#I guess this is The Last Thing so now I can move on

[firewasabeast]

Steady

not really a spec fic, but could fit in with things happening in 8x18. bucktommy. 1.8k. no real warnings, but Bobby's death is mentioned.

“How can I help you, Sir?”

“I’m here f- for Evan Buckley,” Tommy said, heart racing as he spoke. “I’m not sure what room he’s in or- or unit.”

The receptionist nodded, searching the name on her computer.

“I’m not seeing an Evan Buckley here.”

Tommy rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. He was usually so much calmer than this. “He goes by Buck. Can you try that, please?”

Another nod, more typing, then she shook her head. “Are you sure you’re at the right hospital?”

“Yes, I- it would be Presbyterian. Listen, he’s with the LAFD-”

“Oh, the building collapse?”

“Yes, so maybe he hasn’t been checked in yet or-”

She held out her hand, stopping him, “Sir, everyone who needed medical attention after the collapse has been checked in.”

Tommy felt like he was going insane. He knew Evan had to be here. He’d heard it from his coworker, who heard it over the radio. “They said Firefighter Buckley from the 118 was rushed to the hospital after that collapse. I guess he’d gotten trapped in there-”

Tommy had never moved so fast in his life. He’d been out of his flight suit and in his truck in less than five minutes. Had gotten to the hospital in record time too.

And now his hands were shaking.

Staying calm was part of his job. He had to keep himself steady to fly, had to know he was in control.

But he didn’t feel that way right now.

He felt like he was going to pass out.

“Did you… is- when you-” He didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know if he could. But the lady was staring at him like he was growing a second head. “The morgue.”

Her face softened. “Give me a second, I’ll check.”

He couldn’t do this. Each second felt like an eternity. They’d just lost Bobby. He was still waking up in the middle of the night thinking about it. Still having nightmares that it was Evan in that room, taking his last breath all alone.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she began, and he felt his heart drop, “our system is slow today. It’s taking a while to load.”

He leaned against the desk, resting his head in his hands. Breathe. “It’s okay,” he replied, voice calm despite the rest of him being a mess. “I just c-”

“Tommy?”

Tommy whipped around so fast it took a couple of seconds for the room to shift back into focus. He sucked in a breath when, standing in front of him, was, “Evan.”

Buck’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you o- oomph!” He was cut off as Tommy hurried toward him, wrapping his arms around him as tight as he could without hurting him.

“Tommy?” Buck sounded more concerned now. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Tommy released a shaky breath. “Nothing,” he replied, making no attempt to let Buck go. “Just… Just give me a minute, please.”

Buck was still for a moment, unsure. But after a few seconds, he relaxed, then returned the hug, practically melting into Tommy’s arms. “Take two.”

Tommy tucked his head into the crook of Buck’s neck, closing his eyes and breathing him in. He had changed into a clean LAFD sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants, but hadn’t had time to shower. Dirt and soot and sweat clung to him, but Tommy didn’t care. All that mattered was that Buck was alive, and in one piece.

They stood in silence, in the middle of the emergency room entrance, holding onto each other. It wasn’t until the doors opened and a man clutching his wrist came walking into the ER that they pulled away from one another.

The concern that had been on Buck’s face before was now on Tommy’s, as he reached up and brushed a tear away from Buck’s cheek. “What’s wrong, Evan?” he asked. “Why’re you crying?”

Buck shook his head, letting out wet laugh. “I don’t know,” he replied, wiping across his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Tired, I think.”

“Here, let’s sit.” He took Buck’s hand, leading him over to the waiting room and sitting down beside him. There was a table next to him, with a box of tissues. He plucked two of them out and handed them to Buck. “I was told you got trapped in the collapse today,” he said. “Were you hurt?”

“No,” Buck answered, using the tissues to wipe away the tears that kept falling, no matter how hard he tried to get them to stop. “I mean, I- I was trapped, but I was fine. Everyone with the 118 was fine.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

Buck sniffed, clearing his throat. He risked a glance at Tommy as he blinked away a fresh wave of tears. “Why are you here, Tommy?”

“I was… A bad game of telephone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was told about the collapse through a coworker, who heard about it over the radio. Said you’d been rushed to the hospital, and I… I just left and came here.”

“You left work,” Buck questioned, lip quivering slightly, “to come check on me?”

Tommy nodded. “Of course I did.”

Buck’s head dropped as a sob ripped through him. “I’m s- sorry.” He apologized quickly, his voice trembling.

Tommy has his arm around Buck in an instant, a gentle hand running up and down the center of his back. “Hey,” he soothed, “you don’t have anything to be sorry for, Evan. Can you talk to me? Tell me what’s wrong?”

Buck shook his head even as he leaned into Tommy’s touch. “Doesn’t matter,” he answered, palms pressing into his eyes. He was desperately trying to get rid of anymore tears before they had a chance to fall. “S’not about me.”

“I think it is.” Tommy's free hand came up to give Buck’s a squeeze, carefully pulling his hands away from his eyes so he could look at him. “And it does matter. It matters to me.”

Buck tangled their hands together, an instant comfort. “It’s been… I’m not… I’m trying, Tommy, I’m really trying. I promise.”

“Trying what, Evan?”

“To be okay. To be- be what everyone needs. I’m failing though. I- I keep making it about me but I’m not trying to, I’m just trying to do what Bobby asked me to do but I don’t… I don’t know how to do it the right way.”

“I don’t understand. What did Bobby ask you to do?”

Buck sighed, biting at his lip to stop himself from breaking down again. “He told me I’d be okay. He said the others would need me. I- I’m trying to be there for them, I’m trying to be what they all need me to be, but I- Tommy, I’m so tired.” The breathe that escaped him felt like one he’d been holding in since the day Bobby died. His shoulders sagged, eyes dropping to stare at his and Tommy’s hands.

“What about what you need?”

Buck stilled, unsure how to process the question.

“I told you,” he settled on, “it’s not about me.”

“Why not?”

“Tommy, I…” He was uncomfortable all of a sudden. Tommy’s gaze burning into his temple, his hands suddenly clammy. He wanted to escape, wanted out of here.

Tommy held him. Steady.

“Evan,” he repeated, “why not?”

Buck swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I do this, Tommy,” he replied, his voice small. “I make things about me when it- it’s not just me. Everyone misses Bobby, I’m not special.”

“Well, I completely disagree with that,” Tommy said, not a second’s hesitation. “I know everyone misses Bobby. I miss him, and I hadn’t worked with him in years. But, what you two had… you told me he was the father you never had. That’s big, Evan. That… That’s a huge loss. You’re allowed to grieve it.”

And that's what, officially, broke him open. He curled himself into Tommy’s side, ignoring the way the armrest dug into his stomach, and he let himself cry. It didn’t matter that other people were in the waiting area, didn’t matter that Tommy was slowly rocking him back and forth like he was a small child. None of it mattered.

He felt Tommy’s lips press against the top of his head. Heard him softly repeating, “It’s okay, Baby. It’s okay.”

He wasn’t sure how long he cried. He figured it couldn’t have been too long, since Chimney hadn’t called him asking where he and the coffee were at.

But Tommy kept holding him even after his breathing had returned to normal and the tears on his cheeks had started to dry.

“Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you here, if you’re not hurt?”

“Oh, um.” Slowly, Buck peeled himself from Tommy’s grasp, automatically reaching out to take his hand again. “Maddie- she went into labor when we were trapped. Once we were free, I rushed over with Chimney to make sure he got here in time.”

“Oh my God!” Tommy exclaimed, eyes widening. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes, yeah, everyone’s good. Um, the baby was born right after Chim got here. I had come over to emergency because the coffee machine here actually heats the water.”

“Ah, got it. Congrats, by the way, for being an uncle times two.”

Buck grinned and, God, Tommy would give everything he had to keep him happy.

“Thanks. It’s… he’s adorable.”

“So he looks like you then?”

That actually got a laugh out of Buck, which made Tommy smile. And then, he couldn’t help himself. He was tired of wondering if each time he ran into Evan would be the last time. He knew he needed to do something about it. “Do you wanna come over, to my place?” he asked, the words coming out in a rush. “Once you’re done here, I mean. I can fix you dinner. We can talk about Bobby, or how you’re feeling, or we can sit there in silence if you want.”

Buck bit at his lip, contemplating his next words. He looked up at him. “Tommy, i- if I come over, I- I’m not gonna want to leave.”

Tommy stared into Buck's eyes, thumb brushing back and forth over his knuckles. “So don’t leave.”

“Tommy-”

“I think we have a lot we need to talk about,” Tommy continued, “but I walked into this hospital today thinking I might be losing you and I can’t… I don’t want to lose you again, Evan. I’m not walking away.”

Buck was pretty sure he’d run out of tears to cry, but his eyes got glassy anyway. “Okay,” he answered. “Dinner sounds good, and talking."

"Good. That's... That's good."

“You, um, you wanna go meet Baby Boy Han?”

“Are you sure they feel up for visitors right now?”

Buck smiled. “Yeah,” he replied as he stood, pulling Tommy up with him. “They said anyone who’s family is welcome.”

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: The Flight Response.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 5.7k.

TW: Non/Con, Dub/Con, Fem!Reader, Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment/Isolation, Mentions of Stalking, Age Gap (Reader is Mid-Twenties, Bruce is Late Forties), Obsessive Behavior, Suicidal Ideation, Non-Graphic Suicide Attempt, And Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One]

You could hear them through the walls.

Jason’s voice was clear – crystal, even. You doubted you’d ever be able to forget the sound of it, the way it dipped at the edges as he moved between his family’s authoritarian barking and the last remaining traces of his downtown Gotham drawl, how it reverberated against your throat as he muttered some fractured version of your name. Dick took a little longer. You tried not to think of him when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but it would’ve been hard not to recognize that confidence, that carelessness, that charm layered on so thickly, it was hard to believe he wasn’t choking on it. If you hadn’t already felt so sick, you might’ve gagged.

“It’s bad. Barbara’s keeping him occupied with surveillance footage, but that’ll only buy us another hour or so.” They were talking about the manor. Bruce must’ve gotten home, by now. “Where is she?”

“Things aren’t going so fucking great here either, man.” They were getting closer. “She’s in the bedroom. It felt the safest – fewest ways out.”

You balled a sheet in your fist, aware for the first time that you were, in fact, in a bedroom. It must’ve been Jason’s apartment, but you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten here. There’d been the fairgrounds, the backseat, but nothing else. You guessed it didn’t really matter what came that. Your life had already ended. The landscape of your purgatory was inconsequential.

Fighting against the soreness, you pulled yourself up. The space was sparsely decorated save for a few cardboard boxes and a corkboard dotted with grainy pictures, but there was a door near the foot of your bed and, more importantly, a window on the other side of the room, made accessible by a plastic, fold-out card table. It took a few steps to remember how to use your legs, but finding the latch was easier, the glass pane sliding upward with only a slight amount of resistance. The opening wasn’t huge, but you could fit your shoulders through, and it opened up into an utterly deserted, utterly desolate alleyway. Judging from the fire escape on the opposite wall, you were a few stories up – four, at least.

The frame bit into your stomach as you leaned out, palms planted on the exposed brick of the exterior wall. Your feet were on the card table, and then, they weren’t – your body hanging unsupported in the air, levitation before free fall. You shut your eyes, but you never quite reached the plummet. An arm was already around your waist, a chest already against your back. You were jerked out of the window and onto the floor unceremoniously, the fall broken only by Dick. Jason was still in the doorway, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Dick, if nothing else, had the decency not to look so surprised.

“Was she trying to…?”

“She was trying to run,” Dick finished, and just like that, Jason’s expression lightened, relief taking the place of abject horror. They really were family, no matter what either of them might’ve said. A few words from his older brother, and what the younger knew to be true was rendered false, replaced with a more palatable reality.

“Can’t let you out of our sight for a second, can we?” He was talking to you now. Great. With an airy grunt, you were lifted off of the floor and deposited back onto Jason’s cot of a bed, your shoulder resting against the metal headboard. Dick knelt in front of you, smiling. That seemed to be his resting expression, as annoying as it was. “Your apartment’s not far from here, right? Don’t tell him I said anything, but B still pays the rent. I think he wants you to have somewhere safe to run off to if you ever decide to leave home.” He paused, laughed. “Not that you’d have a reason to. He’s just worried, like that. Fuck, he’s worried about you right now, even though you’re safe with us.”

Dread coiled in the pit of your stomach. You should’ve begged them to take you back to the mansion, back to Bruce, back to someone who could protect you. You should’ve made a run for the door – fight, kick, scream until you got out and caught a cab to somewhere far, far away. You had to go back, but you couldn’t go back. He could keep you safe, but he was going to kill you.

They were going to kill you.

Your gaze moved to Jason, silent and pleading. He didn’t notice, his own eyes locked on the floor. “Don’t expect much. I’ve been getting the silent treatment since—”

“Since you fucked her.”

Not the word you would’ve used, but you weren’t really in the mood to correct him. Jason set his jaw. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Since that.”

Dick hummed. “Could you step out for a minute? I’m just going to do a quick check-over, make sure nothing’s damaged.”

Immediately, Jason bristled. “I’m not going fucking anywhere. Not if it means leaving you alone with her.”

For the first time that could remember, Dick’s smile faltered. He glanced over his shoulder, resting a hand on your knee in the same motion. “You called me, little wing. Do you want my help or not?”

You watched Jason intently, never once looking away. He played the role of a cornered creature well – shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms only to let them fall to his sides a second later. When he did answer, though, it came a little too easily, a little too painlessly for the act to be believable. You couldn’t believe you’d ever fallen for it, before. “Do what you have to, but I’m staying.”

For a split second, something like hatred flashed across Dick’s expression. It cleared up quickly enough, though.

“Whatever you say.” He shrugged, pushing himself to his feet. “Just don’t move. You’ve already scared the poor thing half to death.”

You were wearing Jason’s jacket. Your shirt had been torn beyond use, and your bra was probably still on the floor of his car – in the same tangled heap as your panties, most likely. Dick eased the zipper down with care, letting the fabric slide off of your shoulders. Skin exposed to cool air, you moved to curl into yourself, but Dick caught you by the arms, holding you in place as his eyes raked over your collarbones, your chest, the string of dark, bruising marks trailing from the base of your throat to your navel. A few were from Bruce, a few from Jason. It was hard to remember which. Apparently, they liked the same spots.

Dick let out a low whistle. Your shorts were next, pulled low on your thighs, allowed to drop to your ankles only after Dick spared a glance in Jason’s direction. He fell onto the mattress next to you, arm wrapped loosely around your waist. His thumb dragged over the bruising, following the path down until he reached your—

“Don’t,” you muttered, hoarsely. “Please.”

“So she can speak,” he laughed, pressing a kiss into your temple. If he’d heard what you said, it was deemed too unimportant to acknowledge – his hand slipping between your thighs. You thought about screaming, but didn’t. You considered trying for the window again, but decided that if they were just going to stop you from toppling over the edge, it wasn’t worth the effort.

What Jason did to you hurt because you hadn’t expected it. It’d been dumb of you not to, sure, but you hadn’t. It hurt because you expected him to be better than that, expected him to care about you more, expected him to be different from the family he took such surface-level pains to distance himself from. When two of Dick’s fingers dragged over your slit, gathering the remnants of slick and cum Jason had left behind, it hurt differently – more of a cold ache than stabbing burn. You’d never liked Dick. Of all the things he could violate, your trust wasn’t on the list. This hurt because you’d known it was going to happen and tried to stop it. This hurt because it meant that you failed.

You didn’t realize you were still staring at Jason until Dick caught your chin, turning your head towards him. “It’s just you and me,” he murmured, circling your clit once, twice before forcing his digits inside of you. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s already gotten his time with you.”

You opened your mouth, but the only thing that escaped was some strangled, alien noise as Dick spread you open. There was another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. “You don’t have to say anything – you know I’ll always be here to look out for you, right? It doesn’t matter what kind of—” Calloused pads grinding against the walls of your pussy, his voice low and easy in your ear. “—messes the others make, you’ve got me. Since the first day B asked me to walk you to work. Tim just wants something to point his camera at, and Jason would love anything that smiled at him, but me – I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you.”

Jason grunted. “You’re a dirty fucking liar.”

Dick didn’t seem to notice him, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit. You jerked away from him on reflex, but his free hand shot to the side of your head, drawing you into his side and forcing you to rest your head on his shoulder. Proximity seemed to be his main goal, your body pressed into his at every odd angle, his face buried in your neck and his hand tucked between your all-but shut legs. He reminded you of Bruce, like that – so convinced that everything would be alright if he could just pry open his ribcage and stuff you inside. Or, maybe, Dick was the opposite, desperate to burrow a hole in your flesh and live there. Either way, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving your abused cunt empty, throbbing and confused. Absentmindedly, you glanced towards him, and your mistake was swiftly punished by the feeling of teeth against lips, his mouth against yours as he took you by the waist and dragged you onto his lap. You shook your head with as much strength as you could manage, but again, Dick played oblivious, only groaning into your mouth as he rutted against your hips, grinding into your cunt through the denim of his jeans. Jason raised his voice, barking something unintelligible, but Dick was already fumbling with his fly, already—

The lights cut. There was the sound of shattering glass, a rush of cool air before they clicked on again, flooding the room with brightness.

The first thing you noticed was that Dick was standing – leaving you alone on the cot while he scrambled to his feet, a child dropping the toy he wasn’t supposed to play with. The next thing was Jason, suddenly rigid at the foot of the bed, the remaining color drained from his pale face.

Finally, you twisted towards the window, following both of their eyes. There was a spray of glass and wood on the floor where the pane had been broken away, the frame itself now filled by an amorphous, black shape – identifiable only by the aura of pure, unadulterated rage radiating off of it.

Ah.

You’d been wondering when Bruce would come for you.

~

The drive back to the manor was short, endless, and quiet. Dick and Jason promised to find their own way back, meaning you were alone with Bruce. That was fine. At least, this way, you’d have the mercy of a private death.

For the first leg, he didn’t talk to you at all. He kept spare clothes in one of a thousand bottomless compartments – sweatshirts, drawstring pants, loose-fitting articles that could be handed out to those who’d been forced out of their homes by fire and flood without the chance to dress themselves for Gotham’s bone-deep chill – and you shuffled into something thick and shapeless while he drove. It was only after he’d slipped out of the city and into one of the many darkened, lifeless tunnels that connected his estate to the city that he sighed, let autopilot take over, and turned to you.

“Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m dying.” And then, with a shallow exhale, “I should be fine.”

He pursed his lips, resting a hand on your thigh. Involuntarily, for the first time that you could remember, you flinched away from him, throwing your body against the passenger-side door. Suddenly, it seemed like too much to be trapped in a car, too much to be so close to another person, too much to be searching for a handle and not able to find one and—

“Breathe.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. You sucked in a few staggering breaths until the pulsing in your lungs was manageable and you could think about something other than throwing yourself out of a vehicle going well over ninety miles per hour. Bruce didn’t recoil, but his grip tightened around your thigh – any pretense of affection lost in the wake of his control. “How do you feel?”

“Jason, he—I didn’t want to, but—”

“I know what happened. How do you feel?”

“Bad.” You buried your face in your hands, shaking your head. “And stupid. And so— I knew this was going to happen. I just thought, because the others were so much worse, he wouldn’t be the first to crack. And, god, he practically called me his mom right before it happened. I don’t even think they have a word for that.” You weren’t crying, but you wiped at your eyes before resurfacing. “Are you going to do anything?”

Bruce didn’t respond, not immediately. He’d already taken off his cowl, but he was still wearing the rest of his pitch-black suit – still recognizable as the hero you loved, rather than the man you hated. The scales tilted a little further towards Bruce, though, as he leaned towards you – wrapping an arm around your shoulders and locking you against his chest. You felt him bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. As if there was any way you didn’t reek of someone else’s, by now.

“Jason was missing, and you were gone. For half the night, I had no way of knowing if you were alive or dead.” Warm air fanned over your scalp. “This can’t happen again.”

“Does that mean you’re going to…?”

“We’ll see.”

He held you for the rest of the drive, and you let him. It was only when you pulled into the open, underground chamber he shared with his vigilante hell-spawn that he reluctantly let you go and stepped out. Bracing yourself, you followed shortly after.

You’d only seen their hideout (hideout, because you weren’t going to call it the ‘Batcave’, no matter how many times you were asked to) once, the night Bruce first brought you to the manor. That day, it’d been empty, his kids still keeping a measured distance and Bruce still too wary to let anyone get that close to you. Tonight, though, Stephanie and Tim haunted the outskirts of the sparing ring while Barbara and Harper held court in front of the largest computer you’d ever seen – scrubbing through security camera footage from outside Jason’s apartment. Duke lingered nearby, and spared you an apologetic smile as you came into sight. You weren’t sure how much he knew, but it couldn’t be a lot. The poor kid probably thought you’d been kidnapped, or better yet – actually managed to get away.

Dick and Jason were already here. They kept their distance, tactfully positioned just behind Stephanie and Tim, but you still made sure to keep Bruce between you and them. As if that’d ever done you any good.

Bruce wasn’t so thankful for the space. Raising a hand, he gestured to Dick, already moving towards the elevator. “Nightwing. Upstairs. With me.”

You flinched into yourself. “Bruce, I really—”

“This will only take a few minutes.”

It might’ve been more reassuring if he’d stopped to smile, to squeeze your shoulder, to glance at you at all. Instead, you watched as he and Dick disappeared behind titanium elevator doors, neither of them ever looking back.

The cave suddenly felt a little smaller than it had, a few seconds ago. A little more crowded.

Unsure where to go or what to do, you stayed where you were – arms crossed anxiously over your chest. Your mind drifted back to the car you’d arrived in, to the tunnels that connected you so intimately with Gotham proper, but you weren’t left to your own devices for very long. Behind you, Steph mumbled something to Tim, nudging his side. He cleared his throat before saying something to Jason, nearly too muted to be heard. “So, do you know if we’re good to…?”

“To do what, Drake?”

“You know.” And then, after a beat of silence, “What you did.”

You weren’t facing them, but you didn’t have to be. You could feel the drop in the temperature, the tension in the air. You ducked your head half a second before Jason’s fist barreled into Tim’s check, knocking him to the floor. Jason was on him before he’d even hit the ground.

The others rushed past you – Stephanie’s shocked laugh, Barbara’s raised voice, Harper’s barked threats. You were rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to hear beyond the beating of your own heart and the violent collision of skin against skin. You might’ve stayed there forever, until they killed each other, until someone was kind enough to kill you if it hadn’t been for a feather-light hand wrapping around your wrist, a gentle tug forward. You raised your head and found, surprisingly, Cassandra. Of course. You couldn’t blame yourself for not noticing her before – she tended to keep to the shadows, like that.

“Come on.” Again, she tugged at your wrist, as if it was only natural that you’d follow after her. When you failed to react, she grinned and without making a sound, pulled you into an effortless bridal carry. If you had any faith at all in the idea of safety in numbers, you might’ve screamed, thrashed, done anything to stop her. Right now, though, you just wanted to be alone, and being alone with Cas was about as close as you were going to get.

The elevator was empty by the time she reached it, Dick and Bruce having disappeared into some other part of the manor. You let her carry you to the bedroom you shared with Bruce and, rather unceremoniously, drop you onto the foot of your bed. Whatever she was looking for, it required a lot of touching to find – a palm pressed against your forehead, two fingers underneath your chin, checking your pulse. When she reached for your wrist, you waved her off, not bothering to hide your agitation, your discomfort. There wasn’t a point in playing nice, anymore.

Cassandra wasn’t so downcast. Light on her feet, she fell into a crouch, staring up at you from a little over a few feet away. “Bruce was scared you were hurt. Terrified.” Her smile never wavered. “Should be calming down, now. Jason’s safe – part of the family.”

You dragged your knees into your chest. “That’s what I thought, too.”

She started to shake her head, but didn’t get a chance to spit anything out. The bedroom door swung open and Stephanie barged inside, shutting it again after taking a discreet look down the hall. Her attention shifted to you, next – her smile nearly as bright as Cas’.

“Tim’s getting his ass handed to him.”

“Good. I hope he and Jason tear each other’s throats out.”

“Someone’s grumpy.” She fell onto the mattress next to you, arms crossed behind her head. “Is it just ’cause Jason lost his cool?”

Shrinking into yourself wasn’t enough. You were on your feet in a second, riffling through the contents of a writing desk in another. Cas turned her head, owl-like, and Stephanie rolled onto her side to watch you. “You can be honest with us. Who were you hoping for? Dick? Tim? Me?”

“A mouthful of broken glass.”

“That wasn’t one of your options, sweetheart.” You pulled open a drawer, finding little more than scraps of paper and a few abused pens. You left it open and moved onto a bedside table. “I would’ve gone with Tim. He’s the voyeur type – very hands off.”

Nothing in the bedside table, either. You grabbed the closest corner and pushed as hard as you could, but the damn solid oak only swayed once before falling back into place. Fucking rich people. You couldn’t even take your anger out on their furniture.

“Do you hate us?”

It was Cas, this time, her tone purely curious. You crossed the room to Bruce’s walk-in closet, populated dominantly by the designer suits he’d wear once or twice a month when his socialite reputation forced him to actually show his face in public. He would mention taking you to one of his events, every now and then, kiss your neck and have you try different colognes as he mused how much more bearable the night would be if he had you by his side. It would never actually happen, obviously. Bruce still had reservations about letting you walk through the garden on your own. A crowd of drunk socialites with wandering hands and ulterior motives was never really an option.

“She doesn’t.” Stephanie answered on your behalf. You shoved a hand into one of Bruce’s less frequently worn jackets, then patted down the one hanging behind it. “She’s just a little tense, that’s all. It took us all a little while to come around to family life.”

Jackpot. You felt something hollow and cylindrical through an interior pocket – a pill bottle, the contents untouched and the dosage strong. You could remember Bruce mentioning it months ago, something about staging a scandal to push a story about Batman out of the news cycle. You scanned over the label just thoroughly enough to catch the words ‘anti-anxiety’ and ‘sedative’ before pulling the container into your sleeve, letting it settle against your wrist. Whatever it was, you’d make it work.

You spun on your heels and immediately went still. There hadn’t been any footsteps, any voices, any shift in the lighting, and yet, when you turned around, Cassandra was looming above you, caging you against the wall. If she’d noticed the bottle, she didn’t seem to think anything of it. Her attention was on you – just you,dark eyes prying into the very core of your being. You spared a glance towards the doorway, now occupied by Stephanie. “Go on,” she encouraged, her gaze just as cutting. “Tell (Y/n) what you told me.”

“I’ve never had a mom, before.” She edged closer, and you moved away – your back pressing into the bar. “It’s fun.”

It was annoying. They were annoying –so fast, and so strong, and so willing to ignore your attempts to dart around her as she cupped your face and smashed her mouth into yours. Neither Bruce nor his sons had ever been the embodiment of gentleness, but Cassandra was uniquely rough around the edges, uniquely oblivious to how easily her lips bruised yours. You remembered someone mentioning that her first kiss was with one of the Supers, which made sense. She never seemed to consider that her partner may not be invincible.

Her attention span gave out before your panic-induced paralysis. You felt her teeth against the corner of your jaw, then your neck, her face eventually finding a home in the crook of your neck. Scarred hands drifted under the back of your jacket, pressing into the column of your spine, and then there were more – another pair on your shoulders, Stephanie’s voice in your ear. “I think I’ll have to wait a while longer. In-law rules – we laid them out while you were gone.” Cassandra bit into the base of your throat hard. You could feel her tongue moving over your skin as Stephanie went on. “You don’t mind if I hang around for this, though, right?”

Stephanie giggled, Cassandra’s teeth broke fresh skin, and then, you were on the floor, back slumped against the wall, staring up at Bruce as he held Cassandra by the shirt collar, having forcefully pulled her away from you. She could get away if she wanted to, lash out if she wanted to, but she didn’t seem angry, or surprised, just alert to the abrupt change in dynamic. Stephanie was crouched next to you, still smiling. After making sure you hadn’t blacked out, she pushed herself to her feet, patting Bruce’s shoulder. “Just keeping things warm for you, B.”

She made her exit hastily, despite her bravado. Bruce watched her leave before letting go of Cas. “Find the others.”

Blunt. Neat. Direct. Even that was more than she needed, really. Cassandra nodded once, then she was gone, leaving you and Bruce alone.

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You might’ve, too – raised your voice, scrambled to your feet, seen how far you could make it through the labyrinthine halls of his manor before you were caught by another set of groping hands and gnashing teeth, but all fantasies of such explicit5 resistance abandoned you the second you actually looked at him. He didn’t look cold, or irritated, or any of the awful, selfish things that would’ve made him an appropriate pincushion for the jagged needles of your anger. He looked tired.

And you were tired, too.

He held out a hand, trying to help you up. You stared at it for a second, then another, before finding your voice.

“Please don’t touch me.”

The weariness knit into his expression darkened. Sighing, he leaned forward and took you by the wrist, dragging you upright. As you stumbled onto your feet, your chest ached and the pill bottle burnt into your arm.

You walked ahead of him, back into the bedroom proper. He was still in-uniform, but the armor was slowly falling away – the gloves, the belt, then enough little, disparate parts to leave him more Bruce than Batman in front of you. Eventually, he closed what little distance there was between you. A hand on your hip, another cupping your cheek. He kissed you delicately, as if he suddenly felt the need to pretend you were made of glass. As if you couldn’t still feel the blood and saliva dripping down your chest.

Your borrowed clothes were discarded quickly enough, thrown into some shadowed corner where he wouldn’t have to think about them until morning. Your body was posed on the edge of the mattress, where he could kneel in front of you as he fucked his tongue into your cunt and sucked on your clit – a believer worshiping their idol to absolve themselves of sin. You considered telling him to stop, trying to relish that new freedom. Maybe you did. Like everything else you did, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.

“I think they’re…” He trailed off, pushing a lingering kiss into the inside of your thigh. “I think they’re confused. Disoriented. Dick says he’s in love with you – has been since before I brought you home. Jason thinks you’ve shown some kind of preference for him.”

He usually liked to be on top, favored positions that let him fold your knees against your chest or force you to look into his eyes. Somehow, tonight, you found yourself in his lap, head resting against his chest and thighs straddling his as he guided your hips slowly, carefully. “They’re all so young. It’s not an excuse, but it can’t help.”

“Dick and I are only a year apart,” you muttered, absentmindedly. “We could’ve been in the same class.”

Bruce didn’t respond. There was another kiss, this one pressed into your forehead, and a soft groan as he rolled his hips against yours.

He came inside of you. He usually did, but still. Salt in the wound and all.

When it was over, you let him hold you, counting out the seconds. When you reached a number that felt appropriately innocuous, you squirmed and asked if you could use the bathroom.

Bruce sat up immediately. “I’ll run a bath. There’s a new bottle of vintage downstairs if you—”

“Later.” You smiled, going slack against him before picking yourself up. “Honestly, I think I just need to be alone for a minute. To put things together.”

He hesitated, but not for very long. You could feel his eyes following you as you flitted through the room, picking up a few odds and ends – a hairbrush, one of Bruce’s shirts, your discarded clothes – before slipping into the en-suite, locking the door, and dropping everything save for the little, orange pill bottle.

You got the shower running and stood in front of the sink, fiddling with the child-proof cap. In place of doubt, you felt resignation – pure, neutral awareness of what needed to be done and how to go about doing it. Any hesitation was only reflex, born of some base animal desire not to do harm to oneself. You didn’t like pain, but you’d had a win condition, a clear line between what you would tolerate and what you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t want to find out what was on the other side of that line, either.

The pills tasted bitter. They left a layer of chalk on your tongue, a knot the size of your fist in your throat, but you did your best to wash it down. Tossing the now-empty bottle in the sink, you laid on the tiled floor, pulled your knees into your chest, and waited.

~

You woke up crying.

Not out loud, and not for any reason you could remember, but still – crying. Dried tears formed stiff tracks down your cheeks, saliva wetting the corners of your lips. The inside of your mouth tasted sour, acidic, like you’d thrown up recently. You weren’t sure whether or not you should’ve been surprised by that.

You weren’t in the manor. The ceiling was too low, too white, your surroundings distinctly unrecognizable despite the haze over your vision. You glanced down and found your own body in a similarly alien state. You were wearing a hospital gown, with a small collection of monitors and needles attached to your left arm. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, groaning internally. Somehow, you’d managed to screw up this, too.

You tried to sit up, but only succeeded in sinking further into the paper-thin mattress. Nothing hurt, but your body was beyond your control, still rebelling after your brain’s mutiny. With some effort, you managed to turn your head far enough to see a window, half-expecting to find the Wayne Manor courtyard outside. Instead, Gotham’s skyline stretched on as far as the eye could see – a collection of misshapen skyscrapers and sparkling city lights fighting against the early morning fog. That, if nothing else, caught you off-guard. You’d assumed that Bruce would rather watch you die than trust anyone else to take care of you.

Not that he’d ever let you out of his sight. You felt a weight settle onto the edge of your cot, heard someone let out a deep breath. You didn’t have to guess who it was.

“You took me to a hospital.”

“You didn’t leave us much of a choice.” Us. You wondered who got the privilege of carrying your body out to the ambulance, if there’d even been one. You wouldn’t put it past Bruce to rush into the emergency center, your limp form slung over his shoulder, playing the good Samaritan as he rattled off some story about finding you unconscious in an alleyway or unattended in the back of a club. Anything to keep his family’s public image under control. “You put yourself in danger.”

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

 His thin-lipped scowl deepened. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” This time, when you tried to sit up, Bruce was there to help you – one hand on your back and the other on your shoulder as he guided you into a more respectable position. You might’ve flashed him a smile by way of gratitude, if you’d been feeling more thankful. “You knew what I was afraid of, Bruce. You must’ve been able to guess what I’d do in a worst-case scenario.”

“You never came to me about this. You never told me the kids were—”

“I did.” Your voice was muted, strained, but he went quiet as soon as you opened your mouth. He wanted a martyr, not a fight. “Please, don’t pretend this is my fault.”

For once, he seemed to listen to you. Nodding, he drew in a long breath, his expression callousing over into something rational, something beyond emotion. “It would be short-sighted to leave you unattended. During your recovery, especially.” Recovery, like you’d broken a limb. You stifled a laugh as he went on. “As the manor would present too many unknown variables, I’ve found a safe house in the city. It should be ready by the time you’re released.

A penthouse in the city. Just like you’d always wanted. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. This isn’t a game.” He drummed his fingers against the over-starched sheets, wrinkling them. “The others have been generous enough to divide their patrols. They’ll be able to monitor when I can’t be there.”

Your heart dropped. “Bruce.”

“They’re as concerned for your safety as I am.”

“Bruce.”

“That’s enough.”

“It’ll kill me. They’ll kill me.”

“They’re trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” At least he had the decency to sound like he believed it. “They care about you.”

You felt something rise into the back of your throat – sick and acidic and gnashing. You opened your mouth to scream, to cry, to argue, but nothing came out, your desolation silent in its totality. Bruce only sighed, resting his hand on your thigh. A small smile came to rest across his lips – exhausted, but still terrible in its sincerity.

“You’re part of the family, love.”

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

FROM LIPS TO HIPS.

paring : phainon, mydei, sunday, moze, anaxa x f!reader (separate)

tws : nsfw / smut, creampie (vaginal), filthy sēx, blow job, virgin reader, mirror sēx, gentle moze, rough mydei, pet-names, degradation, spanking, nipple play and hōrny men. (mdni)

synopsis : He didn’t expect you to be that good in a blow job for the first time…welp…I guess he gotta fuck you properly huh?

note : not proof read, sorryyy!!! ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

You're on your knees between his thighs, eyes wide and lips slick with pink gloss. You’d been so shy at first, fidgeting with your fingers, but now? Now you're sucking him down like you were born for it.

Phainon’s fingers tighten slightly in your hair, not pulling—never pulling—but guiding, letting his touch stay gentle even as he stares down at you with parted lips and stunned eyes. “Sweetheart…” he breathes out, his voice catching. “You sure this is your first time?”

You hum around him, lashes fluttering, your doe eyes looking up through smudged mascara with the kind of innocent glow that shouldn’t match the filth of your mouth working his cock. Each movement of your tongue has him twitching in your throat, his free hand flexing helplessly at his side.

“Gods…” he whispers, tilting his head back for a second as his hips roll forward, just once. “You’re driving me insane.”

He doesn't last long. He pulls out gently, breathing hard, staring down at your messy, spit-slick mouth, his cock glistening in the low light. You swallow, still looking up at him, all glossy and wrecked and so proud of what you just did.

Phainon exhales a shaky laugh, brushing your hair away from your face. “That mouth is going to be trouble for me, isn’t it?”

You grin, a little shy again now, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. “Did I do good?”

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your lip. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “You were perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I have no choice now.”

You tilt your head. “No choice?”

He smiles—soft, playful, but dark behind the eyes. “I’ve got to fuck you properly, don’t I?”

Before you can speak, he's lifting you up into his arms like it’s nothing. He lays you on your back, climbing over you with a gaze that’s burning through every inch of your body. His hands are warm on your skin as he undresses you slowly, savoring the sight of you spread out beneath him.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, brushing his lips over your chest. “Still so shy, even after that? Sweet little thing…”

You moan softly as his mouth finds your nipple, tongue teasing before his teeth close around it in a soft bite. His other hand slides between your thighs, parting them with ease, fingers grazing over how wet you already are.

“Look at you,” he says with a grin. “So worked up and I’ve barely touched you.”

His fingers play with your nipple again, giving it a quick, rough pinch that makes your breath hitch. “Sensitive too. That’s adorable.”

You squirm beneath him, your voice breathless. “Please… Phainon…”

“Patience, sweetheart.” His palm comes down gently across your thigh—smack—a teasing, playful spank that makes your legs twitch. “You’re gonna get everything. I just like hearing you beg for it.”

He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, eyes locked on yours, checking every little flicker of your expression.

“You ready?”

You nod fast, eyes wide. “Yes. I want it—I want you.”

Phainon leans in, kissing you softly even as he pushes into you, slow and deep. You gasp against his lips, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. “So tight,” he groans into your mouth. “You feel like heaven.”

He starts to move, hips rolling in smooth, steady thrusts, filling you over and over. It’s not brutal like Mydei—it’s deep, teasing, paced perfectly to keep you trembling and wanting more. He reaches down and pinches your nipple again, making you cry out just as he slams into you harder.

“Every time you make that sound,” he whispers, voice low, “I wanna keep you like this forever. Pretty and ruined and mine.”

You whimper his name, clinging to him, your legs wrapping around his waist. He picks up the pace, not rough—but firm, confident, making sure you feel all of him.

And then—another playful smack to your ass, his fingers squeezing the softness. “Keep those sounds coming, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”

You’re already close, breath catching, your walls clenching around him. “Phainon—I’m—“

“I know.” He kisses you again, deep and sweet as he fucks you through it. “Let go for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And when you do, it hits you hard—your body trembling around him as he follows soon after, hips jerking as he spills inside, warmth flooding through you.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays close, stroking your sides, kissing your flushed cheeks, breathing hard with a smile.

“You really surprised me, you know that?” he murmurs.

You grin sleepily, lashes fluttering. “I wanted to impress you.”

He chuckles, brushing your hair back. “Oh, sweetheart. You wrecked me.”

Your knees were already sore from how long you'd been down there, but you didn’t care. Not when Mydei was gripping the back of your head like that, not when his cock was hitting the back of your throat over and over. Your pink glossy lips stretched wide around him, spit dribbling down your chin, slicking up his shaft every time he pulled back.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” His voice was low, cruel in its amusement. “No way this is your first time, princess.” He jerks your head back just enough to let his cock slap against your cheek, smearing your gloss. “Look at this face. Mascara smudged, eyes all teary and fucked-out already.”

You gasped, chest rising and falling as you tried to breathe, tongue still out, licking his length. “It is my first,” you whimper, voice all breathy and ruined. “I wanted to be good for you.”

That made something inside him snap.

He grabbed you hard and yanked you up, dragging you against his chest. “Good for me?” he groaned against your ear. “You think this sweet little mouth is enough?” His cock pressed against your stomach, thick and twitching, soaked in your spit. “No, no. If you’re gonna be mine, princess, I’m going to fuck you properly.”

You barely had time to breathe before he was bending you over the edge of the bed, yanking your panties down your thighs, spreading your legs wide.

“Gods, look at this messy cunt. Already drooling for me?” He runs two fingers along your slit, spreading you open just to watch you clench around nothing. “You act all shy, but you’re dripping like a bitch in heat.”

“Please…” You gasped, arching your back, trying to grind on him. “I want it—I want you.”

He chuckled darkly. “You’ll get me.”

And then he was pushing in—deep, thick, unrelenting. Your body seized up around him, your fingers gripping the sheets, a sob breaking out of you as your pussy stretched around his cock. “M-Mydei—!”

“You feel that?” he groaned, snapping his hips forward hard, making you yelp. “That’s what happens when you suck cock like a whore. Now your cunt’s gotta match it.” His hand came down—smack!—right on your ass, hard enough to make you jolt. “Say it, princess.”

“Say what?” you cried, trembling.

“Say this pussy’s mine.”

“It’s yours! It’s yours, Mydei, fuck—!”

He rewarded you with another smack, this one on the other cheek, before grabbing your hips in a bruising grip and fucking into you filthy. The sound was obscene—wet, skin-slapping, your slick coating everything. His cock pistoned in and out like he owned you, like he’d been waiting to ruin you from the moment he laid eyes on those pretty, pink lips.

“Oh gods, I—I'm gonna—!”

“You’re not cumming yet,” he growled. One hand moved to your chest, grabbing your tits roughly, fingers pinching and twisting your nipples till you sobbed. “Not until I say. You want to be my good girl, don’t you, princess? Then take it.”

You nodded frantically, biting your lip, tears running down your cheeks as he bullied your pussy into submission. “Y-Yes! I’ll be good, I swear—!”

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you for fucking me!” you cried, voice cracking. “Thank you for using me, for—”

He grunted, thrusts getting sloppier, deeper, and suddenly you could feel it—that pulsing, that heat, that moment right before he fell apart. “You’re gonna take every fucking drop, princess. Gonna keep me nice and warm in that little cunt of yours.”

You moaned like you’d been starved for it.

And then he snapped—hips buried deep, cock twitching inside you as he came hard, spilling thick, hot ropes deep into your cunt. You whimpered as you felt it all, the way your pussy fluttered around him, the mess spilling out the moment he started to pull back.

But he didn’t leave.

He stayed inside, hips rocking slowly now, grinding into you to fuck it in deeper. “That’s it. Keep it in. All of it.” He leaned down over your back, voice heavy in your ear. “You look so pretty like this. Ruined. Bred. My filthy little princess.”

Your eyes fluttered, lips swollen, face flushed and messy with gloss and tears and pride.

“More,” you whispered, wiggling your hips. “Please, Mydei... more.”

He smirked, cock still hard inside you. “Oh, you’ll get more. You’re not done until I say so.”

Your body is still tingling, a mix of pleasure and soreness, as Mydei pulls back. The feeling of him leaving you empty for a second almost drives you mad with want.

"You like that, princess?" he mutters low, his voice rough as he slides his hands down your back, tracing the curves of your hips. His thumb swipes across your wetness, testing how much of him you’ve taken. “You’ve got me wired... Fuck, I didn’t think you’d look this good after.”

You shiver, trying to stay still as his thumb presses against your sensitive spot, teasing but not giving you enough. “Please… more, Mydei,” you beg, voice trembling. “I want all of you.”

He chuckles, his breath hot on your neck as he presses your face into the soft sheets, your body still bent over. “More, huh? You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you, princess?”

You nod desperately. “Yes. Please, don’t stop.”

He’s quick to push you forward, his cock slipping back inside with a soft grunt. This time, he doesn’t waste time with teasing. He pulls your hips against his, setting a steady rhythm, deeper than before, filling you completely. His pace is slow at first, but you can feel it—the tension building in his every thrust.

His hand snakes around to your chest, fingers curling around your sensitive nipples, rolling them roughly as his cock slides in and out of you. A soft moan escapes you as your back arches, your hands gripping the sheets tighter. “You like that?” he growls. “Like when I play with these too?”

“Yes—yes, Mydei!” You moan in response, voice higher now as the pleasure begins to rise again. “It feels so good. I can’t—”

He tightens his grip on your waist, stilling your movements. “No more talking unless you want me to fuck you harder, princess.”

You bite your lip, nodding, trying to obey. But his cock feels so good, hitting just the right spots, and the way his rough hand plays with your chest—it’s too much. Your body betrays you, clenching around him as you reach the edge again. You can feel your walls tightening, needing more, desperate for him.

“Do you feel it?” His voice is dangerously low, almost teasing now, as he watches you struggle to hold back. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you? Such a good girl for me.”

You can barely get the words out. “Yes… I—yes, Mydei…”

He chuckles darkly, pulling your hair back to expose your neck, nipping at the skin as he fucks into you deeper. The pressure in your core builds, and with a soft gasp, you finally lose control, your body tightening around him as your orgasm hits, waves of pleasure rushing through you.

Mydei doesn’t slow, though. His pace is relentless, pushing you even further, until you’re gasping for breath, your body trembling from the intensity. The mix of roughness and tenderness is overwhelming, but you can’t help but crave it.

Finally, when it feels like you can’t take anymore, he pulls back and flips you onto your back, his eyes wild with hunger. “One more, princess,” he growls, pressing his cock against your entrance again, this time more urgently.

“You’re not done until I’m satisfied,” he mutters, voice low and possessive, as he pushes in, taking control again.

You whimper beneath him, eager to be used again, wanting nothing more than to feel him claim you completely. This wasn’t just about the sex anymore—it was about him marking you, making sure you’d never forget how completely he owned you.

“Say you’re mine,” he commands, each word gritted between his teeth as he starts to fuck you harder again.

You moan, eyes meeting his, your voice a desperate plea. “I’m yours, Mydei. Always yours.”

“W-wait… it’s your first time?”

Sunday’s voice trembles as he looks down at you, flushed and wide-eyed. His cock twitches against your tongue, slick with spit, your lips glossy and swollen. You pull back just enough to smile sweetly up at him—mascara smudged, doe eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Mhm,” you murmur, licking the tip slowly. “But I wanted to make you feel good…”

“Angel,” he groans, head dropping back, wings twitching behind his ears. They flutter fast—uncontrollably fast—as if his whole body can’t handle how good your mouth feels wrapped around him. “You—fuck—you’re too good at this. You’re dangerous.”

You giggle, then sink your lips around him again, taking more, letting your tongue swirl with practiced instinct, and the soft sound that escapes him is broken. His hands shake as they rest on your head, not guiding—he doesn’t dare. He’s too stunned. Too grateful.

When he cums, it’s with a breathless cry, his wings snapping out wide and trembling behind his ears, twitching wildly in rhythm with every spurt he spills onto your tongue. You swallow, slowly, looking up at him like the picture of sweet satisfaction.

He stares down at you, panting, chest rising and falling. “That was your first time?” he asks again, voice cracking in disbelief. “Angel… I have to—no, I need to—”

You barely have time to react before he’s pulling you onto the bed, hovering over you like he’s starved. His kisses are frantic and soft at once, whispering your name against your skin like a prayer. “Let me fuck you properly. Let me treat you the way you deserve.”

His hands fumble with your clothes, needy, reverent, worshipping every inch of exposed skin. He kisses down your neck, to your chest, suckling your nipples until you're gasping and trembling, his thumbs rolling over the hardened peaks as he sighs against you.

“So soft… so perfect…” he murmurs, almost drunk on the feel of you. “My angel…”

When he enters you, it’s with a whimper, his hips trembling as he sinks in to the hilt. His wings flutter again—excited, overwhelmed—shivering behind his ears.

“Warm… you’re so warm,” he moans, burying his face in your neck as he starts to move. His thrusts are shaky at first, too needy to pace himself, but he tries. For you. “I want to make it good for you… I want to ruin you sweetly…”

Your hands grip his back, nails raking gently along his skin, and the soft sounds you make only push him further. He’s panting, whimpering, unable to stop himself from pressing deeper, faster, whispering pet names like he’s losing his mind.

“Sweetheart… my pretty baby… you’re taking me so well…”

He cums again with a soft, high moan, cock twitching inside you as his wings flutter wildly, flapping in rhythm with every pulse of his orgasm. But he doesn’t stop.

He can’t.

He’s still hard. Still needy.

He pulls back just enough to look at your face—flushed, glowing, lips parted—and then he’s fucking into you again with a desperate whine. “Again,” he begs, voice shaking. “I wanna cum again—please, I need to fill you up more.”

You wrap your legs around him tighter, nodding. “Do it, Sunday. Cum in me again…”

His hands grip your hips, head dropping to your chest as he thrusts harder, faster now. The room is filled with wet, messy sounds as he fills you again, his cock buried deep, another wave of release wracking through him. His wings flap frantically, twitching like they’re going to lift him off the bed.

“Gonna fill my angel ‘til you’re dripping,” he babbles, slurring the words against your skin. “Gonna make you mine. Gonna keep you full of me…”

He stays inside, hips grinding slowly, moaning into your shoulder as he rocks through the aftershocks. You feel it—so much—creamy and warm, leaking already. He’s breathless and shaky, holding you like you’re all that’s anchoring him to the earth.

And his wings? Still fluttering, soft and slow now… like he’s never been happier.

“Mmh—wait—wait, you’ve never… done this before?”

Moze’s voice comes out low and stunned, thick with disbelief as he stares down at you between his legs. His hand trembles just slightly in your hair, not pulling, just resting there like he’s scared to move too much and ruin the moment. You glance up shyly, lips glossy and slick, mascara slightly smudged, and give a soft little hum, your doe eyes blinking slowly.

“N-no… but…” you pause, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I wanted to make you feel good…”

He breathes in sharp, like your words punched the air right out of his lungs. He’s so red in the face—ears flushed too, all the way to the tips—and he nods rapidly, fumbling out a soft, shaky, “You’re doing s-so good… sweetheart… oh fuck—”

You slide your tongue over the tip again, slow and warm, feeling him twitch against your lips. You’re hesitant at first, trying to copy what you’ve read, seen, imagined, but something about the way Moze melts under your touch makes you bolder. He keeps moaning softly, his voice hitching with every movement of your mouth, like he can’t believe it’s real.

“F-feels so good,” he stammers, biting down on his knuckle as if he’s scared he might moan too loud. “Didn’t think—I didn’t know it could feel like that…”

When he finally cums, his thighs tremble and his hips jerk forward in tiny, helpless thrusts. The way he gasps your name, breath shivering out of him, makes you feel warm all over. He spills across your tongue, salty and hot, and you swallow instinctively, licking your lips clean as you look up at him again.

Moze is wide-eyed, mouth parted in awe. “I… that was your first time?” he breathes, voice soft and shaken. “Sweetheart, I gotta—I have to—”

He doesn’t even finish the sentence. He just scoops you into his arms and lays you down so gently it makes you whimper. His big hands run along your sides, holding you like you might break, his thumbs stroking over your trembling thighs.

“I need to be inside you now,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “Need to make you feel even better than that. Want you to feel how much I love you, how much I need you…”

You nod shyly, face flushed, and he kisses you so sweetly it makes your chest tighten. His hands are trembling as they slide under your shirt, lifting it up, and when your chest is finally exposed, Moze stares—silent, reverent.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples with feather-light touches. “So warm… I wanna stay here forever…”

He leans down, mouth closing over one nipple as he groans softly. His tongue is warm, slow, lavishing your chest with long, slow licks before switching sides. He mouths at your breast like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, fingers teasing the other until your back arches under him.

“You make the sweetest sounds,” he mumbles, lips dragging over the curve of your chest. “So pretty, so good for me…”

You gasp when his fingers trail down, teasing between your legs before he eases himself inside you slowly, almost reverently. He’s shaking again, not from nerves, but from how much he’s holding himself back. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and he lets out the softest, most broken moan you’ve ever heard.

“You’re tight… oh stars, sweetheart, you feel like heaven…”

He moves slow, hips rolling in gentle thrusts, careful not to overwhelm you. He kisses every part of you he can reach—your neck, your shoulder, the side of your face—while his hands never leave your chest. He’s obsessed, practically worshipping your breasts with every roll of his hips, whispering how good you feel, how much he adores you.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he breathes, a little dazed. “Can’t believe I get to be inside you like this…”

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer when he cums—soft, deep, and warm, filling you in long, pulsing waves. He gasps your name again and again as his hips grind in, making sure every drop stays deep inside. You feel it leaking already, warm and messy between your legs, and Moze shudders.

“I—I didn’t mean to do that so fast,” he whispers, nuzzling against your cheek. “You just… you felt too good, and you looked so pretty underneath me…”

He doesn’t pull out. His cock is still hard, still twitching a little inside you. He kisses you, breath still uneven, and strokes your sides with trembling hands.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and dazed, “can I… stay inside? Just for a bit? Wanna keep you full… wanna feel you a little longer…”

You nod against his shoulder, and he exhales shakily, wrapping his arms around you as if he’s scared to let go.

“You didn’t tell me you’d be that good with your mouth,” Anaxa growls against your neck, voice hot and thick, one slender hand tangled in your hair while the other grips your hip. “All innocent-looking, blushing, lips shiny and pink—then you go and suck me off like a damn expert?”

He bites down—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to sting—and you yelp, squirming under him as heat flares through your chest.

“I-it was my first time,” you breathe out, cheeks burning.

Anaxa pulls back just enough to stare at you, eyes dark and glittering. “That was your first? You’re fucking with me, princess.”

You shake your head, and his grip tightens.

“Stars, you’re filthy. Pretty girl on her knees, making the messiest eye contact while drooling on my cock like you were born to do it,” he grunts, reaching down to palm your ass. “You know what that does to me.”

Then he slaps you—one sharp smack to your ass that leaves you gasping and arching into him. He smirks.

“You liked that,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t answer fast enough.

Another slap.

“Say it.”

“Yes—yes, I liked it,” you whimper, voice trembling as you feel his cock press harder against your soaked entrance.

“Good,” he says, lining up and sliding in all at once—slow but deep, filling you until your thighs shake. “Because I’ve been dying to ruin you since that first fucking suck.”

He starts thrusting immediately, hips snapping forward, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing around you as you claw at the sheets. Each thrust is rough but controlled, angled to hit deep and drag every moan out of you.

“Princess,” he grits out, biting your shoulder again, “you were made for this. Made for me. This tight little cunt, this body—it’s mine. All mine.”

He spanks you again, harder this time, and your walls clench around him so tight he snarls.

“Fuck—don’t do that unless you wanna make me cum already.”

You whine under him, eyes glazed, mascara smudged, lips parted and glossy from earlier. He watches your chest bounce beneath him, one hand reaching to twist and tug at your nipples until you sob.

“These tits,” he mutters, breath ragged. “I could bite them, fuck them, drown in them. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You can barely speak now—too full, too hot, too lost in how deep he’s going. But you gasp his name, breathy and sweet, and that’s all it takes.

“Shit—gonna fill you,” he growls, hips stuttering as his rhythm gets sloppy. “Gonna stuff you full, pretty girl. Gonna make sure it leaks out for days—remind you who this body belongs to.”

He cums deep, thrusting rough and slow, making sure not a single drop goes to waste. You feel it pulse inside you, warm and heavy, and your entire body trembles beneath him.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he leans in close, voice rough but quieter now.

“You’re mine. Every moan, every drip down your thighs—mine.”

And then, soft again, as he brushes your hair back:

“Good girl.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[mintedwitcher]

something I'm workshopping for my "Buck leaves the 118" fic below the cut:

He sits in his car for a long time, just staring out at the waves. He used to surf. He used to love surfing. When did that stop, he wonders? Was it when the tsunami happened? Or was it before that? He can’t remember the last time he went surfing.

His phone is in his hand before he really registers picking it up, and then he’s dialling a number that he’s been avoiding for weeks.

“This is Kinard.”

“Tommy,” Buck says, and it’s like he can finally breathe.

“Evan? What’s wrong?” Tommy asks immediately.

“I’m at the beach,” Buck says. “Just got off work. Did you know I used to be a surf instructor? I can’t remember the last time I went surfing.”

“Which beach?” Tommy asks. “And no, I didn’t know that. I can see it though, it suits you.”

“More than being a firefighter?” Buck asks. “I don’t know which beach, I wasn’t paying attention. I just ended up here.”

“No, firefighting suits you better,” Tommy says. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Buck says. He might be lying. He doesn’t really know. That last call did get a little hairy, but he doesn’t feel hurt. Mostly he just feels… “Tired.”

“Stay awake for me,” Tommy says. Buck can hear the sound of Tommy’s truck revving. He’s driving, too. He’s probably going to work.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have called,” Buck says. “I’m not even sure why I did, I just… I guess I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Evan, sweetheart, you’re scaring me,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds urgent now.

“I’m not killing myself,” Buck tells him, because that’s important. “I won’t do that. I’m getting a transfer next week. Can’t mess things up for my new Captain before I even start working for him.”

“Good, Evan, that’s good,” Tommy says. “I’m on my way right now, okay? Just keep talking to me, sweetheart. Tell me about your surf instructor job. I’ve gotta know, were you blonde?”

Buck barks a laugh. “Frosted tips,” he says. “It was Peru. Wait, no, that was the bartending job. God, there’s been so many, I can’t keep track of them all. Maybe I’ll ask Maddie. She’ll know. She kept my postcards.”

“You sent her postcards?” Tommy asks. Buck knows that he’s trying to keep him awake, keep him alert and oriented. He’s a firefighter, he knows the drill. He goes with it anyway.

“Yeah, one from every place I lived in, before LA,” Buck says. “There’s like, twenty of them.”

“You’ll have to tell me about all of them,” Tommy says. “How many jobs have you had?”

“Too many,” Buck says with a sigh. “I liked most of them. Surfing, carpentry, bartending… I was a ranch hand for a while. Can’t believe it took you kissing me to realise I’m into men. The signs were there, Tommy, let me tell you.”

“You checked out my ass the day we met, remember,” Tommy says. Buck laughs again. It still sounds wrong, but maybe it’s because he hasn’t laughed in a while. Maybe he needs to relearn how.

“In my defence, you have a great ass,” Buck says.

“You’re right, I do,” Tommy says, chuckling.

“And so modest, too,” Buck says. He’s teasing. They’re flirting. Buck’s smile feels a little more genuine this time.

“A triple threat,” Tommy agrees. “I’m pulling up now. I can see your truck.”

“Yay,” Buck replies, and Tommy laughs. The sound is warm and rich, like Tommy’s favourite coffee order. A few seconds later, Tommy’s truck parks next to his.

“Can I come sit with you?” Tommy asks, still on the phone. Buck can see him through the car windows. He nods. The call disconnects. A moment later, Tommy’s knocking on his passenger side window. Buck moves his duffel bag into the back seat and unlocks his doors so Tommy can climb inside.

He’s still in his sleep clothes.

“Did I wake you up?” Buck asks, eyeing the pyjama pants that he bought for Tommy back when they were dating. Buck’s matching set is in his dresser drawer at home, along with the few shirts he managed to pilfer from Tommy during their relationship that he hasn’t gotten around to returning yet.

“Yes, but I don’t care,” Tommy says. “You call, I come running. Or, driving, in this case. Are you okay?”

And maybe it’s the pyjamas, maybe it’s the forty-eight he just worked, maybe it’s the takeout boxes in the kitchen and the empty fridge at work, or maybe he’s just done. Buck gets one full breath in, and the next one hitches, and before he knows it, he’s sobbing. Tommy reacts immediately, pulling him in. It’s uncomfortable and awkward with the centre console in the way, but Buck doesn’t care. He hides his face in Tommy’s neck and cries, and cries, and cries.

[salty-autistic-writer]

Buck has something to say. (Or: an alternative take on that kitchen scene)

“I think you should leave.”

The words cut into the cold, tense air in the kitchen like a knife.

They take Buck's breath away for a stunned, heart-stuttering moment. Did that just come out of his mouth?

Eddie finally looks at him, finally sees him. “What?” He asks, baffled.

“I want you to leave,” Buck repeats. And yes. He does. He’s tired of this. Tired in general. Enough.

Eddie blinks, his lips slightly parted. He exhales a disbelieving scoff, throwing his hands in the air. “Really? We are doing this now? Now, when we are both grieving? Seriously, Buck …”

“How dare you?” Buck hisses, curling a hand into a fist. “How dare you suggest I didn’t do what I could. That I didn’t do enough to, to save Bobby?”

“Buck,” Eddie starts.

No.

Buck raises his hand. “Now you listen. You listen to me. I watched him die, Eddie. I watched Bobby die. I saw death on his face, in his eyes. I was there. And I was alone. Bobby knew he was going to die, and he sent me away. He … He said I’m going to be fine. But I’m not. I’m not fine. And that’s okay. Because I just lost one of the most important people in my life. Bobby was the father I never had.”

Eddie sneers. “Bobby was your Captain. Our Captain. We all lost him! You don’t get to claim him! We all have to live without him, move on with our lives. But you don’t see any of us behaving like a child throwing a tantrum!”

Buck crosses his arms over his chest, his blood rushing in his ears. “I’m not a child, Eddie. I’m an adult, and I have enough of you telling me how I’m supposed to feel. These last few days, I’ve been thinking about the 118 all the time. About how to fix everything. Because everything feels so cold without Bobby. Everything feels broken.” 

He stops, swallowing heavily. There are so many emotions bubbling up inside of him. And now he can’t stop. He has to let it out.

“You are my best friend, Eddie. I thought friends are supposed to be there for each other. I thought a friend would be able to offer some kind of comfort. But I guess you’ve been too busy with your own grief. Look. I’m sorry you had to wake up at night and hear about this over the phone. But that’s not my fault. And it’s not my fault that you had to tell Chris either. It’s also not my fault that Bobby died. I didn’t want any of this to happen. And every day, I wish I could go back in time to change things.

I’m not okay. And you should know. But here you are, telling me I might not have done enough. You of all people should know. You should know what Bobby meant to me. But it starts to feel like you don’t know me at all. I’m not that great at communicating my feelings or, or my needs. But I’m working on it. And what I can tell you right now is that I’m tired of this, Eddie. I’m tired of being blamed and being told I’m making everything about me, when actually, my stomach, chest, and head hurt every day when I think about everyone else and how sad they are. That includes you, by the way. But I guess, in some way, I lost you too. Now, leave. I want you to leave.”

Buck stops, breathing heavily. It’s been a long time since he talked so much. Maybe he never did. But he needed this. Needed to get this weight off his heart.

The rage inside him is loud. But the sad and aching part of him hopes that Eddie will say No, I won’t leave. Hopes that he will stay. That he will say, it’s okay, we can solve this problem. We can talk. We can comfort each other. We can work on fixing this.

He looks at Eddie, and inside, he’s yelling. Say something.

But Eddie only stares at him, his brows furrowed and his jaw tense. Finally, he nods curtly and says, “Alright. Alright, Buck.”

He storms out of the kitchen. Buck can hear him pack his bag. His stomach sinks. So. That’s it then. There’s nothing left to fight for, it seems.

His heart pounding, Buck waits in the silence until he hears Eddie walk out and slam the door.

He winces, wrapping his arms around himself, breathing heavily. He feels so cold. And alone. Tears are burning in his eyes.

God. Everything is so broken.

Buck wipes at his eyes with the back of his head, sniffs, and reaches for his phone with a shaky hand. He hesitates. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe it’s selfish. But … he needs. He needs a little bit of warmth.

Hey. Can you come over? Only if you have time. I really need to talk to someone.

He sends the text after staring at it for a few long minutes and tries to ignore the voice in his head calling him pathetic.

* Buck opens the door and Tommy smiles at him, “Hey - What’s going on?”

Too much.

Almost instantly, the smile fades and Tommy’s brows furrow as his eyes flicker over Buck’s face, down to where he’s nervously fidgeting with his fingers.

“Evan. Are you okay?”

No.

Buck just shakes his head. He talked so much. Now, he doesn’t have any more words left. He’s empty. 

Ashamed, he lowers his head. Avoids prying eyes. He shouldn’t be like this. He’s an adult. Maybe Eddie is right. Maybe he is nothing but a child throwing a tantrum, making everything about himself …

“Come here,” Tommy says softly.

Buck looks up, seeing Tommy opening his arms. He exhales shakily and falls forward into the embrace. Sinks into it. Into the warmth. He closes his eyes and allows himself to feel safe for a moment.

Everything is broken, but this feels like a shell he can hide in. At least for the moment.

(AO3 Link)

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Piece of you- L.MN

SURPRISE!! Today is a triple special day for me, so let's get started

First of all, it's my babygirl @sweetlifeofjoy 's bday!! Happy birthday, Nari! I hope you have a wonderful day, surrounded by those you love and I wish a lot of happiness 😊 And thanks for making my day a lot funnier whenever we talk... or flirt haha

Now, the second thing I wanna celebrate, it's Minho's debut on this blog yay! I tried to make something very Lee Know coded here, I guess it's giving off his vibes. I hope you all like it

And last but not least, I want to celebrate the 700 of us. I didn't even have time to thank you for 600 so consider that a combo. I am really really grateful for each one of you. Really. You make my little heart very happy 💜🤭

Word count: 1.0k

No warnings

Alexa, play Ink by Coldplay

Minho had been gone less than a day when you found the first note.

It was tucked beneath your toothbrush, folded into a tiny triangle with a doodle on the front— a cat  version of him, with exaggerated pouty lips and two big bright eyes that he asked Hyunjin to sketch. Underneath, in his unmistakable handwriting, it said:

“Miss me yet?”

You laughed, even if your chest ached a little. Opening it, you could listen to his voice in the ink.

“Brush your teeth, sleepyhead. I’m not there to kiss you good morning, but I still expect fresh breath when I call”.

You stood there for a long moment, grinning down at the paper, toothbrush forgotten.

The next one showed up that afternoon, in the hoodie you stole from his wardrobe. You slipped your hand into the front pocket and felt it— another folded piece of paper. This one had small hearts all over it and a simple message:

“Wear this one often. It smells like me. I gave it a final hug before I left. You're welcome”

You giggled, hugging the hoodie tighter.

Minho had always been the quiet type when it came to words, more teasing than tender, but it felt like he had left tiny pieces of himself all over the apartment just to keep you company.

Every day you found a new one. One was taped to the coffee jar:

“Drink water too. No, coffee doesn’t count. Neither does bubble tea. I'm watching you”

Another slid out from between your laptop screen and keyboard:

“Take breaks. Don’t sit there for six hours straight or I will find out”

And then there was the one beneath his favorite mug:

“Play our playlist. Skip the sad ones unless you’re missing me a lot. If you do listen to them, please don’t cry while holding my mug. It’s bad for the aesthetic”.

They were scattered everywhere— beneath your pillow, taped to the ice cream lid in the freezer, inside the pages of your current book. Each one perfectly timed, each one so Minho. 

One, though, made you stop in your tracks and cackle like a hyena. It was taped to the front of the air fryer, written in red ink:

“I SWEAR TO GOD if you break my air fryer while I’m gone, I will haunt you. Not gently. I’m talking about flickering lights and mysterious cat hair in your cereal”

And then, like the cherry on top, a tiny postscript:

“(Miss you though. Please eat something that isn’t chips)”

You shook your head, grinning like an idiot. Only Lee Minho could threaten you with ghostly vengeance and still make your heart flutter.

Another note had been left on the windowsill where the cats loved to take a nap. This one was softer, written with a little paw print doodle in the back:

“Tell Soonie he’s in charge. Doongie gets extra head kisses. And Dori… can’t be trusted, so watch him”

“If they look at you dramatically and cry like they’re starving, remember: they are liars. Do not fall for it. But also… maybe give them a snack anyway”

“If they sit on your lap, don’t you dare move. I don’t care if your leg goes numb. That’s the price of love”

“PS: If you fall asleep with them like that… just know I’m gonna be insanely jealous. But also please take a picture so I can melt over it for five minutes and then pretend I’m not crying in the tour van”

You were crying laughing by the end of that one.

Each note was like a breadcrumb trail leading you right back to him, even while he was miles away.

But the note that made you sit down and press a hand to your chest, was under his pillow.

You only found it on the third day. You weren’t even looking, you were just making the bed out of habit, and there it was— thicker than the rest.

You sat on the bed and unfolded it slowly, heart stuttering.

“This one’s for the nights that feel heavy”

“You don’t have to be okay just because I’m not there to see it. I know you’re strong, but I also know you. So cry if you need to. Eat ice cream for dinner. Watch that movie we’ve seen a hundred times”

“Then call me in the morning. I’ll listen to every word. You don’t have to do this alone. You never have to”

By the time Minho called you that night, the notes were lined up across the wall, like a paper mosaic. 

He appeared on your phone screen, hair damp from shower

 “Wow”, he said when he saw the background, “I didn’t think you’d actually keep them”

You rolled your eyes, pulling the hoodie tighter around you. “Shut up, you wrote them! You thought I’d read them and toss them in the trash?”

“I mean, yeah”, he said, “That’s what you do with my texts”

“I react with a heart to them!”

Minho looked at you, inexpressible

“You reacted with a heart to ‘did you eat?’ like it was a love confession”

You bit back a grin, “Wasn’t it?”

He paused, pretending to think, then nodded. “Well, you are right. I’m very romantic”

You laugh softly before confessing, “Damn, I miss you”

“Yeah”, he said, rubbing the towel over his hair, “If I were you, I’d miss me too”.

You let out a loud, theatrical gasp and flopped dramatically back onto the bed like you’d just been betrayed.

“I can’t believe this! I’m dating a menace. An actual menace”

He blinked at the screen, “You’re so dramatic”

“You’re not even pretending to miss me!”

Minho shook his head in disbelief, “You’re wearing my hoodie, laying on my pillow, surrounded by my notes and you’re gonna sit there and act like I don’t miss you?”

You were still pouting

He rolled his eyes

“I miss you so much it's annoying” he said, “Happy now?”

“No! You said it was annoying!”

“Because I’m annoyed at myself, he grumbled, “For being this whipped”

You grinned.

“Say it again”

“No”

“Say it!”

Minho sighed like he felt physical pain

“I miss you”, he muttered, “More than the cats. But don't tell them that”

You melted instantly.

“See?” You are romantic indeed”

He huffed, but his smile lasted— warm, bright and entirely yours.

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep , @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa, @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin

[holylulusworld]

Daddy’s best friend (4)

Summary: You come home for the last time before finishing your study. Bad timing. Not only does your father’s best friend occupy your room, but your father has a new woman by his side too. 

Pairing: Ari Levinson x brat!Reader

Warnings: language, angst, your father is an ass, Sunny is the worst, mentions of toxic relationship, tension, daddy kink, arguments, protective Ari, hurt & comfort

A/N: It's been a long time...

Catch up here: Daddy’s best friend (3.5)

Daddy’s best friend masterlist

It’s hard and painful to look around your room. You called this place home for as long as you remember, and now these memories are tainted by a blonde bitch.

Ari gently places his hand on your shoulder, making you flinch as you were lost in thought.

“You don’t have to be here,” he murmurs and pats your shoulder. “I can do this for you. Please let me know what you would like to take with you."

“It’s time to grow up, right?” You huff and look around your room. So many memories, good and bad, hidden in one room. “I don’t need the furniture. We will look through the rest. What I don’t take with me, we can throw away.”

“Where do we start?” Ari softly asks. He looks around the room, feeling sad for you. “I’m sorry he acted like this because of some girl.”

“I always defend him, you know,” you sniffle and wipe your eyes. “People said he made Mom leave. They accused him of cheating and being a bad husband. Some even said he hurt her.”

Ari doesn’t know what to say when you look at him with teary eyes.

“That’s…tough for a child. I’m sorry you had to lose your mom and hear the rumors blaming your father.

You look at Ari, giving him a cracked smile. “I always defended him. Dad was my hero for raising me alone, and I didn’t mind that he brought women home. Even the ones half his age. He never once put them first. Now he changed so much, and I wonder if the rumors were true.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ari honestly says. “He never talked about your mother, and I never asked. It’s a guy’s thing, you know.”

“Yeah, I get it,” you grumble before turning your attention back toward the task. “We should start with the heavy stuff. My books and photo albums.”

“Got it.” Ari is happy to start packing and stop talking about the painful memories. “I’ll get some more boxes.”

You nod and start putting the first books into one of the boxes Ari carries upstairs. There’s no use in waiting for your father to come to his senses.

This time it’s different. This time, he seems to have lost his mind while fucking Sunny’s brains out. This time, he chose someone else over you—his daughter.

While you try to pack your things as fast as possible, Ari walks back into your room with more boxes. “Alright, what do you want me to pack?”

“You could start with the shelf over there. All books come with me. I need to check on the rest first.”

“I’m your man,” Ari jokes and gets to work. He takes the books off the shelf while you get a box out from under your bed. “The juicy stuff?” He asks when you look through the stuff in the box.

“Pictures of my mom and other shit,” you reply with a shrug. “I guess I’ll take it with me. Irreplaceable memories and such.”

“It’s better to keep it and decide what to do with it later,” Ari easily agrees. He works fast and packs more books and your photo albums, while you move to your wardrobe to look through your clothes.

“Hmm…no…yes…no,” You throw clothes all over the room, only taking the ones your father never liked. Sunny can wear the ones he bought for you from now on. “Ari, can you empty the commode next? I’ll take all of my lingerie with me.”

“Lingerie,” he growls, immediately turning to open the first drawer of the commode. “Silk, lace…” Ari is having fun rummaging in your drawer.

“Ari, don’t get distracted. I promise you can play with my panties as much as you want to after we leave this shitty place,” you tut and go back to packing more of your things.

“I want to see you in all of them.” He laughs when you blow him a kiss. “I mean it, sweetness. All I can think about is ripping them off your cute ass.”

“Naughty,” you coo, and wiggle your ass. “Let’s get the job done, and we can leave this place and never look back.”

Your father doesn’t even spare you as much as a glance when you walk out of the house, your last duffle bag tucked under your arm.

Ari carried everything out of the house, and his friends helped put it into the truck.

While you glance at your father, he’s busy chatting with Sunny. They truly have no shame. It feels like your father is celebrating your departure.

“Well, this is goodbye, Father,” you snap at your father, making him flinch. “I hope your whore is worth it. When she has had enough of you, I won’t be around to pick you up again. Fuck you!”

“Honey bunny,” your father sighs, but you don’t look back. Walking away is the only way to cope with the pain you feel. You’re not sad or even mad—you’re disappointed, and that’s even worse.

Ari takes the bag out of your hand, glaring in your father’s direction.

“Y/F/N, I’ll take care of Y/N from now on. Don’t worry. She’ll be better off without a father forgetting about his daughter for some pussy.”

“Uh—are you sure?” Looking around Ari’s guestroom, filled with all your belongings, you are suddenly aware that you have invaded his home. “I can leave and spend the summer at my apartment.”

“No,” Ari stops you from leaving. He grabs your hands to place them on his chest. “We will make this work, okay. If you want to be only friends, we can do that too. No catch, Y/N. I’m here to help.”

“Here to help, huh?” You drop your eyes to his crotch. “What about that grand prime dick you promised to me?” Dropping your hand to his crotch, you cup him roughly. “I think we should celebrate. I moved in with you the best way possible…”

Tags in reblog.

[dragongirlsweetie]

Regarding your sandwich post (as someone probably egging tf out)

Do you have advice on knowing whether you want to be a woman vs wanting to be intimate (platonic/romantic/sexual) with one?

Bc like I think 95% of my egging is just finding women hot, with the incorporated "idk why the fuck a woman would willingly chose to date a man these days"

Which honestly sounds pretty egg but idk.

well i have two things to say regarding this. first off my sandwich post is just some bullshit i wrote because i was eating a sandwich and had been awake for a grand total of 5 hours, 4 of them at work and another half hour driving to work. second is that if my bullshit meaningless sandwich post is making you question yourself this hard i'm guessing there's probably something to it

now you are on anon and i know next to nothing about you (aside from this ask) so i'm just gonna cover all my bases here: these are concerns i had a lot of in my eggy stages and ultimately i think that if you wanna try giving being a woman a shot, even if just in private with a few trusted friends, you should go ahead and do it. worst case scenario is you get an answer to your question. if you find the idea of being a woman or having people see you as one makes you a bit giddy and bring out some kind of longing ache in your chest that's another good sign. and if you are looking for permission to be a woman, as i really needed before my egg really cracked, then i am officially giving you permission. you are allowed to want to be a woman and you are allowed to be a woman

my final thought is that the lines between a desire for identity and a desire for intimacy can often be very blurry, and i myself often mistook my desire to be a woman as just me being attracted to them. ow that my egg has cracked i know now that the reason i felt that way is because i wanted to be like that too. and i know that there was never really a meaningful distinction between my desire for identity and my desire for intimacy, the two were just different manifestations of the same core feeling that i am not eloquent enough to describe

that last paragraph probably doesn't make a lot of sense right now, and if you transition in the future it might or it might not. we're all fucked in the head in different and beautiful ways. point is don't let yourself get caught up in wondering if what you're feeling is one or the other. take it as slow as you need to but give it a shot. like i said, worst case scenario you find out the answer to your question and can move on with your life. and while i don't know much about you, i do know that cishet men generally don't spend a lot of time wondering if their attraction to women could instead be a desire to be a woman, and they definitely don't get so caught up in those thoughts that a post about trans women staring hungrily at sandwiches would lead them to start asking around for answers. as the saying goes: don't die wondering

sorry i rambled quite a bit there, but i hope i was able to give you the push in the right direction that my younger self desperately needed, or at the very least helped you find an answer to something that was bothering you. and i also don't really know how to end this. uhh byebye! good luck!

[gaylordscooter]

[A pile of carefully torn-out pages sit stacked neatly inside a drawer]

entry number 1

I've lost everything. my brother, my friends, my house, my universe. all of it is just gone now

to top things off, the last thing i was doing was running away from temmie. i thought they were my friend, but after they got the six human souls somehow, they went on a rampage and started killing the remaining monsters left and right.

the only reason i escaped was because this otherworldly being dragged me through a body of water and brought me somewhere else.

this being's name is ink, they're a skeleton like me—they even look like me.

It was explained to me that my universe shattered from "too many plot holes" and i didn't know what that meant! what do you mean my world has too many "plot holes" it's not like it's a STORY.

WELL APPARENTLY IT IS A STORY. AND I DONT LIKE THINKING ABOUT THAT FOR TOO LONG.

So anyway, alternate realities are in fact real and there's a whole multiverse. Cool. Awesome. I just want to go home and for everything to go back to normal

But apparently my universe is completely gone, it doesn't exist i'm the only thing that remains from it. while there are some universes that have parallel realities mine was the only one if it's kind.

COOL. AWESOME. I'M BEING NORMAL ABOUT THIS.

IM THE ONLY THING THAT REMAINS OF MY UNIVERSE. MY UNIVERSE DOESNT EVEN EXIST ANYMORE. WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO GO. WHAT DO I EVEN DO? THIS "INK" PERSON IS WEIRD

When I was freaking out about my universe being GONE, he gave me this notebook and pencil to "calm down"

HOW IS THIS SUPPOSED TO CALM ME DOWN?! NOW I'M VENTING TO A NOTEBOOK WHILE HE STANDS THERE WATCHING ME FURIOUSLY WRITE!

entry number 2

It's been a day since my world was destroyed, I already miss my home. I've been missing my friends and brother.

At least Ink let me stick around. I've been staying at his place along with someone else named Dream, but I have yet to meet him since he's never here. It's comfy here, at least. I even have my own room (which looks suspiciously close to my old room actually. i think ink did that on purpose, maybe to cheer me up? i don't understand him).

Right now's around the time I'd study with Undyne, actually...well. at least i don't have to worry about getting into the royal science division.

Papyrus isn't around to read this. I feel bad that I've never told him this, but

I never really wanted to join the Royal Science Division. Even though I acted like it was my dream, it wasn't. I wanted to learn more about space.

but of course that's not possible when you live in the underground. (i guess that's not really a problem anymore? this doesn't make me happy)

and we've always been low on funds. the pay for it was too good to pass up. I've stolen so much just to keep us afloat. I was good at hiding that, though.

Too good. Maybe I should've told Papyrus once he was old enough. He never knew why I was kicked out...

How would I even tell him? There's so much I haven't, because I don't know how to word it.

"By the way, brother! Mom and dad didn't exactly like me 'trying to be someone who i'm not' and disowned me like i disowned my name! That's why we grew up in a scrapyard."

[there are various scribbles and dots here]

"You didn't have to follow me, y'know. you could've lived with them instead of stubbornly staying by my side it would've been easier"

no i wouldve missed him. even if it's selfish i'm glad he tagged along. he was always there for me

i wish i could say the same. I SHOULD be able to say the same but i CANT what poor excuse of a brother am i?

maybe. no. they'll never be right.

entry number 3

I met Dream for the first time. He's really. unique. I know he's dressed like someone straight out of an anime but I didn't expect him to ACT like someone straight out of an anime!

The way he talks, the way he moves. There's something uncanny about it, honestly. He also looks on the brightside like that's the only direction he can look. When he heard my universe was destroyed? Told me at least he's glad it's led to me meeting him and Ink??

Like No Offense To You Two But I Don't Think Losing My Entire Universe Was Worth Meeting You Two.

That's not to say I'm not glad to meet them! I am glad! Just not at the expense of my home and everyone I love!

wait when have i ever watched anime? where did i even learn what that means? it was one of my friends—or acquaintances that introduced me to it, surely. Why can't I remember?

I need to ask Ink something, maybe. hopefully he'll know.

entry number 4

so a consequence of my world shattering is that it's really easy to forget about it. because it doesn't exist.

after ink told me that, i can hardly remember anything about it.

it's like there's a big gap in my memory and all i remember is that i'm forgetting something.

like my scarf. i know there's a sentimental reason i wear it. there was something about it. something about the material it's made out of i think?

Entry number five

i had a brother his name is papyrus

i had a brother his name is papyrus

his name is papyrus. he's my younger brother

don't forget him. don't mistake him for the other papyruses in the multiverse.

he woreWhat did he wear? what was he Like? oh my god what was he like

papyrus. don't forget him. he isn't like the other papyruses in the multiverse don't use them as a point of reference don't let them replace whatever memories you have left of him.

"he isn't like the other papyrus's" HOW CAN I KNOW THAT FOR SURE? I DON'T REMEMBER WHAT HE WAS LIKE

entry number 6

The more I learn about the multiverse the more my memories of my universe are skewed. Also I learned (or, heh, remembered) I have memory issues in general on Top of the whole "universe not existing means it's hard to remember" thing.

So that's great

I was being a bit of a downer because of the revelation and Ink caught on so he asked me what was up. I decided to tell him, even though I thought he wouldn't really get it since he doesn't seem to be bothered by anything ever.

Oh man was I wrong. He completely understands

He also has memory issues. He told me he was soulless—which wow, I'm surprised he felt comfortable telling me—which really messes with your capacity for remembering things.

Even though he uses paint as a substitute for a soul, it doesn't fix his memory issues. So instead he writes stuff down on his scarf. He suggested I should do something similar, write down important things.

He told me that even if I can't necessarily hold information in my head for a long time, if I can hold it in my head long enough to write it down, that's enough.

It was reassuring.

entry number 7

Dear Papyrus,

I've seen a lot of different places in the past few days, places I wouldn't ever imagine seeing. Some of them are pretty, some of them are a mess. It's a bit hard to wrap my head around it, how small we are in comparison.

I already thought space was big, learning there were multiple universes made me feel even smaller. But even so, out of everything I've seen. I have yet to find a world like ours.

But if the universe is infinite, the amount of multiverses should be too, right? Another version of our universe, one that hasn't disappeared, has to be somewhere.

I'll look for it.

I'll find it.

I don't want to pretend to be talking to you through letters. I want to see you again. There's so much I have to tell you.

All the lies I've told you. I thought I was protecting you. I was really just saving myself the trouble of explaining everything.

i miss you, bro. i'm sorry i'm the one that made it and not you

entry number 8

i lived in a house with papyrus in snowland sity. i remember it was spelled like that specifically for the sake of alliteration, even though it'd still count as alliteration if it was spelled properly anyway.

i was an intern for the royal science division, papyrus was too but he wasn't all that serious about it. i was friends with the head of it, undyne.

she was real big into gundam anime and tried making those mechs a reality. i helped her with that so i have some experience in robotics and mechanical engineering.

she was able to build at least one functional robot, their name was blookbot. they were the underground's biggest music artist. i was a pretty big fan of their music

i went to college and got a degree in psychology. i was supposed to go to medical school, but, i either failed my classes or didn't make it in i think. or maybe i couldn't afford it.

there were a few humans that lived underground, under queen toriel's care. she had a polices about not killing humans which some monsters didn't agree with, including her own (now ex) husband who thought she was prioritizing humans above her own people. technically she was prioritizing humans, in a way, since we kinda need their souls to break the barrier—but hey all those humans fell down as kids im not gonna blame her for deciding against killing. and those humans specifically weren't to blame for us being trapped underground, it was unfair to fault them for it.

there was a group of monsters that did take action against these policies. the rebels, they called themselves. it was a straightforward name. they managed to kill some of the humans that's fallen down, specifically the ones that decided to leave the safety of queen toriel in favor of finding a way out.

while the amount of monsters that were apart of the rebels was pretty low, there's always been a threat of a civil war over the queen's policies. the main thing preventing it was that everyone was very much aware that a civil war could spell the end of monsterkind. so the monsters that disagreed with her policies kinda just, went deeper into the underground and were left to their own devices.

temmie was my friend. i thought. they were...a peculiar being. not quite human or monster, they were a sentient plush toy. they were very vocal about thinking queen toriel was dumb for not just killing every human that fell underground and that if she did, we'd have enough souls to break the barrier by now. but to my knowledge the rebels only have two souls in their possession and there's five that live with queen toriel. we'd be missing one

hah! i remembered all that! fuck you, multiverse!

hopefully this information is accurate. god

entry number 9

MY NAME IS NOT BLUE. ITS SANS HOW THE HELL DID I FORGET THAT???

Ever since my universe was destroyed Ink's been calling me "blue" like that's been my name my whole life and i ended up forgetting that it's NOT!

GASLIGHTING! ME!

Only reason i remembered was because someone called me sans while we went out to a different universe to eat.OH YEAH SPEAKING OF THIS UNIVERSE

It's SIMILAR to mine, not quite the same but it feels much more familiar than the other ones have so far

they're called "Underswap" universes, because some people "swap" roles and personalities with someone else.

Ink calls my universe "Botchedswap". not that flattering of a name but i suppose it makes sense now that ive seen underswap

so like. is my universe just a "botched" version of that universe?? or variant, that's what ink calls them

variants are universes that derive similar traits to the "main" universe they're based off of. so like, botchedswap is an underswap variant since it's based on it. BUT WHO IS BASING IT ON UNDERSWAP? WHAT EXACTLY DOES THAT MEAN? IS SOMEONE WRITING THIS? IT'S A STORY. THATS WHAT INK TOLD ME

i haven't really thought about how this is all a story after ink told me. i've kinda been avoiding it. it's like my mind automatically yanking my hand away from the stove, it's hard to think about it

i guess im sorta not supposed to know about that?? i mean. this is like some horrors beyond my comprehension probably. definitely, what the fuck do i mean probably?

so if this IS a story. i'm a character in it then? I'm probably a background character aren't i? i probably hardly even show up. who's the main character? would it be ink? oh then i probably wouldn't be a background character at that point.

That's so weeeird. If i was a main character that'd mean a lot of people saw my every move! Horrible! Or i guess not, why should i care what the hypothetical audience thinks about me?

Geez, there is an audience, isn't there? Unless this story's private or something.

I'm writing something down right now and im in a story. That's pretty weird. What if I wrote a story then? That's a story in a story, would that make that story more fictional than me?

wow im a fictional character.

The dread's not really hitting. Is that because i'm unable to or because i actually don't care that much? Is the writer of the story controlling my every move. What does this say about my capacity for free will. What does this say about everyone who isn't "on-screen"?

WELL. GOING OFF THE IDEA THAT I AM NOT A MAIN CHARACTER. THAT MEANS IM NOT BEING WRITTEN ABOUT THEN. WHICH MEANS THE WORLD DOES CONTINUE ON EVEN WHEN THEY AREN'T IN THE STORY.

OK MAYBE THE DREAD IS HITTING. IS THE AUDIENCE LOOKING AT ME RIGHT NOW? CUT THAT OUT!

WOWZERS, I AM A FICTIONAL CHARACTER. ok what do i do with this information. this is weird. im not supposed to know this right? well, ink told me so i guess it's allowed???

quick write something to show i have free will. uhhh what was that saying. from uhhh that one human. rene descartes?? is that how you spell his name. there's an accent on there somewhere

cogito, ergo sum

yeaaahhh yeah. i leaned that phrase from my philosophy class. i dont fucking remember what that means, go me

entry number 10

Wowzers, it's been a second since i opened this thing up! Welp, I'm in a much better spot now. Kinda embarrassing reading back on these entries now.

These are pretty personal too. I don't really wanna continue writing entries like this, I was never big on diaries cus I hate reading back on them.

So I ripped these pages out! I can't just waste the rest of this journal, the paper's pretty good quality. plus it's a gift from ink technically

But I can't just toss these pages out so I'm putting them in my bedside drawer. I'll probably forget I did that so this is sorta like a time capsule, I suppose.

So if i have rediscovered these pages, Hi! Hello! Future, hopefully-even-more-well-adjusted-me! Probably shouldn't destroy these pages because they have important memories written down in them! Push past the cringe of seeing me in agony! Or rewrite some of the key stuff, i dunno.

If you are not Blue, Sans-from-Botchedswap The Skeleton,

FUCK OFFF!!!! BARK BARK BARK BARK!! STOP READING THISSSS IT'S EMBARRASSING COME OOON. or hi ink, i told you NOT TO SNOOP IN MY ROOM!!!

On the off-chance you are not from my plane of existence, uhhh I guess i can't stop you? And i guess i shouldn't care since i won't see your reaction nor can you tell anyone about this so. whatever. go at it, voyeur.

not the right word to use sorry. yeah no. wrong word. not what it means.

See this is why it sucks knowing there's an audience what if i say weird shit!?!? Ughhhh. probably shouldn't care about it, but alas, my feeble soul, i am sensitive that even the possibility of the hypothetical audience thinking im weird hurts me so

[cherryblossomcowgirl]

Does He Know? Pt 3

MASTERLIST PINNED

Warnings: Swearing; Unplanned pregnancy; Angst; Fluff; Age Gap; familial drama; allusions to smut

Hangman x reader; Maverick x daughter!reader

.

.

The next weekend, Jake’s things fill the guest room. I hop in the shower after my morning jog with Duke and I hear him cry out. With shampoo in my hair I rush out of the shower, towel barely covering myself. When I get to his nursery I see Jake rocking him. He looks up and chuckles, “I got him honey, don’t worry.” Heat rises to my cheeks, “Sorry, I’m not used to…” Jake takes my hand, “I know. It’s okay, go finish your shower.” I smile in thanks and head back to my bathroom, taking a deep breath. Our lives have changed so much in just two months. It almost feels fake, like it will all be pulled out from under me at any moment. I take my time finishing my shower and wonder when the last time I took a long shower was. Becoming a mom changed my life in so many ways that I will forever be grateful for. Being a single mom added a whole list of new obstacles, but with Dad and Penny I did the best I could. With Jake here, I feel at ease. Like I can finally take a full breath of air. I step out of the bathroom and the house is quiet. Jake is sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. I pour myself a cup and sit beside him. He clears his throat, “I feel like I don’t deserve him.” I place my hand on his, “What do you mean?” Tears well up in his eyes, “I wasn’t there for you. For the pregnancy. The birth. The first months. Now here I am, holding this perfect baby. I don’t deserve him.” A tear falls down his cheek and I wipe it away, “Jake, none of that was your fault. We didn’t know this would happen. I am so happy that Duke has you.” A smile spreads across his face, “Really?” I lean in, planting a gentle kiss on his lips, “Really.” His hand rests on the back of my head as he deepens the kiss. A pool of warmth spreads in my stomach. He explores my back with his other hand, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I crawl into his lap and he moans. His kisses move down my neck and I think of that night. I had never been so drawn to someone before. Duke crying makes me jump. Jake laughs and I sigh, “I guess Duke doesn’t want any siblings.” He kisses my shoulder, “I’ll get him.” My phone rings and when I see it is the office, I wish I could just send it to voicemail. Jake comes out with Duke in his arms, “What’s wrong?” “I have to go in to work, some huge case just popped up. Let me call Penny to see if she can watch him.” Jake shrugs, “I could watch him.” “Are you sure?” He nods, “Of course. Maybe we could even bring you lunch.” I smile and kiss his cheek, “I would love that.” I scribble down some important information before I head out the door. Jake stands with Duke in the window, waving goodbye.

.

.

At work, I try my best to get through the piles of evidence that were dropped off. The Detective insists on staying and chatting. I try my best to ignore him, in my 2 years here he has always been this way. The elevator dings and Jake walks into the lab, Duke in tow. He sets our lunch down and turns to the Detective, “Hello, Jake Seresin.” The Detective shakes Jake’s hand, “Hi, Detective Smith.” He smiles at Duke, “Hey there little man!” Jake looks at me, unsure of the man looking at his son. I clear my throat, “I’m gonna take lunch now. The rest will be logged on Monday.” Smith nods, “Okay. I will let you know if anything new pops up.” He leaves and I motion for Jake to sit down at my desk with me. I cuddle Duke and Jake raises an eyebrow, “So what’s that guy’s story?” I chuckle, “Detective Smith is a control freak. He likes to watch evidence being logged and tested. He knows Duke because when Penny can’t watch him, I strap him to my chest and work.” Relief washes over Jake’s face. I gasp, “You were jealous!” Jake blushes, “Maybe a bit.” I kiss his cheek, “You’re cute.” He wraps an arm around me, “Honey, that’s all you.”

.

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Jake suggests that Saturday nights should be movie nights, popcorn and all. We snuggle up on the couch, baby monitor and arms length away. He found out that I had never seen The Shining, so he turns it on. Jake is warm and cuddly and starts tracing nonexistent shapes on my arm and hand. I don’t know when, but I fall asleep with my head on his chest. My eyes open to the credits scene and Jake kisses my head, “Hey sleeping beauty.” I rub my eyes, “I am so sorry, I think you were just too comfortable.” He chuckles and I start locking up the house for the night. Jake kisses me gently, “Goodnight, honey.” He turns to walk down the hallway, but I grab his hand. “Will you stay with me?” His eyes widen as he nods, following me into my room. Jake climbs into bed beside me and immediately pulls me into his chest. Kissing my neck, he takes a deep breath, “In such a short amount of time, you and Duke have become my whole world.” My eyes water, “I’m so happy it was you.” “What do you mean?” I turn to face him, “It could’ve been some arrogant asshole who wanted nothing to with Duke. But it is you. You’ve dropped everything for us. You didn’t have to.” Jake’s plays with my hair, “How could I not? We are a family.” The tears spill over and he pulls me in close.

.

.

When we wake up, we decide to stroll down the beach to a coffee shop. Hand in hand, sun on our skin, feet in the sand, and the sound of the waves. It’s perfect. We order and I walk outside to pick a spot. I notice Dad and Penny, so I start walking up. Then I hear Dad, “You can’t be serious!” Penny looks exhausted, “I am serious, Pete. She is an adult. You have to respect what she wants.” Dad scoffs, “He is 12 years older than her! It’s Hangman! He is playing house until he finds another girl at the bar.” Penny’s eyes meet mine, widening with shock. She stands up, “Y/n, honey, he didn’t mean that.” Dad turns and his face goes white, “Baby girl, I didn’t-“ I turn around before he can finish, rushing out. Jake grabs our coffees, following me with a confused look. Tears start to fall. How could he say those things? Jake asks what is wrong, but I can’t find the words yet.

When we get home, I lay Duke down and meet Jake in the back porch. He puts an arm around my waist, “Baby, please tell me what happened.” I sigh, “I saw Dad and Penny. I started walking towards them but I heard them talking. Dad was telling her how you’re older than me and you’re just playing house and that you’re going to go find another girl at the bar.” The tears start falling again and Jake pulls my head into his chest. He places gentle kisses on my hair. After a few moments of quiet, he clears his throat, “Are you worried that what your Dad said is true?” I look up to meet his green eyes and shake my head, “I see the way you look at Duke… and me.” His smile makes the corner of his eyes crinkle, “And you don’t mind that I’m an old man?” I giggle, “Honestly, I think it’s hot.” He raises an eyebrow and lets out a deep laugh, “Honey, you are something else.” I lean into his chest, “I know how we met… I am not naive. But why is my Dad so concerned?” Jake plays with my hair, “I’ll be honest, I raised some hell. But darling, I haven’t taken a woman home since you.” My jaw drops, “It’s been a year.” He nods, “I talked to women here and there, but you were always on my mind.” I smile and breathe in the comforting scent of his cologne. He clears his throat, “Have you… dated since that night?” I laugh so hard my stomach hurts, “Jake, I looked like a beached whale.” “Honey, I know you’re lying.” I grab my phone and start pulling up photos from my pregnancy, “See for yourself. Look, beached whale.” Jake scrolls through and his eyes begin to water. He stops on one that Penny took 2 weeks before I gave birth. My hands are holding my ginormous belly and I’m staring out at the ocean. He looks up at me, “You looked so beautiful. How was the pregnancy?” “I was so morning sick for the first two months, but after that it was easy. Then when I went into labor, he came so fast they didn’t even have time to give me an epidural. I think I only pushed twice.” Jake takes my hand and squeezes it tight, “You are so strong.” I kiss his cheek, “Thank you.” Duke’s cry pulls us out of the moment and Jake jumps up, “I got him.” I look out at the ocean, but my moment of peace is interrupted by my ringtone. Dad. I hit ignore and turn on Do Not Disturb.

.

.

Jake comes home from work and immediately joins us on the floor in the living room. He kisses my head, “Your Dad asked me about you. Again.” I roll my eyes, “I just don’t want to deal with him. Work has been so busy and I want to focus all my other energy on my boys.” His eyes light up, “Your boys? I like that.” He kisses me, deep and needy. We haven’t gone further than making out since he’s moved in, even though he has been sleeping in my bed every night. His tongue explores my mouth and heat pools in my abdomen. He pulls back and scans my face, “Tell me to stop if I’m going too far.” My breath is shaky, “I don’t want you to stop.” His grin spreads, “Let me go lay Duke down. Don’t move, okay?” I giggle, “Sir, yes, sir.” He sighs and chuckles as he walks down the hallway, sleeping Duke in his arms. When he returns, he picks me up bridal style. “What are you doing?” His southern accent shines through, “Taking my lady to bed.” I bury my head in his chest. Jake sets me down gently on the bed and kisses me sweetly. I run my hands through his hair and pull him in closer. Jake follows me as I lean back into the mattress, until I am trapped between him and the sheets. His finger runs along the strap of my top, “Is this okay?” I nod, “Please Jake, I need you.”

[sturnberries]

ꕤ BERRY FIELDS - in which lucky takes chris along to pick berries.

warnings; none, just fluff & fluff and intentional lowercase!

ꕤ ˚ ꕤ ˚ ꕤ ˚ ꕤ ˚ ꕤ ˚ ꕤ ˚ ꕤ

"you said this would be fun." chris said with a small grunt as they walked in the breezy cool air. "this is fun!" lucky said with a positive attitude, trying to forget the fact that they were walking in such cold weather just to get some berries.

"what's so special about these berries. why'd I have to come anyways?" chris spoke as he pulled the hood of his green hoodie on his head.

"don't worry we're almost there, chris!" lucky said not having a care in the world, just wanted her berries.

"so—that's not what i asked." lucky just walked faster ignoring his questions and concerns, excitedly and they could see the long field full of berries ahead. she was so excited, she loved fruit, and so did chris but not in the moment. "i could be like making some cash right now, mr quinn wanted me to mow his lawn today."

"he'll understand!" lucky said as she quickly ran into the field of berries as chris followed her down, amused at her joyful behavior.

so there they were, chris and lucky, knee-deep in a berry patch that seemed to stretch on forever. the sun was playing peek-a-boo behind fluffy clouds, and the air smelled like sweet. lucky was like a whole ass berry-picking ninja, darting from bush to bush, their little wooden basket with lace on the sides filling up at lightning speed. chris, on the other hand, was moving at the pace of a sleepy snail, grumbling about the prickly thorns and the mud that was trying to steal their shoes.

"c'mon, chris! keep up!" lucky chirped, their eyes sparkling with mischief. "at this rate, the birds are gonna get all the best berries before you even wake up!"

chris rolled their eyes but couldn't help but crack a smile. "what birds??—easy for you to say, some of us weren't born with a berry-radar installed." chris plucked a particularly plump raspberry and popped it into their mouth. the raspberry was perfectly sweet, no wonder lucky was begging him to come with. "mmm, not bad. maybe this won't be a total disaster after all."

as they moved deeper into the berry fields, the competition started heating up. it wasn't about who could pick the most berries, oh no. it was about who could find the biggest, reddest, juiciest berry of them all. lucky, with her boundless energy, was all over the place, giggling and exclaiming every time they found a promising contender. chris, ever the strategist, took a more methodical approach, carefully scanning each bush like a seasoned detective.

"ooh, i think i found one!" lucky squealed, holding up a berry that was practically bursting with flavor. "beat that, chris!"

chris squinted, pretending to be unimpressed. "psh, that's nothing. i bet i can find one twice that size." and with that, the hunt was on. they spent the next hour crawling through bushes, comparing berries, and playfully teasing each other. it was the kind of silly, lighthearted competition that only best friends could truly appreciate. even though they were annoying each other every step of the way, they were also creating memories that would last a lifetime.

as much as annoying they both were chris admired the way she was so adorable, the determination in her eyes was so cute. at this point he wasn't even looking at the berries, just at how excited she looked. she spoke with joy in her voice. "oh my goshhh I cannot wait to make these into pies, and cakes and cookies, and—" she continued to ramble on about all the things she was gonna do with the berries.

"make something for me, lucky?" chris spoke endearment as he watched her look at the basket of berries.

she nodded happily, excited to make him something with the berries, probably for his brothers too. "yeah of course, you know it." she spoke as she popped a berry into his mouth as he was able to catch it.

guess chris would rather be here popping berries into his mouth with lucky, than mowing mr quinn's lawn.

a/n; loveddddd this, this was so fun and cute to make! please send requests and check out this au! I have some ideas and you can check that out too guys!!

luckylawn!au taglist; @vanillaspacecamp @backwardshatnick

[ravennaortiz]

Hello Loves!

This is the event page for my December 2025 event! These stories will come out in December. The plan is for these to be darker more out of character stories for our guys.

I will accept requests until 5/24/25 for this event!

When sending in your request please include that it is for the Dark Days event, character name and the prompt! Please feel free to message me with any questions! Below you will find Characters and the prompts! Please feel free to elaborate on them if you wish! I am also open to other ideas if you cant find a prompt that works!

Curious as to what to expect? Click here to see past Dark Stories!

Who You Can Request!

SOA

Chibs

Clay

Half-Sack

Happy

Jax

Juice

Kozik

Opie

Tig

RatBoy

Mayans

Angel

Bishop

Bottles

Coco

Creeper

Ez

Gilly

Guero

Manny

Nestor

Prompts!

Running doesn't matter. I'll hunt you down if I have too

You were beautiful in the photos I took....but even better in my arms.

No one else makes me feel this way! I can't lose you!

I did this out of love. I'm doing this for love!

I'd cut your tongue out if it would stop you from flirting with anyone else.

I'll let you know when you've learned your lesson.

Who were you talking to?

Give me your phone. I'm going to go through it.

Don't cry. He didn't love you like I do and he never could. Let me help you heal.

You are so cute when you are asleep

Don't worry, the blood isn't mine.

I will mark/claim you in front of everyone.

Why are you crying? Aren't you happy to be with me?

I claimed you with this tattoo.

This hurts me more than it hurts you babe.

Beg.

You think it’s funny to flirt?

You really should have known better.

You can trust me…..I would never hurt/lie to you

I wouldn’t have lost it if you didn’t push me! You make me act like this—do you even hear yourself?

Oh, so now I’m the bad guy? Typical. You always twist things to make yourself look innocent!

I made you who you are. Don’t forget that.

You’re overreacting. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

No one else would ever put up with you. You should be thanking me

If you really loved me, you would do this for me.

I noticed how long you spent getting ready today. Who are you trying to impress?

Oh, so you had time to hang out with your friends, but not with me? That’s cool… I guess I’m not that important anymore

Why is there a stranger in my bed?

You’re no longer of use to me

Do you know how easy it was to get inside your house?

You were screaming too loud. I had to make it stop.

Don’t bother calling the police. I cut the lines ten minutes ago

Guess what? I can see you

I’ve been watching you for weeks. You never even noticed, did you?

Let’s play a game… how fast can you run?

You scream, you die. Understand?

Do you think locking the door will stop me?

You’re not seriously wearing that out, are you?

You don’t need to go out with them tonight. Stay with me instead.

Don’t you want to make me happy?

Everyone thinks you’re a whore.

I could be gentle, but where’s the fun in that?

Oh? Are the handcuffs a little tight?

Run. Please. I do love a good chase.

I’m in control here

Did you move my things?

I should kill you for what you’ve done.

A little girl shouldn’t be roaming around here by herself

I need to know where you are at all times.

Say that again, and I swear I won’t hold back this time.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Killing you would bring me nothing but joy

This would be much easier for you if you just held still.

This will be the last time you lie to me.

What do you mean you kissed them?

How dare you speak to me like that!

That's right, princess. fight back. make it difficult... give me a reason to get rough.

You're mine, and if you ever forget that, I'll remind you.

You will always be my property.

You look so pretty when you're helpless.

Why did you stay out so late?

If I can’t have you, no one else will.

Who keeps calling you?

I paid a good sum of money for your body tonight.

You belong to someone else. I know that. It doesn’t matter because you will submit tome tonight.

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Ambiance (M, allergies)

Idk who I turned into the past two days, but somehow I bestow upon you all allergy sneeze porn with absolutely zero plot lmaoo. Uhhh, I don't write many allergy fics! I've maybe written 3 my entire life, so if it sucks that's why. In it, Mark is given the task of setting out flowers that he's super allergic to on the tables at work and that's literally it. The rest is sneezing hahaha.

Welp, I hope you guys like this, it was certainly a fun write, though I feel a little weird putting out a fic that has no drama in it at all lmao. Would love to hear how you feel about it! Hope you like sneezing HAHAHA.

On with the show!

CW: Male snz, allergy snz (from flowers), some mess (more implied than explicit). 2.2k words below the cut.

Ambiance

The moment Mark stepped through the back kitchen doors, Elijah swooped in like a hawk and handed him a comically-sized bouquet. “I have a project for you,” he said, distractedly.

Oh, you have got to be shitting me, Mark thought. From behind the bouquet, he tried to make his voice as light and joking as possible. “Does it have something to do with the… mountain of flowers?”

Elijah snorted. “How’d you guess,” he said, tapping something into his phone. The GM let loose an exasperated sigh, shoved his phone into his pocket, and regarded Mark with a look that suggested his patience, even at ten in the morning, was running thin.

“We’ve gotten three reviews in the past week saying that we don’t have enough ambiance,” Elijah rolled his eyes. “I swear to god, it must be those women who came in last Sunday and were pissed that we didn’t have bottomless mimosas. Anyway, I’m sick of seeing two-star reviews, so we’re ambiance-ing the fuck out of this place. You’re on flowers, Greyson is hanging fairy lights. I’m replacing all the lightbulbs in the lamps at the tables with those dark-as-fuck ones so no one can read the fucking menus.” Elijah held his hands up, as if in surrender. “You get the picture.”

Mark nodded slowly, his nose twitching inadvertently. “Are these, like, a vase at the host stand type deal, or…?” Elijah shook his head as he pulled out his phone.

“Three per table,” he explained, typing once again. “I switched out the stick-things we had as centerpieces for little vases.” He glanced up from the phone briefly, then furrowed his brow, concerned. “You good?”

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but instead wrenched into his shoulder. “NTSHH! HRRSHH!” Keeping his eyes closed, Mark took a moment to gather himself. Don’t, he thought, an internal warning to all of his systems. You are fine. Keep it together.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, an eyebrow now raised. “You feeling alright?”

Mark nodded, a quick, curt motion. “All good,” he said, moving the flowers to be cradled in one arm instead of right in front of his fucking face, why didn’t you move them before?! “Three per table,” he parroted. “Heard.”

Elijah nodded back. “Okay,” he said, his face betraying his confusion. “Great. Thanks, Mark. I have to go pick up tablecloths, apparently the launderers are down a van this week. Give me a call if you guys need anything while I’m gone, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Mark managed, one hand unconsciously moving to paw at his nose. “Will do.”

The GM moved past the floor manager, pushed through the back kitchen doors to the alley, and let the door fall closed behind him. The moment it did, Mark tossed the bouquet onto the closest prep table and folded in half.

“HRRSHH-uh! NTSHH-oo! NXTSH! Hh’ITSZHH! HRRSHH-ue!” Mark stood, panting, for a moment before allowing himself to glance back at the flowers – chrysanthemums. Just as he assumed. Fuck.

***

11:09AM

Mark

babe, I need your help with something

11:10AM

Matt

uhhhh, ok? where tf are you, btw? I thought you were scheduled in at 10

11:10AM

Mark

im here. im in the guest bathroom, can you just come here for like five seconds.

11:11AM

Mark

bring the benedryl from the drawer in the office, pls.

When Matt walked through the guest bathroom door, he had not one iota of a clue what was going on with Mark; the man could certainly be cryptic when he wanted to be, but this was a whole other level.

“Hello?” Matt called into the seemingly-empty bathroom. “Mark, are you-”

“HRSSH! Huh-! USHH-ue! HTSH, HTSH, HTSH-ue! HH-! NTXSHH-ue! God, fuck mbe.”

Matt furrowed his eyebrows together. “Babe?” he asked, moving towards the furthest stall. Without thinking, he pushed the door – unlocked – and stared at his boyfriend. “Jesus Christ, Mark.”

His boyfriend was standing with his back toward the door, but turned when he heard Matt enter. Mark seemed to be stuck in some sort of a tortured-looking pre-sneeze, his eyes were rimmed red and weeping, and when he spoke, his voice was completely waterlogged. “Oh, thangk god,” Mark managed when he saw the Benedryl in Matt’s hand. He took it, dry swallowed, and immediately turn back into his elbow to – “HNSTCHH-oo!”

“What the fuck happened?” Matt asked as Mark attempted to clean himself up. “You were fine when you left the house this morning.”

“HRRSHH-ue! NTGSHH!” Mark pinched his nose between two fingers to attempt to quell the fit – for the moment, it seemed to have worked. Rubbing a streaming eye with one hand, Mark pushed past his boyfriend and moved towards the sink. “Do you remember that timbe you brought mbe flowers? I thingk it was like our second dahh – HTSH! NTSH! HXGTSHH-ue! Jesus fuckigg christ.” Mark pulled a paper towel from the dispenser to blow his nose while Matt mulled it over in his mind. Finally, a look of sordid remembrance colored his face.

“Oh, fuck,” Matt said. “You don’t mean the fucking chrysanthemum incident, do you?” A look from behind the paper towel confirmed that yes – that was exactly what Mark meant. “Who the fuck brought you flowers at work?” Matt asked, envy coating his voice. Mark coughed out a laugh.

“Jealous?” he asked, tossing the paper towel and washing his hands. Matt rolled his eyes. “They’re for the restaurant. Elijah gave mbe this big-ass bouquet the second I walked in and put mbe in charge of putting themb on the tables,” Mark explained, straightening his tie and pushing back his hair. It was for naught; no one would be able to look past his swollen eyes and streaming nose at this point. “Apparently we’re gettigg bad reviews for lack of ambiaahhh – HNTSHH-uh! NGTSH! Huh -! HTXSH! NGTXSH!” Mark attempted to stifle another round of painful-sounding sneezes, while Matt cringed behind him.

“Could you please just sneeze normal?” he asked, pressing a hand into the small of his boyfriend’s back. “You sound like you’re going to burst a blood vessel.” Mark rubbed his nose on the back of his hand and gave Matt a look in the mirror.

“I genuinely thingk I wouldn’t be able to stop if I wasn’t tryigg to hold them back,” he said, clearing his throat. Matt pressed his lips together.

“Has Elijah seen the, uh… state he put you in yet? Why didn’t you just tell him you’re super fucking allergic to chrysanthemums?” he asked. Mark shook his head.

“He had to go get tablecloths. I doubt he even kndows what kind of flowers they are, and honestly, he already seembed pissed off, I didn’t want to pile ohh -” Mark said, his face already starting to collapse as another fit rapidly approached. “Fugck – HRTSHH-oo! HTSH, HXGTSH, ITSZCHH-ue! Huh – HUHHESCHOO!” Finally, Mark allowed one grating, throat-scraping, full sneeze out. As it did, his hand flew up to cover his nose and mouth. Matt cringed – partially in sympathy and partially in mild disgust – and pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser to hand to his boyfriend.

“Dude,” Matt said as Mark blew his nose. “How the hell are you going to work like this?”

Tossing the paper towels and rubbing his eyes again, Mark just shrugged. “Hopefully the Benedryl starts workigg soond.”

“And what do you think Elijah is going to say when you’re half-asleep and doped up on Benedryl?” Matt asked.

“To be honest,” Mark said, “I thingk anything would be better than thiihh – ITSZCHH-ue!”

***

“Mark, pre-shift!”

Startled, and pulled from a Benedryl-induced near-coma, Mark bolted upright. His eyes flicked to the corner of his computer screen – 4:31PM. Fuck, had he really fallen asleep for almost an hour?

Before the impromptu nap, Mark thought he’d finally gotten it mostly back together. He’d splashed enough water on his face to waterboard an elephant, he’d blown his nose until both his ears popped, and he’d avoided the dining room like the plague, insisting instead to Elijah – who, fortunately, couldn’t look up from his phone long enough to see his floor manager’s eyes swelling near-shut – that he would work on schedules in the office so his boss could continue to zhuzh up the front of house. Thankfully, his boss had agreed.

Apparently, though, the Benedryl had taken its well-known promise that you can’t sneeze if you’re wracked out a little too seriously, because Mark couldn’t for the life of him remember anything past sitting down and opening the schedule up on the computer. Now, he was attempting to smooth his shirt, push his hair back into submission, and try to look like he hadn’t spent the last sixty minutes drooling onto the desk.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mark said as he entered the dining room. “Lost track of time.”

“It’s fine,” Elijah said, curt. From his peripherals, Mark could see Matt tossing him a concerned look – one that he refused to meet. The GM handed the floor manager a copy of the cover count over one of the vases Mark had filled earlier that day – as his hand brushed against one of the flowers, he could feel the relentless fucking itch reenter his nose. Well, Benedryl, the important thing is you tried, he thought, staring as hard as he could at the paper. Focus, idiot, fucking focus.

“Alright, guys so tonight – shit,” Elijah pulled out his phone as he began pre-shift, swearing when it started vibrating in his hand. “Fuck, that’s the lighting guys, I have to take this. Mark, you run things. I’ll be right back.”

Oh, no.

Elijah stepped into the kitchen and the servers trained their eyes on Mark; he could immediately feel the itch lodge itself directly between his eyeballs. Pawing at his nose, the floor manager looked down; just get through the covers, you can do this.

“Ah – okay,” Mark began. “So tondight we have one twenty on the booooh…” Not even one sentence in, Mark could feel himself gearing up to sneeze. The first five, he managed to stifle into complete silence, his fist pressed against his nose. Mark let out a shaky breath as the servers, Greyson, and Matt murmured a collective Bless you; that phrase alone was enough to set him off completely.

“HTSCHH-uh!” The first out-loud sneeze caught him off-guard enough to catch in his palm – gross, he thought to himself, as if the rest of this fit wasn’t going to be. “HTSHH! NGTSHH! Hh’RRSCHH-ue! Fuck – NTSHH-ue! HRRESCHH-ue! ITSZCH! NGTXCH! Huh-! ESCHH-oo!”

“Christ, Mark,” Greyson said, his voice more annoyed than concerned. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Unable to answer, Mark just turned away from the table, away from the chefs and servers, and folded himself in half over his own lap. “HRRSHH-uh! Huh-! HUHESTCHOO!”

From the kitchen, Elijah called, “The fuck is going on out there?”

If he wasn’t so completely caught up in relentless itch, Mark would have been horrified, beyond embarrassed. As it was, he could only focus on one thing: “NTSHH! Huh’GTSHH! Fuckigg – HRRSHH-oo!”

Elijah had made his way back out to the dining room and was standing over the floor manager, confused and a little disgusted. Between sneezes, he placed a hand on Mark’s head. “You aren’t warm,” he mused as they all watched Mark succumb again and again.

“He isn’t sick,” Matt called from behind them. “He’s – Christ, Mark I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell him earlier – he’s like, insanely allergic to chrysanthemums.”

Elijah glanced briefly at the flowers on the table, then turned back to Mark, who had both arms over his head in an attempt to cover the mess that was his face. “Mark…?” Elijah asked, handing the floor manager a perfectly-folded napkin from the table before them. “I assume that’s, uh… true?”

Mark took the napkin, too exhausted and fucking itchy to be ashamed. He wiped his face as well as he could and sat up; one of his eyes was swollen half-shut, his nose was streaming down his face, and he could feel his lungs starting to constrict with the effort of sneezing so fucking much. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice husky and congested. “Yeah, I amb. HRRTSHH-oo! Huh-ITSZCHH-ue!”

Immediately, Elijah sprung into action. He turned towards the servers – all of whom seemed to be frozen, unsure of what to do about the scene before them – and clapped his hands. “Fuck, alright, okay guys, everyone needs to go around and take the flowers off the tables. Throw them in the dumpster outside, alright? We’ll figure out something else to do with the vases tomorrow.”

The servers complied immediately, collecting the offending flowers while Mark, ever the realist, gave his boss as dogged a look as he could imagine. “But… what about the ambiance?” he asked, a question so ridiculous that Elijah, Greyson, and Matt all choked out the same tension-breaking laugh.

“Mark,��� Elijah said, placing a careful hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Ambiance… the ambiance isn’t going to mean much if the background music is drowned out by you, uh… sneezing until you pass out. You know what I mean?”

Mark colored – his embarrassment a good sign that the fit was finally letting up. “Oh,” he said, sucking in through his nose. “Yeah, I guess… I guess that mbakes seeehhh – NGTZCH-uh!” This one, he attempted to stifle into his shoulder, making Elijah and Greyson cringe.

“Why don’t you, uh… run home and change, kid,” Greyson said, locking eyes with Elijah. “Maybe just, like, throw those clothes away.” Elijah nodded in vehement agreement.

“We’ll hold the fort down,” he said, patting Mark on the back. Mark just nodded as both of the senior managers walked back into the kitchen.

Alone but for his boyfriend, Mark let out a congested sigh and leaned his head on Matt’s shoulder. “You doin’ okay?” Matt asked after a minute or so. Mark coughed, shrugged.

“I mbean, if I haven’t died of fuckigg embarrassmbent after that, I thingk I’ll probably live forever,” he joked, rubbing his swollen eye until he saw stars. Gently, Matt removed his boyfriend’s hand from his face and kissed his palm. They sat in silence like that for awhile, until Matt’s breathing finally got back to mostly-normal.

“Fucking chrysanthemums,” Matt muttered, coursing a hand through Mark’s hair. The other man huffed out a laugh.

“Fuckigg chrysanthemuuhh… HUHHHTSCHOO!”

[elixirfromthestars]

I read the warnings and yet, I still got whiplash when we went form the fluff to angst 🤧🩷

More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩

Her chuckle is low and tender, like a secret between friends. She pats the counter with a weathered hand. “When you’ve been with someone as long as I have, you don’t wait for birthdays to say you’re thinking of ‘em. Time’s a fragile thing, sweets—especially these days.”

^ Very wise woman 👀 I love her aura 🙂‍↕️✨

Your jaw tightens. One eye twitches, a betrayal of calm. “He’s fine,” you answer, too quickly. “We’ve been writing.” Half-truth. Whole ache. She beams at the news, unaware—or choosing not to be.

^ Half-truth. Whole ache. Wooooow that got me right there 🥺💔

You stand frozen, jaw clenched, hands still lifted mid-air like you can rewind time if you just don’t move. Then— The bell rings again. A sharp, metallic jingle. Unexpected. Unforgiving.

^ The way that this would be my last straw 💀 I would close for the day 😂😅

“You’re not looking too hot, Dottie.” That voice—husky, teasing—strikes your spine like a tuning fork. You don’t need to see him to know who it is.

^ We all know who that is 🤭💗💗

A strong hand snatches yours, jerking you forward and into the solid wall of his chest. His hands find your shoulders, steadying. Anchoring. The heat of him seeps through your apron, and your breath stutters from the proximity. You don’t dare look up. Not yet. The chest beneath your cheek shakes with a soft laugh, and even now—off-balance, embarrassed—it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard all day.

^ The way I would melt in his arms the moment he held me 🫠💕 1940s Bucky just has this charm to him that would absolutely ruin me 🤭

One hand tips your chin up gently, guiding your gaze to his. Those blue eyes—stormcloud and silver—crinkle with mischief, and you feel the floor give way beneath your knees all over again. You swear you’ve seen them enough times to be immune. You are not.

^ I’d never be immune. Ever. I promise you that. 🥹🩷 My lovely, what a beautiful way to describe his eyes, I love the picture you painted with your descriptions!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

“Instead, you branded me with a nickname every grandmother in Brooklyn answers to.” “Ah, but ours is special,” he pouts. “Just between me and you.”

^ I guess if it’s all ours and it’s special then it’s okay or whatever 😗💖

The dancing scene was too cute, I could not pick just one part like the whole thing was so adorable 🥰❤️ The dancing, laughing, off key singing—it was all such a perfect way to break the ice of seeing each other again after everything. 🫶🏼 It was also just a sweet moment showcasing the dynamic between these two and it made me love them so much!! 🩷🩷 And the image of 1940s Bucky being so happy and carefree—ahhhhh I’m in love!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

“You idiot,” you snap, half-scolding, half-awed. “You ruined your uniform.” “You look worse,” he counters, smiling despite it all. He rises, dusting himself off. Then his hands—warm, worn—cup your face. Everything stills. “I’ve missed you.” It takes you a beat to answer. “I’ve missed you too.”

^ Omg 🥺❤️‍🩹 Both of them must have been in agony waiting to see each other again ☹️

His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Too quiet. “Steve went down in a German aircraft.”

^ Oh no… 💔

And still, he keeps going. Not for you—for himself—like he’s trying to force the words out before they strangle him. “He called from the cockpit before it happened. Didn’t say goodbye. Just… made a promise to his girl.” His voice falters. “You could hear it—how scared he was. He knew he wouldn’t make it.”

^ Bucky must’ve felt so helpless when he heard Steve’s voice as he went down omg I’m sobbing 😭💔

His eyes flick to yours—something raw and ugly and breaking just beneath the surface. “He saved me,” he says, almost like repentance. “Twice.” You try to soothe. “And you would’ve done the same for him.” He laughs. Cold. Hollow. “Would’ve. Could’ve. Doesn’t mean I did.” His voice drops. “I watched him jump on that plane. I heard him choose to die. And I let him.”

^ Oh nooooo 💔 Please don’t blame yourself omg 😭

“What’s not fair,” he chokes, “is he’s gone. And I’m not.” He doesn’t fight the sob that tears from him, doesn’t hide the way he folds under your touch like a man unraveling at the seams. You hold him as he sinks, your arms catching the weight he’s been carrying alone.

^ The fact that Bucky is going to get his happy ending eventually, but it doesn’t include Steve is actually so devastating to me— I’m going to go and cry in a corner for a little bit 😭💔💔💔💔

You let him cry. You need him to cry. Because this is the cost of surviving. Of being the one left behind. And you would rather carry his grief than let him carry it alone. Because he’s here. He came back in pieces, but he came back. And you will love every shattered one.

^ Such a bittersweet ending 🤧🩷 Bucky has to mourn and grieve Steve, but thankfully he has the reader there for support, strength, & comfort all meanwhile loving him until he’s whole again 🥺❤️‍🩹

Oh, my lovely, I have to first and foremost compliment your writing because omg you write so beautifully!! 🩷 The way in which your prose paints such beautiful images through your details and metaphors makes for such a wonderful read and I absolutely adore it!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼 I went through bit of whiplash there from the fluffy dancing to the angsty reveal of Steve’s death—and now I need a couple tissues because wow 🤧❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 Thank you so much for writing this for my writing challenge, I’m so happy it was able to inspire you!! 💖

just the headline, doll: fleeting augustine. (bakery au) starring... post-war!Bucky Barnes x f!baker!Reader storm ahead, sweetheart: a flip-switch of fluff to angsty. mention of Steve's canon ‘death’. topics of loss, grief, silent comfort. inked just for you: 2,284 a word from yours truly: a bit of a longer piece to sandwich in between the daily drabbles. inspiration pulled from @elixirfromthestars's cafe writing challenge! i started this on my main blog back when the challenge first opened, ambitious in wanting to make it a longer piece that delve into more of a 'August' by Taylor Swift vibe between the characters, eventually... (hence the title that i got too attached to, to change), but i heavily siked myself out. better late than ever & just in time for my heal-write journey. hope you enjoy! ♡⋆｡°✩ -rrinnie

“How much for fresh strawberries?”

Mrs. Cardinal’s voice lilts across the counter, soft and honeyed like sun-warmed tea. Her eyes peer at you from over the rim of her glasses, the corners crinkled with a smile that carries decades of warmth. She looks down at the paper catalog, her fingers brushing over the glossy image of a frosted cake as if it were something sacred.

You return her smile, one corner of your mouth hitching higher than the other. “Eighteen cents for the full top, six for decorative placement… but for you? I’ll cut it in half. Sound fair?”

Her breath catches with delight. “Bless your soul,” she coos. “My husband loves the darn things. I’ll take the full top.”

You nod, scribbling her request on the order form, the scratch of your pencil soft against the hum of the ovens. “He’s a lucky man,” you remark, eyes still on the paper. “Can’t remember the last time someone came in just because. I’d wager it’s never happened.”

Her chuckle is low and tender, like a secret between friends. She pats the counter with a weathered hand. “When you’ve been with someone as long as I have, you don’t wait for birthdays to say you’re thinking of ‘em. Time’s a fragile thing, sweets—especially these days.”

You offer a quiet nod, your smile faltering just slightly. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Oh, it’s true,” she insists, her voice turning fond but firm. “You’re young. This place keeps you busy, I can see that. But if you’ve got someone—someone who makes all of this make sense—you hold onto them.”

You lift your gaze to her, polite, appreciative… but the smile you give her is hollow at the edges. That topic always finds its way to you, carried on the backs of women who see too much.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why her next question lands so heavy.

“How’s that friend of yours? The sergeant.”

Your jaw tightens. One eye twitches, a betrayal of calm. “He’s fine,” you answer, too quickly. “We’ve been writing.” Half-truth. Whole ache. She beams at the news, unaware—or choosing not to be.

You reach for her arm, fingers warm against her sleeve. “When would you like to pick this up?”

She hums, tilting her head in thought. “Tomorrow at noon, dear?”

“Perfect.”

You tear the carbon copy from the pad and hand it to her. She cups your hands in hers, gratitude spilling from her like petals from an overripe bloom. Then she’s gone, out the door with a flutter of her shawl, and the bell above the entrance chimes one last, gentle note.

You sigh, swiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, the kitchen’s heat pressing against your skin like a second body. The scent of baking croissants coils through the air, a thin consolation. You slip behind the swinging door, half-ready to disappear into flour-dusted solitude.

You reach for a tin of sugar balanced precariously atop a bag of almond flour—just a quick tidy, just to feel in control of something—but the moment your fingers graze the edge, the whole tower of ingredients gives out beneath your touch.

Flour erupts like smoke in the air. A bag bursts open on impact, powder dusting your shirt, your arms, your lashes. Sugar scatters in a crystalline spray across the floor. A metal canister rolls under the counter, clattering in protest.

You stand frozen, jaw clenched, hands still lifted mid-air like you can rewind time if you just don’t move.

Then—

The bell rings again.

A sharp, metallic jingle. Unexpected. Unforgiving.

“Shit,” you mutter, voice low with guilt as the word slips. “Coming! Just a minute!”

You push up from your crouch, white dust blooming from your apron like snowfall. The floor groans beneath your step, flour slick and treacherous beneath your boots.

“You’re not looking too hot, Dottie.”

That voice—husky, teasing—strikes your spine like a tuning fork. You don’t need to see him to know who it is.

You spin, startled, your foot catching the edge of a flour pile. Gravity pulls, sharp and cruel—

But it never lands.

A strong hand snatches yours, jerking you forward and into the solid wall of his chest. His hands find your shoulders, steadying. Anchoring. The heat of him seeps through your apron, and your breath stutters from the proximity.

You don’t dare look up. Not yet.

The chest beneath your cheek shakes with a soft laugh, and even now—off-balance, embarrassed—it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard all day.

“When a girl says ‘one minute,’ she usually means from outside the swinging door,” you mutter, your voice tight with residual panic.

One hand tips your chin up gently, guiding your gaze to his. Those blue eyes—stormcloud and silver—crinkle with mischief, and you feel the floor give way beneath your knees all over again.

You swear you’ve seen them enough times to be immune.

You are not.

“Lucky I didn’t wait,” he says, stepping back just far enough to take in the disaster of flour and sugar. He whistles, low and unimpressed. “Jesus, Dot. You sure this isn’t a cry for help? I know some gals who swear nursing’s their true calling.”

You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.”

He follows you to the broom, walking backward like a devil in uniform. When you reach for it, he beats you there, grabbing it with a smug little flourish.

“Just looking out for you. Should’ve said something after you put Dots on a cake,” he teases, his distaste for the gumdrops evident by the scrunch of his nose. He rests his chin atop his stacked hands on the broom’s tip.

“Instead, you branded me with a nickname every grandmother in Brooklyn answers to.”

“Ah, but ours is special,” he pouts. “Just between me and you.”

You hold out your hand. He feigns compliance, then snatches the broom away, sauntering toward the radio perched on the shelf.

“Bucky—don’t you dare.”

He shushes you with a finger to his lips, twisting the dial. Static crackles, and then—guitar, soft and lazy like a summer afternoon.

He turns. Broom raised to his lips like a mic.

“I’m gonna buy a paper doll that I can call my own…”

You groan, backing away, but he follows. Swaying. Singing. Off-key and utterly relentless.

He catches you by the waist the moment you’re within reach, pulling you in with an easy strength. You press against his chest in mock protest, but the smile curling your lips betrays you.

“A doll that other fellows cannot steal,” he croons, the melody curling from his mouth like campfire smoke, warm and familiar.

“Let me sweep,” you protest, half-hearted and breathless—before a sudden squeal escapes you as he lifts you clean off the ground, spinning you like a record.

“And then the flirty, flirty guys,” he sings, voice dripping with exaggerated charm, “with their flirty, flirty eyes will have to flirt with dollies that are real—”

“Sing with me!” he laughs, cutting off his faux vibrato with a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“When I come home at night, she will be waiting,” you deadpan, rushing the line like you’re trying to outrun the song itself. You toss your head back in mock defeat, groaning as he twirls you right through the minefield of flour and sugar. “Bucky, you idiot!”

“She’ll be the truest doll in all this world!” he bellows, now fully off-key and entirely unapologetic, relishing your exasperation.

“I’d rather have a paper doll to call my own…” 

He dips you low, grinning like a fool, pointing the makeshift microphone to your lips. His eyes are sparked with mischief as he juts his chin toward you, brows raised in expectant encouragement.

“Than have a fickle-minded, real live girl,” you sing in surrender, shaking your head even as your lips twitch with laughter.

“Beautiful!” he declares, lifting you upright and twirling you with flourish as the music swells. He spins you out with a theatrical flare, launching into a sloppy, exaggerated swing routine. You burst into laughter, and the sound only spurs him on—he kicks through a puff of flour like it’s part of the choreography, his every move more ridiculous than the last.

“Your boots and trousers!” you gasp, pressing both hands to his chest in a futile attempt to stop him. He only grins wider, undeterred, spinning you faster than the music can keep up.

Flour kicks up with every misstep, but his joy is uncontainable—reckless and radiant, impossible to resist. His laughter rings out, infectious enough to melt any scolding you had planned. Just as you’re caught in the pull of it, his arms sweep beneath you again, and you’re lifted in a dizzying whirl.

Then the floor decided it’d endured enough abuse.

You feel the moment his balance falters—see the flicker of panic in his eyes just before his shoe skids across the floor and the broom clatters down beside you.

And then you’re both falling.

Your body collapses into his with a startled yelp, and his back hits the floor hard enough to shake the cabinets. A sharp thud, a choked grunt—and suddenly, you’re tangled together in the wreckage of sugar and song.

He groans, half winded, half laughing, breath hitching through coughs and fractured chuckles. You scramble upright, flustered and flinging flour from your clothes, but he stays down, one knee bent as he props himself up with an elbow.

With his free hand, he rips the visor cap from his head and tosses it into the mess around him, the gesture as dramatic as the rest of his performance. The last bars of the song warble through the static of the radio, comically triumphant.

You lurch for the dial and spin it down before the next tune can start, your heart still racing as silence spills into the room.

“You idiot,” you snap, half-scolding, half-awed. “You ruined your uniform.”

“You look worse,” he counters, smiling despite it all. He rises, dusting himself off. Then his hands—warm, worn—cup your face. Everything stills.

“I’ve missed you.”

It takes you a beat to answer. “I’ve missed you too.”

But something shifts.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker, a change in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes drift past your shoulder like he’s watching something no one else can see. The air pulls taut between you, as if it senses what’s coming.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Too quiet. “Steve went down in a German aircraft.”

Your brows knit, confusion tugging at your features—but he doesn’t give you time to ask.

“A Valkyrie,” he adds, hollow. “One of theirs. He intercepted every bomb meant for American soil. Saved everyone.”

Your mouth parts. No sound comes.

And still, he keeps going. Not for you—for himself—like he’s trying to force the words out before they strangle him. “He called from the cockpit before it happened. Didn’t say goodbye. Just… made a promise to his girl.” His voice falters. “You could hear it—how scared he was. He knew he wouldn’t make it.”

The world narrows, the kitchen shrinking around you, suddenly too small to hold the weight of what he’s saying.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s a ghost of a protest, thin and useless. You know better. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t need to be believed—he needs to survive saying it out loud.

“He thought it was over. Thought he’d make it back. But the Valkyrie was still locked on course for New York. No backup. No way out. He just… accepted it. Like a man who’s known his whole life he was on borrowed time.”

His lips twitch—not a smile—something else. A wound reopening.

“He got what he always wanted. Fulfilled his duty right to the end. Like a soldier. Like a hero.”

Your hand finds his arm, fingers pressing in like you could anchor him here. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

His eyes flick to yours—something raw and ugly and breaking just beneath the surface. “He saved me,” he says, almost like repentance. “Twice.”

You try to soothe. “And you would’ve done the same for him.”

He laughs. Cold. Hollow. “Would’ve. Could’ve. Doesn’t mean I did.”

His voice drops. “I watched him jump on that plane. I heard him choose to die. And I let him.”

“Don’t,” you say, the word trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. “Don’t do that to yourself. It’s not fair.”

“He was Captain America,” Bucky says. His tone isn’t reverent—it’s bitter. Blistering. “And I’m what’s left.”

You step forward, unable to bear the space between you any longer. His face is hot under your palms, flushed with grief and guilt, tears already brimming and unshed.

“What’s not fair,” he chokes, “is he’s gone. And I’m not.”

He doesn’t fight the sob that tears from him, doesn’t hide the way he folds under your touch like a man unraveling at the seams. You hold him as he sinks, your arms catching the weight he’s been carrying alone.

His fingers fist in your apron like a drowning man clinging to shore. His body trembles against yours—not with weakness, but with too much feeling crammed into a frame never meant to bear it all.

And when he finally breaks, when the sobs come rough and ragged against your collarbone, you don’t shush him. Don’t try to make it okay.

You let him cry. You need him to cry.

Because this is the cost of surviving. Of being the one left behind.

And you would rather carry his grief than let him carry it alone.

Because he’s here.

He came back in pieces, but he came back.

And you will love every shattered one.

[lavenderbuckyy]

In relation to the prompts post,

Stucky 24, 28 and 37. ❤️❤️

inside this place is warm

prompt 37: i missed you

read on ao3 / divider from here / from this prompt list / a fill for @stuckybingo i3: "comfort scent" / rated T for mild suggestive reference

By the time Bucky comes home, Steve's already asleep in bed. The crossword book he was working on has slipped from his fingers to lie open on his chest. Bucky tidies away the book and Steve's pen and cards a hand through Steve's messy blond hair.

“Mm.” Steve blinks himself awake and looks up at Bucky. Ever a light sleeper. “Buck?”

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“I fell asleep?”

“Looks like it.”

Steve squints at the alarm clock on their bedside table. He's cute as hell like this, all bleary-eyed and messy-haired. “Time izzit?”

“Nine thirty. New record, old man."

“Ha,” Steve says. “How was Nat?”

“Good. She brought us back these cookie things from Poland.”

“They any good?”

“Who says I ate some already?” Steve narrows his eyes at him, catlike, and Bucky admits, “Yeah, they're good. Little shortbread things.”

“I’ll try some tomorrow,” Steve murmurs. “C’mere.” He pats the space next to him; Bucky strips down to his boxers and slips under the covers.

"Mm, you're so warm." Bucky nuzzles against Steve's neck. Steve's run hot like a furnace ever since he got the serum, and Bucky relishes in his warmth.

"You smell good."

"Used that soap you bought me earlier," Steve mumbles, eyes already slipping closed again. "The honey one."

Bucky perks up. "From LUSH?"

“Yeah.”

Bucky's baby always smells good — like clean soap, and warm skin, and Steve. But Bucky likes it best when Steve uses his soap. Bucky likes it best when Steve smells like him.

Bucky rucks his hands up under Steve's shirt. Steve's skin is warm here, freckled; Bucky relishes each inhale and exhale. He moves his hands up Steve's body now, over his chest. He presses his palm flat. Steve's heartbeat is a sure thing, slow and steady. Next to Steve's laugh, it's Bucky's favourite sound in the world.

"Feelin' me up," Steve mumbles.

"That's me, baby." Bucky kisses the dimple of his shoulder. "Missed you today."

"Mm. Missed you too." Steve's hand finds Bucky's, folds itself on top. "Let's stay in tomorrow."

"Okay, sweetheart. What do you wanna do?"

"Don't care. Just wanna laze around with you."

"Suits me. You're my favourite person to laze around with."

Steve smiles; Bucky hears it rather than sees it. "Guess we're pretty well matched, then."

"Guess we are." Bucky kisses his forehead. “Get some sleep, honey.”

Steve yawns like a cat and curls closer to Bucky. Bucky closes his eyes. In the past, before the war or during it or in those long lonely nights where his memories were his only escape, he'd have wished this moment could last forever. But in this second lifetime with Steve, all of their moments together feel like this: blissful and gentle and warm, and safe in the knowledge that nothing can pull them apart ever again.

[misssassylover]

꧁𝐖𝐘𝐃 𝐧𝐨𝐰?꧂

I saw you in the back of my show last night

Standing underneath the exit sign

I know it wasn't really you though

'Cause you were always in the front row

The room buzzes with energy, the stage lights painting patterns across the crowd. My fingers wrap tightly around the microphone, and I take a deep breath before launching into the next verse. That’s when I see him.

Chris.

Standing underneath the exit sign, his silhouette sharp against the dim glow. For a heartbeat, my voice falters, barely noticeable to anyone else, but I feel it like a crack in my composure. My chest tightens. He’s not supposed to be here.

But when I blink again, the space is empty. My eyes dart around, trying to convince myself it’s him. I know it wasn’t really Chris, though. He was always in the front row, right in the thick of the crowd, lips moving along with every word I sang. He’d beam at me, that lazy, crooked smile, his hands tapping against his thigh, fully immersed.

My voice carries on, but my thoughts are tangled up in him. The lyrics, the melody they all feel like him tonight, lingering like a ghost. I push through the set, pretending it doesn’t hurt.

And I've been looking for love online

And maybe some of them are real good guys

They're never gonna be like you though

You set the bar above the moon so

After the show, I scroll through my phone, mindlessly checking notifications. Dating apps light up the screen, a stream of messages from guys I’ve matched with. I try. I really do. Some of them seem nice, even funny. They compliment my music, ask about my writing process.

But they’re not Chris. None of them are.

He’s the standard, unattainable, etched in my mind like a carved promise. A part of me wonders if I’m being unfair, holding everyone to that impossibly high mark he left behind. But how can I not? He was the one who stayed up till dawn talking about dreams and fears, the one who knew every version of me messy, raw, unguarded.

The guys online are good, kind even, but they don’t laugh like Chris. They don’t know how I need silence sometimes, how I can’t write when the world is too loud. I set the phone down, running my hands through my hair, talking to the universe, “Why can’t I just move on?”

I don't wanna be 20-something

And still in my head about

17 in my bedroom talking

You said that by now we'd

Paint the walls of our shared apartment

You're still everything I want and

I think we could work it out

So what are you doing now?

I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the same way I did when we were seventeen. Back then, we’d sprawl out on the floor, backs to the carpet, talking about what life would be like when we finally made it.

“By the time we’re twenty-something,” Chris would say, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm, “we’ll have our own place. Tiny, maybe, but ours. Paint the walls whatever color you want. Yellow, like sunshine.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling, and I’d laugh, nudging his side. “You hate yellow.”

“Not if it makes you happy.”

The memory hits hard, and I swallow the ache. I was so sure of us back then, our lives braided together like vines that couldn’t be unraveled. Now I’m twenty one, and it still hurts, like I’m frozen at seventeen, waiting for him to come back and remind me of who I was when I was with him.

Now that you finally got the job you like

I'm making money off the songs I write

I know you said that I could call you

I wonder if you wanna call too

I heard through mutual friends that Chris got the job he always wanted. Making YouTube videos with his brothers, I didn’t catch the details, too busy pretending it didn’t sting. I guess it’s good, though. He deserves it.

Me? I’m making money from the songs I write now, playing to packed rooms, voices echoing back at me. It’s everything I thought I wanted.

Chris always told me to call if I needed anything. I wonder if he meant it, or if it was just one of those things you say when you don’t know how to let go. Sometimes, late at night, I scroll through our old messages, my thumb hovering over the call button, heart thudding. I never press it.

Now that the future doesn't feel so far

It doesn't seem as wrong to want what's ours

And after everything that's happened

I wanna put it in the past tense

It doesn’t feel impossible anymore. Us, I mean. I used to think too much had happened, too many words said or left unsaid. Now, with my life unfolding and his taking shape, it feels like maybe we could find our way back.

I want to bury the past, all the hurt and the long nights wondering why we broke in the first place. I want to see his face, hear him tell me that we could still paint those walls, that the future isn’t so far away anymore.

I write song lyrics down, like a spell: “I want to move on, but I don’t want to move on from him.”

Are you with somebody?

Should I even care?

Know you're not as happy

As when I was there

In your faded T-shirt

That I've kept this long

I still hear you laughing

When I put it on

I know

I still sleep in his faded T-shirt. The one that smells like old cologne and late nights spent chasing fireflies. Sometimes, when I put it on, I can almost hear his laugh soft, boyish, a little unsure.

I don’t know if he’s with someone new. Part of me is afraid to find out. I catch myself wondering if she knows his favorite movie, the one he watches when he’s sad. Does she get why he hates cucumbers but loves pickles? I shouldn’t care.

But I do.

The shirt is softer now, worn from too many washes, but I can’t bring myself to throw it out. It’s my last tangible piece of him. When I wear it, I remember how his arms felt around me, how he’d murmur stories in the dark.

My friends tell me I need to stop holding on. They don’t get it. He wasn’t just someone I loved. He was the boy who saw me, the real me, and still stuck around.

I don't wanna be 20-something

And still in my head about

17 in my bedroom talking

You said that by now we'd

Paint the walls of our shared apartment

You're still everything I want and

I think we could work it out

So what are you doing now?

I don’t want to spend the rest of my twenties wishing I could go back to being seventeen, where everything was simpler. I’m tired of reliving those nights in my head, where we’d plan our life together, our shared apartment with mismatched furniture and sunlight streaming in through sheer curtains.

He’s still everything I want. That hasn’t changed. I think about reaching out, about telling him I’m still here, still hoping. But fear creeps in, what if he’s moved on? What if I’m stuck in this cycle of longing while he’s painting his own walls with someone else?

I take a deep breath, my thumb hovering over his name on my phone. I could do it, just call and see where he’s at.

The screen flickers, and before I can change my mind, I press the call button.

It rings. Once. Twice.

My heart pounds louder than ever, and just as I’m about to hang up, his voice comes through, groggy and familiar.

“Hey,” he breathes.

I hesitate, fingers trembling. “Hey. It’s me.”

There’s a pause, long enough for doubt to creep in. But then, he says my name, soft and unsure.

“Y/N. What’s up?”

And suddenly, I’m seventeen again, in that tiny bedroom, painting our future with words.

“I was just wondering… what are you doing now?”