#THEY JUST BRUSH IT OFF AND TELL ME TO GO HOME????

[ariichive]

JEALOUSY☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

jealous scenarios ft. phainon, anaxa, and mydei!

gen. neutral reader

cw: anaxa is kinda crazy he puts his gun to reader, possessiveness, mentions of violence, fluff, not proofread im so tired :')

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

phainon

phainon was one to pride himself on his natural charm, he was a very easy going guy. the stark contrast between him in battle and off was admirable.

though as much as he hates to admit it, sometimes the warrior takes over his instincts. for instance, right now as he watched the droma’s caretaker openly flirt with you.

it wasn’t just the flirting—though that was annoying enough—it was the way you laughed, the way your eyes softened, the way you didn’t immediately pull away. phainon knew you weren’t his, not in the way that would justify this sudden surge of possessiveness. but logic had never been good at taming instinct.

his fingers twitched at his side, an old habit from years of battle. the part of him that thrived in combat, the part that didn’t hesitate when faced with a challenge, whispered at him to act. it would be so easy to step in, to slide an arm around your waist, to make it clear to everyone in the room—especially to the man standing too close—that you weren’t available.

but that wasn’t his place. not yet, at least. so instead, he forced himself to take a breath, to unclench his fists, to remind himself that he was phainon—charming, laid-back, not the type to pick a fight over something so trivial.

“phainon, this one likes me!”

his stoic expression softened when he realized, in fact, you were talking about the loving dromas and not that man.

phainon smiled gently at your joy, “i can tell, he sure does like you a lot!”

there was a certain edge to his voice that could’ve been missed by onlookers. you gave him a concerned glance, one which he smiled at and didn’t question further.

and yet, when the caretaker let out another laugh, explaining the most basic knowledge of dromas ever, his hand brushing against yours, phainon found himself smiling again. it wasn’t a friendly smile.

“having fun?” he asked, voice smooth but carrying an edge beneath it as he finally approached the two of you.

“yeah—!” you were quick to respond only to look up at phainon and realize his attention wasn’t on you. “phainon..”

“yes my lovely spouse, who i treasure more than any riches and i’d also kill for?” now his attention was focused on you, his smile bittersweet.

the thing with phainon is whenever he looked at you, there was always such intensity.

“don’t start, i’m okay i promise.”

there was a joking tilt to your voice, but it was enough to calm him down.

“now, come over and feed the dromases with me! this one’s name is castor, very sweet we should take him home!”

phainon let out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. "my love, as much as i would adore bringing castor home, i fear he would not fit through our door."

you laughed, reaching out to pet the dromas, who nuzzled into your touch affectionately. "we could make it work," you teased, "build a bigger door, you're strong enough. or, you know, just let him live in our backyard."

phainon hummed in thought, stepping closer until he was right beside you. "tempting," he mused, reaching out to pet castor. "but then i’d have to compete for your affection, and i don’t think my heart could take it."

you rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. "oh, please. you already know you’re my favorite."

his grin softened into something more genuine, his blue eyes filled with something tender. "good. because my dearest, you are mine." phainon swears the dromas narrowed its eyes at him (the caretaker did too but phainon was too busy enjoying the memoment with you to get mad all over again).

you burst into laughter as the dromas let out a soft sound, clearly pleased with itself. "maybe if you were as cute as them, you’d stand a chance."

phainon clutched his chest. "wounded. utterly wounded."

but despite his theatrics, he leaned in closer, his hand brushing against yours as you both continued to feed the dromases together, the warmth between you as steady as ever.

...

"y'know, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to take one home, then we wouldn't have to come back here. i can't believe that vile man had the nerve to even look at you..!"

"phainon, my dear, we are not actually going to take one home."

"...i like the name kevin, wouldn't you agree, [name]?"

the rest of the day was spent with phainon in your ear.

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

anaxa

the carefully crafted lunched in your hands was the least of your worries as a soft click was heard from behind you followed by a pressure being applied to the back of your head.

just to think; you went out of your way to bring lunch to your oh-so-kind boyfriend and this is how he greets you?

you would say you're surprised but... this isn't the first time something like this has happened.

"do tell me, what's the foul mood for now?"

he didn't appreciate the snarky comment as a the gun pushed against your head even more.

"my [name], you seemed to enjoy yourself outside with that man. would i be correct to assume so?"

so this is what he's mad about.

you exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. "if you must know, i was just making conversation. you know, something normal people do?"

the gun pressed harder against your skull in response, the warning clear. anaxa hated being mocked.

"careful," he murmured, voice quieter now, more dangerous. "i'm already being generous by allowing you to explain yourself. do not test my patience."

you tilted your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. his expression was unreadable, but his grip on the gun was steady—too steady.

"allowing me to explain myself?" you echoed, amusement creeping into your tone. "and here i thought my oh-so-loving boyfriend would trust me a little more by now."

anaxa exhaled sharply through his nose, but he said nothing. the silence stretched between you for a few moments before the pressure at the back of your head finally disappeared.

anaxa let out a low hum, his voice smooth yet laced with something sharp—jealousy, possessiveness, something only he could wield so effortlessly. "you know how i feel about you entertaining the company of other men," he said, tilting his head slightly. "and yet, there you were, laughing as if you had no care in the world."

you sigh, "i promise you it was a very brief interaction. i even told him i was visiting you for lunch."

anaxa looked away in faux annoyance as he gently took the lunch from your hands.

"thank you, [name]." anaxa was genuine in his thanks, he understood how troublesome it could be to reach him in the grove of epiphany.

you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "i'd say 'you're welcome,' but i'm not sure you deserve it after that stunt."

he sighed dramatically, setting the lunch down on his desk before taking a seat. his movements were as measured as ever, graceful even in something as simple as this. "you wound me, truly," he drawled, undoing the buttons of his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up. "but i suppose my cruelty knows no bounds, does it? threatening my beloved over something as insignificant as a passing interaction."

"so you admit it was ridiculous?" you quirked a brow, leaning against the edge of his desk.

anaxa leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with a gaze so heavy it felt like an unseen weight pressing against you. "i admit nothing," he corrected, voice as smooth as ever. "but even the most brilliant minds are prone to… lapses in judgment."

you let out a small scoff, shaking your head. "right. 'lapses in judgment.' is that what we're calling your absurd jealousy now?"

he exhaled through his nose, as if considering your words, before finally opening the meal you had brought him. "call it whatever you like, my dear," he said idly, plucking a piece of food with deliberate ease. "but tell me, if i were to flirt so freely with another, would you be so composed?"

your mouth opened, but the words died on your tongue. anaxa watched your hesitation with something akin to satisfaction, his smirk deepening ever so slightly.

"i thought as much," he said smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate bite of his food. "jealousy, my dear, is a universal affliction. i am simply more… expressive about mine."

you huffed, looking away, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. "you're insufferable and lucky i have the patience for you," you muttered.

he let out a soft chuckle, low and indulgent. "patience," he mused, reaching out to brush a gloved finger against your cheek, slow and deliberate. "such a rare and commendable virtue. though i must wonder..."

his touch trailed lower, tracing the curve of your jaw before finally resting under your chin. with the lightest pressure, he tilted your face ever so slightly upward, forcing you to hold his gaze.

"how much longer will that patience last, i wonder?"

you swallowed, refusing to look away. "depends," you said, barely above a breath. "how many more times do you plan on pulling a gun on me?"

anaxa’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, but his eyes flickered with something softer—something dangerously close to fondness.

"ah," he sighed dramatically, finally releasing you and leaning back into his chair. "a fair question. but, my dear, you wound me. surely you know by now that i only threaten the things i cannot bear to lose?"

you stared at him, feeling both shocked and flustered.

you huffed, shaking your head as you finally relented, letting the conversation settle into something resembling peace. and despite everything—despite his absurd possessiveness, his impossible nature, his maddeningly smug demeanor—you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

because somehow, against all logic, against every ounce of reason—anaxa was yours. and that was something even he, with all his sharp words and sharper wit, could never deny.

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

mydei

mydei always found himself in petty competitions with phainon. whether it was who could pick the most apples to who could slay the most enemies, phainon always knew how to push his buttons.

though he might’ve pushed them a little too far..

“afraid you’ll lose? i would’ve never guessed that the great mydeimos was scared of talking to a girl. or are you scared [name] will end up liking me more?”

“deliverer,” mydei said with a scary amount of joy in his voice, “tell me, do you enjoy being humiliated by a kremnoan heir?”

“so is it a deal?”

“if that’s what you wish to call it, we’ll start now. try not to make an utter fool out of yourself. you won't even be able to touch them."

there was absolutely no way mydei was going to even let phainon breathe the same air as you.

phainon grinned, entirely unfazed by mydei’s sharp tone. “oh? possessive already? my, my, what will [name] think of this? surely they've noticed your crush on them by now.”

mydei exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “they will think nothing of it because you will not get the opportunity to so much as look at them.”

phainon laughed, tilting his head with an almost lazy confidence. “bold words. i wonder if you’ll still be saying that once they’re hanging off my arm instead.”

the barely restrained fury in mydei’s eyes was almost comical. “you delude yourself.”

“and you’re stalling.” phainon shrugged, already turning on his heel. “come now, mydeimos. unless, of course, you are afraid?”

mydei scoffed, stepping forward with an air of unwavering confidence. “i fear nothing—least of all a fool with an overinflated ego.”

the competition had begun.

mydei was the first to find you. he's always remembered the places you often frequented, the bathhouse being common among them.

mydei found you tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the bathhouse, steam curling through the air in delicate wisps. he approached silently, his footsteps barely making a sound against the stone floor.

he had always been observant—perhaps more than you'd realized. no matter how much time passed, he never forgot the places you sought comfort in.

"i thought i'd find you here," he murmured, his voice low and steady, cutting through the gentle trickle of water. "it's peaceful here," you said softly, returning your gaze to the water, watching a rubber duck float by.

after a long moment, you glanced at him, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

"you always find me."

mydei's crimson eyes softened, a rare hint of fondness breaking through his composed exterior.

"of course," he said quietly. "you're worth finding."

mydei had a huge advantage over phainon; everything that came out of his mouth was genuine.

you felt your body heat amplifying from his intense gaze, the steam from the bath worsening your situation.

the air between you two felt thick with unspoken words, the steam in the room only adding to the intensity. mydei’s crimson eyes were locked onto you with an unwavering focus, as if trying to read something deeper than just your expressions.

“you know, you really don’t make this easy,” you muttered, trying to divert your thoughts, the heat rising in your chest feeling like it might burst through your skin.

he raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving yours. "make what easy?"

you shifted uncomfortably, the faintest of blush creeping onto your cheeks. “this... this tension.”

mydei tilted his head slightly, the smallest of smirks tugging at the corner of his mouth. “tension?” he repeated, his voice smooth and calculated. “i’m simply speaking the truth.”

you shot him a glance, his words echoing in your mind. you’re worth finding.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard him say such things before, but this time, it felt different. There was no teasing, no veiled sarcasm—just the raw sincerity that mydei rarely offered.

“you never do anything half-heartedly, do you?” you said, a small sigh escaping your lips.

mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence looming like a silent promise. His gaze softened as he spoke, but there was still a quiet intensity behind it.

"only when it’s worth it," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but it still hit you like a wave.

your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

he moment hung between you two, the weight of his words settling deep within you. mydei’s presence was suffocating in the best way—an intensity that seemed to radiate from him, the kind that made it impossible to think of anything else but him.

you opened your mouth, but the words stuck. something about his steady gaze and the closeness between you left you speechless, your heart thudding in your chest.

“mydei…” you whispered, almost as if testing the air, "would you like to join me in the bath? i'm sue it'll help relieve any sores you might have?"

mydei's gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, the quiet intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a curious, almost amused glint. he took a step closer, the space between you two shrinking even more.

“you offer me company in the bath?” he asked, his voice holding a hint of surprise. “how… bold.”

you could hear the teasing undertone in his words, but it wasn’t as biting as usual. there was something more… tender in the way he spoke, something that made your heart flutter despite the calmness of the moment.

“i only thought it might help you relax,” you replied, keeping your tone light, though your pulse quickened slightly under his steady gaze. “and you’re always so tense. even the crown prince needs to rest now and then.”

mydei let out a quiet chuckle at that, the sound warm and soft, like the fleeting warmth of the bath. "i’m afraid i’ve never had much time for relaxation," he murmured, his tone shifting again, darker, but with an edge of something more vulnerable. "but perhaps you’re right. it’s been... a long time since i allowed myself the luxury."

there was a pause, and you could see the weight of his words settle over him, like he’d just made a decision. his eyes softened, and he took another step closer, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he gently took your hand.

"then, i’ll join you. for once, perhaps i could allow myself this."

as mydei settled comfortably next to you in the bath, he couldn't help but wonder where phainon had been all this time.

and there was a small voice in the back of his head, saying 'if phainon found you first, would you have invited him into the bath with you?'

he glanced sideways at you, his gaze unreadable for a brief moment as he tried to suppress the discomfort he felt at the idea.

as he took in your relaxed face, mydei realized how important such moments were to the two of you. this was just the start of many more scenarios he would spend with you.

if you enjoyed please consider following/liking/reblogging :)

i just love the idea of unhinged anaxa

[hcneymooners]

⋆ i was young and sweet, and then something happened.

truck driver!sevika x female!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you're back home after burning out your new york dreams. mississippi has been waiting for you and comes with the old and new—including the delivery driver that frequents your mother's boutique.

cw: truck driver!sevika, female!reader, age gap, older woman/younger woman, reader is in her twenties, modern!au, unresolved sexual tension, slow burn, strangers to lovers, returning to the hometown you worked to escape from, complex mother daughter relationships, non-sexual intimacy, mentions of grief and loss of a loved one, open (but very positive) ending.

notes: i hate this, just a bit. but please, please tell me what you think. send long asks, even. i love them. i love you.

It's the rat that skitters over your foot that sends you home.

You'd just climbed out of the endless well that is the New York subway, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with the man rocking back and forth right outside the stairwell. You feel a sense of shame as you refuse to look at him, a horrible aching feeling that speaks to you losing sight of your roots and where you came from.

Your most recently created playlist was blasting—aptly titled "songs that are what's wrong with me"—when you'd felt it. A heavy brush against your ankle and across the top of your foot. You looked down, almost in slow motion, and watched as the plump body of a well-fed city rat finished its travel across the top of your square-toe black flats.

You resist the urge to scream, cautious of seeming just as crazy as the man you keep refusing to look at. You hear him laugh and it makes you press your lips together until there are only two thin lines on your face. You contemplate dragging your heels out of your bag but you still have at least three blocks to go and you're tired and so sick of it all.

A billboard flashes across from you as you turn the corner: a woman's bright face with bleach-white teeth advertising a new aesthetic clinic that just opened approximately two streets away from where you live. You feel insane.

You open your phone and buy the plane ticket.

On the plane ride home, you dream of Talladega County. 

You haven’t been in years. The last time was when your mother took you on a “girls’ trip” where she told you that she didn’t love your father anymore, that she was leaving him. You had started crying, begging to go home because you could feel somewhere deep in your gut that he’d be gone by the time you came home. She told you he wouldn’t, promised you. 

You stared into her face, her features shadowed by the halo of the sun behind her head. She was tanned and beautiful—and everything you believed in. You’d calmed down, called him to tell him you loved him. He had said it back, his voice weary. 

He was gone when you got home, somewhere out in the thickets of Alabama where you had been only moments ago. 

In the dream, you stand in the fold in a tiny triangle bikini. It’s blue, but sometimes pink, and you have long black wet hair streaking all over you. Behind you, there's a field and dilapidated shacks—or maybe they’re houses only broken down by shame and time. 

In front of you hovers a buck with tall antlers. He's come and found you, pushes forward until his face is against your stomach and your upper body is in between his antlers like a sun. It's only this close that you can see the other antlers trapped on top of his, dripping blood off the bone. 

He's killed something. One of his own, maybe he’s gutted you. You begin to twirl in a circle as he herds you, Ethel Cain's throaty vocals invading you spiritually through your wired headphones until you settle your chin on a shotgun (when did that appear?) and look back at the buck. 

But beyond him now. Someone is looking at you. Come to me. You don’t know which of you is asking, including the animal.

When you land, you text your mother about your dream. She tells you to go see her psychic, that you can drive there straight after she picks you up. You’re not here yet? You text her. She doesn’t respond. You don’t check her location. You were never one for seeking answers. 

Welcome to Mississippi, the flight attendant tells you as you step out of the door. Her voice is chipper and bright, someone who clearly doesn’t see anything past the palm trees and pale Marlboro Lights. Thank you, you respond, for getting me here. You wonder if it's a little too intense to say thank you in this manner to someone who hasn’t talked to you for the entire flight.

But her eyes soften and maybe she sees something, maybe she knows that in your blood runs the waters of the Gulf Coast. Her mouth parts and out comes, welcome home.

🪽♱

Your mother is waiting outside baggage claim, leaning against her faded blue Cadillac—the one your grandmother always said would be the death of her. Her hair is different now, lighter where it used to be the same shade as yours, cut in a bob that frames her face and makes her look younger than her fifty-three years. You feel a sense of irritation at the change in color as if she’s taken something away from you. As much as she could annoy you, you loved that the resemblance between you used to be uncanny. 

When she sees you, she straightens, takes one last puff of her bubblegum pink vape before tucking it into her denim shorts’ pocket, and bounces on the tips of her white sandals. You can see slight redness along her brow this close to her, and needle marks from where she’s gotten her “preventative” Botox. It’s only a matter of time before she starts suggesting you join the club. 

"Look what the Gulf dragged in," she says, arms outstretched.

You let her sweep you into a hug, her perfume a perplexing mix of caramel and cinnamon. Maybe it’s the tightness of her hug, the silent admission that she missed you (because you never spoke about your feelings to one another) that causes your face to crumple and your body to shake. Your mother coos, the sound throaty from years of smoking, and rocks you back and forth. You’re blubbering about that fucking rat in New York, but she just knows you need this. 

Somehow, she gets you into the car and stuffs a stick of celery into your mouth, depositing a tiny tub of ranch and breaded chili wings into your lap. The drive from Gulfport to Bay St. Louis takes you along the coast, windows down despite the July heat. Salt air whips your hair around your face as you stare out at the water. It's different here—softer somehow than the aggressive Atlantic you'd grown accustomed to. The Gulf looks like it's breathing, with gentle rises and falls that match the rhythm of your chest.

"Angels is doing well," your mother says, referring to the boutique as if it's a third person in the car. You nod to show your listening, your front teeth break apart the body of another piece of celery. "Tourist season's good this year. The snowbirds are spending money."

You nod, watching pastel-colored houses roll by, their wrought iron balconies and weathered shutters telling stories of hurricanes survived and summer loves forgotten. Spanish moss hangs from live oaks like old women's hair, swaying in the breeze off the water.

"Shit, we need to stop for gas. I knew I should’ve filled her up before leaving," your mother announces, turning into a station that looks like it hasn't changed since 1975. The sign—Silver Cove Gas & Grocery—flickers in the late afternoon sun, neon just beginning to glow against the darkening sky. "Get me a Diet Coke, would you? And whatever you want." Yeah, you think, on my card.

As you step out of the car, the humidity wraps around you like a blanket, familiar in its weight. The feeling makes you think of your childhood best friend Ella, a broad-shouldered girl who used to come up behind you and hug you with a quarter of her true strength. Last time you checked (you’re always checking) she was a professional athlete, free from this town. 

The concrete beneath your feet is warm, and for a moment, you stand still, feeling the heat rise through the soles of your worn down ballet flats. It's nothing like New York pavement, which always feels cold somehow, even in summer. Maybe this is what makes you unlock your phone, find Ella’s Instagram, and send her a message. She probably won’t even see it, given she’s verified and has over two million followers. 

The bell above the door chimes as you enter, and the cashier—a teenager with braces and freckles—nods in recognition. "You're Nina’s girl," she says. Not a question. It doesn’t need to be. You have her face.

You're picking up your mother's Diet Coke from the cooler, and grabbing a Cola Lacaye for yourself, when you hear it—the deep rumble of a diesel engine pulling into the lot. Through the window plastered with faded beer advertisements and fishing tournament flyers, you see it: a massive black truck, clean despite the dusty roads, commanding the space around it like it owns the whole town. Maybe it does. It’s been a long time since you were back anyway. 

The driver's door opens, and a pair of heavy boots hit the ground first. Then legs in well-loved jeans, and finally, her—tall, with arms corded with muscle and dark hair pulled back in a short, practical braid. A scar runs down one side of her face, but it doesn't diminish her beauty; instead, it feels like a warning. This woman has survived things you can't imagine.

She walks steadily toward the store, and as she reaches for the door, your eyes meet through the glass. For a second, neither of you moves. Something passes between you—recognition, maybe, though you've never seen her before. Or perhaps it's just that you both seem out of place here, returned to a world that's both familiar and foreign.

The bell chimes again, and she's inside, the small space suddenly feeling smaller. She nods to the cashier—"Evening, Annie"—and heads straight for the cooler where you're still standing, Diet Coke clutched forgotten in your hand.

"Excuse me," she says, her voice lower than you expected, rougher. When you don't move immediately, one corner of her mouth quirks up. "Unless you're planning to buy all of those."

You step aside and say, “I was thinking about it.” 

She smiles fully as you continue watching as she reaches for a Diet Coke of her own and a package of cream-filled cookies in a blue wrapper. As she moves past you toward the counter, you catch a whiff of diesel and something sweeter—maybe vanilla, maybe just the sea.

"You're new," she says over her shoulder.

"I'm home," you correct her, surprising yourself with how right it feels to say it.

She smiles again, and this time you smile back. You stand in line behind her, your mind following the thick lines of her back as she reaches for her wallet and counts out some bills. Soon enough, she’s finished, and you pay for your own things before slipping out the door. Your mother waves giddily from the driver’s seat and you laugh a little, slightly touched at how glad she is to see you over and over again.

“You’re Nina’s daughter?” that gravelly voice asks and you turn your head to look over your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you say, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

“Your mom’s shop just got added to my delivery route. I see her every Thursday evening,” the woman says. “Guess I’ll be seeing you too.”

“Um, guess so,” you push out, your chest warming at the way she’s gazing down at you. She’s taller by a few inches, but the inches matter. You’re used to being the tallest around. 

She eyes you for a minute longer before making her way back to her truck. You watch until she’s back in the cab, then walk quickly to the Cadillac. As you slide in, your mother presses a kiss to your temple in thanks for her Diet Coke. 

“I see you’ve met Sevika,” she comments. “Strange little woman.”

“Little is not the word I would use to describe her.”

Your phone vibrates with a notification and you check it. It’s a rather sweet response to your Instagram DM. Hey, wow! This was a pleasant surprise. I’m doing great, how are you? You still look the same.

Sorry? You type back without thinking.

Lolll, don’t apologize. It’s not a bad thing. You always had a timeless face. 

Maybe you aren’t forgettable. At the same time you receive the message, your mother laughs.

🪽♱

"Absolutely not," your mother says, setting down her wine glass firmly on the kitchen counter. "You're supposed to be resting, [Name]."

You tilt your head, watching the condensation gather on her glass. The kitchen is the same as you remember—blue and white tiles with little anchors, ceiling fan that clicks when it spins too fast, the refrigerator covered in magnets from places neither of you have actually been.

"I need something to do, Mom. I didn't come back to sit around and count the ceiling tiles."

"What you need is to recover. Work is what made you break down and come back in the first place."

You sigh, picking at the label on your beer bottle. "That was different. That was sixty-hour weeks with a boss who thought weekends were a suggestion." You look up at her. "I’m afraid despite my best attempts, I’ve been corporate-pilled. I will collapse without any work. Just let me take the opening shift. You know you hate mornings anyway."

She narrows her eyes, looking so much like you it's unsettling. "Only mornings?"

"Only mornings," you agree. "I'll have the place ready when you come in at noon. Or one."

Her eyes narrow at the extra hour you’ve added on, but she looks away as she considers.

"Fine," she relents. "But if I see those little crease lines between your eyebrows coming back, I'm firing you."

“Harsh,” you quip, but you squeeze her shoulder as you get up to begin washing the dishes.

Angels by the Sea sits at the corner of Harbor Drive and Magnolia Street, a converted Victorian house painted the palest shade of pink, like the inside of a seashell. The sign—written in your great-aunt’s handwriting and preserved all these years—hangs from wrought iron brackets above the porch. Two white rocking chairs flank the entrance, inviting passersby to sit and watch the Gulf waters in the distance. You think they shouldn’t sit down. People tend to get stuck here. 

You unlock the front door at 8:15, earlier than necessary, but there's something about the morning light filtering through the stained glass transoms that feels sacred. Inside, the boutique is a carefully curated treasure trove: whitewashed wooden floors, antique display cases salvaged from a New Orleans department store, and clothes hanging from driftwood racks your grandfather made decades ago. 

Nothing has really changed and the way the store seems to be waiting for you lances through your chest like a harpoon.

The inventory is eclectic—sundresses in gauzy fabrics, handmade jewelry from local artisans, vintage-inspired swimwear, and the salt scrubs your mother makes in her kitchen. Everything smells faintly of spice and sea salt.

You feel the urge to break down again, but you refrain. Instead, you slide off your converse and socks, let your bare feet rake in the unswept gravel from travelers’ boots as you flip the sign to "Open" and turn on the small record player behind the counter. You sort through the stack of vinyl until you find it—A dusty handmade pink vinyl, titled “Unreleased.” As the needle drops and "Dust Bowl (Demo)" fills the space, you can't help but sway, your hips finding the rhythm naturally.

Ethel’s rich voice singing about blood-stained blondes feels right for this moment—this return to something that feels like yourself. You let your arms drift above your head, spin once in the empty shop, bare feet sliding across the whitewashed floors. No one's watching, and there's a freedom in dancing without worrying about looking graceful or composed. 

You twirl and twirl until you stop with a hand clutching over your stomach, dashing madly to the small employee restroom in the back to vomit into the rusted sink. You scrub it for the next twenty minutes with bleach, humming along as the record still spins. For the first time since stepping off the plane, you feel your shoulders drop. 

Your outfit today—a simple white spaghetti-strap tank and low-rise jeans you found in your old closet—feels like a revelation after years of pencil skirts and blazers. You'd forgotten what it feels like to have your collarbones exposed to the air, to feel fabric that moves with you rather than constrains.

When the song ends, you're slightly breathless and barely smiling. You can't remember the last time you danced in New York—maybe at some corporate happy hour where movement was performative rather than joyful. You try not to think about it for too long, lest the sadness finds you again. 

The morning passes quietly—a few early tourists browse without buying, a regular picks up a special order perfume, and you rearrange a display of sea glass earrings, picking a few out in between to try on. It's mindless work, but it's yours, and there's something satisfying about the way your hands remember how to tie the perfect bow on the pale green gift boxes.

The bell above the door chimes just before eleven, and you look up from the sales ledger you've been updating.

"We don't usually get deliveries until—" The words die in your throat when you see who's standing in the doorway.

Sevika fills the frame, a clipboard in one hand and a small package tucked under her arm. Today, her hair is loose around her shoulders, dark waves that catch the sunlight streaming through the windows. She's wearing a faded black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing more of those arms that seem designed for gripping steering wheels and lifting heavy things. You notice one of them is a prosthetic, and your gaze caresses it, tracking the graffiti-like doodles alongside it. It’s as if she’s allowed a child to paint all over it.

"Usually Thursdays, I know," she says, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Had to reroute today. Accident on the causeway." Her eyes move from your face to take in the rest of you, lingering for a moment on the strip of skin visible between your tank top and jeans. "Nina usually signs for these."

"Mom’s still in bed," you reply, moving toward the counter. "I'm covering mornings while I’m around."

She nods, crossing to you and laying the clipboard down. "Signature on the bottom line." As you sign, she glances around the shop. "Nice place. Never been inside before."

"Seriously? You deliver here every week."

"To the loading dock in back," she clarifies. "Never through the front door."

You hand back the clipboard and accept the package, your fingers brushing hers in the exchange. Her skin is warm and slightly rough.

“God, that’s awful. When I was younger, we used to give the drivers something sweet for the road, sometimes savory.”

“Yeah, well,” Sevika sighs. “People got creepier, meaner. Women got wiser. I’m fine without a treat if that means my customers feel safer.”

Your eyes soften minutely at that, and she notes the way you look down, your lashes brushing your cheek gently as if not to spook yourself.

"You settling back in okay?" she asks, and there's something in her tone that suggests genuine interest rather than small talk.

"It's... an adjustment," you admit. "But this helps." You gesture around the boutique. "It's quiet here."

"Too quiet for some," she says. "That why you left in the first place?"

The question is direct, almost intrusive, but she asks it without judgment. Just curiosity.

"Partly," you say, surprised at your own honesty. "I wanted to see what else was out there. Had dreams for a big life."

"And did you? See what else was out there?"

You think about the rat, the subway, the billboard with the too-white teeth. "I saw enough. Then life got…too big."

She nods as if this makes perfect sense to her. "Well." She taps her clipboard against her thigh. "Guess I'll be seeing you mornings now instead of your mother."

"Guess so."

She turns to leave but pauses at the door. "You know, there’s nothing wrong with trying something and it no longer being what you want."

"I wish someone told me that before now," you say quietly.

"I’m saying it now." Her eyes flick down to your outfit and back up. "Have a good day…"

“[Name],” you supply.

“[Name],” she repeats. “You seem like a sweet girl. Those big places? They tend to lure you in, then swallow you up. From the looks of it, you gave it all you got. And in some ways, you won the fight. You made it back home.”

Before you can respond, she's gone, the bell announcing her departure as clearly as it did her arrival. Through the window, you watch her walk back to her truck, the confident stride of someone who knows exactly who she is and where she's going. Maybe she could keep you on the path.

You look down at yourself—at the simple clothes that feel more like you than anything you've worn in years—and breathe in. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you didn’t fail. Maybe this was the true mission.

Or maybe, you think as you watch Sevika's truck pull away, there was no mission. Only the decisions you made. 

🪽♱

It continues the same way for a while.

You see her in the mornings, and when you do, you talk more. Spend less time inside of yourself. The days bleed into one another like watercolors on damp paper—pink sunrises giving way to white-hot afternoons, then purple dusks that settle over the Gulf like a bruise. Through it all, Sevika arrives with the steadiness of tides, her presence an anchor in your drifting days.You feel more alive, less like a child with their face toward the wall.

You start collecting moments like shards of glass: the way morning light catches in the joints of her prosthetic. How she smells like motor oil and salt air and something sweeter underneath. The low rumble of her laugh when you say something unexpectedly sharp. You hoard them, these fragments, turning them over in your mind at night while ceiling fans spin shadows across your childhood bedroom. Sometimes you start crying, not understanding why its so difficult to allow yourself to want this.

There's something almost holy in the ritual of her arrival—the bell above the door, the heavy tread of her boots, the weight of her gaze finding yours across the shop. You're twenty-something and already tired of a world that promised more than it gave. She's forty-something—maybe you should ask—and somehow both weathered and unwavering, like the cypress trees that survive hurricane after hurricane.

You learn she lives out past the old lighthouse in a boathouse painted midnight blue. You ask her if she’s lonely. She takes a long sip of her Diet Coke, looks at you for a second too long, then says no. That the prosthetic came after an accident offshore—something with machinery and poor timing and the sort of pain that changes a person forever. That she keeps a three-legged cat named Commander who sleeps on her chest at night. That she has nightmares about drowning despite knowing how to swim since before she could walk.

You learn about her makeshift family, about Jinx and the way she and Sevika sort of fell together after some job they’d done in the military had blown out. We were mercenaries, she lets slip and you raise a brow in surprise. Are you supposed to be telling me that? You ask. Nope, she says, popping the ‘p’. You laugh.

She talks about Isha, the little runaway they found rooting around in their shed. Isha, who they adopted. Isha who got sick. Isha’s who’s gone. 

“Jinx didn’t take it well,” Sevika says and you hold her hand. “She left, went somewhere. Called me to tell me she couldn’t come back. Told me—told me loved me. Took on some job and…”

You know what she’s about to say next, and you brace for it. You still flinch.

“Blew up. That’s what they said. I think she gave herself a way out.”

You tear up but manage to tell her about your dad. She strokes your back as you cry about the way he left, about how he’s well and alive and newly married. How the two of you are Facebook friends but never speak.

She learns about your failed escape, about the way New York chewed you up and left you hollow. About how sometimes you wake with your heart racing, convinced you're back in that cramped apartment with the subway rattling your windows. About the recurring dream of the buck with blood-soaked antlers, how he's started appearing with Sevika's face, her dark eyes watching you from between points of bone.

It's a Thursday in late July when something breaks open between you. The air hangs heavy with coming rain, pressing against windows like something desperate to get in. You've spent the day rearranging displays, moving in slow circles to music that feels like church—Ethel's voice coating the empty shop in honey and ash.

The day has stretched too long, customers sparse in the gathering storm. You're supposed to be closing, but instead you're dancing alone, barefoot on whitewashed floors, arms raised toward the ceiling fan as if in supplication. "American Teenager" fills the space, and you're spinning with your eyes closed when the bell chimes.

You stop mid-turn, eyes flying open to find Sevika standing in the doorway, rain-damp and beautiful in her severity. Water clings to her eyelashes and the sharp line of her jaw. Behind her, lightning splits the sky, illuminating her silhouette in electric blue.

"You're late," you say, breathless from dancing or from the sight of her, you can't tell which.

"Roads are flooding." Her eyes track over you—bare feet, tiny jean shorts, hair wild from spinning. Something in her gaze feels like hands on skin. "Should've been closed an hour ago."

"I got lost in it," you admit, gesturing vaguely to the record player, to yourself, to the empty shop that feels suddenly too full with her in it.

She crosses to you, boots leaving wet prints on the floor. Places a small package on the counter, but doesn't pull away. "You’re always lost in it, honey" she says, voice lower than usual.

"Yeah. I think it’s my way of staying alive." The words slip out, heavy with meaning you didn't intend but don't regret. Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn’t respond. 

Thunder crashes outside, close enough to rattle the windows. The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely. In the sudden darkness, all you can hear is the rain, the needle skipping on the record, and Sevika's breathing, closer than you expected.

"You can say," you whisper, the words a prayer in the dark. "The streets will be underwater."

Her silence stretches long enough that you think she'll refuse. Then her hand finds yours in the darkness, flesh against flesh, warm and rough with calluses. Foolishly, you think of asking her to go swimming.

"I'll stay," she says, and the words feel like a covenant.

You find candles in the storage room, arrange them in a circle on the floor. In their glow, Sevika looks carved from shadow and stone, all sharp angles and dark depth. You bring out the emergency bottle of bourbon your mother keeps behind the counter, two little shot glasses because there are no proper glasses. Your dad got them from when he’d served back in Vietnam.

"To all the light going out," you toast, and she echoes it, eyes never leaving yours as you both drink.

The bourbon burns sweet down your throat. Outside, the world drowns, but in here, you're closer to floating.

"Tell me," she says after a while, voice rough with liquor and something else, "what are you running from? Really?"

You stare into your cup, watching amber liquid catch candlelight. "I’m not sure. I guess mainly the feeling that I've already used up all my chances," you admit. "That I'm in my twenties and already failed at the only thing I tried to be."

"And what's that?"

"Someone who matters. Someone who left a mark." You look up at her, finding her closer than before, drawn into your orbit through some gravity you don't understand. "I thought New York would make me real. Instead, it made me into a ghost. Everyone could see right through me."

She reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, tucking hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Her prosthetic catches the candlelight, metal warmed to gold.

"I think a lot of New York is faking it. You’re real, and it’s hard to recognize the disingenuous when you only ever are real," she says, and the words feel like truth.

You feel something fall away inside of you, and you put down your glass before leaning forward. When her lips find yours, it's like breaking the surface after too long underneath a lake. You gasp against her mouth, hands reaching to hold yourself in the solid reality of her—fingers digging into her shoulders, sliding into her rain-damp hair.

She kisses like she does everything else: with absolute certainty, with a focus that makes the world still. Her prosthetic arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you're nearly in her lap, the heat of her body burning through your thin tee.

"I've been watching you," she confesses against your throat, words pressed into skin like secrets. "Since that first day."

“Me too,” you murmur. “I watched you get in your car.”

It’s an intimate confession, and the candles gutter around you, wax pooling on the floor like offerings. Outside, the storm rages, but it's nothing compared to what’s been building inside of you. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, so you shift until you lie beside her on the floor, your head on her chest, listening to the steady drum of her heart.

"Are you ever going to stop driving?" you ask, voice small in the vastness of night.

Her fingers trace constellations on your bare shoulder, connecting beauty marks like stops on a roadmap. “I don’t know if I could.”

You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of her—rain and metal and skin. “Would you take me with you?”

She says nothing, and then,

“I’m not sure, baby. Will you ever be happy right where you are?”

🪽♱

Eventually, your mother asks you about her. Well, she more so asks you what’s wrong. 

You weren’t aware something was wrong with you, and tell her as much. She gives you a look as she sucks a cloud of apple from her pen.

"I'm not stupid," she says, exhaling sweet vapor that curls around her face like morning mist over the bayou. "You've been floating around this house like someone cut your anchor. One minute you're singing in the shower, the next you're staring at the wall like it's showing you visions."

“Maybe they are.” She lets out a dry laugh, and you was more time picking at a loose thread on the couch—the same floral pattern that's been there since you were fifteen, though faded now where the sun hits it through the blinds. "It's nothing."

"It's that Sevika lady." Not a question. Your mother has always seen through you like water, clear enough to count the stones at the bottom.

"I don't know what we are," you admit finally, the words tumbling out like shells from a broken net. "I don’t know what I’m doing. I always know what I’m doing, Mama.”

Your mother shifts and brings you to lay your head against her chest. You close your eyes and sink inside of her skin to the best of your ability.

“She's rooted here but always moving. I came back home because I couldn't survive out there, but I don't know if I can stay forever either."

Your mother sets her vape down, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you had night terrors. "Baby, there's a difference between running away and moving forward. One's about fear, the other's about growth."

The ceiling fan clicks above you, marking seconds with metallic persistence. Outside, cicadas scream their summer chorus.

"When your daddy left," she continues, eyes fixed on something beyond the window, something maybe years away, "I thought I'd never breathe right again. But then I realized I'd been holding my breath our whole goddamn marriage."

Her accent slurs around the admission, and you think about Sevika's truck disappearing down lightly flooded roads, about her callused hands on your skin in candlelight. About her question: Will you ever be happy right where you are?—that's been haunting you like a malevolent spirit.

"I think I could be happy with her," you whisper, more to yourself than to your mother. "Maybe even without her. But I don't know if it's fair to either of us that I’m unsure."

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. Sevika's name appears—no contact photo, just her name in plain text. Delivery tonight. Meet me at Silver after your shift?

Your mother watches your face change as you read it, catches the slight upturn of your lips you can't control. "Go," she says with a sigh that's half exasperation, half fondness. "Figure it out. But remember, staying isn't the same as giving up."

You stand, watching the smoke haze around her face as she blinks up at you. It forms a murky halo around her head, so you bend and kiss her cheek. You stay there for a minute, tilting your head so that your cheeks press together and share their warmth. This close, you swear you can hear her pulse. You hope she never dies. 

“I love you, Mama,” you whisper, like its some great secret. In a way it is.

She says nothing, only kisses your temple and cradles your head. You know what she’s thinking.

🪽♱

Silver Cove glows neon against the twilight sky when you pull in, your mother's Cadillac purring beneath you. The same teenager mans the register, barely looking up from her phone as the bell announces your arrival. You still tell her hello and call her by name to let her know that you see her. You grab a Diet Coke from the cooler and add a package of the cream-filled cookies you've seen Sevika buy before and a Mountain Dew.

When you step outside, her truck is there, massive and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She leans against the hood, arms crossed, waiting. In the harsh overhead light, the scar on her face looks deeper, the lines around her eyes more pronounced. Sometimes you forget she carries a whole life before you in her bones—years of things you'll never touch or understand.

"Thought maybe you wouldn't come," she says as you approach, voice graveled with something that might be hope.

You hand her a Diet Coke, fingers brushing hers in the exchange. "Why would you think that?”

She smiles for some reason. You continue.

“I've been thinking about what you asked me. During the storm."

She takes a long sip, eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the bottle. "And?"

"I don't know if I'll ever be completely happy anywhere," you admit. "New York was crushing me, but sometimes I still wake up missing the noise. The possibility. I don’t think this could be my life forever. It couldn’t sustain me."

The night air wraps around you both, thick with moisture and the scent of gasoline. A moth batters itself against the nearest light, desperate for something that could destroy it.

"I'm not asking you to stay forever, honey," Sevika says finally. "Just asking if you can be present while you're here."

You step closer, until you can see the flex of muscle in her jaw, the pulse at her throat. "What if here doesn't have to mean one place? What if it just means wherever we both are?"

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition. She sets her drink on the hood of the truck and reaches for you, prosthetic arm cool against your skin as she draws you between her legs.

"I have routes that go to Mobile, to New Orleans. Sometimes farther," she says, her breath warm against your temple. "Doesn't mean I don't come back."

"I could go with you sometimes," you suggest, fingers tracing the tattoos that wind up her flesh arm. "See places without having to leave for good. Or you could find me halfway. Like a long-term scavenger hunt."

She laughs, the sound vibrating through your shared space. "Never thought about it like that. Being alone for so long…staying or going were the only options I saw."

“Me too,” you tell her.

Above you, stars punch through the darkening sky, more visible here than they ever were in New York. You think about constellations—how stars can be millions of miles apart but still form a picture when viewed from the right angle. You think about how scientists have heard black holes sing. Sometimes, your heart feels like a black hole. Sometimes, you sing.

"I'm scared," you confess, forehead pressed to her collarbone. "Of getting it wrong again."

Her hand—her real one—tangles in your hair, holds the back of your head like something sacred. "Getting what wrong?"

"Life. Love. Whatever this is. My daddy was a carpenter. I don’t do well without a plan, a blueprint."

Sevika tilts your face up with gentle pressure, studies you with eyes that have seen oceans rise and machinery fall. "There's no wrong way to build a life that lets you breathe, baby."

When she kisses you this time, it feels different from the thunder-charged intensity of the boutique floor. It feels like an option, a detour, rather than an escape. Like coming home to a place you're still building.

"So what now?" you ask against her lips, tasting hints of her soda and what feels like mint.

"Now…we could get in my truck and drive somewhere. It could be down the coast, could be to my place. Could be just around the block until we figure out the next step." Her prosthetic arm traces your spine, sending shivers despite the summer heat. "I'm not promising forever. Just promising to keep showing up as long as you want me to."

You think about what your mother said—about staying versus giving up. About the difference between running away and moving forward. About how sometimes growth means finding new ways to be rooted.

"I can work with that," you say, and it feels like the truest thing you've said since coming home. “But I don’t want to leave my mom just yet. We need each other right now.”

Sevika lifts you easily, sets you in the passenger seat of her truck with a gentleness that belies her strength. As she rounds the hood to the driver's side, you watch her move through the gauzy light of Silver Cove—solid and certain and somehow yours, at least for now.

The engine rumbles to life beneath you, vibrating up through your bones like a second pulse. Through the windshield, the Gulf Coast stretches dark and infinite, full of places you might go, places you might return to.

"Ready?" Sevika asks, hand on the gearshift, waiting for your answer before putting the truck in drive.

You reach across the console, lace your fingers through hers—flesh against flesh, blood against blood.

"Yeah," you say, and as the truck pulls away from Silver Cove, you feel something inside you flatline—not with the finality of death, but with the quiet understanding of choice. “Take me home, please.”

© hcneymooners.

⚚ wife tag: @s-4pphics

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Coming Home to You

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: it’s senior night a very big night for Paige indeed.. and you can’t miss it not when you’re each other’s home

For the past few weeks, keeping this secret had been absolute torture. Every time Paige texted me about how much she wished I could be at her senior night, my heart ached. I wanted to tell her, wanted to ease that longing in her voice, but I knew it would be worth it. Everyone was in on it—her teammates, the coaching staff, even her parents. The only person in the dark? Paige herself.

Now, as I sat on the plane with my niece squirming beside me, I felt the anticipation bubbling in my chest.

“Auntie, are we there yet?” my five-year-old niece, Aria, whined, her little legs swinging beneath her seat.

“Almost, baby,” I reassured her, smoothing down her curls. “Paige is gonna be so happy to see you.”

She grinned, showing off the gap where she had just lost a tooth last week. “She’s gonna be so surprised, right?”

I laughed, nodding. “Yeah, she has no idea we’re coming.”

Aria giggled, kicking her feet harder. She adored Paige, and the feeling was mutual. Anytime we FaceTimed, Paige always asked about her, sending little gifts and promising to teach her how to dribble properly one day.

As the plane began its descent, my stomach tightened. I had spent months away from Paige, only seeing her through a screen, listening to her talk about the season, about how it felt knowing this was her final year in a UConn jersey. She deserved to have her people there, and I needed to be there for her—just like she’d always been for me.

By the time we landed, the rush of excitement made my fingers tingle. Paige’s mom picked us up, greeting us with a warm hug before driving straight to campus. The plan was simple: hide in the tunnels until the seniors were honored, then walk out as they announced her name.

Aria bounced in her car seat, unable to contain herself. “I wanna run to Paige first! Can I? Can I?”

“Of course, baby,” I smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “She’s gonna love it.”

Game Night: Gampel Pavilion

The energy inside Gampel was electric. The crowd was buzzing, the students loud as ever, and the court gleamed under the bright lights. My heart pounded as I hid just behind the tunnel entrance, holding Aria’s hand tightly while the announcer began reading out names.

Each senior walked out to cheers, their families meeting them at center court. Paige was the last one to be called.

“And finally, our captain, our leader—number five, Paige Bueckers!”

The crowd erupted. My breath hitched as I peeked around the tunnel, watching Paige step forward, waving to the fans, her eyes already glassy with emotion. She thought her parents were the only ones waiting for her—but that was about to change.

“Now,” I whispered to Aria, squeezing her hand before letting go.

She took off like a shot.

“PAIGE!”

Paige barely had time to turn before Aria’s tiny body launched herself at Paige’s legs. Her arms instinctively wrapped around Aria, shock flashing across her face before realization dawned.

“What—? Aria?” Her voice cracked, looking down at the little girl clinging to her.

That’s when I stepped out.

The second Paige’s eyes met mine, everything around us seemed to fade. Her mouth parted in disbelief, her hands still frozen around Aria as if she thought she might be dreaming.

I smiled, my throat tightening. “Hey, baby.”

The moment shattered as she let go of Aria and practically ran to me, wrapping me up in the tightest hug imaginable.

“You’re here,” she whispered, her voice trembling against my ear.

“I’m here,” I murmured, holding onto her just as tightly. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

She pulled back slightly, cupping my face with both hands, her thumbs brushing over my cheeks as if she needed to make sure I was real. “You—you flew all the way here? When? How? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I laughed, my own tears welling up. “Because I wanted to surprise you. Everyone knew except you.”

She shook her head, laughing through her disbelief. “You’re evil.”

“You love me, though,” I teased.

Her grin softened into something more tender. “Yeah,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to mine. “I really, really do.”

The crowd was still cheering, the moment stretching between us as if we were the only two people in the gym. Paige’s hands never left my face, and I could feel her heart racing just as fast as mine.

“This is the best surprise ever,” she whispered.

I bit my lip, glancing down at Aria, who was grinning up at us, completely unbothered by the fact that she had just helped execute the best senior night surprise in history. “I had some help.”

Paige laughed, ruffling Aria’s curls before scooping her up into her arms. “You little sneak,” she teased.

Aria giggled, hugging Paige’s neck. “I missed you, P!”

“I missed you too, munchkin.” Paige pressed a kiss to her cheek before turning back to me. “God, I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“I wasn’t gonna let you finish this without me,” I said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “You deserve to have the people who love you here, Paige.”

Her expression softened, and she tugged me close again, this time pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead. “I don’t know how I got so lucky,” she whispered.

I smiled. “I think we both got lucky.”

She let out a soft laugh before glancing at the crowd, then back at me. “You’re staying for a while, right?”

I nodded. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

Her grin turned into something mischievous. “That’s a dangerous offer, baby.”

“I’m serious.” I squeezed her hand. “I don’t wanna be apart anymore. I wanna be with you.”

For a moment, she just stared at me, and then—right there, in front of everyone—she leaned in and kissed me.

It was soft, sweet, and full of every unspoken word between us.

When she pulled away, her eyes were bright, full of something deeper than happiness. “Then stay,” she murmured. “Stay with me.”

I grinned. “You don’t even have to ask.”

She kissed me again, and this time, I knew—no matter where life took us, no matter what came next—I would always come home to her.

Paige’s POV

The adrenaline from senior night hadn’t worn off, but the moment we stepped inside my apartment, exhaustion hit me like a freight train. The last few hours had been a blur—cheers, speeches, hugs, and the overwhelming joy of seeing her again. Seeing them again.

Aria clung to me the entire time, refusing to let go even after we left the arena. Every time I tried to pass her off to her aunt, she just tightened her grip around my neck, mumbling, “I missed you too much.”

I wasn’t gonna fight her on it. I missed her too.

Now, after a well needed shower, the little girl was curled up against my chest, completely knocked out, her tiny fingers still clutching the front of my hoodie like she was scared I’d disappear again.

I glanced over at the love of my life—because that’s what she was, no doubt about it—as she set her bag down by the door, stretching out her arms with a soft groan.

“You look dead,” I teased, my voice barely above a whisper.

She shot me a tired glare, but the small smile on her lips told me she wasn’t really mad. “I feel dead. That flight, the sneaking around, wrangling her—” she gestured at the sleeping child nestled in my arms. “I deserve a medal.”

I laughed, adjusting Aria slightly so she wouldn’t slip. “You deserve a lot more than that.”

Her expression softened, and she stepped closer, reaching out to brush a stray curl from Aria’s forehead. “She missed you like crazy, you know.”

“I missed her too,” I murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Aria’s head.

Her eyes flickered to mine, something unreadable in them. “And me?”

I smirked, tilting my head slightly. “You? Who’s that?”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh, okay. That’s how we’re playing this?”

I bit my lip to hold back a laugh, but the playful glare she shot me made it impossible. “Come here,” I said softly, and the teasing faded from her face.

She stepped between my legs, resting her hands on my shoulders as I pulled her closer with one arm, the other still supporting Aria.

“You know I missed you,” I murmured, letting my forehead rest against hers.

Her breath hitched, and I could feel the weight of the months apart in the way she exhaled, like she was finally letting herself breathe again.

“I hate being away from you,” she admitted quietly. “I hated every second of it.”

I tightened my hold on her waist, pressing my lips to her temple. “Then don’t be.”

Her fingers dug into the fabric of my hoodie. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is,” I murmured, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. “You said you wanted to stay. So stay. I don’t care how we make it work—I just know I don’t wanna go another night without you.”

She swallowed hard, searching my face like she was trying to memorize every detail. “Paige…”

“I’m serious.” I brushed my thumb over her cheek, letting myself get lost in her warmth. “I love you. I don’t wanna keep doing this long-distance thing when we both know where this is going.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she let out a shaky laugh. “And where’s that?”

I gave her a knowing look. “Where do you think?”

Her lips parted slightly, her eyes flickering between mine, and I could see the exact moment she realized I meant every word.

“You mean—”

“I mean,” I cut her off gently, “that I see forever when I look at you.”

Her face crumbled, and she let out a soft, shaky breath before pressing her lips to mine. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—just right. Just home.

When she pulled away, her forehead rested against mine, and she whispered, “I see forever with you too.”

I smiled, feeling something settle deep in my chest. “Good.”

A tiny, sleepy voice suddenly mumbled between us.

“Paige?”

We both froze before glancing down. Aria stirred slightly, blinking up at me with half-lidded eyes.

“Yeah, munchkin?”

Her tiny hand reached up to touch my cheek, her voice drowsy. “Don’t go away again.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, holding her just a little bit closer. “I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

She sighed contently, snuggling deeper into my hoodie.

I glanced at the love of my life, who was watching us with nothing but pure adoration in her eyes.

Home wasn’t a place. It was this. It was her. It was the sleepy little girl in my arms, the steady heartbeat against mine, and the unspoken promise that we’d never have to say goodbye again.

I had everything I needed right here.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Eldritch Ex-Husband ///////

Your now ex-husband is incredibly surprised when the authorities are dispatched to your new house when he enters. Thinking nothing of it he broke the knob of your new home, thinking after all that time talking with the judge over some foreign topic you’d both be settling into the new place. Turns out this ‘divorce’-thing and ‘restraining order’-stuff meant something after all. That he couldn’t be with you and the baby.

“Wait, the dee - force means I don’t get to come home? What–?”

“Sir, if you give me trouble it’ll only hurt your chances of seeing your kid more.”

“Wait I can’t see him? (Y/n)! (Y/n)-honey, please!”

“Sir, please put your hands behind your back.”

The only reason he doesn’t suck their brains out through their noses+ fight more is because he’s so devastated as he thinks about how in the dark about cruel-human-practices. Only now does it register that when you were oh-so cutely crying about leaving, you weren’t talking about a late night run to the store to satisfy your cravings. That the word he had dismissed as something you wanted to buy was actually an action. An action that meant he’d be deprived of the most important person in his life.

“Hello?”

“......I did not understand before….but I understand now.”

“Kilton? You know a restraining order extends to calls, right?”

“IM nOt LetTInG yOu go—”

Click.

“Creep.”

As he reluctantly uses the resources proposed to him, to argue for custody he has time to think about when you first mentioned the word. But the more he replays those heavenly moments with you he realizes how often your brow was scrunched and a vein was popping from that kissable forehead. It’s then that your ex-husband begins to realize just how little he was actually listening to you. Ashamed, he’s realized that while he finds all your actions absolutely irresistible it didn’t mean you were happy. And he really had no one to blame but himself.

“Hello this is Kilton (L/n) if you have a message leave it at the tone….beep.”

“Hey I hope I got the right number but I need your help with the baby….there’s stuff going on that I have no idea how to deal with. I won’t call the police or tell anyone..I just need….some help. And you're the only one who can give it to me.”

“OF COURSE i’LL BE RIGht oVER!”

“Wait you never set up your voicemai—”

When you left your husband, you were tired of being so confused all the time. Your husband, your best friend was keeping you in the dark for a long time now. Starting from the occasionally odd behavior you’d witness him do, that he’d brush off as if it were nothing. Like the doors in the house that have begun to open to alternate dimensions (that’s what you believe but your husband will not explain in any way) ignoring your concerns and calling you being ‘silly.’ It was annoying but you hadn’t died yet so it wasn’t that bad…until you got pregnant.

“How can this be?”

“Yippee I told you, that one took!”

“No, I literally can’t.”

“Of course, you can babe, you already are look at your little bump.”

“No like I literally can’t this is unbelievable.”

Whether you physically can and were vigilant in prevention or you physically should not be able to conceive matters not. You are pregnant. Or you were. And while dealing with the intense hormones and birthing pains and gravity-defying phenomena happening in your home, your ex-husband would explain nothing. Doing nothing but smile wistfully at you while you demanded to know why the fridge was inching closer every time you turned the corner. Any sane person could only handle so much of his pretend assurances that you were just losing your mind. 

But hindsight 20/20 you should’ve known you couldn’t get rid of your eldritch ex-husband with your eldritch baby. 

“Hey you left the door unlocked, so I let myself in. Babe, you can’t be doing that it’s really unsa–the furniture doesn’t look at all like it did before.”

“Of course it doesn’t! Because your son has decided to rearrange it with his humming!” 

“That’s not a hum, Love. He’s singing a hymn of Utter Chaos–”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT IT IS MAKE HIM STOP.”

As you suspected the root of all the inexplicable happenings in your life were because of your ex-husband and by extension the little bundle that has been doing all sorts of things a normal baby shouldn’t. Like humming the ‘utter chaos song’ or making supplies float over to you while changing him or how at the end of his bath the water turns red and evaporates in an echo of screams. It’s just a little alarming.

“Where is the baby?”

“In that other dimension.”

“Excuse me?”

“Isn’t that something familiar to you? Every now and then he just goes into this other dimension that let’s his laugh morph the walls a little.”

“Oh my. That’s new for me too.”

Surprisingly despite your husband’s now-confirmed-eldritch-heritage he’s not an exact expert on everything his son does. Apparently no one from his world/dimension/atternate plane of existence does everything your son does and is blissfully writing off as something from your side of the family. He’ll shrug and use the opportunity to listen to you list the observations you’ve made about your darling offspring and maybe compliment you on your vigilance as a new unfortunately single parent. Don’t worry it won’t be that way for long!+

“So the blood water thing. It happens whenever he interacts with water.”

“Oh I know that one it’s an old habit of mine, for storing water for later!”

“What about the metal-eating?”

“Metal eating? With no teeth? Beats me must have gotten a taste from all those utensils you’re so fond of. By the way parenthood looks good on you have I told you that?”

As he becomes more of a constant presence in your home, there's a startling change in your baby boy’s behavior. It doesn’t stop but it’s a lot less destructive. Finally, you could have the delivery crew enter the yard without them being swallowed by the portal to your son’s crib. Finally, you can afford to have a couple-hour meet and greet with your family without anyone inexplicably sprouting horns. So reluctantly you let him back into your life with very specific conditions.

“You can’t stay the night.”

“Aww but aren’t you worried about me going home in the dark?”

“I know you’re not just some helpless human, so no. Second rule no kissing or lovey dovey things with me.”

“Got it. So vague I can work with that.”

“And finally–”

“EEEKK! WHAT DID HE DO TO MY BABY!?”

“Oh guess someone’s up from their nap.”

“I’ll distract her with a ring to her doorbell, you change back the dog.”

“As always, please try to turn down her invites for dinner this time. I don’t think I can spare her if she upsets him again.”

“No promises!”

Kilton realizes that what he has with you doesn’t mean he’s equally let back into your life, especially since so many other couples ailed by this (dee)force co-parent more or less the same so he’s got his work cut out for him. He’ll have to finally get over his listening issue while worming his way back into your heart! And don’t worry he definitely will!

[adverbally]

Intention

Written for the @stmarchmm prompt “courting rituals” | wc: 913 | rated: T | cw: none | tags: Steddie, Steve & Wayne, omega Steve, alpha Eddie, alpha Wayne, early relationship, asking permission to court, non-traditional relationship dynamics

———

Steve hesitates on the Munsons’ front porch. The trailer is familiar and comforting with its worn screen door and peeling paint, the warm light and organized chaos he knows to be hidden inside. This place has become more of a home to him than the house he grew up in.

He doesn’t want to lose that now.

But he thinks about Eddie nervously asking him on their first real date, hiding his grin behind the lock of hair he tugged across his face when Steve said yes; the way Eddie’s eyes had sparkled in the glow of the streetlight outside Steve’s house when he dropped him off after dinner, just before he leaned in for the best first kiss Steve has ever had; how Eddie had carefully brushed his wrist along the cuff of Steve’s sweater so he could still smell Eddie’s smoky ginger scent for the rest of the evening.

Steve wants that, all of that and more. The promise of that has to outweigh the fear of screwing everything up.

He knocks on the door.

It feels like an eternity before Wayne answers, already dressed in his work clothes for that evening’s shift. He seems surprised to see Steve, but he pushes open the screen door between them and waves him inside anyway. “Did Ed not tell you he has band practice? He should be home soon but you’re welcome to wait.”

“No, I…” Steve takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets so he doesn’t start fidgeting with his jacket zipper. “I wanted to talk to you, actually, if you have a minute?”

Wayne looks even more baffled now but gestures for Steve to take a seat in one of the mismatched chairs surrounding the small dining table. He doesn’t join him immediately, instead going into the kitchen and silently filling two glasses with water from the tap. When he returns, he sits in the seat across from Steve and slides one of the cups over to him.

“Thanks.” Steve’s mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, but he’s not sure he can take a drink without spilling or choking on it. Not until he says what he needs to say. Keeping his gaze on the scratched tabletop, he begins, “I think you probably know why I’m here.”

“I think so,” Wayne agrees. “And I think you know I need to hear you say it anyway.”

Steve nods, thinking of Eddie’s spicy warm scent to steel himself. “Eddie said you’re not very traditional. Your family, I mean. He offered to do this because he thought I wanted to do it, and I know he would’ve, but my dad…” He cuts off his rambling with a shake of his head. “Sorry, I’m nervous. Eddie said I shouldn’t be–”

“Steve. Take a breath.”

He does, then sips from his glass. Wayne doesn’t say anything while Steve gathers his thoughts for a long moment. Finally, he speaks again, deliberately. “Eddie is incredible. I care about him. I want to be with him.” It’s a gross understatement but if he starts elaborating, he might never stop. “I don’t give a shit what my dad thinks, but it matters to me what you think. Because it matters to Eddie. You’re the most important person in his life. He’s an adult and he can make his own decisions, so I’m not asking for permission, but… I wanted to inform you of my intention to court your nephew.”

Wayne nods, a slight tilt of his head acknowledging Steve’s declaration. “I accept it.”

“Okay.” He nods back, taps his fingers along the side of his water glass, listening to the quiet ping of his nails on its surface. “Thank you.” It’s almost disappointing how anticlimactic this was. He had stressed over it for days, and Wayne just… accepts him, just like that?

Like he can read Steve’s mind, Wayne leans closer. “You’re a good kid, Steve. You saved Ed’s life, you make him happy, you take care of that pack of kids. I think you’re good for him. Mellow him out some.”

“Yeah?” The compliment makes him warm from head to toe. Steve grins down at the table. “I think he’s good for me too.”

Wayne drains the last of the water in his glass. “I’d’ve given my permission, too, if you’d asked. Not that you need it.” He rises from his chair with a groan. “I gotta head to work now, but you’re welcome to wait for Ed. Make yourself at home.”

Steve stands as well, accepting the handshake Wayne offers him. “Thanks again, sir, I appreciate it.”

“Call me Wayne, son.” His mouth twists in a wry smile. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, then shrugs on his coat. “Make sure you’re being safe, now. I’m not ready to be a granddad yet.”

Wayne can surely see him blushing as Steve stammers, “No, we— I mean, we haven’t, I’m not—” When he realizes Wayne is fighting back his smile, he sighs, embarrassed but relieved to be in on the joke. “Okay, laugh it up.”

He waves to Wayne from the doorstep, watches the beat-up old truck kick up dust until it turns onto the asphalt outside the trailer park. The alpha’s scent lingers in the trailer, more woodsy than Eddie’s but still warm. Familiar.

Steve thinks he could get used to it.

[47lake]

talk to me

synopsis: you're trying to tell billie something but she can't help cutting you off.

‼️: dom!billie, sub!reader, oral sex(r!receiving), fingering, praise, “sweet girl”, “sweetheart”, “baby”, hair pulling w/c: 326

“i’m sorry i couldn’t hear you, could you repeat that for me?”

you huffed and began to repeat yourself, her cocky grin was doing everything but helping.

“i was just-“

you tucked your lip between your teeth as she increased the pace of her fingers, your chest heaving faster than before.

“billie! it’s so.., hard to talk..”

your words broke out in choked moans as she tortured your swollen clit so gently with her perfect tongue. she kissed you gently and her smile returned as you twitched.

“oh i know, sweetheart. you’re doing so well though, isn’t that right?”

you nodded and arched your back as she continued where she had left off. you could hardly think straight with the perfect portrait she was painting against you, her fingers like the most magical brushes. your slick coated her ivory skin beautifully as she coaxed you along.

“i want you to tell me how it feels, you can do that for me, can’t you?”

you tilted your head backwards as her touch continued to be unrelenting, a loud ‘mhm’ rolled off of your tongue.

you opened your mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come, your jaw hung agape as moans and whines ran out of you like a rushing river.

“talk to me, baby.”

your fingers found home in her dark locks, gripping onto the chocolate strands in an effort to bring yourself back down to earth.

“so, fuck, so good, bils.”

you felt her pleased hum ripple against your sensitive skin, your eyes snapped shut as you felt the warm wave building up inside of you.

you squeezed your thighs around her head as she dipped her tongue into your need. it felt so perfect, as though she was made to please you.

you opened your mouth to warn her of how close you were when she spoke up.

“i know, sweet girl. let it go for me.”

hope you guys like this little blurb! 🧟‍♀️

i’ve been sick for like a month so please excuse the lack of posts 😣

send any requests to my inbox ! 📥

💋: @thechipbetweenyourcarseat @dollyvuu @greenbttrflyy @eilishslut @karaeilishh @moralesluvr @anna-geeeezzzz @certifiedwomenlover @asterisk-eyes @mseilishmwah @eeuni @ohdoyoustillcry @bilsdillldough @amara-eilish @chrissv4mp @vijaxx @drunkinyourbenz @adinda-eilish @bxllxebxtch @mybluebossanova

masterlist taglist

[bakuchrome]

WILDFLOWER

Katsuki Bakugo x Reader

Master List

Bakugo never cared about his reputation. He was a hero, a damn good one, and that was supposed to be enough. But with every explosion, every pissed-off rant at reporters, and every viral video of him telling a villain to "sit the hell down," his agency wasn’t exactly pleased.

They wanted him softened. More palatable. Someone the public could root for in a safe way. So they made a call.

And that’s how Tsuyu Asui became his fake girlfriend.

It wasn’t her idea, but she agreed— calm, logical, a perfect contrast to Bakugo’s temper. The media ate it up. Headlines praised his 'gentler side.' Paparazzi photos of their staged coffee dates were plastered everywhere. People started to believe that maybe Dynamight had a heart underneath all that fire.

But you?

You knew the truth.

Because Bakugo Katsuki might have been 'dating' Tsuyu for the world to see, but behind closed doors, in stolen moments, and in the way his hands always found you in the dark— he was yours.

The first time you heard about the fake relationship, you laughed.

"That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Bakugo glared at you from across the room, arms crossed, a vein threatening to pop in his forehead. "Yeah? Well, tell that to the dumbasses at my agency."

You tilted your head, watching him. He was tense, more than usual. And that meant something.

"Does Tsuyu know this is fake?"

"’Course she does, idiot," he scoffed. "She doesn’t give a shit— she’s just helping me out."

"Right." You leaned back, crossing your arms. "And you’re fine with this?"

"Obviously not, dumbass!" His voice spiked, and he groaned, rubbing his temples. "But what the hell else am I supposed to do? They’re threatening to pull my damn endorsements— say I’m 'too aggressive.'"

You stared at him. His jaw was locked, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"You are aggressive, Bakugo."

His red eyes snapped to yours. "Yeah? And you like it."

The words sent a rush of heat down your spine. Because he was right.

You had known Bakugo for years. You had seen every side of him— the ruthless fighter, the stubborn idiot, the boy who loved so deeply it scared him. And this? This was some PR bullshit that didn’t belong to him.

"You could say no," you said softly.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And what? Let them ruin my image? Make me out to be some kinda—" He clenched his teeth. "—villain?"

And that was the part that killed him the most.

Bakugo had spent his entire life proving he wasn’t like him. That he wasn’t another Shigaraki, another Dabi, another cautionary tale of power left unchecked. He had worked for this. Bled for this. And now, the world wanted him to play nice, or they’d take it all away.

You swallowed hard.

"So, what now?"

Bakugo sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. "Now," he muttered, "I pretend to be in love with someone else."

And you hated how much that hurt.

The first time he kissed Tsuyu in public, you saw it on the news.

It was a quick thing— just a brush of lips outside a café, cameras flashing, a reporter gushing about how 'Dynamight is finally showing his softer side!'

You had to turn off the TV.

Because the thing about Bakugo was— he didn’t do half-measures. If he was pretending, he was going to make it look real. He was going to sell the lie.

And it made you sick.

That night, he showed up at your door.

You almost didn’t let him in.

"Go home, Bakugo."

"Open the damn door, please."

You froze. Because Bakugo never said please.

When you opened it, he looked— wrecked.

His hair was messier than usual, his eyes dark with something unreadable. He wasn’t wearing his usual scowl, wasn’t posturing like he had something to prove. He was just— there

"Don’t," you whispered. "Don’t come here after you just—"

"It’s not real," he said, stepping closer.

You clenched your fists. "It looked real."

His jaw tightened. "I know."

"Then maybe you should go back to her."

His eyes flashed. And then— before you could push him away— his hands were on your waist, his lips crashing into yours, desperate and real and nothing like what you saw on the news.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hoodie as he backed you against the wall.

"I hate this," he rasped. "I hate this fucking lie—I hate that I gotta do this when all I want is you."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. "Then stop."

His breath was ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "I can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because they’ll take everything from me," he murmured. "And I can’t lose this."

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. "And me?"

His grip on you tightened. "I’m already losing you."

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

Because you knew— you knew— this wouldn’t last. That eventually, something would break. Either you, or him, or this whole stupid act he was playing at.

But for now— just for tonight— his hands were on you, and his lips were on yours, and he was saying your name like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

And you let him.

Because if Bakugo Katsuki was a wildfire— then you were already burning.

[miss-lesbian16]

A secret love

Warning: a little bit of groping and injury.

Who would have thought that the daughter of Councilman Kiramman and Sevika, a criminal since she is Silco's right hand, would have an impossible love?

I’m at home, sitting in front of the mirror, dressed in a long silk nightgown while I brush my hair. Today I received a letter saying that Sevika would come to see me. Just then, I heard something tap against my window. I turn and quickly get up to open it; I see Sevika as she steps inside my room.

—"Sevi," —I say excitedly as I move closer to her to hug her—. "I've missed you and worried at the same time. Sevika, I thought something had happened to you; it’s been two weeks since you last came" —I say, lifting my head to meet Sevika's gaze, a deep look, calm yet filled with profound love.

—"I know, babe. It's just that Silco had too much work, and as you know, I'm always the one who handles the dirty work," —she says while her hand gently caresses my head and with her other metallic hand she holds my waist, squeezing it lightly—. "You don’t have to miss me anymore, and worrying about me is unnecessary; nothing is going to happen to me, babe" —she says with a proud smile, as she is the most fearsome and strong woman in Zaun.

—"Yes, I know. My mother never stops talking about you," —I say while laughing. I stop hugging her to guide her to my canopied bed.

Sevika has spent so much time here at night that it’s no longer necessary to insist on sitting down; so Sevika sits comfortably, pulls out a cigar, and starts smoking.

—"It must be good things about me, right?" —she says with more pride and a playful smile. She grabs my hip and pulls me onto her lap with her human hand firmly around my waist.

—"Yes, like how you kill and beat up the enforcers who suspect that their illegal shimmer passes through Piltover," —I say in a tone that’s both serious and playful at the same time.

—But let's stop talking about that and rather tell me, did no one notice when you arrived? —I say curiously, my hands resting on her neck as I look deeply into her eyes.

—Why do you ask? —she says, puzzled, pulling away a little and tightening her grip around my waist—. Does someone already know about us?

—No, no one. Just that some guards informed my mother that someone left through my window in the early morning —I say sarcastically while looking away—. I don't want them to know about us —I say worriedly, my hands moving to her shoulders.

—Are you embarrassed about our relationship? —she says in a serious and natural tone while looking straight into my eyes.

I feel her gaze, even though I’m not looking at her. It’s like... but when she said she was embarrassed about our relationship, I quickly turned to face her.

—No, Sevika, I’m not embarrassed about our relationship. You are the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me. What I'm afraid of is that they will find out and send me to another nation, separating me from you, and I don’t want that —I say while hugging her. My words came out too fast and a bit desperate—. I love you with all my heart, Sevi —I say with fear but in a loving tone.

—It's okay, I understand. Calm down —she says as she moves her hand from my waist to my head, pulling me back a bit—. Although I know I don’t say it very often, you are also the most beautiful thing I've ever known —she says calmly and then gives me a kiss on the forehead.

I push her so that she lies down on the bed, getting on top of her to then, without warning, start a slow kiss. Sevika lets herself go, placing her metal hand on my back and the other slowly caressing my skin as the kiss becomes more demanding and desperate to the point where Sevika tries to take off my robe.

—Sevika —I say between kisses—. I love you —I say in a moan between kisses.

—I love you too, babe —she says as she lightly bites my lower lip.

My hands start to caress her abdomen under her shirt, but I feel something wet and suddenly pull away from the kiss, sitting on her thighs. I pull out my hand and see blood.

—Sevika! What happened to you? You're hurt! —I say worriedly as I look into her eyes.

Without waiting for her to respond, I lift her shirt and see a bandage already stained with blood.

—It's nothing. I just had a fight and the jerk used a knife and hurt me. But it's nothing to worry about; I just washed the wound and put on a bandage —she says calmly as if it were something natural that happens to her.

—No! Sevika, let me take care of you —I say worriedly—. And how is it not concerning? Sevika! You have a wound on your abdomen! —I say in an angry tone but with more concern.

I get off her while going to the bathroom for alcohol, bandages, cotton balls, towels, and water; everything on a tray. When I come back out, she is sitting in an armchair next to a fireplace but without a shirt on, wearing only her bra.

—Sevi, it wasn't necessary for you to take off your shirt —I say shyly and blushing as I approach her to tend to her wound.

—I see nothing wrong with being like this; besides, I feel more comfortable like this —she says with a calm and mischievous smile.

I sit next to her while Sevika watches all the movements I'm making. I grab the towel and wet it to wring it out and start cleaning the wound; around it, her abdomen moves slightly due to the pain. I leave the towel on the tray; grab the cotton ball and moisten it with alcohol. Gently, I pass the cotton over the wound to disinfect it; Sevika grunts a little.

—Am I hurting you, Sevika? —I ask worriedly but calmly; lifting my gaze.

—No, keep going. Don’t worry —she says with a vulnerable yet serene tone.

—Alright, Sevika; I'll continue —I say worried but somewhat calm.

After a few minutes of treating her wound, once disinfected I take a bandage and gently place it over her injury.

—Done; I'm finished Sevi —I say while grabbing the leftover bandage and leaving it on the tray.

—Babe, it's time for me to go; I have work to do —she says seriously as she stands up and goes to grab her shirt from the bed to put it back on.

—Why so soon? I thought you'd stay to sleep with me —I say surprised; walking towards her stopping her by hugging her from behind before she leaves through the window.

In one swift motion she turns around facing me and starts kissing me passionately and desperately inserting her tongue into my mouth; starting a somewhat messy kiss while her metal hand grabs my butt and the other is on my back. After a few seconds we pull away from the kiss due to lack of air seeing how a string of saliva connected us.

—I’ll be back tomorrow okay? —she says smiling and gasping slightly.

—Alright Sevi; I'll be waiting for you —I say moaning slightly because of the kiss.

Before Sevika pulls away from me she gives me a hard slap on my butt causing me to moan again and unable to say anything she jumps out through the window leaving me alone in my room.

Thanks for reading and I hope you support me. Have a nice morning/day/night

[holylulusworld]

SHG for killers (3) - The second meeting

Summary: 6 men meet up to talk about their problems. They soon realize they need someone to help them solve their problems. This person is you. Whether you like it or not.

Pairing: Steve Kemp x fem!Reader, Lloyd Hansen x fem!Reader, Robert Pronge (Mr. Freezy) x fem!Reader, Andy Barber x fem!Reader, God, the bounty hunter x fem!Reader, Ransom Drysdale x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, hostage situation, language, kidnapping, plot twist

A/N: Please consider Steve Kemp is not a cannibal in my story. This is an AU. All men are serial killers, killers, or hitmen.

SHG for killers (2) – You (the reader)

Self-help group for killers masterlist

“What do you mean?” Lloyd is in Barber’s face. He growls profanities before pushing the lawyer out of his way. “That’s the woman on your phone. And I can tell, you have a fucking lot of pictures on your phone of her. Even some in her bathtub.”

“She’s not my therapist,” Andy argues while stepping toward you, sitting in the middle of their fucked-up self-help group.

You assisted your boss more than once with groups like these. Usually, they are middle-aged women or men who are unhappy with their mediocre lives.

They nag about their sex life, jobs, and even food only to feel better. Most of them never had real problems or even got close to having problems.

You on the other hand just got kidnapped by a group of crazy guys, and one creep. Andy Barber, a first class creep, second-class lawyer.

“F—er,” you growl behind the gag and glare at Andy. He got you into this shit show, so he can get you out of it. “L—go.”

“No letting go of you, Cupcake,” the guy with the mustache, Lloyd, says. His bruised balls don’t seem to stop him from getting cocky and being an asshole.

“She’s not his therapist, for fuck’s sake,” Robert steps in. “Do you want me to get rid of her? I can make you a good price.”

Whimpering, you try to scramble away from the scary-looking guy. He smirks while getting a gun out.

“What did we say about weapons at our meetings?” Ransom sighed deeply. “Last time, you almost stabbed God’s eye out, only because he wanted to eat the last donut.”

“It was a cronut, but this doesn’t matter now,” Robert brushes Ransom’s comment off. “She won’t be helpful so, we are going to get rid of her, one way or another.”

“Christ, we won’t kill her!” Andy barks now, making you flinch. “How could you kidnap her, Hansen? You see one picture of a woman and decide to go out there and kidnap her? You burned her place down too. Do you honestly believe there won’t be consequences?”

“He’s not wrong,” Kemp brings in. He watches you cower on the ground, feeling a little more excited. “The cops will ask questions. When and where did you take her? Did you check for cameras? What about her home? Did anyone see you?”

Lloyd turns toward the doctor like in slow motion. He growls his name before tackling him to the ground. You giggle when they start to wrestle because it seems tackling people to the ground is Lloyd’s thing.

“What’s so funny?” Ransom grunts. He sneaked closer to you to poke your arm. “They are going to kill you.” The bastard in a baby-blue sweater says. He looks familiar, but you can’t remember where you have seen his face before.

“Ransom, leave her alone,” Andy finally steps toward you. He grabs you by your waist to haul you up, making you groan. “Whatever happened here, is not my fault. I want you to know that.”

“Cr—p,” you grunt behind the gag. The men stop fighting as Andy helps you sit on one of the chairs.

“HANDS OF BARBER!” Lloyd is back on his feet to push Andy away from you. He removed the gag, hoping you’ll forgive him if he brings you somewhere safe.

“SHUT UP, HANSEN! Andy bites back. “You can’t even kidnap the right woman. No wonder you had to find a self-help group. You get nothing done on your own.”

“Oh yeah?” Lloyd cocks his head and flips Andy the bird. “Please enlighten me, Mr. Barber. How are you going to help me?”

“I will delete the footage,” Andy begins. “I bet you waited for her at the underground car park. Did you check on the cameras at her apartment complex or the one on the other side of the street?” He chortles when Lloyd blanches. “I guess not. Good thing the boring lawyer is here to take care of your ass, isn’t it.”

Andy pats Lloyd’s cheek, earning a growl from the man kidnapping you. “Get your fucking hands off me, Barber.”

“What are we going to do now?” God finally asks. He glances at you, humming as you size him up. “She’s pretty, and I like her hair. Can we keep her?”

“We are not going to keep her,” Pronge and Kemp grunt in unison.

“I wouldn’t mind eating a cookie of her coochie,” Ransom eyes you like his latest meal. “I bet she makes naughty noises when getting tongue fucked.”

“Fuck off, Drysdale,” Lloyd is in the arrogant-looking man’s face. He pushes him around, roughing him up a little until the man raises his hands in surrender. “That’s my Cupcake, and I’ll eat it.”

“No one will eat shit,” you finally found your voice. “You sick weirdos will bring me back home, or I’ll scream until your ears are bleeding. And believe me, I can get on your nerves so much that you will lose your mind.”

Andy grins. Your temper and cockiness were the reason he got obsessed with you. “Y/N, they are not as nice as I am. How about you do not threaten a room full of killers.”

“Losers,” you huff and glare at Andy. “You better not think I do not know about all of your little problems.” You drop your eyes to his crotch. “How long since you had an erection? Months, years?”

Ransom is having a blast watching you dismantle Andy. He’s munching cookies, chuckling now and then as you throw insults at the lawyer.

“I saw you snap pictures of me more than once, you fucking creep.” You curl your upper lip.

“I was bored and,” Andy sighs deeply. “It was wrong of me to take pictures of you, that’s true but…” He looks away and fakes a whimper. “You were the first woman I was interested in since my wife died.”

“Man, you are using your dead wife to get laid,” Kemp snorts. “That’s a new low, Barber, even for you.”

“Says the guy fucking his dead partner’s wife,” Andy snaps at Steve. “Who is a creep here? Don’t think we do not know it was you killing him.”

“Everyone knows you have a tiny wiener in your pants,” God throws in, not looking at one of the other men in the room.

“What?” They suddenly all say.

It’s seconds later that they all start to argue. Punches get thrown, and they start to scream at each other.

“Guys…” You roll your eyes as they won’t stop arguing. “GUYS!”

They stop fighting each other to look at you. You cock your head to look at Lloyd. “I’m not his therapist but I studied psychology. I just never graduated. I could try to help you with your…problems, though.”

[dismalflo]

restless

Remus Lupin x reader who can't sleep ✩ 548 words

cw: fluff, Remus is very sweet, established relationship

an: definitely did not write this when I couldn't sleep last night

When you begin to rouse from sleep, you can tell it’s still the middle of the night. There’s no soft glow filtering through the curtains, no rustling of the covers beside you. The only proof of someone else in the bed is the faint sound of soft snoring and a warm leg draped over one of your own. 

It feels like you haven’t slept through the night in months. Remus has the same issue, but he always seems to drift back to sleep as soon as he wakes. You, however, are left staring at the ceiling, waiting for day to break

With tight muscles and slow movements, you start to slip out of bed, feeling a little like someone sneaking away from a one-night stand. But this isn’t a one-night stand. It’s your home, and you’ve been lying beside your boyfriend. Just as you sit on the edge of the bed, there’s movement behind you, making you turn.

“Where you going?”, his voice is scratchy and filled with sleep, eyes barely open, squinting at you through the darkness. You wince, not because he isn’t lovely but because you feel bad.

“M’sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” you whisper, hating the idea of disturbing him. He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to shake off the sleep, then stretches toward your side of the bed, reaching out to touch whatever part of you he can.

“That’s alright, lovely,” he murmurs, his words slurring with fatigue. “Can’t sleep?”

You hum an affirmative and watch as he reaches over to flick on the bedside lamp. Your heart squeezes at the sight of him—tired but still so attentive, the guilt building in your chest

“You can go back to sleep, Rem, I’m fine.”

He looks heartbroken at that, and his response is immediate. “No, not until you do, pretty”.

You suppress a giggle at how he loses his inhibitions when he’s tired, slipping into his flirty side.

You chuckle softly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re sweet, but really, you don’t have to stay awake just for me,” you say, glancing over at him. His eyes are still heavy, though they are beginning to clear.

But he doesn’t back down. His arm stretches across the bed to rest on your waist, pulling you back toward him. "I’m awake now. And if you’re not sleeping, then I’m not sleeping," he insists, his voice a little more steady, though still laced with sleep.

 His warmth is comforting, his hand gently squeezing your waist as if to remind you he’s right here. "You really are something else," you murmur, resting your head against his chest.

He hums in response, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, his hand beginning to trace slow, soothing circles on your back.

You close your eyes, the motion of his hand settling you into something resembling peace. It’s not sleep, not yet, but it’s enough. His heartbeat under your ear is steady, grounding.

The minutes stretch on, and the tension in your body begins to melt away. The heat from his body seeps into yours, filling the space between you.

Finally, sleep begins to claim you once again, but not before you hear the soft murmur of his voice:

“Love you, dove.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

let me know what you think of this! i appreciate all feedback <3

[arxiwon]

Hi I have a request, could you write something based on this part from Kendrick lamar‘s Song „Pride“

„Me I wasn’t taught to share, but care. In another life I surely was there. Me I wasn’t taught to share, but I care, I care, I care“

In Another Life | pjs

Pairing: Jay × Reader

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Break-Up AU

Warnings: Emotional distress, heartbreak, themes of love and loss, unresolved feelings, heavy angst, implied moving on.

Synopsis: Jay was never taught to share, but he was taught to care. And God, he cared about you—maybe too much, maybe not enough. When the distance between you grows wider, he convinces himself that time will fix it, that love alone will be enough to keep you by his side. But when you finally leave, Jay learns the harshest lesson of all: caring isn’t the same as holding on. And sometimes, letting go is the only thing left to do.

The first time Jay realizes he might have lost you, it isn’t dramatic. There’s no explosive argument, no doors slammed shut, no shattered glass on the floor. Just silence. A silence that stretches too long, settles too deeply, and makes itself at home in the space between you.

He wasn’t taught to share, but he cares. He cares in ways he doesn’t know how to articulate.

You had always been the one to give more. More patience, more understanding, more love. And Jay? Jay took. Not because he was selfish, but because he thought you’d always have more to give. That you’d always be there, waiting.

But now, as he watches you from across the room—your laughter softer, your gaze distant—he wonders when you stopped looking at him like he was your favorite thing in the world.

“Something on your mind?” you ask, tilting your head.

Jay hesitates. His first instinct is to say no. To brush it off, let the moment pass, let things stay easy the way they always have. But something about the way you’re looking at him now—like you already know the answer, like you’re waiting for him to slip up—makes him pause.

He swallows. “Are we okay?”

Your fingers still around your glass, and there it is again. That pause, that silence. It presses against his chest like a weight he doesn’t know how to carry.

“Do you want the truth?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Jay forces a small laugh. “Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

You exhale, setting your glass down with more care than necessary. “I don’t know.”

It’s not the answer he expected. Not the reassurance, not the soft words that make everything feel less heavy. Just three syllables, simple and honest, yet they cut through him like a dull blade.

Jay wasn’t taught to share—his emotions, his fears, his vulnerabilities. But he cares. And right now, caring feels a lot like drowning.

He wants to reach for you. To pull you close, press his forehead against yours, and tell you he’ll do better. That he doesn’t know how to be open the way you need him to be, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. That doesn’t mean he wants to lose you.

But he hesitates. And in that hesitation, he watches as you pull away first.

Because maybe, in another life, he was better at this. Maybe, in another life, he knew how to hold on before it was too late.

But in this one, he just watches you slip through his fingers.

And all he can do is care.

Jay doesn’t sleep that night.

He stares at the ceiling, the room thick with the weight of everything unsaid. The air feels colder, the bed emptier—even though you’re still here, just on the other side, facing away from him. He wonders if you’re awake, if your mind is running in circles like his is.

He wants to reach out. Just to feel you, to make sure you’re still within arm’s reach. But he doesn’t.

Because what if you don’t reach back?

Me, I wasn’t taught to share, but care.

He was never good with words. Never good at saying what he needed to say until it was too late. He thought love was something you showed, not something you had to say out loud. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you needed to hear it. Maybe you needed something more than just his quiet presence beside you.

He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. Tomorrow, he tells himself. He’ll talk to you tomorrow. He’ll figure out the right words, the right way to say them.

But when morning comes, you’re gone.

Not permanently—not yet. Your shoes are missing from the doorway, your coat gone from the rack. Your things are still here, but the absence of you still feels suffocating.

Jay sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand down his face. His chest feels tight, something sharp curling in his ribs.

He should call you. Or text. Something. But his hands stay still in his lap.

Me, I wasn’t taught to share, but I care.

Maybe if he says it enough, it’ll make up for everything else.

Maybe if he cares hard enough, you’ll come back.

—

But caring isn’t enough.

Because days pass. Then weeks. And though you don’t leave entirely, you drift further and further, slipping into a life that feels less and less like his.

Jay sees it in the way you stop lingering in the same space as him. How you don’t fill the silences anymore, how you don’t look at him with that quiet kind of warmth you used to.

And one day, he sees it in the way you smile at someone else.

It’s small—barely anything, just a passing moment. But he feels it like a punch to the gut.

Because he used to be the only one who could make you smile like that.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, jaw tight. He has no right to be angry. No right to feel this bitter, this hollow.

But God, he still cares. And it’s eating him alive.

—

The night you finally leave, Jay doesn’t say anything.

Not because he doesn’t want to—because he does. He wants to tell you to stay, wants to tell you that he’ll do better, that he’ll learn.

But he knows that if he really cares about you—if he truly, deeply loves you—then he won’t hold you back.

So he watches as you close the door behind you, as your footsteps fade down the hall.

And when the silence swallows him whole, Jay finally understands—

Caring was never enough.

And it never would be.

Jay tells himself he’ll be fine.

That time will fix the hollow feeling in his chest. That eventually, he’ll stop checking his phone, stop looking for you in every room, stop expecting to hear your voice in the silence.

But time moves forward, and nothing changes.

He still cares. And caring without having you feels worse than anything he’s ever known.

—

Somewhere along the way, he starts avoiding places where you might be. Not because he doesn’t want to see you—God, he does—but because he doesn’t know if he can handle it.

Because what if you look happy? What if you don’t look back at him?

But one night, he isn’t so lucky.

It happens in a quiet bar, the kind you both used to go to when you wanted to escape the weight of the world for a little while. Jay hadn’t planned on coming here, but his friends had dragged him out, insisting he needed to do something other than wallow in his own mind.

And that’s when he sees you.

You’re sitting by the window, bathed in soft light. Your head tilts back as you laugh at something, eyes crinkling at the corners. You look… good. Like the weight you carried with him is gone.

Like leaving was the right choice.

Jay doesn’t realize he’s gripping his glass too tightly until his knuckles turn white. He forces himself to breathe, to look away. But then your gaze lifts—just for a second.

And you see him.

It’s quick, barely anything, but he sees the way your smile falters just a little. The way your fingers twitch against the rim of your glass.

For a second, he wonders if you’ll come over. If you’ll say something, if you’ll let him hear your voice again.

But then, you turn back to your conversation.

And just like that, Jay realizes—this is what it feels like to be a ghost in someone else’s story.

—

Later that night, long after he’s left the bar, Jay finds himself staring at his phone.

There’s nothing stopping him from calling you. From typing out a message, telling you everything he never said when he had the chance.

But he knows it won’t change anything.

Because caring isn’t the same as holding on. And he lost that right a long time ago.

So he does the only thing he can.

He lets go.

And this time, he doesn’t look back.

[evanbuckleyrecs]

February wrap up

This month I have bookmarked 25 fics! Though I'm only sharing the 9-1-1 fics in this wrap up. All except 1 are Buddie

It only takes a taste (when it's something special) by weewooforever

Buddie | Rated E | 7k | summer of buckfidelity, getting together, first kiss, first time | 2024

Eddie shifts slightly and clears his throat again. “But can you answer my original question? What’s it like kissing a guy?” Buck shrugs, trying to sound casual. “Honestly? It’s pretty much the same as kissing a girl. Lips are lips, you know?” Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Really? It’s just the same?” “Yeah, I mean, it’s all about the connection,” Buck replies, feeling a bit defensive. “Kissing is kissing, right?” Eddie crosses his arms, unconvinced. “Come on, Buck. It can’t be that simple. You’re telling me there’s no difference at all?” Buck leans back, a playful smirk spreading across his face. “Well, if you don’t believe me, I could always prove it to you.”

You're my home, and I'm happy here by gisseleslash

Buddie | Rated G | 2K | established buddie, protective Eddie, insecure Buck, soft Buddie, emotional hurt/comfort | 2025

Chim teases Buck about moving too quickly with Eddie and it brings out all of his doubts. Fortunately Eddie has no doubts about them. Not a single one.

Things that go 'hoot' in the night by Shortsighted_Owl

Buddie | rated G | 5K | established buddie, halloween, worried Eddie, reckless Buck | 2022

Frowning, Buck turns his head toward the noise. Two branches up, obscured by a well placed cluster of twigs, a pair of golden eyes stare back. Gulping, Buck takes a hand from the ladder, and slowly, slowly moves it to his radio, feeling the button give as he tentatively presses the top, hearing the slight squawk of static as the channel opens. “Ugh guys, I think I found our suspect.” Immediately, the leaves around him shudder, as the bright eyes suddenly get much, much closer. “HOOOOO” hoots the owl, the white feathers of its throat puffing up as it leans forward and shouts at the human in its tree. Its head bobs forward as its wings slowly spread, filling the space around it. Buck blanches as the bird puffs up its feathers even more, a wall of bronze and black. “AH!” replies the rather startled human. - Halloween is in full swing and as the veil between worlds thins, things start to go bump in the night. When a jogger is mysteriously injured on a busy street with no witnesses, the 118 are called in to help. Buck, however, discovers their suspect isn't exactly what they had in mind.

Call Me What You Will by ameliahart

Buddie | rated E | 6k | post 8x06 confessions, first time, getting together, Eddie’s couch | 2025

“I knew I was interrupting when I got here,” he continues, gesturing to Eddie’s outfit with one hand while his other creeps up Eddie’s thigh, his thumb brushing along the inside. “But I didn’t realize I was interrupting.” “I was doing Risky Business,” Eddie insists. “C’mon, man. Tom Cruise?” Buck looks utterly delighted, clearly not believing a word coming out of Eddie’s mouth. “Sounds like your business was risky, all right.” “Buck.” “Good thing I didn’t use my key.” “Buck.” *** Yet another continuation of 8x06 where Buck pouts, Eddie feels joy, and they fuck about it.

Cowboy Take Me Away by PixelsMom1990

Buddie | rated T | 6k | getting together, flustered Buck, cowboy Eddie, pining, worried Buck, Texan accent | 2022

Sometimes, Buck forgot that Eddie was from Texas. He’d been in LA for so long that he didn’t really have an accent anymore, except for when he was really sleepy or had a little too much to drink. His vowels would drop, syllables would get a little bit too long and suddenly everyone was “honey” or “baby” or god forbid “darlin’” and Hen would have to scrape Buck off the floor. Literally. Or, Buck is occasionally reminded of Eddie’s roots in Texas and behaves appropriately.

From Your Point of View by MacksDramaticShenanigans

Buddie | rated T | 4k | drunk, first kiss, getting together, coming out, making out, love confessions, sleepy cuddled | 2025

“Hey, Buck,” Eddie not-quite-slurs. It’s a close thing, though. The glass in his hand is his fourth— no, fifth, and wine always hits him so much harder. He’s bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked and loose-limbed on the couch, pressed so close to Buck he’s half in his lap. Buck’s got a steadying arm around his waist— couldn’t avoid the draw to touch even if he wanted to. “Hm?” Buck asks, feeling a little buzzy himself. “Buck,” Eddie repeats. “You’re bicyc—bisect— bisexual.” Buck laughs at Eddie’s stumble. Smiles bright, proud, and nods. “I am,” he agrees. “Have you ever—” Eddie’s winestained mouth purses; his brow furrows thoughtfully, “— have you ever thought about me?” He sways forward, widens his eyes purposefully, whispers, “Like, y’know.”

All that you ever wanted from me by stevesconverse

Buddie | rated T | 7,8k | migraines, sick Buck, Eddie takes care of Buck, first kiss, getting together, hurt/comfortz, chronic pain, soft Buddie, Buck has self-esteem issues | 2024

He inspects the way Buck’s face sinks into his pillow, the way his thick arm rests over the comforter, hugging it to his body, the way his brow is still furrowed with tension. God, he’s beautiful. Eddie shudders at the realization. It’s not like he had never given it a thought before, had never caught himself staring at Buck from across the room—but this is different. It’s not just admiration anymore. His heart warms in a way that makes him uncomfortable and unsure of what he’s feeling. Subconsciously, he lets one hand reach out, thumb tenderly smoothing over the creases in Buck’s forehead. It’s almost casual, like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s just something he does, even though this moment is anything but casual. Like he’s not blurring the lines of their relationship right now, like a wave washing over drawings in the sand. or the one where Eddie takes care of Buck when he's being plagued by a bad migraine.

Give me a call if you ever get lonely by loveisawildthing

Buddie | rated E | 21,7k | texting, phone sex, friends with benefits, sharing a bed, getting together, hurt/comfort, fluff | 2024

“What are you wearing?” Buck asks. Eddie’s laugh is sharp and loud, not having expected Buck to say that. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” “Eddie. It’s a classic. Tell me.” “What if I said I’ve got nothing on?” Eddie asks, purposely pitching his voice lower. “Hey,” Buck scolds him. “First rule of phone sex: no lying.” “There are rules?” “You are so difficult.” Eddie tells Buck to text him whenever he's thinking of Tommy, so he doesn't have to keep baking. Safe to say, things...escalate.

Wrong bed, Buck! By Ellesworth86

Buddie | rated M | 3k | sleepwalking, sleeping together/sharing a bed, mutual pining, first time, drunken confessions, Buck needs a hug, worried Eddie | 2023

Three times that Buck got into the wrong bed, and one where he found the right one. ---- The first time it happened, Buck was exhausted... Eddie had just gotten comfortable and was feeling himself start to drift off to sleep when his door opened slowly. Groaning, he opened his eyes, and squinting, he watched as Buck silently walked around the bed, pulled back the comforter and climbed in. “Wrong bed, Buck.” Eddie heard himself mumble, still in that drowsy stage, halfway between asleep and awake. “No ‘s’not.” The reply came, just as sleepily. “Right bed...nice and warm...favourite person...” Then a snore as he rolled onto his side, his back to Eddie, who didn’t have either the energy or the heart to argue, so he just curled up on his side and fell back asleep.

I Will Not Ask (and Neither Should You) by buckschewtoy, StupidGenius

Buddie | rated E | 11k | bucktommy break up, jealous Eddie, possessive Eddie, transgender Buck, infidelity/buckfidelity, feelings realization, love confessions, Eddie & Karen friendship | 2024

“Don’t be so heartfelt when I’m trying to be dirty, man.” “Maybe your dirty talk needs a little work.” Eddie laughs. “Because yours is so much better?” Eddie closes the distance, nipping a little on Buck’s lower lip. “Could be.” He murmurs lowly. Buck sighs happily, rolling his hips. His hands slide up to cradle Eddie’s jaw, mouth moving against his. He makes a little hurt sound as Eddie encourages him, and the reality of the situation finally hits him. Buck’s cheating on his boyfriend. With Eddie.

Plant new seeds in the melody by bibuckleyforever

Buddie | rated G | 21,5k | 4 chapters - complete | AU, different first meeting, florist Buck, POV alternating, fluff, no angst, flirting, getting together, soft Buddie, first kiss | 2023

“So,” Hen starts as she sits down next to Eddie on the couch once they’re back at the fire station. “So?” Eddie asks expectantly, putting his phone down from where he had been sending Chris a reminder text to get started on his English essay this weekend. “I saw you flirting with the florist. Scratch that, everyone saw you flirting with the florist.” Eddie raises an eyebrow at her. “Flirting? I was not flirting.” “You were basically drooling over the guy. Not that I blame you, even I could tell he’s gorgeous.” Eddie rolls his eyes and goes back to typing his message to Chris. “Was he? I didn’t even notice.” “Mhm,” Hen says as she watches Eddie tapping at his phone. “He had that nice blonde hair, and those beautiful big brown eyes and–” “Blue,” Eddie corrects before snapping his head up to see Hen smirking at him. His face burns bright red. “Okay, yes, he was attractive. Happy now?” --- Or, Eddie's all but given up on dating when he meets Buck at the scene of a call. Chimney and Hen think of it as a sign from the universe. Buck and Eddie think of it as a chance to finally get the love story they've always wanted.

Drunk accidents (sober decisions) by buddiesmutslut

Buddie | rated E | 7k | s7e5 You Don't Know Me, canon divergent, no bucktommy, getting together, lingerie, possessive Eddie, jealous Buck, Edisol breakup | 2024

Immediately following the coming out scene in the loft, Buck gets a package delivered that he'd ordered one night in a drunken haze. The contents will change the trajectory of his life.

Find My Friends by TazzySnow

Buddie | rated T | 7k | established Buddie, buried alive, Buck whump, kidnapping, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, protective Eddie | 2023

Buck has wondered before what it was like underground when Eddie was buried alive, and the idea of being buried alive gives him the fucking willies for sure, but he's never been afraid of tight spaces. He's an object, a piece of a collection yet to be harvested. The sound of the dirt being piled above him grows more and more muffled until it's gone completely and he lays in silence. --- Buck is buried alive and it's a damn good thing Eddie stalks him on Find My Friends.

By act of grace by hattalove

Buddie | rated T | 10k | getting together, recovery, first kiss, family fluff, pining, dogs, dog dad Eddie | 2022

“Oh,” Greg says, his face falling, “that’s Lucifer.” Buck lets out something between a laugh and a cough. “Lucifer,” he repeats. “It's a long story,” Greg says, tugging on the collar of his polo, his name tag clinking. “He's—not exactly well socialized, and he really, really hates—“ he starts, except he’s interrupted by Eddie’s voice, the first words Buck has heard him say since they dropped Chris off at Hen and Karen's. “Hi,” Eddie says, crouching right under the bright red sign – which, now that Buck’s close enough to read it, says DO NOT PET – and reaching his fingers toward the bars. “—men,” Greg finishes, his voice weak, frozen mid-step like he’s not sure if he should be hauling Eddie away while there’s still time. “He hates men. Usually.” or the one in which healing looks a little like ten pounds of dog with a mean streak.

Midnight by DuoOfDiaz

Buddie | rated T | 126 | established Buddie, drabble, texting, text fic, engaged Buddie | 2025

Written for Buddie Month Week Four: prompt - Midnight

Parabola by semperama

Buddie | rated T | 4,6k | post s8e8 wannabes, getting together, Eddie’s will, angst with a happy ending | 2025

“Hey, uh. By the way.” Buck’s been thinking about this, and he has to say it now, or it’ll explode out of him at a much worse time, in a much worse way. “Make sure you don’t forget to change your will again.” Eddie turns toward him, mouth quirked, brow furrowed, like Buck has just said something sort of silly. Like he’s talking about curses again. “What?” “I mean. Like.” Buck twists his fingers together in his lap and looks down at them. “You need to change it so your parents will be his guardians, right? If something happens to you.” “What?” Eddie says again, and he doesn’t sound amused this time.

What is Love for $2000? By fayevian

Buddie | rated M | 17K | AU, different first meeting, social media, mixed media, humor, light angst, Jeopardy, fluff, smart Buck, famous Buck | 2023

On the screen, the camera pans down as they introduce the contestants. Mary, on her 3rd day winning streak, is a dowdy teacher type. Center stage is occupied by a graying man with loopy handwriting named Auggie. And all the way to the right is… Evan. Damn. --- One night when Eddie can't sleep, he discovers the hottest Jeopardy contestant of all time (objectively). With the "help" of his team and his fairly good working knowledge of Twitter, they devise a plan to get Evan (from Jeopardy) to slide into Eddie's DMs. It works surprisingly well.

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life by lamardeuse

Buddie | rated T | 4k | first kiss, season 6, drunk Buck, angst, emotional hurt Buck | 2022

Three hours after the fertility clinic called him, Buck was in the bar down the street from his apartment getting drunk off his ass.

We'd be so grand at the game by lamardeuse

Buddie | rated E | 12K | practice dating, didn't know they were dating, first kiss, first time, idiots to lovers | 2023

“How are we gonna practice dating if we can't even take the first step?” Three hours later, when he was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, Eddie would not be able to pinpoint with any certainty what possessed him to say what he said next. All he knew was that at the time, it seemed like the perfect answer, the obvious solution. “We practice on each other.”

Heaven's a thing (I go there when I touch you) by gooseishere

Buddie | not rated | 1k | first kiss, cuddling, love confessions, getting together, fluff | 2023

Buck sighs, “God this is so embarrassing, can I-“ He turns to look Eddie in the eyes. “Can I have a hug?” Part of Eddie wants to laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of Buck being this nervous to ask Eddie for something as simple as a hug. The other part of Eddie wants to tug Buck to his chest and never let go. “Of course, you can. C’mere.” (or, buck and eddie hug. repeatedly)

And I'd do it over and over again by playinginthunderstorms

Buddie | rated E | 4k | post s8e6 confessions, first time | 2025

Gun to his head, Buck honestly doesn't think he could say which one of them made the first move, but somewhere in between the six-pack he'd brought over and whatever was left of a dusty bottle of tequila in the back of a kitchen cupboard, Eddie—beautiful, radiant Eddie, with his pink shirt and tiny underwear—had ended up in his lap, thighs bracketing Buck's, gasping and grinding helplessly into Buck's hips, the most delicious whines spilling out of his mouth and straight onto Buck's tongue, white-hot pleasure spiking through him as potent as the lightning bolt, so he figures he'll at least die happy. (Or, Buck and Eddie hook up at the end of "Confessions".)

It was our place by HisBucky

Buck & Chimney | rated T | 1,5k | introspection, found family, brothers | 2023

Blue eyes instead of brown. Strawberry instead of vanilla. “You’re my brother. You know that. Right?” -:- or the time when Chimney brings Buck to his and Kevin's favorite diner

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Forbidden Fruit (Winchester men x female reader) - Chapter 2

You're over at the Winchester house, meeting Dean and John for the first time. When you and Sam disappear to his room after dinner, Dean and John think about what it would be like to be with the girl the youngest Winchester brought home. And maybe, just maybe, you're thinking of them too...

Read it on AO3

Rated E

Part 2 coming to AO3 this Sunday!

Chapter 2 - Dean

Dean still can't believe the catch his little brother made. He lets his eyes wander up your thighs as you stand on your tiptoes to pull the plates out of the top kitchen shelf. If that skirt were just an inch shorter...

He sips on his beer, making casual conversation, being his best self. For Sammy, of course.

It isn't how he had planned spending the evening. After that waitress at Wendy's ditched him he had decided to turn the night into some quality brother time, which he and Sam haven't had in a long time. But this is just fine, too. Maybe even better, since he gets to tease his little brother and check you out while doing so.

You seem to be one of the cool chicks, even though he'll probably never understand how someone with your looks would go for a guy two years her junior. You could have anyone. You could have him. Not that he would ever do such a thing to Sam. Well. Except for that one time with that blonde girl, whatshername... Rachel? But that really was all her. That girl must have been a succubus or something. He still feels a little dirty when he thinks of that night. He shudders at the memory, but brushes it off. 's not like Dean Winchester can't handle a wild one.

As the three of you set the table, Dean flashes his brightest smile at you, and you mirror it. You really are a cute one. Feisty. All wits and giggles, touching Sam here, biting your lip there, always making eye contact with Dean. He can't blame you. It's just the effect he has on women.

As the man of the house, Dean starts serving you and Sam when he suddenly hears the front door. That... wasn't the plan. His hands go still for a moment as he looks at his father coming in, and he can see Sam doing the same out of the corner of his eye. John's face is speaking volumes.

It's the face he makes when he doesn't get his way, in this case meaning he couldn't get his hands on the artifact he had been hunting for almost a week. But that's not something they can discuss right now. Not with you present. He wonders what's going to happen now, if John's going to have an outburst, kick all of you out. It wouldn't be the first time.

Dean snaps out of his stupor as Sam finally speaks, introducing you to his dad. To his surprise, at least a little of John's tension seems to fall off him as he eyes you carefully. A good sign.

When you address John, your voice sounds different than it had sounded earlier, bantering with Dean. There's this quality about it that he can't exactly put his finger on, something almost authoritarian, a tone that's not disrespectful but he would never have employed toward his dad. And when you call him Mr. Winchester it just... it makes his breathing stagger for a fraction of a second.

And it seems you really do have some magical effect on John as well, because he just walks over to the table, throws his jacket over a chair and sits down to reach for the food.

Dean hesitates for another moment, and then all of you resume what you were doing before. He's still a little skeptical of how... normal all of this feels, how nice. Like an actual family dinner. He pokes at his chicken, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

He flinches a little when John speaks again. Dean looks at you, trying to gauge if you saw his involuntary reaction, but fortunately you seem to be looking at your boyfriend for once.

"So," he hears his dad asking, "how did you two meet? Dean, get me a beer, will ya?"

He immediately gets up to the fridge, fulfilling John's request, but listens closely to what you're saying.

He grins at you telling them how you and Sam met in a bookstore. Of course, that's where Sammy goes to pick up girls. A freaking bookstore. Such a dork.

He opens John's beer and sits back down to join the conversation, making a crack at Sam. He's still chuckling at his own joke when he hears you say another couple of magic words. You go to the local community college. Dean's sure his eyes must have lit up like a Christmas tree when hearing those words. You're a goddamn college girl.

He stares down at his plate, drowning his food in hot sauce and stuffing his mouth because he's sure he's starting to salivate a little, images he wouldn't want Sam to read off his face popping into his head. You, sitting in class, chewing on a pen. You, having a PJ-pillow fight with your equally attractive roommate. You, at a kegger, downing an entire solo cup in record breaking time. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, trying to make a little more room for his physical reaction to those mental pictures of you.

He takes another big gulp of his beer. It's just not fair, college girls going wild? That is one of his top three fantasies. His mind makes it back into the actual room just in time for him to hear you saying you study something with languages. He bets you're really good with all things French, alright.

And then he sees you, leaning into Sam, your thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth, which is already a gesture that's making him want to get up and grab you, and then your lips meet your boyfriends'. Dean is mesmerized by the pure beauty of it, God knows he has kissed his fair share of women, but the way you do it, so casual, so unashamed and loving in front of everyone, that's just something he hadn't expected.

He's never had someone do that to him. He feels that a lot of his girlfriends only wanted him for his looks. To parade him in front of their friends. Or to piss off their parents. Or both. Not that the devil-may-care attitude he's cultivated so well over the last few years would have allowed anything deeper than that. There was this one girl, Jackie, captain of the high school soccer team, who he tried to talk to, about Sam, and how he felt it was his responsibility to keep him safe, but she had just stupidly grinned, stuffed her panties in his mouth and ridden him for the next couple of hours. But you, you're different. You...

There's a bang, and suddenly, while Dean is still enchanted by your nonchalance, Sam sends hot sauce flying everywhere.

He almost jumps up, worried for a second he might get sauce all over his shirt, and then he sees that you got sauce all over your shirt.

His eyes follow the trail the thick droplets leave going up from your stomach, getting smaller higher up your chest, and two tiny ones directly on that soft, soft skin of your cleavage. His tongue darts to his teeth, the impulse of licking it off you almost strong enough to act on it. 

He watches you like in slow-motion, getting up, leaning over toward him. He thinks you're wiping the spilled sauce on the table away, but he's not entirely sure because all he can focus on is the jiggling pair of tits right in front of his face.

Dean cocks his head a little, looking glass-eyed, imagining his face pressed up against those lush curves, and then the moment is over as quickly as it came.

You stand up, apparently going to change. He wouldn't have minded you just taking the stained shirt off and remaining in your bra, but alas.

With you gone, the room suddenly goes quiet again, like it usually is. Dean stabs at his food for a little while longer, thoughts still hung up on that tiny bit of lacy fabric he thinks he saw under your shirt. He swallows, looks at Sam. His damn little brother who scored such a minx.

Then you're back, and Sam is saying something, but Dean's not paying attention. He's just looking at you, your beautiful smile that is so prominent in your eyes, and how you look so pretty even in Sam's old shirt. It makes him tingly, and not only in that sultry way he is so used to, in all the ways.

He is somewhat relieved when you and Sam get up to go to his room, to watch a movie or something. Probably some fantasy flic with a bunch of dragons. He's a little sad he doesn't get to ogle at you anymore, but it's probably for the best. The way you made him feel right there, smiling, licking your lips at him... it would have only gotten harder if you had stayed.

So he finally clears his plate, says good night to John, and is off to his room.

Dean closes the door behind him. He just stands there, a little unsure of what to do with himself now, and listens for a moment. Then he hears the front door go, which must be John leaving. Other than that, everything is quiet. Slowly, an idea forms in his head. Dean lies flat on his stomach next to the bed and reaches underneath it, blindly feeling for something. He pulls out a navy sock, an alarmingly large dust bunny and then finally the cardboard box he is looking for.

He blows on it, which he immediately regrets, then opens it, sitting on the bed. At the top of the stack of magazines lies his favorite edition of Busty Asian Beauties, but that's not what he's hungry for right now. He flips through the magazines, a couple of them sticking together, searching for a specific one. He carelessly throws one after another aside, until finally, almost at the bottom of the stack, he finds it.

It's a Playboy with a feature series on weather girls. On page 13, next to the recipe for a Vesper Martini, he finally finds her.

She's wearing a see-through swimsuit, holding a tiny parasol and is sucking on a twisted lemon peel. And she looks just like you. Well, the nose is a bit off, and the hair. Her boobs are bigger, too, but yours look more real. And her smile is not as pretty as yours. But it'll do.

Dean blindly grabs for the lotion on his nightstand, his muscle memory instantly kicking in. He shimmies his pants down, his slick hands finding his half hard cock. He looks at the girl in the magazine, pouting her lips at him, and starts pumping.

Dean imagines you pushing him down on the bed. That tone you used talking to John... it has given him ideas. You're a girl who knows what she wants. Who gets what she wants. He imagines you tearing his jeans down, dropping to your knees, marveling at his cock. He thinks the slight curve of him would make you bite your lip, because a girl like you appreciates the things you can do with that. He knows it's a great dick, and for a second he feels kind of sorry for you that you'll probably never get to enjoy it. But that's not what he wants to think about right now. Now, he wants to think about what your mouth would feel like on him. He can almost feel your tongue running up his shaft, those soft, plush lips of yours kissing the groove on the underside.

He imagines your fingers digging into his thighs, holding him in place while you explore him. He'd want to fuck you right away, show you what a real man could do, but you've got your own head. And you love giving head. You want to tease him, give him the full college girl experience, and you call him Mr. Winchester.

You hollow your cheeks like a goddamn professional, taking all of him deep without—

Dean suddenly snaps out of his fantasy. Was that...? He furrows his brows, straining his ears. He could swear he just heard someone... moan?

All of a sudden, his mouth feels very dry, and while she is gorgeous, he's having a hard time focusing on the weather girl. He stays silent, alert for another couple of seconds. Nothing.

He clenches his jaw, tucks himself back into his boxers and gets up to get himself a glass of water. He really is having a hard time swallowing.

He awkwardly shuffles out of his room, his erection straining against his pants. He decides not to switch the light on. He's somewhat slower when he passes Sam's room, listens for a moment, but the silence is deafening.

Yeah. He was probably imagining things. He ventures on into the kitchen, downs a big glass of water, splashes some on his face. He wipes it away with his sleeve and makes his way back to his room to finally take care of the tent he is pitching, and then he stops dead in his tracks a couple of feet away from Sam's door.

His eyes go wide as he hears it again, that sinful, high pitched moan. A moan that lets him know you're having all the right buttons pushed, probably at the same time.

He presses his back to the wall next to the door, his hand shooting into his boxers. He closes his eyes.

Dean pictures the face you're making, enjoying whatever the fuck it is that is eliciting that kind of sound from you. He likes to think it's his tongue. Teasing your entrance, lapping at your juices. He wonders what you taste like. If it's anything like that deliciously crisp apple scent of yours, sweet and alluring, like any forbidden fruit. 

He imagines pushing a finger into you, your hand rough in his hair, rasp voice telling him to give you more. He imagines sucking on your clit, making your eyes roll back into your head while you pant his name. He knows you'd enjoy that. He's really good at it. Or so he's been told.

There's another moan from the other side of the door, and some squeaking from the terrible mattress he knows Sam sleeps on.

Now you're straddling him, giving him a full view of those gorgeous tits of yours, bouncing up and down just like he had imagined back at dinnertime. Who gives a crap about continuity, this is his fantasy, and since he can't have the real thing he's going to make this an experience to remember. His fist clenches around his dick.

You're grinding yourself down on him, your hips under his firm grasp rolling beautifully. One of your hands is scratching over his chest, he likes the way it stings a little. He also likes the idea that you'd mark him up as yours. The other hand is running through your hair, he probably picked that up in one of John's old VHS porn tapes that he found when he was 11, but who cares. Your hand runs over your neck, your chest, and your mouth falls open as you gently pinch your nipple. Yeah. He likes that. This perfect picture of you fucking yourself on him, using him for your pleasure. Ruining him.

He picks up his pace, because he feels you'd be close. You'd be so on the edge, the feeling of fullness he's giving you, that you'd want him to meet you halfway, his hips thrusting against your wetness. His breathing becomes irregular, and it's a good thing you're not actually there because he's not sure how much longer he can—

No. Not like this. He wants to come inside you, but you want to taste him. He's stroking himself, just the last couple of pumps, in his mind looking down at your beautiful features, tongue stuck out, those gorgeous eyes blinking up at him. The image of you waiting for him to paint your face with his spendings is just too much. Dean comes, hard, shuddering, careful not to leave a mess anywhere. He shivers. Takes a breath. Looks around.

He can still hear you and Sam going at it, but he's done. He grins to himself. Good for Sammy, he thinks, taking his girl to town.

[ofblemishwithin]

JJ was processing the reality of this event. JJ was more then capable of handling his dad, of the abuse, of each time he talked back, each time he was the one to dare give the roll of an eyes, do stupid reckless shit, he’d be the one with a hit to the face, hand wrapped around his throat daring to fight for air. But this time he felt the painful marks on his neck, he felt the dizziness on his head. But as dier as this situation was; the only way JJ knew how to fight through the pain. Was to laugh it off; and of course the last person he wanted to be here, was the annoying one to never give up. He’d be chewing out Maia later; once he wasn’t on his own priority. Once they were safely miles away from his deadbeat dad, his little home. “ Trust me when I say these injuries are nothing new, nothing I can’t handle. As for you.. I can assume this is a little too intense for your kook princess ass.” There we go, a tease yet insult? Or was JJ simply putting up the mask to push Maia far enough off that edge. 

JJ didn’t like talking about the torment he dealt with; each time his dad drank, each time he was on his new set of drugs of the week. Luke could be a dad, when he was clean, but it was like he blamed me for what happened to my mom, and now JJ felt suffocated like he was trapped. As he slowly sat up, he did feel her hand on his back her lame attempt to be caring, I had to fight every urge not to brush her hand off me. I wasn’t a child, I didn’t need help standing. Well, considering the throbbing in my head I guess the jury was out on that one. I could tell Maia was shaken up, which is maybe why I was willing to not cuss her out yet. Placing his hands on the ground he brushed her touch off as he pushed his strength into his hands as he made his move to stand onto his feet. Slightly wobbly at first, but JJ was sure to dust himself off. Glancing to his dad who was more than passed out on the porch. Rightfully so. 

“ No, no even think just because you walked in on my ass of a father doing that, that it makes us friends.” Defenses, truth was JJ was kinda concerned Maia may open her smart mouth and spread it around, that a girl saved his ass. I couldn’t even say the words beating me up, because then I may threaten to care vulnerability. And Maia no way in hell was she getting my sensitive side yet. “ Considering I’m letting you come with me to John B’s I think that’s bone enough thrown your way.” I said with a set of raised brows now, as I slowly moved down to the steps I needed to get off this property if not for myself but for Maia before he woke up. “ And don’t worry, I know where the first aid stuff is, I’m not dumb. If you breathe a word of this to anyone you can forget me ever giving you a shot.” 

Or Maia truly will live up to the kook name. JJ was already the joke of figure 8 his dad, the drug addict but I was tougher than that shit; and this was me throwing a bone to the annoying pain in my ass.

Paths intertwined

@thehellsakook 

Outer Banks; it was made up of two sides. The rich freaks that lived on figure 8 and the pogues which were known as the people that had to scrape by. JJ was neither; well he was a pogue; it was his known family. But he wasn’t the guy that had people looking out for him. He had a dad but he was far from the father figure you’d picture in your mind. He was the guy that scraped by, with working on boats; that helped the rich across the town in order to make the ends meet, but he was also the dirty guy that tended to feed off any person that was willing to toss him money. 

JJ witnessed it first hand; the poker nights growing up. The smell of beer that stayed within these walls. The lack of food provided. JJ knew he had to count on himself. It’s why John B, Pope, and kie and I all stuck together. We helped each other when we felt in a bind. Kie was able to help more considering she lived in the big house; she was a kook yet she liked slumming it with us. She didn’t care what her parents said, all the warnings based on the rumors. It was always kooks vs the pogues what could I say? JJ though he had to fend for himself; he was the one who walked around at night; waiting for the wreck to close up; and Kie would help hand out any extra food the restaurant had. He didn’t like asking for help nor would you hear him say the words. But the pogues knew; his dad he was unreliable, the only person he could count on was himself. 

It was another start to a another school year. One JJ was dreading, he knew in order to make it life you had to learn. YOu had to sit through each boring class. He was his own kind of smart. He could pick up on cues, he could pick up on the simple concepts; but when it came to applying himself he froze. He rather let Pope do the work; and he’d feed the notes of each subject to him. Pope was the brains of the pogues; he was the school scholar that wanted to go to an ivy league school, and I had no doubt in my mind he’d make it. But me; I was barely getting by. John B had the smarts like myself; his quick thinking. But would we amount to anything? Heck no. All that in mind; JJ had pushed the simple supplies of a notebook, a few pencils into his backpack. Using his hand he zipped it; as he heard the calling from the windows. 

“ JJ Man let’s go.” John b neither of his friends dared to stay inside especially when his dad’s truck was parked outside. He had pulled the strap of his bag over his shoulder. Taking his gray baseball cap he brought it to rest over his sandy blonde hair. A pair of shorts he wore; an an old white T-shirt, simple was all the teen did. He closed the door to his room and made his way through the small home. He paused when he saw his dad head facing down against the arm rest of the couch. Same old day; he was passed out probably from his work last night; or the money he managed to trick out of his so called buddies. I had to roll my eyes as I took the keys for the boat; for after school. Tucking the key into my shorts pocket. I had stepped through the swinging doors spotting Kie and Pope. Eyes moved to try to find our missing friend; the one I had heard inside. Ducking my head down; I had felt a pair of arms wrap around my neck from behind. “ Took you long enough.” John B, I had used my hands to push behind me; in order to push the male down. 

This was us; joking around; laughing on the walk to the dreadful day at school. I never cared what anyone thought; the pogues were my life. The only ones I truly cared about. The walk was a bit longer compared to figure 8, as we stepped onto the pavements we caught sight of the sport cars, of the fancy cars; you’d dream of riding in. I had to roll my eyes; just another day. Topper and Sarah and their crew were hanging out by the small wall before the stairs. We had shrugged our shoulders as we passed. Stepping one at a time on the stairs until we walked right into the building. 

Pope and Kie had walked the other way as John B and I did our hand shake an agreement to meet at next class; math my worse. I had science first; the male ducked his textbook under his arm as he walked the distance to the class. Cap blinding his eyes from making eye contact with anyone. He had found a spot in the third row; the desk in front of him as he placed his book down. His legs in front of him. Hand had moved to rest on the edge of the desk when he spotted the brunette from the sports car; a kook. Figures. To his surprise she was directed to sit next to him; oh great, cue the roll of his eyes. JJ had barely acknowledged her. “ Ah okay.” As if I was giving out my name to strangers; attention drawn to the teacher as if I intended on paying attention.

[bigender-cowboy]

I HATE DOCTORS WHYYYYY NO NO NO GUYS WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS YOU’RE QUITE LITERALLY PAID TO MAKE SURE IM OKAY WHYYY

[poisonedfate]

literally in distress over my job rejecting my availability