#I'm just stressed over not knowing what's going on with my back

[alchemistc]

Part One

Oh, I've got plenty to be thankful for

I've got eyes to see with

Ears to hear with

Arms to hug with

Lips to kiss with

Someone to adore

-bing crosby

He keeps waiting for someone to say something. To accuse him of lingering where he doesn't belong, or remind him he'd never actually made it all the way in. To tell him to go home, maybe get a halfhearted promise to let him know how Buck is at some point.

Maddie lays an exhausted head on his shoulder and Bobby sneaks him a slice of pumpkin pie he's apparently been hiding in the tote at his feet. Hen tosses him a power bank with a lightning cord and Karen makes a joke about his holiday attire.

When the coffee comes, Howie takes the trip to the lobby with him, pulls out his wallet and does his damnedest to strong arm Tommy into letting him tip the haggard looking girl another twenty bucks on top of the fifty Tommy'd figured was appropriate for having to balance a literal stack of hot beverages from the parking lot on Thanksgiving. She eyes them both with a smile and Tommy is more compelled the grab the drink carriers from her tired arms than stop Howie.

They're halfway back when Howie purposely slows his pace, and Tommy fights the urge to pick his up and avoid whatever's coming down on him. "So. Was this the wake up call you needed, or can I expect Buck to order a freezer on a Black Friday deal for my garage to store more baked goods?"

He doesn't know what that means.

He can extrapolate, though. "He's been baking?"

"Tommy, I cannot stress enough exactly how much he's been baking."

He'd tried his hand at a few things here and there, but Tommy's used to experimental chef Evan Buckley, not baking Evan Buckley. To be fair, if he'd seen Evan working a KitchenAid, apron tied loose and flour on a cheekbone, Tommy doubts he'd have actually had the time to finish whatever he had planned. That was then, of course.

"What was he doing on that trail, Howie?" That, too, he could maybe extrapolate. He doesn't want to, but he could.

Howie eyes him. Uses his free arm to elbow Tommy in the ribs. "You were the first person he ever invited to a 118 Thanksgiving, you know. My guess? He wasn't in the mood to be reminded of it while there was no room in the oven to bake away his feelings."

Yeah.

Jax had been over the moon when Tommy offered to take his shift, no trades necessary. What would the point have been, when Christmas and New Year's would be unbooked too?

Evan had bribed like six different people to ensure they'd be able to swing dinner on the day. Hobbes had sounded so thrilled to hear Tommy asking for the time off that he'd approved it without even looking at the shift.

"I'm just warning you in advance. The grovelling process is gonna involve eating your weight in loaves, most likely."

And that's that, apparently. No heavy handed warnings, no suspicion about why Tommy hasn't fucked off yet. Like it's some foregone conclusion that Tommy's not gonna panic and bolt a second time. Nothing has changed, yet Tommy gets the feeling they're all expecting some tearful reunion and a return to TommyandBuck.

Tommy slips the tea into Maddie's hands and watches her sniff it in distaste, which is an interesting nugget he'll have to revisit later if -

If.

There's no guarantees, here. That Tommy will be able to articulate how fucking terrified he is, that Evan will understand it. That the two of them will find a way through it together. All he has to go on is a solo hike on a day Evan should have been with family, an apparent bakery full of feelings spread between the 118, and the quiet calm that had washed over him when Eddie prompted him to make a decision.

Feet to the fire, he'd stayed.

---

Maddie's pregnant. It hits him between the eyes right around hour three of sit-and-wait. He's not an idiot, or a fool, and he hasn't spoken to any of these people in weeks so he's not going to announce it to the world, but somewhere in between the sporadic naps on Tommy's shoulder and the way she is attempting (failing) to power through her now cold tea makes him think. She and Bobby had driven here, and it's clear everyone else had been indulging. Maddie's no lush, but he's seen her knock back half a bottle of wine before when she's got nowhere to be.

She excuses herself to the bathroom for a third time, looking a little green, and Tommy ends up locked in a staring contest with Howie that only ends when Tommy mimes zipping his lips.

He still hasn't gotten the story about Eddie and why he's not here.

Bobby and Athena are apparently closing in on a new house.

Howie is less than a year away from having a second kid.

Athena's kids are apparently at Howie and Maddie's, attempting to keep Mara and Jee from destroying the house in the absence of adults.

And Tommy wants.

Wanting has never really been the problem, though. Wanting is the easy part. Wanting doesn't get him over the hurdle of knowing he's not enough. For Evan, for this family he's built that just keeps growing bigger and bigger. It'd been a relief, those first few days after, not to have to wonder which member of the 118 would land in the hospital next, not to have to rearrange something else on his schedule because Evan was convinced he was cursed, or Eddie'd had another shitty call with Christopher.

The relief hadn't lasted. A week in, he'd stayed up all night demolishing the half-bath off his dining room, because he'd been putting it off for months and he'd nearly texted Evan something that was startlingly revealing and left him exposed on all sides. Two weeks in he'd finished grouting the backsplash in his kitchen. And in between, he wondered how Eddie was doing, if he'd made any progress with his son. He'd wondered if Maddie enjoyed the bottle of wine they'd brought back from a spur of the moment trip to Napa. He'd wondered how Nash was doing, if he was readjusting to having his crew and his station back. He wondered how Hen and Karen were, how many things Denny had already gotten stuck in his cast trying to ease an itch.

He'd wondered, and he'd sat in it, and then he'd rewired the shoddy work an electrician had done in his spare room that he kept telling himself he'd get around to.

The wanting never goes away. He just finds new places to put it when he starts to care too much.

"Kinard and Buckley?"

Maddie's still in the restroom. Tommy - has no fucking clue why the nurse is staring at them like they'll just materialize the right people. She sucks in her lips and gives him a dead eyed stare before her eyes dart to his chest. More specifically, the nameplate on his chest.

Tommy blinks.

---

The having is where he's always floundered. Things are temporary. People are temporary. He's always been borrowing. Borrowing time, attention, affection.

For a few months there, he'd really started to think he could handle the having. That he'd get to keep it.

---

"I'm Buckley, he's Kinard," Maddie says from somewhere over his left shoulder, and he turns in time to see her adjusting her jacket, wiping at her lip. She stabilizes, looking unfazed, and stands tall. As tall as she can, at least. "You have news about my brother?"

The nurse glances around the room. No one is bothering to pretend not to be listening. Maddie hovers a wave behind her.

"Ignore the audience, we're all waiting with bated breath to see how obnoxious my brothers going to be. It depends entirely on whether or not he gets pie tonight."

She gives them all a disapproving look. This must not be one of their normal nurses.

Christ. They have normal nurses.

"Well, no pie tonight, but he should be able to eat a sandwich in the morning."

He's fine. He's fine.

Tommy knew going in that most of his injuries were superficial. The ribs had been a concern but with the pain meds and the collar he hadn't really had a chance to exacerbate those injuries. There's no reason he should feel quite so relieved to know that Evan will have a few annoying splints to work around and he'll probably need to rehab his ankle for a couple weeks once it's healed. The concussion isn't ideal, and he'll need help for a few days, but he's fine.

Tommy can feel the tears building.

"He'll likely be out for a few more hours, but I'll let you know when he's set up in a room. Two visitors at a time," she warns. "The concussion will effect his response time. Don't be surprised if he doesn't remember much, loses his train of thought."

Hen shifts somewhere behind him. It feels a bit like she's being held back from correcting the nurse about the normal side effects.

Things move on around him. The nurse leaves, Hen passes a Stanley cup around that definitely isn't filled with water, the normal sigh of relief is released while Maddie drops into the seat next to him with a groan, the team has a strange competition around him to battle for visitor position.

Tommy breathes.

I should go, Tommy thinks to himself, as half the people in the room raise their phones.

His own phone vibrates against his thigh.

A message from Howie, time stamped two minutes - Tommy squints to make sure - two minutes ago, an update on Evan. Another from Eddie reminding them all to give Buck a patent Eddie look from him while they were giving him shit. A selfie of Eddie, with Christopher somewhat reluctantly bending into the picture over his shoulder.

In another thread, he's got three messages from Eddie.

If I have to remove you from this group I'm sending my kid after you with his crutches.

You guys hiked Griffith Park for your Not-A-One-Month-Anniversary-We-Swear date, right?

Send Buck my love. Not like that, though.

Tommy sends back: When the fuck did he add me to his emergency contacts? and then decides he doesn't want to know anyway so he turns off his phone.

---

Maddie goes alone, and Tommy spends the time alternating between tapping his foot against the tile to distraction, and clamping his hand over his knee in an attempt to stop the tapping.

Bobby and Athena go next, then Hen and Karen. Then they're pulling on jackets and promising to save a plate for Buck.

Howie slips away for a few minutes and then returns, looking amused. "You think everyone else got the same greeting?" he asks his wife, who grins tiredly at him, pats his wrist. Her gaze turns to Tommy.

"Should we stay?"

That's a trap of a question. That's an assumption Tommy doesn't have a clue how to handle. He clears his throat. Shakes a few curls loose.

"What makes you think he'd want me to?"

Maddie's perfected the unimpressed eyebrow. It must be a parent thing.

Tommy barely holds in the sigh. "Go enjoy your meal."

---

Evan's been watching the door. It's clear the moment Tommy makes it to the threshold - he presses up, winces, tips sideways just enough to peek around the corner.

"Tommy," he says, and his expression melts.

Tommy's heard some iteration of that name a million times. Tom, from his dad. Tommy, fond and quiet from his mother, who'd never really learned how to speak up before she was gone. Thomas, in school, from teachers annoyed that he wouldn't just apply himself.

He was Kinard, to teammates, then fellow soldiers, to the firefighters he'd worked alongside for a decade before he ever let any of them know him.

No one says his name with quite so much reverence as Evan Buckley. He's convinced himself, over the last few weeks, that he'd been hearing adulation in that tone. But now it just sounds...relieved. Happy.

Evan slumps back and tries to cross his arms in a pout. There are too many cords and wires attached to him for it to work. "I'm pretty sure I'm mad at you," he says, and Tommy steps over the threshold.

---

Hobbes sounds fucking thrilled to find out he's going to be down a pilot for five days.

Evan throws a fit when he finds out Tommy's plan is to sleep on his own couch for the short duration of Evan's stay. Evan wins the proceeding argument and doesn't even complain that Tommy hadn't argued too hard

Bobby brings over enough leftovers to keep them in turkey sandwiches for a week, and Tommy doesn't think to ask how he got Tommy's address.

Tommy breathes. Tommy thinks. Once Evan can hold a train of thought for more than five minutes, Tommy talks.

Evan listens.

---

"So no Christmas," Evan pouts, and Tommy wants to bite it. "And no New Year's."

Tommy shifts a hand over his shoulder, tucks his chin over top of it so he can't see the pout anymore. "We were both already working those anyway."

"Do people do anything to celebrate Presidents Day?"

"Evan."

"Tommy," Evan mocks, and pulls far enough away to catch his gaze. "In the interest of transparency that was mostly a cover so I didn't ask about Valentine's Day."

"Is this you not asking about Valentine's Day?"

His smile is deceptively sweet. "I need help with my sandwich."

Tommy's seen him balancing a glass of water, his phone, two books and a takeout bag in his one good hand. He's absolutely full of shit.

Tommy leans forward to grab the sandwich off Evan's plate for him.

---

"You should stay," Tommy says, an hour after midnight two days into the new year. He's tipsy on his second glass of cheap champagne and he can't think of a reason to keep this in, anymore. Evan crinkles a brow at him.

"I... wasn't planning to go?"

There's a gold crown perched in his curls, and Tommy still hasn't taken the cheap plastic 2025 glasses off. The house is quiet, and there'd been shockingly few fires started by fireworks this year, so he's less tired than he'd expected to be.

"I meant -." Tommy starts, and then pauses. "I meant permanently. You should live here."

Evan laughs. Takes a bite out of his cake, and rolls his eyes, and then...stops. His entire body stills. "What."

It's ridiculous. The very thing that had pushed Tommy up out of his seat just a few months ago, sent him out the loft door with wet eyes and a heaviness in his heart.

"Tommy," Evan prompts, and Tommy catches the hand frozen on the countertop. He'd planned to hold this back, wait until something significant or poignant. But Evan had baked them a red velvet cake and argued with him the entire drive back from dinner about the proper way to fold a towel, and Tommy's tired of denying this isn't everything he's refused to let himself want for decades.

"You don't have to say yes just to confirm you're not breaking up with me," he tries to joke, and it falls flat.

"Tommy," Evan murmurs, quieter but more insistent.

"I'm serious. I want you here. I want -."

"Yes," Evan says, and squeezes his hand before he ducks his head bashfully. "Sorry. Continue."

"I want a life with you." The tears tickle at the back of his throat. He's gonna fucking cry, again. He'd always fucking known opening himself up to this was just an invitation for more tears in his life.

He can't quite convince himself the rest doesn't make them worth it.

"Yes. Again. Tommy, of course." He tips his chin. Purses his lips. "If you're sure."

Tommy swallows down the lump in his throat. He's never been more sure or more terrified of anything in his life. So he tells him so.

The words are like knives, but he works his way through the soreness, fights up past the fear that he's not sure will ever completely go away, and claws past the reminder that it's been a blink of an eye since Tommy walked out on this.

"Well. You can't walk out of your own house," Evan points out when he's finished, and of all things, it's that that snaps the tension of for once in his life prioritizing something other than fucking survival. He tips a grin, curls his elbow to bring their entwined hands to his lips. "It's gonna take years to coordinate another Thanksgiving with everyone," he bemoans, looking suspiciously watery-eyed himself as he holds Tommy's own wet gaze.

Tommy can extrapolate from that.

[notlongtolove]

in eternal lines

spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place. but when the deadlines are looming, it takes everything in you not to snap. because while you’re good at literature because you have to be, spencer's great at it because, well, he’s spencer. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst, comfort, fluff... i don't know anymore

content: student!reader gets kinda pissy and snappy but she has a 3000 word essay due and a fever so go easy on her. and spencer is spencer, so patient, so kind :'

word count: 5.2k

note: as a literature major this was extremely self-indulgent... i'm sorry. i love lit student reader and i hope you guys do too! also aptly titled after the one and only sonnet 18 because it was the first poem we were given read in uni <3 (reader is basing her essay on george macdonald's 'the princess and the goblin' and isaac watts' 'divine songs' if anyone is curious; but don't read too deeply into her lines about it because i submitted that essay weeks ago and it's been relinquished it from my mind oops)

a line: You’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - william shakespeare

You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would sift through pages of Whitman’s dense poetry with you or debate whether Rossetti was really referencing Eve’s bite of the apple in Goblin Market? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place.

So yes, you love your boyfriend. But when deadlines are looming, and submission dates are bearing down on you, it takes everything in you not to snap. Because while Spencer can dissect poetry and prose with an ease that seems almost otherworldly, you sometimes feel the weight of comparison pressing on you. You’re good at it too—of course you are, you have to be. You’re pursuing a degree in it forgodsakes. But Spencer? He’s great at it because, well, he’s Spencer.

And while you can hold your own most days, a fair challenger when you come back from a particularly intriguing lecture too layered to dissect by yourself, there are times you feel like you’re running to keep up. Spencer will pull references from texts and obscure sources you haven’t even heard of, leaving you struggling to connect the dots. And that’s just literature. When he dives into his other passions—you don’t even bother to compete. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, nodding and asking questions during the rare moments you can sort of follow the thread of his thoughts.

Having an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory does have its perks. Everyone knows that.

Your friends see it too. Like today when one of them stopped by between classes to return an essay you’d been stressing over for days.

“Well, don’t you look fantastic,” she teased, smirking. “Guessing those leftovers weren’t as ‘fine’ as you thought?”

​​“Don’t even start,” you mutter, weakly grabbing the paper from her hands as you lean on the doorframe. You flip through the pages marked in red ink quickly with the little strength you have, eyes scanning briefly through the comments before you’re on to the next page, next page, next page. They’re not what you’re looking for. 

And then you see it. There on the last page, a definite red circle around it: B+. 

You’d expected it of course. B+—your ever-reliable benchmark. It's a mark of consistency you've been forced to be contented with. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t amazing. It was fine. But you’d worked hard on this one. You’d hoped, maybe, for something more. You’d expected it, and yet, you don’t know why you still feel a pinch of disappointment.

“How’d you do?” you ask grimly, fighting the nausea creeping up your throat.

“Same,” she replies nonchalantly, scrolling through her phone.

You nod, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen your grade before you did.

“Oh, you know it’s always the same,” she adds with a wry smile. “Solidly subpar, as per tradition.” 

The phrase stung a little more now than it had when you’d coined it back in your first year. Back when, after a string of middle-of-the-road grades, you’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through. 

“Whatever, it was only 20% anyway,” she shrugs.

“Yeah…” you reply weakly, though the disappointment still gnaws at you. You can’t quite shake it. Maybe it’s because deep down, you know you do care—no matter how often you tell yourself you’ve accepted the fate of being perpetually average. You still want, so quietly, so desperately, to be something more. You’ve always had a love for literature: the way words flow across a page, imbuing meaning into simple phrases, transforming them into art. You’ve always admired the beauty of it. But passion doesn’t translate to academic brilliance, and appreciation doesn’t equal A grades. It’s a hard truth you’ve come to learn.

“How was class?” you ask, trying to steer your mind away from its current spiral. “We still on Faerie Queene?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “Kristoff’s still rambling on and on about virtue and chastity. Ha. Imagine me living in those times—at the rate I ghost men, I’d be a certified whore.”

“Well, actually, they’d probably get to you first,” Spencer interrupts as he steps out of the bedroom, his tone slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence. “Virtue and chastity were considered to be absolute truths in the 16th century. A woman’s value was intrinsically tied to her perceived purity, which of course, was a reflection of her family’s honor.” 

If you weren’t so ill, you would’ve laughed at her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“And then there’s the public shaming,” he continues, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets already miles deep into his thoughts. “In fact, the entire allegory of Book III revolves around chastity as a cornerstone of moral virtue. Witch trials in the late 16th and 17th centuries often targeted women who were thought as sexually deviant or independent, framing their ‘sins’ as some sort of evidence that they were consorting with the devil—”

He pauses, glancing between you and your friend. “So yeah… considering all that, if you’d ‘ghosted’ a few men back then, they probably would’ve gone straight to accusations of witchcraft or worse.”

Your friend stares at him, “...Right. Good to know,” she says, blinking slowly.

“But you know, Edmund Spenser intended The Faerie Queene to be a moral guide for young men,” he adds as an afterthought, realizing he’s just indirectly affirmed your friend’s self-deprecating joke. Spencer shifts awkwardly but can’t help himself by continuing, “It was meant to instil chivalric virtues to shape a model English gentleman. So technically, your interpretation is, um, modern at best.”

Her expression—equal parts baffled, impressed, maybe even a little scared—almost makes you forget how sick you feel.

“So…” she says after a pause, “I’m guessing you’re Spencer?”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” 

Spencer offers a smile, “Likewise.” 

“Anyway… I’m off.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, “Essay’s not gonna write itself. This one’s 30% by the way. God, I hate Kristoff but Burton’s a close second for sure.”

You wince at the reminder, the weight of your unfinished work pressing on you. The brief called for at least three secondary sources, and you’ve barely scratched the surface.

“Feel better soon, sweetie,” she says, offering you a sympathetic look. You manage a weak smile in return.

“Bye Spencer,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Take care of her for me, will ya?”

“Will do,” he says curtly, giving a small wave as you close the door behind her.

A moment later, your phone buzzes. He’s cute, her text reads. Another follows immediately: And basically a walking Wikipedia.

You start typing a response, but another text pops up before you can send it: Don’t dog on us for using ChatGPT now. You huff and click your phone off instead, tossing it aside. 

Therein lies another source of stress. Spencer is always happy to help you untangle a difficult text or interpret a dense poem, but he draws the line when it comes to your academic work. He never interferes directly. You’ve seen it yourself—The first time you handed him your laptop to review an essay, he’d made his comments verbally, pointing at sections on the screen while explaining his critiques in detail, but never actually touching the keyboard. You’d brought it up during an argument once, after a particularly crushing grade. Your frustration had spilled over: You’re smarter. You type faster. Why can’t you just fix it? But Spencer had only responded with something about “academic integrity” and the importance of maintaining the “code of conduct.” The conversation ended there, and after that, you stopped asking. 

Even yesterday, when you managed to scrape together 300 words for a draft, you’d handed your laptop to him, and again, he was careful to keep his boundaries. Too drained to make edits in real-time, you’d expected—maybe hoped—that he might step in more directly. Instead, Spencer quietly switched the document to “suggesting” mode, marking up your draft with precise yet detached annotations, never infiltrating or overstepping your own words. Spencer Reid is and always will be a stickler for rules. You try to hold yourself to the same standard. You steer clear of AI, no matter how tempting it might be. You know better. Well, that and because Spencer would never let it slide. 

But now it’s late and the thought of letting some website churn out polished, perfectly phrased sentences for you in seconds has never felt more tempting. The nausea has faded, leaving behind a fever in its place. Spencer’s in the living room, reading. You’d banished him to the couch—even the faint sound of pages turning, not to mention the speed at which he reads, was enough to derail your already fragile train of thought. You’d felt bad of course; he’d made soup for you earlier, fed it to you and everything. But with this essay worth 30% of your grade and your 300 words barely scratching the surface of the 3,000-word requirement, you don’t have it in you to be oh-so-sweet and ever-so-grateful. Not right now. You’ve nailed down the introduction—a quick overview of historical context, a sweeping statement on the authors’ intents. But now, the real challenge looms: The thesis. And you’re utterly stuck.

This essay argues that…  that…

You groan in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. So much for children’s literature. You’d chosen this class thinking it’d be an easy ride—fairy tales and picture books, how hard could it be? Yet here you are, being tasked with dissecting the significance of form and language. Now, the simple language and pretty pictures are anything but your friend, doing nothing to help further your argument. Your head throbs, your mouth feels like sandpaper, and the brilliant points you’d thought of in last week’s class are nowhere to be found, lost in the haziness of your mind. With a defeated sigh, you peel back the sheets and shuffle out of the bedroom, laptop in hand, every joint aching in protest. Spencer looks up from his book as the rustle of sheets catches his attention. His heart aches slightly when he sees you in the doorway, clutching your laptop and looking every bit as pitiful as you feel. He sets his book to the side. 

“How’s it going, honey?” he asks sympathetically, even though he already knows the answer from the state of you. 

“It’s barely going,” you admit with a yawn, tears prickling at your eyes from the force of it. They only add to your overall air of defeat as you cross the room and crawl into his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. “Brain’s foggy, can’t think straight,” you murmur in incomplete sentences. 

“Finalized your thesis yet?” he asks again, his voice gentle but patient. You shake your head, sinking deeper into his chest—It’s a silent surrender, as if giving in to the exhaustion and frustration that’s been building up. Spencer notices, brushing your hair gently away from your face, his hand cool against your hot skin. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up, hon,” he says softly, voice full of concern. “Why don’t we get you to bed, take a break for tonight, hm? You can work on this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The thought of putting everything off feels like both a relief and a burden. The idea of sleep has never seemed more appealing. But then, the thought of letting this drag on for another day—of pushing the finish line even further out of your reach fills you with dread. But you know you’re not in any state to be working on anything right now, let alone something worth 30% of your final grade. You know that you can’t focus, not when your body feels like it’s ready to give up and when your mind can barely hold onto a coherent thought. “Tomorrow, okay?” Spencer prompts again, calm and gentle. You know he’s right, so, despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of your mind, you nod. “Okay.” 

Spencer doesn’t push, just gives you a small, reassuring smile as he stands. Every movement feels like a chore as he guides you back to bed but the warmth of the blankets and the prospect of rest is more than enough motivation. He tucks you in, his touch comforting and steady. You feel like a weight has been lifted, albeit temporarily. Either way, it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, the thought of picking up where you left off tomorrow seeming almost bearable. 

You wake to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It takes a moment for your brain to adjust to the new day, the stress of yesterday not entirely gone. But as you sit up, stretching slowly, mind less hazy and joints less achy, you feel a renewed determination, a flicker of focus that was nowhere to be found last night. Your mind is still whirling with fragments of ideas, half-formed arguments, and theoretical connections when Spencer strolls in with a cup of something warm for you.

“Tea.” he announces, handing it to you with a small, triumphant smile. “Decaffeinated.”

You frown, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Need coffee.”

“Studies say caffeinated beverages stimulate the colon,” he counters matter-of-factly.

“Eww,” you groan, wrinkling your nose at him. “Why’d you have to say it like that?” 

“Exactly like that,” he replies without missing a beat, his tone precise and measured. “You’ve just recovered, and everyone knows caffeine is a gastrointestinal irritant.’

You huff, taking the mug from him. “Fine, but if I don’t finish this essay, it’s on you.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by your protest. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath but take a tentative sip of the tea anyway. It’s not what you wanted, but you can’t deny that he’s probably right—he usually is. The warmth seeps through the mug into your hands, grounding you just enough to pull your laptop over from the bedside table. Its practically empty screen blinks back up at you, as though it’s been waiting patiently all night. Hi again. Still here. Still empty. 

Spencer takes a peek at your screen and you can’t help but glare half-heartedly at the mug in his hands. Of course, it’s coffee. He’d get to enjoy caffeine while insisting you couldn’t. Typical.

“So, I was thinking…” you start, deciding to let the injustice slide for now as you scroll through your document.

“Hmm?” He looks up, his gaze meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“What if I say that MacDonald’s pedagogy was more effective for children because Watts’s text was too directive. That works, right?” You look up, scanning his face for some form of agreement.

“That’s hardly arguable honey,” his words land softly, but you still feel your shoulders sag. “It’s an observation.”

"But—look at the words they use! It's so different. Here, look at the tone," you insist, nudging your laptop toward him. "There has to be something to be said about that, right?"

Spencer leans in, glancing at your screen before looking back at you. His expression is calm, composed, and maddeningly reasonable. "Watts’s text was meant to be read as a textbook. Of course it’s directive. You know that." 

Do you? You think you don't know much at this point. You don’t know what you know, and you don’t know what you don’t know. You groan, dragging your hands down your face as if you could physically scrape the frustration away. Darn you, Isaac Watts. Darn you, pedagogical learning. Darn you, whoever had the audacity to name this course a simple exploration into the history of children’s literature. 

Before you can wallow further, Spencer slides your laptop away. “How about we brush our teeth before crying over educational theories for children in the 18th century?” he suggests, his voice light. You sigh dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it’s some Herculean effort. When you shuffle back from the bathroom, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Spencer has taken over your spot on the bed, laptop resting on his legs as he scrolls through some article. He glances up when you flop down beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

"Feel better?" he asks, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

"Not at all," you grumble. You don’t let him know that the brief pause in frustration has given your head just enough space to try again. 

It’s been hours, but you’ve finally narrowed down your thesis. It’s not amazing—far from it—but it’s something. It’s arguable, at least. Spencer’s been relegated back to the living room, his presence a vague hum in the background as you attempt to focus. You’d claimed you worked better in bed, though Spencer’s tried (and failed) to prove with statistics and studies that it’s just a placebo effect, a lie your brain insists on believing.

But right now, none of that matters. You have a thesis and on that note, an essay to begin. Or, at least, the faintest glimmer of one. And that’s when you hit a wall. Again. You sit cross-legged, laptop perched on your knees as you stare at the cursor, blinking like it knows you’re stuck. You wish it would stop judging you. You drag yourself—and your laptop thats become an extension of your body at this point—into the living room like a child seeking comfort. Spencer barely looks up from his article when you slump into the couch next to him.

“What about this?” You straighten your back, determined to sound confident this time, even if you're not sure where you're going with it. “What if I say that MacDonald’s use of fantasy is critical because it creates like, an emotional bridge and that makes it more effective for moral teaching and—”

“Well, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer doesn’t even look up from his article. "But that’s kind of a subpoint, honey.”

You stiffen, irritation rising like bile in your throat. “It’s not a subpoint. It’s a point.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up, finally meeting yours. His tone isn’t dismissive, but it might as well be. “How is that significant? What does it build toward?”

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, you sound like Kristoff.” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. You know it’s not fair to snap, but your patience is paper thin. You can feel the fever creeping back into your skin, and you’re not sure if it's the heat or the mounting pressure, but suddenly everything feels like a little too much. 

“Fine,” you say, swallowing your frustration, trying again. “What if I say that MacDonald’s narrative style is more progressive because it like, engages the reader’s emotions directly? And that’s why Watts’ text feels scarier?”

Spencer pauses. For a moment, you think you’ve finally hit something solid, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s intrigued. “And how are you planning to argue that?”

“Well, um… um—I… I don’t know!” You exhale sharply, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You sink back against the cushions, frustration seeping into your bones. “Something about how MacDonald’s vibe is all nice and charming while Watts is all like, ‘learn this or else’. 

“Sure I guess…” Spencer acknowledges, nodding slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’ll need more than vibes and a strong dislike of Watts to support it sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say bitterly, rolling your eyes.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s too calm, too collected, and somehow that makes it worse. He’s not wrong, but you’re still pissed off. You take a breath, steeling yourself for the next round of dissection. “Okay, then what if I say that MacDonald lets kids think for themselves, and Watts... doesn’t. Because of his moral authority and intellectual agency and whatever.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, but it’s enough. You feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? It’s hard to say. His voice has shifted, just slightly, less detached now, more engaged. “You can build on that.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly more hopeful than you’d like to admit.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back in his chair. But then he tilts his head and furrows his brows in a way that makes you want to throw your laptop at him. “But you’ll need to define those terms and back it up with examples. Otherwise, it’s just a claim.” Of course. 

“God, you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be!” you snap, the irritation rising in your throat. “I get it, okay? I need examples. But you’re not even letting me work out a point before you just, I don’t know, shit all over it.” Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a second, you almost feel bad for snapping at him. 

“I’m just trying to help,” he says gently, but there's something in the way he says it—just a little too patient—that makes you bristle. You hate how right he always is, how calm he always looks, how much care he always has in his eyes even when you’re acting out. 

“You’re trying to help?” you repeat incredulously, shaking your head. “You’re poking holes in everything!” Even in your feverish haze, you know you’re being cruel—but you just can’t help it. All you can think about is how everything is slipping away, how your thoughts won’t line up, how your head is starting to hurt again. You’re not even sure if you’re angry at him anymore, or just angry at everything else. 

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He glances at your screen again, a mess of quotes and bulletpoints. “I just want to make sure it’s solid, honey,” he says finally, his tone softer.

You scoff. “Yeah, well, you tore apart whatever solid lead I thought I had after two hours of work in just about five minutes, so thanks for that,” words tumbling out before you can stop them. Spencer’s silence hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speak. “Just… just let me get through this.” 

Spencer sits there for a moment, just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension shift in the room. “I’m not saying you can’t get through it. I just want you to get through it right,” he says carefully, his voice quiet but insistent. “That’s all.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just care.

But the heat, the fever, it’s all swirling inside you, and you can’t hold it together much longer. “Of course you are…” you mutter bitterly, already regretting everything you’ve said. It feels like every step forward just leads you straight into another wall, and you’re just too tired to keep going. It’s not that you want to push him away or that you don’t appreciate his help. You’re just too irritable, too exhausted. You just want the whole damn essay to be done—and you wish you didn’t need his help to make it happen. You want to yell, to throw something, to demand that the world stop spinning long enough for you to catch your breath. But all that comes out is a hollow, defeated sigh. 

You feel like you're drowning and you don’t want to drag him under with you. “I’m just…” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, trying to gather whatever little strength you have left. “I’m just so tired.” 

Spencer looks at you, eyes full of concern, but it doesn’t help. You don’t want sympathy. You want to be better—to be able handle all of this. You want to be able to write this damn essay on goddamn children’s books without falling apart. And it doesn’t help that you’re falling apart in front of Spencer. The same Spencer who can recite verses from Paradise Lost at the drop of a hat. You’d almost burst into tears the last time he did it after it had taken you an entire week just to decipher and analyze a single chapter with any real confidence. You can’t help but feel that pang of inadequacy every time he breezes through something you’ve struggled with, even if he doesn’t mean to make it look so effortless. You hate yourself for it. You can’t find a way to shake the feeling that you’re not doing enough, not good enough. Not for yourself, not for him. You feel the sting of it, it’s pressing on your chest, suffocating.

“I just… just feel like I can’t keep up with any of it.” You don’t say it with any anger, just exhaustion. It’s not even directed at him anymore—it’s just the fact that you feel so stuck, so far behind where you should be, where you so badly want to be. “Like I can’t keep up with you.” 

Oh. Spencer feels his heart sink. He’s always prided himself on being able to read people. He should’ve known better. He’d been so focused on helping, so intent on pushing you to reach the level he knows you’re capable of, the level he knows you want to be at—even if you keep telling yourself you don’t. The fever, the deadlines, the constant pushing—he should’ve known that it was all too much. 

“You don’t have to keep up with me honey, I’m right here with you,” he says, trying to get you to look up at him. You can’t meet his gaze. You feel guilty for snapping, for letting the frustration slip out, but you’re not rational enough right now to pull yourself out from this spiral of self-pity. It’s easier to stay here, in the anger, the frustration, than to face the embarrassment of it all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” Spencer takes your hand, cautiously, testing the waters. He knows you don’t exactly want to be touched right now. He knows it makes you feel coddled. He pauses, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he gains the confidence to cradle your face gently. You don’t resist, your tired eyes meeting his, heavy with sadness and Spencer thinks he can actually feel his heart break.

“You’re doing just fine sweetheart. You’re not falling behind. You’re just stressed. And sick.” He knows you’re feeling fragile, like any comfort might smother you so he threads forward lightly. “This essay? You’ll get it done. I promise.” It sounds right, and yet it doesn’t really help. It doesn’t stop the doubt that’s eating at you, the sense that you’re just not measuring up to everything you want to be. You feel like you’re barely treading water, no matter how hard you swim, the shore never gets any closer.

But for now, Spencer’s words are enough to quiet the panic—a buoy in your sea of sadness threatening to pull you under. You cling to it, knowing you’ll have to start swimming again soon. But for this moment, you allow yourself to stop. A beat. A pause. A breath—Just for now.

It’s only the next day that you manage to get the words on the page, not in any smooth, brilliant way, but they’re there. The sentences form, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with more confidence, until the essay is painfully but finally done. Not perfect, but it’s done. Relief washes over you, even as exhaustion lingers. 

The moment you hear the front door open, you practically leap up, laptop in hand, meeting Spencer before he can even take his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow, setting his bag down as you both settle onto the couch. Without a word, you hand over the laptop, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You wait with bated breath as he begins to scroll, your laborious effort displayed in black and white. The sound of the touchpad clicking feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He asks a few questions, here and there—clarifications, mostly. Questions you answer with ease, surprising even yourself with the confidence in your responses. He nods along, his expression thoughtful, but not critical. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer looks up, eyes bright, a proud smile on his face. “It looks great, honey. You did a really good job.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at his praise. “Really?” Spencer leans in, cupping your cheek gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Really.” When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You worked so hard on this,” he murmurs. “So proud of you.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the comfort he always seems to bring. “Now," he pulls away just enough to smirk, "can I have my bedroom back, or should I just start setting up camp on the couch?” You laugh, rolling your eyes, but it’s full of affection. “Don’t even start.” Spencer chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer, the tension of yesterday long forgotten.

When you get your paper back, you flip through the pages, one after the other, looking for the feedback, waiting for the corrections, the marks that tell you where you inevitably went wrong.

Next page. Next page. Next page.

And then, there it is. On the last page, in a definitive red circle, unmistakable: A.

It’s an A. 

A goddamn A.

It doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke, not exactly, but you can’t shake the thought that this might be the only time you break through the glass ceiling you’ve spent so long looking up at. And who knows, maybe you’ll never push past it again. But for now, you allow yourself to relish in this singular moment of triumph. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

Because now you know that the other side is real, and that you can get there. But Spencer, the genius, the enigma, who’s always been a step ahead of everyone in everything academic, has always known.

And while everyone knows that an A in an essay that’s only a partial percentage of your overall grade isn’t anything compared to what he’s achieved, nothing compared to the academic milestones he’s already crossed—Still, he’s here, celebrating with you. You can see it in his eyes, even if he knows you’re not one to make a big deal of these kinds of things. His quiet joy is evident in the way he grins that little grin of his, the one that’s only for you. 

So, in summary, in essence, in all the words and ways you could possibly use to phrase a conclusion—You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would read through your entire syllabus for the semester (frustratingly quickly), just because he knows you understand better when you can talk things out? Who else would patiently stick around, exiled to the couch in their own home, while you’re exhausted, irritable, and buried in deadlines? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—though brilliant and boundless—isn’t the only reason why you fell for him. 

Because when the world feels too heavy, when the never ending lines of poetry and prose become too difficult to untangle by yourself, Spencer’s there reminding you—ever so gently, ever so steadily—that you can make it through, one word at a time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[r0-boat]

Feral!Lighter brain rot

I'm very normal about his EP

Cw: Dubcon, consent non-con, rough sex, No beta we die like men

Thank you for coming to my TED talk...*explodes*

Even the undefeated champion can get overwhelmed whether it be from stress or simply becoming drunk off adrenaline from a fight.

All he wants to do is maul the next thing he sees, like a feral animal.

That's what pretty little things like you are for. He tells you over and over that he'd never hurt you in a soft voice that makes your heart swoon. But you know full well that he can.

He knows precisely what you want, You're not exactly the most subtle with your desires.

That thought had been driving you crazy. The What if Lighter: Your sweet, protective boyfriend wasn't so sweet with you? To see you as a toy to play with than someone that he cherishes more than anything else in the world.

Why not give you an experience to remember?

This is what you want. To have him come in just when you're about to go to bed. You're lying on the couch when your door knob clicks and turns. You know exactly who it is... There was only one other person you gave your spare key to.

It's not that you didn't want to see him. It's just that you weren't expecting him; usually, he would shoot you a maximum of three-word text when he came to crash or visit.

But this time, he practically barges in, slamming the door behind him. The look in his eye shivers down your spine as an imposing figure stocking closer toward you.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, especially when he left his jacket and shirt, dropped on the floor forgotten. He took his red scarf and wrapped it around his left hand.

"On. Your. Knees."

That wasn't a request.

You looked at him, eyes wide., Whatever was showing on your television was long forgotten. Your legs shook everything, urging you to drop to your knees and let him do whatever he wanted. But something within you stirred inside, whether it be curiosity or blind courage. It made your lips move.

"Make me."

Lighter's green eyes flicker at your blatant challenge. His eyebrows raise slightly. The silence is deafening as his lips curve into a smile. His left hand grips the red fabric as the other takes off his shades, tossing them.

He comes after you in a flash, His hand roughly grabbing at your color, yanking you until he hoists you over his shoulders. His fingers dig into your back as he brings you to your bedroom, tossing you on the bed with little care of where you end up before crawling on top of you, licking his lips. He could practically smell your arousal.

And he was just as aroused as you were. Scratch that He's more aroused than you are. He feels so bad for handling you similarly to how he handles riffraff. But he can't deny how hard his cock was pressing against his jeans.

He lets out a snarl His arms flexing as he tears his pants in two. Before doing the same to your shirt and pants.

"Hey! I just got those!" You yell, hitting his rock-hard chest. It's kind of cute how you think you can hurt him.

"too bad doll, should've listened to me the first time."

There was no ounce of gentleness to how the man handles you to flip over, grabbing your wrists, and tying you with the scarf.

Coating his fingers in his saliva before plunging it inside you. His hand and thick fingers force you open. His callused palm and rough scarred fingers groping your ass spreading you whiter as wide as he could to force his fingers deeper stretching you out for the hardness you can feel grinding against the crack of your ass.

Fuck... Your muffled screams sound so good. He wanted to be at least gentle when he fucks you, but It looked like his body had other plans. Taking you like this was so thrilling. His eyes rolled back as he lost himself in his own lust, ravaging your body till there was nothing left.

"Gonna fuck you... Going to fill you up and teach that naughty little mouth not to talk back!" Lighter growls in your ear taking out his fingers before plunge again in your mouth You're empty hole soon filled with something bigger screaming against his mouth and fingers as he immediately sets his pace.

You're tasting yourself on your tongue. The thought alone was setting Lighter a blaze.

Why do you make him like this? He could feel every ounce of self-control crack and crumble.

He was making so much noise from the bed rattling and his own moans your neighbors could probably hear but to be honest he doesn't give a fuck. All he cares about is fucking all the stress he has built up from god knows how long.

From how tightly you were gripping his poor cock, to your shaking, quivering body and you're sobbing, muffled mess with your tears soaking his thumb and palm, you were close. Lighter was, too. Lighter was so close. And all he wanted to do was fill you up fill your insides tell you were leaking.

You felt him sink his teeth into your shoulder before the both of you exploded at the same time. Lighter can feel you milking him as he came harder than he ever did in his life.

For the first time since he first started training, his body felt sore as he practically collapsed on top of you before quickly rolling off so he doesn't crush you.

When he finally catches his breath, He rolls over to your side, wrapping his arms around you and holding you to his chest, kissing your face.

"hey hey hey...shhh It's okay... It's okay we're done... I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

He'd never forgive himself if he did. But he got his answer when your arms wrapped back around him and he saw your beaming smile. He sighs in relief smiling back kissing your lips.

"I guess It's safe to say that you liked it.... Good... I did too."

[loganhowlettshousewife]

lazy mornings and the proposal

animal - bonus headcanons

friendly reminder that i am not a writer, i'm just a girl who loves logan howlett and wanted to write something exploring his animalistic side since i so rarely see it done. my first language is also not english, so please do not be rude when giving me any feedback.

i wanted to let everyone know that even with the epilogue coming out soon and the series being officially over, i'm still not ready to let go of these two. so if you have any ideas or prompts or questions about feral!logan feel free to submit an ask!

warnings: mentions of sex, light sweat kink (oops)

series masterlist │my masterlist

there’s nothing better than a lazy morning with logan, staying in bed long past sunrise, chasing the warmth that can be found in each others arms. it’s rare, these days, now that he’s gotten a job as a lumberjack and has to be up fairly early most mornings for work, making sure to wake you before he leaves, kissing you deeply and reminding you that he loves you. gone are the days where the two of you would stay home together, locked in your own little world with no one to bother you.

he’d wanted - no, he’d needed, really- to get a job. it gave him something to do with his days, a purpose other than stalking your every move, following behind you like a shadow as you went about your day. it’s a distraction, and a welcome one, one that gives him the opportunity to be a more balanced version of himself, to find peace and trust that you aren’t going to disappear if he leaves you out of his sight for more than a few seconds.

he brings home a decent paycheck, much more than you were making by selling the extra produce from your garden. it’s unnecessary, everything you own had once belonged to your grandparents and has long been paid off, but it’s nice to have the extra cash, to be able to go into town with logan and splurge on expensive alcohol for him and gorgeous new dresses for you.

he’s good at what he does, hacking away at wood with his unnatural strength given to him by his mutation. he’s the best at what he does, to the point where you occasionally worry it’s become too obvious that he’s not like the others, but he always comes home safe.

the smell of wood and sweat cling to him like a second skin and you bury your face in his neck, understanding his obsession with doing the same to you, loving the way the smell of him surrounds you, makes you feel like he’s the only thing in the world. maybe it should be gross, he’s exerted himself all day and is covered by the proof of it, but there’s something about it that makes you melt into him every time.

he takes off his muddy shoes and picks you up, ignoring your squeal of protest at the unexpected gesture, smirks when you wrap your legs around his waist. he brings you into your bedroom to take the stress of his day out on your body or into the bathroom where you run your hands over his bare skin and wash away anything that isn’t your loving touch. either way, the tension leaves him the moment he’s returned to you, able to recognise that you’re safe.

you love the life you’ve built, the ease and comfort of it, and yet those lazy mornings, so few and far between, are still your favourite. the days where logan doesn't have to go into work and you push back your daily chores for later because you would much prefer to stay snuggled up in bed, laughing as he kisses your neck and bare shoulders, twinning your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

the night he proposes starts off like any other. he returns home from work to the smell of dinner in the oven, takes you apart under the warm stream of water from the showerhead beating down on your skin, lets you wash away the grime from his body and dig your hands into the tense muscles of his back, massaging away the day’s activities. he melts into you, letting you care for him in a way he’d never let anyone else, and you smile beatifically.

when you exit the shower, it’s to the sound of the oven timer going off, announcing that the dinner you’d prepared for the two of you is ready. you hardly notice when logan doesn’t follow you out of the bathroom and into the kitchen as usual - some days he returns from a long day on the job and refuses to leave your side, on others he needs moments of solitude peppered in to keep the overstimulation at bay.

he stops in your shared bedroom as you plate the food, giving logan double your portion size as usual.

his body requires more energy to function, his healing factor taking a lot out of him. it’s not something logan ever noticed, since he doesn’t bother to worry about his own health most of the time, but you see the way it affects him when he doesn’t eat the way he should. it’s horribly taxing on his body, making his veins protrude from his skin in harsh lines, a reminder that no matter how easy it is to ignore it when looking at his muscular and imposing stature, his body is still starving.

you’ve made it your mission to feed him, and so you narrow your eyes into a glare until he finishes his plate, leaning over afterwards to kiss the annoyance from your lips, muttering praises and thanks that have your skin tingling and face feeling hot. 

he’s healthier now, a layer of fat covering his muscles, a softness to his body that wasn’t there before. it’s something you pride yourself on, the knowledge that you’re taking good care of him.

he doesn’t talk much throughout dinner, though he never does. you tell him about the latest book you’ve started reading, going back and forth on whether or not you’re truly enjoying it, complaining about the characters personalities while raving about the writing style. it makes logan smile, watching you be so passionate.

he gives you a few vague sentences about his day at work when you press him about it. “it’s not that interesting,” he says, the same excuse he gives every day. occasionally, he’ll have some gossip to share about the men he works with, his enhanced hearing allowing him to listen to their conversations without being forced to partake in them, but not today. “would much rather listen to you talk, darlin’.”

with desert in front of you and a peaceful lull in they conversation he takes your hand, kisses the back of it with his slightly chapped lips before getting down on one knee and pulling out the ring he’d bought a few weekends ago while you perused the farmer’s market stalls. it’s not big or flashy, the night is hardly out of the ordinary in any way, but it’s perfect. your eyes prick with tears that you attempt to hold back but fall anyway the moment you blink.

this is what makes yours and logan’s relationship, the understanding that there’s no need to be anything but yourselves, that as long as he’s here promising to love you forever, pleading you to do the same, there’s nothing else that could come close to matching the joy in your heart as you say yes.

taglist: @mystiquesvendetta @raeinyourdreams @babey-fruit-bat @meetmypointlessaddiction @kneelforloki @deaky-with-a-c @hypermarvellove @littlepeanut03 @the-ruler-of-death @aliengutzstuff @misscrissfemmefatale @mynamesstevenwithav @teaganthemorningstar @blackkatzz @leryg0 @fries11 @forksloree @i5uckersblog @dragovegogrimborn @quillycrow @melday0105 @just-a-little-cellist @scorpiosaintt @akasha157-blog @insanesosciopath @eridektbh @trickstergabriel69 @lord-bingus666

[bloomzone]

Feeling Overwhelmed? You're Not Alone. Let's Talk About It..

I know we all go through it. You’re balancing school, friends, family, and everything else, and suddenly, it feels like you're carrying the weight of the world. Lately, I've been feeling burned out, overwhelmed, and like everything is piling up at once. With school stress, exams, and the constant pressure to keep up, I sometimes feel like I can’t breathe. It's exhausting, and I'm sure some of you feel the same.

It’s so easy to get stuck in the cycle of trying to do everything perfectly. Every time you think you’ve got it under control, something else comes at you, and you’re back to square one and YES THIS IS ANNOYING!!!. It's like there’s a never-ending list of things to do, and no matter how hard you work, you never seem to catch a break.

And the worst part? The pressure from others. Whether it's friends, classmates, or even family, there's always someone asking you for help. Sometimes I feel like I’m the go-to person for everything—assignments, questions, last-minute requests. And don’t get me wrong, I want to be helpful, but it can get draining. Especially when you're trying to hold it together and just need a little space for yourself

For example:Today I couldn’t catch a break already stressed about exams, and in desperate need of rest. Just as I sat down to breathe, the calls and messages started.

One of my classmates began spamming me with messages, asking about a history and geography exam date that we ALL already knew. Then, another classmate began asking for English assignment answers. She wouldn’t stop. She kept sending, “Hi, hi, hi, hi…” over and over until I caved and responded.When I finally sent her the answers, her response? “Ahh, what would I do without you? You’re a lifesaver!” And while I know she meant it kindly, it felt so heavy I feel guilty. What about MY life? What about my peace?

In that moment, I realized how much I was giving to others and how little I was leaving for myself. I was pouring all my energy into helping everyone else while I was running on empty

And plus I’ve been in those moments when you’ve studied hard for an exam, thought you’re finally catching up, and then suddenly—a change happens. A test gets rescheduled, an assignment gets pushed to the last minute, and it feels like everything you worked for was just... wasted. I get it. And it’s okay to feel frustrated and angry about it. You’re allowed to feel this way. It doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human.

But here’s something I’ve been reminding myself lately: I am not responsible for everyone else's stress. It’s okay to say no, it’s okay to take a break, and it’s okay to not always have everything figured out. Taking care of yourself isn’t selfish; it’s necessary.

Here 5 Tips That Are Helping Me Cope with Stress and Burnout

1. Set Boundaries and Protect Your Energy: I’ve learned that it’s okay to say no. If someone’s asking for help, and you’re already feeling stretched thin, it’s okay to tell them, “I can’t right now.” You can’t pour from an empty cup, and you deserve your time and energy as much as anyone else does.

2. Don’t Overload Yourself—Take It One Step at a Time: Break your tasks into smaller, more manageable chunks. Don’t try to do everything at once—focus on one thing at a time. It makes the workload feel less daunting and more achievable. One task, one hour at a time.

3. Rest is Not a Luxury, It’s a Necessity: Sometimes we push ourselves too hard because we think we’ll get behind if we take a break. But if you don’t rest, you’ll burn out. Give yourself permission to step away, even for just 10 minutes. Watch a comforting youTube video, take a walk, or close your eyes. A little time for yourself can give you the energy to come back even stronger.

4. Talk About Your Feelings—Don't Bottle It Up: If you’re feeling overwhelmed, don’t keep it inside. Talk to someone, whether it’s a friendu trust family member, or even just writing in a journal like I do ..Putting your feelings into words can make a huge difference. It clears your mind and helps you see things from a new perspective.

5. Make Time for Self-Care: It’s easy to forget to take care of yourself when everything is going wrong. But self-care isn’t just about face masks and bubble baths (although that helps!). It’s about doing things that recharge you—reading, listening to music, or even just doing nothing. Find what makes you feel lighter and make time for it.

Let’s Take the Pressure Off Ourselves.

I know the world often tells us we have to be constantly productive, constantly moving forward. But the truth is, you don’t have to hustle all the time. It’s okay to slow down, take a breather, and focus on your well-being. The world will still be there when you're ready to take the next step. You are not a machine pookie. You are human, and you deserve peace.We’re not alone in this, even though it sometimes feels like we are. Everyone’s going through something, and sometimes just knowing that you’re not alone in your struggles can make a huge difference.Remember, it’s okay to not have it all together. It’s okay to be tired, to feel burnt out, to not always know what’s next. Life is hard, but you’re still here, still fighting, and that’s something to be proud of. I'm so proud of you

© bloomzone

[teamchillidogs]

Oï!!

First, I want to say, I love this comic and genuinely can’t wait to see what awaits for us next ♡♡♡

The premise is such an interesting concept– And the art is to die for, hello?? (all my ♡ to you guys, and I mean ALL of you!)

I just had two tiny questions, if it haven’t been already answered:

If it doesn’t spoil anything, is Sonic still going to be able to run at his full speed with that mechanical leg? Or is he going to be limited? I can’t imagine my poor baby stuck with average speed, but I’m not really sure that this leg is capable of supporting his sonic speed.

And second, mostly adressed to others fans... WHY IS EVERYBODY BLAMING MAH BOI TAILS FOR EVERYTHING?? Like, yeah sure he’s technically responsible but–

Why is nobody blaming Knuckles too?!

Both Sonic and Amy told Tails to come back to the ARK and let Sonic&Shadow handle things, and I think we can safely say he would have (even reluctantly) obeyed and gone back to the ship.

But noooooo, Knuckles had to chime him and told him to make himself useful.

Useful.

To the boy who literally just witnessed his BigBroTM (fake) death in an explosion without being able to do anything abt it.

The kid who just had an entire arc abt gaining confidence and learning to step out of Sonic’s shadow (pun not intented), to be his own person with his own purpose and all that jazz.

The child who’s probably still pump up on the adrealine from his fight with Eggman (which he won if I remember my SA2 correctly).

Knuckles, mah bro, best hot-headed himbo of the franchise. You could not have chosen a worst time to utter these words.

Of course Tails was going to take him up on that and try to ”MaKe HiMsElf UsEfUl”, why wouldn’t he?? He defeated Eggman in battle (Left-over adrealine and possibly cockiness?), and didn’t seem to trust Shadow with Sonic (who, again, was thought Dead literaly less than half an hour ago bc of the Team Shadow was on– Seriously, I can see why he’d like to be by his side when Sonic is again risking his life out there for them)

And franckly, how was he supposed to realize how bad his intervention would turn out to be? It never got that bad before, why now?

#StoptheTailshate #HoldKnucklesaccountable

Sorry for the rambling and the terrible english, but it had to be said, bruh. Tails ain’t even in my Top-5 favorites character, but everyones’ so harsh on the baby, he needed some backup 🥺😭

Hii @sookilini here answering as per usual!

this is the best ask we have ever received and it's honestly my favorite, thank you so much for sending this.

I always get to excited and emotional when i read these things, thank you so much for your kind words <333

ALSO THANK YOU FOR NOT ATTACKING TAILS, he has been DRAGGED TO FILTH I CAN´T TAKE IT /j

So first: is Sonic still going to be able to run at his full speed with that mechanical leg? Or is he going to be limited?

Unfortunately, the people of Marmolim (the planet he landed on) as you may have been able to tell, don't know who Sonic is and are unaware of his speed and abilities. So, the prosthetic leg isn´t capable of withstanding his speed...

Secondly

Why is nobody blaming Knuckles too?

I honestly have no idea why most people commenting did not catch onto Knuckles provoking Tails by poking at his insecurities, I'd even dare to say his ego more so... Tails got into his head "oh I don't need Sonic to get things done. I can do anything, I'm more than just the brains, I can do the action too" at least this is my intention with his actions.

We have to remember, Tails is literally just a child at the end of the day, yes he is incredibly smart but can you really expect a 12-year-old-ish kid to act rationally when put in a stressful life or death situation while getting yelled at by everyone for just trying to help?

Nobody would ever expect a kid to even be in that situation to begin with right? at least that´s what I think.

We all know Knux isn´t the smartest in hindsight...he isn't stupid by any means, but he will say what comes to his mind without second guessing for sure.

But oh well...Knuckles isn´t here to defend himself....anymore...

But there is still hope

[hxzbinwrites]

Hii can I get a Lucifer & reader?? Just the sillies hanging out together after a stressful day :))

(Purely platonic btw)

Lucifer x Platonic! Reader | A New Friend

Warnings ⚠️: Mentions of depression, cussing

Sighing, Lucifer closed the door to his private studio. He was grateful Charlie gave him a space within the hotel, rather than being an outside observer once more, but keeping up with the hotel residents got exhausting.

Well, more of just Alastor's nonsense, not the rest of the hotel per se, but whatever.

The former angel let his wings relax as he plopped down in his chair, swiveling around to look at the contents on his desk. He had an hour before dinner to properly relax, but all he did was tense up when he saw how little work he had done on his ducks today.

Lucifer grumbled as he repositioned the duck he was currently working on under a propped up magnifying glass, before ever so slightly picking up his paint brush to make a tiny detail-

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

"You've got to be kidding me." Lucifer quietly mumbled, before rolling his eyes dramatically and getting up. His tired hand supporting his lower back before making the trek over to the door.

He was about to tell off whoever dared to interrupt the little free time he allots himself now that he's helping with the hotel, before pausing to see Charlie there.

"Oh hi Sweetie" Lucifer said, giving her a soft smile,"What do you need?"

"Ohhhh nothing!" Charlie lied, "just an itty bitty tiny little baby favor...!"

Lucifer sighed, oh boy did she inherit a LOT of his personality. "What is it Charlie? I'll help you."

"Ohhhh thank you thank you thank you!!"

Charlie pounced on her father, giving him a very tight embrace. Lucifer may have been tired, but he was never going to deny his sweet daughter of affection.

"Okay okay, what is it you need me to do?" Lucifer asked, smiling at his daughter.

"Well, we got a new guest! Just now, they walked in the door! I hate to ask you, but me and Vaggie are making dinner tonight since it's our turn, Alastor will corrupt the guest, Nifty will scare them, Husk doesn't care, and Angel is working tonight! Please Dad, can you ease them in tonight?"

"Oh a Sinner.....ugh, fine! You know how I feel about them, but I love you more than I hate them"

Charlie hugged her father tightly once more, before flittering down the hallway happily.

Once she was gone, Lucifer let out a large sigh. He glanced back at his duck station, before resealing all of the paint so it wouldn't dry, then somberly stepped away from it.

He begrudgingly stepped out of his chamber, and closed the door behind him. Lucifer made his way down to the foyer, where a Sinner was standing, very confused.

"Hello" They said, looking at Lucifer,"are you the owner of this hotel?"

"No" Lucifer replied, "My daughter is, but I am here to help you settle in tonight."

The Sinner relaxed at hearing that. "My name is (Y/n). I think I just died? I'm not really sure, I fell from the sky like 45 minuets ago. I was kinda wondering around when I saw a poster advertising a way to get into Heaven, so I booked it here."

Lucifer smiled at this, sure this was a Sinner who had their chance on Earth to follow the rules, but this one is not as bad as the other low life creatures this place had to offer. Best example, that Alabaster fellow. Alacaster? Alakazam? Never mind.

"Well, this is the right place (Y/n)! My daughter's mission is to help redeem Sinners, like yourself! My name is Lucifer and-"

(Y/n) stepped back a little, eyes widened. "Lucifer?! Like the Devil?! Are you gonna like kill me or something?"

"Oh Heavens no!" Lucifer rebutted, putting his hands up in defense,"I would never! Oh how propaganda spreads these days!"

(Y/n) relaxed once more,"Oh okay....sorry for assuming that!"

"No apologies needed, I understand you're a little confused from falling that's all! Besides, the King of Hell is here to make your stay more enjoyable. Come! Let me show you to your room!"

(Y/n) followed after Lucifer, leading down a hallway towards an empty room. Along the way, however, a certain radio host stopped them.

"My my! I smell an unclaimed soul over here!" A voice said, appearing from behind them, cloaked in a shadow.

"Leave us alone Alabama!" Lucifer said, making Alastor's smile tighten.

"Alabama?" (Y/n) asked,"Is that your name? It's kinda silly to be named after a state-"

"My name is Alastor, the Radio Demon! You might've heard of me from my Radio Show!"

"Nope! No one's ever heard of you pal!" Lucifer said, tugging (Y/n)'s hand, urging them to just ignore the tall, red demon before them.

"How unfortunate" Alastor said, noticing this new guest was being led to a new room,"Charlie just informed me not too long ago that all new guests will need to wait for a room! Nifty is going rather slow on preparing each room, trying to be meticulous! It looks like your friend will have to go!"

(Y/n) deflated, looking towards Lucifer for a rebuttal.

"Well, looks like my new friend will crash with me! Sorry TV Star or whatever you claim to be, the King of Hell takes priority over you. Goodbye now!"

Lucifer didn't wait for another snide comment from Alcatraz, instead he drug (Y/n) along back to his room. The travel there was silent, save for the sound of feet stepping on plush carpet.

Lucifer swung open his door, allowing (Y/n) to step inside, before closing and locking it. He let out a sigh, and visibly deflated.

"Ugh I hate that guy" Lucifer mumbled, not talking to anyone in particular.

"I don't like him either." (Y/n) replied, making Lucifer's head snap up. He didn't think they could hear him. "He was really snarky, and he spoke you to really aggressively."

"Tell me about it" Lucifer replied, plopping back down in his chair. Rather this time his direction was pointing towards his new guest rather than his forgotten ducks.

"Why do you let him speak to you like that? You're the King of Hell, doesn't that make you stronger than him?" They asked, locking eyes with Lucifer's, who's of which widened in shock.

They were right, he had royal authority over him. He couldn't kill him, Charlie would be very upset at that notion, but he could tell him off for being a jerk!

"You're right! Next time I'll put that red weirdo in his place!" Lucifer remarked, smirking as he made a closed fist and slammed in onto his open palm.

"Yeah!" (Y/n) encouraged

Lucifer and (Y/n) held eye contact for a moment before laughing together. Lucifer hadn't laughed this hard in a really long time. His depression made it difficult to go outside of his space to connect with others, so this was a welcome change.

Snapping him out of his trance, (Y/n) said," Are those rubber duckies?"

"Yes! Yes they are!" Lucifer said, swiveling around to open some of his desk drawers to reveal loads of ducks he took with him to the hotel.

"Woah, you make those?" (Y/n) asked, pointing to the unfinished duck Lucifer had attempted to resume before Charlie interrupted.

"Yes I do! Being immortal sucks! There's nothing to do, therefore I took up the most fun, amazing, and fantastic hobby ever! Ducks."

"That's cool!" They replied, walking over to the desk. Lucifer summoned an extra chair for them to sit in while he explained each duck's function, purpose, and overall design.

This lasted for far too short in Lucifer's opinion, as Charlie called his phone. Lucifer nearly dropped his phone, juggling the device between his hands before he finally got a steady grip on it.

"H-Hello?"

"Uhh Dad?" Charlie said, her voice laced with concern,"It's dinner time. You're ten minuets late now, and the new guest isn't here either. Did something happen-"

"Oh sorry dear, we're on our way!"

""We"? Dad I-"

"Okay byeeeee!"

Lucifer hung up on Charlie, before standing up a little too suddenly. He winced as he held his lower back, before regaining his composure. (Y/n) laughed at his old man struggles, before getting up as well. Lucifer rolled his eyes before leading the way to dinner.

Once they arrived at the dinner table, the whole bunch all greeted (Y/n) and welcomed them to the table as a part of the Harbin family.

Lucifer smiled, happy to see his new friend having a good time with their new peers. His smile quickly dropped with Alaska reintroduced himself to them, knowing damn well he had already tried to trick the two of them earlier.

"So" (Y/n) asked Charlie,"When will my room be ready? Alastor said that you said that y'all were remodeling guest rooms right now"

"What? No we're not! Your room is already ready for you! Unless you want it customized, then we can help with that, but your room is defiantly habitable! Alastor! Why would you say that!"

(Y/n) smirked as Charlie started berating Alastor, who of which could not care less about the Princess's complaints.

Lucifer's smile returned at seeing this, any berating of Aardvark was a welcome sight to him. Lucifer glanced over at (Y/n), who glanced back at him.

He had a feeling that they were going to become good friends.

————

Word Count: 1,575

[echoingbirdsofprey]

Delicate (Jake's Version)

7 - Highway To The Danger Zone

Pairing: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x OFC Samantha Kazansky

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: mentions of smutty things but none, otherwise nothing spectacular

A/N: Please don't hesitate to reblog and leave comments! I wanna know what y'all think! Pop on over to my Twisters story if you haven't read that for a Jake cameo too! Yes, this story and that one are connected! This is part 2 of that series. Part 3 will be coming soonish, and even as I'm writing part 3, stuff for these two fics will still be written! Please enjoy! And keep an eye on the playlists as they'll be getting updated again soon too!

Taglist: @mrsevans90

Playlist

Jake awoke early as usual, but groggy as fuck. They hadn't had any alcohol so the only thing he could think of as a reason for that was how extremely turned on he had been last night. He hadn't been that horny in years. In his book, that had been some of the best sex he'd ever had. Even better than that Captain he'd fucked in Lemoore while they were off duty. And she was a smoke show if nothing else. But with Sam it felt different. It was different. So different.

Jake's heart was dictating all of his actions. The way he felt for Sam in just a couple of short weeks had him reeling. It had him acting fucking silly. He couldn't explain what exactly it was because it was so many things, but he knew what had sparked it. Her attitude. She was sassy and confident and she had been so last night in bed too. There had been a shared dominant energy in the room that Jake had enjoyed. The majority of women he'd been with just wanted to fuck a navy guy so they pretty much let him do whatever so he rarely went down on them. He had a hard and fast rule that his mouth didn't go below the belt if he didn't know the girl well enough, and he always used a condom. 

He knew he was going to break both of those rules for Sam. He almost did last night. He’d almost let her trick him into sliding in without the condom, but he stopped himself. He wanted this relationship to work, but neither of them needed any more stress than they already had. Her stresses were his. He’d promised that. He begged her to let him take some of the strain, to dump it on him when she needed it. 

He felt her stir beside him, as she rolled to face away from him. She pressed her ass up against his hard morning wood and he groaned and his eyes rolled back from how goddamn good she felt. While he had elected to put his boxers back on last night, Sam had decided against clothing and Jake was more than thankful for that. He ran his finger tips up and down her side so feather light that as she awoke, her brain was not aware of it, but her body responded with a shiver anyway. Her back was arched slightly, so Jake let his hand travel across the soft skin and up to her shoulders, where he massaged for a few moments each. He could see the smile forming on her lips as she rolled again to face him.

“Sleep well, pretty girl?” He asked and she nodded, opening one eye to look at him.

“Did you? Also, is that a missile in your pants or are you just happy to see me?” She giggled and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer so that he could kiss her. His lips met her forehead first, then the tip of her nose, and then her mouth. She shrugged away slightly, trying to bury her face in his chest but he wouldn’t let her.

“Ah, don’t get shy on me now. Course I’m happy to see you.” He said and reached a hand down to tilt her chin up. He kissed her, this time poking his tongue out. She shook her head.

“I have morning breath.” She whispered and he kissed her again. She laughed louder this time, forgetting to care that anyone else might be home.

“Yuh, I do too, so what? Actually, my breath probably smells like your pussy. That was a pretty good night time snack I had.” He growled and Sam gently punched him in the chest.

“Jake!” She barked with a huge smile.

“Oh fuck,” he sighed, and then he almost spilled the beans, “Sam, I lov-like you...I like you a lot...”

“I like you too, Jake. A lot.” She said back, tilting her head and leaving her chocolate brown eyes to cast a spell on him and he was all too willing to let it happen. 

They took their time getting dressed, stealing kisses and passing touches here and there. For several moments, Sam felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She didn't feel the pain of impending grief, nor the thought of being without her father and best friend. All she was thinking about was Jake.

Sam led Jake down to the kitchen where her mom was making Ice a smoothie. Ice turned in his seat and smiled. Her mother took a sip of her coffee and tapped her foot as she looked at the two young adults.

“Samantha...what's the rule about boys?” Her mother asked and Ice had a shit eating grin on his face.

‘Mom...I just graduated college...” Sam scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. 

“And you still live in this house until you find your own. What's the rule?” She scolded. Sam sighed and Jake bit his lip feeling like he was the one in trouble.

“No sleeping over.” Sam said and Jake's eyes went wide. 

Sarah smiled and shook her head as Ice made a motion as if to say ‘no harm done’ as Sarah spoke again. “Just tell us next time so I can make him breakfast too.” 

Sam grinned slyly and Ice stood, kissing this daughter on the forehead. His gaze met Jake's, who straightened up and saluted. Ice saluted him back and waved his hand as if to say ‘at ease’. Ice headed out to the back porch and Sarah followed, but turned before closing the door.

“Oh, Sam, there's a few large yellow envelopes on your father's desk. Could you bring them to the naval base and give them to Beau?” she asked. Sam nodded and said, “Sure.”

Sam went to get the envelope and when she came back, Jake was checking his watch and phone. She placed the envelopes on the counter in front of him. “How long is your day today?”

“Should be done around one, why?” He asked and she smirked.

“I'll come with you for the day.” She said and she nearly ran to grab her laptop bag and change her clothes. Jake wasn't going to argue, partially because, even though he wanted to keep this a secret in some capacity, he did also want to flaunt the fact that he and Sam were seeing each other. Although, he was pretty sure the cat was well out of the bag after the other day. He glanced at his watch again. They'd have to grab something for breakfast on the way. She came out dressed in a black pencil skirt with a pretty plaid blouse and low black heels. Jake's eyes went wide.

“Why?” He motioned to what she was wearing with the biggest grin on his face.

“Oh I have to hop on a Zoom call for work at ten. I actually do have to be dressed despite what people think about remote work. They expect me to look the part.” She explained and he nodded.

“Well, you look the part.” He said and wrapped his arms around her waist as they headed to the door. “And you look like I wanna show you off.” 

🛩️🛩️🛩️

“Hey, did Hangman come home last night?” Phoenix asked Coyote as they got out of their cars together. Bob, Rooster, Payback and Fanboy were all waiting outside their cars and trucks as well, as they liked to walk in as a group. 

“Uh...I never heard his truck, no.” Coyote said, just as Jake’s black Ford pulled up and parked.

“Holy...shit...” Fanboy said as they watched Hangman step down out of the truck and go around to the passenger side, helping none other than Samantha Kazansky, the Commander’s daughter, out like a princess coming out of her carriage. They all stared as Hangman reached behind her, his other hand on her waist, and grabbed her bag for her. He swung it over his shoulder, making clear that he would carry it for her. She tugged on it and he just pushed his nose toward her with a wide smirk. That classic Hangman grin, that had so many ladies swoon for him, seemed to be aimed in a different way, as if he wasn’t trying to impress her. It was more casual, less flirty. His expression seemed softer in a way that none of them had ever seen before.

“What the fuck.” Rooster said, shaking his head, and they watched Hangman pull Samantha in close and kiss her. They’d all seen him make out with girls before, but this wasn’t his typical manner. The way he held her, it was like he didn’t want to lose her. It was like he couldn’t afford to lose her. And they all noticed it.

“You know they’re all looking, right?” Sam mused as they headed toward the front doors of the main building. Jake just nodded and smiled.

“Yeah, I’ll catch shit for it later too, but I don’t give a fuck anymore. Want them to know you’re my girl.” He murmured. “Uh...I’ll come with you to the Vice Admiral’s office.” He said, as they headed through the front doors. He glanced to his left, remembering that there was a photo of her father and Maverick there in the lobby. They stopped there for a moment and Sam’s jaw worked as she looked at the photo.

“He was so young. He never got to take me up in the air like he wanted...” She said solemnly and Jake glanced down at her. 

“I’ll make it happen. I’ll take you up there someday. Promise.” He said and Sam gazed up at him, eyes slightly misty. He pressed a feather light kiss to her forehead, and they decided to head up to the Vice Admiral’s office. When they approached, Cyclone and Warlock were sitting, and Maverick was standing, briefing them on his lesson plan for the day. Sam knocked on the door and Cyclone perked up.

“Samantha...Hangman...come in.” He said, both of them entering, Jake’s hand on the small of her back as they approached the Vice Admiral’s desk. Jake then folded his arms behind his back, at attention for his superiors. “At ease, Lieutenant.” Cyclone said and Jake relaxed his posture and leaned a little closer to Sam. Maverick tilted his head and a corner of his lips turned up. Sam reached in her bag, taking the envelopes out and placing them on the desk in front of Cyclone.

“My father asked me to drop these off to you. I was also wondering if you didn’t mind me borrowing an office or a conference room for the day, sir?” She asked and Cyclone smiled warmly at her.

“Anything for Ice’s daughter.” He said softly and then his eyes locked on Jake. Everyone’s eyes locked on Jake, in fact.

“Sir. I’d like to inform you that Samantha and I are in a relationship. I hope this won’t affect my position or fitness for this mission.” Jake said and Cyclone nodded.

“If her father is fine with it, then your relationship with her will be viewed objectively and have no effect on your position.” He said and Jake nodded. Sam knew by doing this, he was trying to make sure that he wasn't given any special treatment. He wanted a fair chance at being selected for this mission. He needed no special favors just because he was seeing Iceman’s daughter. He wanted no special favor for it. He wanted work and pleasure completely separate.

“Thank you, sir.” Jake said and Cyclone dismissed them both. 

🛩️ 🛩️ 🛩️

Sam settled into a conference room, which was across the hall from the ready room where Jake and his co-pilots were going to be going over their plan for the day. She’d just opened her laptop and was typing, while waiting for the Zoom call to come in. She heard a knock and looked up to see Nat. She stood and they met in the middle of the room, in a hug.

“Hey...um...can we talk a minute?” Nat asked and Sam nodded. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I feel like I have been there for you...”

“No...you’re busy. This mission is super important.” Sam said, and Nat shook her head.

“But I could be making time for you like Jake is...” She said and Sam’s brow furrowed. Nat spoke again before Sam could. “I am happy for you...I’m just surprised you picked him.”

“He kinda picked me...he’s really nice, Nat. He just doesn’t show it because he thinks it’ll make him look weak.” Sam said.

“As a woman in the Navy...I get that. But he doesn’t have to be such a dick...” Nat said, agreeing with Jake’s facade, because she had one of her own to uphold. 

“Hey...I have an idea...Come to dinner. Please?” Sam begged and Nat scrunched her nose at the thought.

“With Bagman? Hard Pass. It’s enough that I deal with him here, I really don’t need to spend time with him outside of work.” She said and Sam grabbed her hands.

“C’mon Nat, please? For me? I swear he'll be on his best behavior. Bring Bob too if you want.” Sam said and Nat figured it wouldn't hurt to give him another chance. One more chance. Nat left Sam with that as they heard her computer trying to connect the Zoom call she'd been waiting for. Sam sat back down and she saw the pilots, including her boyfriend, file into the ready room. Maverick poked his head into the room that Sam was in to say a quick hello and then headed in to instruct for the day. 

Sam glanced over every once in a while and she saw that air of arrogance in Jake that he was so well known for. It oozed from him even as he just sat there. He knew he was the best of the best and he wasn't going to let anyone think he wasn't. 

Maverick finished his speech for the morning and then dismissed the pilots to go get their flight gear on. Sam was taking notes, not only on her call, but also about Jake as he walked out of the room. Sure, he had Javy, but no one else seemed to want to be involved in even light conversation with him. Sam felt bad because she sort of knew who he was behind the scenes, but she knew most of his copilots would never see that side of him and then she understood what his call sign meant to them. They didn't trust him and they knew he was in this for himself. He thought he was the hero and they didn't. And that was another part of why Sam gave him a chance.

🛩🛩🛩

When their day was done, Jake came into the conference room and sat down while he waited for Sam to finish up another call. He had changed back into his khakis and a black tank that showed off his biceps. Sam couldn't help but let her eyes wander, seeing him reclined in a chair, scrolling on his phone. She wondered what had his attention so fully, drawing a smirk from him. He glanced over at one point and their eyes met, both smiling wide. 

Sam rattled off some numbers and statistics that her boss asked for and Jake was impressed, his gaze settling on her as he placed his phone down. He’d never been with a girl that was as smart as Sam. As her call ended, he picked his phone up again and stood from his chair. She sat down at hers, as she’d been standing while reading figures to her boss. Jake had assumed she just needed to stretch. He prowled over to her, and placed his hands on her shoulders. She glanced up at him, then finished typing on her laptop, and closed it.

‘What had your attention so intently?” She asked and he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. He wrapped his arms around her and put his phone in front of her. He was on Instagram. On her profile. He was looking at pictures of her from two summers ago, when she visited Virginia Beach. When she had her fling with Rooster. But she didn’t know if Jake knew that, because he’d probably kill Rooster if he did.

“You’re fuckin’ hot, y’know that? Can’t believe how gorgeous you are.” He murmured next to her ear and pressed his nose to her temple. She reached up and ran her fingers through his short hair, her nails scratching his scalp and making him push into her more. He loved when she put her fingers in his hair. 

“So...I invited Nat and Bob to dinner later? You pick where.” Sam said and she felt Jake tense.

“Okay...then you come over to my place after...you’ve never been.” He said, something uneasy about his tone, so she agreed without question. That was only fair. 

🛩🛩🛩

Jake found a place, a little hole in the wall Mexican taqueria on the waterfront. He and Sam arrived first and acquired seating. Jake ordered a round of beers for himself, Nat, and Bob, and a cider beer for Sam. Jake had decided a plain black shirt with the sleeves rolled and jeans were good for tonight, and Sam used it as an excuse to put on a pretty pink dress, a thin cottony fabric that sat off one of her shoulders. Jake was going to make sure he paid special attention there tonight as her neck was exposed and was prime real estate for kissing.

“You sure they'll show? I’m pretty sure they all hate me at this point.” Jake said, leaning back against the booth they were sat in and placing his arm across the top of it, a partially possessive gesture as his hand laid lazily off the back of the booth, fingers brushing her shoulder. 

“Nat wouldn't skip on me. She's been my best friend for so long. She knows I wouldn't forgive her.” Sam said, and Jake could her the confidence in her voice.

“If you say so...oh...shit...they did show.”  He took a swig of his beer and looked up, just as Nat and Bob came through the front door. They walked over to the table that they'd gotten, in the corner of the room. They said hi and sat. Jake thought it odd to see them out of uniform or flight suits. Bob looked relaxed in jeans and t-shirt and Nat had decided on a pretty black dress with quarter sleeves. 

“Did you order yet?” Nat asked and Sam smiled.

“Got you both a beer and some chips and salsa. I've heard it's great here.” They both smiled and there was a bit of an awkward silence in the air as Jake pushed their  beers toward them. They each took a sip just as the chips and salsa arrived. The waitress gave them a few more minutes with the menu and they decided to get a couple flights of different types of tacos to try. There was another moment of awkward silence as the three pilots seemed to be trying to figure out what to talk about. Sam on the other hand, had snuck a selfie and sent it to her friend, Shelby, who responded immediately.

Shelby: holy fuck hes gorgeous

“So...you two are seeing each other?” Bob asked, which made Sam look up from her phone. Her and Nat reached for chips and salsa at the same time and bumped their hands together on purpose with a laugh. 

“Been seeing each other, yes.” Jake said, letting his arm slip off the back of the booth and across Sam’s shoulders fully.

“Been seeing? Wait for how long?” Bob asked.

“Since the beginning of the detachment. When I asked her out and she said yes to dinner. I saw her the next day. And the next, and every single day after.” Jake explained.

“Hangman actually goes on second dates?” Bob said with a lilt of humor in his voice.

“Hangman goes on many dates apparently.” Nat said, wiggling her brows at Sam. She knew that they’d be spending time together, but Nat didn’t know quite how much time. So when Nat told him to be there the other day, he had already been and continued to be. Meaning he had also seen how bad Ice was. Nat could then only assume that Jake was beginning to understand the effect it was having on Sam.

“Yeah.” Sam said, running her hand up and down his bicep. He glanced at her, and actually smiled at Nat and Bob. And it looked genuine. By the time their food arrived, the tension between everyone had loosened significantly and by the end of the dinner, Nat and Bob could almost say they enjoyed hanging out with Jake Seresin outside of work.

[natslilcorner]

DadMight and Izuku (hit by a age/body regressing quirk) AU

(i'm not a writer and English is my third language, this is just a brainrot i had to get out lol)

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

When Toshinori got the message from Aizawa about “his problem child getting into problems again” he was ready to call a taxi to the nearest hospital or even the police station, he certainly wasn’t expecting THIS.

In the teacher lounge sitting on a chair was a very familiar green haired teenager… no, a toddler. He was wearing a very loose tshirt and some shorts, probably given by a smaller student, they were still very big on the kid though.

“What… happened? Young Midoriya are you okay?” Toshinori kneels in front of his the kid checking for injuries.

“There was an incident in the city and they were assigned to rescue the civilians involved. Midoriya was pulling an injured civilian from under rubble, and they accidentally activated their quirk. I guess you can figure out what their quirk is.” Aizawa points his thumb to Izuku. “Apparently they are a therapist specialised in childhood trauma or something like that. From their file they usually have a very good control on their quirk and how long the” he again points at Izuku “lasts. But they got a pretty bad concussion so we really don’t know when Midoriya will change back. Usually with their patients they make it last a day or two.. but there has been cases where the change has last a week or two.” Aizawa sighs and takes a sip of the cold coffee that was sitting on his desk.

“Oh…” Toshinori looks back at Young…Younger Midoriya and exhales a laugh. “You certainly got yourself in a bit of a pickle, kid.”

Izuku simply stares at the man confused and also a bit scared. The black haired man assured him that he was a hero and that he got in an accident, he also saw the UA entrance while he was being taken there so he wasn’t lying to him. He should be excited because he is at UA! And surrounded by heroes! At least he thinks the blonde man is a hero.. he knew his name though so maybe they are acquaintances?

“You look like you have a lot going on in that small head of yours, any questions?” Toshinori smiles attempting to look friendly and ease some of his the kid’s worries.

“U-Uhm.. when is my m-mum coming?” Izuku asked quietly looking at the men from behind his bangs.

Aizawa stands up from his desk and stands next to Toshinori. “Mrs Midoriya has been already notified about your… situation. She is currently out of town but she should be back tomorrow morning. From her last update she took the first train home so you will see her soon. For now I was thinking of simply keeping you at the dorms.. but-”

Izuku’s eyes start welling up with tears. “I can’t go home?”

Seeing the tears Toshinori starts fretting over his pupil trying to calm the toddler down “You can! It’s just that Inko-san is not home yet and-“ he stops himself and takes a deep breath. “Everything will be alright, Young Midoriya…..Give a second.” Toshinori stands up and nodding to Aizawa the two man leave the room.

“I can take him home. I don’t blame him for being freaked out, he has no memories and we are basically strangers to him right now. Making him stay in a place unknown to him would simply stress him out..”

Aizawa looks at the former Number One Hero. He always knew he had a big soft spot for Midoriya, after all he was aware now of their story together. What intrigues him though…

“And how exactly will you enter the Midoriya’s apartment?” Aizawa raises his eyebrow at the man, not pointing out him using the first name of the boy's mother.

Toshinori looks quizzically at his coworker for a couple seconds… suddenly all the blood rushes to his face making him look like a tomato.

“Uhm.. ah… well….”

Oh?

Aizawa pinches his nose bridge and sighs. All Might really needs a working etiquette lesson. But he won’t snitch on him… the gossip-loving rat probably knows already.

“Forget I asked. I don’t wanna know. Just take Midoriya home then, and notify his mother about where he is staying. IIda already brought his bag and some stuff so take that as well.” And with that the Underground Hero left leaving the older man alone.

....

Alright, Yagi! You saved thousands of people, you can take care of a toddler for a day.

Toshinori goes back into the teacher lounge and looks down at his pupil. Izuku is still sitting on the chair playing with the hem of the oversized shirt folding it over and over again.

“Young Midoriya!” The kid startled looks up with reddened eyes. He stopped crying but he can see that the waterfalls were not over yet. “Cmon I’m gonna take you home!” He smiles.

Izuku jumps down the chair and looks up at Toshinori hopefully. “Is my mum back then?”

Toshinori kneels in front of him and puts his hand of his fluffy head. “No, she will still be back tomorrow morning. But we figured out it would be more comfortable for you waiting in your home rather than here. But do not worry!” He hits his own chest and uses his All Might voice. “Because I will keep you company!”

Izuku stares at the frail man in awe. He just did the best All Might voice he ever heard! Is he also a fan? Since he is in UA is he a hero as well? Did he work with All Might? But All Might has no sidekicks, did they do missions together then- Izuku’s thoughts stop hearing the man.. his babysitter’s laugh. He notices how often he looks at him fondly, just like his mum does. He wants to ask what is his relationship with the “older Izuku”.

“You are mumbling Young Midoriya” Toshinori smiles and ruffles his hair. “We have the whole day together so keep your questions for later. Although I can’t promise I will answer all of them. Hero secrecy and stuff.” He winks and laughs again seeing Izuku getting even more excited.

“Now let’s get you home. It’s almost lunch time so I bet you are hungry!” He picks up the kid’s backpack and goes to the door.

Suddenly he feels a tiny hand hold his way bigger one. Toshinori has always been tall and big in general, training his body all life made his hands rough and full of callouses. He gently squeezes the tiny hand, looks down and gets greeted with a precious smile.

Ah.

This will be more challenging than he thought. He just hopes his weak heart will be able to handle all the cuteness that radiates from his the kid.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

>PART 1<

PART 2

[beef-brisket]

Levi: Alright. Those are very valid concerns and issues, Adam. Relationships need work from both parties. It's not only damaging to your relationship with each other, but also with your daughter.

Lucifer listened. She's only six months old, how much damage could he really do?

Levi: Now, Lucifer. Why sex?

Lucifer blinked, not understanding the question.

Lucifer: Uh... why sex? I mean... look at him.

Lucifer didn't know what else to say. But he knew it wasn't a good answer when Adam rolled his eyes.

Levi glanced at Adam, then back at Lucifer, her hand, and he gave hardening.

Levi: What do you mean by that?

Lucifer: ...He's the first man. He's literally perfection. Who wouldn't want a night with him?

Levi: So... let me get this straight. You value the sex you have with Adam, the first man, over the marriage you have with Adam, the father or your child?

Lucifer tensed: ...That's not what I meant.

Levi: What did you mean, then?

Lucifer: I-I mean... he's amazing. I love him, why wouldn't I want sex with him? And I don't see a difference between Adam and the first man- he's both. Their both perfect and important to me- it's the same person! Adam IS Adam!

Lucifer chuckles and leans back, he smiles at Adam but it drops when he's not even looking at him.

Levi hums and writes a quick note: Lucifer. I'm sure you of all people know what kind of weight titles have. Do you think there's a difference between the king of Hell and Lucifer?

Lucifer: ...I mean... I'm Lucifer... who's also the king of Hell. Is... is there a difference?

Levi: Do you always feel like the king of Hell?

Lucifer: No. Sometimes... I feel empty and cold. Then, when I'm doing work, I feel stressed and fake.

Levi: Fake?

Lucifer: Like it's an act. I'm not put together or even slightly functioning. I'm just... a mess most of the time. I've never felt like a king. Not for thousands of years. I feel like a fraud. A lie. I demand respect, but I don't deserve it. There's no difference between the king of Hell and Lucifer. Their both pathetic. Both a lie.

Lucifer shrugs: I gave up trying to change that. There's no point.

Levi: There is a point. Your daughter. Both of them.

Lucifer froze and glanced to Adam. He was now looking at him, he looked sad but desperate.

Lucifer: I...

Levi: It's not just you, Lucifer. It's never been just you. Charlie is over two hundred years old, but she still needs you. Does she deserve the best version of you?

Lucifer nodded, looking at Levi: Yeah, she does.

Levi: Does Avery deserve you at your best?

Lucifer: Yes. Yes she does.

Levi: Does Adam? Not, Adam, the first man. But Adam. Your husband. The father of your child.

Lucifer: looked at Adam: Yes, he does.

Levi: Then. It sounds like the king of Hell and Lucifer needs to change. For the better. And it's not just them you need to better yourself for.

Lucifer turned to Levi. He really hopes this isn't another pregnancy announcement.

Levi: You deserve it, too. Probably more than anyone.

That was even worse than a pregnancy announcement.

Lucifer: I... what? I don't... I've done... I deserve nothing. I don't even deserve Adam or Avery! Fuck- I don't deserve Charlie!

Levi: ...you deserve love, Lucifer. And compassion and devotion. Both of you do. But Lucifer. You can't change for them, if you don't change for you, first.

Lucifer glared: T-Then I might as well just throw everything away! Because I've done some horrible shit, Lizzy! Hell torments me every damn day! I deserve it! I can't change! How can I!? I deserve no happiness or love! I'm the Devil! The most hated fucking being in existence! Adam even said so!

Adam: Fuck you, Lucifer- that was years ago! Don't you think my opinion of you has changed!?

Lucifer glared at him: Obviously not, if we're here.

Levi: Lucifer. You're attacking him. And yourself. Enough.

Lucifer looked away. He was beyond annoyed and confused.

Levi: You have a lot of work, Lucifer. Not just kingly duties, but personal ones. I'm going to book you in for personal counseling.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow and eyed her: I'm doing personal counseling-.

Adam: Counseling from someone that's not your daughter, dumbass.

Levi: Adam, please. No name calling in my office. I know you're mad. But please try and keep it civil.

Adam rolled his eyes and looked away.

Lucifer: I... don't need counseling-.

Levi: That's what everyone that needs counseling says. Stay behind after this session, so I can organize it for you.

Lucifer felt that there was no way to fight this, so he nods.

When Lucifer and Adam exited Dr Levi's office, they waited for her in the lobby.

Lucifer: ...Great session, huh? I sure learned a lot! It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be!

Lucifer laughed awkwardly after a few seconds of Adam not speaking. Eventually, Levi walked out and got the payment ready. Lucifer watched as Adam paid and headed for the door.

Lucifer: I'll be there in a second, dove! Don't leave without me, haha!

Lucifer organized a few personal sessions, and Levi did a few for Adam to. She handed him three cards with their individual and group session dates.

He thanked her and walked outside. He looked around, and his heart dropped when he saw Adam had left.

Separation Trial

@beef-brisket @things-arent-what-they-seem66

Adam tapped his fingers against the table in a distracted manner. He had been there at the restaurant for a while now. Waiting for his...waiting for Lucifer. He needed to talk with Lucifer, he wanted to talk to him at home about it, in private. However, when he asked about meeting him, Lucifer simply nodded his head and said they could meet at this restaurant.

He didn't even take Adam’s idea at eating at home into consideration. Although the place Adam sat currently was upscale and nice it wasn’t what he wanted to do. This wasn’t where he wanted to have…the conversation. He sighed to himself as he saw Lucifer approach. He barely even said hello before Lucifer kissed him on the cheek before seating himself.

Lucifer: Hello my dearest, what’s going on? Why’d you want to talk at a restaurant? You know we could have talked over the phone. You made it sound so urgent.

Adam took a moment to keep his anger in check. Once again Lucifer wasn’t listening.

Adam: What I wanted to talk to you about couldn’t be said over the phone. It had to be in person. Lucifer we have been married for three whole years now.

Lucifer: Yeah I know, last week was our anniversary. Don’t you remember Addie?

Adam felt his breath hitch and he struggled to not cry then and there. Their third anniversary had been a disaster, he didn’t want to go into it. But Adam had would forever hate that day. It was what made him bring this meeting with Lucifer.

Adam: I do remember, and so should you.

Lucifer: But I literally just said that I

Adam: No, I’m talking about what happened that day. Can you please tell me what happened?

Lucifer was nervous at his husband’s harsh tone but answered him.

Lucifer: Well, I do remember that both of us were so busy, I with handling a fortis problem, then Charlie called and she needed some help with the hotel, and I didn’t get back till late at night. Oh and you had that concert of yours, by the way how was it? I don’t think I asked before.

Adam felt his eye twitch.

Adam: It was not JUST a concert Lucifer.

Lucifer: …Did something happen at the concert?

Adam: More like what didn’t happen.

Lucifer: Did no one applaud you? Were they booing you? Honey don’t worry your a great singer, you’ll bounce back.

Adam: No, there were no applause nor cheers. Because my audience wasn’t there.

Lucifer: Oh, Adam I’m so sorry.

Adam: You weren’t there Lucifer.

Lucifer: What?

Adam: You were not at my concert Lucifer, You were supposed to be there. Because you were meant to be my audience. Because that concert was going to be dedicated to you! It was supposed to be my wedding anniversary present to you!

Lucifer: But, but, but it’s not my fault if you don’t tell me in advance!

Adam: Lucifer I told you weeks prior about it. And you always said that you’d be there. But of course you lied.

Lucifer: I didn’t lie! Shit came up Adam this isn’t my fault. If anything you should have told me before I left that day! On top of that what did you expect me to do? Not do my duty as king. Tell the goetia to handle it themselves!? Say no to my own daughter, your own daughter, I shouldn’t have helped her at all?! Geez you can be selfish sometimes.

Adam’s eyes widened at that statement. He was shocked to his seat still. Then slowly he nodded his head in understanding. He was an idiot for ever even considering giving Lucifer a second chance. Taking a deep breath, Adam looked directly into Lucifer’s yellow, red eyes and said,

Adam: Lucifer, I want a divorce

[antique-symbolism]

Not feeling very positive about my health tonight, lads

[dawdlecentric]

Yeag...

[averlym]

whshdfhfjf.,,,

[mothpdf]

crying on the public transport

[running-in-the-dark]

my niece stayed with us last night. it was pretty fun this time, probably because I was feeling better (if I'm already in pain or exhausted, I can't handle it). after we dropped her off, we talked to my mother for a little bit, and then drove to my in-laws. we were there for a few hours and because the guys were busy outside, i ended up talking to my mother-in-law for most of that time. it was... kind of good? I don't know. she actually showed some real emotions, just a little bit, but hey that's more than ever before! I even gave her a weird little shoulder squeeze/side hug, it was so weird.

anyway, I almost fell asleep in the car on the way home because I was so tired, and actually did fall asleep immediately on the couch.

[inexpressiblybeatiful]

Hotel Portofino be like: Bury your gays and also bury your child.