#and everything else will just be contained there

[01zfan]

sweetheart | l. at

nerd!anton x nerd!reader | 5.1k words

a request i got and it kinda made me go a little insane.

contains: anton pretends to be an insecure little nerd to plot on the reader, fingering, reader is implied to be a virgin

Anton is a sweetheart. He’s non assuming and soft spoken, so quiet that he has to clear his throat each time he speaks. He’s kind, always extending the same tenderness and patience to people he received as a child. He’s one of the few men in his program that the girls didn’t have trouble approaching if they had a question or trouble with an assignment. 

Each time anyone approached him with a question he was helpful, pushing his thick frames up his face before leaning to the paper. With a pencil he’d mark where the mistake was, and explaining it with a gentle voice that had girls leaning in even closer. 

After they got a smell of his cologne and the look of his soft skin everything else was easy. The girls would tilt their heads in curiosity about Anton, intrigued at how someone so shy made it this far in life. How someone was so cute from afar but something more once you got close. All he had to do was avoid their eyes and chew his lip a few times before they were sliding their phones over to him.

Just in case I need help with another assignment.

Anton’s eyes would always widen in shock. Not from the surprise of being pursued but just how easy it all was. The girls never found out that Anton was red in the face from the rush and he ducked his head to hide a smile of satisfaction. They would laugh lightly seeing his reaction, observing what they thought was insecurity. Before going on about their day they’d touch his shoulder or pull on him playfully.

Anton is a sweetheart.

But he also has a problem.

He knows he does. His friends compared it to a sweet tooth that bordered addiction, or someone who would walk into a casino with a twenty dollar bill expecting to hit big. They sometimes even called Anton a psychopath when he’d get all giddy telling them about his day. 

Anton knew he had a problem, but it was hard to stop when he got the sweet fix or hit the jackpot each time. Nothing could top the feeling of euphoria Anton would get when he’d come to one of those girls after they asked him to come to their place. He’d look at the messages in the comfort of his room and smile, knowing what it meant when they’d preface the study session by saying they were alone. He’s addicted to the game he’d play every time, faking the shy and insecure nerd that pretty girls were going to eat for dinner. Like they were throwing him a bone by inviting him to their apartment or dorm under the guise of doing homework. 

They’d answer the door in something easy to take off or something that would cling to them like a second skin. If they were particularly desperate it’d be both, yoga pants that showed everything and a cropped shirt that rode up with every movement. Anton loved shamelessly gawking at the girls behind his glasses, shuffling from foot to foot in front of them before they invited him in. He waited for each direction, eyes darting around their room before he was invited to sit down or told to take out his notebook. He would purposefully be a step behind, showing how lost he was to be in a room that didn’t belong to him or his other intraverted friends.

He loved letting the girls make the first move. On their bed settling in as they really got a look at him in the setting of their room. Something about how clueless he was made the girls all the more strung up. He looked everywhere but at them, shrinking himself on their bed. His timidness made the girls love making the first subtle touch on his flexed arm, or purposefully grabbing his pencil so they could compare hand sizes. Anton loved acting like he was nervous wreck from the longing stares to the side of his face, like he hadn’t done this dance a million times before. He loved messing up his words while trying to act oblivious to the hungry look in their eyes. He loved the pretty smile the girls would get like he was the one falling into their trap. 

His absolute favorite part was when they’d turn his head with their soft hands. Anton would falter from the eye contact, letting his lips part in confusion as they focused on him. The notebooks and assignments between them long forgotten as they shuffled closer to him on the bed.

“Have you ever been with a girl before?” 

They’d always ask that. Voices light and airy, already having an answer in their mind.

“I have.” 

He’d always answer with a stutter. The falter in his voice never made them push any further. They assumed by Anton’s darting eyes that the number was so minuscule asking about it would only embarrass him. 

(He stopped being embarrassed of his conquests a long time ago. He also stopped being able to keep track.)

Anton is a sweetheart, with a problem of seeing pretty girls eyes flash when they realize that he is more than capable.

The moment was always the same. The mood in the room would change when Anton would sheepishly take off his oversized hoodie. Each time silence would settle over the room when they saw what he was hiding underneath. His undershirt hugged close to his body, showing the chisel and the hard work he put in at the gym. When he was feeling tired while working out he’d replay the sight of the girls taking in his toned body. They’d reach out to touch his chest as if they were expecting it all to be fake, other times they would just let out a breathless wow.

He always basked in seeing the girls try to maintain their composure. They would become the ones averting their eyes and stumbling over their words. They would be shellshocked on their side of the bed, wondering what else he was hiding. But Anton was still sweet, he always was. He would always wait patiently to see if this was really what the girls wanted. He would pick at the seam of his pants and look down to the forgotten homework to let them know they could go back to what they were doing and pretend this never happened. But the obvious bulge in his pants always made pretty girls reach for the waistband of their pants without a second thought.

Anton was never sure if they gawked at him in an attempt to get his confidence up or if they were truly surprised. As if his build and height were no indicator, each time Anton took off his pants to reveal his dick they were always so shocked. That’s when the resolve would truly fall, when their jaws would drop and they’d blink their eyes from the sheer surprise. Precum would leak from his tip just from the sight of them coming to terms with what was twitching and red and angry in front of them.

“You’re big.”

The infliction in their voice was always different. Some girls would be excited, others would be confused, a few times they almost seemed disgusted. Like there was no way the shy kid in the back of the class was hiding this.

“Am I really?” 

Anton wasn’t an idiot. Even if he said it looking down at the bed, he knew that he was endowed and it was pretty. But sometimes he just needed to hear it an extra time, or look up to see a quick head nod when they couldn’t fathom saying it again. He was an insecure nerd after all. The quiet recluse in the back of class that barely had friends. An absolute sweetheart that threw girls around and manipulated their bodies into positions they didn’t even know about.

He loved being a good fuck. For a long time he believed he was put on the Earth to fuck pretty girls and to stop them from judging books by their covers. Anton was killing two birds with one stone by cooing at girls condescendingly while he gave them everything. It was his civic duty to exert his strength and to kiss girls until they were breathless and his glasses fogged. Each time he heard I didn’t know you had that in you an angel gained it’s wings. Whenever they’d tell their girlfriends what the shy nerd did to them in their dorm Anton was making the world a better place. Sometimes he would get called back, sometimes he would run through entire friend groups just to prove he was really committed to the cause. 

No matter how many people Anton fucked, no one seemed to believe it. Like it was collective psychosis that the nerd was a good lay, or a big open secret everyone was hush about. Anton was still treated like he was meek, his soft nature made everyone believe he was an open book, so much to the point that they made wrong judgements about his character. He actually hated staying inside and enjoyed exploring the city and trying new things with his friends. He was a sensitive person but he could also advocate for himself and admit when he was wrong. He was quiet, but only because he valued personal, quiet conversations more than anything. 

He eventually learned that people’s preconceived notions of him couldn’t be helped. Anton could fuck the entirety of the campus and people would still treat him like he was made of glass. He decided to be an optimist, finding the silver lining in people assuming he was the sweetheart with a cute smile. Their perception of him could’ve been worse, being shy was infinitely better than being loud and obnoxious. So when people would assume things about Anton’s personality he would only react positively. He would let his eyes go wide, acting shocked when someone would tell him about their first impression of him. 

“I thought you were an asshole at first.”

You told Anton nonchalantly, as if his whole world didn’t crumble. You didn’t even spare him a second glance as you wrote on your lab report. You were too busy adjusting the calculations and reading over the proper way to dispose the chemicals a million times to make sure it was right while Anton sputtered to himself. He was caught off guard by your honesty and surprisingly quick answer as if it was on the forefront of your mind. You only tilted your head up for a second before you had the answer. 

Anton didn’t know what to do about you. Just when he thought he had seen every girl in his major you came along, sitting in the back of class with him. You seemed to be the recluse of a person everyone mistook Anton for. You were in and out of class, not bothering to raise your hand during discussions or to socialize with your peers. You also didn’t seem to latch onto him like other girls of his major did. When they looked for Anton’s face in the lecture hall you walked right past him, not bothering to look up from your notebook or laptop. For the first time in his life Anton felt compelled to make the first move. He thought that you two had built up a good rapport, and that you saw him as your kindhearted and resigned classmate.

But you saw him as anything but that. You said it confidently too, and loud enough for your classmates at the next lab table to look over.

“What do you mean?” Anton said quietly.

You frowned looking up from the pamphlet. You were visibly annoyed, you even motioned to the undisposed chemicals to show him that you two still had class.

“Can we talk about this when our grade isn’t at stake, please?” You asked.

You weren’t commanding for his benefit. You weren’t taking into account that he might be afraid to hear a negative opinion about himself. You weren’t looking at him like girls had before, like you were trying to pick him apart for your own entertainment. You were willing to put validation for Anton on the back burner because you had other things to do. When Anton would have girls gush over him you were benevolent, indifferent to his fake insecurities. 

The more you paid attention to your work rather than him, Anton found himself scrambling. He was working hard for your affection. When the teacher announced that class was over and lab reports were due the next morning he leapt at the chance to invite himself over. He was supposed to be shy and insecure, getting nervous over the mere thought of being alone with the opposite sex. His facade went over your head. Instead, Anton watched you do the cost-benefit analysis of inviting him over before you shrugged your shoulders.

“Alright. Just follow me.” You said before setting a ridiculously fast paced speed walk to the other side of campus.

But Anton followed you. He bobbed and weaved through crowds and essentially chased you across the common area while you continued on your pace. Other girls would walk with Anton, trying to pry information out from his clammy hands. You barely spared a second glance over your shoulder like you were trying to lose him. Anton followed you all the way to your dorm, then up the stairs, then waited for you beside your door as you put your backpack on your desk and pulled up a chair next to yours. You didn’t extend an invitation towards Anton to take a seat. 

He waits for you to step in. He’s laid the trap by taking off his hoodie even though you kept your room cold, and shuffled his seat closer to yours. He put his elbows on the table next to yours coming closer to the lines you stopped writing on your paper.

He laid the trap. He can see you hesitate, looking from him to the assignment and then back to him. Anton keeps his eyes on the paper, rubbing his fingers over his lips to stop himself from smiling.

“Do you work out?” You asked.

Your voice didn’t have the sultry infliction that girls usually had when they asked him that question. You didn’t reach across and squeeze his toned bicep or shamelessly drag your eyes over his broad shoulders. You asked the question simply, no other intention except for wanting an answer.

“I do. Sometimes.” Anton said.

You only hummed and went back to your paper. Anton scooted closer to you, hoping his Le Labo Lavande 31 and the hand across the back of your chair was invading your space enough for you to really get a good look at him. Anton watched your eyes dart again. You were nervous, eyes wide and Anton felt the rush.

“You smell nice.” You said.

The line was pulled from the trap. You’re caged in and Anton looks to you. He knows about the death grip you have on your pencil, it makes him brave enough to invade your space even more.

“You forgot to write your observations here.” Anton says, trying to make lab reports as sexy as possible. 

This assignment would’ve been abandoned a long time ago. If this was anyone else it would’ve never made it out of their backpack. You were adamant about your work, looking at the tips of his pretty fingers where you left a spot blank. He should have his report out too. He should be writing something just like you try to, instead Anton leans closer and he swears the pencil in your hand is going to break from the pressure. 

Is this how he should’ve been acting with those girls all that time? This is real nerves rolling off your body. The anxiety almost makes Anton nervous by extension, he shivers when he finally lets his hand on the back of your chair touch your body. You stiffen and he’s amazed. You went from being indifferent to being too aware. He feels you back away slightly, but when his hand tightens on your shoulder you lean in. You’re hot and cold, not knowing what you want. He can feel you tremble, and your eyes dart from his eyes to his lips. 

“I’ve never done anything before.”

Anton comes closer. His hand that pointed at a random thing on your paper turns into a fist as he distracts you completely. He brings himself forward until he’s in your line of sight, even when you try so hard to look at anything but him. He smirks when your eyes dart past him, and he fully lets his arm rest across your back. You’re malleable, before you refused to even bend to him but now you move from his slightest touch.

“What do you mean?” He asks. “You’ve never done what before?”

He should go for the nerds more often. The way you already seem sweaty and antsy just from thinking about what is happening makes Anton want to play with you some more. He knows it’s perverse, like a dog playing a smaller animal to death. He wants to see if you’ll twitch, if you’re playing dead just to try and make a run for it. 

“I’ve never—I know that—” Anton raises his eyebrows and nods to each one of your broken statements. “It just seems like—”

“Like what?” He smiles and nudges you. His smile is toothy, yours is tightlipped to a straight line. “C’mon. Talk to me.” He continues.

“You smell really good.” You repeat.

You’re the twitching body of a mouse in his jaws. He just smile and nods at your statement, how you go back to saying old things in an attempt to catch your footing. He forces you to sit in the uncomfortable silence. He waits for you to say something knowing you can’t, he waits for you to touch him even if you’re caught like a deer in the headlights.

“I look good too, right?” He starts drawing shapes on your shoulder.

He’s having too much fun. He’s entertained seeing your intelligence fail you. You’re stumped, you drop your pencil to fully clench your fist. 

The pencil is rolling back and forth on your lab report, the small sound is the only thing that speaks. You’re still desperately trying to figure out how you got into this situation, how one thing led to another so quickly that his hand is reaching underneath the sleeve of your shirt.

“You look good, Anton.” You agree.

“Thanks.” Anton smiles and you do too, averting your eyes and nodding to yourself to feign indifference. Anton looks down to your shirt, still playing with your skin underneath your sleeve. “You do too.” He says.

Another bout of silence. You let yourself be touched, hands still clenched on top of the table. Anton rests his hand on top of your fist, smoothing over the protruding veins trying to coax them open. This is more fulfilling than playing with popular girls. The game still hasn’t ended for him. He’s on the fifth consecutive jackpot when you finally open your mouth again.

“I don’t.” Your hand opens and Anton clasps over it, smiling to himself when it disappears. “I don’t know what you want me to do.” You stutter.

You’re too cute for your own good. Finally you look at him with big eyes and your eyebrows raised. You give into his touches a little more, finally warming up to all the attention. Still your pupils shake, and Anton brings his hand from your shoulder to your face to keep you from turning away.

“Can I make you feel good?” He asks.

You could barely nod before Anton was guiding you up from your chair and backing you towards your bed. He watched you stumble when the back of your legs hit the edge. You looked up at him, your pretty eyes already looking wet. Maybe he really did have a problem. Because he loved seeing them widen in surprise when he put his hands underneath your arms, lifting you up just enough to set you on the edge of your bed. He loved seeing your jostled expression and the tiny yelp when you landed so perfectly on your sheets.

Anton watched you stay in place, catching your breath from the sudden movement. He watched your chest still as his hands went to the bottom of his tank top. He’s grateful to have such a captive audience. There’s no way he can pretend to be shy after this. You’re astonished as he slowly lifts his shirt, and he watched you shamelessly stare at him before you realized he could see you. 

Anton let you eat him alive before he came up to you, until you had to tilt your head upwards to see him. You didn’t dare lift your hands from the bed, like he was going to disappear the moment you touched him. Like he was straight from a dream you only looked up to him, waiting for what he was going to do next. Anton wonders if you thought you’d end up in this position, with him looming over you and his hand creeping to a spot under your chin. He absolutely can’t stop doing this. The view is too pretty, your stillness is addicting. Like you’re too afraid to even breathe too loud in case it’d break the tension. He bends closer to your lips, eyes still open after you screw yours shut. You preemptively grip your mattress for dear life and he can’t help but smile.

He smiles into the kisses, each peck bringing you closer and closer to your mattress. When your back is against the sheets Anton climbs on, refusing the break contact. You look so pretty underneath him, eyes squeezing shut again when another wave of realization hits you. You’ve never been in this position before, with someone like Anton looming over you while still being so sweet. He runs his hand over the apple of your cheek, and fixes your shirt that left your stomach exposed.

“Is this okay?” Anton asks.

He knows it is, because your legs seemed to spread a little bit more and more with each passing second. By the time his hand drifts down to your neck you’re completely open, your soft pants bunching at the place Anton wants to touch you next. The valley of your chest gives him a straight path down, and your bent legs open further.

“Want me to touch you?” He asks.

He knows he’s cruel. You’re metaphorically dead and his face is covered in blood, but still he continues. He’s jumping around your body, reaching out a playful hand like you have the life to play back.

“Please touch me.” You whine pitifully.

Anton presses a chaste kiss to your forehead as his hands work past the elastic band of your pants and underwear. You flinch from his hands, then you preen your hips towards his fingers, then you pull back. He’s mocking when he coos at you, the time pressing a kiss to the side of your head. He almost feels bad. You’re clearly fighting against something, your eyes are shut tight as you press your head into the mattress. Anton tries kissing your eyes open, but it only makes you squeeze them tighter.

With you writhing underneath him, he took the time to look around your room. Your little pegboard above your desk where you had calendar marked with all the important due dates of upcoming assignments. Your neatly placed books and papers, your stuffed animals around your pillows. You didn’t make your bed this morning, instead laying on crumbled sheets and gripping whatever you could get your hands on. Your hand went to Anton’s forearm and clutched it, whimpering something that he couldn’t decipher.

“Does it feel good?” He asks.

You nod, and when Anton tries to pull away he feels your nails dig into his forearm. You seem unaware of what you’re doing, how you’re silently begging him to keep going. You’re just moving underneath him, already beginning to twitch helplessly. Anton purposefully pushes his fingers deeper into your clit until he knows he’s bringing you the smallest amount of pain. He’s pulling the strings, watching your body react to him because you can’t control it. By this point the girls would already be asking him to take his pants off, but you can’t even form a coherent thought. He’s having fun in his jeans, watching you twitch and twist and grip his arm with all your might.

“Anton.”

You flick your hips up and he presses his hand to your hip, pinning you to the bed. You still try to swivel, useless against his strength. He’s intrigued that you aren’t trying to be defiant but you simply can’t help it. All the other girls were pliant immediately, so desperate to please the quiet boy in class they underestimated. You’re defiant because you can’t handle it.

“What’s up?” He asks.

His completely even voice makes you whine. The flush across your cheeks tells him you’re embarrassed, red hot and real unlike his facade.

You don’t answer him. You just dig your nails into his arm and attempt to get his prodding fingers to slide in. He raises his eyebrows at your not-so-subtle attempts to get him to inside of you.

“You want me to finger you?” He asks.

You nod like a good girl and Anton almost feels bad for asking you the question in a mocking tone. He makes up for it by giving you what you want immediately, sucking in a deep breath to match your deep breath. He smiles when he sees you arch off the bed. This is so much more entertaining than anything else. Just two fingers has you making unfiltered noises and gripping the sheets. Anton has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing, and he has half a mind to ask you if you’re okay in a serious tone. But he just continues driving his fingers into your hole.

He picks up the speed, just to hear the lewd sound you two make. It’s wet, Anton can already feel the mess on the palm of his hand. He pulls your waistband down to your knees, bringing your thighs closer together. He has to fight against your soft thighs clenching around his hand. He’s still able to drive his fingers in and out of your heat. He likes the resistance even though you clearly want more. Anton is surprised when you lift your shirt on your own accord. It’s obvious you’re doing it to relieve some of the heat you feel, but he’s still flattered nonetheless. His hand presses against your stomach, applying force to the lowest part.

“I can’t.” You whimper.

That’s when Anton finally laughs. He chuckles at how panicked you sound and how you turn your head in embarrassment.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks while picking up the speed of his hand.

You nod your head but when Anton tries to pull his hand away you clench your thighs to keep him in place. He chuckles again, situating one legs on the side of your body and the other between your closed legs. He casts a shadow on you below him, and he can see your eyes open the slightest bit from his movements. He drives your legs apart with his knee, and continues pumping that spot deep in you that leaves you shaking your head.

“I can’t.” You whimper.

“You can.” Anton sees your eyes open, wide and staring directly at him as he drives your legs apart further. “You’re so close.” He says.

Your entire body moves from the speed of his fingers. Even your chests jumps underneath your shirt, and he wants to lift it up to reveal the rest of you. He lets you take it at your own pace since you’re giving him so much already. He just pinches and grabs a handful of your stomach, marveling in how soft you are.

“So cute.” Anton coos. “You had no idea, right?” He asks.

You shake your head and you don’t stop shaking it, like you’re trying to will away your impeding orgasm. Anton watches all of it. He’s never had a pretty girl twitch for him so much, or reach a greedy hand up to grip your chest. Something you do when you’re close, something he wants to do for you. His hand superimposes yours, and grips harder too. You’re arching into his palm and preening your hips on his fingers, and then he watches your body go rigid.

“You’re cumming.” Anton teases.

Your whimpering yes rips through the room, and Anton feels wound up himself. He has to set his sights on something else. Pretty confident girls are fun, but seeing your shame manifest in the way you push and pull at him is much more intoxicating. He likes that he knows what you want but you’re too scared to say it, it’s your body that has to act on its own to fulfill your needs. When you continue going, and your strangled moans turn to broken oh my God’s and your legs start shaking, Anton knows he won’t be able to get enough. He keeps pushing you further because he knows you can take it, and you continue whimpering. He doesn’t stop until you sound panicked, and your hand starts pushing his away.

He still looks down at you with a smile on his face. Your head is turned towards your fluffy comforter, exhaling and inhaling so hard you move the fur with your breath. He’s satisfied seeing what he’s done to you, and he’s even more amused when you turn your head to face him.

Your eyes are wide, your lips are swollen and slick from your mindless drooling. Anton feels something in his chest when your eyes move past his body to the prominent bulge in his pants. He’s a step ahead, shaking his head and moving back to rest on his haunches. That comes later, when he plays with you some more and you start voicing how badly you want to please him. When you reach your hand towards his crotch Anton grabs your hand instead, intertwining your fingers.

“I just wanted to make you feel good.” He says.

He’s a sweetheart, after all.

[dorabellingham]

Kissing in the rain

warning: none

characters: jude x reader

summary: when you're arguing and you leave him talking to himself, but he follows you

may contain spelling and translation errors!

It was a gray, rainy afternoon in Madrid. The sound of rain beating against the windows of the house was constant, almost drowning out the tense voices inside. You and Jude were standing in the living room, arguing about something trivial —this time, it was about which route to take to get to a family appointment, but it could have been about anything else. In the last few days, it seemed like everything was a source of friction between you.

—I told you, the route I chose is faster! Why do you always have to complicate things?

You exclaimed, crossing your arms and looking at Jude in frustration.

Jude, on the other hand, seemed equally impatient.

—Complicate things? I’m just trying to help, but you never listen! Every time we have to decide something, it turns into this.

—Turn into what, Jude? I’m not asking for help. I just want us to get there without fighting!

You were clearly tired of that argument, but at the same time, you couldn't stop arguing.

The rain outside was getting stronger, the sky seemed heavier and heavier, reflecting the tension. The eldest Bellingham rubbed his face with his hands, taking a step back.

—You know what? You're always cutting me off, always making it seem like I'm the problem.

You huffed and turned your back, heading towards the door. You weren't going to stand there, arguing, when all you wanted was peace.

—Cutting you off, Jude? Stay on your route. I'll go alone.

You opened the door, and the cold air of the rain entered the house, messing up your hair and making your skin shiver. You knew it was stupid, that you were going out in the middle of the rain for a silly reason, but sometimes your emotions took over everything. Without looking back, you walked out the door, leaving the boy alone.

Outside, the rain was falling hard, soaking you in seconds. You walked fast, almost running on the wet sidewalk, raindrops running down your face, mixing with the tears you wouldn't admit you were shedding. You were angry, frustrated, but most of all, tired of how things always seemed to be out of control lately.

But after a few meters, you heard his heavy footsteps behind you.

—Y/n, wait!

He shouted, running towards you, completely ignoring the fact that you were both getting wet to the bone.

You stopped, but didn't turn around immediately. You stood there, in the middle of the street, feeling the cold rain fall on your body as you waited for Jude to reach you. The sound of the drops was the only sound that filled the silence between you for a moment.

He reached you, breathing heavily, his soaked hair making heavier drops of water run down his face.

—Babe... we need to stop this. —He said, his voice hoarse, as if he was tired of fighting so much. —This... we're always arguing over nothing.

You finally turned to face him, your eyes shining with anger and sadness.

—So why don't we stop? Why does it always have to be like this?

He was silent for a moment, running his hand through his wet hair. The rain continued to fall, harder, as they stared at each other.

—Because... because I care too much.

Jude finally answered, his voice low, barely audible over the sound of the storm.

You looked at him, surprised.

—What?

—I care too much, Y/n. That's why we fight. I want everything to work out, I want us to be okay... and when we start arguing, I just lose control.

He admitted, his frustration evident in his voice.

You were quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. Maybe you had underestimated how much your boyfriend cared, how much he wanted things to work out between them. You always saw him as the calm guy, the one who kept his cool while you exploded with emotion, but maybe he was just as lost in this relationship as you were.

You were about to answer, but before you could say anything, Jude took two big steps towards you and pulled you close. Without hesitation, he kissed you with an urgency you hadn't expected, as if he was trying to end all the fights, all the frustration, in a single gesture.

The rain continued to fall around you, and you felt his body against yours, warm, even in the middle of the storm. You let yourself be carried away by the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling Jude’s large hands holding you firmly.

The world seemed to stop in that moment. The fights, the friction, the arguments —everything disappeared the instant Jude’s lips met yours. And for a moment, you realized that what you were doing now was much more important than anything you had discussed before. That was what mattered, what you had with each other, the connection that, despite all the differences, always brought you back together.

When the kiss finally ended, you were both breathless, but he still held you close, your foreheads pressed together.

—I’m sorry, babe.

He whispered, his eyes fixed on yours.

You smiled slightly, your hands still holding his face.

—I’m sorry too. —You said, your voice soft. —I think we just need to learn not to let small things become a problem.

Jude nodded, letting out a soft laugh.

—And maybe we should wait to argue until it’s not raining?

You laughed too, shaking your head.

—Yeah, that might be a good idea, honey.

You stood there for a few more seconds, just looking at each other, as the rain continued to fall around you. You knew there would still be fights, there would still be times when you would disagree, but in the end, what you had together was greater than any argument.

—Shall we go home?

Jude asked, finally pulling away a little, but still holding your hand.

You nodded, and you began walking back, hand in hand, soaked from the rain, but with lighter hearts. This might have been the stupidest fight you had ever had, but in the end, it had served to remind you both that, no matter how much you argued, you were still in love.

Heyyy! I'm sorry for the delay in bringing this one shot, it's my first time having an iphone and all this is very strange to me but soon we'll be back to normal :)) Do you have any suggestions for new themes?

[vincinnamontoast]

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪᴛᴄʜᴇɴ

vi x reader <3

synopsis: vi and reader being cute and domestic.

word count: 1.7k

contains: mentions of smut, slight food play, lowercase intended, and cursing. think that’s about it :3

‼️MINORS/MEN DNI ‼️

the steam from your shower clings to your skin as you step into the kitchen, cozy in your pjs and socks. the warm, inviting aroma hits you first—a medley of spices and flavors swirling together in the air. It’s almost overwhelming, the way sweet caramelized sugar mingles with the savory bite of roasted garlic and fresh herbs. your stomach growls instinctively.

there, at the counter, stands Vi. her tank top clings slightly from the heat of the stove, and her sweatpants sit low on her hips, casual and comfortable, revealing the subtle curve of her figure as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. strands of her fuchsia hair stick to her temple, a result of the rising steam from pots bubbling away. she’s in her element, moving between tasks with an effortless rhythm. one hand guides a knife, swiftly chopping potatoes into precise chunks, while the other stirs something in a skillet—a sweet glaze, judging by the scent.

the kitchen feels alive, filled with the hiss of sizzling oil, the occasional clatter of utensils, and Vi’s gentle, melodic humming. you linger in the doorway, quiet, not wanting to disturb her. your attention isn’t on the food anymore. It’s on her—the way her body moves with a certain grace in the small space, the way the golden light from the stove dances along her skin, and the calm confidence she carries, even in chaos. you notice the way her back tenses ever so slightly as she works, muscles shifting beneath her tank top with each precise motion of her hands, whether she’s cutting or stirring.

she turns suddenly, reaching behind her to grab something from the island. the motion is fluid, unhurried, as she retrieves a bowl of prepped ingredients. when she looks up, her gaze lands on you, and she freezes for half a second. then a slow, cocky grin spreads across her lips, one brow quirking slightly.

“caught you staring, didn’t I?” she giggles. her look lingers, warm and playful.

you can’t help but smile back, heat creeping up the back of your neck—not from the warmth of the kitchen, but from being caught admiring her. as she giggles softly, her eyes still on you, you catch another detail that sends a jolt through your chest: the faint outline of her pierced nipples visible through the thin fabric of her tank top. a knot catches in your throat, your pulse quickening as your gaze flickers away for a moment, only to find its way back to her. Vi taps the open space on the counter beside her, a teasing smirk playing on her lips.

“come here, baby,” she says, her voice warm and teasing, beckoning you closer with a tilt of her head.

you swiftly walk toward her, the knot in your throat giving way to a warm, giddy feeling in your chest.

as you reach her, you giggle softly and say, “hi, pretty. what are you makin’?”

her eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, everything else fades. the way she looks at you—with pure admiration, love, and a spark of mischief—makes your heart stutter. before she can answer, you lean in, gently pressing her lips into yours.

Vi doesn’t hesitate. she shoves herself closer, her body molding against yours as she lets out a low, hungry moan. her tongue finds its way into your mouth, and her hands grip your hips, pulling you firmly against her. the kitchen feels even warmer now, and you’re almost dizzy with the intoxicating mix of her and the delicious scents filling the air.

“food’s gonna burn, baby,” you giggle against her lips, breathless but teasing.

Vi pulls away slightly, letting out a soft sigh, her lips forming a little pout that almost makes you want to pull her back in. Instead, she steps back just enough to slide her hands under you and lift you effortlessly onto the counter.

she taps your thighs, her grin returning as she holds your gaze. “I’m making mashed potatoes, caramelized steak, and corn,” she says smoothly, her voice low and warm. “and for dessert, apple pie with caramel glaze and ice cream.”

her hand comes up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, the gesture tender and intimate. for a moment, you forget about the food entirely, lost in the way her touch feels and the way she looks at you, like you’re the most important thing in the room.

she leans in and gently pecks your lips, letting the touch linger just enough to feel like she’s savoring you. then, with a soft hum, she turns back to the stove, resuming her careful orchestration of pots, pans, and sizzling flavors.

you stay perched on the counter where she placed you, leaning forward slightly, chin resting in your palm as your eyes follow her every move. admiration swirls into something deeper as your mind starts to wander. memories flash through your head—the times she’s bent you over this very counter, leaving you breathless and euphoric. the nights you’d kneel between her legs, devouring her in ways that made every bite of food seem insignificant, lost in the sweet heat of her, a hunger that nothing in the kitchen could ever satisfy. you remember the feel of her hands threading through your hair, tugging just right, the sound of her moans as they pulled you deeper, and the way your own eyes rolled back, overwhelmed and so into the sweet and salty taste of her.

your lips curl into a faint, private smile as another memory rises to the surface—those late-night cravings for something sweet that would send you both stumbling into the kitchen, half-asleep but giggling as you pulled out ice cream. feeding each other spoonfuls would inevitably devolve into something messier, her head buried between your thighs, tongue and lips leaving you trembling. you can still feel the stickiness of melted ice cream on your skin, mixed with her kisses, her spit, and the raw intensity of being drowned in each other, sticky and gross but utterly intoxicating.

God, you think, your gaze fixating on the way her back moves as she stirs something on the stove. this woman is fucking delectable.

“whatcha’ thinking about?” her soft voice pulls you out of your reverie, and when you blink, she’s turned around, catching you mid-stare. again.

her cute, mischievous giggles bubble out, her face lighting up as she watches you struggle to compose yourself. you don’t answer immediately, still too caught up in the haze of thoughts about her, but the way she’s grinning at you makes it clear she knows exactly what’s running through your mind.

“here. try this,” she says softly, holding a cut piece of steak between her fingers. she pushes it to your lips.

as you open your mouth, she gently guides the food inside, never breaking eye contact. the steak is unlike anything you’ve ever tasted, its rich, savory flavor sending a wave of pleasure through you. the best, juiciest steak you’ve ever had in your fucking life. she holds your jaw with a delicate touch as you chew, as if she’s not just feeding you, but helping you savor every bite.

you can’t help but notice how her fingers linger on your skin, the warmth of her hand on your jaw making your heart race. as you chew, a drop of drool slips from the corner of your mouth, and your face burns with a rush of embarrassment. the softness of her touch, the way she holds your jaw with such care, makes the moment feel far more intimate than it should. you wonder if she forgot to pull away—but no, you realize, it’s intentional.

she is fully aware of what she’s doing, the way her gaze lingers on you. her eyes are dark and heavy with something that’s not just desire, but something deeper, something pure. lust and love swirl together in her gaze, and you can feel it in every fiber of your being. the way she looks at you, the way she touches you, it’s all deliberate—each moment designed to pull you closer.

then, as the drool escapes and your face flushes, she lets out a soft giggle, the sound sweet and teasing. “so I’m assuming I did good?” she asks, her voice playful yet full of confidence.

you swallow and respond, your voice low and thick with desire, “so fucking good. you always do.”

Vi blushes deeply, battering her lashes. her freckles scattered across her skin as her soft, puffy cheeks redden. her fingers graze your thighs as she leans in closer, her touch making your pulse quicken. without a word, she gently pops her thumb in your mouth, and you instinctively lick off the remaining juice of the steak, the rich taste lingering on your tongue. she watches you, a soft smile playing at her lips, before leaning in even closer, her mouth capturing yours in a kiss. It’s slow and tender at first, then deepens as she pulls you off the counter, her hands guiding you without breaking the kiss. your tongues twist and slide together, the taste of each other’s saliva merging in a heated rhythm. her hands roam up and down your body, caressing every curve, sending shivers through you.

you giggle between kisses, your breath catching as you try to pull away just enough to speak. “Is it done? I’m hungryyyy,” you whine, your voice playful yet needy.

“yes, brat” she replies, her voice thick with amusement, “let me make our plates.” she pulls away for a moment, her eyes sparkling as she moves toward the kitchen.

you nod, then add with a smile, “I’ll do dishes since you cooked.” before she can pull away completely, you press a fat, wet kiss to her cheek, your lips lingering a bit longer than usual.

she smiles, her eyes twinkling. “mmm let’s both do them. wanna be next to you.” she pecks your lips again, her hands lingering on your waist as she pulls you close.

the night unfolds with laughter and warmth, the air filled with the sounds of giggles, soap, and bubbles splashing everywhere as you both work together in the kitchen. your hands never stray far from each other, whether it’s during the dishes or sharing a quiet moment by the counter. the intimacy of the night, the closeness you share, becomes the perfect backdrop for what has become your norm.

neither of you could have asked for anything less.

A/N: just a little smthn bc I miss my bby. all the while it takes me 24 years to finish the other things I have drafted 😛. I’ve been busy I’m sorryyy. will try and get back on track soon. MWUAH <3

[bowsnstrings]

Diamond Boy (DTM)!

Onyankopon x Black Coded Character✌️🏾

Summary: After realizing that she has feelings for her handsome plug, Milana decides to give in to her rapidly growing crush for him, but what happens when things get a bit too intimate too fast?

Warning MDNI!: First date fluff mostly! Mentions of thigh riding, Praise and Dirty Talk, Mentions of smoking weed, Mentions of food, Original character with original descriptions.

Masterlist:🍃

Word Count: 6.8k

First kisses were supposed to be awkward, a little disappointing, and definitely nerve wracking. Too much tongue, or not enough passion, at least something that you could go and tell your friends about so you don’t sound like you’re already falling for a person you’ve only kissed. At least a little funny cringey moment to keep it lighthearted and easy, nothing like the kiss Milana and Ony shared.

It started so sweet, his lips pressing so softly over hers that she questioned if this was actually happening. Her first kiss, clutching the most gorgeous flowers she’d ever received, holding onto an even more beautiful boy. Her hand, shaky with anxiousness, raised to rest over the side of his face, thumb sliding over his cheek to feel his warm skin and ground her enough to savor every second.

Something about that made everything change in an instant, Ony pressing forward with determined movements, practiced ease getting the best of her. He easily took the lead, capturing her again and again, using a hand on her chin to help her keep pace with him. Her other hand held onto his bicep, feeling like she was going to topple over if they continued, neither of them thinking about anything else in the moment besides the electric feeling that came when they connected.

Moving in sync to deepen it further, until they pulled apart with nasty smack, both taking large breaths to cool down. It seemed like Ony couldn’t get enough though, giving her two quick pecks to her pursed lips, her eyes dreamy and looked like they were swirling with hearts.

“Fuck.” He groaned, purring low right in her face, biting down on his lip to contain himself from doing too much in public. His eyes scanned around to make sure no one was looking, lazily combing the area until they landed back on hers, another smile on his face that made her feel a lot lighter. “You be getting niggas caught up, huh?”

Her face scrunched up, smacking her lips as Ony laughed, a hand coming to cover up his smile as Milana pushed him away. “No.” She rolled her eyes at him, joining in on his sniggering, not being able to hold back her joy for long. “I don’t even date.” The admission wasn’t as bitter as she thought it would be, just a shrug off that she wasn’t so concerned about.

“This is a date, Ma. What ‘you think I’ve been trying to do all day?” He wiggled his brows at her suggestively, standing up to get out of his crouched position, moving back to sit and actually start eating.

“What? This is not a date. You have to ask a girl first, Ony.” She exclaimed as he dropped down, not knowing if he was eyeing her or his ribeye in hunger. “Besides, how do you know I wanna go on a date?” Deciding it was better to join him instead of staring, she laid her flowers down to pick up her silverware with a teasing remark.

He couldn’t even hide his happiness at her burst of confidence, chuckling at the way her lips twisted to hide her smile, determined to hold her face steady. That’s alright, he knew exactly what to say to make her crack. “Mama, with the way you kiss we're for sure going on a date.”

Oh Ony was good alright, that low drawn out humm while thinking of the memory was a nice added touch, her legs clamping shut as soon as the deep sound left him. She had to admit, he had game, but she wasn’t going to just let him have all the fun. “Still didn’t hear you ask me…” Milana sighed, playing up her uninterested look by sitting back, mimicking his nonchalant face that he puts on.

His eyes lit up in recognition, laughing at the way she bunched her eyebrows together like he did when he was annoyed. Damn, was he really that readable? She must’ve done her homework, seen him more than he thought she had. As flattering as it was, he still wasn’t going to let her win, licking over his bottom lip to bring in her focus as he dropped his voice to really play up his words.

“Please, Milana?”

That definitely did it, her hands jerking at his sultry plea, like he was begging to kiss her again. Fork accidentally clashing onto her plate noisily, face flushed in surprise, trying to collect herself under his steamy gaze. She realized that he was waiting on a response, actually asking in a way she’d never expect in a million years. “Okay…” Agreeing blindly, knowing that if he ever wanted her to do something, all he’d have to do was say is please.

“Tomorrow, it’s settled.”

“Ony!” She should’ve definitely seen that one coming, and yet she still dropped her mouth in shock, flowers nearly bumped off the table if it weren’t for her hands grabbing them as quickly as they did. “Are-you can’t be serious. So soon?”

He nodded enthusiastically, with almost childlike wonder like they were elementary crushes getting to sit together for the first time. “The only day it can happen is tomorrow. Promise if you go you’ll have fun.” With the way he said it, she definitely believed him, and why not throw caution to the wind. So far when she did it got her some action, no harm in that. So, she said yes, twirling a petal around her finger as she felt her flowers, smiling across from him as they talked about any and everything. They sat there for the longest breakfast in the world, getting to know each other like they were old friends meeting again. Laughing at their similarities, sharing their values, and trying to get Ony to spill any clues about their first date.

He wouldn’t budge at all, instead redirecting her with jokes and funny stories as they ate, showing such a rare side of him not a lot of people saw. It’s been such a long time since he felt like he could let loose around a girl, not having to put up a tough ass act, afraid that if he showed even a bit of vulnerability the fantasy of a relationship would just crumble. Provide, protect, and don’t be a pussy, the only things he was told about women really.

For once, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t always have to be so hard all the time. That Ony could take off that mask he wears, and not have to hold back from expressing himself because she was doing the same for him. He could see it, the way she was trying to be vulnerable like she couldn’t help but wear her heart on her sleeve, and all he wanted was to be the one to keep it safe for her.

Perhaps, that’s why he already couldn’t keep his hands off of her, a calloused palm sliding down her arm being cautious and gentle. Walking hand in hand underneath a lovely orange sun, the blue sky pushing wind to blow her hair around and make her look so pretty that he didn’t want to drop her back off. Clinging onto her hand as they made it to Milana’s front door again, knowing that the waiting was going to eat him alive.

“I had a good time.” She admitted, her shy attitude making it that much harder to go, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles to commit the feeling to memory. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” Hopeful excitement shining in her eyes as they looked up at him, his head falling down to lean in closer, eclipsing her view of everything besides him.

“Six o’clock, tomorrow. Give me until then, Mama.” He murmured to her, pressing a long lasting kiss to her lips, pulling her in by sliding his hand around her back. Letting out a squeal and scrambling hands to hold onto him, she made sure not to stumble over in her sandals from trying to get to him so fast, head spinning at the way he was able to take the reins like that.

Ony willed himself away from her, drawing her in a calming hug that let her rest into him for just a second longer before he started walking back to his car. Calling out a goodbye after him, voice breathless with a meek wave. Making him turn one last time to send her a coy wink as he ducked into the front seat, leaving her standing on her doorstep like she was in a dream.

The rest of the day moved as slowly as she did, barely wanting to do anything else besides write and stare at the lilies now sitting in her nightstand vase. Oh God, would it be bad if she told him she missed him while he was gone? Too much and too soon, right? Definitely too clingy already, but a part of her was just crushing too hard right now. Kicking her feet up while she laid in bed, journal filled with curly cursive words, gushing over him like she was talking to her best friend.

All her life she could only imagine what this would feel like, and now she was experiencing it firsthand. That warm bubbly feeling of romance that she'd been begging for, and the thrill of it all was just too exhilarating. Ony was suave, confident, so effortlessly in control of everything he did, being with him felt like being able to let go. Release all her worry and stress, and it was scary to her that he could throw her into a total state of compliance, maybe even scarier was the fact that she liked being able to be the docile and sweet one while he handled everything.

He paid for their breakfast like it was his job, didn't even let her see the check, let alone touch it. Milana had a feeling that he was always generous, that he had a good heart underneath all that intimidation. Maybe, he just showed it through gestures, his actions definitely grand, making her feel spoiled already. She thought about it all as she hugged onto Oreo, trying to receive a bit more affection, counting down the hours until the arms she’d be in wouldn't have fur or paws.

The entire day since Milana woke up, she'd been getting ready for their night out. Practically glued to her vanity as she tweezed her brows, applied a mud mask, watching housewives as she did her makeup. Her skin rubbed down in marshmallow body cream, spraying her favorite perfume as she watched herself in the mirror, rollers giving her a slight headache as she tried not to be so nervous.

Taking the time out to pamper herself was nice, it relaxed her down, the hour long bath was helpful getting her in the right headspace, but she just wanted to see him already. He might've said something nice or funny to get her to smile instead of worrying, or calm her nerves enough to stop freaking out inside.

She stood in the mirror for nearly an hour, trying on everything in her closet that would be a possibility for any date. Skirts, heels, shorts, tops, but none of them felt right until the last outfit. Ony never told her what they'd be doing when they went out, so she only could hope that her long, tight brown dress with a crochet green bolero matched the occasion. She paired it with tan sandals in case they'd be close to the beach or had to do some walking, and her chunky vintage coach shoulder bag.

Milana wanted to impress him, look special and pretty, imagining she was a princess for the night as she slid in her twisted gold hoop earrings. By the time she was finished, it was getting into the late afternoon, trying to drink some honey chamomile tea and have some fruit to quell her nerves. Hearing that knock at the door almost spooked her, a rush of anxiousness hitting her all at once as she stopped to look at herself one more time.

Fluffing her hair and finding an extra roller she accidentally left in, she quickly straightened up and made sure nothing was in her teeth before pulling the door open. “Hi, Ony.” Milana smiled, trying to appear effortless and nonchalant until she saw the bouquet of flowers he held in his hands. Pretty pink and white roses, all blooming gracefully, wrapped in green paper for her to receive. He looked just as perfect as they did. Loose fitting jeans and a hoodie that made his arms look even bigger, a heavy gold chain glittering from underneath.

“Hey, Mama. These are for you.” He must've gotten a shave, his facial hair looking sharper, hair covered by a fitted baseball bat. His cologne almost engulfed her as he passed her the roses, pressing a kiss to her cheek as she breathed him in.

“Ony, you already got me flowers.” She still cooed happily as he gifted them to her, letting him inside all giddy and giggly.

“These are for our date, thought you might like ‘em when I saw the pink.” He remembered her saying that was her favorite color yesterday when they had breakfast, so he knew it'd only be right for her to have them.

“Aww, thank you. Let me get something to put them in.” He closed the door for her, eagerly entering to breathe her home in further, smiling at the good feeling he had being inside. The candles she lit had the perfect scent of vanilla, but nothing rivaled her perfume that was floating everywhere. He stopped for a moment, just taking it in as he stopped at a particular photo on the wall.

“You a writer?” He asked, pausing specifically at a picture he saw when he spent the night, one where she stood in her graduation gown, neck covered in medals and holding awards. She looked so cute when she was younger, glasses thicker and hair a bit shorter in curls pouring out of her decorated cap.

“I am I guess. Won a scholarship for it, but I think I should probably start writing more often.” She hummed out as she tried finding another vase for the new bunch of flowers. His gaze getting stuck on her as she bent over, noticing just how tight her dress was. He nearly swore out loud as her hips wiggled trying to pull it from the cabinet, her ass shaking lightly enough to trap him in a daze. Guess he’ll just have to adjust himself all night while he silently suffers.

“Is that what you do for work?” He tore his eyes away, feeling a bit hot as he tried distracting himself. Ony watched her straighten back up, filling the glass with water as she answered.

“Yeah, freelance. Pays the bills and what not.” She was fixing up the petals of her roses, placing them down on the table as he approached her. Reaching into his hoodie pocket, he pulled out something once she turned around, letting her eyes zero in on it before explaining.

“Picked up a treat for us,” His palm opened to show her a sandwich bag full of nugs, shifting around in there, hypnotizing her into watching it. The smell of potent greenery filled the air as soon as he opened it, letting her get a whiff and laughing when she scrunched her face at the smell of straight weed. “Named it ‘Laid-back ‘Lana’.” She couldn’t contain the giggle that bubbled up her throat at the name, her hand trying to cover her mouth at his playfulness.

“Why’d you name it that?” Milana asked, their light and playful banter easing away any thoughts from earlier. This is definitely what she missed, just being around him, basking in the way he joked around.

“‘Cause this shit will have you laid back on that ass the same way you had me on your couch.” Ony chuckled as he watched her burst into a fit of laughter, the most relaxed she’d ever been around him, and the atmosphere was only getting less and less tense. “Here, you got papers?” He asked, handing the bag for her to inspect some more.

“I don’t know how to roll my own…” Her hands fumbled slightly as Milana tried not to sound pathetic, but at twenty-two she should probably know how to roll her own blunt. Or change a tire, or file taxes; maybe she should start with those first.

“Don’t sweat it, Ma. I got backwoods, but you’ve probably never smoked with ‘em before. I got some good ass flavors though.” Obviously coming prepared, he pulled out a packet of the cigar leaves, the purple package reflective under the light as she read the words, ‘Honey Bourbon’, written all over it. “We got to head out to make it before it gets hella dark, so we’ll smoke on the way.”

After grabbing everything and locking up they left to head out, Ony’s hand falling to her back as he went behind her. The walk to his car was dizzying, feeling so stiff with the touch of a man on her. He lead her without having to say a word, and she almost felt like she could float away if she let herself go a bit more, scared of what would happen if she did. Sliding into his car to drive wherever they were supposed to be going, just taking the time to watch Ony as he moved.

Given his occupation, it was no wonder how experienced he was with handling the eighth he was carrying. Grinding it down easily, dusting it gradually into the leaf, thick fingers squeezing and rolling it between each other. Licking it off with a smooth glide of the tongue, their eyes meeting as he did, making her flush and look away. By the time she looked back he was done, the fat blunt sitting between his lips as he lit it, puffing out smoke that danced in the air, wrapping around their heads in grey streaks.

He leaned his head back, letting it glide out then sucking it back in to blow a ghost, shifting slightly to look at her as he passed it. She took it, knowing it'd at least ease her up some more, generously taking it down her lungs until she pulled back coughing after her uncoordinated breath. “Don't smoke much?” Ony laughed at how her eyes narrowed, he knew that already, just was teasing.

“I’ve never had any this strong.” Milana admitted, taking a much smaller puff before handing it back. The effects hitting her almost immediately, eyes going lax and lips pressing together as she felt a rush of euphoria. Ony had to admire how sexy she looked like that, her lashes hanging lower in a sensual cateye. Driving was his only distraction, trying not to turn and glance at her every five seconds, but he was failing that miserably. She wasn't doing much better, the high making it just that more obvious so she faced the window instead, watching the beach waves in his music filled car driving down the highway. Thirty minutes of the most torturous drive for either of them, only wanting to jump each other's bones and forget the formalities.

They were looking forward to this though, especially with the way Ony was so proud of himself once he saw her reaction. Pulling in she could see all the bright shining lights, hues of blue, red, and yellow everywhere in the cartoonish displays. The rides flashing at her as people screamed with joy in every direction, and soon as she stepped out of the car with his help, she could smell popcorn and funnel cake in the air. “The fair?” Her face was just lit up, and it had him pausing as he took it all in. That face was going to be the end of him, because he knew already that he'd go to the ends of the Earth just to see her look at him like that.

“Today’s the last day it’s in town. Knew I had to take you.” Ony took her by the hand as they walked around, getting through the entrance to take in every exciting sight and decide what they wanted to do first. He left it in her hands, indifferent to it all as he just wanted to let her have all the fun she wanted, happily trailing a step behind as she pulled him by the hand. Milana turned to look at him every step of the way, scanning his face to see if anything caught his eye.

They stopped at the ticket counter first, Ony reaching into his pocket for a thick wad of cash inside, neatly folded bills that he grabbed and pulled apart. Counting each one silently in her head, she tried to ignore the mixed feeling of guilt and gratitude, but that was easy given how desirable he looked while being so gracious. She briefly wondered if she should be scared about them getting robbed, but when she took into account how strong he looked, there wasn't too much to be afraid of. His eyes lazy as he hid the rest in his pocket, passing the woman the cash as he asked her, “Where you want to go first, Mama?”

“I don't know… I think I want to do some games, but I’m scared we won’t win.” Milana looked down at the string of red tickets the woman gave her, all bunched together in her hands. “Maybe this one?” She stopped at the booth right in front of them, a fish pond game where they'd at least get a prize judging by how easy it looked. Even the little kids around it were doing well, but Ony only gave a noncommittal hum as he continued looking around, his arm coming to wrap around her shoulders from behind, stepping so close that her stomach clenched in anticipation.

“What about that one?” He turned them to face a little further down, another game table there with giant prizes hanging all at the top. She let him maneuver them towards it, a little unsure once they got closer. It was a BB gun challenge, having to shoot down the targets from a far distance away.

“Are you sure?” Milana looked up at him, holding onto their tickets skeptically. She didn't want to be wasteful, Ony already paid a bunch of money for them to be able to get inside and use the tokens for rides and such. Ultimately, it didn't matter though, not with the way he was seemingly so flippant about it, taking some from her hands to pass to the worker there waiting on them.

“Don’t sweat it, Ma. Have some faith in me.” He was confident, if not a little cocky as he picked up the rifle, resting it in his hands as he focused his sights on aiming it correctly. His feet shoulder with apart, thick finger on the trigger with one eye closed, not moving or even taking a breath.

*bang*

Maybe it was how high she was, but the first shot came out of nowhere, making her jump when she heard the pellet make contact with the painted wood, hitting the small red dot in the middle.

*bang*

*bang*

The last two were quicker, but still made her eyes widen in awe at how fast he’d done that, moving one by one down the line until all three had holes in the center. She didn’t even think a minute had passed by before he was done, sliding the gun down and handing it back to the guy at the stand.

“What did we win?” Ony asked, turning to Milana as the man pointed out the stuffed animals hanging at the top of the booth, giant, almost as tall as her, and all so pretty. Immediately, she narrowed in on a big brown bear, with dark fur and sparkly chestnut eyes. She pointed meekly to it, arms stretched open to let the cuddly animal fall into them as it was passed to her. “You like it?”

Nodding, all smiley as her nails raked through its fur, she couldn’t express how grateful she was, carrying it around as they went down the rows of attractions. Playing games, sharing the biggest plate of funnel cake she’d ever seen, and laughing when Ony got powdered sugar all over his nose, willingly letting her dust it off with her soft hands. He ended up carrying her bear as they made their way to their last ride, the Ferris wheel, helping her step up into the seat as it rocked slightly back and forth.

“Is this safe?” Milana’s eyebrow raised slightly as she sat down, looking around at all the other swinging chairs. It was his idea to go after he told her he’s never been on one before, but now it looked a bit too scary for her.

“Ain’t nothing gonna happen.” He was gruff about it, setting up her bear in the seat so it wouldn’t fall before sliding in the middle, throwing an arm on the back of her chair to wrap around her shoulders. As soon as their door closed the employee pulled the lever to let the ride start, her breath hitching in her chest as it moved mechanically.

“Are you just not afraid of anything?” She asked, not knowing if it was rhetorical or not as the wheel began turning, slowly bringing them higher and higher. She could only stare down at her toes as they got further from the ground.

“What’s there to be afraid of?” Playfully, he rocked her by her shoulders to pull her away from fearfully looking at the floor. Getting her attention to focus on him instead, he figured getting her talking would get her to stop gripping the railing with white knuckles.

“Well for starters, how high up we are.” Her deadpan expression made him chuckle, laying back cool as could be once the ride stopped them at the very top, the world looking much prettier when you could see all the glowing lights in the distance.

“How can I be scared right now?” Ony truly was content, a man who had nothing to fear, only things to desire. Not for more things like money or a new car, he already had all that. He’s craving for something real, someone to share his life with, even someone who he could lean on too.

“I’m always scared,” Her voice was shaky as she tried to close her eyes and relax, vulnerable as she poured her heart out, getting it off her chest. “I think it’s just easier when you’re around though.” Their hands interlocking, his squeezing hers reassuringly at her admission. Just sitting for a second to look at the city from so high up, the breeze flying in their faces making her nose cold.

“Y’don’t have to be scared. I’ll be here, no matter what.” How could he not, stuck in a trance from her beautiful face. Bouncing between her round eyes, fluttering lashes covering the brown, then sliding to her cute button nose, and full pink lips. Committing each detail to memory, counting each beauty mark as her hair blew back in the wind.

“No matter what?” He nodded with determination, no empty promise in sight when they were at the top of the Ferris wheel, just the two of them together and their unwavering bond. “Just… promise me. Promise that you’ll tell me if it’s too much. If I’m too much.” She asked him, fear lacing her tone, afraid to be the one to ruin this for herself, to ruin them already. He didn’t give her the chance to allow the thought to take over, ducking his face down as he slid closer.

“You’ll never be too much. Just right to me.” He whispered, just to her, leaning over to kiss her, cupping the side of her face to keep them close as he groaned from her eagerness to kiss him back. This is what he’d been missing, his mouth moving with hers in sync, allowing those walls to come crumbling down. Hungry for it, craving the affection that being with one another provided, so caught up in their intimate moment to notice that the ride was descending until they were almost to the bottom.

Milana pulled away first, blinking up at him with her shy little smile as Ony’s fingers danced across her cheek, allowing him to lean down and press one last kiss to her lips before they stepped off. Holding each other as they walked back to his car, her head resting on his shoulder the entire way as he led them back to his car, both unable to stop laughing from how much fun they had just being together the entire weekend. She couldn’t even stare at anything else besides him the entire way, going down the highway at night but Ony still managed to shine brighter than the moon beaming down at them. His handsomeness was distracting enough, but getting to know him personally, in a way that most people don’t, was the icing on the cake in her eyes.

They just couldn’t let each other go, she was practically tripping over her feet trying to pull him by his heavy arm. Ony trailing behind, enjoying her more assertive side as she got him to come into her apartment rather easily. To be honest, she could’ve asked him anything and he would’ve done it in a heartbeat right now, too happy making this night perfect for her. The lights dim as they flopped down onto her couch, still reeling from all the excitement. “I can’t believe we just went on a date.” She sighed happily, tossing off her sandals as she faced him, seeing how he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of her.

“Really? Thought it was only a matter of time.” He didn’t like feeling far away from her, hand itching to reach out, his willpower getting lower and lower. Grabbing her by the waist, an abundance of giggles rained out as she wiggled in his arms until he settled her down on his leg again, just like he’d done at the club.

They took a moment to take each other in, Milana shifting to sling her other leg over his body, unintentionally sitting flush on his thigh, but too wrapped up in how good it felt being close to him to notice. Shifting up to lean in, he cupped the side of her face, tender as he pulled her in to kiss her, a quick peck that had her slowly melting into him. Her hips moving to get closer until an unfamiliar feeling shot through her, making her go stiff in his hands. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t know at first, mind still trying to register the arousal that she felt pooling deep within, hands falling onto his shoulders as she unsurely ground down again. Call it virgin curiosity, but she couldn’t stop exploring after her first taste of pleasure. Her head spinning with confusing sensations, the heaviness of passion weighing her down to roll back and forth on his thigh another time until her eyes shifted up and saw his expression. Blank with disbelief, mouth agape as he watched her move, kick starting her into stopping her movement to explain herself.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry-I don’t-” Ony snatched her up in an instant, grabbing her by the hips to pull her into riding his thigh again. She never expected that, hands staying up in the air out of pure shock before he pulled them down, urging her to touch him back. Milana did so as she whimpered, trying to keep up with the way he was moving her.

“I tried.” He grunted, his body working with fervor as he helped her grind, eyes shut tight as he felt himself quickly hardening, his thigh tensing underneath her. “I really fucking tried, but I need you.” Big and burly arms locked tightly around her as he breathed her in, mind going fuzzy as he tuned out entirely, letting his actions speak for him. Adrenaline was pumping through them, hands gripping at each other, desperate to touch, feel, see everything they could. Everywhere her fingers grazed left him yearning for more, the realization that he’d been craving for this his entire life felt like cold water splashing over his heated skin. Too used to floating in and out of people’s lives to get the touch that he needed, the touch that only she seemed to provide, practically thriving after starving for it.

“You’re alright, Mama.” He reassured, hands sliding under her dress, Milana was spooked at first by the touch, but was relaxed down by his calming strokes. They moved so easily, bunching up her dress until it rose around her hips to give him more access to her, kisses trailed along her collarbone to keep her from retreating into her head.

He began moving upward, skimming her throat as his mind went blank, the only thing he could tangibly string together was her name over and over in his mind. Her hair, her voice, her scent, it made him feel dizzy just thinking about it, a burning feeling of greed taking over any rational thought. He needed her badly, running hot as he finally made it to her face, opening his eyes to meet hers as he pressed forward, taking her by surprise as he lowered her down slow into his lap, feeling her nearly bare skin meet his jeans.

Her mouth dropped open in the neediest moan he’d ever heard, long and whiney, eyes rolling to the back of her head as they closed. The expression was just too good, making his dick jump as he sat up, clutching her hips desperately. “Fuck, Milana.” He groaned out, slightly shifting to get her adjusted, quickly needing her to feel him too. “Don’t do that shit, Baby. Gonna stop my fucking heart.”

She couldn’t say anything, too busy trying to stop herself from shaking as Ony began moving her up and down his groin over his pants. Rocking her hips faster, steadier, with so much effort she almost thought they were actually having sex. The image made her knees try to close together, his hands shifting to grip under her thighs, forcing them open as he grunted curses in her ear.

Milana couldn’t stop herself from moving, like she was lit with fire for the first time, throwing her arms around Ony’s neck to clutch him closer. “Need me, Mama, don’t you?” Nodding and unable to hide small moans from escaping her, their lips met again, noisy and echoing around the room. She was so damp, Ony was starting to see her show up on his jeans, having to look away before he embarrassed himself in front of this girl.

“Fuck,” He cursed when her nails ran down the nape of his neck, his hips lifting off the couch to put force behind the thrusts he was giving her. Ony’s hands curving down to grip her ass, hissing as her clit caught perfectly over his bulge, pulling her all the way up, up, up, then back down until she felt like she was fraying at the seams. “Stay with me, Baby.” He urged, but her mind was too cloudy to sense that unfamiliar feeling at first, too busy asking the Lord to forgive her for praying to lose her virginity after a first date. Thoughts turning to mush before they could form and soon she found herself stuck in the feeling that she was going to burst.

Then her stomach wound tighter, eyes snapping open in panic as she felt a mix of emotions, wanting to go faster and run away from the feeling all at once. Tingles crawled up her body from her toes, moving with vigor to heighten the pressure as it all rushed to her head. Her hips trying to jump away from his, squealing as she tried to stop her impending orgasm before it made her lose control, hands pressing into his chest to push away.

“Gonna cum, Mama?” Calling Milana back as he forced her to sit flush down on him again. He was asking like he already knew that, and when she tried looking at him through teary eyes she was taken aback at the hungry glint in them. “Yeah, gonna make a fucking mess. Let that shit happen, ‘want you to soak my face after.”

Milana’s mouth dropped open, whining out as she clutched onto him, thrown headfirst into an orgasm she never expected. It felt like free falling right into his waiting arms, where he could bring her more pleasure than she ever thought possible, without even having to touch her. His kisses trailed from her jaw down her neck, toes curling and eyes watering in bliss as she tried to catch her breath. He let her settle slightly, then flipped them both over to lay her on the couch. Her head lying on the armrest as Milana looked at her ceiling, body sagging into the cushions while Ony took her legs and threw them over his shoulders.

“Damn, that was good, Baby. So fucking good. Gonna have you do that on my mouth then around me next, Mama.” He rambled out, planting long appreciative kisses over her inner thighs, getting closer and closer to her covered pussy. His head dipping down to press his lips right against her, surprised at how she shrieked and pushed herself up slightly to see him, eyebrow raising as he stopped to make sure she was alright. To be fair, she didn’t expect them to still keep going, not with how worn out she felt either.

“Uhh… Ony… think I should-probably should tell you some-something…” Her chest was still rising and falling rapidly, whole body thrown off kilter in a sensitive state that had her scrambling while trying to find her bearings. He nodded for her to continue, rubbing circles into her skin when he saw how she was still coming down into reality, thinking she was just a bit delicate in the moment. “I just never- that was my first time so-”

“What?” Ony practically threw himself off of her, legs falling off his body as he moved to sit across from her, a rush of indecipherable emotions written all over him. The sudden loss of touch made her feel a lot more hurt than he intended, but he was honestly so blindsided by her confession that he thought his heart stopped. “Are you saying that you're…” God, it all made sense now, why she was so nervous all the time, shying away from any hint of intimacy, why didn't he see it sooner? “Fuck, Milana.”

His head dropped into his hands, groaning out in an unmistakable tone of frustration as he sobered up, her stomach twisting in a not-so-pleasurable way after that. Once again, her big mouth strikes again, opening it just when things were going so well. Why did she have to stop him, why did that knawing feeling in the back of her mind have to tell her that they might've been moving too fast? Her face dropping with so much disappointment as she tried not to get weepy. “I’m sorry…” Voice tinged with pain as a hand rubbed at the corner of her eyes.

Ony didn't miss the way she sounded, head picking up to jump into action, pulling her back into him, tucked in his side. “Shit-No, Baby. I'm not upset with you. I'm mad at my damn self, should've known better than to be trying to push all up on you like that.” He explained, trying to blanket her with as much comfort as he could, hand a bit frantic as it moved up and down her back. “Fuck, shouldn’t have done that, it wasn't right. I just don't want to take advantage of you, Mama.”

His mind was rushed with guilt, feeling like he just pushed her too hard and definitely way too fast. A bad feeling erupting inside, thinking that he'd been too selfish in the moment, using his second head instead of the one resting on his shoulders. “Don't say that.” She mumbled, her sniffling getting quieter as she saw how upset he was. “I wanted to do that with you, I just didn't think you'd even like me.”

“What?” After all that he thought she'd at least realize he liked her little stubborn behind. “Of course I fucking like you. I don't take girls out and shit, did that ‘cause I want you to be mine.” He admitted it so truthfully, that it shocked her to the core, the revelation swaddling her in the tenderness of his words.

“Really?” Milana felt it, she really did this time. Her eyes were getting watery all over again as it came over her in waves, feeling just as good as his touch was.

“Yes, Milana. I really want you.” Ony felt a rush of relief, his body sagging down to lean against hers too, just needing to hold her for a while. They laid down together, arms wrapping around to hold each other with soothing light touches, side by side facing each other on her little sofa. Her hands sliding to cup his face as he buried his face in her neck, practically laying on top of him to make room, but it was the most comfortable she’d ever been. They would have a lot to talk about soon; her fears, his tough shell, their shared desires, but both were certain that together, it’d be alright.

Hello Everyone! Thank you for being so patient and for supporting my story! I can't believe Milana and Ony already had their first date! It only gets better from here for them, so keep tuning in to read! xoxo - Bow 🎀

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@kxllanxtdoor

@rintcrous

@blackgirlmagicforever

@hidd3nbimbo

[flwrkid14]

Love, in All its Impossible Forms

Tim Drake loves with everything he has. He always has. And maybe that’s his fatal flaw—he doesn’t know how to hold back. He throws himself into it the way he throws himself into everything else: completely, recklessly, without a second thought for his own safety.

But love, for Tim, is never simple. It comes in forms that twist and tangle, leaving scars even as it gives him something to hold onto. And if you ask him, he could probably tell you exactly what kinds of love he’s experienced.

There’s love that is doomed.

Steph was chaos, energy, and unrelenting determination wrapped in a bright smile. She was Tim’s equal and his opposite all at once, and when he loved her, he did so fiercely, wholeheartedly. She didn’t just step into his world—she tore through it, unapologetic and unstoppable, showing Tim a version of himself that didn’t have to be so calculated, so controlled.

But their lives were chaos, a whirlwind of masks and missions, and when the dust settled, there was never enough left of them to make it last. Tim loves her in a way that feels like holding sand; no matter how tightly he grips, she keeps slipping through his fingers. And maybe that’s why he held on so hard—because he knew she’d never stay. Steph was never meant to be tamed, and Tim loved her too much to try.

Even when it ends, there’s no anger, no resentment. They don’t blame each other for the way things fall apart. They don’t have to. They always knew, deep down, that no matter how much they wanted to hold on, it was never meant to last. It wasn’t about a lack of love—it was about the world they lived in, the lives they led, and the way they could never quite fit together the way they needed to.

Steph was the love that burned brightly but couldn’t last, no matter how much either of them wanted it to. She was the fire he couldn’t hold onto, the storm he couldn’t contain, and the one who left her mark on him in ways he’d never forget. They were love, doomed from the start.

Then there's love that dooms them.

Kon wasn't just Tim's best friend—he was everything. A partner in every sense of the word. Loving Kon felt like second nature, so easy and so effortless that Tim didn't realize how deeply it ran until it was too late. Until Kon was gone.

When Kon died, it destroyed Tim. Grief didn't come in waves-it came in obsessions.

Tim couldn't let go, so he didn't. He turned to stolen data and secret labs, creating clone after clone in a desperate attempt to fill the void Kon left behind

It wasn't about moving on. It wasn't about closure. It was about holding on to the only person who ever made Tim feel like he could breathe, even when it was killing him to do so.

When Kon returned, whole and alive, it should have been everything Tim had dreamed of. But the shadows of what Tim had done lingered between them. The lengths he went to, the obsession that fueled him—it left cracks in the foundation of what they once were. Kon loved Tim, he always would, but part of him wondered if he'd ever been loved for who he was, or for what Tim couldn't let himself lose.

And Tim, for all his brilliance, couldn't figure out how to bridge the gap he'd created. He oved Kon with everything he had, but love born out of desperation carried its own weight, and he wasn't sure how to lay it down.

So they stayed in the gray space between what they were and what they could have been, bound by love so fierce it hurt, but too fractured to fully mend. They were doomed by their love.

Finally, there’s love that dooms anybody else.

Danny is chaos, but not the kind that breaks Tim—it’s the kind that grounds him. Danny exists between worlds, between life and death, and yet he’s more alive than anyone Tim has ever met. He doesn’t fit neatly into any box, doesn’t follow any rules, and yet there’s something about him that feels inevitable, like gravity or the pull of the tide.

Danny doesn’t ask for Tim’s sacrifices. He doesn’t need to be saved, doesn’t want Tim to burn himself out in the name of love. Instead, Danny challenges Tim to slow down, to stop trying so hard to hold the world together and just be. With Danny, Tim learns how to live in the moment, how to breathe without feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It isn’t an easy love, but it isn’t supposed to be. It’s a love that demands courage, the kind that doesn’t come from donning a cape or taking a hit for someone else. It’s the courage to be vulnerable, to stop hiding behind plans and strategies, and let someone see every cracked, raw piece of himself. Danny is relentless in breaking down Tim’s walls, not to fix him but to show him that he’s worthy of being whole.

Together, they are something untouchable. Their love is an anchor and a storm, a lighthouse and the waves crashing against the shore. It’s a love so big, so consuming, that it leaves no room for anything else.

And that’s where the doom lies.

They are the kind of love that consumes the world around them, leaving it scorched and battered in their wake. Not because they want to hurt anyone, but because their connection is so fierce, so all-encompassing, that nothing else can survive in its shadow. They are the eye of the hurricane, calm and steady, while everything outside is chaos.

It’s the kind of love that makes people ache to touch it, to understand it, even as it destroys them. The kind of love that people will write stories about and linger in though, long after the last page has turned. Love, that will echo through time in whispers and legends. But no one will ever truly understand it, because no one else could ever bear the weight of it.

Danny is the love that makes Tim believe he might deserve to be happy after all. Together, they are the love that dooms anybody else—unapologetic, overwhelming, and utterly unforgettable.

[zara-renata]

The land of tears | ao3 | masterlist

You're at Azure Square with your perfectly nice boyfriend when you see your dead adopted brother through the crowd. Caleb's back and he's not going to let you go again. This is one of several variations of the reunion scene that I want that I know Infold won't give us. caleb x f mc, caleb x you, second person pov, some caleb pov. this story contains: references to saint-exupéry's the little prince, deeply possessive caleb, codependent relationship dynamics, not healthy at all, but caleb and mc match each other's freak, mc just doesn't know it yet. we've got some mechatronic arm/hand worship and caleb being unhinged in his pov about being back, about mc being his, and the state of mc's life without him. mc refers to caleb as her brother, caleb has differing opinions about that title.

It’s a cold January day. The sun is almost too bright, high in the noonday sky over Azure Square, reflected between the mirrored highrises thrusting from the heart of the Linkon City. The sky is a blinding, cloudless blue.

You stare into it.

There are no airplanes in view.

No contrails, streaking through the blue.

It’s the weekend. The bright weather, the weekend—people have been drawn from their hibernation, so Azure Square is packed. The mass of bodies never fails to make you uncomfortable. Too much movement, too many threats, too much stimulation. You have to breathe shallowly through the discomfort, with your lonely lungs.

It’s a rare weekend where you have both days off, no missions on your agenda. Just a stretch of free time. Free time that you still struggle to enjoy. Free time that echoes hollowly like your empty apartment, your empty fridge. Your empty heart.

You need the distractions of work, of task after task, to keep yourself moving forward, footstep after footstep. Little steps. Just keep going. You can’t quit. You’ll get through this, too, like you’ve gotten through everything else, Pipsqueak.

A gentle, warm voice in your head, echoing hollowly. One you haven’t stopped hearing for a year.

You wonder if you’ll ever stop hearing it.

You want to stop hearing it. You’re afraid of the day you stop hearing it.

You hear another voice, encroaching, overtaking the memory in your head. A vine, twisting around a cherished, deeply rooted tree. You have the feeling of an invasive species, even though that’s not fair.

You turn, look at your boyfriend. He’s smiling tentatively, a little confused.

He says your name again, and you realize he’s been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now, as you stood, entranced by the terrible, bright blue sky, the sun hurting your eyes.

Your exhausted eyes.

Even after a year, you still don’t sleep. 

You try to dismiss your irritation, your sense of wrongness about the handsome, sweet man standing before you—a trick of the light, a side effect of the insomnia. It’s not his fault, that he’s tall, but not ridiculously tall. That his eyes are a pretty blue, and not—and not any other color. That he doesn’t know you, not really, and likely never will. Because you can’t stand the thought of letting him in. You buried yourself in an empty casket, a year ago. What is there to know, now?

You try to smile. “Yeah, sorry.”

“You looked so far away,” he says, stepping closer to you. You let him, even though your first instinct is to always take a step back. But that’s not healthy. That’s not normal. This is your boyfriend, after all. Your patient, perfectly nice boyfriend. “What are you thinking about?”

You think of an empty casket. About how you’ve felt so far away, from everything, everyone, for so long. You can’t remember what being close feels like anymore, even though he’s standing right in front of you.

“Just that it’s very bright, for a winter day.”

He looks relieved. You’re glad he swallows your lies so easily. The one time you tried to talk to him about how you felt, about how you felt like you had buried yourself with your dead, he had said words like unhealthy. Like codependent. Dysfunctional. He had said these words, with a strange look on his face, a look that was all-too familiar to you, through your whole half-remembered life, any time you had been honest about how you felt about your family.

About your brother.

You've never known how to explain.

He was your other half.

What do most people know, about having half of themselves outside their own body? About not being able to breathe, without twinned lungs breathing with you, setting the pace? About not being able to sleep without his voice, more familiar to you than you own, saying it’s okay to close your eyes? That he’ll protect you from the nightmares. 

What could anyone know about what you went through? All the things you can’t remember. The things that you can’t remember, but the not remembering never stopped from leaving their brand burned on the inside of your skin, your panting, panicked lungs, your raw throat, waking up screaming yourself hoarse in the night. 

All you can remember is soft, indigo eyes. Warm, strong arms around you in the dark.

“Where are your aviators?” your boyfriend asks. “It’s not like you to forget them.”

He asks, because he doesn’t know they were your brother’s. If he knew they were your brother’s, he’d insist on buying you a new pair of sunglasses, in a different style.

You can tell that he doesn’t like it when he discovers that something you use often belongs—belonged to your dead brother.

He doesn’t say anything. That would be too confrontational. He knows it’s not a good look, to resent his partner’s dead sibling. But the look on his face: Dysfunctional. Codependent. Unhealthy.

He doesn’t know that the necklace you never take off is your brother’s. He doesn’t know that the sunglasses you wear religiously, on sunny and cloudy days, are your brother’s. Your favorite mug,  your favorite oversized hoodie, your favorite oversized gray sweatpants, your phone charm, a little apple—

Your face in the mirror, because he’d run his knuckles along your cheek, tweak your nose, gently flick your forehead. The lungs behind your ribs, because you breathed when he breathed, when you couldn’t remember how. Your hair, because he used to tug on your ponytail, your braids, your bun, he’d run his fingers along where it was buzzed, when you wore a fade for a while.

All these things belonged to him, had always belonged to him.

Teasing. Smiling. Gentle, and playful.

All the things you never were, and never had to be, because he was those things for the both of you.

You shake your head. “Forecast called for snow. I didn’t expect it to be so bright. It’s okay. We’re going to a movie, anyway, right?”

You try to smile again.

He studies you.

Buys your lie.

You don’t want to take the sunglasses out of your bag. You don’t want to protect your eyes, today.

You wear his sunglasses religiously, except for the days that are unbearable. The days where you want the pain, as you stare into the bright, hollow sky, searching for airplanes, for contrails in the blue.

You wonder how much pain your brother endured, in his last few moments.

Moments that might have felt like a lifetime in the flames.

Sometimes, you need to let the sun hurt your eyes. 

A burn without flames.

It’s the least you deserve.

You go in first. I’m not your sidekick.

No. You were never his sidekick. You were just his other half. Or rather, he was yours.

Your boyfriend nods, tightens his pretty scarf around his strong neck against the chill. A gift from you, when the weather turned colder. Not hand-knit, like the one you made for your brother. But lovely, expensive. “Yeah, it starts in half an hour. We better get a move on if you want snacks.”

You let him take your hand. You’re grateful for the gloves between your skin and his.

You know that’s not right. That it’s not normal.

But when have you ever been normal?

You walk through the crowds, the shifting mass of humanity. The reflection of the sun between the mirrored buildings. The scents of food, perfume, crisp winter air.

You look up at the sky, let the sun blind you, leave sunspots in your vision, and then look forward, over your boyfriend’s shoulder.

The sunspots dissipate, slowly. 

There is the scent of fried food. 

The sound of a woman’s laughter.

A child, shrieking about a toy.

Your gloved hand, held in your boyfriend’s, squeezed just a little too tight, as if he can sense how far away you are, how far away you have always been, from the day he met you, as he smiled shyly at you from across the bar while you were out with Tara. Who mustered the courage to introduce himself to you, asked about your job, listened attentively as you spoke, acted impressed. Who told funny, safe jokes. He asked for your number, not content with just giving you his card. He didn’t want to let you slip through his fingers, he said.

You, someone so beautiful, poised, a hero, Linkon’s finest. Someone just cold enough to present a challenge, but who smiled softly, chose a sophisticated drink, listened attentively in return.

All the things you learned from watching your brother go through life easily—smiling, charming, poised, popular, a hero. 

Your boyfriend fell in love with the mask you wear now. The mask you put on, the day your brother left for the DAA and left you behind, because he could no longer smile for you, laugh politely for you, make jokes and charm people for you. A shield, between you and the rest of a demanding, draining world.

Now, in Azure Square, there is the scent of food, the sounds of life.

There is the mirrored sun.

And between your boyfriend’s shoulder and a group of tourists lifting their selfie sticks in the air, stands your dead brother.

You don’t blink.

If you blink, he might be gone when you open your eyes again.

This has happened to you before. You look across a crowd, and are convinced you see the curve of his cheek, the long line of his nose. 

You see indigo eyes in strangers’ faces across the street.

You hear him calling your name, but when you turn, there’s no one there.

Each time, your feet move before you can even think. You’ve almost been hit by a car, multiple times, crossing streets where he’s not on the other side.

You startle strangers as you pull on their arm from behind, turn them toward you, search their eyes for a color that you’ve never seen anywhere but in his face.

It’s never him. Just a trick of the light. A mirage in the desert.

The devastation, afterwards, realizing it’s not him—it’s like waking up all over again, to your ears ringing. To the fire reflected in his necklace.

To being forced to lower an empty coffin into the ground.

Now, across Azure Square, his back is to you. 

But you’d know him anywhere.

His broad shoulders. The sheen of his brunette hair. His indigo eyes. The inner curve of his elbow. His strong calves. His long toes.

His scent, his voice, echoing in your head.

His lungs, breathing for you, when you couldn’t breathe for yourself.

When the panic would come, and collapse your chest.

Breathe with me. Breathe with me. Look at me, look only at me, and breathe with me.

You can’t blink. Your eyes hurt before, and they hurt even more now.

He turns.

The sun pours liquid gold over his profile.

It’s him.

It’s him.

It can’t be him.

This is a mirage. You are a pilot, stranded in the desert, downed plane smoking behind you.

You are lost in the desert, and you are hallucinating water.

He’s dead. 

You’ve been in the desert for a year now.

Even before—even before he walked into the house first, and everything changed, you had tried to live without the other half of yourself.

With each broken promise to come home, to meet. With each rain check, Sorry, Pipsqueak something came up at work, a new mission, not this time, I promise, next time.

With each day, the distance grew, straining the tether between you.

You couldn’t bear waiting until it snapped entirely, couldn’t bear waiting until the day he finally severed it first. 

You couldn’t bear waiting for the day he announced that he had found someone else. When his profile picture inevitably changed to two smiling faces, instead of a silly carved apple.

Because of words like unhealthy, codependent, dysfunctional.

Because of the time stretching, longer and longer, between each answered text, each missed call.

Because of distance, between you, stranded on the earth, and him, flying high in the sky.

So you decided to carve him from you, an expert butcher, after he took your lungs, along with the necklace you gave him, and flew to Skyhaven, into the blue, blue sky.

You haven't breathed right since he left for the DAA, and you left for the Academy.

You decided to carve him from you. You were adept with blades, after all.

No one really needs two kidneys.

Two hands.

Two eyes. 

People can survive with half a liver.

And you feel like he always had your entire, mangled heart, such as it is. You’ve lived without it, for as long as you can remember.

You are a skilled butcher on the battlefield, as well as in the privacy of your mind. Carving out pieces of yourself, forcing yourself to live without the other half of you, the person carrying the most important parts of you, long before he walked into the house first, drew his last breath, left you alone on the sidewalk to watch your childhood home containing the best parts of you, brightly burning.

So many people live without parts of themselves, every day.

If you couldn’t sleep without his voice, telling you it’s okay, I’ll protect you, from the world, from the nightmares?

Well. You just wouldn’t sleep.

You couldn’t afford to panic, anymore, without him there to show you how to breathe again. 

You just never breathed deeply again.

You took your terror, a constant thrum under your skin ever since Gran brought you home from a place you can't remember, and swallowed it. Keep it in your stomach. 

You can’t eat much, because there’s so very little room left, where food is supposed to go.

But one does what one must, living without so many parts of oneself. And the only food that you could ever stomach was food made by your brother's hands, anyway.

After your expert carving, you can laugh, run, fight, do your job, return a lover’s touch—because what does it matter, that the hands touching you are wrong, with most of yourself in the blue, blue sky, out amongst the stars, wherever his pilot’s wings took him?

You’ve been so far away from yourself, for so much longer than the moment he walked into the house first.

Now, your body wants your eyes to blink. 

Seeing him through all the shifting bodies, the cold January wind pulling tears from your wide, disbelieving eyes.

But you can’t. If you blink, when you open your eyes again, he’ll vanish.

He’s dead.

You tried to kill him, kill the parts of him remaining in you, long before he actually died.

It must be a mirage.

He used to read to you, huddled together in Gran’s bay window in the attic, about a pilot who fell from the sky, crash landed in the desert. A little prince. A fox. A rose.

A little prince who tames and loves a rose, but leaves her behind to explore the stars.

Your brother always referred to you as his rose, when it was just the two of you. But how could you be something so delicate, beautiful, entitled?

You were actually the pilot, struggling under the hot sun. Downed, while the little prince flew back amongst the stars.

I did not know how to reach him, how to catch up with him... The land of tears is so mysterious.

You had learned to live without him.

So what, if you still tried to blind yourself in the sun, looking for his path through the sky?

A small price to pay, when he walked into the house first.

Now, across Azure Square, he looks so beautiful, right there, soaked in gold, in the blue blue sky.

What if it’s not a mirage?

You stop.

Your boyfriend turns. Looks at you curiously.

You can’t tear your eyes from your dead.

Is it the sun? A trick of the light? Is it really only a mirage, in the desert, the desert of your days dragging out behind you, contrails of grief from the moment the words left your lips?

I’m not your sidekick.

Your brother continues to turn. Now, he’s facing you. Through all these moving bodies, through the sunlight cascading down his shining hair, the soft downward turn of his indigo eyes, flashing in the mirrored light.

You hear your boyfriend say your name again, as if from a great distance. The distance that has always been there, because you have been so far away, for so long.

You’ve spent so long, searching the sky, for traces of him. His contrails white against the brilliant blue. Long before he died.

You’ve survived it all. His leaving the first time. Through the long years, where you pretended to live just fine without him, to not need him, his breath in your lungs, his voice in your head.

His death, his final smile, the last horrible, petty thing you said to him.

If he’s just a trick of the light, you’ll survive it.

Again.

It will hurt, but you’re used to the pain. You’ve been buried, suffocating in the dark, for so long already.

You just. You have to be sure.

You pull your hand from your boyfriend’s, begin to run.

You still haven’t blinked.

Your eyes burn. 

People must sense your desperation, because they part for you, easily. You’re moving through them like a jet in flight. There is only you, and your destination.

Your mouth is moving, and it’s the first time in a year that you’re saying anything that matters.

“Caleb.”

Your voice is loud, even in the bustle of all the people filling the Square. He pauses, indigo eyes searching the crowd.

You’re running, running, through the sun-drenched square, the awful, blinding bright blue sky, and when his eyes finally meet yours, you feel like you can fly.

You don’t hesitate.

You launch yourself at him.

He catches you, just as you knew he would.

You wrap your legs around his solid waist, your arms around his neck. 

You’re not thinking.

You tear your gloves from your hands with your teeth, drop them to the ground. Your hands are in his hair, fingers digging into the bur of where it’s shaved against his neck.

His eyes, his soft indigo eyes, are the only thing you can see.

His sweet breath, warm against your face, puffs white in the cold afternoon air.

“Caleb,” you say, lungs full for the first time in a year. Longer. “Caleb.”

“Hey, Pipsqueak,” he says softly, and it’s not his voice in your head, but in your ears. You watch his full lips form the words. 

It feels like a dream.

A dream you’ve had so many times, only to be jerked back from the dark, to open your eyes to a world where he’s dead.

“Caleb,” you say.

He holds you, indulging you, as always, one big arm wrapped around your waist, the other tucked under your ass, supporting you even as you’re probably squeezing him with your legs to the point of pain.

He smiles at you. His blinding, lovely, soft smile. “Did you miss me?”

You devour his face with your eyes. His pretty purple eyes, turned down at the corners. His long, straight nose. His generous mouth, his warm smile.

Did you miss him?

What a stupid question.

What a stupid fucking question.

You bury your face in his warm neck. Breathe him in. Clean skin. Sun-soaked linen, hanging in the spring breeze. Caleb.

“Is this real?” you ask, helpless, desperate.

He holds you more tightly. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s real.”

You want to tell him to promise you.

But he’s promised you things before.

That you would be seeing him every day, soon.

That he’d be home soon.

You can’t help yourself.

“Promise?”

You stare into his eyes. Something moves across his face, here and gone, before you can catch it.

“Promise,” he says. Easily. Like he really means it.

You don’t want to move. You just want to stay here, in his arms, forever.

You don’t want to ask anything else. You don’t want to destroy the ecstatic relief of this moment.

You can’t stand to keep moving through the desert, only to discover that this is a mirage.

A trick of the light.

He must feel the same, because he continues to hold you, effortlessly, stroking his hand down your hair with one big gloved hand.

“Caleb,” you say.

“Yeah,” he answers you. A reassurance. A confirmation.

“Caleb.” A sigh. A question.

“Yeah Pipsqueak. It’s me.”

You hug him, and he hugs you back, as you stand in a sea of people moving around you, as the bright winter sun spills over you, drenching you in a dream that you refuse to wake up from.

The moment could have lasted for a lifetime, or just a few heartbeats.

It shatters, when your boyfriend’s voice breaks through the haze of Caleb’s soft hair under your hands, the scent of his neck in your nose.

“Who’s this, babe?”

You feel Caleb’s body tense under yours. You keep your face buried in his warm neck.

Your boyfriend wouldn’t know.

You put away Caleb’s pictures, early on, after. Seeing them had torn at all the phantom parts of you that shouldn’t have hurt anymore, because Caleb took them with him when he left. You suffered, every time you had to tear your eyes away from is photos again, knowing that the pictures were the only way of seeing him, for the rest of your fucking life.

You had stared in the mirror, more times than you could count, wishing your eyes were a pretty purple, turned down at the corners. Wishing for his soft, silken hair in his exact shade. Trying to find him in your features, an anchor, a pale reflection of what you lost.

But his blood didn’t flow through your veins, despite you spending all the life you could remember feeling like it did.

Caleb makes a fist of your hair. Tugs a little, gently. “Gonna introduce us, Pipsqueak?”

You're so happy to be in this dream, to have him in your arms, that you forget to resist. To rebel. To refuse him, his gentle, firm requests, as you had done once he left for the DAA. You let him gently guide your face away from his neck. Let him slowly lower you to your feet, your body dragging against his. You only half turn, as he keeps his arm around your waist, your body tucked into his. You can’t let him go yet. You’re not ready to let any space come between you yet. You keep one arm wrapped around his waist.

You look at your boyfriend, and it’s like looking at a stranger. You shake your head, try to clear the sense of wrong that has always been there, no matter who you tried to date, no matter who you tried to care for. “This is my—,” you begin, but Caleb cuts you off.

“I’m Caleb.”

Your boyfriend’s eyes widen.

“Caleb? Your brother, Caleb?” he asks, eyes darting between Caleb’s face and yours.

“I’m her Caleb, yeah,” Caleb’s voice sounds funny. As if he’s angry about something. “And you are?”

You shake your head. “Sorry. Sorry, Caleb, this is my boyfriend. And yeah, this is Caleb.”

“So you’re… Not dead,” your boyfriend says, strangely. 

“Very much not dead.” You can hear the smile in Caleb’s voice, but when you look at him, he looks colder than you can ever remember seeing him. Something about his eyes is different, different from the little boy you knew, as he read you stories of pilots, of little princes and tamed foxes, of roses, as he stares down your boyfriend like he presents some type of threat.

It occurs to you that you should let him go. That you should step away. That needing to cling to him like this is— unhealthy. Dysfunctional. 

Can you be excused, just this once, if you’ve believed that he has been dead for a year?

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the fear that this is a dream again.

Your lungs hurt.

You turn your head. “Caleb,” you say, desperate.

He looks away from your boyfriend, gazes down into your face.

You lift your arm from his waist, up, up, clutch the back of his neck, soothing yourself with the soft buzzed hair there, as it fades into his longer, soft strands. “Caleb, is this real? This isn’t a dream?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s real. Keep looking at me.” 

He leans down, and he has to come so far to come down to your level, rounding his shoulders. He rests his forehead against yours. Looks into your eyes.

All you see is indigo.

“Breathe,” he says, and he takes a big inhale. 

You do as he says. Breathe in. You feel his breath against your lips, sense his chest expanding with the breath in his healthy, living lungs. 

He exhales, clouds forming on his lips, drifting into the bright blue sky.

You exhale, and he inhales again, as if trying to breathe in your breath.

The ache in your lungs eases, as he does this for you, the way he used to. Before you went to the Hunter Academy. Before he went to the DAA.

You finally allow yourself to close your eyes, forehead resting against his. “Caleb,” you say.

“Yeah. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls away from you, just a little, but takes one big gloved hand and tucks your face into his chest. You hear him address your boyfriend.

“Hey man, it was nice meeting you. It’s been a long time, and we have a lot to talk about. I’m gonna take her back to her place so we can catch up. She’ll call you later.”

Your boyfriend says something, but it’s lost to you, as you soak in Caleb’s warmth, as you enjoy the feeling of being able to breathe again, after so, so long.

Of feeling, not far away, but close, for the first time in a year. Longer than a year.

Of feeling like your body has been returned to you, after being buried in the earth, for a year.

Then you’re being turned, guided through the crowd.

Everything is a blur. You can’t ask any questions. 

Despite his reassurance, you still don’t believe him. 

He’s made so many promises before, after all.

You don’t want to wake up from this dream.

He’s holding your hand, helping you into a passenger seat. Some kind of Jeep, some muddy, functional military vehicle that stands out amidst the sleek, gleaming cars meant for urban travel.

The inside smells like him.

You stare at his profile, still limned in bright, bright sunlight, as he takes your hand, holds it in his, sheltering yours, resting your clasped hands on his big thigh as he drives one-handed, relaxed, through the weekend traffic back to your apartment.

You stare at his face in the mirrors of your elevator. He stares back, smiling softly.

Neither of you say anything.

What needs to be said, in a dream?

It’s enough, that he feels so real, his warm, big hand holding yours. He feels so alive.

His scent, the scent of home, of clean laundry, of clean skin.

His beautiful, kind eyes.

Inside your apartment, he squats, unlaces your big boots. The sound of his long fingers sliding through the laces is loud in the silence of your empty place.

You suddenly hate not having his eyes on you.

You bend down, place your hands on his cheeks, lift his face.

He pauses, looks up at you. Indulges you, as he always does.

“Caleb.”

It’s all you can say.

All you can think.

“Yeah, baby.”

You shiver.

He only ever called you that, when it was the two of you.

You always wondered what he meant. 

He never looked at you like a lover. Never touched you like a lover. But why would he have to, when he is the other half of you?

He has always been so much more to you.

And yet, you know, that you have always been so much less to him.

Why else would he refuse to kiss you, touch you, take what you’ve been clearly offering, for years, before he left for the DAA?

But whatever he used to give you was enough, even if you always wanted him to touch you differently, just as he named you differently, when it was just the two of you.

Before he left for the DAA.

Before you learned not to breathe.

It will have to continue being enough now.

If this isn’t a dream.

You lost him once.

If this isn’t a dream, you’re never, ever losing him again.

“Caleb,” you say, and he smiles.

“Yeah.” He rises to his feet. He’s so much bigger than when you were children, now. He’s so much bigger even, than the last time you saw him. You admire the controlled strength of his body, its graceful movement as he shrugs out of his winter coat, hanging it on a peg on the wall. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You step out of your boots. 

He moves his hands to his own combat boots, broken in but still buffed to a shine. He removes them efficiently. Lines them up neatly in your shoe rack, adds your own boots next to his.

You’re about to unzip your jacket when his big hands replace yours on the zipper, gently guiding yours out of the way. He watches your face as he unzips your coat. He’s still smiling softly, the curve of his lips more familiar to you than your own in the mirror.

“Caleb,” you say. You can’t stop yourself, each time.

“Yeah.” He answers you patiently. “I’m here.”

He slowly slides your coat from your shoulders, your arms. He hangs it on a peg next to his, then takes your hand again, leads you further into your place.

The bright sun is spilling in through the drawn up blinds.

He looks around, then turns, looks down into your face in question. “Pretty grim, Pipsqueak.”

You look away. You don’t want to talk about this now. You don’t want to wake up from the dream.

He’s here. Right here, so warm and big next to you.

Breathing.

Alive.

“Hey. Look at me.”

When you disobey him, he lifts a hand, strokes it over your hair. Makes a fist in it, gently guides you to look at him again. For the first time, you notice that he hasn’t removed his gloves. Before you can ask why, he continues. “Why the bare walls?”

You sink into his hands, let him tilt your head up, look up into his beautiful, precious, familiar face.

There’s something different about his eyes.

You can’t tell what it is.

“You know why.”

His smile fades.

“You’ve been dead for a year,” you say.

He looks away, for the first time. Then looks back at you, tilts your head back further, curving your throat, naked under his eyes.

“It's felt like that, yeah,” he says.

“Yeah.” 

What else is there to say? This is a dream, right? Despite his promise that he’s here, that he’s alive. That this is real.

He lets you go, and you feel like falling to your knees.

But you haven’t fallen to your knees as a result of his absence for years now.

You manage to stay standing.

“Thirsty?” you ask, when he just stands there, looking at your face, your neck, your chest, eyes drifting down to your feet and up again. As if he’s as thirsty for your image as you are for his.

You’ve only ever been able to slake the thirst of his throat. It has always had to do, knowing that he wasn't thirsty for you.

“Very,” he says, strangely emphatic. But then he seems to return to himself. “I’ll make us something. I know what you like the best, after all.”

He turns, and you watch his broad back as he moves into your kitchen.

You realize that he’s about to see more evidence of the desolation his death has wrought in your life.

You suddenly can’t stand it.

You move forward, grab his arm.

It’s hard.

Like, really hard.

Not hard like firm muscle.

Hard like the barrel of a gun.

He turns, grabs your hand with his, gently, firmly, removes it from his bicep.

“What do you need, baby?”

His voice is gentle, but his eyes.

There’s something different about his eyes.

You’re starting to wonder if this isn’t a dream.

“Caleb?” 

He sighs. “Let me get you something to drink. Then we can talk.”

But you don’t want to talk. You want to know.

You have to know.

“No, I want to see.” 

His voice is harder, now. “No, you don’t. You have no idea—”

You cut him off, anger sudden, bright, painful.

One of the few things you have left to you, after he took everything else with him into the ground.

“No. No, you don’t understand. You don’t understand, what it’s been like—,” you choke, the loss, the weight of the past year suddenly overwhelming.

How dare he hide part of himself from you? How dare he disappear for a year, say nothing, let you believe he was dead? Let you suffer, suffocate, be buried in the ground in an empty coffin? You need to see him, to touch him, to feel him. It’s the least of what he owes you. After everything.

The anger ebbs, just as quickly as it came. You need this. You need him.

“Caleb.” You step forward again. Lift your hand, slowly. “Please.”

You’re not above begging. You’ve never been above begging, wheedling, pleading.

An annoying little sister.

Until he left. 

Until the time between returned texts, missed calls, set you on your butcher’s path. Your limping half-life, muscling forward, agonized at every step, every milestone, alone, untethered, with most of yourself flying so far away, high in the sky.

You had never been above begging, until the day you decided never to ask him for anything, ever again.

Something strange passes over his handsome face, then. Again, it’s so quick, you can’t catch its meaning, the feeling behind it.

He sighs again.

You know this is his consent.

You move forward, place your hand back on his arm. Feel its hard planes, the inhuman hardness under your palm.

Then your hands are at the hem of his hoodie, his undershirt. Scrambling, shaking. You lift, lift, the soft fabric, the scent of clean laundry filling your nose, the smell of home wafting from his now-exposed skin, his waist, abdomen—the soft trail of dark hair leading down into his pants, the slight, soft layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath.

Caleb has always been big, hard and soft, strong. Not hydration starved, stone cut. The strength of a man who excelled at sport, at lifting weights, at eating heartily to fuel his big body. That hasn’t changed. You resist the urge to lean down, press your face into the soft hair of his belly.

You lift his shirts further, and he lets you, lifting his arms.

You pull the hoodie, the undershirt over his head, and your eyes widen as his right arm is revealed in its silver, breathtaking beauty. Your breath catches. You drop his shirts on the floor.

He must misread something in your gaze, in your hitched breath. His voice is bitter. “The price of resurrection,” he says.

You take him in. His big feet, steady on your kitchen floor. His long legs, thick thighs encased in cargo pants. The soft line of his hair on his stomach, tapered waist, the flare of his back, his huge pectorals, the dark soft hair there. His broad shoulders, heavy with muscle. His big arms, one the lovely, softly furred skin you remember against you in the middle of a panic attack, in the middle of the night when the nightmares would come. The other, gleaming under the bright sunlight streaming through your windows.

Sinuous silver metal, grooved in intricate patterns for movement, utility. Ending in a hand, still encased in a glove.

“Beautiful,” you breathe.

Until this moment, you haven’t given yourself a chance to wonder how he was here, whole, after the explosion, the fire.

You didn’t dare let yourself believe that this wasn’t a dream.

But here he is. The rise and fall of his big chest as he breathes, as he watches you, watching him.

His arm, the evidence of what he has endured.

You reach out, pause as he flinches. But he doesn’t pull away. You take his gloved, prosthetic hand in yours, lift it to your mouth.

You open, exposing your teeth. You gently bite the soft leather, clench. Pull. 

The glove slides off his hand, this new hand of his, as Caleb’s chest rises and falls, faster.

As a soft pink rises up his chest, his neck, into his cheeks.

You think because of the embarrassment. Maybe misplaced shame.

As if he should ever be ashamed of having survived. Of having come home to you, finally.

You think you can forgive anything, in this moment.

You know it won’t last. You know that too much has happened. 

You’ve always held terrible grudges.

But for now, you forgive him, as you take his metal hand in both of yours. As you lift it to your cheek. As you close your eyes, nuzzle into his cool, silver palm, so grateful that he’s here, whole. 

You’ve never been whole. He’s always had half of you. More than half. But it doesn’t suit Caleb, not to be whole—your wholesome, better half.

You’re so grateful that even the parts he lost have been restored in such a beautiful, strength-suffused way. A living sculpture.

You don’t see him clenching his teeth.

You don’t see the tears, gathering at the edges of his soft, indigo eyes.

The heave of his chest.

Just for a moment, as he breaks a little, as he helplessly watches you, because he can’t feel you very well with this hand, as you press your face into the most inhuman part of himself.

He takes a deep breath. Steadies himself. He pulls you in with his strong, gleaming arm. Wraps his other arm around you. Tucks your head into his chest. He resists the urge to take his silver hand, squeeze your throat, his long fingers reaching the back of your strong, delicate neck.

Just enough pressure, to leave a collar of bruises, to remind you when he has to leave you again that this is real, that he's real, when you start to doubt again, to worry again.

For your boyfriend to see.

You feel the soft hair under your cheek, his warm skin, contrasting with his cold metal hand, the steady heartbeat under your ear.

This is real.

He’s alive.

Caleb is alive.

“Caleb.”

It’s all you can say.

“Yeah.”

He holds you like this, standing in your kitchen. He holds you like this for an eternity. But it will never feel as long as the year without him.

You don’t think it will ever be enough, after what you endured, during your year buried in the dark.

Finally, you realize you have to go to the bathroom. You pull away. “My kitchen is empty. You don’t understand what it has been like, since you've been gone. So don’t judge.”

He looks down into your face, smiles at you. There’s no trace of the tears in his eyes. “Oh, I’m gonna judge you, Pipsqueak,” he teases, and the familiarity of it helps you breathe. Gives you the strength to scowl at him, force yourself to pull further away. 

“Be more useful than you have been for the past year and order something to eat while I’m in the bathroom,” you order him.

He snorts a laugh. Gives you a lazy salute.

You don’t see his smile fade, as he watches you move away from him, shut the door to the bathroom behind you.

You don’t see his shaky breath, the cold which leeches from his arm back into his eyes. He looks around your apartment, the empty walls, the lack of pillows, blankets on the spare furniture. As if you don’t allow yourself comforts, anymore. All of the color, the life bled out of a place that should be your safe space, your sanctuary. All the color, the life that he knows lives inside you, even if you don’t believe it yourself.

He turns, opens a cupboard.

Bare.

Opens the fridge.

A half-drunk bottle of wine. The rest, bare.

He scowls.

He’s been gone for too long. You’ve lost too much weight.

But he’s back now.

Things are going to change for you, now. Because he’s going to change them.

Your phone vibrates from your coat in the hall.

You don’t see him stride to the hall, fish it out of your pocket, unlock it. He knows your passcode, still. It’s his birthday, after all.

It’s a text from your boyfriend.

He stares down at it. All okay? Raincheck for the movie? Maybe tonight after you’ve had a chance to catch up with your brother this afternoon?

His contact picture in your phone is a picture of the two of you, him smiling brightly, you smiling slightly. A reserved, faraway smile. Caleb knows this smile.

It’s your mask.

The mask you put on, after he left for the DAA.

This smile is the only thing that will save your boyfriend from an unfortunate incident that costs him his life.

This smile tells Caleb that removing this man from your life will be a cakewalk, so no extreme measures are necessary.

If you were really happy with this guy, you would feel safe enough to not smile at all. To reveal all the hollow, empty places inside you, that only Caleb can fill.

If you had shown your true face in the photo, Caleb might have to worry.

Caleb types, briefly.

You: Not today. Still busy with Caleb. I’ll call you.

He then deletes both texts.

He turns the phone to silent. Slips it back into your coat pocket.

He slips his own phone out of one of his pockets, orders some food and drinks as you so adorably demanded.

He doesn’t bother putting his hoodie or undershirt back on.

He pours two glasses of water, since you don't even have any fucking tea in your cupboards. He takes them over and sets them on one of your sidetables next to your couch.

You emerge from the bathroom, come to him on the couch. You just stand, staring down at him. A complicated look of sorrow, of relief—anger, hesitation, yearning—on your gorgeous, cherished face, all of your emotions, plain as day, so easy for him to read. Even when you tried to hide them. Even when you tried to push him away, keep him at arm’s length.

He knows you better than you know yourself, after all.

“Why so far away?” he finally asks.

A helpless look crosses your lovely face now. He reaches out with his human hand, and you take it, let him pull you down next to him on the couch. You rest your head against his shoulder.

Neither of you speak. He just holds you, your body melting into his. His fingers, the ones he can feel the best, drift up and down your arm.

There will be time now, to speak, later. 

All the time in the world.

Caleb’s back, and he’s not going anywhere. He’s going to fix what he broke.

It’s time to start making up for lost time.

He thinks about the book he used to read to you as a child. About a little prince, who loved a rose. A demanding, capricious, prickly rose. Whose upkeep took all of the little prince's time, energy. Eventually, the little prince tires of the work, and leaves his rose behind.

I was too young to know how to love her.

Unlike the little prince, Caleb never tired of his thorny, difficult, needy rose. The rose that he began taming from the moment Gran brought her, hollow-eyed and traumatized, from a terrible, terrible place.

You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.

But Caleb did have to leave his rose behind, for much longer than he intended.

"I'm sorry, I'm so tired," you interrupt his thoughts, yawning, wide, freely.

You haven't been this pliant, this needy, with him in years. He marvels at the sensation, of you being so close to him again. Of you revealing yourself to him again, after so long, with your clinginess, your need to be close to his body, to him, your naked reliance on what he can give you with his big body, his soothing words.

Apparently his death actually had an upside.

He turns his head, looks down at you. "Then sleep, Pipsqueak."

Your beautiful face twists into an expression of dread. It breaks his heart, as it always has. "I'm afraid to fall asleep."

How often has he heard this from you, through the course of his life by your side? Your nightmares, ever present, walking on one side of you, as Caleb walked on the other, helpless, unable to reach into your mind and crush them with his telekinesis. He has always tried to be everything to you. To give you everything. But the only thing he could offer you for the dreams haunting you was treatment for the symptoms, instead of destroying the cause. His arms around you in the dark. Brushing the sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. Whispering silly stories to you, until your heart stopped racing. Resisting the urge to kiss you, to roll on top of you, fill you until you forgot everything but him.

He asks a question he thinks he already knows the answer to. He knows you better than you know yourself, after all. "Nightmares still bothering you?" He lets his human fingertips drift up to your face, thumbing across your cheek. Your skin is so soft. He wants to run his tongue where his thumb is. He has always wanted to run his tongue where his thumb is, where his fingers are. Along the delicate skin of your throat, the insides of your thighs, behind your knees, between your legs.

He hated himself for the want.

The little prince was too young when he left his rose to know how to love her properly.

In many ways, so was Caleb.

But he died. He died, and he crawled back from the grave, just to be with you again.

He's not the same boy you knew. And he's not the same boy who was too young to properly love his rose.

"Yes. But they changed, after you died." Your breath is shaky as you exhale. "But I don't want to talk about that right now. I don't want to fall asleep right now, because I'm afraid that when I wake up, this will all have been a dream."

He wants to know about how your nightmares changed. He hates the idea that there are things about you now that he doesn't know. He needs to know everything.

But now he has time. All the time in the world, to re-learn every part of you. To learn what he never allowed himself to learn, before. Your taste. You softest, most tender places.

"Sleep. I'll prove to you that this is real. I'll be here when you wake up," he promises.

And he means it. He cleared the entire weekend, as he hacked your phone, figured out where you'd be. As he made his way to intercept you in public, to gauge your reaction to seeing him for the first time, to make you feel safe by giving you the choice to come to him, instead of him suddenly confronting you with a ghost at your door.

To see how you'd react to seeing him, when you were with another man.

He knows you better than you know yourself. You reacted just as he had expected, had hoped.

He probably smiled a little too wide, as you hid your face in his neck, as you clung to him, as he told your interim boyfriend that you were otherwise occupied for the rest of the day.

Now, you look up at him, completely unaware of the intensity of his feelings for you. That'll begin to change, from now on. You nod. Whisper, "Okay."

"Good girl," he murmurs, and leans back on the couch, pulls you down with him. You rest your head on his bare chest, and he feels whole for the first time in years.

You fall asleep like the sun slipping below the desert's horizon, melting into him.

He watches you sleep, idly running his good hand along your back, tracing your spine. He's hard as fuck, but he does nothing, as he has done for years. His dick can wait.

He knows you better than you know yourself. And whatever has changed in the last year, he'll learn.

He has time. All the time in the world, now.

Suddenly, you whimper in your sleep, frowning. You're dreaming, and it's not good.

He lifts his human hand, gently presses into your lower lip with his thumb. You whimper again, open your lips. He slips his thumb in, relishing the feel of your warm, wet tongue on his skin. You wrap your lips, your tongue around his thumb as you sleep, and you settle, your body melting into his again. He's hard as fuck, but still feels so satisfied, watching as he soothes you with a part of himself.

He has time. All the time in the world, now. And this time, he's not going to resist the urge to kiss you, to stuff you with himself until all of your empty, hollow spaces are filled. Dying puts things like guilt, sin, societal expectations into perspective.

Nothing is going to stop him from getting everything he wants, this time. And in the process, he's going to give you everything he knows you want in return.

No, he's not the same kind-hearted boy from your childhood.

And he was never your fucking brother.

[em1989ts]

𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 - 𝐩𝐭 2

part one.

word count: 2.6k

summary: after meeting five in the apocalypse, the two of you have a hard time living together. can the two of you control your tempers for one particularly cold winter night to save your lives?

contains: smut so 18+! (reader and five are both 5 years into the apocalypse so they are both eighteen) grinding, dry humping, fingering

author's note: yikes, my first smut. my inbox is open and i'm taking requests!! id love to hear some ideas :) I really wanted to upload this quickly so it's not proofread but eventually i'll edit it . . . but hopefully you guys like this, enjoy!

Living with this stranger definitely changed your life. Whether it was for better or for worse, you had no idea. 

The two of you walked for about an hour to his base, with very little verbal interaction reflecting the very little trust between each other. 

After a little bit of prying on your part, you managed to extract a bit more background information about this guy who you would now be surviving alongside. 

His name was Five Hargreeves. 

He had six siblings. 

They all had super powers. 

They were a team of superheroes formed by their father. 

When he first told you, you chuckled through the bandana over your mouth and nose, but he didn’t display the same humor. 

“Wait, you’re serious?”

“Why would I not be?” 

“Well maybe you just went cuckoo here and made up some super stupid backstory!” You replied, pretty certain that he was just nuts. 

Then all of a sudden, he disappeared. 

You jumped at a flash of blue light that suddenly appeared next to you. When you looked back to the area where he was standing, he was gone. 

Looking around frantically, your eyes searched the dusty highway for any signs of him. But there was nothing. 

Was he even there to begin with? Was he just a figment of your overactive imagination? 

Your breathing grew heavy once again as you panicked, then suddenly that blue light and he was right back in his spot next to you, looking amused at your eyes that were wide with shock. 

“Maybe you’re the one who’s cuckoo,” he said with a smug voice. You punched him in the shoulder before the two of you continued walking. 

~~~~ 

His base was interesting, to say the least. 

He had found a building that had only remnants of its walls intact, no roof, and used tarps to makeshift a roof and to cover the enormous gaps in the concrete. 

It didn’t look trustworthy by any means, you’d probably be better off sleeping in cars like you’ve been doing for the past five years. 

He lifted one of the tarps covering a significantly large hole in the wall and crawled in, letting it fall on you as you follow in behind him. You scoffed as you followed his lead. 

He surprisingly had a good stash of resources. Several canned foods, boxes of pasta, and cases of water were stacked in a corner. A makeshift fireplace was in the middle, with a pot leaning next to the circle of rocks. 

There was a small space in the corner. It consisted of what looked like a bundle of tarps and ashy blankets and pillows. You knew whatever happened to the world pretty much converted everything to dust, but he must’ve found those in cars, which somehow withstood some of the fire.

Since you had been sleeping in cars, you collect a couple of sleeping supplies you had found over the years. Thank fuck people decided to road trip before they perished or else you would have frozen to death ages ago. 

You began unpacking your bag and wagon, but you could feel his eyes watching you intently. 

Once you got settled, you didn’t really know what to do to break the unnerving awkward silence, he just sat there staring. You would tell him to take a picture since that would last longer but you're pretty sure there were no surviving cameras in the apocalypse.

The sun had set about twenty minutes ago, leaving the base to get darker as night grew closer. 

He made his way over to the fire pit, and took out a lighter from one of his pockets. When he went to light the wood aflame, the lighter wouldn’t spark. He tried for a while until you couldn’t bear watching the pathetic scene anymore. You took one of the new lighters you had just grabbed today and handed it over to him. He scoffed and snatched it out of your hand, then lit the fire in one try before tossing it on the ground and quickly walking away. 

You were taken aback by his childish actions. Sure, he was alone for years and only had himself to rely on, but now you were here so he shouldn’t be this upset to ask for help with a simple task. 

“You know,” you started with an annoyed tone, “the only reason I’m here is so we can work together.” 

“I don’t need you or your help,” he snapped. 

You cocked your head, not offended but amused. You found his self-reliance ridiculous. 

Sure, it would’ve done him wonders if he truly was the only person on Earth, having no one but himself to rely on. 

But he wasn’t. 

And you sure as hell couldn’t go back to the way things were before. 

If the two of you had decided that you could continue to survive on your own once again, you would drive yourselves mad knowing that there was another human to talk to, that someone else was out there alive and that you weren’t alone. 

You had to stay together to keep yourselves sane. 

“Fine.” 

You had too long of a day to even bother arguing with him. He’d either get used to you or die trying. 

You got up from the dusty ground and tossed yourself on his soft makeshift bed, comfortably taking over. He groaned frustratingly loud, and he tossed his head back and walked outside to get away from the bothersome girl he now had to deal with. 

~~~ 

A few months had passed since Five had encountered the girl at the gas station. That was the last thing he expected when he went out for more supplies that day. 

He definitely never thought he would have to share his hard earned food supply, water supply, and base with her, but that’s exactly what happened. 

She was impossible. She was incredibly sarcastic. She was such a pain. 

And of course, she was a nobody. This meant whenever she got bored of staring into her gross canned beans during those nights by the fire, she would ask about his past. 

He had already told her everything she needed to know, but she kept prying about how he got here, what life was like as a superhero, how his family was. At first, he would ignore her, or at least change the topic to distract her empty mind, but eventually he decided he could tell her little by little. He didn’t trust her, but he knew she wouldn’t try to kill him again. 

Initially, he wasn’t thrilled about being stuck with a girl. He was focused on survival, and his alone. But he quickly realized she was incredibly capable of surviving in this long gone world. Hell, she could’ve shot him dead that first day, yet she didn’t. 

He had been faced with the barrel of a gun several times in his life, yet he’d never felt the way he had when his life rested in the twitch of your finger. 

Your anger did something to him. He blamed it on his teenage hormones, but he couldn’t get enough of when you would pounce at him with a clenched fist. He enjoyed bumping into you purposefully, tripping you, picking you up just to toss you away from him. His constant scowl only hid his raging smirk every time you would get up close, letting him see every detail of your face, how your pupils dilated with intense anger, just to yell about how selfish he was, knowing you were just as guilty. 

If surviving on your own in the end of the world wasn’t hard enough, providing for two was nearly impossible. You had to be extremely cautious about your rations, conserving your intake only to what was deemed necessary. Oftentimes, the two of you would steal from each other when no one was watching, which would piss them off horribly, leading to even more fights. If starvation didn’t kill you, your deadly attitudes would. 

Your tempers had gone through the roof once you started living together. 

Walking away from a fight would call for a knife to be thrown at you behind your back. A snarky comment would result in a hand coming in and punching over your meal. 

While neither of you were going out of your way to deliberately kill the other, you sure wouldn’t mind if it accidentally happened. 

When the nights got colder, and autumn turned to winter, the wind would pick up, making it extremely difficult for the tarps to trap any heat into the base. No matter what the two of you did, the constant flapping drove you insane, and you had already been ticked off when he ignored every single idea you had. His bright idea of just stretching the tarp tight enough over the biggest gap in the whole base led to it ripping right in half, letting the winds fly in with no other tarp big enough to replace it. 

“Great job, you dumb fuck,” you muttered as you turned to the fire, which was too small for its warmth to be felt from the beds. 

Your nose felt like it was about to fall off, your fingers felt like nothing, and your lips were blue. You had put on every layer you could find and it still wasn’t enough. Surely, this was the harshest winter you’d experienced in the apocalypse. 

You had usually been fine sleeping in cars, but every single one within a mile radius had been completely destroyed. The two of you would let out your violent rage on the vehicles rather than each other. 

Five had stared at you from his spot by the hole in the wall, snowflakes freckling his face, holding the remains of the tarp. He did his best to cover as much as he could with the pieces then made his way over to you. He noticed how red your cheeks were, and how pale the rest of you was. You had sat down by the fire and dropped your chin between your knees. 

“We’re not surviving this winter,” you said solemnly. You weren’t necessarily giving up, you would still do what you could, but you had little hope in yourself. Morale was hard to build these days, especially when all you wished was to throw yourself into the fire for even a moment of warmth. 

For Five, giving in to the cold wasn’t an option. Not in the slightest. 

He had an idea, maybe a bold one, but if it meant living to see another spring then he would do it. He walked over to the bed and grabbed as much as he could grab. The tarps, blankets, and pillows stuffed under his arms until he couldn’t fit anymore, and he dropped them right next to you by the fire and started laying them out. 

You lifted your head up slightly and displayed a curious arch in your brow as you watched him remake his bed on the ground. The idea was so obvious you cursed yourself for not thinking of it first. 

As you were getting up to grab your bed supplies, a freezing hand pulled you back down and into him. You caught your balance with your hand on his jacketed shoulder, “What the hell?-” 

“Just listen to me,” he cut you off, “The only way either of us is gonna last the night is if we use our body heat. The fire’s going to help but it won’t be enough.”

You scowled, was that seriously the only option? 

Instead of letting you take your sweet time to contemplate whether or not it was worth it to cuddle with him for your life, he tugged you into him and laid down with you. 

His arms wrapped around your front as he held you against his chest, and holy fuck, it felt as if you had been leaning against a furnace. His heat warmed you up quickly, and you brought a blanket up to your chin to keep that heat locked in. 

The proximity of the two of you was what kept you from falling asleep immediately. His chin resting in your neck made you feel something you didn’t want to admit you felt about Five. His arms around your waist made you want him to move his hands just a little bit lower. 

You had an idea that could get you killed. 

While pretending to adjust and get comfortable, you gently grinded your ass against him, trying to get a reaction. 

Immediately, you could feel his arms tighten around you, and a bulge was already pressing into you. 

He leaned closer to your ear and growled quietly, “What do you think you’re doing?” 

You turned your neck to look at him, performing with the sweetest eyes you could display, “Just getting comfortable.” 

Your lips were inches away from his, yet neither of you made a move to close the gap. Five still looked at you with skeptical eyes even though he knew exactly what you had planned. 

Once you moved your hips again, a little harder, he pressed his face into your shoulder as he sighed and repeated the action. 

You let out a quiet groan, enjoying the pressure, yet you brought the blanket up over your mouth to muffle it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. 

He picked up his pace, lowering his hands to hold your hips firm, rolling them against his. The blush on your face grew even more red, and you could feel beads of sweat forming on your forehead. 

His grip was tight, his groans were getting louder, and it felt like you really had frozen to death because this felt like heaven. 

His hand crawled through your layered sweatpants as he reached between your legs. As his cold fingers reached the spot you needed him most, you almost cried out, desperately needing the pressure. 

His other hand moved from your waist, traveled under your sweatshirts, and found its place on your breast. The freezing touch had such a strong sensation, and the pressure felt so good. 

“Please,” you let out, knowing you’d be kicking yourself later for sounding so painfully desperate, “I need more.” 

He moaned in your ear as his bulge pushed harder against you, “We can’t.” 

“Please,” you pleaded, as his fingers circled your clit.

God, you felt pathetic but it felt so good. 

He groaned as he gathered your wetness. 

“It isn’t safe,” he said, disappointed at the fact that you just couldn’t risk that in the apocalypse. 

Before you could beg, he plunged his long fingers into you, soft moans spilling from your throat at the motions. 

His actions grew faster and so did his panting, you knew he was getting close and you were too. 

You turned your neck to face him, looking up at his flush face. He met your dazed eyes, admiring how your face glowed with pleasure. His eyes locked onto your lips as he moved closer and captured them with his. 

Moaning into each other's mouths was just too much for you both, as he came in his sweatpants as you came around his fingers. He let you both ride out your highs before he gently pulled out his fingers. 

He looked at you unusually sweetly, and as you turned to ask what that face was about he shoved his fingers into your mouth, sliding your juices onto your tongue, letting you taste yourself. 

You were surprised initially and groaned at the action, then bit his fingers which caused him to scowl and quickly pull them out. 

“This doesn’t change anything.” 

“Of course not.” 

~~~

tags: @groovydazephantom

[madaloves]

𝐁𝟐𝐁 ; leon s. kennedy

pairing : leon s. kennedy x f!reader

summary : y/n had developed feelings for her work partner and he had developed a certain attraction for her, but it was obviously that the infamous mister kennedy couldn't get over her dearest Ada.

this story will contain : one mention of sex, not over a toxic ex or something like that!leon, mentions of arguments

author's note : my gosh, idk, i love this song and thought it was a good idea, but this is shit guys. it really doesn't have any dialogues since it like a flashback of the reader's experience with an ada obsessed leon. it's so short, i'm sorry.

he said he liked me. if he said that then why is he always mentioning her? maybe he just wants someone to talk to, you can't blame him.

leon would always talk about ada. she was like a trauma for him . . . i never understood if he liked her or not, if he was traumatised or something.

it was frustrating most of the time, but I wanted to be his friend too before something else. then we started dating.

it was nice until it wasn't.

he started developing an addiction to alcohol, when he was sober we would just have sex and then i would listen to him talk about ada. we started fighting and it all went to hell.

we broke up but he started calling months later.

"i miss you." you just want someone to lean on . . .

"come back to me" you're saying that to her, not to me . . .

it hurt, my heart ached everything he called. i cared deeply for him but he had issues. somehow i ended up with him again. caring for him, loving him . . . but this time it was way worse.

we both became toxic, we were each others poison but i believe that at the same time, we were each other's drugs too, ha, just what i said, poison.

then it was a constant fight, but we couldn't help it, I loved him, I still do actually.

"i miss her, you know?"

"maybe you should run right back to her, then!"

then we broke up again, but because of work, our communication was constant.

"come back to me."

"i don't wanna go back to you!" i said to him as I walked out of room.

a year later, finding out i was his partner in a mission wasn't very pleasant but my heart couldn't help but get excited.

we had to go to some village in spain to rescue the president's daughter, but wow, it was one hell of a ride. who would guess that she would be her? just my luck.

i must admit that leon had changed a lot, but i couldn't help but feel insecure.

he wasn't the same though. we had a good connection that time.

but that bitch, i swear she knew everything about him and about who i was. she was everywhere.

after a fight where i was terribly injured, he didn't even bother to check on me first . . . he was too busy helping her beloved ada. and I thought he had changed.

when the mission was over, he didn't say a word, he just looked into my eyes and i could see shame in them and a glint of sadness.

"please . . ."

"i don't wanna fall back to us, leon."

it hurt, but it was best for both of us.

[mpregtales]

Kyle

7 months pregnant, 21 years old, from Denver, Colorado, expecting his first child, a baby boy.

Kyle was a rising star in collegiate athletics—a track and field sensation with a build that drew admiration both on and off the field. His speed and agility weren’t the only things that turned heads; his famously sculpted bubble butt, perfected through years of training, was impossible to ignore. Kyle’s glutes were his pride and joy, a feature that gained him fans, followers, and plenty of admirers. Teammates would joke about how he could “run faster because he carried so much power back there,” but Kyle would just laugh it off, secretly enjoying the attention. But what had been a source of athletic prowess and attraction ultimately got him into his current situation.

One night, after a team celebration, Kyle found himself at an after-party with a group of friends and some fellow athletes. Among them was Ryan, a tall, chiseled linebacker with piercing blue eyes and a confident swagger that made him the center of attention. Ryan had always been drawn to Kyle, unable to take his eyes off the way his track shorts hugged his curves during practice. That night, as the drinks flowed and inhibitions faded, Ryan’s admiration turned into undeniable desire, the two finding themselves alone together after everyone else left.

Kyle, ever the showman, noticed Ryan’s gaze lingering on him and decided to have a little fun. Feeling bold and carefree, he climbed onto the table in the middle of the room, getting on all fours and arching his back to push out his massive glutes. He swayed his hips teasingly, making his cheeks clap together in a way that left no room for subtlety. Ryan couldn’t resist—his self-control vanished as Kyle offered himself so openly and provocatively.

What followed was a moment of raw, unfiltered passion. Ryan, unable to hold back, stepped up to the table and positioned himself behind Kyle. Their chemistry was electric, and as Ryan slid into him, it felt like a perfect fit—like Kyle’s body had been made just for this. Kyle’s glutes, so firm yet pliable, clapped with every thrust, driving Ryan wild. The tension of the night culminated in an explosive climax, Ryan releasing everything he had into Kyle. Kyle, lost in the heat of the moment, instinctively clenched, his body taking it all in with ease.

Now, at seven months pregnant, Kyle’s body is the definition of extraordinary. His belly, carrying his growing son, is already large and round, but it’s his glutes that steal the show. What had once been a runner’s toned backside has blossomed into two massive, pregnancy-thickened cheeks that bounce with every step he takes. His workout shorts strain to contain them, drawing stares and compliments wherever he goes. Kyle loves the attention—it fuels his confidence—but he’s also discovered how practical his glutes are during this pregnancy.

Walking has become an exercise in balance, his bubble butt swaying and jiggling with each stride. He can’t help but smile as he feels his cheeks move, a reminder of how his body has adapted to support the growing life inside him. What Kyle didn’t anticipate, however, is how his glutes will play an even bigger role in the birth. He’s been told by his doctor that his lower body strength, especially in his hips and glutes, will help immensely when it comes time to push. Kyle jokes with his friends that his legendary backside, the very thing that got him into this situation, will now help bring his son into the world.

Despite the challenges, Kyle is embracing his journey. He’s still active, walking and stretching daily to keep himself comfortable. He loves feeling his baby kick and move, a sensation that fills him with pride and excitement. He’s also come to appreciate his changing body, admiring how his curves have only grown more alluring with each passing month. Though he never imagined himself in this position, Kyle has found a new purpose in pregnancy—and he’s already daydreaming about what it would be like to do this all over again.

But for now, Kyle is focused on the present, preparing for the day his baby boy will arrive. With his bubble butt ready for the challenge ahead, Kyle knows he’s more than capable of handling whatever comes his way. After all, his body was made for this.

From the Paternity Studios Collection

[fridaysmind]

IDW Starscream x reader part 2 (end)

Just over a week without writing and already someone looking for me. Humans is such an impatient animals, lol. Scenario: Your lover has chosen someone else. Or did it just seem that way to you?

They had become much friendlier in recent days. The two of them used to have a hard time communicating, like hissing through dentoplates at each other. Now he's summoning her to his private office, giving you the task of keeping away from the place for the fourth time in a row.

Starscream is perpetually busy, rarely responds to your messages, and generally stays out of sight. Neither does Windblade. And here she is, snacking in the common room and happily making small talk with you. Despite the strength of all your inner acrimony towards your direct competitor, you good-naturedly discussed many things until you smoothly moved on to the topic of falling in love.

"Love is dedicated to books, poems, paintings, not only in our culture, on almost every planet, it's so adorable in my opinion, have you ever been in love with someone?" and Windblade stammered at your question.

Sipping from her cube and wiping a drop of fresh energon from her lips with an elegant movement of her slender fingers, she smiled meekly, examining the blue liquid with half-closed optics. It's enchanting…is this what you look like from the outside when you're suddenly immersed in dreams of your lover's caressing touch? But Windblade raised the gaze of her optic to you, surprising the sudden tenderness in it.

"You know, I think you'll understand me, I so need to tell someone at least, it's hard to keep it to myself."

With an intriguing start, she set the container on the surface of the metal table, folded her arms and coughed.

"I wasn't planning on falling in love at all. It's scary with the unknown, but there's nothing like it. It's like weightlessness spreads through my frame from one glimpse of expensive optics. I'd put the whole world to the servos just for one beautiful smile, you know?" she looks away as she speaks, then she burns you with that tenderness again and you feel that sadness come up to your spark.

You understand. Oh, how much you understand her words. How many nights you've spent with him together, dreaming of capturing his lips, how much you wish his optics, his wings, his cockpit, everything, belonged to you alone. And you see not just a femme across from you, but your own reflection, realizing that the anger is receding.

You think Starscream knows what's best for him. How can you hate her now, after such a confession? So tender and sincere. Your upper limb reaches out, wrapping around her wrist.

"I understand you more than anyone. That someone is extremely lucky to be loved by you out of all the applicants. Nothing could be more beautiful than love, especially when it's so pure." and you smile kindly at each other.

It wasn't long after your dialog before the formers at court began to whisper that the leader of Cybertron was preparing to choose his mate. You smiled sadly at these rumors, leaning back against the corridor wall at times, desperately imagining what these guys were saying about him and you. You've already accepted a lot of things as they are, Starscream isn't just some mech. It is written into the very culture of the seekers that it is a disgrace to associate and breed with the wingless. How foolish of you to even think that the chief representative of Vos would go against tradition. But the wings are the only problem, aren't they? If you had another pair of limbs on your back, surely he'd consider you a contender? You'd hope so. Life and routine are getting harder every day, your meals and recharges have decreased, and the worries have taken their toll on your health.

After many cycles, Starscream finally made time for you. As soon as you bumped into each other in the corridor, he gave you a glance and, frowning, asked you how you were feeling. You didn't seem to look well due to stress and didn't even notice, but you brushed off his questions, citing work and a little sickness. His red optics stared back at you in concern.

"Are you sure you don't need to see a doctor? You have the best doctors on this planet at your disposal, any ailment will be cured in no time, just snap your beautiful fingers dear" his voice is so sweet, like a hot treat outside in the cold cities of the planet. Will this bird sing to someone else and not to you? You nodded negatively.

"I'm feeling much better now, there's nothing to worry about, was there something you wanted to discuss with me?"

Seeker abruptly remembered why he had come, his wings abruptly rising and falling back to their original place.

"Yes, that's right!" he shook his frame slightly and smiled triumphantly.

"There's a special event coming up, one of the most important events in my life, and not just mine. I vitally need your presence, I've already sent you an invitation with the date, please prepare yourself properly," he squinted at your body, causing the embarrassment already frozen from the long lack of attention. "There won't be many formers there, but I really want everything to marvel in beauty at this moment. No refusals accepted, I won't hold the meeting without you!"

He didn't say more to you, so smoothly passed you onward, like a swan floating on the surface of the water, and disappeared into the long corridors. Taking a deep breath and exhaling heavily, you opened the invitation on the datapad. The venue, the date, the time, everything was in place. The rest of the information, even if it was a little more specific, was simply missing, but maybe it was for the best.

A fashion and beauty figure once said: "The dimmer your spark, the brighter your polish should shine." And you're going to stick to that idea right now. You are, for the first time in a long time, finally taking an oil bath. Hot, almost scalding hot. As if punishing yourself for something, you sink into it up to the top of your helmet and sit up straight again, removing the excess from your faceplate. Your preparation for the event is meticulous. Every curve, every notch, every detail is perfect. From the reflection, a fresh and shiny you stares back at you. Examining yourself from every angle, you felt the spark ache again, but you didn't let it fill your processor any further.

You're here. The last obstacle before the inevitable is the iron door. One step and the mechanism will work, automatically opening the passage further. Ventilating again, it's time to go in, you can't be late.

The small room is perfectly cleaned, smelling almost sterile. The lighting is spotty, atmospheric, and there are shiny decorations on the walls.

The first thing you see is Windblade. Standing next to her is Chromia, excited a little. Primus, how long has it been since you've seen her? The last thing you notice is Starscream at the window, watching the passing traffic, the burning lights of the high-rises, and the glitter of the first stars appearing in the sky. The view really is beautiful, and you're not just talking about Cybertron behind the glass.

You stand up next to two friends. A thought comes to your helmet. Maybe he and Windblade called each best friend as a witness. Of course. Are you really going to watch your nightmare come true?

Mech turns gracefully towards the three of you, the city lights softly illuminating his figure from behind as he smiles. Not a smirk, not a grimace, no, it is an unaccustomed soft curve that speaks of genuine pleasure. You stare at his figure as if hypnotized. Reminiscent of your best dreams, Starscream thrusts his manipulator with an open palm in your direction and your optics soften, but there is no counter-movement on your part.

You were brought out of your trance by a nudge to your shoulder. You turned your helmet to the side in surprise, Chromia's faceplate opposite clearly expressing mockery.

"Come on, did you fall asleep?"

Your consciousness returned to you, you blinked in incomprehension. What? You have to come up?

Still in the same incomprehension, you place your manipulator in his and seeker’s fingers wrap around yours like a wild vine, sending a stuttering vent. Your optics collide.

"There are too many things I wish I could say them to you, and I will certainly say them. Right now, I just want to express my gratitude for all the many millions of years you've been my most reliable shoulder. Of course, I'd be ruler of Cybertron without the support," Starscream smugly ran his palm across the top of his helmet, causing Chromia's optics to roll up. And you silently stare at him, at his facial expressions, at the optics burning brighter and dimmer, trying to figure out where he's going with this. "But with you, things have not only gotten easier, they've gotten considerably more pleasant. Rewinding the long snot, I'll finally ask already, are you willing to be the conjunx of this planet's magnificent leader?"

Silence. Mouth wide open, fingers trembling, your processor refusing to analyze the meaning of his words. Your gaze swings between everyone in the room, they look amused by your reaction. Moisture approaches your optics as you cover the bottom of your faceplate with both hands and shake your head negatively in disbelief. Starscream's wings droop in fear, do you refuse?!

"N-no…?"

With the first drops already rolling down your cheeks, you throw yourself around his neck, pressing your cheek against his breastplates and almost choking with happiness and tears, causing Starscream to exhale in relief and stroke your back. You whisper yes to him, and again. And again you say 'yes' as those present clap happily. You caress yourself against him like a sun-warmed cat. Is it real? Does he love you? Does he really love you? You smile and can't stop babbling 'yes, of course yes'.

"But why…" you sobbed, turning to the femmes. "…were you invited too?"

"I wish I knew why I'm here…" Chromia shrugs in response to your question.

"Because I have a similar offer for you." Windblade takes her friend's faceplate with both manipulators, and presses his lips to hers in a kiss, startling both her and you. The puzzle in your helmet comes completely together and your lips stretch into a bright, happy smile.

Warm, long fingers grip your chin as Starscream wipes away the clear marks on your cheeks and gives you your first kiss. A sweet feeling blossoms in your spark as your breastplates make contact and your manipulators wrap around his graceful neck. All pain and all fear have left your frame, you ventilate frantically, swearing to Primus that you will give him to no one now.

And let the ritual of joining sparks be broadcast to every corner of the world, let everyone know that you finally belong together

@skittyhugger, impatient bunny

@alexandraibis, lover of beauty

[thebarneschronicles]

Stuck With Me

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: When Bucky returns home after a mission, his unexpected transformation leaves you speechless and you can’t help but tease him about it. As playful banter shifts to deep, tender moments, your desire and frustration collide in an encounter that leaves you breathless, unable to resist the pull of a love that refuses to age.

Word Count: 3.3k

Author’s note: I was thinking about young Bucky... and the rest is history. Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Not even the whirlwind of your day could dull the thrill bubbling inside you as you climbed the familiar steps of your Brooklyn walk-up. Your work bag weighed down one shoulder, while a bag of takeout swung from your arm, its tantalizing aroma teasing the air. But nothing—not the ache in your feet or the crisp evening chill—could wipe the grin from your face.

Bucky was home.

His message had come hours earlier, a simple text letting you know he’d made it back safely from yet another mission. Those few words had lit a fire under you, making the final half hour of your workday feel like an eternity. As soon as the clock struck, you bolted out the door, barely able to contain your excitement.

On your way, you stopped at his favorite Asian spot, ordering all his go-to dishes and even treating him (and yourself) to dessert. He’d been gone for days, and the quiet ache of his absence had settled over your apartment like a fog. The empty space on his side of the bed had taunted you every night, making sleep a struggle. You’d missed stumbling over his boots by the door, the way he’d tinker in the kitchen each morning, and even the playful bickering over who’d do the dishes.

As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder—or in your case, makes the longing unbearable.

Your body hummed with anticipation as you thought about seeing him again. You missed everything about him—his lips, the way his hands cradled your face during a kiss, one warm, one cold, grounding you in the moment. You missed the feel of his body against yours, his solid frame pressing you into the mattress like a warm, protective shield. His scent—intoxicating and uniquely his—lingered in your memory, a comforting haze that made your head spin.

But above all else, you missed the rough scratch of his stubble trailing along your inner thighs, leaving behind a heat that set your nerves ablaze and made your toes curl. Only Bucky could make you feel this alive, this cherished, this utterly undone.

And tonight, he was waiting for you.

The apartment was quiet when you walked in, a serene kind of stillness that usually meant Bucky was absorbed in a book or tinkering with something in a corner. You tossed your bag onto the couch, set the takeout on the counter, and kicked off your shoes with a sigh of relief.

“Buck? Bucky? You here?” you called, your voice tinged with excitement, even to your own ears.

“In the bathroom, doll!” came his deep, muffled reply.

Your heart did a little leap at the sound of his voice. You followed it, padding softly through the apartment. The soft glow of light spilled into the hallway from the slightly ajar bathroom door, accompanied by wisps of steam and the familiar scent of his shampoo and body wash. The combination of cedarwood and something uniquely him wrapped around you, warm and intoxicating, stirring something warm and heavy low in your belly.

He’d clearly just come out of the shower. If luck was on your side, he’d still be in just a towel.

You pushed the door open, anticipation buzzing in your chest—and froze mid-step.

There he was.

Bucky stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, the towel slung low on his hips. Another towel was in his hands, his movements slow as he rubbed it over his damp hair. His broad chest glistened, droplets tracing maddening paths over his defined muscles. But it wasn’t the sight of his near nudity that made you gasp.

No, it was his face.

“Bucky?” you managed, your voice a mix of disbelief and confusion as you stepped closer.

He turned to you, one eyebrow raised, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the smile he reserved only for you. “Hey, doll. Missed me?”

Your jaw dropped as you took another step forward, your fingers almost instinctively reaching out to brush against his cheek.

“What the hell happened to your face?”

Bucky blinked, his brows furrowing as he shrugged, dropping the towel onto the counter. “What? You don’t like it?”

It wasn’t that you didn’t like it. It was just… shocking.

For as long as you’d known him, Bucky had always been the epitome of rugged charm. The dark stubble along his jawline gave him that scruffy, brooding look, paired perfectly with his perpetual grumpiness, giving him the ‘don’t mess with me’ air you had come to appreciate. It suited him—manly, intimidating, and impossibly handsome.

But now…

Now his face was clean-shaven, the sharp lines of his jaw fully exposed, his features startlingly sharp and defined.

And suddenly, it hit you like a freight train.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Your stomach flipped, and before you could react, Bucky grabbed your hand and pulled you closer, trapping you between his body and the sink. You could feel the cool marble pressing into your back, but the heat radiating off of him was all-consuming.

Your eyes flitted over him helplessly. You could have stared at the way the water still clung to his broad shoulders or how the dampness made the vibranium of his left arm glint faintly in the light, but you couldn’t look away from his face.

It was like looking at a ghost of the past. The sharp, clean lines of his jaw, the bright, arresting blue of his eyes, the way his hair was swept back—he looked just like those hauntingly beautiful photographs from the 1940s.

Fresh-faced. Bright-eyed. Devastatingly handsome.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, barely able to breathe.

Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, his hands settling on your waist, trying to pull you closer, but you could only press him back. His smirk twisted quickly into a frown at your resistance. “Holy shit good or holy shit bad?”

Your words faltered. All you could do was reach out again, fingers brushing over the impossibly smooth skin of his neck and jaw. The change was jarring, but somehow, it only made him more captivating.

Gently, your hands guided his face from one side to the other, your fingertips trailing over the smooth planes of his cheeks as if searching for any trace of the familiar stubble. His jawline looked impossibly sharp under the soft bathroom light, and every angle you examined only deepened your astonishment.

“You…” Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper as you tried to steady yourself. Swallowing hard, you finally met his eyes—those piercing blue eyes that somehow looked even brighter without the shadow of his beard.

“You look like you stepped straight out of one of those old army photos.”

The corners of his mouth quirked in amusement and he tilted his head slightly, his gaze softening as he watched your reaction. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, though there was a flicker of self-consciousness beneath the playfulness.

Your hand lingered on his cheek, your thumb brushing along the now-unfamiliar smoothness. “Yeah,” you murmured, half-dazed. “Like... time travel in the flesh.”

When he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours in a slow, tentative kiss, you couldn’t even bring yourself to close your eyes. The proximity had your vision blurring, leaving you cross-eyed and stunned. Your mind was too consumed with the sheer wonder of him—the way he looked so much like his younger self, it was almost as if time had rewound.

“Doll…” he murmured, his voice low and velvety as his nose brushed against yours. His lips hovered just shy of meeting yours again, the faintest touch sending sparks down your spine. He nudged you gently, almost like a cat seeking affection, his patience tinged with uncertainty. “Gotta tell me what you’re thinking… Do you hate it?”

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, and shook your head fervently. Without a word, your arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer as you tilted your head to claim his lips in a deeper, hungrier kiss. The soft groan that escaped him sent butterflies racing in your stomach, and in one fluid motion, he lifted you with ease, setting you down on the cool edge of the sink.

From this angle, the height difference vanished, leaving his devastatingly perfect face fully in your view. His freshly shaven jaw, sharp and clean, was almost too much to handle.

“God, you really don’t age, do you?” you blurted, your voice catching as his hands pressed firmly on your thighs, spreading them just enough for him to step between. His towel, barely clinging to his hips, threatened to slip, and the sight alone made heat pool low in your belly.

Bucky’s brows lifted in surprise, though a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Pretty sure I’ve aged a lot—”

“No,” you cut him off, your hand capturing his chin while the other tangled into the damp strands at the back of his neck. “You look exactly like those army pictures. It’s unfair.”

“Unfair, huh?” His tone was rich with amusement, his blue eyes sparkling as he leaned closer. “How so?”

Your breath hitched as you pressed your lips to his again, trailing kisses down to his chin. “How am I supposed to stay sane when you look like this?” you cried, your voice filled with dramatic exasperation. “How am I supposed to date you, marry you, grow old with you when you don’t even age? I’ll look like a dried-up raisin, and you—”

“You’re breaking up with me because I don’t age?” His mock outrage should’ve been obvious in his voice, but you were too preoccupied to notice.

Your lips continued their path down his jaw, pressing soft kisses along the smooth skin of his neck. “It’s like you don’t even care…”

Bucky let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest as his vibranium hand settled on your waist. His other hand tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to his. The maddeningly smug grin tugging at his lips was matched only by the tenderness in his eyes.

“So, you do like it,” he teased, his voice rich with amusement.

“Like it?” You scoffed, your palm sliding down to rest on the firm planes of his bare stomach. “Bucky, you look… there aren’t even words.”

“Got you that speechless, huh?” He stepped closer, his playful glint unmistakable. “That’s a first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you. “Tell me something…”

His hands wandered, finding the hem of your skirt. His thumbs slid beneath the fabric, tracing slow, deliberate circles along the inside of your thighs. The motion sent a shiver up your spine, making you instinctively shift, your legs tightening around him to pull him even closer.

“Anything you want, doll,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise.

You bit your bottom lip, suddenly bashful under his intent gaze. “Introduce yourself,” you said softly, your cheeks flushing deeper.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “Introduce myself? Doll, you know my name—”

“I do know your name, James,” you sighed, your heart pounding as embarrassment crept under your skin. But it wasn’t enough to stop you. “I just… I want to hear it. Like you did back in the ‘40s.”

His expression shifted, amusement dancing in his eyes as he rolled them in exaggerated exasperation. “Oh, come on—” He made a half-hearted attempt to step back, but your legs were locked tight around his waist, holding him in place.

“Please,” you pressed, your tone softening as your hands slid up his chest, fingers brushing lightly over his collarbone. “I wanna hear it. Name and rank, soldier”, you demanded.

He groaned, the sound a mix of reluctance and humor, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his lips. Finally, he straightened his posture, his shoulders squaring, his hand possessive on your waist, and when he spoke, his voice dipped into that familiar cadence, sharp and commanding.

“Sergeant James Barnes, the 107th” he said, his tone steady and strong, though his lips twitched with barely contained laughter. “Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

Your chest tightened at the words, even in jest, the weight of history lingering in them. You leaned in, your voice a suggestive whisper against his ear. “Well, Sergeant Barnes… if you’re leaving tomorrow, then we better make the most of tonight.”

His grin widened, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of the young soldier he once was—not the man burdened by the weight of the world, not the Winter Soldier, nor the man who had lived countless lives without truly living his own. No, this was James Buchanan Barnes, hopeful and unguarded, and the sight made your heart skip a beat.

Bucky’s sharp eyes studied you, and it felt as though he could see every thought running through your mind. His grin softened, playfulness giving way to something deeper. He leaned in, closing the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that made your knees weak.

His flesh hand cupped your jaw, holding you close as his thumb brushed over your cheek. The kiss deepened, your lips parting to taste him, the pent-up yearning from his absence spilling over in a flood of need. The push and pull of your bodies, your hips rolling into his as his hand found your ass, sent his towel loosening. You gasped when he pulled back, your gaze following the damp fabric as it threatened to drop.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his thumb pressing lightly against your bottom lip. “You keep talking like that, and I might have to keep this look for a while.”

“Please, don’t,” you begged, lips closing around the pad of his thumb, his calm expression faltering at the sight. “I need you to look intimidating. Keep the others away.”

“Others?” Bucky frowned, breathless, tilting your chin up as his other hand captured your wrist mid-reach, stopping you from undoing the towel entirely. “What others?”

You arched a brow, the playful facade cracking just enough for a hint of jealousy to slip through. “All the other bitches who’d come crawling to you if you went out looking like this.” You twisted your arm, and he let you go easily, his grin only growing wider. “In fact…” You placed your hands on the spot under his belly button, your fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “... I might have to trap you in this apartment until you’ve got a full beard again.”

Bucky’s smugness was palpable now, his amusement glimmering in his eyes as he began quietly undoing the buttons of your blouse. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, your fingers finally gripping the damp cloth of his towel, undoing the loose knot with deliberate slowness. “Can’t risk it. You’re way too good-looking to let out into the world like this.”

His laugh was deep and warm, reverberating through your chest as he dipped his head, his lips grazing your jawline. “Guess I’ve got no choice but to stay here then,” he murmured against your skin. “Your orders, doll.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear”, you nod approvingly. When his towel finally fell to the floor, neither of you had any intention of leaving the bathroom anytime soon.

–

Your arms were sore, your legs bruised, and your hair an unholy mess as you lay draped over Bucky’s chest, staring up at his face. His eyes were closed, but you knew he wasn’t asleep. He was savoring the moment, soaking in the feel of you—of being close to you again after however many days apart.

Your eyes, though, refused to close. You couldn’t stop looking at him.

“You should take a picture, doll. It’ll last you longer,” he mumbled, his flesh hand lazily trailing from the tips of your hair down the curve of your spine.

“Oh, I will, Buck. Just as soon as my legs start working again,” you quipped, the faint smirk on your lips matching the laugh that rumbled through his chest beneath you.

The comfortable silence stretched, the weight of his hand grounding you until the words that had been circling in your mind spilled out.

“How am I supposed to date you—” you started, shifting to crawl higher up his chest. Your legs adjusted to straddle his hips, and your arms framed his head as you stared down at him, your voice softer now, vulnerable. “...marry you, grow old with you, when you don’t even age? I’ll look like a dried-up raisin, and you—”

“So you’re breaking up with me because I don’t age?”

The mock outrage in his tone should have been obvious, but you were too lost in your thoughts to notice.

“It’s like you don’t even care…” You shook your head and buried your face in the curve of his neck, your breath warm against his skin.

Bucky chuckled low, the sound reverberating through his chest. His vibranium hand rested firmly on your waist, while his flesh hand tilted your chin up with deliberate gentleness, forcing you to meet his gaze. His grin was maddeningly smug, but his eyes carried an unmistakable tenderness.

“Doll, you’re insane,” he said, his voice dropping into a rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Also… who said anything about marriage?”

Your hands moved faster than your brain, pinching his waist in retaliation. His eyes widened in surprise, a quick laugh slipping from his lips as his shoulders tensed under your touch.

“Don’t be funny, James,” you warned, your voice laced with indignation. "Is this a fling to you? Are you just waiting until I start looking like a raisin so you can leave me and find someone else? Someone better?"

Bucky’s laughter stilled, his playful grin fading as he stared up at you, his blue eyes searching yours. His vibranium hand tightened ever so slightly on your waist, grounding you in place as he let out a deep breath.

“Doll,” he began softly, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity, “you really think I’d ever leave you? After everything?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he didn’t let you. Instead, his flesh hand slid up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin.

“You think I could even look at someone else the way I look at you? You think anyone else could make me feel like this?” His voice was firm now, tinged with a raw vulnerability he rarely let show.

Your heart clenched at the intensity in his gaze, the way he looked at you like you were his whole world.

“But, Bucky—” you tried, your voice a whisper, the lingering doubts still poking at the edges of your heart.

“No, listen to me,” he interrupted gently, sitting up so your bodies were flush, his arms encircling you in a way that made you feel impossibly small and infinitely safe. “You’re it for me. Always have been, always will be. I don’t care if you think you’ll look like a ‘raisin’ or if you start chasing me around the apartment with a cane. I’m not going anywhere.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up then, his voice dipping into something lighter, teasing. “Besides, I’m the one who’s lucky here. Do you know how many people out there would love to date a raisin as fine as you?”

A startled laugh bubbled out of you, your cheeks flushing as you lightly smacked his chest. “You’re such an ass.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, his grin widening as he pulled you closer. “But I’m your ass.”

He leaned in then, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as his hands roamed soothingly up and down your back. The moment felt heavy with unspoken promises, the kind that didn’t need words because they were written in the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he loved you.

“You’re stuck with me, doll,” he murmured against your skin, his voice soft but resolute. “Forever.”

And just like that, the doubts melted away, leaving only the two of you tangled in the kind of love that could span lifetimes.

[apricops]

Disco Elysium is such an astoundingly good blend of realism and wackiness. Like Evrart is such a fascinating character because he’s a charismatic scumbag, he’s vicious and corrupt but also genuinely appears to be fighting on behalf of the union - sure he assassinates political rivals and traffics drugs, but that’s because he’s fighting a rigged and bloody game and ‘virtue’ is a fool’s cause, and he has a point, given the fascist paramilitary goons right outside his door. But at the same time, if he lies about everything else, can you really trust that he *actually* cares about the plight of the poor teamster? Or are you just that desperate for a justifiable side to be on?

and also his office is a shipping container that gets moved around by crane like a budget supervillain lair

[elainsgirl]

I don’t understand how antis say that elucien has as much foreshadowing as elriel. Apart from the unwanted mating bond what romantic moments do they have.

Alright, let’s count without being biased:

Ig him giving Elain his coat in Acomaf? I think thats the absolute bare minimum but for some odd reason its romantacised?

wanting too leave Spring to see if Elain was worth fighting for Elain.

erm. Hmm. Lucien telling them to take Elain out of the house and outside…which Amren and Madja also said

”she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen…she was nothing like Jesminda, Elain had been thrown at him”

Elain taking that halfstep towards him, it wS serving the good angst

A smile blooming on Elains face when she sees Lucien

Lucien fighting his way through the battlefield for her

and them having a conversation in the end of acowar together without anyone else present

Luciens gifts towards Elain if you ignore the fact her smile faded afterwards and she liked none of them enough to use them

I mean some *I* don’t find romantic and the books canonically does not place any significance on more then half these scenes so if we’re going by the books only and whats written to be romantic - 5-8 everything else is twisted interpretation. Now, The *only* foreshadowing that gives some leeway to elucien is Elains connection to sunlight and Lucien being an heir to day HOWEVER neither are connected together through sunlight together and you have to ignore Luciens autumn and fire imagery as that does not fit elucien in anyway. Along w Mass writing the line, “Lord of fire and Bird of Flame” between Vassien. With elucien, you have to disregard a lot of canon context to find some of their scenes romantic hence why you often find elucien’s purposely twisting quotes and scenes to show it in a better light

Ofc let’s look at some elriel scenes, *just from acowar* 1. Elain calling Azriels scars beautiful and not balking away from hin -> he blushes = romantic coded scene

2. Elain and Az chilling together in the garden -> Feyre looking at them and THEN questioning elucien’s bond, “why not make them matss?” - scene written to be significant.

3. Azriel mirroring Cass and going still at the sight of Elain -> we know how Cass feels about Nesta at this point, by having Az copy Cassians action for Elain it places both couples on the same romantic scale - again a purposeful choice by Sjm

4. “A seer” -> Az figuring out what was amiss w elain, Madja said only a mate can do so, so again written to be significant especially when you parallel it to Lucien standing there clueless

5. “You came for me?” -> significant moment for Elain, It wasn’t her mate that came but Azriel

6. Azriel cradling Elain to his chest despite swaying and bleeding

7. Elain rising to her toes and giving him a peck on the cheek -> no need for that, romantically coded again

8. The whole scene where Az gave her truthteller. THAT was written to be monumental, “Death and the lovely fawn” - I would not say this is typically romantic HOWEVER It is peak elriel foreshadowing and lore for their plotline w the prison.

With Elucien, thats all across 4 books. With elriel thats just ONE out of FOUR books. And ALL four books contain even more romantic elriel foreshadowing and plot. 1, 3, 6 and 7 are romantically coded and written. Its not something anyone can argue about. Its the standard formula for a couple written to be romantic and you can find this formula in any romance book. 2, 5 and 8 are significant scenes especially as they’re brought up again within the books, like you can’t argue against the importance of these scenes. As for 4 - its a stark parallel between Lucien and Elain, showing who understands her more.

so no. Elucien may have had some foreshadowing in acomaf and spread thinly throughout acowar but it no where near rivals Elriels scenes and foreshadowing especially as elriels’ are ones written to be remembered and significant. Eluciens aren’t.

[not-too-many-eyes]

Something really fun about 37's interpretation of "infinity" and her insignificance within it as comforting is that it's not really cause she's so small the universe doesn't care about her that gives her comfort, but because that means she is contained within it.

She is "apart of the infinite" and while infinite is infinite and she's ultimately not special in the grand scheme of things she and is theoretically replaceable and replicable, it makes her and everything else "eternal."

It's interesting as well that she also believes that being replaceable and replicable and finite and having bounds and means is still...maybe not exactly Valuable but not a flaw or problem when it comes to human existence.

It's an idea "something supreme existences" (ones who know, see, understand, everything, ones who can do anything they want) can never understand.

Not in a "there a things beyond mortal comprehension" or a "there's a point we as people cannot pass" way but in a "This lack of understanding and security in the world, this existence within it that is chaotic, fallible, unstable, and Unimportant. Gives us a completely different way of understanding the world." way.

Which is just really intriguing and reflects well on both her detachment from the physical world (because it's ultimately still a belief that the physical world is Unimportant and Unstable, and that the only things that are eternal are transcendental and numerical) and her choice to be "involved and suffering" within it. It's just putting her words into practice. Proving her theorem, if you will.

It's also interestingly close to the mindset she says "irrational numbers" display in this sense. Where Regulus doesn't accept having "all the answers" (infinite secrets) cause she wants to find them herself. Though 37 is already said to be appreciative of all numbers.

I haven't finished reading her Prisoner in the Cave character story or reviewing her appearances it's just something that was on my mind. But it's also interesting given that 37 still believes in something that is "eternal" and says that she doesn't like the word hobby cause it implies "something that doesn't last" even though she herself thinks that hers and everyone else's existences are finite. And how when she's talking to Sophia she mentions that:

Which again reflects on her detachment from the world. Everything will be washed away, however the Truth will not be. Though she says when you I2 her that:

37: The shape of truth is not fixed. Anyone who tries to figure it out is doomed to get lost on their way. So I decide to draw the one I assume… but just to get it out of my mind.

Implying a similar unreliable and unstable nature to truth. I dunno. A lot of things going on here. I need to read philosophy books or something for this-

[thequietkid-moonie]

CAN YOU PLEASE DO SUNDAY X READER WHERE THE READER IS FROM IRIS FAMILY AND IS A VERY FAMOUS CELEBRITY??? ITS UP TO YOU IF YOU WANT IT AS FUGITIVE SUNDAY OR PRE 2.7

Loving someone who's so close and yet so far

[ ONE-SHOT ] [ Sunday ]

[ Honkai Star Rail ]

⚠️ This contain spoilers about Penacony main story and "a new venture on the right dawn"

Uuuuuhhh I hope u dont mind what I wrote... its like... both Sundays? I mean, I hated him during the main story I penacony buuuut the last update made me LOVE HIM SO MUUUCH!!!

Also, your request was the perfect excuse to write something angsty so i hope u like it 💙

Things has always being like this for as long as he can remember, at some point of his life he have meet you when starting to get more involved in the family and he have always admired you since then

Sunday remember those old times when you used to hang out with his sister Robin, as you two slowly grow to become more famous, not only between the family but slowly winning more and more popularity out of penacony, growing to become celebrities from the family together, wich always made Sunday feel proud but at the same time hurt, you and his sister were flying away together to live a real dream while he was stuck, still making mistakes and unable to make his wish come true

At the end it was that same feeling of not being enough what lead him to, despite being in love with you for as long as he can remember he was never able to express those feelings, not when he is still too week to protect you from this cruel reality

His love for you make him ambicious, despite both being from the family and constantly seeing each other in Penacony you have always being out of his reach, after growing up and making himself with more responsabilities Sunday never felt comfortable enough to approach to you in an informal way again, not when you were so famous, not when he was stuck without being able to do anything, not when he still had to bult a paradise where you won't have to hide your burdens and suffering from the people who admires you and follows you

Sunday promised himself that he would work in this twisted plan just so he could make a paradise where you and his sister would never have to worry about anything else again, then and only then he will be able to look at you with a smile, stand prideful on his feet and tell you how important you truly for him

But, at the end, Sunday was nothing but a fool, blinded by his own vision and what the family have make him believe to see that what he was doing was far from bulding a true paradise, and now that he has nothing left, now that he is just a prisioner awaiting sentencing he feels farther away from you than ever, if before he felt like he should wait until he could be enough for you now he is completely broken without nothing behind, not even his own identity is something sure right now

And once he found himself wandering around the Golden hour, getting ready to leave for good and hidding his identity like the fugituve he is, the last thing on his mind it was you, not because he didn't thought of you but because he doesn't want to think about you, he doesn't have the strength to wonder what would you think of him right now, after so much troubles he caused, but even if you hate him now he would simply accept it, he deserves it after all

Sunday has always being someone who needs to have all in control, having everything perfectly planned but right now he isn't who he used to be, he barely has control over his own life so when he accidentally bumped to you while trying to leave penacony wasn't planned at all, after all he doesn't want to bring you troubles

Sunday knew perfectly that he should leave you and continue with his way, he is in high risk, but he can't help but want to spend at least just a moment more at your side. He is surprised that his feelings for you are still there, but at the same time is not, after all you have being always present on his life and mind, he will never be able to forget you

Sunday force himself to cut the chat he accidentally but desperately started after bumping into you, he want so bad to speak with you, now that he finally feels like he can talk to you more freely, but he can't, he shouldn't be this selfish. Sunday somehow managed to find the way to say a goodbye and wish you the best while keeping his desguise at the best as he could, apologizing for taking so much of your time before walking away to continue with his way, not daring to look back at you because it will just hurt him more than he already is

[daeniradraconis]

Where the Heart Is - Luke Hughes

Summary: After a tough game, Elara creates a cozy retreat for Luke and Jack, offering them a quiet escape from the weight of the loss. 

Character count: 5594

Genre: fluff, cozy night, love in the air, no warnings

Note: I’m deep into my Luke era these days, so I thought I’d write something quick, short, and sweet for him. He really is a sweetheart after all. After the last game, I needed something like this too. Hope you enjoy it!

Elara loved these evenings. Just standing in the kitchen, freshly showered, wearing her boyfriend’s oversized hoodie while making pancakes, with Luke’s country playlist playing softly in the background. She’d lit a few candles earlier to make the apartment feel cozier—a small oasis against the chill of January’s biting cold. Tonight, the boys would need it. Both Luke and Jack played for the New Jersey Devils, and while the wins brought an electric high that the three of them shared, the losses weighed heavier.

And tonight’s loss had been particularly brutal.

Elara knew what it was like to share a small apartment with two grumpy hockey players after a rough game, and she’d decided to get ahead of the storm. A quick trip to the store had armed her with the ingredients for their favorite treat: crepes. She’d even made homemade caramel and chocolate sauces, something she knew would bring a spark of joy to the boys despite their mood.

As Zach Bryan singed softly in the background, Elara hummed along while flipping the last pancake. Just then, the door swung open, and she heard the unmistakable clatter of hockey bags and the muffled sounds of heavy boots being kicked off. As she turned, her suspicions were confirmed: two very grumpy hockey players stood in the entryway, their faces drawn and shoulders slumped.

Luke’s heart filled with warmth the moment he saw her. There she was, his girl, standing in his hoodie with a smile that could light up the darkest room. The table was set with candles flickering softly, and a plate of perfectly golden crepes waited for them, surrounded by bowls of rich caramel and chocolate syrup. Even Jack’s frustrated scowl softened as he took it all in, replaced by a quiet sense of appreciation. He wouldn’t say it, but the feeling was there, clear in his eye.

“Well, hello boys,” Elara greeted them with a soft, teasing smile. “I hope you’re hungry because I may or may not have gone a little overboard.” Her gentle laugh filled the room, warm and melodic.

The boys exchanged a quick glance, the kind that said everything without a word, before they tossed their gear aside with a loud thud, the sound echoing through the hallway. Without wasting another second, they hurried into the kitchen, barely able to contain their excitement.

“Hello, baby,” Luke murmured as he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her neck. The familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo mixed with vanilla body lotion made his heart skip a beat. He loved this woman with every fiber of his being.

Elara smiled softly and pressed a trail of feather-light kisses along the curve of his neck, eliciting a shiver from him. She had always cherished how he reacted to the smallest gestures—how he would melt into her touch, finding comfort and calm in a way nothing else could. It was one of the things that made her heart ache in the best possible way.

“Hi, Sunny,” Elara whispered, her fingers brushing through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. She chuckled at the nickname, remembering the first time she’d called him that. They had been sitting on the dock of Luke’s family’s summer house in Michigan, soaking up the late afternoon sunlight. She’d told him he was her personal golden retriever, bringing warmth and joy to her world. The nickname stuck, and she could tell Luke secretly adored it every time she used it.

Luke’s grip on her tightened just a bit, his hands slipping under the edge of her hoodie to rest against her bare skin. He wasn’t sure why, but just being close to her made him feel steady in a way nothing else did. With every gentle touch of her fingers, it was like the weight of everything else faded away, the tension from the game slipping into the background as they shared this quiet moment together.

“Okay, lovebirds, that’s enough!” Jack called out from the table, his mouth already half-full of crepe. He waved his fork in their direction. “I’m trying to eat here. PDA this close to my food should be illegal.”

Luke groaned, reluctantly loosening his hold on Elara but stealing a quick kiss before he let go. “You’re just jealous,” he shot back, dropping into the chair next to his brother. “It’s not my fault no one wants to cuddle you.”

Jack snorted. “I’m not the one who clings to his girlfriend like a koala bear.” He turned to Elara with a smirk. “How do you put up with him? Does he follow you around the apartment too? Or is it just this bad when food’s involved?”

Elara laughed, pouring caramel sauce over Luke’s crepe before sitting down herself. “Oh, you have no idea. He’s like my shadow. But I’ve accepted,it’s part of the package.”

Luke rolled his eyes, shoving a forkful of crepe into his mouth. “Keep talking, Jack, and I’ll eat yours too.”

Jack clutched his plate protectively. “Touch my food and we’re fighting.”

“Oh, please. You couldn’t take me,” Luke teased, though he didn’t test the threat. Instead, he looked back at Elara, his expression softening. “Seriously, though. Thank you for this, babe. It’s perfect.” The weight of the game, the frustrations, the noise—all seemed to fade away in her presence. It was these small moments that made the hard days worth it.

“Yeah, thanks, Elara,” Jack added, his tone less teasing now. He paused before swallowing, his voice quieter, more genuine. “This is…nice. I mean, after a game like that.” He gestured vaguely, clearly uncomfortable expressing emotions but meaning every word.

Elara smiled, her heart swelling at Jack’s rare show of appreciation. “Of course, boys,” she said, leaning back in her chair to watch them. She felt a quiet pride in how they could still find a moment of peace, despite everything. Seeing their tense shoulders relax and hearing their laughter as they bickered over the last crepe made all the effort worth it.

As the candles flickered softly, the three of them fell into an easy rhythm, the weight of the game melting away with each bite and each teasing comment. Jack was leaning back in his chair now, his scowl replaced with the hint of a satisfied smile as he reached for the last crepe. Luke, sitting beside Elara, kept sneaking glances at her, his heart impossibly full.

It wasn’t about the game anymore—not the win, the loss, or the noise that came with it. It was about this. The laughter, the warmth, the simple magic of being home. And for Luke, home wasn’t just a place or a feeling—it was Elara. It was the way she could take a brutal loss and turn it into something that felt almost like a win.

“Hey,” Luke murmured, his hand finding hers under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She looked over at him, her soft smile lighting up the room in a way the candles never could. She didn’t need to say anything. She just squeezed his hand back, and that was enough.

This was enough.