentle circles on Sanji's wrist. "But I want to be here when you can't. When you don't have to."

"Even when I'm clumsy enough to burn myself on my own stove?"

"Especially then." Zoro's smile was soft, genuine. "Though maybe we should work on your balance."

Sanji laughed, and it felt like something tight in his chest finally loosened. "Maybe you could spot me. Make sure I don't fall."

"I'll always catch you, cook."

The promise in those words made Sanji's heart flutter. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Zoro's shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Zoro's arms came around him, careful of his injuries, holding him close. "Always."

They stayed like that as the afternoon sun streamed through the galley windows, two halves of a whole finally fitting together. The soup had gone cold on the stove, but neither of them cared. For the first time in a long time, Sanji felt completely safe.

Later, when the crew returned with stories of their island adventure, they found Sanji and Zoro sitting close together at the galley table, Zoro's hand resting protectively over Sanji's bandaged one as the cook told him about the new recipe he'd been planning.

No one commented on the closeness, but Robin's knowing smile suggested she understood perfectly well what had changed between them.

Some wounds, after all, healed better when you weren't alone.

@whumperless-whump-event

proompts|CHEF MIS-STEAK : hot stove / slip of the knife / “I’m usually better at this.”

Continued on AO3 ---

[creatingblackcharacters]

I want to share a story of something interesting that happened in the Half-Life fandom that's related to the topic of how race is treated by fandoms, since people here have been talking about that recently. Feel free to ignore this for any reason. Just thought I'd share it just in case.

I wasn't around when it happen so all I have to go off of is anecdotes that might not be accurate. Which is part of why I'm making this ask. I wonder if there are Black ppl who were around back then that could share their thoughts

So Half-Life 2 has Alyx Vance, a companion there to interact with the world in ways the player can't, to help out in fights, she's also just very important to the plot. She's so important if you removed her from the game the game would be probably like 10 minutes long because Gordon would die.

Her race doesn't come up in conversations at all and her design is meh but she is insanely well written in every other way. She has family members, she makes terrible jokes. She's badass, compassionate, and the story allows her to have moments of fear and weaknesses without making her a damsel in distress. It kinda feels like she's just as much of a protagonist as Gordon. Or that Gordon is actually a deuretagonist and she's the real MC.

Playing Half-Life 2 I went "oh boy here comes the love interest smh" To "Where is Alyx? I miss Alyx. My sunshine. What am I to do without her." And I beamed whenever we were reunited. Valve did a great job at making her genuinely feel like not only a person but your friend.

Once upon a time a guy called Fakefactory had the idea to make a mod that turned Half-Life 2 into a shitty hollywood movie as a joke called the Cinematic mod. The mod came with the option to swap out npcs with actors playing them. All of the npcs had 2 models, the original and the hollywood version. With the exception of Judith Mossman and Alyx Vance. Both Judith and Alyx got extra but Alyx had 50+ options, all of them barely resembling her at all. Most weren't just actresses wearing her clothes but actresses wearing all sorts of outfits. Some of them made her look like a porn star imo.

It could have been pointing out how racist and sexist Hollywood is but why did he add so many but no where near as many options for the other characters??? And why not have a a white actor for Eli?

He also gave Alyx a fully modeled uterus and vagina.

Ok so the part about this whole thing thats really intriguing to me is that Fakefactory got harrassed off the internet for this. It's early 2000s internet, I don't even think the term sjw existed back then. I don't remember why people got so I angry. Maybe it's wishful thinking but I think it was because people could tell his treatment of Alyx was weird but didn't really know why. Because every other part of the mod is decently made. Mediocre. If you remove the stuff about Alyx I don't see it getting a lot of hate.

But nowadays if you call someone out for being racist people will do mental gymnastics to excuse it.

And I'm wondering if people really have regressed in a way, or if people really were that offended to occasionally see nsfw posters, or if there's something unique about Alyx herself aka the way Valve wrote her and got players to care about her as a person. I watched Richter Overtime's vid about the mod and he said something like "Episode 2 is what made me realize people's issue with the sexualization of Alyx. You're supposed to really get to know her and empathize with her in this episode. And there's something about watching her going through all this traumatic shit in a skimpy outfit that just feels wrong"

I just keep wondering what the heck happened back then and why it doesn't happen more often.

Ngl, this is a lot for me right now so 😅 I'm going to leave this to the Black viewers. But for a short answer, yes and no. Fandoms always been this racist because the society we live in his always been this racist, but I think what's regressing is the desire to pretend. 👍🏾

[cut-pricemikeyarwood]

Ok kitty cats,

I've talked about "The Warthog and the Mongoose" pt.1 and 2 in a previous post »

But I wanted to dedicate a separate post to this part of the episode because I think that's very profound and tell us so much more about the relationship between David and Michael.

More than it seems.

Amidst the obvious portrayal of the various feelings that many of us went through during that time (I mean, Michael is a brilliant actor, he can play an empty plastic pen and be superb at it - but I don't think Michael had to try very hard to do it here), the emotional load is through the roof, especially in the dialogue between Michael and Josh…

It's….... A lot! And it tells us a lot about him.

We know, we know: BBC Staged is scripted and blah blah blah... But this does not mean that it is not realistic or true (we know how loud Michael has been about "masks" and how they allow him to finally be himself and how Simon Evan conceived and wrote 'Staged').

Staged it's all about them. All of it! And about the unspoken things between the two.

Michael is not exhausted and angry because David is a whining dog. Michael is angry because HE cannot do anything about it. He cannot do anything to fix some stupid things and be there for him.

He feels helpless towards the people he loves, especially David.

And I cannot help but wonder what would have happened if the dialogue had taken place in person or right to David's face?

Can you imagine? Can you? Because I can and it would have been devastating!

They are very very good at communicating about other things, but not about feelings ("We've never talked about love") and now they are stuck.

Just like certain demon and angel we know pretty well.

As @unforgivable-thatswhatiam said, A "normal" friend can't make you react like that.

Only love can.

I would like to know your feelings and thoughts.

Umm.... Side note: English is not my native language so I apologise if I got any verbs or words wrong in the gifs 💙 be patient with me 🤓 thanks.

😑 OK, Edit - just to be clear (because I thought it was obvious but I never know who is reading and commenting) - this is what I think.

I don't claim to know what Michael Sheen and David Tennant do in real life... 🙈 I wish! But I don't!

To me they have a beautiful relationship - whatever that is - and I cannot call it a "friendship" or a "bromance". I find it reductive... I'm sorry but I do.

Speaking about Real Life: I have seen people in real life, close friends of mine, of a similar age (middle aged men, not teenagers) behave and look at each other like this and it was, in fact, love. Pure and simple love.

Also, if they were man/woman I think the newspapers and social media would be full of gossip about a probable secret- not so secret-relationship between the two and this would be taken as 'normal'.

Are they acting? Is it fan service? Fine! I'll enjoy it and be happy with it. I'm gonna have the time of my life!

In conclusion: this is what I think and I hope I can be free to express it on my blog (which is not a news website) and have an intelligent, kind, respectful and healty discussion with those who think differently. Free to think differently. And remember that what you think is also your opinion - they could also be a poly family for all we know - it's none of our business - unless you are a relative or close friend of DT and MS. And even then it is not certain that what you know is the truth. So...🤷‍♀️ 💙

[thehorsemafioso]

*Anna follows him closely, her eyes subtly glancing around to check for any suspicious behaviour from anyone they pass. Someone could have secretly saw what they did. Better safe then sorry…

She wonders briefly how Oliver can be so calm. Yes, she may have determined he could be trusted, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a bit perplexed by his way of acting.*

And no, unlucky, it turns out that they are fake. How is disappointing: (