#I needed to write this shower thought out

[moonstruckme]

hi mae !

not sure if i've requested this before or not, so bear with me haha. my memory is a bit fuzzy.

i struggle deeply with my mental health and have been hospitalized twice over it. things have been thankfully looking up since my second hospitalization but i still have days/moments where the world feels like it's crumbling.

just looking to see if you'd be comfortable writing poly!marauders comforting a reader who might've been recently hospitalized or has trouble adjusting to life after deciding to work on taking care of herself. (for example, getting into regular daily routine like eating/basic hygiene is so weird after ignoring it for so long !)

maybe some crying and just fluff. your poly!marauders is really so special to me and i hold it close to my heart.

no worries if you're not comfortable writing this :)

xoxo

Thank you for your request angel <3

cw: the circumstances are vague but its implied that reader has trouble taking care of herself, some insecurity around self-sufficiency and around poor hygiene

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words

It’s rare for you and James to be the last out of bed. In fairness, you think he’s only here to entice you out. James has already gone and come back, with strawberries which Remus is using to make you all muffins. He’s mincing and measuring and mixing laboriously in your kitchen. Sirius loves you all more than he pretends, because he dragged himself out of bed at the thought that Remus might be lonely, and now you can hear the low sounds of their lovesick murmuring from down the hall. James took off his clothes to get back under the covers with you and seems to be sneakily trying to tickle you awake with his mouth underneath your jaw. You refuse to open your eyes. 

“You’re so awake,” says James. 

“I’m not.” 

“You’re so, so awake.” He buzzes his lips against your skin. You have to bite down on your lower lip. “And you’re laughing.” 

“I am not.” 

“You want to.” James kisses the spot before ending your torment, pressing a kiss to your lips as well. “What’re you thinking about, lovely?” 

You hum, contemplative. “I’m thinking that we need to get Remus a proper mixer.” 

“We really do.” He rests his face in your neck again. “I do like watching him stir, though. It makes his forearms look really…well, you know.” 

“That’s not a good enough reason to force labor on him,” you say, though you do know and are selfishly inclined to agree. 

“No, you’re right,” James sighs. It fans warmly over your skin. “Hey, can I ask you something without it being, like, a thing?” 

Your eyes open now, though you can’t really see him where he’s tucked beneath your chin. “Yeah,” you say cautiously. 

“It’s not a big deal. I just don’t want you to be embarrassed. It’s not embarrassing, but I don’t want you to think that I think it is, if that makes sense.” 

“Okay…” 

“I think you’re lovely, you know that, right? So, it doesn’t mean anything, and it’s not a criticism.” James is rambling now, nervously, and you’re growing nervous along with him. “I just don’t want to keep things from you, because, well, sometimes you have to ask people you love strange things, you know? But that doesn’t make them mean anything more than they really do.” 

“James,” you cut him off. You feel him stop breathing, a stillness beside your neck. “What is it?” 

“Okay, sorry.” He presses a soft kiss to your skin. “I’m just wondering, have you showered lately?” 

It takes you a second. Half of one, really, and then you’re covering your face with your hands, turning away from your boyfriend in mortification. 

“Hey, hey.” James wraps a hand around your hip, keeping you close. “Angel, it’s fine. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Oh my god,” you moan into your hands. Your face feels roaring hot. “I just—I forgot. Like, I forgot I even have to.” 

“I know, lovely. It’s a lot to keep track of, yeah? It is, and that’s why I thought I’d mention it to you. Not because it’s a problem, just because I thought you might not have remembered.” 

It’s not a lot to keep track of, though. It shouldn’t be. Your boyfriends cope with it all just fine, eating and washing themselves and exercising and managing to keep tabs on you on top of all of it. You don’t understand why it seems so much harder for you than for everyone else. 

James can tell you’re about to cry. He makes a soft, doting noise, hugging you as best he can and pressing his cheek to where your hand covers your face.

“It’s okay,” he promises you. “It really is.”

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to apologize. What do you have to be sorry for?” 

“I must smell.” 

“You don’t—” James starts to laugh, choking it off quickly. “You don’t smell. I didn’t ask you because you smell, I just asked because I realized I didn’t think I remembered you showering the last few days. You’re fine, okay, look.” 

Though you can’t see him, you’re aware of movement, and suddenly very aware that James’ face is in your armpit. It’s brief, no more than the time it takes your body to seize up in horror, and then he’s back above you. Your hands have fallen away from your face in shock. 

“Yeah,” he says definitively, “you’re good.” 

“James!” Your tone wavers between dismay and a delighted sort of fondness, which is a decent measure of the rest of you. 

“You’re fine, my love,” he says, and there’s nothing wavering about James’ earnestness. He rubs up and down your side lovingly. “It doesn’t matter. Please don’t be upset, okay?”

You’re still blinking up at him, trying to get your emotions in order, when Sirius comes trudging down the hall. He has a throw from the sitting room around his shoulders and a telling bit of strawberry muffin batter smeared on the side of his nose. 

“James, if you want orange juice, you’re going to have to squeeze it yourself, because—” He falters as he enters, taking in your wet eyes and James’ conciliating hand on your middle. “What’s wrong? What’ve you done to her?” 

The last part is said in jest—it’s usually a safe assumption that James is the last person who would upset any of you—but your boyfriend’s expression turns so terribly guilty that Sirius looks like he regrets the joke. He squeezes James’ arm as he clambers onto the bed with you two, a furrow between his brows. 

“What?” he asks again. 

You sigh and decide to make light of it. “I stink.” 

Sirius’ frown worsens at this. Then, quick as anything, he casually bends and sticks his nose in your armpit, sniffing. You feel your eyes pop. 

“No, you don’t,” he says. 

“What is with you two?”

“Why would you think that you stink?” Sirius asks. His forefinger brushes underneath your lashes, collecting the lingering moisture like he just can’t abide it. “Not that I would mind if you did, of course, but it’s an odd thing to fixate on with no evidence.” 

“I told her she doesn’t,” James says, slumping down onto your chest. He seems happy to share in the labor explaining this to you. “It’s only been a little while since she showered, but now she’s worried she’s disgusting.” 

“Why would you wonder if I’d showered if I didn’t smell?” you ask. 

“Oh.” Sirius nods, as though this now all makes sense. “Because he’s obsessed with you, obviously. We all are. You think I don’t know how many times this week James has been to the gym?” 

James’ eyebrows lift. “Now, why are you keeping track of that?” 

But you only frown, because, actually, you knew that too. But that’s not difficult to keep track of. It’s always plain when you get up in the morning and there’s a half-finished protein shake on the counter, James’ bag missing from its spot by the door. 

“Or are you trying to tell me you don’t know how far Remus is through his puzzle?” 

You shake your head. “It’s on the coffee table, I can see it.” 

“Right,” says Sirius, “but we notice those things because we love them. So James didn’t have to smell you to know you hadn’t showered. He just noticed.”

Your gaze slinks back to James, shame a worm eating away at your middle. “I’m sorry that you notice and I don’t.” 

“Sweetheart, you only forgot,” James says gently. “I don’t mind. You’re doing your best, yeah?” 

You worry your lip. It doesn’t seem like it can be your best, if everyone else manages it as their baseline. Sirius tsks and takes your hand, tugging you up and James with you. 

“You are.” He mushes a kiss to your temple as he drags you out of bed. “I can tell. We all slip up sometimes, baby, it’s fine. There’s no sense in agonizing over it. Come have breakfast.” 

The smell wafting from the kitchen is warm and sweet. Remus’ muffins are still in the oven, and he allows James to kiss him good morning only thrice before begging off and letting the James stay with his arms around his middle. 

“Are they tormenting you?” Remus murmurs, plainly amused by James’ uncharacteristic pouting.

“Yes.” James hugs Remus tighter, nuzzling his throat with entirely characteristic clinginess. “Save me from them, please.” 

“He tormented her first,” says Sirius. 

“I didn’t mean to,” James laments. 

Remus clicks his tongue, still holding James but looking to you. You shrug. “He delivered a hard truth,” you say, “but they both stuck their faces in my armpits, which was worse than anything.” 

“Oh.” Remus appears appropriately thrown by this information. “Yeah, that’s…why?” 

“Shut up, you liked it.” Sirius squeezes you meanly. “Don’t listen to her, Moony. I’d sniff your armpit, too.”  

“I’m alright,” Remus says cautiously. “I don’t really see why you would have to, either?” 

“Circumstances arise,” James mumbles into his front. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

[sushirrrry]

OURS || a harry styles x original character story

cw: infertility/fertility struggles, emotional distress, themes of grief and uncertainty, declining mental health, graphic sexual content, language, alcohol-use, depression, medical intervention for pregnancy word count: 20,355

summary: harry and thea are looking to grow their family. over seasons of trying, their lives look a little bit different; emotions run high, their limits are tested, but if there's one thing for sure: it's their love for one another.

authors note: this is a story that's been on my mind for a while - this took me a full day to write, it just kept flowing out. it's loosely inspired by certain inspirations from landslide by fleetwood mac; following the seasons of our lives, and understanding where who we are when we disappoint ourselves for who we think we should be. it's about the pressures we put on ourselves, even when we have everything we want.

this is a really really special one to me & this is one that I don't think it's one for everyone because it's very emotional, but I hope you give it a chance <3

without further ado; I hope you enjoy <3

_______________________________________________

Spring

The house was quiet in the early blush of morning; a hush wrapped in the pale gray-blue light of spring. Rain ticked gently at the windowpane, not enough to storm, just a soft percussion against the silence. The early spring showers were comforting to them; they always had been.

Thea sat on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn together, fingers knotted in the hem of Harry’s old T-shirt that she had been wearing the past few nights; it was the t-shirt that she had found out she was pregnant in both other times. It still smelled faintly of him—laundry linen and cedar from the left-over cologne that rubbed from his skin. Her bare toes curled against the tile of the cool floor, the cold seeping through as she counted down the seconds.

The test lay on the edge of the sink, face-down, unread and pending a result.

Outside the door, she could hear the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant thrum of a car passing on the wet road. But inside, time had paused even when it needed to move faster than ever. Thea closed her eyes, inhaling sharply, willing her heart to slow. It felt too fast, too eager, too much like something was about to break open with joy or sadness.

When the timer on her phone buzzed, it startled her. She reached out with trembling fingers, turned it off quickly. She didn’t want Harry to hear it; she didn’t want to make this a big deal. Making it a big deal meant that there would be disappointment if things didn’t go the way she needed it to go.

When she flipped the test, her eyes focused on the words:

Not Pregnant.

The breath left her lungs in a soundless sigh. Not devastation—not yet, no, it was more a bit of confusion, if she was honest. This was only the second test she had taken, they were only on month two of actively trying. It wasn’t supposed to happen overnight, she knew that. Her doctor had said it could take time, and she may have just been lucky with the ease of it with Teddy and Niko. Thea and Harry got pregnant practically on command with their two boys – no scheduling, no ovulation testing, just the pure love and admiration that was bundled up when they tried.

Then, it was like her body had known what to do— fate had simply reached down and tucked new life into her with a gentle sort of magic that only expecting mothers could understand.

This time felt different. She was reaching for something she couldn't quite catch, and she was frustrated with the waiting process.

She sat there for a few more minutes, test in hand, until the world beyond the bathroom began to stir and she had been broken from her thoughts. She heard the boy’s bedroom door creak open and the soft shuffle of little feet padding down the hall—this early, it had to be Niko.

Thea quickly slid the test back into its foil wrapper and tucked it into the bottom of the drawer beneath the sink, under a pile of spare toothbrushes and half-used tubes of ointment. She washed her hands in cold water, splashed her face to feel something, and forced her shoulders to soften before she stepped into the hall and preparing herself for the weekend morning.

When she entered the kitchen, Harry was already up. He stood at the stove, barefoot in sweatpants and an old band t-shirt that had fraying on the edges, flipping pancakes with Niko perched on the counter beside him. Niko’s cheeks were pink with sleep and joy in helping his dad cook breakfast, his curls tousled as he watched the batter bubble.

“Mornin’, gorgeous,” Harry said over his shoulder, his voice warm and a little husky with sleep as he watched Thea enter. He moved over to kiss her temple as she entered. “Coffee’s on. Teddy’s still out like a log.”

“Thanks,” she said, and smiled as she reached for a mug. It didn’t quite reach her eyes—the smile, but Harry was too focused on preventing Niko from sticking a finger into the skillet to notice that.

“Mummy, Daddy said I can do the blueberries,” Niko announced proudly; his legs swinging along the countertop.

“Did he?” Thea poured her coffee, watching her son beam. She moved over to kiss the top of his head, feeling her son’s warmth and certainty made her feel just a bit better. His little arms wrapped around her as she stood and watched Harry grab the small bowl of berries for Niko to help with.

“He’s on berry duty,” Harry confirmed with Niko, watching the little boy nod incessantly. “But only after the pancakes are on the griddle. No sabotage this time, huh?”

“Right!” Niko stated, unwrapping himself from Thea and taking the bowl in his hand.

Thea moved to settle at the table, curling her hands around the mug for warmth and grounding. She took in the scene before her���Harry humming the music he had put on under his breath, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafting through the kitchen, Niko swinging his feet and singing a made-up song about blueberries as he of course enjoyed a few straight from the bowl.

It was beautiful, their life. Full of small, golden joys. But then there was a quiet space in her heart that had begun to echo; the loneliness of knowing that she wasn’t pregnant, and how she was starting to question her own capabilities.

Her attention had been taken as they started to hear Teddy stumbling down a few minutes later, rubbing his eyes and dragging his worn fleece blanket behind him like a cape. He crawled into Thea's lap without a word, nuzzling into her shoulder. She wrapped both arms around him, burying her face in his hair, breathing him in.

“You okay, Mum?” he mumbled into her collarbone. Teddy was so inquisitive and sensitive and understood emotions much more than any six-year-old should; it gave her such confidence in not only their parenting but knowing she had procreated with such a wonderful human being.

“Yeah, baby. Just tired.” She ran her fingers through his hair, managing the bedhead that he sported.

He accepted the answer easily, already half-asleep again in her arms. After a few incidents of too-early blueberrying the pancakes, Harry brought over a plate stacked high with pancakes, blueberries dotting the surface like constellations. Teddy got everyone a cup, Niko brought the juice to the table. They ate as a family, passing syrup and discussing the prehistoric period of dinosaurs, laughter blending with the rain pattering outside. And for a little while, Thea let herself pretend the weight in her chest wasn’t there—this was too important not to soak up.

After breakfast was finished and the boys had run upstairs to get dressed for the day, she lingered in the kitchen, washing the dishes and putting everything into the dishwasher. Harry came up behind her, slipping his hands around her waist in a moment that felt intimate, but also made her still.

“Go get dressed,” he said, voice low against her ear. “We’re taking a walk.”

Thea turned towards the window, noticing that the rain had slowed, but just to a small shower, “In the rain?”

Harry nodded, kissing her cheek before her backed away, giving her a small pat on her behind and walking towards the stairs, “The slow kind. The gentle kind. You like that.”

And he was right—he was always right.

After they had managed to get everyone dressed and ready for a walk in the weather, they walked to the park with umbrellas and wellies, the boys splashing in puddles, laughing so loud it startled a pair of geese. There was something magical about holding her husband’s hand and watching the way that their boys loved one another, and life itself.

Thea watched them from a bench under cover as they grabbed onto the wet monkey bars, Harry beside her with a hand on her knee.

“You’ve been quiet this morning” he murmured into her hair, pulling her into him

She let herself melt into him. “Just tired.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment; she could feel that he was wanting to ask a question. She didn’t make eye contact because she didn’t want to upset him or make him think that she was upset. She wasn’t. She was just…

“Any news?”

Thea stilled at his question, and Harry felt it immediately. His fingertips ran against her shoulder, as his head turned towards her, watching her profile.

“I took one this morning,” she told him quietly. “Negative.”

His arms tightened around her. Not in frustration or pity. Just presence.

“It’s only the second month,” he said, shrugging it off. “We’re okay, right? I mean, you’re doing okay with it?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t confident. “Yeah. I know—I’m fine. It’s just—it’s different this time.”

Harry turned her around to face him. His eyes searched hers, soft and steady.

“Well, I want you to know,” he said softly, holding her hands in his, “there’s no pressure from me. None. I don’t want this to weigh on you.”

“I know.” She reached for his hand. “But I want it. It’s just... harder to admit that when it’s not happening, especially because Teddy and Niko were so quick—I mean, I don’t even know that we really planned Niko.”

Harry nodded; a possible smirk trying to cross his face as he remembered the night that Niko was conceived—or the trip they had taken where Niko was conceived. It was unclear the actual date, but he knew that on the fourth day of the trip, he could barely move from how busy they had gotten with one another after being able to be alone for a week.

His eyes turned towards the boys. “Still feels early, doesn’t it? Like we just opened the gate, and maybe the timing is just… not right, right now.”

Thea could tell that Harry was trying to keep the positive mindset, which she appreciated to some degree. Everything he said was true, but she didn’t want to be hopeful right now—she would later, but not right now. Now, she just wanted a moment to feel sorry for herself; she wasn’t sure why.

“Yeah,” she said. “But I feel like I’m already behind, or that something is wrong.”

The wind tugged at her coat. He squeezed her hand, shaking his head.

“We’re not behind,” He told her confidently, “We have so many options if this is really what we want, and we’ll give it a year. If nothing happens, we’ll make sure that nothing is wrong and go another route. There’s no reason to give up on it when everything before has been fine.”

Everything he said was true, she knew that. She felt that—she felt him.

“Mum, look!” Teddy yelled, the boys ran towards them, breaking them out of their bubble before Thea and Harry put their façade back on. Teddy barreled towards them with a black obsidian rock, shiny and wet from the rain, Niko following behind with his wellies sloshing around the puddles.

“Wow!” Thea gave him exaggerated surprise and wide eyes as she looked at it, “Very beautiful, Bear.”

“You think that the dinosaurs saw this rock?” Teddy asked, rolling it around in his hands.

Thea breathed in, “Probably, are we bringing that home with us?”

Teddy nodded, setting the rock between Harry and Thea before the boys ran back out to the playground—they had been loving to pretend that they were knights with armor and swords, sticks in their hands as they let their imagination run wild. It was one of the best parts of parenting: watching their children have imaginations that grew and grew to the point of magical fantasy.

Thea felt the ping in her chest: it was guilt. Guilt that she had been feeling sorry for herself all morning and not taking in these small moments with her boys while they were in such a beautiful age; they were giggling and talkative, so brilliant, and completely independent on so many levels.

She bit her lip as she felt Harry pull her shoulders towards him, kissing her temple.

“Our life is so beautiful,” Harry reassured her quietly, “It can only get more beautiful.”

She nodded, licking over her lips as she felt a sting behind her eye. It could only get more beautiful.

That evening, after they had made, eaten, and cleaned up dinner, while the boys painted paper butterflies at the table, Thea watched them and wondered how long she would carry this mix of gratitude and longing.

Their boys were loud and beautiful and messy. There was so much love here, in the chaos. Still, she wondered what a third would look like seated between them.

Would they look more like Harry? Would they have her quiet streak, or be another storm of joy like Niko? Would they be inquisitive like Teddy?

Harry noticed her staring and smiled from across the table. He mouthed, "Still hopeful?" and she gave him a slow nod. It wasn’t all sadness. It wasn’t even grief yet. But it was something between the lines of waiting and wanting, and she didn’t know how to carry it except with both hands open.

Later, while the boys built a fort out of couch cushions and old blankets to wind the night down with a film, Thea went upstairs to get their nighttime routines started. She wasn’t avoiding Harry—not really. She just needed a few moments to herself, to sort through the dull ache of disappointment that clung to her ribs like cobwebs.

She remembered when they'd first talked about a third baby, curled up together after one of Niko’s rare full nights of sleeping in his own bed. They had made such a deal of it; letting their own thoughts merge back together as a couple and not just as mum and dad.

"What if we went for three?" Harry had murmured, his hand tracing lazy shapes on her bare back.

She'd laughed, breathless and stunned. "Three? You sure?"

"I'm sure," he'd whispered into the darkness, still being able to see her eyes at their proximity. "I could do this forever with you."

And she’d wanted it too. Another little voice in the house, another pair of chubby arms flung around her neck. They had waited until things settled—until Teddy was in school, until Niko was potty-trained, until her work schedule became more flexible. They had waited for the perfect time.

But the body doesn’t always follow the calendar.

She walked slowly through the boys' shared room, straightening rumpled blankets and stepping over LEGO mines on the carpet. On the shelf above Niko's bed was a framed photo of their family from last summer—Teddy with an ice cream mustache, Niko in Harry's sunglasses, and Thea squinting from the sun, her arms draped around them all.

She touched the frame gently. A pang tightened in her chest. How could there be so much fullness, and still, something missing?

Harry found her folding laundry at the end of the small bed. She was tucking one of Teddy’s dinosaur T-shirts into a drawer when she noticed that he had been standing in the doorway.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “We don’t need a test to tell us we’re doing something right. Look at those two tornados’ downstairs.”

Thea laughed through a tight throat. “They are a bit much.”

“You gave them to me,” he said, crossing the room now. He bent down in front of her, taking her hands into his as he looked up and saw her—really saw her. “And you’ll give us what we need now. However that looks. We just have to keep loving each other through it.”

She bit her lip before she leaned down and kissed him then, grateful. He always knew how to hold her together.

That night, once the boys were in bed and the house had gone still again, Harry lit the candle on her nightstand—the one that smelled like peonies and old books and really took in the scents of spring. Thea curled into him under the duvet; her head tucked beneath his chin as he rubbed her back, letting the silence of the room speak for a few moments.

He whispered stories about what summer looked like. Imagined their children running wild through a garden they hadn’t planted yet. He spoke as if it was already true, every detail vivid.

“And the baby?” she asked softly.

“They’ll be the loudest one of all,” Harry said softly. “Just like you.”

She smiled, even as her chest ached. Even as the rain began again against the windows.

The following morning, she woke to birdsong and the smell of coffee. Sunlight streamed in pale ribbons across the sheets. She rolled over to find Harry already dressed, hair damp from a shower, a mug in each hand as he gave her a tight smile. He knew she needed to be loved the most and doused in hope.

Hope, she thought again, is a kind of love. And today, they still had both.

+++

A few days later, the house cracked open at the seams more than either of them could handle in the moment. It was just before dinner, everyone home—Harry had gotten home from work just an hour prior, and things spiraled in the way only families with small children could truly understand.

Thea had spent the day with the boys; her part-time job at the library was helpful, allowing their childcare needs to be kept to a minimum. Harry was standing by the stove now, shirt sleeves rolled up as he prepared dinner, letting Thea handle the rest of the days chores—laundry, cleaning the bathrooms, and currently, vacuuming upstairs.

Niko had refused to wear pants, again. This had been ongoing for quite a while, and Harry and Thea just let it go. But, he was currently screaming from the hallway floor, red-faced and sweaty, because Teddy had told him all the dinosaurs had died. Teddy, now sulking and having emotional turbulence himself, crossed his arms at the kitchen table and shouted back at his brother that he was just telling the truth, and if Niko didn’t like it, he could go play with someone else.

Niko screeched loudly, tears staining his cheeks as he threw a toy truck at Teddy—who matched in the screeching.

Harry, elbow-deep in a boiling pot of pasta, turned sharply to the table. "Enough, both of you! That is not how we talk to each other,” He pointed his finger, “No hitting, Nikolai.”

His voice cracked like a whip across the room. The sound was sharper than usual—too loud, too angry, almost like he was at the end of his tolerance.

“Theodore, go to your room, now.” 

Teddy’s face crumpled at the suddenness of his dad’s words; it was more of the shock that scared him. He shoved his chair back with a screech and bolted down the hallway, up the stairs, and slamming his bedroom door behind him.

Niko hiccupped once, startled out of his tantrum, and stared at the kitchen doorway. Thea stood there, her expression hard to read.

“Harry,” she said softly. Too softly—it was the kind of tone that meant trouble. He shut his eyes for a moment. He turned, already sighing.

“I didn’t mean to shout like that, but—”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “But they’re kids. And you scared them. You scared me a little, too,” She shook her head, “You don’t talk like that.”

He blinked, chest rising and falling, guilt rising fast as he looked down the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, running a hand down his face. “I just—I’m tired. And everything was loud, and it’s been a long day and—”

She crossed the room, touched his hand gently. “I know. I really do. But we have to be better than that. We’ve always said we would be.”

He looked at her, eyes tired, shoulders slumped. There was such a growth about Harry that she couldn’t pinpoint; he looked older, hair shorter but mature, the softness of his features was starting to fade from the young memories that she held of him.

He wasn’t just a young, cocky boy who she fell in love with anymore. She knew there were aspects of him that would come out every once in a while; she loved the way he spoke to her in their intimate moments that reminded her of their youth.

But then there was this Harry. The father she had made of him; the husband she had turned him into. There was a softness to him now, one she couldn’t explain.

“I just don’t want them to think they can’t make mistakes. I want them to feel safe. I messed that up—I’m sorry.” He bit the inside of his cheek as he shook his head.

Thea leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Then go fix it.”

He nodded and set the spoon down, brushing his hands on a towel to dry them before heading up towards the boy’s room.

Moments later, she heard him knock on Teddy’s door. It didn’t open right away. But then it did; she heard the softness of the words, not the specifics. Harry got down on one knee next to the boy’s bed where he had been hiding under the covers, and apologized like he meant it, arms open, heart wide.

Teddy didn’t say much, but he hugged him tight.

Down in the kitchen, Thea scooped Niko into her arms and held him close, murmuring quietly that she was sorry he was sad, that daddy mean to yell. Her eyes met Harry’s over their boys’ heads as he returned.

It hadn’t been a perfect way to handle a situation, but it had been real. And sometimes, that was the kind of love that mattered most. The real moments.

That same night, after the boys had gone to bed and the house had fallen into a rare quiet, Thea and Harry curled up together in their bedroom. It wasn’t a scheduled night—it was just a night to them. There was something about the hush that made everything feel closer, more tender. The soft lights of the lamp on the bedside table illuminated around the headboard, a glow of amber giving the room a romanticism.

Thea shifted beneath him, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw as he kissed a slow, familiar path down her neck, his knee guiding her thighs apart. It had been weeks since they’d had a night like this—no interruptions, no exhaustion that overtook them first. It was just time; it was just them together.

The boys had gone to sleep quite quickly, which allowed this to be sought after time.

He moved with care, every touch reverent, as if reacquainting himself with every inch of her skin. Her shirt had long since been discarded, his hands beneath her thighs, mouth brushing over her breastbone as he let his hands wander to the edge of her shorts.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he whispered against her, and she hummed in agreement, arching toward him. Her hands knitted through his hair as she giggles just a bit at the softness of his kisses.

Just as he began to slide his hands down the waistband of her pajamas, a soft whimper echoed through the hallway. They both froze.

Another cry, a sniffle. It was closer now, but then there was a tiny knock, then the creak of the door opening.

“Mummy?”

Niko stood there, hair mussed, clutching his favorite stuffed monkey. His bottom lip wobbled, and tears were filled in his eyes like earlier, but he looked completely broken and needing like a hurt puppy.

“I had bad dream.”

Thea blinked, chest rising with a silent, exasperated laugh. Harry rolled off her, falling back against the pillows with a groan muffled by a grin as he pulled the blanket around himself.

Thea had the blanket thrown against her chest as she sat up a bit and took in a deep breath, calling the smaller boy over, “Come here, love.”

Niko climbed into the bed without hesitation, crawling right between them. He snuggled into Thea’s side on top of the blanket as she held him close, and sighed dramatically; his warm cheek pressed to her arm.

Harry turned onto his side, gently brushing the boy’s hair back. “Scary dream? Loud dream?”

“There was a shark in the garden,” Niko murmured, thumb moving to his mouth, but Thea moved it away gently; they had been trying to break the thumb sucking habit.

Thea kissed his head, letting him fall into her touch. “That’s terrifying. We’ll make sure it doesn’t come back tomorrow, okay?”

Niko nodded sleepily, snuggling into his stuffed monkey, just a soft voice speaking out. “Thanks.”

Within minutes of having his hair brushed, he was out again, breathing soft and even.

Harry met Thea’s gaze over Niko’s head. She was laughing silently now, face buried in the crook of her elbow.

Harry sighed and mouthed, “We were so close.”

Thea reached out, lacing her fingers through his. “Rain check.”

He squeezed her hand, smiling at the ceiling. “I guess you’re worth the wait.”

And somehow, even with a squirming toddler wedged between them and desire shelved for another night—it still felt like everything was exactly where it was meant to be.

Like Harry had mentioned before, they weren’t on a ticking clock. These small moments reminded them of that; to enjoy what they had in front of them. And while the night would be full of toddler kicks, and no space in the bed, Thea would soak in every single minute.

Summer

Thea felt the change in the air before she marked it on a calendar. The lilacs were gone, replaced by the buzz of bees in lavender and the tang of sunscreen on small shoulders as she prepared the boys for another day swimming in the blow-up pool in their backyard.

Summer had arrived quietly, not with a bang but with a sigh, and the long, warm days brought with them a particular kind of expectation.

The ovulation calendar on the fridge had more marks on it now, just a few months later. Little hearts, red dots, their hopeful stars in the corners. Thea had begun logging symptoms in her phone, charting basal temperatures, listening to podcasts about fertility over breakfast while the boys painted at the kitchen table.

Even Teddy had started calling the stickers on the calendar her "wish stars," not knowing the weight each one carried. Niko tried to peel one off and stick it to his forehead once, giggling until she laughed too hard to stop him.

She didn’t want it to consume her. But it had begun to trickle into everything they did.

Every cramp, every headache, every mood swing felt like a message from her body she couldn’t quite translate; it was always a reminder that she was failing. Hope made her hyper-aware. Disappointment made her mute.

And in between it all, she clung to the gentle routines of motherhood, wiping sticky fingers and tying shoelaces, brushing crumbs from the table and kissing Niko's knees after falls. Folding laundry while Harry read to the boys in the next room, making grocery lists while thinking about due dates that never appeared.

But then there was the aspect of being a wife; being a partner. Harry was there through it all, and she knew that every movement, every word spoken between them had been calculated to what had been going on behind the scenes of it all.

It was as if there were two tracks in her mind—the life she was living, and the one she was waiting for.

She couldn’t have been more grateful for Harry if she tried; Harry tried to keep things light. He cracked jokes during scheduled intimacy by letting her know that her that she was late to her appointment with the love doctor, teased her gently about their shared Google calendar reminders, cooked elaborate meals to distract her when the test was negative again in early June.

He even baked a lemon cake from scratch. He picked peonies from the neighbor’s yard because he knew she loved them and wanted her to smile when she woke up. He made a playlist titled "Hopeful and Horny" and played it while they folded laundry, wiggling his hips until she finally cracked a laugh. He wore ridiculous boxer shorts with tiny hearts on them one morning and strutted around like a runway model just to get a smile.

She loved him for it; she did. But she could see the worry in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the way his hand lingered on her lower back, as if he could soothe something inside her just by touch. The way he watched her when she wasn't watching him.

"Maybe it’s the timing," she offered one night, their limbs tangled under the ceiling fan, sweat glistening between them after their scheduled session. "Maybe we’re just missing it by a day or two."

"Or maybe we’re just tired right now," Harry said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her temple. "And this is going to happen when we’re not looking."

But they were always looking. Every cycle was a countdown; every day was crossed off the calendar waiting for a new one. Every month another chance, another test, another quiet ache of disappointment when she got her period. And underneath it all, there was the pressure to stay soft with each other and to not let the want harden them.

It wasn’t helpful that they were both stressed; there were many arguments—stupid ones, nitpicking and petty. Ones about milk left out or who forgot to switch the laundry from the day before, so they had to run it again. But they weren’t really about the left-out milk or undone laundry. They were about pressure, unspoken and constant. A weight pressing down even on the days that felt easy.

Harry and Thea weren’t like this; they had never fought about anything. But now, they got under each other’s skin.

One afternoon, Thea snapped at Harry for letting Niko eat too many popsicles before lunch.

It wasn’t a big thing, really, just one of those tired, half-hungry moments where words came out too sharp and fast. She had been unloading the dishwasher, the sink still full from after breakfast, when she noticed the empty plastic wrappers tossed on the counter.

She counted three of them when she held them out to Harry.

“Seriously?” she said, eyes narrowing. “You let him eat all of those? He’s not going to touch his lunch now.”

Harry had barely looked up from where he was drying off a sippy cup. “He’s three. He wanted something cold.”

“That’s not the point.” Thea narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head.

Harry shrugged, placing the cups back in the cabinet. “Well, I didn’t think it’d ruin his entire appetite.”

“It’s not about ruining his appetite, it’s about boundaries. You can’t just give in because it’s easier,” She didn’t want to raise her voice, “I also told him no.”

That was when Harry set the cup down with a little too much force, the clatter echoing through the kitchen; Thea stilled. “You know what?” he said quietly, and then louder—“Sorry I’m so fucking incompetent.”

He didn’t slam the door when he left, but the silence that followed was louder than anything he could have said. Thea didn’t follow right away, almost shocked by the way that he spoke. She stayed in the kitchen, breathing through the heat rising in her chest. She knew she’d been too harsh. It wasn’t really about the popsicles.

It never was.

Ten minutes later, she stepped outside with the screen door creaking behind her.

The sun was high and bright, hanging heavy in the sky like it couldn’t be bothered to move. The air was thick with honeysuckle, warm and heady, the scent curling lazily in the breeze. Cicadas droned in the background. Somewhere, a lawnmower hummed distantly; the boys were in the small pool in the back, one that Harry had set up for them that morning and they never left in the summer.

She found him at the edge of the yard, shirtless, knee-deep in the garden bed. He was yanking weeds with tight, angry fists, tearing them straight from the roots like they’d wronged him personally. His back glistened with sweat, the muscles beneath his shoulder blades shifting with each pull. His hair clung damp to the back of his neck.

The flower beds were a mess now; half-dug up, soil scattered in uneven mounds across the grass. Clumps of earth clung to his forearms, his knees. One of the tomato cages was bent at an awkward angle, shoved aside in his frenzy.

It was like something had needed breaking, and this was the only thing he could break without consequence. She stood quietly for a moment, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. He didn’t acknowledge her; he just kept pulling.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” she said eventually, squinting in the warm June sun, her voice softer than it had been in the kitchen. “It’s just… I get overwhelmed, you know.”

Harry paused, breath caught in his throat. He didn’t turn around, and just let the weeds fall from his hand and dropped back on his heels.

“I know,” he said, voice low and rough, nodding. “Me too.”

Thea took a step forward, the grass warm beneath her bare feet. She crouched beside him, not touching him yet. Just sitting in the wreckage of their backyard garden, the heat of the day pressing against their skin like a held breath.

“Let’s not fight about popsicles,” she murmured, grabbing at some of the weeds he had been throwing.

Harry gave a tired, huffed-out laugh, rubbing his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Then stop talking to me like I’m the fucking babysitter.”

Thea’s heart dropped; shaking her head as she tries to explain, “I wasn’t. I’m just tired. And you’re—”

“I’m tired too.”

They sat there, side by side, the dirt between their fingers and the silence between their breaths. Thea looked over at him—really looked this time. His jaw was tight, his hands raw from pulling, but his eyes were soft. Hurt. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at feeling like he couldn’t get it right.

And she understood that. God, she really did.

She reached out, brushed her fingertips lightly over the curve of his knuckles, dusted with soil and sweat that was caking it on. “You’re a good dad,” she said. “I wouldn’t be wanting you to have my third if I didn’t think that.”

Harry looked at her then, finally, and something in his shoulders released. Not fully, but enough for her.

“Yeah?” he asked.

She nodded with a confirmation. “Yeah,” She bit her lip, “I’m sorry.”

Their boys shrieked in the kiddie pool nearby, splashing and laughing as if the world were simple. For a moment, they just sat there, watching their children and breathing through the quiet. Then Harry reached for her hand. Their fingers were dirty and warm, and neither of them let go.

They didn’t really talk again until dinner; just letting their moods mellow out. And even then, it was just about what movie the boys wanted to watch afterwards. But something had eased in the silence. +++

A few weeks later, they decided that they needed to leave the house.

One of their ideas involved taking the boys to the beach for a weekend. It was a last-minute, summer escape to breathe something saltier than their house. Thea wore a white sundress, her hair braided back in a pretty French braid, and she smiled more that day than she had in weeks.

They built sandcastles, of course. Harry was the king at building sandcastles, being very articulate and being patient with the boys. Teddy buried Harry’s legs in the sand. Niko collected shells and gave Thea each one with a kiss to the back of her hand as they laid in the sun. They let the boys stay up past bedtime and ate fish and chips on the boardwalk, salt on their fingers and the sound of crashing waves in their ears.

Harry watched her splash in the surf with Teddy while Niko dozed on a towel. She looked radiant, so alive in the heat and wind, her laugh carried by the sea breeze. Something about being in the ocean and letting her hair down made even the tensest moment feel like it could be washed away by the salt water. Teddy clung to his mum’s side as they waded in the water, laughing when a big wave would come around.

To Harry, it felt like falling in love again. But not new love—deeper love, an earned love. A love that had been through the ringer.

That night, back at the rental house, she curled into him in bed, the scent of saltwater still clinging to her skin that had turned a darker shade of tan. The windows were open, the air warm and slow, cicadas humming outside along with the sounds of the water hitting the shores. She wore one of his old T-shirts and nothing else, and he knew without asking that she just wanted to be held.

A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, not doing much except moving the warm air around the room.

Harry had one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting against the dip of her waist. He was half-asleep, lulled by the sound of water and the sticky, slow rhythm of summer nights. His fingers idly traced the hem of the shirt she wore.

“You know what I miss?” she whispered into the darkness.

“Hmm?” He echoed; his eyes were closed as he just listened.

“Us. Just being us. Not planners or hopefuls or testers. Just... you and me.”

He rolled to face her fully. “Then let’s just be us tonight, huh?"

There was no rush. No sense of calculation or looking at the schedule and trying to understand how to track temperatures.

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm, like she imagined the ocean at night would feel if it washed up on her body. Her hand slid into his curls, and his fingers moved under the hem of the shirt to find her bare hip, the curve of her ass. Her breath hitched when he squeezed gently, and the kiss deepened, their mouths opening like they were starving for something that had been waiting just beneath the surface.

Thea shifted beneath him, rolling to her back, pulling him over her. The old mattress dipped with their weight, and the air between them sparked like a struck match.

Harry pushed the shirt up her torso, dragging it slowly so it bunched beneath her arms. He leaned down, kissed her sternum, her ribs, the underside of her breast, pausing to suck and mark her where tan lines had formed. She gasped softly, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him there, encouraging him to take more.

They weren’t in their heads tonight. There was no "should we" or "what if." Just a slow burn of want that felt familiar and feral and organically them.

He pulled her underwear down, slow, one side at a time as he shimmied them down her legs, letting his knuckles brush along the inside of her thighs. When she was bare, he sat back on his heels and looked at her with her legs spread open for him, chest rising and falling, flushed and already wet for him.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he murmured back at her, like it was something he hadn’t said to her in a while but had never stopped thinking.

She pulled him back down with a smile, one hand sliding into the waistband of his boxers. He gasped at the feeling of her hand around him as she helped him out of his own underwear, eyes fluttering as she pumped him; something dirty, something that didn’t happen very often nowadays. “So are you. Especially when you look at me like that, Styles.”

Their mouths met again, messier this time, hungrier with a need that neither of them had realized was built up. Her thighs wrapped around his hips, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He slid into her with one slow, grounding thrust, and they both gasped at the sensation—how familiar and electric it still was, even after all this time.

They didn’t rush. His hips rocked into hers in long, rolling waves, her back arching to meet him. The headboard tapped softly against the wall, the rhythm of their bodies syncing with the pulse of summer outside. She clawed at his back, left little half-moon indents in his skin. He kissed her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—every place he used to know by heart.

At one point, he pulled out and flipped her over, hands gripping her hips as she buried her face into the pillow, muffling a moan when he slid back in. It was a little dirtier now, a little grittier—like how they used to do it on those college nights when they couldn’t get enough of each other. She smiled into the pillow at the familiarity that hadn’t been so frequent.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his voice low and wrecked against the back of her neck. His hips snapped forward again, a little rougher this time, and he bit down on her shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp and clutch the pillow tighter.

Every thrust dragged a moan from her throat, high and broken, her body rocking with the force of his pace. Her knees were wide, pressed into the mattress, back arched in offering. She was dripping around him, so wet he could feel it slick and hot down his thighs, the way her body gripped him like it didn’t want to let go.

His fingers dug into her hips, bruising almost, pulling her back to meet him as he drove into her, deeper each time. Skin slapped, wet and obscene, and the only sounds in the room were her panting, his groans, the creak of the bed, and the soft lapping of waves through the open window.

“Fuck—baby,” he growled, breath catching as she tightened around him; he knew the game she played. “Your pussy is so fucking good… always taking me so good.”

She whimpered, her voice gone high and desperate. “Don’t stop… please, don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he panted, then leaned over her again, chest flush to her back, his hand sliding between her legs. He found her clit easily, fingers slick, and began circling it in slow, filthy little strokes. “Gonna come for me?” he murmured into her ear. “Let me feel you fall apart? Hm?”

Her reply was a choked cry, her hips stuttering, thighs beginning to shake as the pleasure built fast and sharp. His name spilled from her mouth again and again like prayer, like surrender to his dirty games, and then she shattered with a sob, pulsing around him in waves that made his own climax slam into him like a freight train.

He groaned deep in his throat, fucking her through it, losing rhythm, and finally buried himself one last time, spilling into her with a curse and a tremble. His whole body seized, mouth open against her damp skin, like the force of it had knocked the breath from his lungs.

He stayed inside her for a moment, pressed to her back, their bodies sticky with sweat, tangled in the sheets and each other.

Eventually, he slid out with a groan and collapsed beside her, chest heaving, arm falling heavy across her as she fell onto her side. Her skin was flushed and glowing, her breath still unsteady, a small, satisfied smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

The fan whirred around them. The waves kept rolling outside the open window. And the two of them lay there, ruined and warm and absolutely right, the scent of sex thick in the air and his cum slowly leaking down her thighs. Familiarly.

Then she reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together, still catching her breath.

“That,” she whispered, smiling into the dark, “felt like us.”

Harry leaned over, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered back, “Still got it in us, apparently.”

Afterward, she cried. It was not loud, but it was after they had gotten ready for bed and everything got quiet again. Just tears that came from some tender place she hadn’t touched in a while. Harry didn’t ask her to explain; he didn’t need her to. He just held her tighter and let her soak the pillow with her fallen tears.

And in the dark, between breaths, they remembered how to feel like home.

+++

July crept in, hot and thick and with unnamed emotion. Their bedroom became a haven of fans and quiet music, a retreat from the weight of wanting. Even their kisses grew quieter, slower. Grief didn’t always roar, sometimes it was just a sigh.

Still, the tests stayed negative. Today was a difficult one; they were all difficult, but this seemed to rock Thea harder.

One evening, Harry came home with a bouquet of yellow roses, a new stack of books from a few authors that he knew that Thea liked, a bar of dark chocolate tucked in the bag, along with a new small bullet vibrator—that was just to be cheeky, but also to remind her.

“Just because,” he said, placing them beside her on the couch.

She looked up from the TV she had been watching in the quietness of the boys playing in their room, her eyes shining. “You always know what I need.”

“You need reminding that you’re loved. Not just on the two days a month we cross our fingers." He moved over to where she was sitting, flopping down next to her.

She leaned into him, head resting against his chest. The TV played some old movie neither of them were watching. His fingers threaded through her hair. Thea closed her eyes and let herself exist without expectation for a moment.

“Do you think it’ll happen?” she asked quietly.

He kissed the top of her head, speechless for a moment before he felt her settle into him. “I don’t know,” He told her truthfully, “But I hope.”

She nodded, but her throat caught.

+++

One Saturday morning in July, Thea met her sister Erika at their usual coffee shop—a small, airy place tucked beside the library, with ivy growing up the brick and mismatched mugs. Erika was already seated at their usual corner table, two iced lattes in front of her, a pair of sunglasses propped in her hair.

“You look tired,” Erika said bluntly, handing Thea a straw as she squinted up at her.

“Wow, thanks,” Thea replied dryly. She stirred her drink and took a long, needed sip. “You always know how to flatter a girl, huh?”

Erika grinned, unapologetic as she leaned forward. "It’s what sisters are for. So... how’s everything?"

Thea hesitated. She hadn't meant to bring it up. But something in her chest cracked the moment she saw her sister's familiar eyes—the ones that had known her before marriage, before babies, before grief had a name in her repertoire.

“We’ve… actually been trying,” she said finally, voice low. “For a third. But it’s not happening.”

Erika blinked almost blankly, like she hadn’t heard her at first. She reached across the table and squeezed Thea’s hand. “Oh, hon. How long?”

Thea nodded, swallowing hard, remembering the last few months. “It’s only been a few months. But it was so easy before. And now I’m doing everything—temping, tracking, testing. I feel like I’m on a timer all the time."

Erika was quiet for a beat. Then she said, “You remember how I got pregnant with the twins?”

Thea blinked, sighing. “By accident. On a cruise.”

“Exactly. Drunk on overpriced wine coolers and not a single ovulation app in sight. There may have even been a bit of ass play—”

Thea barked a surprised laugh to interrupt her sister, “Okay! I get it.”

“Point is,” Erika continued, “even when we’re doing all the ‘right’ things, bodies are weird. Mine decided to double down for no reason and yours is just... taking its sweet time. Doesn’t mean it won’t get there.”

Thea thought for a moment, nodding. “It’s just hard. I feel like I’m failing at something that should come naturally.”

Erika leaned back, holding her cold cup in her hands. “Thea, you’re raising two actual tiny humans who think you hung the moon. You’re not failing at anything. You’re human. And honestly, sometimes I think the people who try the hardest are the ones who love the deepest."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching a little girl chase a pigeon across the patio.

Erika added, more lightly, “Besides, you really want to be outnumbered? My twins colored on the cat last week. In Sharpie,” She took another sip, “Marshmallow has a green ass.”

Thea snorted into her coffee. “That helps. A lot."

“Good. Because even though I know you want three, it may not be happening for a reason beyond you.”

Thea gave her sister a soft smile, “So, how is being a mum of twins going?”

“I’m wearing yesterday’s dry shampoo and a shirt I stole from my husband, and a diaper."

They both laughed until tears prickled Thea’s eyes.

She reached for her sister’s hand again. “Thank you. Really. I just needed to say it out loud."

“Say it as many times as you need. You’re not alone. And if your uterus needs a pep talk, I have wine and several colorful metaphors ready."

“Deal,” Thea said, smiling genuinely now. “Big deal."

Her sister tipped her cup toward her with a smirk, eyebrows raised. “So. You and Harry, then. Still good?”

Thea lifted a brow herself, glancing at Erika for a moment before shaking her head. “What does that mean?”

Her sister grinned wickedly, leaning back in her chair. “Is he still as good in the sack as he was when you were younger? I was a little worried that’s why you stayed—don’t get me wrong, very glad he’s been the best dad to the boys, but you know.”

Thea laughed, covering her face with her hand. “Oh my god, stop.”

“What? I’m just saying—it was the only thing I couldn’t argue with. You two had that thing. Like, walls-shaking, might-die-of-lust kind of thing. Remember that holiday that we went on as a family and Harry came for the first time?”

Of course, Thea remembered that trip. It was when they were nineteen and full of love and lust and completely unbothered by the world around them. They had to be touching at all hours of the day, and she could barely walk through a doorway without Harry’s eyes trailing her. They had sex on every surface, anytime they were alone. She knew that her family could sense the glow that they both had. It wasn’t just the holiday tan.

“Yes,” Thea pulled her lips into her mouth, “I do remember.”

“Course you do, you were animals.” Erika joked. “Either way, I hope you still want each other like that.”

Thea rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. She swirled the latte, and stared out at the patio of the café, the warm breeze playing with the hem of her shirt.

There was a pause before she bit on the straw. “But… yeah. We still have that.”

Erika’s teasing faded a little, her tone softening. “Then maybe that counts for something. That you still want each other, after everything.”

Thea nodded slowly. “It does. Especially now. It’s like—when the rest of life feels too big, he’s still the only person I want touching me. Still the one who knows how.”

Erika touched her cup with her sister’s, this time in something like sisterly solidarity. “To good sex with the same person for a decade. Miracles do happen.”

Thea clinked her cup against hers and smiled back at her. “Cheers to that.”

As she drove home, the sun pouring in through the windshield and the iced latte sweating in her cupholder, Thea felt lighter. It wasn’t that anything had changed.

But the weight had shifted. Just enough for her to understand that. And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was holding it alone.

Later that same weekend, Harry found himself at his mum’s for lunch—just him and his sister, Maeve, and the smell of roast chicken filling the kitchen like childhood. It wasn’t planned, not really. He’d dropped the boys off for a few hours to play with their cousins and stayed for tea, and then Maeve had shown up with a box of old books she wanted to donate.

They sat around the kitchen table, sunlight pooling on the floor, windows wide open to let in the breeze. His mum passed around plates of food while Maeve poured some water, chatting about her work and her daughter’s obsession with glitter glue.

“So,” his mum said after a lull in conversation, eyeing him over her glasses, “how’s Thea? She looked a little run-down last time I saw her.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, not sure if he was wanting to bring up in conversation what had been going on at their house. He figured that between his mum and sister, they should have an opinion on it—he didn’t really know if he wanted them to, but he figured he could test it anyways.

“She’s fine, tired,” Harry said gingerly, tentative before he smirked upwards, “We’ve been trying again. For a third.”

Maeve nearly choked on the sip of her water. “You mad bastard.”

“Thanks for the support,” Harry muttered, smirking. He picked at the corner of his plate, reluctant to look either of them in the eye.

His mum reached across and touched his wrist. “You don’t have to tell us, love.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just... not going the way it did before. Not as quick. And it’s hitting Thea a bit hard.”

Maeve softened immediately seeing her brother’s reaction. “That’s rough. I get it. It’s not just a want, is it? It becomes this... ache.”

Harry nodded, taking in a large inhale. “She’s doing everything right. Temping, charts, the apps, all of it. And I can’t do anything but show up when the calendar tells me to. I feel like... I don’t know. Useless.”

His mum gave a sad little smile, tilting her head. “That’s because you love her. Watching someone you love carry something heavy—especially something you can’t fix… it’s awful.”

Maeve leaned forward towards him. “You’re not useless, H. You’re the anchor. You’ve always been the one people lean on. Just keep being that. And for God’s sake, let her cry without fixing it. That’s the trick.”

Harry cracked a grin. “You’re starting to sound like a therapist.”

“I have three, so I know how it feels—it feels like when there’s a gaggle of geese and one is chasing you, the other is squawking, and the other is flapping its wings.”

They all laughed, low but communal, the kind of laugh that came from knowing too much.

His mum let her hands rest on his wrist as he stared at the table, wondering if he wanted to talk about it—or why he felt so lonely talking about it. “Three’s a lot. But if anyone can do it, it’s you two. Just don’t forget to be kind to each other while you wait.”

He nodded again, quietly grateful.

As he packed up to leave, Maeve slipped a chocolate bar into his pocket.

“For Thea,” she said. “And maybe a bit for you.”

When he got back to the house, the boys were still napping, and Thea was on the couch with a book he had gotten her. He kissed her forehead and tucked the chocolate beside her without a word. She looked up, surprised, and he just shrugged.

+++

In late August, a heat wave struck. They abandoned the oven in favor of cold pasta salads and watermelon slices. The boys ran shirtless through the sprinkler all day. Harry built blanket forts and read them stories by flashlight. They ate dinner on the floor, drank lemonade by the pitcher, and left chores undone.

Thea wandered the garden barefoot, letting the dirt cool her skin. Sometimes she stood at the edge of the tomato patch and whispered prayers into the wind. Not always to a god, most of the times, sometimes just to the universe, or to the cells in her body.

Once, she found a ladybug on her finger and cried like it was a sign. She cried more often now. In the car. In the shower. When she saw a stranger with three kids at the grocery store. When Niko asked, innocently, if their next baby could have red hair like the doll in the book she had been reading for bedtime.

But she still laughed, too. Still found Harry in the doorway of a room and thought how lucky she was.

Thea didn’t stop hoping—not yet. But she began to ask new questions:

What if this was it? Could she be happy with two? Was she less if her body didn’t give them another?

She didn’t voice them aloud—not yet. But the questions lived in the quiet.

And Harry, he was always there. A constant hand on her back. A note left in her coat pocket. An extra strawberry on her plate because he knew she’d give the first to Niko when he asked. He didn’t push her. He didn’t rush her. He just stayed. And loved her. They hadn’t given up. Not yet.

But something had shifted between them all. The heat of wanting had become something heavier; something deeper. It wasn’t desperation, no, it was devotion.

Autumn

September arrived with a crispness in the air and a hush that seemed to stretch out across the days. The trees began to tinge with color—burnt oranges, golds, and rusts—and the evenings came earlier, curling into their home like a familiar guest. Thea loved autumn, always had. But this year, it felt different. Like the world was letting go of something she was still trying to hold.

One thing that had hit her the hardest was Teddy starting school. Being six, he was starting his first year of primary and there was such a hole in her heart that she hadn’t even been paying attention to.

He wore his new shoes with pride, his backpack bouncing behind him as he ran ahead to his classroom. Harry helped him pack his small backpack the night before, giving him his bath, his pep talks on how to meet new friends.

Thea stayed strong until the car door closed, and then she cried—harder than she expected. Not because she was sad, exactly, but because she felt too many things at once: pride, joy, loss, and that quiet ache that never quite went away with a child growing up. She sat in the driver’s seat with the radio off, her coffee growing cold, remembering the way his hand had slipped from hers without hesitation.

The silence in the house that afternoon was its own kind of heartbreak. Niko played quietly on the rug with his trucks, not asking where his brother was, as if he instinctively knew this was something that would happen now—or he didn’t want to upset Thea. Thea folded Teddy’s little uniform shirts from the drying rack, smoothing them flat with shaking hands, and felt the shape of his growing up press against her chest like a bruise.

She didn’t regret it. She was proud, of course, but she missed him terribly.

Niko turned four the following week—another moment that hit her harder than expected. They threw a party in the backyard with blue balloons and a dinosaur cake with kids and parents from Niko’s play group.

She was smiling, but her eyes were far away—watching Teddy grow too fast, Niko turn another year older, and herself fall behind in a race she never meant to enter. She wanted to freeze this moment: Harry rolling in the grass with Nerf guns, Niko roaring with cake on his face, Teddy trying to explain paleontology to a three-year-old. But time didn’t freeze; it only marched on, quicker.

And that ache in her chest stayed right where it was, nestled between joy and longing.

+++

One evening, after the boys were asleep and the dishes were done, Thea joined Harry on the front porch. In the evenings, he had been sitting out here and reading his books; she let him sit in silence for a bit, he deserved it after working all day. The air was sharp with the scent of fallen leaves, and she wrapped herself in a blanket as she settled beside him. Today, she wanted to distract him.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crickets before he looked up from his book when she went to speak.

“I keep thinking,” she said softly, “what if this is it? What if it doesn’t happen?”

Harry didn’t answer right away; they sat on the swing that hung from their porch. He reached over, took her hand and took in a deep breath.

“Then we’ll raise two incredible kids and be grateful every day of that. And we’ll still build a life full of love and adventure. You and me,” He swallowed, clearing his throat, “It will take time to… move on from. But we’re the story, remember? We get to write it how we want it.”

She blinked fast, nodding. “I just thought... I don’t know. That I’d feel it. That I’d know when I’m done trying."

“You don’t have to know,” he said. “We don’t ever really have to stop, if you don’t want. We just have to come peace with the results.”

There had been a moment when Harry watched her carefully, seeing the sunken in features of her that looked like a ghost of who she was. Harry was never one to push; pushing her to do something never worked. But this wasn’t the woman he loved sitting next to him. This was a shell of her.

For the first time, Harry felt scared.

Then he asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

She blinked again, surprised by the softness in his voice, how close the question landed to the ache inside her. It took her a moment to answer him, because she tried to settle on an answer that felt correct.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think I keep saying I’m fine, so I don’t have to explain how tired I really am. It’s like my hope is a thread I’ve been holding too tightly. My hands hurt from it.”

He nodded, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Would it help to talk to someone? Like, someone besides me?”

She looked over at him, eyebrows drawing slightly together. Harry worried that he overstepped but then shook his thoughts about that away. He was doing the right thing.

“I mean it,” he added quickly, turning towards her. “Not because I think something’s wrong with you. But because I love you. And because sometimes the strong ones—”

“—need help too,” she finished his sentence, voice breaking a little.

Harry squeezed her hand at the break in her voice, noticing the tears in her eyes. “Yeah.”

She was quiet for a while, just listening to the crickets and the rustle of dry leaves across the porch steps.

“Maybe,” she said finally, nodding. “Maybe I do—maybe I need to.”

“Okay,” he said, quietly letting the word fill the space. “Then we’ll figure that out together.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, blanket tucked up to her chin.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me for loving you,” he replied. “It’s my favorite thing to do.”

They stayed there until the air grew cold and the stars came out from behind the soft clouds that had come over the autumn sky, a shared silence between them that was heavy, but healing.

Later that night, after Thea had fallen asleep curled on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket from the porch, Harry stared at her for a moment before he grabbed his keys and drove across town to his mum’s house.

It was a quiet drive there, a thoughtful one. But his thoughts were so jumbled he wasn’t sure where to place them. After he had knocked on her door, she opened the door in slippers, eyebrows lifting at the sight of him.

“Harry?” she asked gently. “What is it?”

It was then that he realized he didn’t have an answer to the question. He didn’t know why he was there.

He just stepped inside and shook his head. “Sorry. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

She didn’t ask questions right away, knowing that something was eating him up. As a mother, she just ushered him to the kitchen and turned on the kettle They sat at the table in silence, the low hum of the heat filling the room until the water boiled.

When she finally placed a cup of tea in front of him, he wrapped his hands around it but didn’t drink any of it.

“I don’t think Thea’s okay,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “She says she’s managing. And I know she wants to be. But I can see it eating her up. The waiting. The pressure. The heartbreak.”

His mum nodded, waiting.

“I feel so useless,” he went on. “Like I’m holding everything with frayed hands. Trying to be strong for her and for the boys, and at the same time, I’m terrified I’m doing it all wrong. I want to fix it. But I can’t. And it’s driving me mad.”

She reached across the table, laid a hand over his.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “you’re not supposed to fix her. You’re supposed to love her.”

“I do,” he whispered, eyes wet. “More than anything.”

“Then that’s what you do. You love her through this. And when she breaks down, you let her. You be the steady one—not the perfect one. The present one.”

Harry looked down, shoulders sagging with the weight of it. “I’m just scared.”

“I know,” she said. “But love is still worth being scared for.”

He let out a long breath, blinking fast at the way that he could feel the tears prickling the back of his eyes. Then nodded.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself cry—quiet and unguarded. Not because he was weak. But because he loved so deeply, he didn’t know where to put it all.

He covered his eyes with his hands, feeling the sob catch up to him before he shook his head. His mum jumped from her seat to move towards him, letting him fall into a hug with her.

“Oh, Harry,” She held him as he cried; it wasn’t something that happened often enough for her to know how to handle. Her eyes shut as she rubs his back to quiet him. He let himself be someone’s son for a moment, not a father or a husband or a man trying to hold up the sky. “She’s going to be okay.”

Harry had come to the conclusion that he just didn’t know how to love anyone as much as he loved her. And he didn’t know how to handle the sadness that overcome her; it didn’t just affect her, it affected him. Everything that was happening to her was happening to him, and he didn’t know how to stop it—how to make it better.

She pulled back to look at him, brushing his hair out of his face the way she always had. “You keep showing up by staying soft, even when the world makes you want to harden. You keep kissing her forehead. You keep making the boys laugh. You keep doing the little things. That’s how we hold the people we love when they’re slipping.”

Harry wiped at his face with his sleeve, laughing under his breath. “I used to think I’d have it all figured out by now.”

“No one does,” she told him, definitely. “We just figure it out in pieces. And when the pieces don’t fit, we make room.”

They sat together in the quiet for a while, drinking tea that had long gone lukewarm.

Before he left, she packed him a container of stew and an old photo from when Teddy was born—Thea asleep in a chair with the baby on her chest, Harry bent over them, his face lit with awe.

“Just in case you forget what you’ve already done right,” she said, handing it to him.

By the time he pulled into the driveway at home, the lights were low in the living room. He walked inside to find the blanket had slipped off Thea’s shoulders. He tucked it back around her, brushing a kiss over her forehead.

She stirred just a little at the movement.

“You okay?” she mumbled, eyes still closed.

He settled beside her on the couch. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I am now.”

They fell asleep like that, tangled together, not knowing what tomorrow would bring—only that they’d face it side by side.

+++

At the end of October, Harry planned something small—just for them. He booked a night at a bed-and-breakfast two towns over, close enough that his mum could watch the boys.

They drove with the windows down, music playing softly, whatever Thea wanted. The trees were truly at their peak, fiery and full, and Thea let her hand drift through the air outside the car like a ribbon.

The inn was old and smelled a bit musty but had character that couldn’t be replicated, with creaky floors and quilts folded at the foot of the bed. They walked through a pumpkin patch that afternoon, laughing at the absurd shapes. They drank cider from paper cups. They touched fingers in the car like teenagers. All of it being a reminder of what they were, who they had been.

That night, after a dinner near the pier where they both had a little too much wine that they had to walk home, Harry gave her a small box.

Inside was a necklace: a delicate silver chain with three small stars—simple and shining like something made of quiet wishes.

“Two for the boys,” he said softly, pointing to it, “One for what we’ve hoped for. No matter what happens next, that part is ours too.”

Thea’s fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the stars to her chest. The gesture, the thought, undid her.

She didn’t speak. She just looked at him with eyes that had loved him through seasons of waiting, and kissed him, so slow and so sure.

It started gentle, it always did. The kind of kiss that said: I remember you. I still want you.

His hands were reverent, moving slowly over her arms, her sides, the curve of her back. She leaned into him, into the warmth of his chest, into the certainty of his touch. His mouth trailed down her jaw, his breath hot against her skin, and when she whispered his name, it was with a need that had nothing to do with making a baby—and everything to do with being seen as his wife. His partner.

He undressed her with care, as if it were something sacred. And when his fingers slid beneath the waistband of her underwear, she gasped, head tipping back. He murmured something quiet against her collarbone—something that sounded like “God, you’re everything”—and she felt her heart swell too big for her body.

They made love that night like it was a beginning instead of an end.

Like it wasn’t about schedules or trying for two lines on a test. It was just skin and breath and the kind of intimacy that comes from years of knowing someone in both silence and chaos.

She guided his hands, showed him where it ached and where it healed. He moved inside her with something close to awe. It was slow, deep, full of reverence and restraint, until restraint gave way to something hungrier. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands gripping his shoulders. Every kiss felt like a question of her sanity, every sigh an answer.

And when they came, it was together—trembling and breathless, her name on his lips like a promise.

Afterward, they laid tangled together, her head on his chest, the windows open to the rustle of leaves and the hum of crickets outside. The necklace still hung between her breasts, the stars catching faint moonlight.

Thea stared at the ceiling, letting herself feel all of it—the weight, the want, the wonder. The ache that had dulled, the love that hadn’t.

For once, she didn’t try to name the feeling. She just let it be.

The next morning, they lingered around the small room. Breakfast was warm cinnamon rolls and strong coffee, served in chipped floral China. Harry pulled a chair close to hers on the porch of the inn, both of them bundled in oversized sweaters. The sky was blue with the hint of winter in it; she could smell snow if she tried hard enough.

“We could do this more,” she said, watching the wind ruffle the bare branches of the trees that had lost all of it’s leaves.

“Get away?” He asked softly.

“Just... remember who we are. When we’re not parents. When we’re not hoping. Just us.”

Harry nodded, finishing his sip. “Let’s remember, then. Even when it gets hard.”

She reached for his hand, fingers cold but sure. “Let’s promise.”

They drove home in silence and song, windows down, the air biting but invigorating. When they returned home later that day, the boys barreled into their arms with sticky hands and glitter in their hair. Maeve reported bedtime disasters and cereal for dinner but said it with a smile.

As Harry carried their bags upstairs in the house, Thea lingered in the hallway, watching the boys chase each other down the stairs. She touched the star necklace at her throat.

Something about Thea had started to feel… happier. More put together. Maybe more alive than before. She had her ups and downs, but she knew the person who was there for them all.

Even in her darkest hour, she knew who was there.

+++

A few days later, they went out to dinner with friends—Ben and Lila, college friends who now lived two neighborhoods over, who had one baby and another on the way. Harry and Thea hadn’t been very good about meeting with friends, so they decided to reach out.

They met at a cozy Italian place downtown, the kind with candles stuck in old wine bottles and menus written on chalkboards.

Thea wore her favorite dress, the green one with the sleeves that made her feel pretty, and Harry had shaved and put on cologne. For a little while, it felt easy. They ordered drinks, shared appetizers, laughed over stories from years ago and what had been going on in their lives so far.

Thea wanted to be a good friend and ask about how the pregnancy was going, how excited they were. She tried to push herself to ask questions, to keep herself engaged. It wasn’t always about her, after all.

But then, halfway through dessert, Lila leaned in with a fond smile and said, "You guys are so good with your boys—I love seeing your posts online, they’re always so handsome and smart. Honestly, if anyone should have a big family, it’s you two."

Ben chuckled, nodding in agreement. "You’re the ones we looked up to when we started having kids," He took a sip of his whiskey, “Thinking of having more?”

Harry laughed softly, polite and tight-lipped. Thea managed a smile, knowing it was coming from a place of love. She reached for her wine glass to buy herself a second. "We’re... figuring things out."

“Of course you guys will,” Lila smiled, “Wouldn’t surprise me if it was sooner than later.”

In the moment, she watched Harry shift in his seat; it wasn’t really just an uncomfortable look, it was a bit of a… frustrated one.

The moment passed. Lila started talking about baby names, about the ones that she loved and was thinking of using—they were having a girl. Harry changed the subject, nonchalantly taking it back to asking about if they were putting their son in sports.

After dessert, they paid the bill. Said goodbye on the sidewalk with hugs and promises to do it again soon. The car was mostly quiet on the drive home. It wasn’t until they hit the main road that Thea spoke.

"Well, that was fun."

Harry kept his eyes on the road, lips tight as he tried to not say anything else. "Yeah. It was."

Another pause, the sound of the car on the road was the only silence they had. Then she whispered, "That comment didn’t bother you?"

He exhaled slowly. "Yep."

"I know they meant well," she said quickly, defending the moment. "I know. But—"

"It still hurt."

She turned her head to the window. "I felt like a defective doll. Like, 'Oh, of course they’ll have another soon.' Like it’s that easy."

Harry gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I wanted to say something. I just didn’t want to ruin the night."

"I get it. I do. But I’m so tired of pretending. Of laughing it off and then crying in the bathroom."

Harry reached for her hand. "You don’t have to pretend with me."

She looked at him then, eyes full.

"I know. But I feel like I have to pretend with everyone else. Like it’s shameful. Like I’m not doing my job as a woman or a mother or a wife—like I’m missing something."

He pulled the car into their driveway and shut off the engine. They sat in the quiet hum of the evening.

"You are doing everything," he said, turning toward her. "You are carrying the weight of hope and heartbreak every day. And I hate that people don’t see that. But I do. I see all of it."

She wiped a tear from her cheek and gave him a small smile. "Maybe next time I’ll just say, 'We’re infertile, but thanks for the vote of confidence.'"

Harry laughed, surprised. "Honestly, I’d pay to see that."

They walked inside together, not lighter exactly, but together. And that made all the difference.

+++

One evening in early November, over dinner with the four of them sitting at the table, Teddy put down his fork mid-bite and looked up at them with serious eyes.

“Where do babies come from?” he asked, as serious as he could be.

Thea nearly choked on her water, coughing into her napkin as Harry stopped chewing midbite as he stared straight ahead at his son.

“Wow,” Thea said, eyes wide as she looked at Harry, raising her brows at the suddenness of the question.

“Um,” Harry said, blinking fast, trying to understand where that had come from. “That’s... a great question, mate. Why are you curious?”

“Eli from school says his mummy has a baby in her tummy,” Teddy continued, completely serious, shrugging as he stabbed a bite of chicken. “He said it grew there because she kissed his dad a lot. And they got extra married. Like, twice or something.”

Niko laughed so hard milk came out of his nose. “Extra married!” he howled, pointing at his brother like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.

Harry pressed his lips together, trying not to grin. Thea, still red from her coughing fit, let the smile grow over her face.

“Oh my God,” she whispered to Harry. “Extra married.”

“I mean, I guess we’ve been slacking,” Harry said under his breath. “Only got married once.”

Thea nudged him beneath the table, still laughing. She wiped her mouth, took a deep breath, and met Teddy’s gaze.

“Well, that’s kind of sweet, isn’t it?” she said. “And not entirely wrong. Babies do grow in their mummy’s tummy, but it’s a bit more... complicated than kissing.”

“Like how complicated?” Teddy asked, squinting like he was gearing up for a quiz.

Harry jumped in, biting at his lip. “It’s like gardening, I think,” he said. “You need a seed and a place for it to grow, and lots of love and time.”

“Like when we plant tomatoes?”

“Exactly like that,” Thea said, thankful for the metaphor. “Except instead of dirt, the seed goes into the mummy’s tummy, and if it sticks and grows, then you get a baby.”

Teddy mulled this over. “Where do you get the seeds to grow babies?”

Thea's breath caught, eyes glancing at Harry before he clicked his tongue and shook his head to try and manage an answer for him.

“Eli’s dad probably bought them at the store.” Harry nodded before he took another bite. “They kissed a lot, got married again, and then put the seeds in his mum’s tummy. Boom. Baby.”

Thea smirked at his answer, nodding a few times before she caught his glance; his foot caught hers under the table.

“Do you want another baby?” Teddy asked suddenly, turning his wide, curious eyes on her.

She paused, looked at Harry before turning back to Teddy—glancing at Niko.

“We’d love another one,” she said honestly. “But we love what we already have. You, Niko. You both are everything to us, you know that?”

Harry leaned forward towards Teddy. “Sometimes we dream about one. That’s all.”

Teddy seemed satisfied with this; it was a moment that warmed Thea’s heart. He nodded and picked up his fork again. “Well, I hope the seed works. I want someone littler than Niko. He keeps sitting on my bed when I’m reading.”

“I do not!” Niko yelled at him.

“Yes, you do!” Teddy nodded.

Niko scrunched his nose, looking a little too much like Harry, “I’m guarding you!”

“From what? My books?!”

Dinner dissolved into giggles and squabbling and a heated debate about who had more green beans on their plate left. Thea leaned back in her chair, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Later that night, as they washed the dishes, Thea turned to Harry, elbow deep in suds.

“You were really good with that,” she told him, leaning her cheek against him.

“I blacked out a little,” he replied, drying a plate. “Pretty sure I compared conception to salad.”

She laughed again, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for planting your seeds in my garden.”

+++

A week later, they sat in the doctor’s office, Thea clutching a clipboard of intake forms, Harry bouncing his knee up and down like a drumbeat.

It had taken months to admit it was time to ask for help. Something about the dinner with Teddy had set a moment in Thea’s heart; maybe it was time. Now they were here— blue walls, waiting room magazines, a tray of paper cups in the corner.

They were there for testing, making sure that everything was normal. The tests weren’t painful, just drawn out and took a lot of energy between the two of them.

Blood work, hormone panels, and ultrasounds. Harry gave his sample in a room with posters that made him blush and a nurse with a very professional tone; something very demeaning that he couldn’t think too much about. Thea tried to make him laugh about it, but she could only get a smile.

Thea had never felt so clinical in her own body. She smiled politely, and she thanked people too much each time they came in and out of the room. She counted the tiles on the ceiling and avoided making eye contact with herself in the mirror afterward.

When they returned to the office for all their results two weeks later, Thea felt her stomach twist into a thousand little knots at the answers. The doctor, kind-eyed and composed, sat across from them and cleared her throat with her clipboard—their fate sitting in her hands, literally.

"I want to start off by telling you that everything looks normal," she said. "Which, in a way, is good news.” The doctor gave them a smile, Harry side-eyed Thea for a moment as he watched her shoulders loosen from the news. “But it also means we don’t have a clear answer. This happens sometimes. We call it unexplained infertility."

Thea stared at the table, fingers twisting in her lap. Harry reached over, squeezed her knee.

"So, what does that mean?" he asked, shaking his head, “Or where do we go from here?”

"It means your bodies are doing what they should—all of Thea’s numbers are correct, your sperm count is at perfect levels for conception. But for some reason, conception isn’t happening naturally. You’re still young, and there are options. There are many paths to growing a family, and we obviously want to make sure that you are able to grow that family."

They nodded, dazed.

Thea swallowed hard. She wanted to say something, to ask the right question, to be the kind of person who knew how to advocate for herself in moments like this. But her mouth felt dry, and her thoughts were tangled. She glanced sideways at Harry, who was still staring at the doctor, brow furrowed, jaw tight.

“So, what now?” he asked again, this time more softly.

The doctor leaned forward, her voice calm and measured as she could tell that there may have been some frustration. “There are several options. We can begin with intrauterine insemination—less invasive than IVF, and sometimes successful after just a few rounds. If that doesn’t work, IVF is the next step. And of course, there’s also the path of adoption, if you’d prefer to pursue something non-medical. None of these are easy, but all are valid.”

Thea looked down at her hands. She hadn’t realized her nails were digging into her palm.

“Is it… is it my fault?” she whispered, not meaning to say it aloud.

The doctor’s face softened at her, shaking her head. “No,” she said firmly. “It’s no one’s fault. Please hear me when I say that—this isn’t about blame. It’s about biology, timing, and sometimes things we don’t fully understand yet,” The doctor licked her lips and gave her a pressing smile, “But we have modern medicine, and we have ways to help you.”

Harry turned to her, his expression suddenly raw.

“Thea,” he said quietly, trying to grasp where she was.

“But we did everything,” she murmured, her voice cracking, almost unsure of the uncertainty of the unexplained. “All the right things. The tracking, the testing. The vitamins. The no caffeine. The waiting. The prayers. And still…”

The doctor tried to meet her eyes, “Sweetie, you’re not a failure.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. She couldn’t cry in front of this woman in a lab coat who was holding all their quiet heartbreak in a manila folder. After a moment, Harry looked at the doctor and she gave him a tight smile.

“I’m going to give you both some space,” the doctor said gently, “Take your time. When you’re ready, I’ll have my nurse bring in a referral packet, and we can walk you through what the next steps might look like—if and when you're ready,” She held the file close to her, “If it’s not today, that’s okay. We’re here for when you are.”

The door clicked shut behind her. Thea stared at the floor.

Harry exhaled. “We’re still us,” he said, as if that mattered more than anything else. “We still have our boys. We still have each other.”

“I know,” she said. “But it’s just not how I pictured it. I thought it would be… like, what the fuck? Unexplained infertility? How is it unexplained? How—it just feels like I’m failing.”

He shook his head, unable to come up with an explanation of the unexplained. “You’re not failing, baby.”

She looked at him finally. Really looked. His face had softened, but there was a heaviness around his eyes. He was trying to be strong, for her, for them. She could see it.

“Can we not tell anyone yet?” she asked, grabbing her purse. “About the results. About this appointment. I just want to keep it… between us. For a little while.”

“Of course,” he said. “For as long as you need.”

She squeezed his hand. It didn’t feel like closure. Not yet. But it felt like something real. A place to start from. Or start all over again.

But life went on, and being a mum and dad went on.

That night, after dinner, the house felt unusually quiet. Thea was wiping down the counters while Teddy and Niko chased each other through the living room in socked feet, their laughter echoing off the walls. She looked up when she realized Harry wasn’t with them—he was usually the one dragging out bedtime with tickle fights and extra storybooks.

But the boys said he’d gone to “get something from the garage.”

Thea was a bit confused by Teddy’s statement, but she shook her head as she continued the nighttime chores. She finished loading the dishwasher, washing the dishes in the sink. She waited for a while—noticing that the time went from 7 to 7:30. Five more minutes. Then, ten. Twenty. She checked the bathroom. His office. He hadn’t come back.

Nothing.

Her heart started to thrum uneasily as she saw the light on in the unattached garage. Her heart stopped for a moment before she decided to make her way out there. The temperatures had dropped significantly from October to November, and it was quite chilly.

She slipped outside of the door, telling the boys to get upstairs to their room before she got back. The night cool against her skin and padded barefoot across the stone path toward the garage. She pushed open the side door slowly, it was ajar, and there he was.

Harry stood by the workbench, shoulders slumped, head bowed, a bottle of whiskey next to a half-empty glass. He swayed slightly where he stood, like gravity had become a little heavier. There was a second glass beside the first—unused, forgotten. The scent of alcohol lingered in the room, sharp and earthy, cut with motor oil and sawdust.

“Harry?” Thea said softly. He didn’t turn around; didn’t show any signs of acknowledgement before.  

“I’m fine,” he muttered, which of course meant he wasn’t.

She stepped closer, a step at a time. “You’ve been in here a while.”

He gave a hollow laugh, but it was short-lived. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—couldn’t do bedtime tonight. I—I couldn’t.”

She looked at the bottle. Then at him.

“Are you drunk?” she asked him gently, taking in a breath. Her hands dug into her back pockets of her jeans as she approached him.

He exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t sure whether to lie to her. She could tell that tried to come back to the world, he swallowed and responded with raspy breath. “A little.”

Thea’s heart thumped louder. “The boys asked for you.”

“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I know, and I hate that I wasn’t there.”

He turned around then—his eyes bloodshot, lips parted, flushed in a way that wasn’t just from the whiskey. He looked like someone unraveling at the seams.

“I hate this,” he said again, his words slurred but sharp with feeling. “I hate that you have to go through all this, and I’m just standing on the sidelines. I hate that I can’t take the pain or the tests or the pressure off your shoulders. I hate how small I feel in all of it. How powerless.”

Thea moved to him quickly, her hands finding his arms, grounding him.

“You don’t have to do it all,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be the answer. You’re supposed to be with me. That’s it.”

He leaned into her like a man giving up the last of his weight. She wrapped her arms around him, feeling how unsteady he was—physically, emotionally.

“I wanted to be the easy part,” he murmured into her hair. “I wanted to be the one thing in your life that didn’t feel like a fight.”

She pulled back enough to cup his cheeks, her thumbs brushing the warmth of his tear-stained skin. “You are, Harry. You are the easy part. This? This is just life. And I’d rather live it with you falling apart than pretending to hold it all together until you snap—we will figure this out.”

He closed his eyes, his forehead resting against hers. “I’m scared I’m going to lose you.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m scared I’m going to lose me too.”

They stood like that, swaying gently, in the soft, alcohol-sweet air of the garage. He was shaky and tired, and a little drunk, but present—and for Thea, that was enough.

“Please don’t turn to this.” She told him, pleading, begging as she pushed the glasses and the whiskey bottle away. “This—we aren’t going to do this, okay?”

Harry’s jaw was tight as he nodded into her. Tears burned in his eyes; he felt like shit, he looked like shit. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t think of a better way to make the pain go away.

Eventually, she guided him back into the house, one arm around his waist, the other holding his hand. The boys were in their room, the house dim and quiet—she tried to make it unknown that he was in the house, she didn’t want the boys seeing him like that.

She helped him sit on the edge of their bed, pulled his shirt off over his head, and kissed the top of his shoulder.

“Just go to sleep,” she said. “I’ll take care of bedtime.”

Harry nodded, his hand still clasped in hers. “Thanks for finding me.”

“Always,” she whispered back to him. “Loving you is my favorite thing to do.”

Winter

December came with a stillness, as if the world was holding its breath.

Frost clung to the windows each morning, and Thea found herself waking earlier than usual, just to sit in the silence before the boys filled the house with their usual noise. She would wrap herself in Harry's sweatshirt, sip her tea by the window, and watch the steam dance.

They hadn’t made a decision yet. Not about IVF. Not about adoption. Not even about stopping. It was a liminal space—a pause that felt both peaceful and terrifying. But the urgency had eased. The need to solve something had softened into something quieter.

Thea no longer tracked every temperature or symptom. The ovulation stickers were gone from the fridge. Her body, for the first time in a long while, belonged only to her.

The holidays were noisy and sweet in all the best ways. The house constantly smelled like cinnamon and pine, and the stereo kept skipping halfway through Harry’s White Christmas CD because Niko had jammed a raisin into the CD slot.

Teddy made lopsided ornaments at school out of popsicle sticks and sequins, proudly hanging them in clumps on the same branch until it sagged under their weight. Niko got caught chewing on the corner of a salt dough snowman craft that Thea had sat down to do with the boys, the white paint smudged on his lips like frosting and cried when Thea took it away.

There were snowball fights in the front yard until the boys’ cheeks turned pink and Thea had to coax them back inside with promises of marshmallows. There were flannel pajamas all around and matching socks that never stayed on. Harry read The Polar Express by the glow of the Christmas tree while the boys curled into their parents’ sides, eyes heavy with sleep.

Every night ended in drinking cocoa—thick and too sweet, with whipped cream mustaches and sugar highs that led to pajama dance parties in the living room. It was chaos, sticky and warm, and somehow it felt like magic, even with the mess, even with the exhaustion. Especially because of it.

Thea wanted her boys to feel that magic that had been so drained from them for so long.

One night, just a few days before Christmas, the house finally stilled.

The boys were asleep upstairs, their soft snores crackling faintly through the baby monitor on the side table. Outside, snow drifted in lazy spirals beneath the porch light, collecting in hushed white piles. The tree lights glowed dimly in the corner, casting golden halos against the walls. A fire popped in the grate, low and comforting.

Thea lay stretched along the couch, her socked feet tucked beneath Harry’s thigh. A half-finished cup of tea rested on the coffee table, steam no longer rising. Harry’s arm was draped behind her, his hand lazily curling through the ends of her hair. They didn’t need to talk. The silence had a weight to it that felt intimate, not empty. Safe.

“I love you more now than I ever have,” Thea said softly, her voice almost lost in the hush of the room.

Harry turned to look at her. His brows furrowed slightly, not from confusion but from the intensity of hearing something he didn’t know he needed.

“I mean it,” she added, her voice steady now. “Not just in the easy moments. But in the ones where we don’t know what comes next. You make the not-knowing feel okay.”

His throat worked around the emotion building there. He didn’t speak at first. Just studied her face like he wanted to remember it exactly how it looked—soft and honest in the glow of the lights, with her sweater slipping slightly off one shoulder and her fingers curled near her chin.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead—slow, reverent, lingering.

“That’s all I want, Thea,” he murmured. “For us to feel okay. However this looks.”

She blinked up at him, eyes shimmering slightly.

“It’s not always going to be glitter and gingerbread,” she said; her eyes felt the burn of a few tears as she stared at the Christmas tree. “I just… I just have these moments where I get sad that this is what I was made for, and I—I feel like I don’t know how to feel.”

He smiled faintly, rubbing hands through her hair. “I know.”

“But I’m so lucky.”

Harry let out a quiet breath and pulled her closer into his chest. Her hand settled over his heart, and he covered it with his own. Through the window, the snow kept falling. The tree lights blinked on, then off again, a quiet rhythm in the stillness. And in the space between heartbeats, between the mess and the magic, they chose each other again.

Not just in the easy moments. But in all of them.

+++

The living room smelled like cinnamon and roast potatoes and a large roast chicken that could feed a hundred people, and it was about ten degrees too warm from the oven working overtime.

The wrapping paper littered the floor, clinging to socks and bare feet. Teddy and Niko were in the corner with Maeve’s youngest, building a leaning tower of wooden blocks while the older two took turns flying a paper plane dangerously close to the Christmas tree.

Harry’s mum moved through the kitchen like a practiced orchestra conductor, towel thrown over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from heat and champagne. She opened the oven, checked the parsnips, then closed it again with a decisive nod. “Gravy’s done,” she called, even though no one had asked.

Harry had disappeared somewhere with Maeve’s oldest to assemble a toy castle, and Thea found herself alone in the kitchen for the first time that day, standing by the sink with a glass of cranberry juice and flushed cheeks of her own—not from the warmth, but from watching Harry with the kids.

He was in his element here, his hands always full. His heart was wide open.

Maeve leaned her hip against the counter beside her, stealing a segment of clementine from the charcuterie in front of Thea.

“Been a minute since we’ve all been under one roof,” she said casually.

Thea smiled, taking a sip of her juice. “I’m still full of breakfast, too,” She turned towards the dinner being prepared, “Feel like I may explode.”

“She lives for this,” Maeve replied, her voice fond as she gestured to her mum. “You alright, though? You’ve been a bit… floaty today.”

Thea hesitated. She looked at the frosted kitchen window, where snow dusted the garden wall. “Yeah. I’m good. Just… tired.”

Maeve didn’t push. But Harry’s mum came around the corner just then, holding a tray of pigs in blankets, and she caught the tail end of the exchange.

“She’s not just tired,” Harry’s mum said gently, setting the tray down. “She’s been carrying a lot. I see it.”

Thea felt her shoulders stiffen slightly. “It’s okay, really—”

Maeve shook her head. “Don’t do that. Don’t shrink it. You can say it.”

Thea looked between them; two women who loved Harry fiercely, who had welcomed her without condition—and slowly set her glass down as she thought about telling them everything that had been going on.

“We’ve been… thinking,” she said, hesitating as she licked over her lips. “About other options. For trying. To get pregnant, I mean. Not today. Not tomorrow. But... soon, maybe.”

Maeve reached for her hand instantly, grounding her. She didn’t want to say anything until she let Thea finish.

Thea’s throat worked. “Sometimes it feels like maybe we’re pushing something that just... isn’t going to happen again. And other times it feels like I’m giving up too soon.”

Harry’s mum wiped her hands on her apron and stepped forward, “Darling,” she said softly, “you have never done anything wrong in my son’s eyes. You know that, don’t you?”

Thea blinked a few times, parted lips closing as she glanced at the floor.

“He’s been head-over-heels for you since he came home from uni one Christmas break,” she said, turning to Maeve who was smirking at the remembrance of the day. “Walked through that door beaming, like someone had handed him the sun and he couldn’t believe he got to keep it.”

Maeve let out a quiet, knowing laugh. “You should’ve seen him. Wouldn’t shut up. All we heard about was this girl, Thea,” She tilted her head, “And he’s never lost that stupid smile when he talks about you, either.”

Thea looked down, overwhelmed for a moment by how much love they gave her. How much space they made for her to just exist in the gray areas—without judgment, without needing to perform gratitude.

Harry’s mum gave her arms a squeeze. “Whatever you two decide, it’s already the right choice. Because you’re making it together.”

From the other room, there was a loud crash and the unmistakable sound of Harry laughing as one of the kids shouted, “It was his idea!”

Maeve turned and grinned. “Well. Sounds like your sun is being a menace.”

Thea wiped her eyes quickly and laughed, her heart aching and full at once. “Yeah,” she said. “But he’s mine.”

Harry’s mum smiled, eyes crinkling back at her. “Yes, love. He always was.”

+++

On New Year’s Eve, they stayed in.

There was no glitter, no clinking glasses or crowded parties. Just a blanket fort made from sofa cushions and old sheets, lit with the warm glow of fairy lights clipped to laundry pins. The boys had helped build it with the kind of serious concentration only kids could muster—Teddy determined to engineer “roof support beams” out of broomsticks, while Niko insisted they needed two flashlights “in case one gets scared.”

They ordered pizzas and ate them cross-legged on the rug, slices greasy and hot in their hands, laughter echoing off the walls with each melted cheese pull and story about their favorite parts of the year. Harry wore flannel pajama pants and one of Thea’s old university sweatshirts. She wore thick socks and no makeup, her hair up in a messy twist. It was imperfect and quiet and theirs.

By ten-thirty, Niko was fast asleep on Harry’s chest, his little fists tucked beneath his chin. Teddy drifted off moments later with his head on Thea’s arm, his breathing slow and steady, his long limbs flopped across her like he had no idea he was growing so fast.

The TV still played in the background—some countdown special in Times Square, the noise muffled and irrelevant. Outside, snow had begun to fall again, blanketing the neighborhood in a hush.

At some point before midnight, Thea blinked awake. Her arm was numb beneath Teddy, and the lights of the fort cast soft shadows across the ceiling. She slowly untangled herself and stood, stretching her legs as quietly as she could. Padding into the kitchen in her pajamas, she poured herself a mug of warm spiced cider from the slow cooker they’d forgotten to turn off, its sweet scent still lingering in the air like comfort.

She didn’t need noise or fanfare. She just wanted a minute of stillness. The clock on the microwave read 11:53. Only seven more minutes of the year.

A moment later, Harry appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. His hair stuck out in all directions, flattened on one side, and he still had the blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He looked like the grown-up version of the boy he must’ve been—sleepy, kind, quietly wonderful.

“Hey,” he murmured, crossing the tile floor barefoot. “You left me.”

“You were snoring,” she teased gently, handing him a mug of his own.

“Rude.” He took it anyway, standing close beside her as they both leaned back against the counter, watching the snow fall through the window above the sink. The silence between them was comfortable—easy. It didn’t need to be filled.

“We didn’t make any resolutions,” he said after a while, sipping the cider.

Thea glanced over at him, shrugging. “I don’t want to make promises we can’t control.”

He nodded slowly, understanding completely what she meant. “Then let’s not make promises. Just... intentions.”

She considered that for a moment and nodded, then smiled softly. “I intend to find joy. Even when it’s not obvious. Even when I have to really, really look for it.”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the low light. Then: “I intend to keep kissing you in the pantry when the boys aren’t looking.”

A breathy laugh escaped her, unexpected and warm as she thought about the way he looked at her.

“I intend to hold your hand,” she whispered, “no matter what happens.”

Harry didn’t reply right away. He reached out and laced his fingers through hers. The kitchen was quiet but full—with everything they’d shared, everything they hadn’t said aloud, everything they were still building together.

When Thea turned her head, she watched as the clock ticked to midnight.

Somewhere in the distance, a few scattered fireworks cracked through the air—soft and distant behind the snowfall. Niko stirred in the next room, but didn’t wake. Teddy muttered something incoherent and rolled over; both of them sleeping into the new year.

They clinked their mugs together—porcelain meeting in the smallest toast.

“Happy New Year,” Thea said, her voice thick with something close to wonder.

Harry leaned down and kissed her softly. It was just a small kiss; a knowing one that made her hum in acknowledgement as they stared at each other for a moment.

“It will be,” he said, putting the intention into the universe to be caught. “It will be.”

And outside, beneath a sky that didn’t ask anything of them, the snow fell softer than ever.

+++

January was cold in the way only the start of a new year could be—bright skies, brittle winds, and mornings where the frost stretched across the windows like lace. Life had fallen into a rhythm again. School runs, lukewarm coffee, wool socks, and Lego landmines scattered across the hallway. The holidays had passed, but their softness lingered. There was a quiet steadiness to the days now, like everything had settled just slightly into place.

There was a letter that arrived on a Wednesday.

Thea found it among a small pile of post on the kitchen counter tucked between a bank statement and a coupon flyer for carpet cleaning. The envelope was clinical and white, the logo of the fertility clinic embossed in the corner.

She stood there for a moment with her thumb beneath the seal, the kettle starting to hum behind her. When she finally opened it, her eyes scanned the page once, then again, before she set it gently on the counter.

Consultation appointment offered: February 12th, 10:30 AM.

There was no rush of dread, no panic. No buzzing in her ears from being overwhelmed. Just a quiet hum in her chest, like something long held had found its place to rest.

She didn’t call Harry right away at work. She didn’t need to. Instead, she folded the letter in half and slid it into the drawer beside the sink, where she kept the extra birthday candles and takeaway menus and the measuring spoons she always forgot were there.

Not out of avoidance. But out of peace.

That afternoon, while wrangling Niko into his boots to go pick Teddy up from school, she slipped on her long gray coat—the one with the deep inside pocket where she kept tissues and receipts. As her hand brushed the lining, she felt something crinkled and unfamiliar.

It was a small square of folded paper. It was cream-colored, soft at the edges. Harry’s handwriting on the outside in blue ink from the pen that sat by the sink to write notes for groceries.

She opened it slowly, the sounds of the boys echoing in the hallway, snow boots thudding against tile.

whatever path we take, I’m already home.

Her breath caught. Not in that cinematic way, but in the real, aching way where your chest pulls tight before the tears ever come.

He must’ve tucked it there days ago. Maybe even weeks. He hadn’t asked if she’d found it; hadn’t drawn any attention to it. That was how Harry loved her—quietly, consistently. With notes she didn’t know to look for until she needed them most.

She folded it again with careful fingers, pressed it against her chest just beneath her scarf. She didn’t cry—not really. Just stood there for a moment, eyes shut, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

There were decisions ahead that would come with possibility and risks. But standing in the front hall, coat half-zipped, her child laughing behind her, she knew something with absolute certainty:

Whatever came next, their family would be walking into it together.

And she was no longer afraid.

Spring

Three months later. The snow had melted, the times had changed.

Thea stood in the bathroom again.

She’d been feeling off all week. It was nothing really dramatic—just a lingering nausea in the mornings, a strange fatigue that had her yawning before dinner, a faint sensitivity to smells that made her gag when she opened the fridge and saw the left-over chicken from dinner. She’d chalked it up to something going around; Teddy had brought home three colds from school since winter break, and Niko had a habit of sharing his sneezes with open-mouthed affection.

There wasn’t a reason to feel the hope. Not now, not when peace had finally settled into her like snow on a quiet morning. But the nagging feeling had stayed, curling in her belly like a whisper. That hope was always just there.

Thea was still rubbing her temples when Harry walked into their bedroom, carrying a mug of peppermint tea.

“Still feeling sick?” he asked gently, setting the mug on her nightstand. Thea had been under the covers, trying to let her mind relax.

She nodded, holding onto the blanket as she shrugged. “It’s probably just a bug. I’ve just been so tired.”

Harry hesitated, then gave her a look that was part teasing, part hopeful. For the first time in a while, his eyes had a gleam in them that she found to be optimistically cautious.

“Would it be crazy if I suggested taking a test?”

Thea blinked at him, biting the inside of her lip as she spoke quietly. “Really?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Just to rule it out. Humor me.”

There was a hesitancy about it this time. Not dread—just a deep quiet, like her body already knew the answer and was waiting for her mind to catch up.

She opened the drawer beneath the sink, hand brushing past a half-used box of band-aids and a faded bottle of nail polish. There, near the back, was the last test. She paused, held it in her hand for a moment. The foil wrapper crinkled faintly as she turned it over.

They’d nearly forgotten they still had one.

By now, the ritual was muscle memory. She didn’t overthink it. Just followed the motions, her limbs moving like she was outside her body—automatic, practiced, steady. She took the test, washed her hands, and set it down on the counter, screen faced up, untouched.

The phone timer ticked to life beside it: five minutes.

She exhaled and leaned forward, both palms on the counter, head bowed.

Harry stepped beside her, brushing her hand with his fingers. They stood next to one another in silence, watching the screen like it might explode.

The first line appeared. And then another.

Two.

Thea’s breath hitched, her body stiffening as if trying to resist what her eyes were already telling her. Her hand flew to her mouth, barely stifling the quiet gasp that escaped. Her eyes whipped to Harry’s face, searching for confirmation, for disbelief, for shared understanding.

He was staring at the test like it might vanish, his brow furrowed, mouth slightly open. “Is that…?”

She nodded once, then again, her throat too tight to speak. The tears came fast—not the kind that poured, but the kind that welled so thick and full she couldn’t blink them away. “Harry…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers, wide and shining, as if seeing her for the very first time. He moved slowly, as though afraid he might spook the moment. Like she was something breakable. Like this was something sacred.

Then he wrapped his arms around her, tight and sure, drawing her into his chest. His face pressed into the curve of her neck, and she felt his breath catch. They stood like that for a long time—silent, swaying slightly, the hum of the world around them softening into nothing. It felt like holding something invisible but real. Like they were comforting someone already here.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice rough and filled with wonder.

She let out a breathy, tear-laced laugh against his shoulder. “I thought I had the flu.”

Harry pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing his knuckles against her damp cheek.

Thea laughed again, chest shaking, heart racing. His hand stayed on her face, thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Her hands were on his ribs, her forehead resting against his. Behind them, on the counter, the test sat in the gentle light of the morning—two clear lines glowing like a secret they could finally keep.

The waiting was over: their garden had suddenly begun to bloom.

Nine Months Later – Autumn

The house was louder now.

Not in a bad way—never that. Just in the way a home grows louder when it’s full of life and happiness and joyful moments that may have been chaotic to some, but necessary to others. When the walls know every laugh, every cry, every set of socked feet thudding down the hall.

It was a crisp October morning. Wind scratched at the windows, and golden leaves danced across the porch as they did every year. The air inside was warm, the scent of bergamot and maple lingering from breakfast and someone’s forgotten apple slice browning on the counter.

In the corner of the living room, the baby stirred, letting out a cry that sounded far too fierce for such a tiny chest to produce. Thea rose slowly from the couch, moving with the practiced sway of a mother whose body remembered the rhythm even when her mind was fogged. She wore leggings, wool socks, and one of Harry’s old university sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Her hair was in a lopsided twist, and she had that early-motherhood glow—equal parts sleep deprivation and sacred softness; her body hurt, but in an aching way that felt natural.

She lifted their newborn daughter from the bassinet with a quiet hum, settling her gently against her shoulder. The way the baby scrunched when lifted made her smile, kissing her soft face as she held her close. The baby calmed almost immediately, cheek squished against Thea’s collarbone, making those tiny, contented grunts that felt like the most private song.

From the hallway, Niko barreled in wearing one rain boot and holding an orange crayon like a sword. “Teddy took my sock! He’s gonna use it as a flag!”

Teddy, already in his school jumper and wearing a makeshift crown made of pipe cleaners and paper leaves, charged past them, waving the sock like a victory banner. “Long live the Sock Kingdom!”

Thea sat back on the couch with a sigh that was equal parts tired and amused. “It’s not even eight-thirty.”

Harry emerged from the kitchen like a man who’d lived three lives in the past hour. His curls were a bit wild from wrangling school bags, his flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he had that look—part joy, part exasperation—that only came from parenthood on a weekday morning.

“Alright, you two,” he said, stepping over a pile of acorns someone had collected and dumped on the rug—for who knows what. “Teddy, backpack. Niko, you need both socks to fight dragons. That’s just science.”

He herded them toward the front door, multitasking like a pro—finding missing mittens, buttering toast, and handing out gentle warnings not to jump from the stairs again. When the chaos calmed momentarily—Teddy put on his own shoes, Niko pulling his arms into his shirt sleeves as he circled the door, ready for primary.

Their daughter had dozed off against her chest, mouth open slightly, one tiny fist curled in the fabric of Thea’s sweatshirt.

“Let me take her,” Harry said softly.

He moved with quiet reverence, unfastening the baby wrap from where it hung on the chair and securing her to his chest. His hands were steady, careful, practiced. When he was done, he gave her the softest bounce, his lips brushing her temple as he began humming a familiar lullaby—half tune, half breath, something only their daughter knew.

Thea leaned back into the cushions, eyes on him.

Harry looked up at her at the same moment. For a second, the noise dulled. The boys were still yelling from the front door, the wind still scraped the windowpanes, the kettle began to whistle again—but between them, it was quiet.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

His eyes asked, You okay?

Hers answered, I am now.

He smiled, soft and crooked. She exhaled, the weight of the morning easing just slightly.

He shifted the baby higher on his chest, wrapping a hand around her tiny back. “She’s got your nose,” he said.

“She’s got your lungs.”

They both laughed quietly. Outside, a gust of wind knocked a small pumpkin off the porch step, and Teddy’s muffled voice called out, “Dad! The pumpkin made a run for it!”

Harry pressed one more kiss to their daughter’s head before heading out to wrangle the boys into the car.

“Let’s go, out to the car.” Harry held the small baby against him, as he prepared to take the boys to class and take the baby with them—giving Thea some time to herself, to shower, to clean the kitchen if she so chose.

Thea watched them as she leaned against the doorframe—her boys in their too-big coats, Harry bent to tie a shoelace, their daughter curled against his chest like she’d always belonged there.

This wasn’t the dream she’d once imagined. It was louder, messier, and constantly in motion.

But it was golden like the leaves outside, fleeting and brilliant. It was mugs left half-full, jackets never hung up, freckles on sleepy cheeks.

It was real. And all she could think as she saw Harry look back at her with a love that she couldn’t have believed was so real, so complete.

All she could think: ours.

[flofaiiry]

Washington's Finest — Bucky Barnes x Reader

SUMMARY: Congressman Barnes has heard the stories from his colleagues on committee, he knows the stereotype that politicians in Washington often hire women to pursue their extracurricular activities- but he never expected to be the one to be in the need of such... services, much less the kind of man who'd actually seek them out

WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader is a sex worker (referred to as a call girl & hooker), age gap (reader is in law school so mid/late twenties), reader's parents are dead, most likely incorrect info about nda's & how they're used, swearing, probably an overuse of italics oopsie, so much kissing, breast&nipple play, oral f!receiving, reader attempts to fake an orgasm (spoiler it does not work), fingering, mentions of masturbation, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, bucky is kind of condescending, teeny bit of dacryphilia, big dick!bucky, little bit of manhandling, unprotected p in v sex (don't do that!!!), creampie. not proofread!!!

WC: ~7k

NOTE: sorry to all my Pitt & Shawn Hatosy followers that this isn’t your regularly scheduled content, I just got this idea after watching one too many Bucky edits and had to write it !!!😁😁 also I apologize if I portray sex workers in a negative light at all, that is not my intention at all!! I heavily based reader on Laurie from The West Wing, which is admittedly a pretty old show, but I tried my best & I hope you enjoy!!!

Bucky, the junior congressman from New York, knows the reputation that politicians have cultivated. He knows the stereotype of the dead-beat husband who steps out on his wife with a prostitute when he's in D.C., then acts all lovey dovey back in the home state.

He thought since he was single, he could avoid this dilemma. This career ending adultery and solicitation scandal that so many before him had walked into. He thought that he could find some girl to take home at a bar and get his rocks off that way, but that proved to be a harder task than he thought. Everyone in D.C., knew him. Everyone in Brooklyn knew him. Everyone everywhere knew him.

It was nice at first, but now it was starting to get annoying.

Fucking his fist in the shower quelled off the physical urges- and even that was starting to lose its efficacy. But what getting himself off didn't satisfy were his mental and emotional needs. The need to be seen, to be felt, to be touched, to be loved. Bucky wanted that.

But he wasn't going to get it anywhere in this town- or this country for that matter.

He'd heard enough stories through hushed conversations outside committee rooms & caucuses to know that Washington's Finest was the best, most reliable high end escort service in DC. The preferred choice for most politicians on Capitol Hill who dabbled in the art of the extramarital affair.

So, one afternoon when he was feeling especially in need- he made the call.

"Washington's Finest, you've reached Elena, how may I direct your call? The woman's voice is sweet and almost robotic sounding. Bucky isn't sure if it's actually a real person or one of those automated recordings until it starts speaking unprompted.

"Hello?"

He clears his throat, "Yeah. Hi. Um- booking."

Elena makes a little sound of acknowledgement before speaking again, "Alright sir, your call is being transferred, I'm going to place you on a brief hold, please stay on the line!"

As soon as she finishes talking, a smooth jazz music floods through the phone and into Bucky's ear. It's nice, familiar. Just as he thinks he might recognize the song, he's met with another woman's voice.

"Good evening this is Washington's Finest, you've reached booking! I'm Paulina how may I assist you?" She speaks, that same sort of uncanniness present in her tone.

"Hi. Yeah, uh I'd like to book- I guess."

"Great! Well then you're in the right place, may I just get a name to make the reservation?"

He hesitates, wondering if he should give his real name. Paulina seems to notice this.

"It doesn't have to be your name, sir. Just any name that we can refer to you by for the booking."

He doesn't say anything. Paulina fills the silence again.

"Rest assured sir, we deal with many high profile customers, our privacy policies are top notch to ensure that your proclivities are kept-"

"Steve." He blurts.

"I'm sorry?"

"Steve. My name is Steve."

Why he just offered the name of his best friend? He doesn't know. But at the moment it's the only name coming to mind so it's gonna have to do.

The woman on the other end smiles almost audibly.

"Alright then, Steve. What service would you like to book with us?"

"Shit, I uh- I don't know. What... services do you have?"

There's a ruffling of papers, a click of a mouse, then her voice again. "We offer three main packages: the One Night, the Weekend Getaway and the Week Long All-Inclusive. Many first-time customers choose to start with the One Night, helps them to find a girl they connect with to book longer services with in the future."

Bucky nods, then remembers she can't see him. "Right. Okay, sure, yeah- the One Night sounds good, let's do that."

"Great! Sounds good, let's get you all reserved - when were you thinking to book your service?"

"I, um- whenever?"

"How about tonight?" She asks, tapping away almost violently at the computer.

He nods, once, twice- like he's trying to convince himself to go through with this. To stoop down to a level he swore he'd never reach. "You know what- sure, let's do tonight."

Paulina continues with the booking, going over various policies regarding payment and acceptable conduct with the girl he books. Then, she gets to the names. There are three girls with availability tonight:

Anya.

Peggy.

And you.

Peggy's out immediately- way too much baggage associated with that name. He eliminates Anya next, sounds too harsh to him.

Leaving him with you. A girl with a name that rolls of the tongue, who will be showing up at his brownstone in a little over three hours

You get the call a few minutes after Bucky hangs up, Paulina tells you that someone named Steve has requested your company tonight, and you're to attend an address in Alexandria at 9pm sharp.

You get ready as usual, wondering if this Steve will be another senator or congressman stepping out on his wife- citing the 'stress of the job,' for pushing them apart, or if he'll be some rich old guy with nothing better to do with his money, or maybe- a secret third option. What that is, you're not sure yet- but a girl can dream, can't she?

Either way- the routine never strays. Makeup, hair, lingerie under an unassuming outfit (men love it when they get to feel like they're unwrapping you). You're out the door by 8:30 and catch the bus to the address sitting in your email.

You get there a few minutes early, so you sit on a bench a few doors down until your phone reads 8:59PM. Then you start down the street to your assigned place of business.

You climb the steps then knock on the door a few times. A second later the door's swinging open. You recognize the face from the news, and from the museum, the former World War 2 hero turned Congressman.

Bucky Barnes.

Not Steve.

You weren't surprised. Didn't feel catfished. 90% of the time the name you're given isn't legit, but one given by the customer to maintain certain degrees of separation.

"Congressman Barnes," you say, nodding your head slightly to greet him.

He says your name in the same tone, but different- like it's more foreign to him. "Please, call me Bucky." He half smiles, stepping aside in the doorway though still terribly unsure of himself.

"Bucky," you repeat, stepping into the house through the open space next to him. "This is a nice place," you hum, kicking off your shoes while he shuts the door behind you. "Thanks," he replies.

"You want something to drink?" He asks, beckoning you to follow him into the kitchen. You do. "Oh, just water is fine, thanks. And ice if you've got."

He nods, filing your preference away then walking over to the fridge to pull out a pitcher, then a cupboard for a glass.

"So," you say, walking around to the opposite side of the kitchen island as him, "what got you calling up Washington's Finest?" He shrugs, sliding a glass full of ice water to you. You mouth a thanks before bringing it to your lips and taking a sip.

"What's anyone looking for when they order a hooker." He says, blunt as ever. You almost choke on the drink, setting it down with a thunk before coughing the water from your windpipe.

"Sorry- is that not what you're called?"

You shake your head, "no, I mean- hooker's not wrong it's just, we prefer call girl. Evokes a nicer image."

"Right. Call girl." He repeats, nodding his head.

You take one more sip, washing down any stuck remnants of liquid from your earlier near-asphyxiation. "So sex?"

"I'm sorry?" He asks.

"That's what most people are looking for when they order a hooker." You repeat his words back to him, earning a smile from the man. He nods, "can't argue with that logic."

He still hasn't answered your question.

"So... sex?" You try again

He coughs, like he was caught off guard. "Yeah, sure. I guess."

He says the words like they're true, but the look in his eyes says they're anything but.

"Right, okay." You reach into your purse and pull out a thin stack of folded paper. “Got a pen?” You ask, setting them both down on the counter: one in front of you, the other in front of Bucky. He quirks an eyebrow, “yeah,” then opens a drawer to retrieve one, “what’s this?”

“NDA,” you say plainly. He scoffs, “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about-”

You cut him off with a shake of your head, “it’s nothing personal, just company policy.” You reach into your bag once more to take out your own pen, “it’s to cover both of our asses.”

He follows your lead, signing his name on the various lines and not bothering to read all the legal jargon. “Both our asses?” He questions, crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s.

You nod, not once looking up from the page. “Mhmm, that way if I get drunk and start blabbing about all the congressmen I’ve slept with and your name comes up, then you can sue or whatever.”

He watches as you flourish the pen along the paper, marking your name and initials down, then meets your eyes when you slide the forms away. His brows are furrowed, “you get drunk and run your mouth a lot?” He asks, tone half joking.

You smile, “I don’t, but some of the other girls aren’t as careful, like to brag about their customers ‘n such.” He hums, sliding his own papers forward to stack on top of yours.

“You good? Ready?” You ask, putting your pen and the papers back in your bag. Bucky replies with a borderline shaky sigh. You squint, not normally the reaction you get from customers. “Everything okay?”

He nods, slow and unsure. “How does this work exactly? Do we just… start?” You shrug. “It can work however you want it to work. We can do whatever you want to do.”

“What if I want to just… talk first.”

His behaviour is a refreshing contrast to the men you normally deal with- their minds are set on getting your clothes off the second you walk through the door.

“That’s fine,” you smile, “we can talk.”

He nods and exhales, like a weight’s just come off his shoulders. “So,” you start, “what do you want to talk about?”

“Right,” he says, like he forgot that having a conversation would require actual talking.

“Um. What got you into…” he trails off, looking for the right words, “this line of work.”

You laugh, “oh this is not my dream job, believe me. I’m just doing this to get through law school, only got one year left. I’m getting out of this business the second I pass the Bar.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, he clearly wasn’t expecting that answer. “Wow, law school. You go to GW?” You shake your head, “Georgetown.”

“Damn. They've got a good program over there.”

“I know,” you nod, “and expensive.”

“Ah,” he mouths, “hence the…” he gestures between the both of you, referring to the situation at hand.

“Exactly.”

“Parents can’t afford to help you out a little?”

You shake your head, “it’s not that they can’t afford it, they-” you stop yourself with a sigh. Any other customer would get a rehearsed answer about why you’re in this business, but any other customer wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place. “My parents died a few years ago, bank gave me a hard time with the inheritance — not that it was a whole lot, and there wasn’t very much left over after I paid off their house & some debts.”

He gives you a sympathetic look, the same one everyone gives after you drop the dead parents bomb. You give him a look that brushes off whatever empathetic sentiment he's conjuring up before he can say it. You shrug, “wanted to go to law school, couldn’t afford it, found a way to afford it. That’s all it is.”

He still doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking into your eyes like they’ve got some answer he’s been looking for all his life.

“I’m not proud of it,” you add, starting to rationalize and he quickly starts to shake his head.

“Oh, I didn't mean to imply that you should be ashamed or anything- I mean, fuck I’m the one who- I don't know, hired you? if anything I should be ashamed.”

You huff, “don’t be, you’re... different.”

Bucky smiles at that. “Different?”

“Yeah, most other customers have one thing and one thing only on their mind when I’m around but,” you shrug, “I don’t know, you don’t? I guess? You care about more than just the sex, I mean. At least I think you do. I hope you do."

You add the last part under your breath- you're not even sure why you add it- you know better than to feel anything more than a tolerance for one of your customers.

“Call me old fashioned, I guess.” He jokes. Some of his nerves appear to slough off when you laugh.

“Yeah, something like that,” you reply.

The room falls into a sort of silence, coming about after your laughter fizzles out. It's not awkward though, just like you're both weighing the options of what to say next.

"How about you?" You fill the air with your voice, the question catches Bucky off guard. "What about me?" he answers.

"Why Congress?" You shrug, "being in the history book once isn't enough for you?" It's teasing, but the question behind it still stands: why politics?

He raises his eye brows, bringing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Wow. Okay. Calling me an attention seeker?"

You tilt your head, "most of you are. I don't know why else anyone would chose a job where your employer is the fucking general population."

"First of all," he starts, corner of his lip raising in a challenging smirk, "they're called constituents- I work for the great people of Brooklyn, thank you very much."

You laugh, "right, right, constituents. I ask again, why spend your life doing such... thankless work? I'm telling you, 90% of these congressmen & senators have some small dick insecurity or something and need some big, powerful job title to make up for it."

Bucky scoffs, taking a few steps around the kitchen island to stand beside you now, you turn to face him, leaning your side against the countertop.

"Well, I definitely don't have that problem," he says, leaning in close against your ear. His voice sends a pulse down your spine that's received between your legs- husky and low.

He pulls away from you and spots the way your eyes had fluttered just barely shut in response to his breath against your skin. You blink- once, twice- trying to adjust to his new proximity to you. "I guess I had just spent enough of my life hurting people, and I wanted what life I have left to be spent helping 'em instead." He mutters the words, searching through your eyes like he lost something in them and if he looks hard enough he'll find it.

Then his eyes flick down to your lips, for a split second- like he's wondering if he should kiss you or not. But when he shifts just marginally away from you- it seems like he's decided against it. Your breath catches in your throat when he shifts, a jolt of borderline disappointment passing through you.

"Kiss me."

The words leave you before your better judgement can tell you otherwise. He wasn't expecting that.

"What?"

You swallow. "Kiss me," you repeat- more sure this time.

"Kiss you?" He asks like he's trying to make 100% sure he heard you right.

You nod once. "Kiss me. Please."

Bucky absorbs the words, then brings a hand up to push a strand of hair behind your ear. He drags his fingers down your jaw, before cradling his hand there at the nape of your neck. His calloused fingertips sit just at the back of your head, then he presses them into your skin and draws you towards him. He pulls you in until your lips are just barely brushing against his.

His lips are dry- not chapped, not rough- but dry like they're looking for something to quench their thirst. They're a stark contrast to your own, meticulously glossed over in that perfect shade that brings out your eyes just right.

Then he kisses you- finally, he kisses you. It's painfully soft, and you're immediately craving more. You bring your own hand up to the side of his face, tangling your fingers into his chocolate brown hair as you deepen the kiss.

He hums into your mouth as his eyes fall shut, and brings his other hand- the metal one- to your waist, pulling your body flush against him. You thought it'd feel harsh, mechanical even, but somehow his touch still manages to be soft.

Suddenly all you can think about is what those fingers would feel like inside of you.

You take your other hand up to the other side of his face, pulling him impossibly closer to you, taking a deep inhale when you do. The air you bring in is mix of second hand smoke and vintage cologne, it's undeniably him.

That snaps the last strand of Bucky's control, the last little thread that had him holding on to any chivalrous sense of decency. He's desperate for you. He thought he was in need of connection- of touch, but the second you walked in his door?

He needed you.

More than he'd ever needed anything else before.

He travels both of his hands down to the backs of your thighs, and picks you up in one seamless motion. You're shocked at his strength at first, but them remember who you're dealing with: Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier- he could probably throw you around like it was nothing if he wanted to.

And God, you really hope he wants to.

You wrap your legs around his waist once he's lifted you, and he starts to maneuver you through his house. Walking masterfully through the expanse of hallways within the brownstone without breaking away from the kiss for so much as a breath.

He pushes the door open with your back, taking one hand from under you to flick on the lamp just enough so he can see where the bed is. The dark orange light from the fixture floods the room, bouncing off every available surface & enveloping your bodies in an auburn blanket of warmth.

He lowers you down onto the bed with ease and crawls over top of you. He presses one last firm kiss against your lips before pulling away. His breathing is heavy and ragged, and you can't help but notice the faint blush on his cheeks when you open your eyes.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks, his tone serious, "I know it's your job to say yes, but- do you want this?" If you say no he'd stop, of course he would, but right now he is praying to every higher power that you'll say yes.

No customer had ever asked you that before- asked the woman beneath the call girl what she wanted. And even if they did- it always came with the silent expectation that despite whatever you might want to say deep down, the answer would always be yes.

You nod, still breathless from the exchange earlier- but that's not enough for Bucky. "Words," he whispers, ducking his head down to the crook of your neck. "Tell me you want this, want me," he says, words muffled against your skin as he kisses it softly.

"Want this," you say, still nodding furiously, "want you."

He groans against your neck, raw and desperate. The vibrations ricochet down your body, landing with a throb between your thighs.

Bucky roams his hands down your body, and slides them under your shirt, splaying his fingers against your stomach. One hand's warm, inviting, sultry. The other- cool and unnaturally smooth. But both are soft, and the juxtaposing sensations makes you squirm.

"Fuck, you are so beautiful," he mumbles, tugging at the hem of your shirt then pulling it up over your head. You raise your arms to allow him to slide it off of you, leaving your chest covered with just the skimpy black lace bra you picked out before you left.

He travels his kisses along your neck, down to your collarbone, and across to the top of your ribcage. He moves down your chest, following along the geography of your sternum until his face is buried between your breasts.

One of his hands comes up to cup over the material, inner knuckle of his thumb brushing perfectly across your nipple. You gasp at the new contact, desperate to feel more of him- everywhere.

That sound only encourages him, emboldens him, and before you know it he's tucked his fingers underneath the thin material and is ripping the bra in half at the front seam. He pushes it aside and you shrug off the straps.

This bra was in your all star rotation- it was by far the most flattering one you owned. You should be upset, should scold him with something along the lines of making him buy you a new one, but right now you could not care less about that.

You're yanked from your train of thought when you feel Bucky's lips close around your nipple. His tongue swirling around the bud and teeth grazing it ever so gently. You arch your back, heaving your chest against him by consequence

He brings his hand to your unattended breast, squeezing and grasping at the flesh in just the right spots before pinching at that nipple.

“Please, Bucky,” you whimper, rolling your head back into his mattress while your fingers tug at his long dark strands of hair.

You feel him smirk against your chest, before he picks back up his head and slots his lips onto yours again. “Wanna taste you,” he says through kissing you, “can I?”

“You don’t have to, I’m-“

“I want to,” he cuts you off, “please?”

You nod, slow- but incredibly sure.

“O- okay. Yeah. Sure,” you breathe.

He smiles- like really smiles, then kisses you again1 before descending once more down your body. He leaves wet open mouthed kisses down the expanse of your chest and torso, hands working on undoing the clasp of your pants so he can push them off once he reaches the waistband.

He tosses the garment haphazardly somewhere in the room, before hooking his fingers through the band of your panties.

“This okay?” He asks, eyes hooded with lust as he looks up at you for your consent.

You nod- pathetically quick. “Yes. Please.”

The ends of his lips quirk upwards as he pulls the thin lacy material from your legs. It’s too slow- painfully slow. You wish he’d rip them off like he did with the bra.

Once they’re off, Bucky kneels on the floor in front of you, and hooks his arms under your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the bed. He presses his lips to your clit, leaving a tender kiss over it, before licking a long steep stripe up your slit.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hands finding his hair again like there’s some kind of magnet drawing them there. You pull his face against your cunt, forcing his tongue into your hole and knocking his nose against your clit.

“Oh my god,” you moan, arching your hips off the bed and even further into him before he plants you by the hips back into the mattress. He delves his tongue inside you, prodding eagerly through your slick and fucking it in and out of you.

It feels good- feels so good- but it’s not enough.

Your instinct takes over though, months of experience in appeasing men and making them think they’re bringing you to the edge to stroke their ego.

You tone up the moans, raising your volume and repeating Bucky’s name like a mantra. All things to signal that you’re getting close. Your tugs at his hair turn to pulls, thighs pressing around his head, as you lean into the act of an impending orgasm.

It’s not that you didn’t think he could get you there- it’s that you didn’t want him to wait.

“Fuck, Bucky- ‘m gonna cum,” you whine, squirming under him relentlessly. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps lapping at your cunt with his tongue.

“Shit- I- fuck, I'm coming, Bucky I'm-" you cut yourself off with a pornographic moan. One perfected through numerous uses, it's always believable. Always makes the man feel good about himself that he 'made a woman cum.'

Bucky doesn't buy it though. Not for a second.

"No you're not," he says, voice stern and words getting muffled against your pussy. The stubble lining his jaw scrapes at your inner thighs when he speaks.

"Does this not work for you?" He asks, pulling away from you and caressing your thighs. You shake your head, "no- I'm sorry it's not that, I just- it doesn't matter if I feel good or not. You're the customer." You prop yourself up on your elbows to look down at him.

His hair is disheveled from your hands being rooted in it, his chin and lips coated with your slick.

"Who the hell told you that?"

You shrug, "just common sense I thought."

He scoffs, "yeah well fuck that. Tell me what you want me to do. What you need me to do to get you there- for real."

"To be honest- I don't really know," you start.

Bucky cocks an eyebrow, "you don't know?"

You shrug again.

He sits back on his heels, sigh heaving from his chest. "Well, how 'bout this- when you touch yourself, what do you do that makes you cum?" The question's awkward, but for some reason you don't feel opposed to answering.

He traces his vibranium fingers up and down your inner thigh. The cool metal makes your muscles tense. "I want to make you feel good," he says, "but I can't do that if you don't tell me how to go about doing it."

You release a shaky exhale before you speak.

"I need something... inside."

Bucky smirks, "yeah? What's something?"

You shrug, "anything, really. Fingers, toy, dick."

He laughs at that, shaking his head before looking back up at you and leaning back in.

"Well how about," he starts, voice dangerously slow and fingers inching back towards your core, "I give you my fingers now, make you cum on those 'n get you all stretched out for me... Then, I give you the other thing."

You swallow hard, the anticipation building like a knot in your chest.

"Deal?" He asks, tip of his index finger brushing right above your clit. Your breath hitches when you nod. He smiles, "good girl. Now let me make you feel good."

And with that he disappears back between your legs.

Bucky wastes no time and gets right back to business. He wraps his lips around your clit like he never left, and pushes one finger into your tight cunt. He watches eagerly for your body's reaction, indulging in the way your head tilts into the mattress and your eyes roll back in the socket.

"That feel good?" He asks, the vibration against your pussy adds a new layer of pleasure. You nod quickly, "yes- fuck, feels good."

"Good," he smirks, adding a second finger into your hole and curling them inside you, then sucking harder at your clit. The moans slipping from your lips this time are angelic- ethereal, Bucky thinks. They're that beautiful because they're real. The sounds are a tangible demonstration of how good he's making you feel.

You don't notice when he adds a third finger, or when he brings his thumb to rub little circles at your clit, your senses are too bombarded with all the other inputs to register those little changes.

What you do notice, however, is how quickly you come tumbling towards the edge this time- the real edge, the brink of orgasm, not the metaphorical one you created to stroke the egos of your other customers.

Bucky notices too. Notices the way that when you're really close, you don't get louder, but get quieter- your jaw dropped open but no sounds to be heard. The way you clamp your eyes shut and grip onto his hair and the duvet for dear life. The way your hips writhe under him, desperately and subconsciously trying to create more friction for yourself.

He notices it all.

But his favourite thing he's noticed thus far, are the pretty noises you make when you do cum. No showy, perfectly defined moans, but little breathy whimpers that bleed into louder cries of his name as your release gushes out around his tongue.

Music to his ears.

"That's it, just like that, good girl," he coaxes, working you through the high. He gets lost in the way you taste, the noises you make- all of it.

What he doesn't notice that you've already come down from your first high, and so he doesn't stop. Just keeps laving at your slit, sucking at your clit and pumping three thick fingers inside your cunt until he's sending you hurdling towards a second orgasm.

"Oh my- fuckingGodBucky," the last words tumble from your lips in a single syllable as you cum again onto Bucky's tongue. He dips his mouth down, lapping up every last drop of your release like it could grant him eternal life.

When he finally pulls away, hands resting on your thighs to stop them from quaking, he sees the wet marks down your cheeks, and the new crystalline beads forming at the corners of your eyes.

He stands up quickly, a little concerned and hovers himself back over you again. "Hey," he speaks, voice soft, "you okay?" He brushes the hair from your face and the tears from your eyes.

All you can do is nod, breathing too heavy to form any words at the moment. After a second you speak, "felt too good." Bucky laughs, "too good? That sounds like a challenge."

You raise your eyebrows before tracing your eyes down his body, settling on the very evident bulge between his legs. "You did promise me something..." You trail, dragging one finger against him through the jeans. He lets out a strangled sigh at the tiniest bit of friction.

You smirk at your effect on him, before tugging him down to press your lips to his. You taste yourself on his tongue when he slips it into your mouth, you should be a little grossed out- but you could not care less.

The only thing on your mind right now is getting him inside of you.

You pull him to lie next to you, then roll yourself on top of him, straddling over his bulge and grinding your cunt against him. You moan into each others mouths, Bucky's hands find your ass, squeezing and groping at the flesh while yours move to the buttons of his shirt. Undoing them greedily- unapologetically eager to see what he looks like with nothing on.

He moves his arms to let you slide the shirt off of him, leaving him in just a white tank top which he sits up slightly to take off. You can't help but gawk when he's finally topless. Your eyes wander shamelessly over the expanse of his chest and you trace your fingers along the grooves of his muscles, lingering on the little scars and marks like you're trying to commit them to memory.

"Kids these days don't learn it's not polite to stare?" He says, snapping you out of the trance-like state his shirtless figure put you in.

You scoff, "what's not polite is looking like this and expecting me not to look." You lean down and press a kiss against his lips, "I'm just a girl. I see pretty abs & arms and I stare." You sit back up, shuffling down his legs to sit over his knees, then bringing your hands to undo the button and zipper on his pants.

He raises an eyebrow, "I have pretty abs and arms?" He asks, bending his knees to let you slide the slacks down and off of his legs. You stop dead in your tracks, fingers hooked into his boxers but not pulling them down yet- not when he just said that.

"You're joking, right?" He doesn't say anything, just stares at you with an amused look plastered onto his face, "Jesus Christ have you ever looked in a mirror, Bucky?" You shake your head through a laugh and finally pull his boxers down to free his cock.

You sigh at the sight of him. He's big- this you could assume from the way he carried himself. The confidence he exuded. The way he acted like he didn't have any physical detriments to compensate for.

But he's kind of- obscenely big.

You lick your lips and sweep your hair behind your ears and out of the way, before ducking down to take him in your mouth- but Bucky stops you before your lips even meet his tip.

"Not tonight," he says, "another time."

You raise an eyebrow, "another time?" He smirks, then pulls you up for a kiss, "yeah. Another time," he breathes, before pressing his lips to yours. Just from where you're straddling him, you can feel the head of his cock hitting dangerously close to your clit.

"I don't mean to inflate your ego anymore than it already is," you tease, pulling away to look down at him, "but- respectfully- how the fuck am I supposed to fit that inside of me?"

Bucky rolls his eyes playfully, then brings one hand to your hip and the other to wrap around himself, tilting it slightly so it lines up with your entrance. "You can take it. Don't worry." He moves you down by the hip just barely, you gasp when the very first millimeter of his cock prods into your entrance.

"Just take it slow, yeah? Take it slow."

He loosens his grip on your hips, allowing you to take the lead and decide how quickly you want to sink yourself onto him. You nod and plant your hands on his lower abdomen to steady yourself, before slowly- so, so slowly- moving down his length.

The stretch is unlike any you've ever felt before. A string of profanities floods out of your mouth and your head rolls back. Bucky's eyes threaten to close at the feeling of your walls hugging so tight around him, but he keeps them glued on where your bodies meet- watching intently at the way you swallow every inch of him inside of you.

"Just like that," he drawls, sucking in a breath and resisting every urge to buck his hips up and shove himself the rest of the way in.

"Holy shit, Bucky." Your breathing is ragged once you've finally sunk all the way down onto his length. The pads of his fingers are digging into the flesh of your hips, you're sure they'll leave bruises behind but all you can think about right now is how it feels like his cock is about to split you open.

"I know, baby, I know," he stutters, trying to maintain his composure as best he can. "I can't- fuck- too full, I can't," you shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes once again.

He pulls you down by the arm, lacing his fingers through yours then kissing you. It's soft, but only for a second. Before you know it he's sliding his tongue in your mouth and rolling you both over so he's on top now. He braces his forearms on either side of your head, and pulls away from the kiss to rest his forehead against yours.

"You want this? Hm?" He pushes a strand of hair from your face, "want me to fuck you?" His tone is cocky, he knows you want him, but he wants to hear you say it.

"Yes, yes- fuck, please," you whimper, still wholly consumed by the feeling of his thick cock inside you. He smirks, "atta girl," he presses one last kiss to your lips- needy and desperate, before drawing his hips back, then slamming them back into you.

You practically scream at his sudden movement, the pleasure and pain of the stretch blending together and making your vision all fuzzy. The pace he sets is slow, but hard. Unrelenting.

Bucky drops his head to the crook of your neck, biting and kissing at your clavicle. Out of the corner of his eye he spots your hand, desperately gripping at the thin linen sheets to ground yourself. He takes it in his, before pulling it to rest on his back. You nails dig in to the musculature almost instantly, summoning a deep groan from within him.

With that same hand, he takes your leg to sit around his waist, pushing himself even deeper inside of you. The new tilt of his cock now knocks perfectly against the spot inside you that has you seeing stars, drilling into it with every thrust.

The room is hot, your bodies sticky with sweat. The only thing you can hear is the sound of Bucky's hips smacking against yours, his breathy grunts in your ear with every rock of his body into yours, and your repetitive cries of his name.

The pleasure is everything. It's all consuming, earth shattering- but somehow it's still not enough.

"Please," you breathe, "need- fuck, go faster."

He picks his head up to look at you, "yeah?"

You nod, desperate- begging. "Need more, please."

Bucky scoffs, "need more?" He repeats- almost mocking you. You just keep nodding. "Well alright then," he grunts, and you can hear the smirk playing across his lips.

His next actions happen in a whirlwind. He pulls himself out of your pussy, coaxing a whine from your throat when you suddenly feel so empty. Then with one strong vibranium arm he's flipping you over, your face smushing into the pillow before you turn your head.

He brings the same hand underneath you, cool metal fingers splaying across your lower belly as he slams all the way back inside you. Your eyes go wide, accompanied by a load moan of his name before they're clamping down shut again.

His new rhythm is cruel. He looks down and watches the ripples of your ass with every thump of his hips into yours. Bucky presses the hand he has under you against your skin, he can literally feel himself sliding in and out of you. Can feel how deep he is inside of you.

"Oh my- God!" You choke out the last word when he pushes on your lower belly, walls immediately clenching around him.

He hisses out a breath, "you wanted this, hm? So take it. Be a good doll and take it."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky 'm gonna cum." Right as the words leave you, all your senses melt into a white hot static as your orgasm rips through your body.

"Yeahhh, atta girl. Just like that- cum on my cock just like that, huh?" His low voice coaches you through it, never once stopping his unrelenting hips against yours.

His hips finally start to stutter, right as his high starts creeping up on him. You can tell from his thrusts getting shallower that he plans on pulling out to finish- while it's the sensible thing to do- it's also the last thing you want him to do.

"Don't," you gasp.

"What?"

"Don't pull out. Wanna feel you, please God, need to feel you."

He wants to ask if you're sure, but before he can form the words he's falling over the edge. He groans your name and shoots his spend deep inside you, marking you- ruining you for anyone else.

Bucky's thrusts into you turn lazy, then coming to a complete halt right before he pulls out of you. One last whimper falls from your lips, your hole feeling both so empty yet so full of him.

"Holy shit," he huffs, sliding his hand from under you and rolling to lie down next to you.

You turn onto your side to look over at him, your eyes still find a way to linger on his chest. Once he cracks his eyes open and sees you ogling him again, he can't help but laugh.

"You've really got quite the staring habit, huh?"

Your lips turn up into a smile, "can't exactly help it."

He shakes his head, letting his eyes fall shut as his breathing finally comes back to a normal pace. The both of you are too tired to say anything, but really- there's nothing that needs to be said.

He wasn't expecting a girl like you to be the one that knocked on his door- nor were you expecting a man like him to answer. Both of you know this was more than just a business exchange. Even though there'd be money deposited in your account after this, it felt different.

This wasn't just a hook up- it was a reckoning.

When Bucky opens his eyes again, there's a different look in them. And when he stares at you, searching through your own eyes for the answer he's been looking for all night- it's like he's finally found it.

He pulls you into him, moving you so that you lay your head on his chest. He presses a kiss into your hair, and traces his hand up and down your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything more, his eyes said it all already- stay.

And you do.

please let me know what you think!!! reblogs & comments mean more than u know!!!

[lohotine]

two time x reader smut PLEASE I LVE UR WRITING

Two Time x AFAB! Reader

Cw: NSFW, Friends w/ benefits, Two Time is a perv, post forsaken Au?, not at ALL proofread

In which you pleasure yourself with the water from your shower head, and your roommate offers to "help you out."

Your clothes were already thrown in the hamper, long since off your mind. Yet, you didn't exactly enter the bathroom for the sole purpose of cleanliness....

Embarrassingly enough, you've been feeling rather pent up lately... Oh well! Nothing that can't be solved.

You flicked through the different modes of the shower head, having a very particular one in mind. You grinned hazily at the thought...

Before you knew it, the head was already being pressed against your needy cunt, the constant stream of pressure sending waves of heat through your body.

God, this was exactly what you needed... You didn't even think much of the small moans that escaped your lips.

It wasn't like your roommate would be paying that much attention anyway, right? That weirdo was probably too busy praying to their god or something.

Whatever it was, it clearly didn't concern you.

Unfortunately for you, Two Time was much more observant than you originally gave them credit for.

They noticed the way your mind today constantly appeared to be... elsewhere.

And the way you'd rub your thighs together when you thought they weren't paying attention.

So of course, when you stumble your way into the bathroom, looking flushed, they simply must trail behind you.

They aren't stupid. It's quite obvious, at least to them, when you're feeling pent up. Your tells are just oh so obvious!

So, is it really a surprise when they press their ear to the bathroom door to try and hear something... anything at all from your end?

They're nearly drooling at the thought of you in there. How perhaps, you're using your fingers to get yourself off.

They can already imagine the image in their head; how your fingers pump in and out of you tirelessly, covered in your slick.

And you don't disappoint their expectations in the slightest, as they pick up your stiffled whines through the door and even through the running water.

Fuck.... your moans sound so heavenly. Two Time almost instantly begins to palm their quickly hardening dick that's already starting to tent in their pants.

Perhaps they should feel bad... jerking off to your moans as if you're some sort of porn video.

But they don't. They don't even feel the slightest bit guilty.

What they do feel, however, is a sense of... jealousy.

They're almost certain that they could make you feel so much better than whatever it is you're using in there.

Could make you scream so much louder.

Perhaps they could convince you. It's not like you're really thinking straight anyway right now.

And they do just that;

They could probably just slip into the bathroom quickly. Neither of you usually lock the doors anyway, since a shower curtain is in use.

Sometimes one of you goes through your nightly routine while the other showers, so it wouldn't seem too out of the ordinary..

The only warning you get is a knock and a quick "Hey, I forgot something in there," before they slide into the bathroom with you.

That shuts you up instantly, an almost shameful silence befalling you.

"Oh, uh... okay-" you mutter. Two Time does not miss the slight waver in your voice, a grin forming on their face.

When they enter the bathroom, the first thing they look for is the shadow of your figure through the curtain.

And they are, once again, not left disappointed when they see you leaned against the wall, with the shower head still between your legs.

It's perfect. You're even more desperate than they imagined.

But honestly, Two Time never really took you for the type...

They make sure to drink in every inch of your silhouette. Fuck.... the things they wish they could do to you....

Would you let them?

"You uh.... seem like you could use help..." Two Time admits, feeling only somewhat guilty for being so brazen.

A small whimper escapes your lips. "What are you talking about?"

You both know exactly what they're talking about.

"I can make you feel so good, if only you'd allow me to," they'd say, leaning against the wall expectantly.

And you want to say no; but you cannot deny how tempting it sounds to get dicked down by Two Time. Especially in your current state.

So, when the small words of agreement escape your lips, Two Time is already scrambling to remove all of their clothing and join you behind the shower curtains.

They snicker a bit, seeing your pathetic form.

"The shower head? Really?"

Your face flares up. Can't they just help you instead of mocking you like this? Like they said they would?

"Shut up-"

Two Time cuts your sentence short by pressing their mouth to yours. It's hot, desperate.

Two Time presses the head harder against your clit, and the constant pressure makes your mind numb.

"I can make you feel so much better," they mumble into your mouth. Their kisses slowly begin to get sloppier, and then they trail down your neck.

Two Time sucks the skin there, before nipping at your pulse point. You shudder at the sensation, and Two Time gazes at you with amusement.

It's the kind of gaze that makes you feel less like a person and more like a piece of meat.

"Sensitive spot, huh? I'll make sure to keep that in mind..."

They take the shower head from your already shaking hands and nudge their knee there instead. It's placed on the shelf nearby and quickly forgotten. Two Time's hand trails down your side, slowly, deliberately.

Then they grab your thigh and hitch your leg up around their hip.

"I must be in the Spawn's favor to be blessed by such a sight," Two Time would murmur, almost mindlessly.

Two of their lean fingers begin to prod at your exposed entrance, collecting slick on them.

Was it wrong to feel this turned on by your weird, cultist roommate who had the audacity to mention their god while preparing to fuck you against the shower wall?

Well, maybe only a little bit.

You gasp as the digits slide almost effortlessly into you. Two Time pays very close attention to how your pussy flutters around them and coats them with your juices.

Two Time can't help but wonder what it would taste like. What you would taste like.

The thought is so erotic, and Two Time quickly feels themself becoming more desperate by the second.

Their fingers work to stretch you out, slowly; so slowly it's almost painful. You heave erratically. They're so deliberate in it... suspiciously so.

As Two Time feels you clutch around their fingers, they can't stop their mind from wandering...

You already feel so good... how would you feel around them? What sounds would you make?

"Fuck... I cant hold myself back anymore..." they'd hiss under their breath, their fingers slipping out of you to instead, wrap around their length. "Please.... let me do this for you... please... let me make you feel good- I promise... I'll be good..."

They're begging for this. Less with the idea of pleasing you, and more with the idea of you. But they're begging nonetheless.

Two Time guides the head of their cock to prod at your entrance, already sliding the tip in without your permission.

Their face is hazy with pure, unadulterated lust. They're just as needy for this as you are.

You let out a choked moan as you feel them already entering you, and then nod your head quickly.

The room is spinning around you.

Gods, you wanted this. You wanted your perverted roommate to fuck you senseless- until the only sounds you could make were broken moans and the syllables of their name.

And as soon as they saw that nod, they shoved the rest of their twitching cock into you. A vulgar noise left you, one that could only be described as pure desperation.

You were already so sensitive from your earlier menstruations with the shower head, so you were practically putty in their hands.

But hell, Two Time couldn't have came to help you out at a better moment...

They slid in and out of you at a pace that had you basically drooling. The tip of their length came to kiss your cervix so perfectly, over and over and over again.

Two Time muffled your moans with their mouth, choking you out with their tongue.

"By the Spawn... you feel s'good... so perfect..."

Their thumb came down between you two, and it quickly started to rub circles around your nub.

You already felt so overstimulated... you couldn't even form words anymore- you could only moan like some pathetic bitch in heat.

And fuck, Two Time would be lying if they said they'd never imagined this before:

Fucking you, tasting you, hearing you.

Sometimes, they'd lay awake at night after fishing out one of your dirty panties from the hamper and jerk off to your scent. They'd pretend their hand was your cunt, and they would fuck into it desperately.

Now they were actually fucking you and it felt like heaven.

They were actually acting out their lewd fantasies with you-

You didn't last long at all. Not with how close you had already gotten yourself with the shower head; so Two Time was basically just fucking you through your high.

"P- lease..." you'd whimper, voice giving out.

Did you know what you were asking for?

Hell no!

But you needed something, anything... as long as it was something Two Time gave...

Your noises only helped to spur them on more.

Fuck... they were also close... They couldn't help it. You felt so so good. Better than their hand, at least.

Everything has long since become a hazy, hot blur to the both of you, the only noises being your moans and the wet noises of skin on skin.

"Hah.... maybe... next time, we can take this to the bedroom..."

Two Time whimpers as they feel themselves getting closer.

They wonder if maybe one day, they could convince you to let them cum in your mouth and force you to swallow all of it.

Or... maybe they'd just fill you up and watch it leak out of you...

...

Some other day, perhaps.

With one final thrust, they quickly pull out of your abused cunt and press their dick onto your stomach, releasing thick, hot spurts of their cum all over you.

It's a mind-numbing release for the both of you, and for a while, nobody says anything.

Their breaths are ragged and heavy as they admire their seed coating your belly. Two Time grins at your exhausted form and brings their lips close to your ear.

[dpspcehntr]

Touch Me

Xavier x Reader

Sometimes all you need it someone else’s touch to feel better.

Warnings: fingering (f receiving), squirting, P in V, creampie

A/N: This randomly came to me as I was having quite a difficult night and I just needed to write something. I hope you enjoy this and as always reblogs are deeply appreciated.

“I need you Xavier. I need you so badly.”

You pepper his skin with kisses as his fingers trace tight circles around your clothes clit leaving a wet spot in your already ruined underwear. Your lips hover at the corner of his as his finger slips underneath the fabric to drag a finger in your wetness. You whine as he pushes two fingers into you. You can barely hold on as your release builds up quickly with his brutal pace. He captures your lips in his as he moans at the way you greedily suck in his fingers.

“You’re so tight, fuck you feel so good.”

He presses a third finger into you as the coil in your stomach snaps. You gush all over his fingers and your underwear as he continues to press into you. You cling onto him as he builds up another orgasm within you. You cry out as tears sit in the corner of your eyes. It feels so good, almost too good. The overstimulation sends you quickly into your next release as he hums approvingly on your skin. He pulls out his fingers with a pop as he lays you down fully onto the bed. He climbs on top of you and makes quick work of your underwear. You pull up your shirt so he can see your chest as he rids himself of his bottoms. You watch as his length lines up with your entrance, already hard and red at the tip. Before he can ask you nod feverishly which earns you a chuckle from him. He pushes the entirety of himself deep inside you with a hiss. You’re so tight, gripping him for dear life as he bottoms out. He sets a slow pace, making sure you feel every once thrust in and out of you. You whine and beg for him to go faster but he keeps his pace, showering you in praises.

“You’re doing so well for me. Just a little longer.”

All rational thought has long since left you and you whimper and beg for him as he slowly increases his pace. He grips your hips as he thrusts deep and hard into you, now chasing his own high. You reach out for him and pull him into a deep kiss as his thrusts get more and more erratic. You beg for him to cum inside you as his release comes quickly. You feel yourself fluttering around him, holding off your next release for him. His self control snaps as his high reaches him, planting his seed deep inside you. You clench down on him hard as your release follows suit. He cries out as he pumps the last of his load inside you. It’s not enough, he’s still hard as he picks up the pace once again for another round.

[loganficsonly]

an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 4: holding back ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 4.3k

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ MDNI!!!, wade winston wilson means mature language and breaking the fourth wall, denial is a river, pride and prejudice (2005) spoilers, logan is touch-starved and in so deep, unresolved sexual tension, shower sex?, oral sex?, male masturbation

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this took me SO LONG TO WRITE in between my busyness. last chapter before i go on vacation, so there won't be updates for a while but please send me your thoughts. and prayers. lol i'm so excited to write more. if you enjoy my work, reblogs and replies are a source of motivation for me <3

Attention has always felt a bit uncomfortable to you.

Not every gaze means well. Even the ones that specifically do can come off as scrutiny. Concentrated. Close. Seeking signals that say you’re doing less than alright. Which is not good—either because you actually hate making people worry, or because it makes you feel inadequate.

Maybe both.

But as you grew up, you learned how to manage that fear of being perceived. Well, sort of. You didn’t learn because nobody taught you how, more of a series of stumbling steps as adulthood burgeoned upon you. 

Moving to New York helped. The city is so full of people, each with their own origins and dreams and places they need to go to before rush hour hits. The hustle and bustle quickly becomes a source of comfort for you. Blending into the crowd means safety.

Hardly anyone has the time to pay attention. Both are precious currencies in the busy lives of modern people.

Which is why getting attention is a little unusual.

For example, your team at work is nominated for a couple of pretty prestigious industry awards. Though the winners are only going to be unveiled in a week or so, the office is already abuzz with energy.

Conversations and questions naturally gravitate towards you and your colleagues who worked on the same project: How do you feel? You think you’ll get a silver, at least? You guys really delivered with that one. It gets a little demanding to repeat the same responses for different people.

This, you can manage. You didn’t get nominated for your own merit, the entire team put their backs into it. Also, work’s work. Once you’re off the clock, you’re in the clear.  

But when you get home, there’s a different kind of attention you’re not sure how to handle.

Your roommate Logan is observant. You’ve known this since before you moved in together. Maybe it’s past trauma, maybe it’s just occupational hazard. Either way, his alertness lets him be prepared. Eyes always sharp.

On the receiving end of that gaze is you. But with you, it’s never unkind.

Like the time you started assembling the bookshelf without him and he got a little upset. Not for long, though, because he immediately jumped into the chaotic circle of wooden boards and flathead screws that formed in the living room, sitting next to you as he helped you figure out the wordless instruction sheet that came with the furniture. 

He was right, of course. Working with two people was faster, more efficient. The manual even says so. A figure of a person frowning as they stare into the mess of parts, a big ‘X’ covering it. Next to it, the same person with a friend, the two of them smiling. 

Better together.

Or the time when you came back home with a little globe lamp to adorn said bookshelf. He smiled softly… or was it the amber light’s fault that he looked so tender? You smiled back, more confused than anything.

“What?”

He shook his head in response, hesitating. “You’re like those… birds.”

“Birds?”

“Buildin’ a nest. Bringin’ home stuff.” 

He points to the lamp as well as the various other bits and bobs you’ve indeed gathered to decorate the place.

You hoped that the lamp’s glow diffused the heat that certainly gathered in your cheeks. 

And then there was your first time feeling unwell since moving in. The memory is fresh in your mind, having happened only last week. You were bound to break. A human body could only take so many overtime hours until it crumbled. 

The day you finally decided that going to work was impossible, he wasn’t home—already gone for a TVA mission with Wade—but his handwriting on the whiteboard was there with you. The first time he wrote something in the month you’ve lived together. 

Soup in the fridge. Get well soon. 

His handwriting is slightly slanted. Cursive but not completely, with a beautiful capital ‘G’. Simple, quick, free. 

How he knew you were sick is still beyond you. Maybe you just came home looking particularly haggard the night before.

In any case, his soup was delicious. While eating it, you wondered if cooking was a demanded skill given his two century’s worth of life experience. The image of him tending a pot on the stove made you smile. 

You thanked him when you found him already home in the late afternoon.

The first thing he did was touch your forehead. The second thing he did was frown. 

“Getting feverish, sweetheart.”

Your body shivers and heats up simultaneously at the contact. 

“I’m fine. Took some meds.”

“Go take a nap,” he said, walking further into the apartment. “I’ll make dinner.”

You watched his broad back disappear into his room. It wasn’t the fever that made you blush.

Attention used to mean you’re being watched.With Logan, it feels like being seen.

“So, have you slept with him yet?”

You almost choke on your chicken sandwich.

“What?”

Wade sits across you, smiling innocently as if the words that came out of his mouth were something as normal as ‘how was your weekend’, but you know better. There’s that look in his eyes again.

“You heard me, honeybee. Your roommate is a DILF superhero with abs you can wash clothes on, piercing eyes, and an exquisite chair for a face. Have you. Slept with him. Yet?”

He says that last part real slow like you can’t speak English. You can feel eyes from the other tables begin to look over at yours.

“Is this really why you asked me out for lunch, Wade?”

The quaint café is not very crowded, seeing as most of the customers are office workers who tend to grab their food and go. Still, there are people occupying the seats around you, and if Wade’s appearance didn’t already attract some furtive glances, his beautiful string of words sure did. 

It was a pleasant surprise when he texted to congratulate you for the nomination—Logan mentioned it to him, apparently—and even more delightful when he asked you out for lunch. “To celebrate,” he said, “it’ll be fun,” he said.

You look at him pointedly, chewing on your food. He puts on a face of mock offense, hand on chest.

“No no no, I’m just making conversation. Can’t blame me for checking up on you, can I?”

“You know ‘have not’ implies a ‘yet’ at the end, right? Also, the answer is no.”

He grins, before it drops completely, as if he found the notion incredulous.

“Thought I was gonna be Marvel Aunty Sima,” he grits. “Why??? Is it because he’s a slob? I never had problems with cleanliness while he was around. Granted my standards are questionable—”

“Logan’s a decent roommate,” you cut him off, before a frown rests on your lips. That was a heavy undersell. “Actually, he’s great. I’m very lucky to have him.” 

“Is it the trauma, then? He does need two plane tickets for all that check-in baggage.”

“He’s trying his best, Wade,” you offer softly. You don’t say anything about Logan’s AA meetings—not when he clearly said he’d tell Wade after the first coin.

Your friend leans in, fingers laced together, plate of pasta forgotten.

“You must be a special kind of woman to be immune to his charms,” he says, tone light, sarcasm unmistakable.

Who says I am? you think. Maybe a little too loudly, because Wade is already smirking at you like he acquired telepathic abilities.

“You are immune, aren’t you?”

Saying ‘yes’ wouldn’t just be a blatant lie, it would be cruel. Who in God’s green earth can say they are entirely unaffected by one Logan Howlett? Certainly not you. Sighing, you lean against the back of the chair.

“Look,” you begin, “he’s hot.”

“Fuck yeah he is. Why’d you think I let him stay at mine for so long? Have you seen him shirtless yet?”

You let out a chuckle. Wade knows just what to say to make you relax.

“Actually, I haven’t.”

His eyes widen, lips in an ‘O’ of disbelief.

“Girl.”

Shaking your head, you shrug. “What? Not like I can ask him to take it off.”

The look on his face says ‘you could’.

“I can't wait for your ACs to break down in the peak of summer.” 

“Mean.”

“You’re really not gonna make a move on him, honeybee? Do you actually not like him?” he presses, taking a big forkful of his food.

You grow quiet.

Of course you like him. But you like him a little bit too much to be considered platonic, given the nature of the one dream you had of him a few days ago.

It’s been hard to keep your gaze chaste since—maybe it never has been. Hard to look at the way his fingers hold onto a cup and not think about what they did to you in your fantasies. Hard to not cling onto every brush his body makes against yours when maneuvering the tight kitchen.

Impossible to forget the way his phantom weight felt when he was in your bed. 

When your eyes blink back to the present, Wade is looking at you. None of the usual impishness, only a placid awareness of your rushing thoughts. 

“I do like him, it’s just—” 

It’s just… what? 

The answer is within you, buried under the weight of life.

Cultivate your garden, they say, and love will come. That’s what you became. A resourceful classmate. A reliable colleague. Someone they can count on, someone that can help.

You’re a garden, but nobody ever comes to visit when the flowers aren’t in bloom.

Logan is special. Yes, it took time for you to get so comfortable with him, but never expected to grow fonder of him with each passing day. You might even call him a good friend now.

He’s nothing like you, except when you suddenly recognize parts of you in him. You’re both guarded, a pair of stray cats trying to figure out each other’s territory, circling in unbreaking stares. Waiting for the swipe of a claw or a loving headbutt.

But the tighter the circle, the more your fears are amplified.

Warning fears. A sounding alarm. The fear that, at this distance, he can see you more than he already has. Pan past the neatly trimmed hedgerows and zoom into what’s inside. The wilted parts of you, all crushed leaves and bare trees, the flower garden nothing but a bait-and-switch. 

If he sees just how much you need him, more than he could ever need you, he’ll leave.

Wade calls your name gently.

Your eyes snap to his, broken out of your spiral.

“It’s just—not like that, you know,” your murmur is hidden behind your glass, “we’re friends. He’s… a really good friend.”

For the amount of acts you keep up around some people, you’d think it’d get easier to lie to the ones who know you. It doesn’t.

Lying to yourself also never seems to work. Because when Logan sunk his fingers into you, even if in a dream, it certainly didn’t feel friendly.

Wade doesn’t push. He maintains a neutral expression as he quips back with too much nonchalance.

“If you say so.”

You feel a little naked.

Logan didn’t know his hands could feel hunger.

Not until recently. 

He’s started counting the weeks now. Fifth week of moving in with you. Your work finally let up, a glimpse of mercy since your team got that industry award nomination, you told him. The two of you decided to celebrate with a movie night while you had the free time. Your turn for the show-and-tell.

You’re biting back a smile as you tell him what you love about Pride and Prejudice, your movie of choice. The noise of corn kernels popping against a glass lid staccatoed below your voice. You talk about the chemistry, the wit, the soundtrack that sweeps you off your feet.

He looks at you, trying to mask the look in his eyes as amusement and not unbridled affection. You stumble over words, hand covering your lips.

It hides a grin. He wants to pull it away, wants to see it so bad.

“Sorry, I just love them so much,” you conclude.

“Stop apologizin’ and get the damn remote,” he smirks.

The two of you settle down on the couch next to each other, a bowl of popcorn between your bodies as usual. While the screen comes alive, he finds his attention split between the actual film and your reaction, glancing at you every now and then to gauge them.

Call him a multitasker—he’s watching you and the movie at the same time.

You’re already emoting a lot more. Biting back a smile, face buried slightly into a cushion. A wistful expression takes over your exterior. It’s clear that you’re not going to touch that popcorn bowl for the entire runtime.

He finds it outstandingly adorable.

The film establishes itself well in the opening act. He almost feels nostalgic. Reassured.

Perhaps it’s the setting: some two centuries ago, just around the time he was born. It makes age-old memories surface with a bubble and pop. Was life like that when he was a child, before the claws? He only remembers fragments that are too small to paint a picture.

Perhaps it’s from the knowledge that the two protagonists, though curt with each other for now, will fall in love in the end. The inevitability of it.

Perhaps your fondness for this movie has made him fond of it too, even before watching it in full. 

“Oh no,” you murmur, “it’s the hand scene.”

His eyebrows furrow. You sounded like you just announced the coming of a storm.

He catches that on-screen, split-second touch. Mr. Darcy’s hand grasps Lizzy’s. He flexes it as they part as if his fingers burned with feelings.

Logan shifts to look at you. You’ve recoiled your legs, curling your knees up to your chest. Face almost entirely pressed onto the cushion, hair cascading onto your cheeks. Despite the low light and mess of colors bleeding from the TV, he dare says that you’re blushing.

Your eyes meet his. Then you let out an unrestrained giggle, before shaking it off, righting yourself up to shift your attention back to the movie, remnants of a smile on your face. 

Something unlocks in Logan at that moment.

Whatever Mr. Darcy just went through, he knows. Understands the reality of it within the very blood that pumps undyingly in his veins.

His hands are hungry, too. Starvation carved deep in each palm line, trapped with nowhere to go. 

Insatiable unless it touches that certain someone.

His own hands are now clammy, clenching on his jeans, the result of a pile of hoarded yearnings. It makes itself known so suddenly, awakening when it recognizes itself on the screen. 

Because his nerves ignited when you glanced at him earlier. For a brief moment, he thought he was going to cup your cheeks in his palms and ask if he could kiss you.

The movie continues while his urges take hold. He’s never sensed your body feeling so alive. Your heart beats faster as the final scene plays, its rhythm enticing his own to respond in time.

“No! No. You may only call me ‘Mrs. Darcy’... when you are completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy.”

“Then how are you this evening, Mrs. Darcy?” 

They kiss. His jaw clenches. He peeks at you again.

You’re glued to the screen, eyes a little hazy, lips parted. Lost in the romance of it all. The television turns black for the credits. 

He realizes then, that he wishes so badly to do the same things this movie does to you. To be the reason you smile and laugh freely. To bundle you in such happiness that you’d never want to go anywhere, content to be in his arms. 

To be the source of the flush on your cheeks as you finally put down the pillow, revealing the entirety of your face. You stare at him.

“I’m gonna go get some water,” you whisper, slowly making your way to the kitchen.

He follows. Hangs around the island with you, watching as you pour yourself a glass. 

“Did you like it?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He sees your eyes light up with eagerness.

“What’s your favorite part?”

His eyes lock onto yours, aware of the swelter of warmth surging from his gaze. He does nothing to stop it.

“Everything.”

It’s week six and he’s being tortured.

If someone were to peer into his life from a looking glass, one would probably comment on how disastrous it is that the gods picked him as their favorite soldier to put to their tragic tests.

The counter-argument, however, stands. It’s entirely possible that he was specifically made to endure such cosmic cruelties. No one else would survive. His body breaks, but it mends itself back.

But his hardened heart and eroded soul don’t enjoy the same privileges. They only started recovering when he allowed them to—and that was merely months ago, after learning to let people in. After Wade crash-landed into his life, after Cassandra and the Time Ripper, after everything. 

He’s endured actual torture. Became who he is through it, adamantium skeletons and all.

This form of torture is different.

It’s a Friday night. The two of you are home, but you won’t be for long. You told him you have to go for the award event tonight, and it happens to be a proper event. The kind that involves dressing up and getting subtly drunk.

He hears you call his name from inside your bedroom, sounding a little hesitant. Seconds later, he’s already standing in front of your room when you peek out, your face the only thing visible from the slightly ajar door. You look a little worried.

“This is kind of embarrassing but I need help.” 

Logan’s eyebrow cocks at the slight thrill in his gut from how you’re freely admitting that you require assistance. A big improvement compared to the first two weeks of you living together. 

The feeling is replaced by concern—he can’t help but be bothered at the thought of you being bothered.

You look at him, still hiding.

“I’ve been struggling with this zip for the past five minutes. Could you get it up?”

He senses trouble.

“Sure.” 

“Please be honest if it doesn’t fit,” you reply jokingly, turning your back toward him and letting the door fall open.

There it is. Your back, smooth and naked, framed by the undone parts of the dress. There is no bra band to interrupt your skin. The base of the zipper is not so low that he can see the beginnings of your hips, but he sees the outline of it, and somehow that’s worse. His hand clenches, seeing the dip of your lower back that he so badly wants to touch.

And your smell—already so sweet as you are, made captivating with a spritz of floral fragrance. It hits like a drug, dizzying.

You make the view even more breathtaking by sweeping your hair away from the zipper’s path, revealing your neck to him. That’s it. That’s where he wants to bury his face and breathe you in. God, you’d be so fucking soft—

His mind flies to a thousand places at once. Not a single one of them is appropriate. 

He grips the zipper pull, using his other hand to tug the fabric of your dress tight before drawing it smoothly up its remaining track. It lands snugly near your nape.

Eyes are still on you when you turn around to look at him, hands smoothing down the dress.

“Thank you. How do I look?”

There’s a pin-drop silence as he drinks you in, pupils dilating.

Green-brown gaze turns molten in its path from your face down your body, watching the way your outfit sits on your skin. The fabric almost looks like liquid metal, it beckons to be touched. It shines in a color that makes you look perfectly radiant.

Blood rushes south at how the cut betrays your curves, hugging your waist and hips before stopping just above your knees. A far cry from your everyday loose t-shirts and pajama pants. In this little number, he sees the shape of you so clearly.

His jaw is slack as he forces his stare back up, registering your face. Sparkles on your ears. Light make-up. Lips colored in a way that only accentuates their shape—that exquisite shape.

He wants to ravish you.

Decency demands he can’t, and he is in agony.

“Logan?” you call softly, confused at his prolonged stillness. It’s been a while since you wore this dress—does it not fit anymore? Or is it the make-up that’s weird?

“Is it that bad?”    

“No, god no,” he rasps, shaking his head.

When your eyes catch his, the expression on his face spells unspoken mystification.

You blink, taken aback. The color in his irises are almost gone, swallowed by the black of his pupils, and the way he’s staring down at you from his height—

“Just… couldn’t find the words. You look gorgeous, sweetheart.” 

The sincerity stitched in each word renders you speechless in turn. He examines your face as if he weren’t allowed to touch you, drinking in details with his eyes. You’ve seen people look at paintings that way.

The same way you look at him when he’s not watching. 

“Thank y—”

A timer goes off, violently rupturing the moment. You jump, reaching for your phone to silence it. The clock shows a time that’s past what you planned.

“Shit, gonna be late,” you murmur, swiping your shoulder bag. “Thank you so much, Logan. I’ll see you later.”

You don’t know what came over you, but you reach to peck his cheek before rushing out the door.

The moment the thought entered his mind, he knew he could no longer run.

Logan tried to fight it, he really did. In the minutes after you left, he struggled, control fraying at the seams.

A part of him is embarrassed, because he can’t remember the last time he felt this way. Not mere animalistic desire—those he experienced plenty in the past—but as profound as a crack in the ground, threatening to open a chasm with a whirlpool at its pit.

Something infinitely deeper, bigger than himself.

Because that’s what he feels around you. Whether he likes it or not—whether you like him or not—the earth is going to swallow him whole and ruin him anyway.

He shouldn’t, mustn’t think of you in the ways he’s tempted to. He doesn’t even deserve to touch you. The voices in his head whispers familiar indignities, slicing his own heart open. 

But the lingering scent of your sweet perfume and the sight of your naked back drowns them out to almost nothing. He finds himself losing a battle against something else that isn’t his insecurities, a more powerful force that he’s not accustomed to fighting. 

Need.

Fuck, he can see you in that dress like a tattoo behind his eyelids. You looked so good, he might have applauded himself for not immediately taking you against your bedroom door. 

Feet pace toward the shower. Can’t take anymore.

Clothes are haphazardly discarded on floor tiles as cold as the water streaming down his bare skin. It doesn’t work in the slightest. Doesn’t steady his haphazard heartbeat, doesn’t kill the heat rising to his skin.

He switches the water to warm.

The groan he releases is strained, echoing inside the bathroom. His hand drifting low is the cause, fingers curling around his already aching length. 

He pictures your hand instead.

Smaller than his. Softer. That, and your voice whispering sultry promises while you stand in front of him, pumping his cock. A vision in all its meanings—how tantalizing you look while you exist in his mind’s eye.

Scenes flash out of his control as he tugs harder at himself. Soft flesh pressed tight against his hard lines. The intoxicating smell of you. Perfect mouth on his in a deep kiss, the shape of your cupid’s bow still fresh in his memory. All those times you smiled at him. Parted lips invite him to fall further into bliss. They felt so soft against his cheek earlier. Would feel even better around him…

He thinks of you between his legs, right here in the shower, skin and hair slick as you take him in your pretty mouth.

“F-Fuck—”

The image forces a moan out of him. His movements manifest urgency. 

One steadying hand braces on the wall before him while he conjures up filthier phantasms. His hand digging into your hair—deeper. You’d moan at how big he is, the way he’d hit the back of your throat, drool dripping down your chin. He’d pull you away, too impatient to come in your mouth, instead bringing you up against the wall before lining himself up and—

He swears he hears you in his ears, shuddered breaths puffing against his shoulder as you bury your face there. He’d press you against the wall, willing you to stop hiding and look straight at him. You’d feel so fucking good. He pictures you mouthing that to him, voice broken. Shivers at the thought of your heat. Tight and wet, clinging onto him the way your hands do on his back as he thrusts.

He speeds up. It doesn’t take long until he murmurs your name, over and over in a forbidden crescendo, until he tenses past the crest with a tortured groan. Hazy eyes watch as white hot spend slips down the drain, his long-suffered restraint disappearing just the same.

A sober realization takes over. The dam holding him back is bursting.

He prays it doesn’t ruin what little he has of you.

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @britttzy267 @tezooks @ddwnghead @dear-detested @duckyyyx @hits-different-cause-its-you @mrfitzdarcyslover @snowlycanroc

[literallypyro]

Three (mostly) random headcanons for all the mercs!

Warnings: none

Genre: fluff, angst if you squint

Scout:

-He can cook, but only WITHOUT a recipe. Look, I know he's illiterate, so just imagine someone's reading it to him, mkay? Idk what it is, but when he has to follow a recipe, it ends in disaster. Let him wing it, and you'll think you're at a 5 star restaurant.

-Tells his mom all about you. She basically knows everything about you, and it's not because she asked.

-Total malewife. What you say GOES (unless you tell him to stop buying Bonk. That's a losing battle, toots. When has a little radiation ever hurt anyone?)

Soldier:

-While this man is virtually never quiet, he's noticeably the least loud around you. Unless you feed into his loudness. If that's the case, may God have mercy on the rest of the team's souls.

-He isn't book smart, and with a lot of people, emotional intelligence isn't really his strong suit either. But around you? It's like this mf has a sixth sense. It's almost concerning. You CANNOT hide your emotions from this guy.

-Please for the love of all that is American, take this man to a chiropractor. I know he's used to rocket jumping, but that's precisely the issue. He doesn't even realize how fucked up his joints are.

Pyro:

-Actually the sweetest ever. Just cuz they're crazy doesn't mean they aren't the silliest hopeless romantic ever. Can't kiss you through the mask, but will damn sure try. They have left a print on your cheek from pressing their mask into it before, and they will do it again.

-If someone disrespects you, they will be catching Pyro's hands. The flamethrower will be saved for when the idiot who insulted you can't use any of their limbs.

-CLINGS to you when it's bed time. You'll have to wait until they fall asleep if you want out of their grasp (but why would you?)

Demoman:

-Never short on stories. If you're bored, just say so, and he already has five stories in mind that he hasn't told you yet. Sometimes he laughs a little too hard and it takes a minute to get back to the story.

-PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE compliment this man. We see how quickly he can swing between insecure and confident. Additionally, he would absolutely adore any eye patches you make him. If you make him multiple, he's switching them out every day. Make ones for specific occasions, and bro is at your mercy.

-If you can out drink him, or even just keep up, he's lowkey worried about you. He knows he has a problem. He's actually pretty realistic about it. He WILL be asking if there's something you want to talk about at some point.

Heavy:

-He knows you don't need to be protected at all times, but he has a hard time letting you defend yourself. Just look at the way he grew up. A big chunk of this man's personality is just "bodyguard to loved ones". You will have to bring his attention to it if you want him to back off, and as soon as you do, he listens. It's mostly out of habit, if I'm being honest.

-Lord help anyone who makes you uncomfortable. He gets such a threatening look on his face as he asks the person questions that don't SOUND like threats, but they damn sure feel like threats.

-Oh, you thought he wouldn't go out of his way to write translated versions of his Russian books so you can read them when he's not around? Well you're WRONG. If you ask if he has translated versions of his books, he won't tell you he was the one who translated them, but you recognize his handwriting.

Engineer:

-This guy will grill out every single day if you ask him to. Burgers? Got it. Hot dogs? Easy peasy. Smoked ribs? Don't gotta ask him twice! Mans will make sure every craving you have is satisfied, or may lightning strike him where he stands.

-He has already memorized your schedule. You were about to take a shower but- it's already on? No one's in there??? And it's at the perfect temperature???? Not to mention how your laundry was mysteriously folded when you were too tired to do it all at once... Safe to say, even though it was unintentional, he has committed every single one of your habits to memory like a tattoo.

-This man is a thinking, breathing jukebox. Can play literally any song from any genre off the top of his head. He can also easily convert songs to different genres.

Medic:

-He actually has amazing handwriting when it comes to signatures. The only reason he writes like a stereotypical doctor is because he wants to be able to switch up last second if he needs to.

-You are one of the very few people he trusts to watch his birds, and it's because he knows you know how he is. Did you forget about the whole baboon uterus thing? Surely not.

-Actually surprisingly careful with you. He'd be mentally punching himself if the rib thing with Heavy happened to you. Even owns your soul so the devil can't try to use you against him.

Sniper:

-Your are literally the only reason he would sleep in the base at night, but he REALLY prefers you sleep in the camper with him. He's kinda clingy, but not to Pyro's extent. Seeing how he is with everyone else, he obviously understands personal space.

-Secretly has the voice of an angel. He has intense stage fright about it, though, so NOBODY is about to find out.

-If you're scared or over-cautious of animals, he's definitely gonna fix that. He'll ease you into it, but given the time, you will have pet and fed every animal he can get his hands on.

Spy:

-We've all seen how much of a romantic this guy is. You are getting absolutely SPOILED ROTTEN when he is around. Hold his arm anytime you want. You want flowers? Tell him which ones, what color, and from where, darling. Can't dance? Well, he's pretending not to notice. He gazes at you lovingly, and you can't even tell he's in immense pain from you stepping on his feet.

-Has every high end cologne and has a different one for every occasion. This guy has SO MANY. He even has different ones for different restaurants. You could consider it a hyperfixation if you wanted to.

-You are his queen/king/monarch and WILL NOT let you forget it. Tells you every single day, sometimes multiple times a day how important you are to him and how much he cherishes you. Who cares if the team is around? They're just mad he got to you first, ma beauté.

[priisprii]

Girl idk how you feel about this but when i see that picture of seungcheol with his whole thick arms out, that just bulge with his muscle with that huge body of him in that new smut you just write about him.

It just makes me want to shove and smother my whole face with his armpit and just suffocate in it.

Idk how you feel about those kinda kink/fetish but if ur okay with it, 🙈 can ur write a smut about tht hunk of man. Not a single part of that man body i will leave unappreciated.

I am absolutely okay with that anon, just because it's THE CHOI SEUNGCHEOL and he every inch of him deserves to be worshipped.

Contains: unprotected sex, armpit kink, edging

Sometimes your mouth and brain don't really cordinate with each other,it doesn't wait for a sign from brain to utter shit which might get u into big trouble.

It happened two hours ago, in the spur of moment when you were admiring your boyfriend's beautiful features— his flawless skin, his big , powerful and absolutely jacked muscles. The memory of him putting you in a headlock flashed in your mind for a second making you flush. You missed how they felt around your neck, the sticky delicious feeling and scent of his muscles.

seungcheol came fresh out of shower and felt you burning holes onto him.he was used it, used to his girlfriend going blank whenever any inch of his skin was visible. It makes him want to tease you more and more.

a cocky smirk decorated his face as he walked towards you. you were sitting comfortably on bed, trying to look occupied but your acting was terrible. "what you thinking about baby?"

"I want you to squish my face with your armpits"

What the actual fuck. you can't believe you actually said your thought aloud without stuttering with a straight face. when the realisation hit you, your eyes widened, panick settling in your veins as you shook your head "no, no i mean —i mean. God this is so embarrassing". You hide your face in your palms, feeling embarassment all over you.

you missed the way, seungcheol's eyes light up on your sudden confession. he knew his girlfriend is a little freak but this was something he didn't quite expected from you and it was interesting.

Seungcheol sat beside you, removing your hands from your face softly, holding your chin to look at him but you refused to look anywhere remotely close to him.

"look at me" his stern command travelled straight to your insides.

"do you really mean it?" seungcheol asked, his face serious as he studied your micro expressions.

"I saw a tweet about it, how nice and clean they are and how great it must feel to have your face shoved in erm" you lied, only the first half of the tweet was true another part was a product of your own wild imagination but Seungcheol don't need to know that. he smirked knowing you were babbling complete lies. he has never thought about that doing anything with his armpits during sex but seeing your eyes trembling with such intense need makes him want to try it, afterall he would do anything for his baby.

"let's help you find how great it must feel then"

That's how you ended up being in this position, seungcheol hovering above you and his thick cock abusing your pussy with sharp thrusts, you forgot how many times he has made you come, mind hazy body burning all over with pleasure.

Seungcheol has planted half of his body weight on you, sandwiching your body between bed and him.skin slapping sounds echoing loudly.

"full soo full stopp" you murmured broken moans leaving from your mouth. everything was too much the stretch,the weight of your lover,the feeling of your orgasm approaching and how great it felt to have your head cradled by seungcheol's arm, face buried in his armpit , sweat rubbing off your face. Fucking perfect . Missionary has never been this thrilling ever.

"well I am not stopping anytime soon so stop whining, you wanted me to ruin you and you're being ungrateful"

He grunts, keeping your body still with his grip on your head , pulling your body to his cock.he knows your complaints are void and null . you want him to use your cunt till you pass out and probably keep going after that too. You were lil sick in the head like that and sometimes it did concern him but mostly it his cock painfully hard.

"stop clenching or I will stop ,leave you like this all spread out and dripping" seungcheol chided, your pussy was sucking him too hard, making it difficult for him to last long.he likes edging himself as much as he likes edging you.

"gonna cum"you whimpered, his previous words being mere static in your ears. you were close too close to your blissful release clearly unaware of your evil boyfriend's next actions.

Seungcheol stopped, pulling his cock from you, and manhandling you into all fours, a annoyed hiss left your mouth but Seungcheol slapped your ass hard making the further complaints die down in your throat. His hand travelled down to your neck, not choking you just leaving it there for ownership purpose.

"told you to stop clenching you disobedient slut, you didn't"

"I didn't heard" you cried out, still bitter, longing for your release.pushing your hips back to his cock.

"not my problem,you can't cum now , if you did no orgasms for you till next week"

[nicetrybuster]

If you need writing ideas, i could get you one! Lets do Luffy, who purposely would get hurt cuz reader has these really cute bandaids and only wants those cuz he rly likes reader? And fluffy scolding ensues hahs

@austrianmusiclover13

Rip-off

You never really kept bandaids, you never really needed them anyway, but these ones fit your room theme perfectly! So you bought them. They had cute princesses or bears or just a nice color. You never planned on using them in the first place anyway...

It was so cute. It was so cute sitting there. Luffy thought, if you buy anything pretty, that equals something precious. And that was his mindset. It's not even like he could ask anyway! He's too used to getting what he wants, but come on, who would just look over Luffy automatically just "Needing" pretty pink bandages. He HAD to think of something...

You were leaning on the rails, breathing in the salty ocean air, the breeze never too thick the sun already setting. This was a nice day, you thought. No Marines, random storm attacks, annoying screaming. It's a nice, calm and quiet-

"OIII Y/N" That explains the lack of screaming! You sighed and turned around.

He was crying (?) holding his finger up in the air that APPARENTLY had a cut on it, and jumping around and adding to unnecessary effects. There were other cuts on his hands indicating that he tried and failed then tried and failed..

"is this one of your pranks?"

"but loooook see? My finger cut! Oh what should I doooo"

"go to chopper?"

"..."

Luffy CLEARLY didn't think this through, just what kind of idiot does he take you for? You rubbed your temple.

"what do you want Luffy?"

You obviously just wanted this to clear out

"I need a bandaid!! SEE?"

He sounded like it was supposed to be obvious, like YOU were the stupid one, this guy's fake tears already gone out too!

"fine! Fine, you don't need to scream"

"really?" His face lit up and his finger was long forgotten

Her stared at his cool finger. He glowed every time he looked at it, he was on your bed. he was there for a WHILE, you just didn't know how to tell him to leave! I mean, why would he want these specific bandaids anyway?

He didn't take it off for a week until nami forced his musty ass to take a shower. He looked Sooo sad too like he'd never get it back.

Same finger, same situation. Same place.

You still gave him his bandaid because, why not? You looked at him after the fifth time and decided to ask...

"duh! When someone gets a cut, they need a bandaid!"

"no, Luffy, when you get a cut, you go to chopper."

"WHAT? But I need your bandages"

"why do you need my bandages then hmm?"

"well! Uhh"

Luffy himself wasn't sure why. He just... never considered that!

"okay, let me rephrase the sentence. Why does Luffy need my bandages?"

"because when Luffy saw them, he said that he didn't need any bandaid because they were cooler!!- but he thinks you're cuter!'

He said completely oblivious that he just exposed himself. Every time someone asks him to speak in third person, he just exposes himself. It's a dirty trick, but sometimes you just need to use it once right?

But never mind that just look how red you were!

Your crimson ass just couldn't believe what you just heard

"you took my bandages because I'm cute?"

"WAA HOW DID YOU KNOW?? AND WHY DO YOU LOOK SICK?"

"you took my bandages.. because I'm cute.." you said more to yourself rather than to him, your delusional self probably was twisting his words too

Luffy also kinda froze when he finally realized that he 'outed' himself, and he just.. sat there

"Luffy..."

He 100% thought he was in trouble.

"Luffy... YOUR SOO CUTE"

Oh so you WERE twisting his words around. You had a weakness when it came to people doing cute gestures to you. And Luffy? Oh he did NOT expect that. He was in a pile of hugs and kisses, all from you! He was all sleepy from the affection but whatever!

Luffy's honestly a character that I can imagine doing this, thank you so much!! This request was so cute and I'll try to go through my requests as much as I can!

[writting-thingz]

Shower Confessions

A/N: So this isn't my normal thing to write. I don't usually delve too much into NSFW stuff. Forgive me if he seems ooc or the details don't line up right. Im going to try my best with a warning, but if something is labeled wrong or needs to be added, please let me know.😅

Synopsis : Being Deku's patrol partner, it gets tiring seeing him always overworking himself. Whether it's taking on extra patrol or doing paperwork for other people's cases. Regardless, you've been helping him work around that by simply being there. If he's going on those extra shifts, so are you, if hes doing extra work, so are you. He's tried to fight it, but the argument of 'he's doing it too' wins. Obviously, this has led to a lot of time together. Your tactics have become more playful as you get more comfortable with putting your foot down when he's trying to pick up more work.

⚠️Warnings⚠️: MDNI 🔞 NSFW Fem!reader X Prohero Izuku, Aged-up Izuku, masturbation in the shower (Izuku), reader catches him moaning her name, reader teases Izuku, Begging (Izuku)he calls reader angel like once or twice, no beta reader... (if i forgot something to warn let me know. This is my first time posting something like this)

You look over seeing that Deku was pulling over another file to work on, but they had finished with their work for today. You huff and walk around his desk. After picking up his file and moving it, you hop up on the desk to sit.

"You said I don't get to overwork myself, so neither do you. If you try to use the sides of the desk I'll just lay across it, and if that doesn't work-" you place your feet on the chair on either side of him, "I'll just move where im sitting." You use your feet to pull the chair closer and leans your knees against the head rest on either side of his shoulders, "do we really need to go that far?" Deku quickly pushes the chair away and gets up. He faces away from you,

"N-..*achem* No. I'm gonna go shower.. and change." His words seemed strained and you worried you'd gone too far. You watch him leave then finishes tidying up the room.

Once you were ready, you head to go change. You were passing by the entry for the male side and could hear quiet pained whimpers. You wa

Ere worried that Deku was hurt ot that she really did go too far earlier. At least, you thought that until you could hear your name,

"Y-Y/n... Y/n mmn.." you quickly looks around to make sure no one is nearby then cautiously step into the male shower area. The closer you got the more clearly you could hear the show and his quiet and stuttered moans. Your eyes widen, taking in the sight before you. His back against the side show wall, his wet hair messily pressed against his forhead, and his head leaning to the side.

"..damn" the word slipped out before you had had the chance to catch it.

"Fuck!" Izuku jumped his hand stuttering to a stop, "sh-shit.. when did- why are-"

"Oh dont stop on my account. If this is how youre going to overwork yourself, you've got the green light." You waved one of your hands dismissively, your eyes never lifting from where his hand was. Izuku took a moment to think about it, utterly embarrassed but aware of an opportunity to fulfill his need.

"Y/n.." your gaze snaps up to his pleading and desperate look, "I-.." he swallows his doubt, "I need you." A warm sensation flutters in your stomach and you almost melt for him right then and there.

You looks over the shower, you hated the idea of being so exposed in a dirty and small space, but for him? For that look on his face? You'd do just about anything.

"I'll make you a deal. You finish f'me, show me how pretty you look begging for me.. and you can have whateve you want." You offers and coo, "that sound fair? ..Izu~" Izuku's hand tightens and he whimpers at how soft his name was said. He nods his head repeatedly choking out a,

"Y-yes. Yes. I.. can do that"

"Atta boy" you hum, you slowly strip from your clothing and ensuring it was in a dry spot, but kept your bra and panties on. His eyes glance over you only breifly. Red takes over his face and he looks away. You click her tounge, "you can look Izuku-" he lets out another whimper, "awe, you like me calling you by name? Hm? Pretty boy~" you watched as his hand picked up speed and soft moans slipped from his lips. You step in the shower behind him and ghosts your lips over his neck. You look to see if he is okay with further touch and to your delight hr gives a pathetic nod.

"Please~" he begs

"Please.. what?" You quirks a brow

"Fuck.. pl- ngh... please kiss me, t-.. touch me ah~"

"Mmm-" you hums against his neck, raking your teeth along Izuku's pulse point, "only because you asked so nicely." You pepper slow kisses along his neck and on his lower jaw. "Is this what you wanted?" You purr. Surprisingly he shakes his head and you quirks a brow again, "oh~ what did you have in mind, hm?" Your arm snakes around and drags down his stomach, stopping before it reaches where he needed you most.

"Mmn.. i wan- Back in the office I- Ieeee" his voice spiking as your hand gently dragged along his inner thigh.

"Keep going Izu" you warn him and start to pull away.

"Wait! Ngh, Y/n please. I-I back in the office" he quickly sputters out. "I wanted hah.. to pull you your legs ov-over my shoulder and tell you if-" he hisses as your hand drag along his inner thigh again, much closer to where his wanted you. "-if you want me to leave then give me a treat."

"You were gonna -tell- me, hm? Was that all you were going to do Izuku?" You gently kiss the top of his ear as he lets out a gutteral moan.

"Ifff I finish I'll show you"

"If? Awe you dont think you can make it? You need help that bad Izu?"

"Yes..yes. I need you Angel, ineedyousobadpleaseangelplease" it was quick how deeply he dived into desperate pleas. He begs you as his hand moves faster trying hard to imagine it was you.

Your eyes were blown wide with lust. It was entertaining seeing him squirm and beg but it was obvious that this was just as hard for you as it was for him. The whole time your legs were squeezing and rubbing against each other behind him. The action hadn't gone unnoticed by him. After moving to his side, away from the water, you take his free hand guides it into yoyr panties.

"You feel that?" You lightly drag his fingers over your slick lips, "You don't want to waste that do you? Hm, Izu?" He mananges to sneak a quick swipe over your clit before you pull his hand out, biting back a moan. His gaze was watching yoyr every reaction as you pulls that hand up to your lips. You licks and clean his hand slowly. Your eyes slowly fluttering close. He pulls his hand out of yoyr mouth but not from your hand. Moaning your name breathlessly as he finally snaps, his hips stuttering to a stop. Ropes of cum spurting out. "Good boy~" you reach over giving his dick a few pumps to help milk his high. However, Izuku quickly grabs yoyr wrist and pins it over your other wrist, against the wall. He leans up and kisses her roughly.

"Put you clothes on. We're going back to my office, " he commands through gritted teeth. You giggle and do as you're told

"Yes, sir!"

[dodger432101]

OMG I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE LUX💜💜💜

I can’t help but think of Lux making an effort to swoon us every time we come home. I’m talking nice music, flirting touches and lots of kisses and hugs☺️

[I got a little lost in the fluff. If you want another that's more flirty and about making the reader really swoon send another request, I am more than happy to write a flirty lil Lux :>]

Work has been hard on you this week. The general public weren't the most fun to deal with at the best of times, but it's like the world has banded against you recently. There were always some annoying teenagers, or a parent who needed someone to take their anger out on, or food and drink thrown just about everywhere it could go.

You stagger home each day, worn out even though you live close to Palazzo. Lux hates seeing you so run down, always helping you out of your clothes and getting you something to eat. Every other day he'd run you a bath or get your shower ready, washing your hair for you while you rant out your frustrations from the day. He even threatened to go to work with you one day to sort those pesky mortals out. You're too tired to argue against him at that point, so you mumble about him not worrying about it as he helps you dry off and get into bed.

Luckily for you, you have the weekend off. So on Friday, you stand a little bit taller as you head out the door, blowing a kiss to Lux. Of course he knows this is your last day before you get a bit of time away from work, so once he's said goodbye to you he gets to work on making a nice scene for you to come home to.

Today has not been any kinder to you. Fatigued, you clumsily unlock the door to your home and stagger your way in. Only after the door closes behind you do you register the soft music playing further in the house. Curious, you make your way towards the source of the sound, ending up in your bedroom. Lux slips off the bed as the door opens, sauntering over to you. He's wearing a white shirt -the top few buttons undone- and black pants, you notice, as he adjusts his collar before holding a hand out to you. “You look exhausted, angel. Come, lay down, do you want anything to eat?” There's already a t-shirt and a pair of shorts waiting for you on the bed, which Lux helps you into once he's got you out of your work clothes. Of course, that doesn't happen without plenty of kisses being littered over your body, each one relaxing your tense muscles from withholding your rage at the Palazzo’s visitors.

“Mmm, not right now, love. Maybe later..” You flop down into bed on your front, head to the side and eyes closed. Just from your voice it's clear that you need this treatment. Your God nods to your response, even though you can't see it, hands massaging at your shoulders. That gets him some grumbled moans of relief so he goes down your back too, smiling as he feels you sink into the mattress with each knot that he works out.

After you're nice and relaxed, he comes back up to kiss along the side of your face he can get to. “I'm so proud of you for getting through this week, my love.” The music playing fades out, replaced by an equally soft track. It's a playlist of relaxing music he found, mostly containing instruments he's noticed you enjoy. “I love you so much, angel. You put up with so much shit from your own species,” That gets a low chuckle out of you. “Just to keep a roof over our heads, and food in your -well, our- bellies. I hope you know just how grateful I am to have such a strong, persevering lover. And I hope the little things I do make life easier for you, sunshine.”

Lux snuggles up against you, giggling as you grumble at the feeling of his shirt. He separates from you just enough to unbutton it the rest of the way and pull it off, a fond smile on his lips as you bury your face into his chest. “You do help, Lux, so much. The thought of coming home to you keeps me going through my shitty job.” His hands go up to run through your tangled hair as you turn on your side, facing him, humming as he gently scratches at your scalp. “I love you, Lux.”

The God of Light rests his head on the pillow, watching you with little hearts in his eyes. “I love you too, my beautiful angel. Take a nap if you want. You sure look like you need it.” He leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, smirking as you return it on the part of his chest your lips are pressed up against. “You've got 2 days to relax now. We can watch that series you mentioned earlier in the week, or try that recipe you found online, or-..”

You've fallen asleep to his voice, the vibrations of him talking lulling you to dream land. He slowly wraps his arms around your head, cradling you to his chest. “Or we can just stay in bed. Either way I'll be happy. I love every second I spend with you.” His voice is just a whisper. “Sweet dreams, my most precious light.” With one more kiss to your head, Lux closes his eyes, soaking in your warmth as he joins you in sleep.

[sturniliogirlyy]

ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑦𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡

ˢⁱˡˡʸ ᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ᶠᵃˡˡ ⁱⁿ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ʸᵒᵘ

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐲: 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐲.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟.

𝐀/𝐍: halleys comet has been stuck in my head so i decided to write this :)

you were tired. Very tired.

Work was hell. They barked orders, and you obeyed, each task chipping away at your spirit. A smile remained, a reflex against letting anyone down. Saying 'no'? Impossible. Your biggest flaw.

Matt has repeatedly told you to break that habit: "You have to learn to say no." But it's a difficult habit to shake because you were always Mrs. Goody Two-Shoes, the one who earned amazing grades, kept a positive attitude, and always looked good. It was exhausting to maintain that image.

All you were thinking about all day was being in bed with Matt. The thought of his warm touch was a burning craving. You couldn't wait.

When you finally got home, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. You could hear the TV in Matt's room as you approached. His door was already open, an inviting darkness within. Only the TV's glow illuminated his room. He lays in bed, wearing sweatpants and no shirt, his tattoos on display.

His eyes land on you, his face lighting up when he sees you. Prompting himself on his elbows, he speaks.

'Hey my love, how was work?' he asked, a soft smile touching his lips. He was effortlessly sweet, knowing you better than you knew yourself. He was the unexpected dream, more than you could have ever imagined in a partner.

"I'm exhausted," you say, letting out a sigh. He gets out of bed, making his way to you. He gives you a hug he knows you need. His arms wrap around your waist, and you rest your head in the crook of his neck. You breathe in the scent of his cologne, your muscles relax, and you both stand there for a minute.

He pulls away and places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Wanna take a shower?" He asks softly, running his hands up and down your arms. You nod, too tired to respond. You both make your way to the bathroom. You go in first, Matt following behind you, closing the door gently. He turns on the water, making sure the temperature is just right before helping you take off your clothes.

You get in first, the water hitting your skin gently. Your muscles relax under the warm water, almost making it impossible to stay awake.

You feel Matt's presence behind you, and soon enough, he has his arms around your waist again, resting his chin on your shoulder. You lean your head into his and stay in comfortable silence.

After your guy's moment, he helps you get cleaned up. You loved this about Matt—the way he'd drop anything to be with you or to help you. You always felt like you didn't deserve it, but he made sure you knew that you did.

You both get out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his waist before giving you a towel and wrapping you in it.

You both head to your shared bedroom. You sit on the corner of the bed while he finds something to wear, and after getting himself dressed, he gets your hoodie and sweatpants for you.

"Get up," he asks softly. You lazily get to your feet, and he carefully helps you into a hoodie and sweatpants before inviting you to his bed.

You are now resting your head on his chest, one of his hands around your waist and the other massaging your scalp. The rain from outside softly hit the windows, and the only light and warmth came from a pumpkin-scented candle.

"Wanna talk about it?" He asks, referring to your day at work.

You let out a sigh before speaking. "It's all the same bullshit." You paused "they boss me around until I'm exhausted."

He let's out a small hum, speaking again.

"Your okay now, I've got you." He whispers in your ear, still messaging your scalp.

His comforting words unfurled like butterfly wings in your stomach, a delicate, calming sensation that quickly ushered you into a profound and peaceful sleep.

A/N: K, why is this so cuteeeeee ughh

𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡;

@bernardsbendystraws @sagesturns @courta13 @vanteguccir @iluvchr1s @mattscoquette @mattsghoul @mattboyfriend @mattswish @mattsmedusa @chrismalfoy @clairomatt @chrissbows @chrisbesitos @courta13 @beardedbernard @brooklynratz @breesturns @sturnswiftie @sonnystarniolo

[littlemartyr]

it may be a basic ask, so feel free to redirect me to older posts if this has been discussed. I have gotten into saxloch and it’s so intense ❤️ My ask is - what does Lochy see in Saxon that he is so obsessed with him? Saxon is annoying and gross, kind of guy you sometimes meet who gets off on saying horrible things deliberately to make you uncomfortable. He isn’t out of the world handsome, overall an annoying package. What is Lochy getting from there?

What is Saxon getting from Lochy ( if you interpret that Saxon too is into his brother but in denial) and with that huge age gap - I am not judging age gaps, at 18 it’s a huge age gap and with age gap comes gap in shared ideas. Is Saxon trying to reach out to some version of his former / younger self?

Basically why did this disaster (though I like it) of them being obsessed with each other happen in the first place!?

do you think they will be able to move on properly?

Ahh no you’re totally fine, definitely not a basic ask at all!! I agree with you that Saxon is annoying, gross, and I’m not rlly attracted to him (although I’m a lesbian so maybe I’m not the best judge of that). I think for Lochlan it goes much deeper than that.

I think Lochlan has been deprived of a lot of love and affection in his life. Timothy’s a workaholic and probably always has been, so he probably wasn’t around much during Lochlan’s childhood. I personally headcanon that Victoria has always had a prescription pill addiction, and if she didn’t she was definitely a “wine mom” (aka she’s always been more involved with substances than her children’s lives and wellbeing). Lochlan also seems to be incredibly socially awkward, sheltered, and shy when he’s not interacting with his family members. I highly doubt that he had a lot of friends growing up, and find the idea of him having any kind of romantic partners even less likely (I wouldn’t be surprised at all if Chloe and Saxon were his two first kisses, whelp).

So that leaves Saxon and Piper for his main sources of love and affection. I think that’s why we see him chase after and obsess over both of them, and why he ends up gravitating/focusing solely on Saxon when he finds out Piper is “leaving him”. They’re probably the only people who have ever taken care of him growing up, probably the only two people he truly feels safe around, so of course he’s going to seek shelter in Saxon when he finds out Piper will no longer be an available option for him in that respect.

Meanwhile, Saxon has probably been attracted to Lochlan from a very (concerningly) young age whether he realizes it or not. I wrote a whole analysis on why I think he’s attracted to Lochlan that I’ll try to link here. I believe, while not consciously aware of it, Saxon has been grooming Lochlan for as long as they’ve had a relationship.

Grooming (especially when done at a young age with someone you’re in close proximity with) can feel a lot like love to the victim. The perpetrator of it usually has a way of making the victim feel special; usually by showering them with gifts, praise, and normalizing “harmless” physical affection (Saxon does those last two a LOT in the first four episodes, not subtle in the slightest). It’s also extremely common for them to target victims who have “unmet needs”, as this kind of attention will have a much stronger effect on victims who don’t not have a lot of loving relationships with others, especially their own family members.

So, while sad, it’s extremely common for victims to think that they’re “in love” with their abuser. I think Lochlan is no different, and that the grooming behavior we see Saxon initiate with him as been going on for a VERY long time, probably since they were kids. Therefore, I think he’s probably been in “love” with Saxon for a very very long time. Whether or not he knew his love for Saxon had sexual connotations is another story entirely.

I write about why I thought Saxon was attracted to Lochlan in the previous ask that I linked above but you asked about LOVE not attraction, which is a really interesting question. Does Saxon even really love Lochlan, do abusers really love their victims? It’s a hard question.

I think Saxon loves control. With the dynamic I have mentioned them having above, Lochlan is someone that is extremely easy to gain control of. He is young, impressionable, and Saxon is one of the only people that has ever showed him any sort of affection. With Lochlan, Saxon is not just in control of a thing or an aspect of himself….thats a whole human being with a life, thoughts, and feelings. And he controls of all that. What a powerful thing. I bet he loves how powerful that makes him feel too.

But also, I’m a romantic, so I do genuinely believe he loves Lochlan as a person too. In a brotherly way. However, I think his genuine brotherly love gets mixed up with his sexual attraction and his love for control and power to create this weird monstrous feeling that’s like the Frankenstein version of love. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with Succession but one of the main characters, Kendall Roy, once describes the way his father’s feelings for him as, “he loves me [..] he does, I think it’s just the wrong kind of love expression”. I think that quote also perfectly applies to Saxon’s feelings towards Lochlan as well.

“Do you think they’ll ever move on properly?”. Depends on what you mean by this, but honestly? No. I think they’ll try to have extremely low contact with each other for years and years but eventually give in. Saxon won’t ever get the same love, power, control, and (dare I say) worship from anyone like he does from Lochlan. And for Lochlan, this relationship with Saxon is so complex and started at such a formative age I doubt he’ll be able to replicate it with anyone else. They’ll both crave what no one else will ever be able to give them and this will eventually lead them giving into their desires and doing something again.

Do I think they’ll run off into the sunset and live happily ever after? Also no. There’s a lot of enmeshment in the family, but especially between the two brothers. If you’re unfamiliar with that term, it’s a toxic dynamic (usually found in families) in which the one in power views/treats the other like an extension of themselves instead of their own person. We see this in how Saxon pushes his own sexual needs and wants onto Lochlan, makes him eat and drink the same food as him, and controls him a lot via physical affection (he loves to put his hands on Lochlan and “lead” him into directions/places/situations).

I think with a dynamic like that it would hard for them to ever have a happy end. It’s impossible for a human being to not have somewhat of a sense of self, and although I think Lochlan would just want to do and say whatever Saxon wants him to do or say (people pleaser lmao) it’s NOT realistic. It’s going to create a lot of misery and unhappiness for him and honestly I think it always has. But the misery he gets from being an extension of Saxon that he gets to control is more bearable than a life without that kind of love, which he thinks worth. So he will stay miserable and unhappy because of it. For the rest of his life.

And Saxon will be unhappy because I do like to think he’s not inherently evil. I actually really like the idea that he has a lot of love for Lochlan (in a brotherly way) and cares about him. I think his guilt for what their relationship has become and the person he’s turned Lochlan into will eat him up for the rest of his life. I think the shame of the fact that his strongest sexual desire and the most sexual pleasure he’s ever gotten is from his little brother will too. I don’t think he’ll ever be able to say how these things aloud or convince him to stop engaging with Lochlan in a sexual way but I do think they will keep him up every single night for the rest of his life.

Thank you so much for this ask, I loved answering it!! I’m sorry you had to wait almost a whole week, I was saving my response for a time where I could really think and form a well written answer. I hope it was satisfying, I’m sorry if it made you sad or it’s not what you were hoping for!!

[multifandomneeerd]

Accio Thunderbolts

Summary: Thunderbolts go to Hogwarts au

Trigger warnings: Slight mentions of abuse and drinking, Bob sort of has a panic attack?

Word count: Typed this in my notes app, so I don’t have one. Pretty long though.

Notes: This took me longer to write than I would have liked, but done it now! I’m definitely doing more, this was so fun to write!

It had been only a few months since the second war with Voldemort. A few months since the great final battle. A few months since so many people’s lives had fallen apart. 

Bob Reynolds was one of the few almost completely unaffected. After all, what could the Death Eaters do to a family that had nothing?

He barely noticed the difference, really. His dad still came home drunk. The beatings still happened almost every night. His mother still worked two jobs to support them. The bullying at school kept going. 

Then his Hogwarts letter came.

He knew about Hogwarts, of course. It had just seemed like a silly daydream that could never come true. But somehow, it had. 

The day he went to Diagon Alley would forever be ingrained in his memory. 

Too save on money, his robes and books were second hand. Yet somehow, his mother had managed to scrape together enough money to buy him a brand-new wand. 

Going to Ollivander’s had been magical, for lack of a better word. His wand was beautiful. Eight inches, not too stiff, oak and phoenix feather. He never wanted to forget the look on his mother’s face when sparks showered out of his wand tip.

The time between the arrival of the letter and the day of departure felt like years. His dad seemed to be giving him more beatings as though to make sure they would last him the whole year. 

Once the day finally arrived, Bob was nervous. The station was loud and overwhelming, contributing to his unease. 

His mother had helped him put his trunk on a cart then rushed off for work. In her haste, she had forgotten that Bob had no idea where to go. His ticket said to go to platform 9 3/4, but it didn’t seem to exist. 

Then he saw the group. It was made up of children and one frazzled looking woman. They pushed luggage trolleys with trunks instead of suitcases like the surrounding Muggles. Several appeared as if they didn’t know how to put on the Muggles clothes they wore. 

He quietly merged into the group, following a girl with blonde hair. She looked to be his age. Maybe they could be friends at Hogwarts? If that was where she was going. 

“Line up, children, go through one at a time,” called the lady leading the group. Bob pulled a little ways back from the group. He just needed to figure out how to get to platform 9 3/4, not cause confusion. 

But where were they going? The kids lined up to the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. Then one by one, they walked into the barrier and seemingly passed through it. 

As soon as the frazzled lady went through, Bob started towards the barrier. Doubts began to nag at him. What if he hit the barrier? What if he wasn’t magical enough? What if…

Bob squeezed his eyes shut. He was going to collide with the brick any second now… 

That second never came. Bob opened his eyes. He was nowhere near the barrier now, and was standing on one of the platforms. Had he completely missed the barrier. He looked around, his eyes catching on the platform number. 9 3/4. 

Next task was to get on the train. This was surprisingly easy, everyone seemed to simply be getting on. He managed to haul his trunk onto the train and into an empty compartment, but he had no way of stowing it on the luggage rack. He decided to leave it and sit down. 

He watched out the window at the children and parents still on the platform. He wondered how many kids were even going to be at Hogwarts. He hoped they would ignore him. Better than being bullied. 

A noise behind him made him turn around. The blonde girl from earlier was standing in the doorway, looking self conscious. 

“Can I sit in here?” She asks. 

“Um, yeah, sure,” Bob stammers. Despite his earlier thoughts of friendship, he can’t help but be nervous. After all, he’s never had a real friend. 

She dragged in a trunk similar to his own, only a little more shabby. She looked up at the luggage rack and seemingly comes to the same conclusion about getting her trunk up there. 

“What’s your name?” She asked, turning to him. 

“B-bob,” he manages to say. She plops herself down beside him, unaware of his panic. 

“I’m Yelena. Is this your first year too?” She inquired. As he opened his mouth to reply, a man and a dark haired girl walked into the compartment. 

“Look, Ava, you can sit in here. These kids seem nice, don’t they?” The man said to the girl, who was half hiding behind him. Based on her expression, she did not think they looked nice. 

“It is okay if she sits here, right?” The man addressed them. 

“It’s fine with me!” Yelena pipes up. “How about you, Bob?” 

“It’s okay,” squeaked out Bob. This was a lot off new things all at once, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. But if he said no, what would Yelena think? She probably wouldn’t want to be friends. 

The man-who introduced himself as Ava’s uncle Bill-helped get all of their trunks on the luggage rack. He seemed very nice, even though Ava didn’t. As soon as Bill left, she flopped on the seat across from them with a scowl that clearly stated, leave me alone or else. Yelena, to her credit, tried. 

“I’m Yelena, and this is Bob. What’s your name?” She inquired, despite already knowing it. Ava remained silent. She tried again.

“Your uncle seemed really nice. Did your parents not have time to drop you off today?” Ava looked up at that. 

“My parents are dead.” She deadpanned.

“-oh.” Yelena looked sheepish. “Mine are too.”

Suddenly it made sense why she had been with all those other kids. He hadn’t really thought about it, but it must have been an orphanage group. 

He was distracted from this revelation by yet another person coming into their compartment. This time is was a boy with reddish blonde hair and an arrogant expression. Two men followed him, dressed in some kind of uniform and carrying a trunk. 

“I’ll sit in here,” he told them, his tone condescending. The men placed his trunk on the luggage rack and left. The mystery boy sat down on the seat beside Ava, who somehow looked even more disgruntled than she already had. 

“And who are you?” She asks bluntly. 

“Jonathan Fitzgerald Walker the lll, but you can call me John.” he answers, missing the annoyance in her tone. 

Whatever she was going to say was swallowed by the sudden sensation of the train beginning to move. Outside the window, parents gave a final wave to their children. No one was there to wave at Bob. 

A slightly awkward silence fell over the train car. It lasted until they heard a smiling woman opened their compartment. 

“Anything of the trolley, dears?” She asked. John pulled out a small bag presumably filled with money. No one else moved. 

“Do none of you have any money?” He asked, surprised. Ava shrugged. 

“I might have a Knut somewhere.” 

He muttered something about poor peasants and told the lady to ‘give him a bunch of everything.’ After he somehow managed to place it all on the seat, he looked up at them. 

“Well, do you want some or not?”

Thus began the feast. Bob tried a little of everything. His family never had enough money for extras like candy, and if they somehow did, his dad just spent it on alcohol anyway.

The sugar rush helped break the silence. Yelena was very talkative, and she very much carried the conversation. Ava laughed at some of her jokes, making dry, sarcastic comments occasionally. John butted in whenever he pleased, but he wasn’t actually that bad. Bob stayed quiet. He had learned it from years of simply avoiding the next beating.

At some point, John suggested they get changed into their robes. They agreed, but not before Ava chucked a Chocolate Frog at his head. Everyone agreed that the robes looked downright ridiculous, which resulted in Yelena doing a crow impression, complete with flapping and jumping. Bob couldn’t remember the last time he laughed that hard. 

All too soon, the train ground to a halt. Students streamed out of the train, bumping and jostling one another. Yelena held onto Bob’s arm in the chaos. Above the din, he heard a loud, gruff voice calling, “Firs’ years! Firs’ years!” He and Yelena squished through the crowd to a tall man with a bushy black beard. He introduced himself as Hagrid, and guided them onto boats docked on a nearby lake.

Yelena and Bob ended up on the same boat as Ava, even after getting separated in the chaos. 

“Where’s John?” She whispered. 

“I haven’t seen him. He must not be a first year,” replied Yelena. 

“Pipe down, will ya?” Called out Hagrid. The boats slowly drifted out onto the lake, moving on their own. They turned a corner to reveal the full view of the school. 

Bob gasped in awe. The spires of the castle stood out against the starry, moonlit sky. The glow of hundreds of windows contrasted the dark shadow of the stone. 

As the boats slowly drifted towards the castle, Bob wondered if he was dreaming. There was no way this could be real. Any moment, he was going to wake up. He would eat a small slice of bread for breakfast, avoid his father, and leave without seeing his mother, who would have already left for work. He would be bullied at school, and come home to be bullied by his father. He would watch helplessly as his father would beat his mother for not making enough money. 

Somehow, the dream never ended. When the boats docked at the base of the castle, Bob almost fell into the water trying to disembark. Luckily Yelena caught him by the back of his robe. They were ushered into a large room, where they were met by a kind looking woman. She introduced herself as Professor van Dyne, and began explaining the Sorting ceremony. 

Bob barely listened. His earlier feeling of disbelief had morphed into a panicky feeling, as though his chest was constricting. He vaguely heard Yelena’s name called-“Belova, Yelena.” When his name was called, he stumbled to the stool. Professor van Dyne placed the hat on his head. It was far too big, and came to rest on the bridge of his nose. The darkness covering his eyes helped a little with his panic. Then he heard the voice. 

You’re an interesting one, aren’t you? It spoke. It seemed to be in his head, not speaking out loud. Clever, loyal and brave as well. You could do well in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. But I think it better be… GRYFFINDOR! 

The hat was lifted off his head as the hall burst into applause. Bob walked on shaking legs towards the Gryffindor table. Or at least, he was pretty sure it was, since it was the one standing and clapping the loudest. He spotted Yelena sitting beside an older boy. He slipped in between her and a grouchy looking boy with long brunette hair. 

Ava was next after Bob, and was also sorted into Gryffindor. She sat between Bob and the boy beside him. As he shifted to make room for her, he saw the boy’s left hand. It was covered in a black glove, but for a second his sleeve rode up, flashing a glint of metal. 

Bob shook it off as a trick of the light. He had had a very tiring day after all. Yet somehow, he couldn’t wait for the next one.

Taglist: @luri-isa @busyheadkeepbreathing @thistlehorse

[antiterf]

"Gender identity and feeling a certain gender isn't like sexual orientation. We know what attraction is!"

Okay but can you explain the feeling of being attracted to someone? Can you do it without using symbolism? Can you do it without objectification? Without the "feeling" because feelings aren't objective? We have the term sexual attraction to describe sexual orientation, and we have gender identity to describe being transgender. Both have been neglected by psychology and other sciences in regard to LGBTQ+ people and most of the time, it is, at the end of the day, multiple different theories and not a single explanation.

It took me longer to recognize romantic attraction than it did for me to recognize my gender identity. I assumed that certain things were sexual attractions when they weren't. Many gay, lesbian, and ace people go through that second one because sexual attraction can never be objectively described.

I eventually figured out romantic attraction as the feeling I get when I think someone as cute, not from aesthetics but as a person. That is not exactly specific enough for most people to understand. When combined with sexual attraction it becomes a constant yearning for the person to be next to me, the feeling that part of me is missing when they leave. I cannot separate sexual attraction from romantic, but can separate romantic from sexual. If we're going blatantly then sexual attraction would also be my want to have sex with the specific person because their body alone gives me feelings of euphoria (oh we love the oxytocin), but when comparing that to gender, that would be a sexual expression like how pronouns and clothing are gender expression.

On top of that, I can only speak for myself. Others can and will report feelings that do not match mine, but they still use the same terminology because those feelings will still fall under attraction. Trying to restrict what is and what isn't a form of romantic or sexual attraction by personal experience isn't helpful and likely more harmful.

Gender identity was the feeling that something was off and that I had one foot in the door and one foot out. That something was missing until I put the key into place. It was the feeling of euphoria when hearing my preferred name. It's the comfort I get when there's some compression on my chest because I associate binders with relief and happiness. But wait... wouldn't that second one be instead feelings of transsexualism?

I don't fucking know dude! I don't feel these things separately! Separate orgasm from pleasure and see how that works out for you!

When trans people talk about our experiences with gender identity because someone wants some sort of description, when a cis person who has never had to examine what gender identity feels like, there's not going to be much of a way to describe it where someone completely understands unless if they've experienced it before. We as trans people can go "oh yeah that sounds accurate to my experience" or go "oh no, not me, for me it's a little more like ____" but there's not much of a way to objectively describe it.

What is a woman, anyone who claims that they're a woman, is as circular as a definition as:

Sexual attraction: attraction that makes people desire sexual contact or shows sexual interest in another person(s). Romantic attraction: attraction that makes people desire romantic contact or interaction with another person or persons.

So neuroscience is used to try and find Where the Gender is Stored but the brain is such a complex organ that the shape of your brain can be used to identify you like a fingerprint. Oxytocin is what we have for attraction but which one? Does it matter? There are studies that show that the brains of trans people are different in some way but I kind of stopped caring about them years ago because I don't care! I don't care!

I'm trans, we keep trying to explain what gender identity is, why we transition, but there's always some issue on it being too vague or reinforcing stereotypes (men having flat chests with binding even though not all men do for instance).

So when you get a way to describe all of what you feel objectively that everyone can relate to you can get back to me and I'll fucking applaud you.

[featherxquill]

The thing about me is, I’m so rejection sensitive, at least where friendship is concerned, that I have learned to completely ignore the part of my brain that tells me that someone is mad at me or hates me and wants rid of me, essentially granting myself cockroach levels of resilience to passive-aggressive social rejection and ghosting. So yes, I will be That Person. I have absolutely no shame and I will send you 32 things that made me think of you even if you haven’t replied, I will persist in asking you to hang out. Like I choose to believe that everyone is just busy or forgetful or has their own shit going on, it’s the only way I can be a functional human being. So if you want to get rid of me that’s completely fine, but I will take none hints and I’m going to need you to Set Some Clear Boundaries, Ma’am.