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dckweed · 3 months ago

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tiktok made me do it gf! vs tf 141 bf

Your boyfriend gets cocky and agrees to try one of those period cramp simulators with you. Except what he doesn’t expect is for you to be completely unbothered. Chill. Unflinching. Meanwhile, he’s gasping like he’s been shot. And the longer it goes on, the more he realizes: this is your normal.

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE — “Do I look like a man who taps out at level five?”

It started as a joke.

You were in one of your chaotic TikTok moods—messy bun, oversized hoodie, devious little grin—and John should’ve known something was up when you said, “Baaaaaabe… you love me, right?” while setting up the simulator on the coffee table.

“Not a chance in hell,” he said immediately.

You pouted. You begged. You reminded him of that time you made him a steak dinner and didn’t film him falling asleep mid-bite like a Victorian grandfather. He sighed. “Fine.”

You strap the simulator to both your stomachs, grinning like the demon you are. He glances at the controller like it’s a live grenade.

“Ready?” you ask sweetly.

He nods, all masculine pride.

Level 1: Nothing.

Level 2: Still nothing.

John smirks. “S’not bad.”

Level 3: He shifts in his seat. “Alright. Bit of tension.”

You’re completely chill, sipping your iced coffee.

Level 4: His eyebrow twitches.

Level 5: He lets out a grunt. “Okay. Now it’s… yeah, alright, it’s uncomfortable.”

You glance at him. “You wanna stop?”

He glares. “Do I look like a man who taps out at level five?”

Level 6 hits and he flinches hard. “Bloody—fuckin’ hell, that’s not tension anymore, that’s a punch.”

You’re still sitting pretty, scrolling on your phone.

Level 7.

He jolts. Actually jolts.

“Jesus CHRIST—" He’s gripping the edge of the couch, sweat beading at his temple. “What the hell is wrong with this machine?”

You: “That’s my Monday morning, babe.”

Level 8.

He growls. Growls, like he’s in a firefight. One eye closed. Breathing through his teeth. “How are you—how the fuck are you still—talking?”

You shrug, smirking at him a little bit. It was oddly satisfying watching your big strong man experience the things he and most of society brushed off as normal pain that you and billions of other women were forced to continue to live life through without acting like it bothered you. “I usually get nauseous around this point. Sometimes I puke.”

He blinks. Stares at you like you just told him you walk on glass every day for fun.

Level 9.

He rips the strap off. Rips it off. Slams it on the coffee table and stands, breathing heavy like he just ran a 5K.

You're really not shocked. “That’s your limit?”

He looks at you. Then slowly sits back down beside you, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“You go through that. Every month?”

You nod. Shrug.

He just stares for a second.

Then leans over, presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

You kiss his head. “It’s okay. Now go fold the laundry while I bleed in silence.”

He does.

With extra snacks.

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK — “i'm seeing god, she's mad at me.”

Kyle thinks he’s tough.

He’s run half-marathons. Rucked uphill with a 70lb pack. Taken hits in training and grinned through them.

So when you say “Let’s do the period cramp simulator,” he laughs. Laughs.

“Easy win, babe. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

You just smile, quietly connecting the pads to his lower abs, and flip on the app. You’re both in sweats on the couch, your phone filming the whole thing. You press start.

Level 1: He shrugs. “Tingles. Cute.”

Level 2: “Okay, it’s a little weird.”

Level 3: He winces. “Bit stabby.”

Level 4: He clutches the throw pillow. “Okay—wow. That’s... that’s actually rough.”

You’re beside him, not even blinking, watching the show.

Level 5: He yelps. “Wait. People live like this? On purpose?”

You: “Not by choice, babe.”

Level 6: His eyes widen.

Kyle: “Oh my god. It’s like a cramp. Inside a cramp. And it’s angry.”

Level 7: “BABE I’M GONNA PUKE.”

You laugh a bit. “That’s normal.”

Level 8: He keels over sideways, curled on the couch, gasping.

Kyle: “I’m going to pass out. I think I’m hemorrhaging.”

You arch a brow at him. “Want me to go up another level?” You wiggle your eyebrows, teasing him.

He doesn’t respond. He just lifts a single finger like he’s drawing his final breath.

Level 9: He rolls off the couch entirely and lays on the carpet.

“I’m seeing God. She’s mad at me.”

You turn it off, having a good giggle to yourself as you watch him. "You okay down there baby?"

Kyle lays there a minute.

Then, very quietly asks “...You go through that every month?”

You nod. “Since I was thirteen.”

He blinks. Looks at the ceiling. Then at you.

“I don’t know if I wanna fight you or hug you.”

You: “Why not both?”

He crawls back onto the couch, pulls you into his arms, and whispers, “I’m buying you a heating pad and a Costco pack of chocolate tomorrow. I swear to God.”

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY — “That's internal combustion.”

Simon sits down like it’s nothing.

“You sure?” you ask, raising a brow.

He scoffs. “How bad can it be?”

He’s seen combat. Been tortured. He thinks he’s built different.

Level 1: “Huh. Feels like static.”

Level 2: “Bit annoying. Like pins and needles.”

Level 3: “Okay, bit of a pinch.”

Level 4: “...Starting to think this is a trap.”

You’re relaxed beside him, arms folded.

Level 5: His leg twitches.

Simon: “Did the setting change?”

“Mmhmm.” You munch on a cracker from the small bowl sitting next to the couch.

Level 6: “What the fuck was that? That’s not a cramp. That’s a curse.”

Level 7: He sits up straighter. “Nope. Nope. That’s internal combustion. That’s demons.”

You, sipping water respond calmly. “That’s ovulation cramps combined with regular ones.”

Simon looks at you like you’ve been suffering war crimes in silence.

Level 8: He rips the velcro off and tosses the simulator like it insulted his mother.

“Turn it off. We’re done. That’s it.”

You almost laugh. “Tapping out, pookie?”

He stares. Hard.

Then his voice drops low.

“You go through that. Every month. And still do everything.”

You nod slowly.

Simon doesn’t speak. He just walks out of the room.

When he returns, he has a blanket, painkillers, and a hot water bottle.

Then he pulls you into his lap and wraps you up.

“You ever need anything—anything—you tell me. No questions.”

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH — “That's a dragonslaying cramp!’”

Johnny’s too confident.

“Piece o’ piss, lass,” he says, strapping the pads on. “I’ve dislocated my shoulder before, can't be any different. I’ll be fine.”

You smile sweetly. “Ready?”

“Bring it.”

Level 1: “Tickles.”

Level 2: “Okay. Weird. But nothing wild.”

Level 3: “That was a twitch. Did it twitch? Or was that me?”

Level 4: “Aight. This is... it’s makin’ my leg bounce.”

Level 5: “HOLY HELL.”

You watch him start shifting like a toddler who has to pee.

Level 6: “SWEET FUCKIN’—WHAT IS THAT?!”

You’re laughing. He’s grabbing your hand.

Level 7: “That’s not even funny anymore, babe. That’s a dragonslaying cramp.”

You: “It lasts 6–8 hours, minimum.”

He stops. Eyes wide.

Level 8: He’s wheezing, clutching his stomach like he’s giving birth.

“I—can’t—I need—a priest.”

You turn it off.

He flops sideways, panting.

Then lifts his head, looking at you like he just saw an angel of death.

“You deal with that every month?”

You nod.

He stares.

Then bursts into a fresh round of whining. “I AM SO SORRY. I’M BUYING YOU FLOWERS. I’M BUYING YOU A NEW CAR. I’M—I’M NEVER ASKING FOR SEX AGAIN IF YOU’RE ON YOUR PERIOD I SWEAR.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “You said that last month.” You take yours off too. "I'll take you up on that new car offer if period sex can still be on the table..helps sometimes, with the cramps.."

He whimpers.

Then crawls across the couch and kisses your stomach gently like an apology to your uterus.

“Yer a fuckin’ warrior. My warrior.”

You forgive him for all the times he's dismissed your pains before, or asked why you hadn't put on real clothes, or why you were crying when nothing happened to make you cry..

But only after he does your chores for a week and buys you that new car like he said.

MORAL OF THE STORY:

your big bad bf is just as easily taken out by cramps as you and the rest of vagina owners everywhere have been. you feel bad, but only a little.

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alllgator-blood · 7 months ago

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'FOGGY STREETS AND CHRISTMAS LIGHTS'

(part 3/3)

I'm gonna infodump about the backstory of this comic, don't feel obligated to read it because it's not cotl related it's just personal stuff, I just want to be able to write about it somewhere cause I can't really talk to anyone about it.

As always, thanks for reading this far, sorry my stuff has been such a bummer so consistently. This comic goes out to all my "christmas induced depression" homies, I left my house maybe like ~5 times all month and it was NOT pleasant hearing "IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR!!" on the radio when I'm so ready for it to be over. Gonna take it reaaaaal easy til the year ends, you guys take it easy too!! Got some asks I have to respond to when I'm more stable but probably no new comic pages til january

Alright uhhh so this part of the comic is pretty much taken directly from the last time I saw my great-grandma alive, a few days before christmas. She didn't remember me, but at the nursing home there was a piano, and I sat down and played some stuff because I didn't know what to say. I was really into lisa the painful rpg at the time, and I played that "I've got the joy" song that the villain sings without realizing it was an old christian campfire song. She didn't really say much or move that whole night, just kind of gave me a polite blank smile, but started singing the words when I played the notes to that song.

I kinda stopped in shock, my dad frantically asked me to keep playing, so I did. While the comic I made is way more sappy than the actual moment was, I wish I'd cherished the moment longer. I didn't know it was the last time I'd see her alive. Every family christmas was held at her house when she was around, so it's been weird the past few years. I actually lost another dementia-addled grandma to cancer on christmas eve in 2009, so the holiday was already kind of weird for me on top of everything else that makes me sad this time of year. That's what part 2 was about, I'll spare the details but I wrote leshy to act out how I felt back then. Why are we all sad? This is supposed to be a happy time, all the decorations are up and we're almost all here, so why is everyone smiling yet everything feels so wrong? I feel like since leshy's canonically the most ignorant one to things lurking below the surface, he'd be the one to try and make everyone feel better but not quite understand why everyone is so miserable. My first memory of having self injurious behavior came from then, hence why I had leshy pull his leaves off in the last comic. It was confusing and frustrating and I was just old enough to comprehend something was wrong, but not old enough to understand the depth of it, it DEFINITELY didn't help that nobody helped me back then so I made leshy's siblings actually come in clutch instead of grabbing him/yelling at him.

That night with the piano was something that's stuck with me the few years she's been gone, but I felt kind of strange when I asked my dad and my sister about it and neither of them remembered it. The room we were in was completely empty so nobody else witnessed it but us three. I myself have a history of head trauma and memory loss (plus, native americans are disproportionately more likely to develop dementia... lucky us) so if I ever forgot about that moment, there'd be nobody left to remember it. Sometimes when I do comics, it's my way of going "this happened at some point, and the only evidence it ever happened was me witnessing it, so if something happens to me I want the memory to stay alive in some form."

Anyway. The autistic urge to overshare, am I right? Idk what my religious ass great-grandma would think of me drawing demonic comics about my last memory of her, she'd probably think it's funny though cause she raised my dad whose interests have always been "death metal and devil worship". I'm not sure if anyone read this far, I just hope my dumb comics can convey the things I can't say with my voice and struggle to say through text. None of this was supposed to be "feel bad for me!! Woe is me!!", it was supposed to me more like...cathartic? Healing? I almost didn't post this comic because it felt kinda weird, but seeing people connect with it made it worth it imo. Thank you

#cult of the lamb #cotl bishops #shamura #heket #kallamar #leshy #angst #comic

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sam-keeper · 2 months ago

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Hey Look At This Comic: Calvin and Hobbes

I liked the idea of putting some more daily strip comics into my rss reader, and gocomics DOES post old strips in sequence every day (keeping archival materials in lively circulation 👍), and there IS a site that generates an rss feed for gocomics (they don't provide rss feeds themselves because they want you to subscribe 👎) so, I added the current Nancy run to my feed, alongside Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes. a few days later it paid off big time with this strip:

I love this strip, but it's a bit weird, isn't it? I'm sure some people read the way you're "supposed to" move panel to panel in a typical comic: left to right across the top strip, then the middle, then the bottom. Easy. I didn't, though. My eyes darted across the page, circled around the upper left hand panels, before zipping to the big point of interest on the page: that big panel of Calvin's teacher as a great pink alien monster! the second panel in strip two, the view through the spaceship porthole of the alien landscape, got orphaned, turned into something I glanced at after the fact as I pieced the sequence back together.

which might just be how comics reading actually goes, in practice. more recent theories of comics, particularly ones coming out of the Franco-Belgian tradition, suggest we take in the page as a whole first before diving in panel by panel. that bottom left corner is also kind of a privileged position on the page, with a beautifully lumpy and toothy monster filling up almost the whole frame. no wonder my eye was drawn there "ahead of sequence"!

is that a mistake? one of my friends, when I posed the question, thought so, that the strip means to build up to that point but the page composition encourages you to read ahead. She also, intriguingly, suggested to me that even though we enter the strip seeing the whole page, we induce a kind of forgetfulness in ourselves so that we don't get spoiled. when we see the monster, do we already know it's there while experiencing it for the first time? (hypnosis, she suggested to me, is "merely a set of circumstances to help the mind do a set of things that it already does every day".)

others corroborated the weird reading orders but suggested it was deliberate. for Sarah, the whole left side of the page draws your eye down compositionally, from Spaceman Spiff's (Calvin's alter ego) gloved hands on the wheel, down to the Z shaped mesa, to the monster. this cuts out almost two thirds of the comic! but for her and a few other friends, that made sense: Calvin is daydreaming in class, and the point where his teacher pops up in front of him to demand his attention is a moment of concrete interest in a hazy sea of nonlinear sensation. another friend drew a diagram of an even weirder reading pattern:

actually, I think this makes some sense. theorist Thierry Groensteen's notion of "braiding" in comics suggests that we're constantly recomposing comics in our brains, not just panel by panel, but over the whole corpus of panels, looking for rhymes and resonances and ways the story relates to itself. it feels a little like panels 2 and 3 rhyme, to me. the frames are long and thin more than any of the others, they both have this prominent horizon line, and they both sit on top of panels 4 and 5. they relate to each other, to the point where I see how you could jump from one to the other, then back up the page and over! if I understand Groensteen right, he's not suggesting we necessarily jump around the page this way, I don't want to put words in his mouth, but I do think one of the implications of braiding and of taking in the whole page is that we might get off track and start wandering through time and space... which is exactly what Calvin is doing, after all.

I love that the actual joke of the strip hinges on these two little panels buried at the bottom of the page: the only shot not from Calvin's point of view, of him looking frazzled after Mrs Wormwood's dressing down, and then a little panel of him holding the book. that's braiding too: we understand the previous and future panels because we draw an analogy between all the perspectives we've seen elsewhere of hands (or claws) and get that Calvin is drifting into a daydream again, taking on a new role. the scenario shifts, and the color scheme changes to a complimentary one (red to green), but both daydreams are much more powerful, on the page, than the interruption by reality.

how do you read the page?

you can read more reviews in the Hey Look At This Comic tag and support me on Patreon.

#hey look at this comic #comics #calvin and hobbes #comic review #comic strip #comic analysis #comic recommendations

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thecatchat · 19 days ago

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Free fic idea because I know I'm going to run out of energy if I try to write it myself.

Takes place after the realized ending. I don't know what the cannon ending is but I'm imagining they definitely buy a bar together and name it The Breaker Box, but they eventually realize that running a human bar requires more than two people, no matter how much they try. So they hire a small amount of staff, I'm thinking no more than 4 people.

This would be a 5 times someone learned something new (or odd) about their bosses and the 1 time it made sense/someone put it all together.

1. Volt and Eddie kiss in front of a homophobic costumer, revealing that they're a couple to the employees.

2. Eddie adopts an orange alley cat and names them Copper. Copper disappears for a few days and Eddie is fine (he's overworking himself with worry. He's replacing lightbulbs whenever he can get away with it, none of them are actually burnt out.) When Copper comes back, they drop 3 kittens in Eddie's lap and curl up at his feet. ("I'm not a cat dad, I'm a cat uncle at most.") The kittens names all relate to electricity. Due to this, Volt or Eddie reveal that electricity, or even specifically a breaker box, was the reason they met in the first place and refuse to elaborate.

Rest under the cut because it got really long.

3. The staff are invited to a team building thing, it could be a party or an escape room or whatever. Point is: there are black lights illuminating the space. Volt sees his reflection under black light, sees how his hair looks like it's glowing and shuts down? Maybe even starts crying without realizing it? Either way, when Eddie is going to comfort him, one of the employees hear Volt say "my hair is glowing again." Or something along those lines. The employees learn that Volt has an emotional reaction to his white hair glowing.

4. One night, the breaker trips due to a storm and Eddie runs off to fix it almost like a mad man. Volt is caught up keeping the guests calm and entertained so when it takes Eddie a while, an employee goes to check on him. They find him staring angrily/confused at the breaker box and mumbling like he's missing something. The employee flips the switch on the breaker and Eddie is startled out of his trance. When asked why he didn't flip the switch he's like "I- I couldn't feel it." Now he's shut down and/or tearing up. The employee panics a bit, puts a cat on him then goes and tells Volt what's happening. The employees aren't sure what they've learned, but it's definitely something.

5. Somebody gets a little violent/rowdy at the bar or an after closing repair goes a little wrong and Eddie or Volt gets hurt, dealers choice. Now, I think realization shouldn't come without its quirks, some more obvious than others. For Volt and Eddie, I think their blood should be blue. Our blood looks red because when the iron in it oxidizes with air it becomes a red color. If the blood has copper instead of iron, like Horseshoe Crab blood, it appears blue when oxidized. Copper wires = copper blood = blue blood.

So all 4 employees see that their employer is bleeding blue. Everyone is shocked, eventually the unhurt boss calls Freya, because they can not go to a hospital for this. In the meantime while they wait. "Um, is that blood?" "No." "What is it then?" "... blood can't be blue." "Horseshoe crabs have blue blood! They're really cool animals." "... human blood isn't blue." "..."

In the days following, lots of really odd people swing by specifically to talk to Volt/Eddie. Whoever you want, just, individually, any resemblance to an object is a fun thing to see. But when every single person who's specifically asking after your boss reminds of something/is a very distinct personality, it begins to pile up that something is weird.

+1 - I think this point could be told from Eddie and/or Volts pov. Basically, the employees are trying to figure out what kind of magical creature their bosses are. Someone tried to stick a fridge magnet on Eddie (robot). Someone flicked water at Volt (Holy water, vampire). They both keep getting poked with metal things (Iron, Fae). Eventually they call up a meeting to tell them to knock it off.

"You tell us what you think we are and we'll tell you if you're correct or not." "Hint: we're human." *a few incorrect guesses* "um, more of a question than a guess. But, um, were you cursed to be a breaker box? At some point?" "..." "..." "..." "Volt. Don't." "I didn't say anything."

Up to the author if they fully explain the house thing or if they basically go, "You're not right, but you're not wrong either. No more questions." Either way, I think that could be the end of the fic.

#date everything #volt date everything #eddie date everything #volt and eddie #date everything fic #cat uncle eddie #<I've fallen in love with this headcannon #because Eddie would respect their space and not force interactions #so he'd become a cat magnet

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dazaixxsk · 15 days ago

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SPOILERS

So if you guys think about it, starting from Episode 16, MC had atleast 3 missions complete with most of the ghouls. Till episode 15, we had missions focusing on ghouls of a single house (excluding episode 9, which was the first interhouse one.)

Starting from episode 16, The City of III Omens, MC had her 3rd mission complete with

: Romeo (4 missions cause of episode 9) :Taiga

:Ritsu

Moving onto episode 17, Waves Of Love, which turned out to be an inter house, 6 ghouls went on a mission at once, which surprised me. So with that she had her 3rd mission done with

:Jin :Haru

:Rui

:Ed

:Ren

:Jiro (4 missions cause of episode 9)

To our surprise episode 18, Lost Stars, turned out to be another inter house too. As of the recent episode, our MC had her 3rd mission finished with

:Subaru

:Zenji (4 missions cause of episode 9)

:Towa

:Lyca

From the image in the app, considering the next episode, ie, Episode 19, The Vanishing Homeroom, it turned out to be a mission focusing on a single house, like episode 16. But, this time vagastrom, with ghouls who weren't chosen in either of the previous inter houses.

With that she will complete her 3rd mission with

:Leo

:Alan

:Sho

So if you notice the pattern, the developers are making her go on missions with every single ghouls before her time ends. Consider, it was in episode 16, we got to know that there is only 3 months left for her. And now the days have gone down too.

If the pattern goes by, you will notice that the only remaining ghouls for her to complete her 3rd mission are

:Haku

:Kaito (4th actually)

:Luca

:Yuri

:Tohma

From episode 16, no single ghouls were repeated for the other episodes. If then episode 20 will be another inter house with these 5, and with that she will complete atleast 3 missions with each of the ghouls.

If then episode 21, is the episode where the countdown of MC ends. The prophecy, another tragedy? And we know the laurel crown, gala and all. I think they all are gonna happen in episode 21. Following it maybe her curse will be broken, but she continues to stay in darkwick. But that feels weird, cause I don't think the answers to the questions would not be given properly.

They have yet to explain the whole clash thing.

Thanks to taiga, I am firmly believing in the time loop or going back to the clash era theory.

And if you consider one more thing, most of the missions are incomplete (consider takeru’s case. Still I believe whatever Leo told was his theory. If you read Alan's affinity chat you will know. and also the recent episode, what happened to the sky king? the magpie? the bridge? and the things that got stolen (from haru and hotarubi house)?

Now the real thing:

Please don’t mock me if the whole thing I wrote turns out to be wrong. I am just insane and writing stuff that comes to my mind, that's all…

Bye bye!

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starrdream · 4 months ago

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Save a horse ride a cowboy pt.3

farmboy!Anakin x f!reader summary: Spending the summer at your grandparents' ranch doesn't seem so bad after meeting the boy who works for them. includes: slight angst

The hat had been sitting on your nightstand for two days. You hadn’t touched it. You hadn’t given it back. Hadn’t even considered giving it back.

Hadn’t even looked at it for too long because every time you did, you remembered the way Anakin had placed into your arms himself-the way his eyes softened, just for a second, before you ruined it by snapping at him.

You hadn’t meant to.

You were tired that night. Stressed, frustrated, already on edge. And Anakin being his usual cocky, insufferable self had pushed one too many buttons.

So you’d bit back hard.

The second you saw the flicker of hurt in his expression, you knew you’d gone too far. But by the time you opened your mouth to fix it, his face had already shut down.

And now? He was avoiding you.

Not outright, not in a way that anyone else would notice-but you noticed.

He didn’t linger around you anymore. Didn’t make stupid remarks just to see you roll your eyes. Didn’t tease you for being slow in the mornings or mutter a sarcastic “Good job, sweetheart” when you actually managed to help out around the ranch.

And the worst part? You missed it. You missed him.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You put on the shortest pair of shorts you could find, paired them with a tight crop top and snapped a few quick photos. With the hat on of course.

'Cowboys do it better' You grin like a kid as you type out the caption before posting the photos.

The whole evening goes by, you see Anakin at least 5 times and he doesn't even look at you.

Much to your dismay, he hadn't liked them. Nor left a cheeky comment. Nor sent a flirty and teasing text. You weren't even sure if he saw them.

You cried yourself to sleep that night. For being such a bitch towards him. For caring too much. For trying too hard. For ruining what little fun you could've had this summer.

It was stupid. So stupid. You weren’t even sure why you were doing this.

Anakin was Anakin—a pain in your ass, the human embodiment of a cocky smirk and an eye-roll, the last person who would appreciate something like this.

But still, here you were, sitting on your bed and spending way too much time twisting knots into thin threads, trying to get the damn thing perfect.

A dumb, handmade friendship bracelet. For him.

It wasn’t much. Just a simple braid, blue and brown, because nothing else felt right. The colors reminded you of his eyes, his hat, the way the sky looked behind him when he leaned against the fence at sunset.

Not that you cared. Obviously. But maybe you felt a little bad after what happened.

After you snapped at him when he was just being nice and he had barely looked at you since.

And you hated it. So yeah, this was stupid. But maybe if you gave it to him, things would feel normal again.

You weren’t nervous. That would be ridiculous.

You were just overthinking a totally normal thing, like a normal person, because giving Anakin a handmade bracelet was completely casual and not weird at all.

It wasn’t like you spent two hours making it. It wasn’t like he’d been ignoring you for days and you hated it. And it wasn’t like you were pathetically hoping this would fix it.

Nope. Not nervous.

Which is why, when you finally found him leaning against the fence outside the stables, arms crossed, eyes squinting against the afternoon sun, you definitely didn’t freeze up.

And you definitely didn’t hesitate before marching over.

He didn't even look at you right away. Didn’t even react to your presence, other than the slight tilt of his head as you stopped beside him.

But when you shoved the bracelet toward him, dangling it between two fingers like it wasn’t the most effort you’d ever put into something so small, his gaze finally flickered down.

"…What is that?" His brows pulled together.

You shifted your weight. "A leash. So you don’t get lost."

He huffed, shaking his head, but his fingers brushed yours as he took it-and for one stupid second, you forgot how to breathe.

He turned it over in his palm, running his thumb over the knots, silent. Too silent. You hated it. So you forced a shrug.

"It's a friendship bracelet." You nodded. "Felt bad abou-"

That got his attention.

His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp, searching. "Friendship bracelet?"

You swallowed, looking away.

"Not like that" You huff. "It's nothing." You muttered. "Forget it."

But before you could pull your hand back all the way, he caught your wrist. And suddenly, your heart was in your throat.

"No." He replied firmly, huffing and shaking his head as he took the bracelet.

It wasn't a teasing or joking know. It was sincere and raw. Like he really didn't want you to take it back.

Then, without a word, he slipped the bracelet onto his wrist and tied it, pulling tight so it doesn't move around so much. Like it was everything.

"..Do you like it?" You asked,.

"'s nice." He mumbled seemingly uninterested, looking back at the sunset.

"Ah-you know what that's for, right?" You stutter, huffing a nervous laugh.

"Mhm." He hummed, tilting his head slightly. "I do" he said, voice quieter than you expected. "Not exactly what I was hoping it'd be for but, sure.."

No teasing. No smug grin. Just that simple answer, like he really understood. Like he knew exactly why you made it.

And he didn’t take it off, he kept fidgeting with it absentmindedly, twisting the threads like they meant something.

The whole series here.

@throughparisallthroughrome

#anakin skywalker #star wars #anakin skywalker x reader #haydenchristensen #hayden christensen #sw anakin #anakin skywalker x you #star wars anakin #anakin skywalker angst #scott barringer #clayton beresford #stephen glass #sam monroe #james kelly

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 1 month ago

Text

All That Lingers PT2

Jake seresin x fem!reader

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

there's much more guys.

You stare at the screen for a long time before hitting “Call.”

Jake sits beside you, close but not touching, the baby curled up on your chest in a soft blanket that still smells like hospital soap.

Your fingers shake when you press the button.

When Margaret answers, the first thing you see is her living room. Then her face fills the frame—tired, eyes red, but still her. Still Bob’s mom.

She doesn’t speak at first.

She just looks.

And then she gasps.

“Is that…?”

You nod, voice breaking. “This is your grandson.”

“Oh my god.” She covers her mouth with both hands. “Look at him. Look at that nose. That’s my boy’s nose.”

You choke on a sob. Jake subtly rubs your back, and you lean into it.

“He’s perfect,” she whispers. “He’s perfect, sweetheart. I… I just wish…”

“I know,” you say, voice shattering. “I wish he could’ve held him too.”

Margaret wipes at her cheeks quickly, composing herself. “You’re doing so good. He’d be so proud of you. And that little one—you tell him his daddy would’ve loved him with everything he had.”

“I do,” you say. “Every night.”

The call lasts longer than you thought it would.

Margaret asks about his birth, about your recovery. She talks to Robert like he can understand. She smiles through tears when he stretches in your arms.

Before you hang up, she asks quietly, “Will you bring him to Texas someday?”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“I promise.”

And this time, when the screen goes black, you’re the one who holds her in your heart.

Because you’re both loving someone who’s already gone.

———

Two months after Robert’s birth

The house is quiet in a way that isn’t empty anymore.

It’s soft—morning-soft. Curtains flutter gently with the breeze, sunlight spills over the floor in long golden streaks, and for once, Robert is awake and calm.

You’re sitting on the living room floor, legs stretched out, baby cradled between your knees on a folded blanket. You’ve been trying tummy time all morning, watching as he lifts his head in short, shaky bursts. He’s getting stronger. Every day, he surprises you.

Jake had to go into base for a few hours, but he left you a note taped to the coffee maker:

“Call me if he does anything new. Even if it’s just a weird sneeze. — J.”

You smile at it without crying.

That’s new.

The last few weeks have been hard—but not in the same way. The grief isn’t as sharp anymore. It still hurts, of course. You still wake up reaching for a body that isn’t there. You still talk to Bob in the dark. Still wear his dog tags under your shirt.

But you’ve started laughing again, too.

Started talking about him without the air caving in.

You lean forward on your elbows, watching Robert as he plants his fists into the blanket and huffs with frustration. His little lips are pursed, his brows knit.

“You’re so stubborn,” you say with a tired chuckle. “Just like your dad.”

Robert lifts his head again, this time for longer than ever before—and then he turns it. Looks right at you.

And then—

He smiles.

Not a sleepy twitch. Not gas.

An honest, real, gummy, wide-eyed smile.

You freeze.

Tears flood your eyes instantly, but you don’t let them fall. You blink hard, laugh again, breath catching in your throat.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, baby—look at you,” you whisper, scooping him into your arms and pressing a thousand kisses to his cheek. “You’re smiling. That’s your first smile.”

You hold him close, heart aching in a whole new way.

He smells like formula and baby soap. He hums in your arms, soft and proud.

And when you look down—he’s still smiling.

And he looks just like Bob.

That same quiet warmth. That same softness behind the eyes. That same unassuming, gentle kind of joy that made you fall in love in the first place.

You cry then. Not the gut-wrenching kind, but something smaller, quieter.

This kind of grief is softer.

This kind… lets you breathe.

⸻

Later, you text Jake a photo of the moment you managed to catch on your phone—Robert in your lap, cheeks round, eyes bright.

You:

“He smiled today. Bob’s smile. First one.”

“I think I can finally breathe.”

Jake:

“I’m coming home early.”

“We’re celebrating. You pick dinner. And I’m holding that kid the rest of the night.”

You curl up on the couch with Robert asleep against your chest, heart full and aching.

There’s still so much to feel.

But now, it doesn’t scare you.

Now, there’s light again.

———

That evening

You hear the key turn in the lock just after six.

Robert’s still asleep on your chest, his weight warm and sweet and familiar. You don’t move—not when the door swings open, not when boots cross the hardwood, not even when Jake’s voice cuts gently through the quiet.

“Hey,” he says, almost like he’s afraid to break the moment.

You look up from the couch, head resting back against the cushion. Jake’s still in uniform, hands full—takeout in one, a six-pack in the other, his car keys looped through his finger.

You offer the smallest smile. “He’s still out.”

Jake steps in quietly, toeing his boots off by the door. “God. That picture, though.”

“I know.”

He sets the food on the coffee table, crouches in front of you. One hand reaches up to gently brush Robert’s fine hair.

“That smile, sweetheart—” Jake swallows. “It’s him.”

You nod. You can’t say anything else. You just look down at your son, hand curved over his tiny back like it might keep the world still.

Jake stays there for a moment, kneeling like it’s a prayer.

⸻

Later, dinner’s eaten cold in the kitchen. You sit at the table with your leg tucked under you, Jake opposite you, halfway through a sandwich and a beer.

Robert’s in the baby bouncer nearby, eyes wide, alert, blinking at the lights on the fridge. He looks at Jake every time he hears his voice, like he knows him already.

Jake’s mid-bite when he stops and says, “You know I thought about calling him Bobby Jr. before you even told me.”

You smile down at the table, finger tracing the edge of your plate. “I didn’t even have to think about it.”

Jake nods. His gaze softens. “You don’t have to do any of this alone. Ever.”

“I know.” Your voice is quiet. “I didn’t, really. Not since the second he was gone.”

You don’t say since you showed up with groceries and stayed through the first night without him, even though I couldn’t stop crying.

You don’t say since you ran into traffic to get the right kind of formula when he wouldn’t stop screaming.

You don’t say since you started brushing your teeth here and never said why.

But he knows.

Jake leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’re doing good, y’know.”

You look up, startled. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“I know,” he says. “But you are. He’s healthy. He’s safe. He smiled today.”

You press your hand to your chest like that will keep it from cracking.

“Can I—” Jake gestures toward the bouncer. “Hold him for a bit?”

“Yeah.”

You watch as he picks Robert up, effortlessly, like he’s done it a hundred times. He tucks the baby against his chest, swaying just a little. Robert settles in almost instantly.

And Jake—he closes his eyes for a second, just holding him, like the weight is sacred.

“You can stay tonight,” you say after a moment. “I washed the blanket you like.”

Jake looks at you, something deep in his expression. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. I sleep better when you’re here.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds your son—Bob’s son—and nods slowly.

“I’ll take first shift tonight,” he says, voice soft. “Go rest. I’ll wake you if he needs anything.”

You stand, walk over to them both. Press a kiss to Robert’s head. Then—without thinking—another to Jake’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Jake’s voice is a little rough. “Always.”

———

Late that night

It’s 2:37 a.m. when you wake.

The house is silent. No crying. No rustling. Just… still.

You roll over slowly, blinking at the empty space beside you on the bed. Jake’s blanket is folded neatly at the end, but he’s not there.

At first, your heart skips. But then you hear it—murmured words, soft and low, coming from the living room.

You slip from bed, pad barefoot down the hall. The baby monitor buzzes faintly on the counter, but the sound is clearer now. Jake’s voice.

You pause in the doorway.

He’s in the rocking chair, the old wooden one Bob picked out for the nursery, the one he never got to use. Jake’s legs are stretched out, the baby cradled to his chest, swaddled tight and peaceful in sleep.

There’s a lamp on beside him, casting soft yellow across the room.

Jake hasn’t noticed you yet.

“…and he hated mushrooms,” Jake is saying, voice like a breeze through trees. “Swore up and down they were ‘nature’s mistake.’ Phoenix used to sneak them into his lunch just to mess with him.”

You lean quietly against the doorframe.

“And God, your dad was smart. Not in a ‘look at me’ kind of way. He just knew things. Knew how to listen. Knew how to make you feel like what you were saying mattered. He didn’t take up space—he made space for other people.”

He shifts, gently rocking. Baby Robert makes a little sleepy sound, but settles again quickly.

Jake’s voice lowers. “And when he met your mama, it was over. Man looked at her like she was sunlight in a bottle. Couldn’t shut up about her.”

You press a hand to your mouth to keep the sound in. Your throat burns.

“I used to tease him. Said he was gone,” Jake chuckles, shaking his head. “He didn’t care. Said loving her was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Said if he died tomorrow, it’d still be worth it. Because he got to love her like that.”

Jake exhales, and it sounds almost like a prayer. “He should be here. You should’ve had him.”

You step into the room then. Jake turns sharply—but he doesn’t look startled. Just… caught.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says softly.

You shake your head. You’re crying, but you don’t care. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Jake looks down at the baby, then back at you. “I just… I figured someone oughta tell him who his dad was.”

You walk over slowly, kneel beside the chair. Robert’s cheek is resting against Jake’s chest, his tiny mouth open in sleep.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For remembering him like this.”

Jake meets your eyes. There’s something raw and honest there—something unspoken.

“I promised I’d take care of both of you,” he says. “And I don’t break promises.”

You lean your head against Jake’s knee, close your eyes, and listen as he starts another story.

This one’s about the first time Bob ever beat Hangman in a training sim.

You laugh quietly through your tears.

Your son sleeps through it all, tucked into the sound of his father’s legacy.

———

Three months old, and the ocean for the first time

The sky is impossibly blue. The kind of blue that stretches without end, no clouds in sight, the sun soft and golden on your skin.

You almost cancelled. This morning felt too tender, too full of dreams you hadn’t asked for. But then Jake knocked on your door, coffee in one hand and a bucket hat in the other.

“He’s gonna love it,” Jake said, lifting the little hat with a smirk. “You, me, the team, the ocean—come on, sunshine. Let’s make a good day out of this.”

And you said yes. Because sometimes grief needs to sit in warm sand, too.

⸻

The team’s already there when you arrive—Rooster’s set up two umbrellas, Payback and Fanboy are wrestling with a beach chair, and Phoenix is trying to keep a sleepy, sunscreen-slathered Robert from pulling off his tiny baby shades.

“I swear he’s stronger than a grown man,” she mutters, laughing.

“Like father, like son,” Jake says under his breath, standing behind you with the baby bag slung over one shoulder.

You smile at that—small but real.

Bob would’ve loved this.

You let yourself say it in your head now, without flinching.

⸻

Jake stays close.

He always does.

He lays a towel beside yours, sits when you sit, stands when you carry Robert down toward the shore.

The baby squeals when his toes touch the cool, wet sand. His little hands clench and unclench as the water laps gently at your ankles. You’re laughing before you even realize it.

Jake’s beside you in seconds, hand hovering close to Robert’s back just in case.

“First wave,” he says quietly, his smile tilted just right. “You okay?”

You nod, looking down at your son. “I think he likes it.”

“I think he’s in awe.”

You both watch as the tiny tide rolls in again, brushing his feet. Robert kicks, a soft squeal tumbling out of his mouth, and Jake lets out a laugh so warm you think it might carry you for days.

Behind you, the rest of the squad cheers. Fanboy’s filming. Rooster’s already declaring himself honorary godfather.

You glance over your shoulder—Phoenix has laid back in the sand with sunglasses perched on her nose, but you know she’s smiling, too.

The day stretches on. There’s sandwiches, and beach games, and quiet moments where you and Jake share water bottles and silence. Robert naps in the shade, hat still tugged over one ear, and you find yourself staring at him for a little too long.

“He’s got Bob’s mouth,” Jake says softly, nudging your arm with his. “Same exact shape.”

Your chest aches. But you nod. “And his ears.”

Jake grins. “Poor kid.”

You swat at him with a smile that lingers this time.

⸻

By the time the sun begins to dip toward the ocean, baby Robert has sand between his toes and an entire group of Navy aviators wrapped tightly around his tiny, perfect fingers.

You carry him against your chest, swaying gently, watching the waves roll in again and again.

Jake stands beside you, silent for a moment. Then—“We should do this again. Next month. Maybe bring Margaret. She’d love it.”

You look up at him. “You’re staying next month?”

Jake’s gaze is steady. “I’m staying.”

And something in you finally, finally lets go. Not of Bob, never of Bob. But of the fear that you’d have to face this new life alone.

The sun sets. Your son sleeps. Jake is still beside you.

And for the first time in a long time, you think—

Maybe this story isn’t just about what was lost.

Maybe it’s about what you’re still building.

———

It starts on a Thursday.

You’re bouncing Robert in your lap while FaceTiming Margaret, your voice soft and rhythmic as he drifts toward sleep. The screen is propped up on the counter beside your coffee, and Margaret is beaming from her kitchen in Texas.

“He’s getting so big,” she says, her voice warm but trembling a little. “And he’s starting to look even more like him, you know that?”

You smile, brushing a hand over Robert’s downy hair. “I know. Every time he frowns, I feel like I’m looking at him.”

Margaret’s eyes soften. “Baby girl…” she whispers, her hand covering her mouth for a second. Then she breathes out. “Plane tickets are cheap right now.”

You glance up.

“I was just thinking… if it’s alright, maybe I could come out for the weekend?” she says quickly. “Not to intrude, but—” her voice falters a little. “I’d just really like to hold my grandson.”

You feel your throat tighten. “Of course,” you say instantly, barely able to finish the sentence before your voice breaks. “Of course, please. Come.”

Margaret nods. “I’ll send you my flight details in a minute. I can be there by Friday night.”

⸻

Jake offers to pick her up from the airport. You agree—it’s late, and Robert’s fussy by the time the car pulls up out front anyway. Jake carries her bags in and takes one look at Margaret’s glassy eyes as she holds her grandson for the first time—and excuses himself with a quiet, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. You two deserve some time.”

You squeeze his hand on the way out. “Thank you.”

Jake only nods. “You need anything, you call me.”

⸻

That night, after Robert’s down, you and Margaret sit in the quiet of your living room, wine glasses half-full, a folded blanket between you.

“He would’ve been the best dad,” she says softly. “God, he talked about it all the time when he called. Said he was scared, but so ready.”

You nod, unable to speak. You’d heard the same in his voice—late nights lying in bed, his fingers on your belly even before there was anything to feel.

“I used to wonder if he’d ever find the right person,” she says with a bittersweet smile. “He was always… quiet. Thoughtful. Some people didn’t see him.”

“I did,” you whisper.

Margaret reaches over and takes your hand.

“I know you did. That’s why he loved you so much.”

⸻

The weekend is full of soft things.

Margaret makes breakfast while Robert naps in the carrier on your chest. She shows you photos of Bob’s first steps, his first haircut, his graduation. Tells you about the time he tried to fly a paper airplane off the roof and broke his arm instead.

She cries once—just once—when she sees Robert smile for the first time.

“He has your boy’s soul,” she murmurs. “I can feel it.”

You believe her.

⸻

Jake returns in the mornings, never too close, never too far. He helps Margaret carry groceries in, takes Robert when you need a break, and politely leaves before dinner so you and Margaret have time alone.

You catch him once, though—standing at the doorway, watching Margaret cradle Robert while humming something low and familiar. Something Bob used to hum.

There’s something in Jake’s eyes when he looks at them—protectiveness, reverence, a tenderness you can’t name.

⸻

On Sunday night, when Margaret’s packing to leave, she stops in the doorway of Robert’s room and says quietly, “This place already feels like home. I see why he loved it here.”

You walk her out to Jake’s truck. She hugs you tight before she climbs in.

“You’re not alone, honey,” she whispers. “None of us will let you be.”

Jake drives her to the airport while you stand on the porch, watching the taillights disappear.

And then you go inside to your son.

He stirs, as if sensing you, and your hand presses softly to his back.

Not alone.

Never alone.

————

It’s late afternoon.

The kind of golden, warm-light quiet that wraps around the house like a sigh.

Jake’s outside, working on tightening the baby gate he insisted on installing himself last week—even though you’d both agreed Robert was still a little ways off from needing it. “Better safe than sorry,” he’d shrugged, toolbox in hand, eyes determined. “Kid’s gonna be mobile in no time.”

And you?

You’re sitting cross-legged in the living room, Robert babbling to himself on the rug, hands patting the carpet like drums. He’s just over nine months now. Still mostly crawling, sometimes pulling up on furniture, but standing without help for a few seconds when he really focuses.

You’ve been watching him for twenty minutes, holding your breath through every little wobble and sway. His hands are fisted at his sides, cheeks pink with effort.

And then—

Then it happens.

One foot.

A wobble.

Another foot.

“OH MY GOD—JAKE!” you scream, voice ragged with shock and joy and utter disbelief. “JAKE, COME HERE!”

There’s a loud clang outside—his tool hits the concrete—and he’s bursting through the door in half a second, eyes wild.

“What? What happened? Are you okay—?”

“HE TOOK A STEP!”

You’re already crying. Laughing and crying and clapping through it all. “He walked—he just—he did it, Jake, he walked!”

Jake blinks, chest heaving, then looks down at Robert, who’s now sitting on his diaper-padded bottom like nothing monumental just happened at all. His big eyes look up at both of you, wide and proud and completely unbothered.

Jake kneels, stunned silent. “You’re kidding me.”

“No—look!” you whisper, still breathless. “Come here, baby—come on, come to mama.”

And as if he knows what’s being asked of him—like he understands what this means—Robert rises again. One tiny hand curls at his side, another shoots out for balance. And he takes one step, then another. Barely three wobbly ones before he plops back down, but it’s enough.

Jake lets out a whoop and gathers him in his arms, swinging him up as Robert squeals, giggling like he knows he’s just become the king of the world.

“Look at you, little man!” Jake says, kissing his forehead. “You are so your daddy’s son.”

You sink to your knees next to them, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Bob would’ve—God, he would’ve lost it.”

Jake looks at you, smile trembling. “He is losing it. Wherever he is. He’s watching this.”

You nod, unable to speak.

You reach out and Robert grabs your fingers, all teeth and laughter and baby drool. You brush a hand over his soft hair and whisper, “You did it, baby. First step.”

Jake’s arm slips around your back. He doesn’t say anything—just stays with you there, grounded in the moment, the three of you in a sunlit room where a tiny boy took a giant step, and nothing would ever be the same again.

——

Three days later, Jake is driving you to the baby store in his truck.

Robert’s in the back seat, babbling to himself and kicking his legs while you scroll through your phone, pulling up a list of brands you’d bookmarked. You’re nervous for some reason—first shoes feel big. Symbolic. Real. Like he’s not just a baby anymore, but a little person slowly walking away from you one wobbly step at a time.

Jake reaches over at a red light and gives your hand a squeeze.

“Hey,” he says gently, like he knows where your head is. “It’s a good thing. It means he’s strong.”

You nod, squeezing back. “I know. It’s just… fast. Sometimes it feels like I blink and I’ve missed a hundred things.”

Jake’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You haven’t missed anything. You’ve been there for all of it.”

You glance back at Robert through the rearview mirror. His chubby fists are in the air, like he’s mid-victory lap.

Jake chuckles. “This kid’s gonna be running marathons by next week.”

⸻

The store is a soft kind of chaos—pastel walls, rows of impossibly tiny shoes, gentle lullabies playing over speakers. Robert is strapped to Jake’s chest in a carrier (because he insisted), and you’re the one holding up pairs of baby sneakers and tiny boots, asking for opinions.

“These?” you ask, holding up a tiny pair of brown leather boots. “Too cowboy?”

Jake squints at them. “He is a Floyd.”

You grin. “True.”

You find a pair of soft navy trainers with little velcro straps and thick soles. Robert grabs at one when you hold it up, squealing happily, and Jake raises a brow.

“Kid’s got taste.”

You try to blink away the sting behind your eyes. “Bob used to joke that he wanted his son to wear sneakers before he even learned to run.”

Jake’s smile softens. “Well… check.”

You crouch down on the fitting bench and gently put the shoes on Robert’s feet. He wiggles through the whole thing, babbling like he’s narrating every second. Jake kneels next to you, steadying him.

And then—for the first time in those new shoes—Robert stands.

Hands gripping your knees for balance, feet wobbling but firm.

Jake breathes out a small, reverent laugh. “Would you look at that.”

Robert takes one little step toward Jake, who catches him with both hands and lifts him high in the air. “That’s my boy!”

You laugh through the tears. “He loves you so much.”

Jake pauses, looking down at Robert who’s now giggling in his arms. “Yeah? Well, it’s mutual.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you—soft and deep. The kind that says you’re not doing this alone and I’m not going anywhere without ever needing to be said.

You buy the shoes. Jake insists on paying.

⸻

Later that night, after Robert’s down and the house is quiet, you find those little shoes sitting neatly by the door. You pause. Just look at them.

Tiny.

Perfect.

Worn once and already full of story.

Jake steps beside you, a fresh cup of tea in his hand. He presses it into yours without a word.

And when you lean your head against his shoulder, he doesn’t move away.

———

It starts with a whimper.

Then a cry.

You wake slowly, brain still foggy, but the baby monitor is lit up on your nightstand—Robert’s small cries coming through in soft, distressed bursts.

You’re out of bed in seconds.

The room is warm, but when you touch him, Robert’s skin is hotter. His cheeks flushed, little body sticky with sweat. He whines when you pick him up, face scrunched and miserable. His forehead is burning under your palm.

“Okay, okay, baby,” you whisper, voice trembling. “It’s okay, we’re okay.”

But you’re not okay.

Because his cries are getting louder. Because his little fists are clenched. Because this isn’t a skinned knee or a cold or one of those normal parenting things you’d prepared for. This feels like something else.

You check the thermometer once. Then twice.

102.9.

Your chest constricts.

You try rocking him. Walking. Humming the lullaby Bob used to sing under his breath while doing dishes. Nothing helps. He’s too hot. Too fussy. And you’ve never felt so unqualified for something in your life.

You’re crying before you realize it—panic rising, tears spilling silently down your cheeks.

And then you turn.

And you whisper, “Jake.”

You don’t want to wake him. But you don’t want to be alone more.

So you go to your bedroom door where he’s sleeping in the guest room down the hall, knock once—and by the time you open it, Jake’s already sitting up, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, instantly alert.

“He’s—he’s warm, and I checked his temp and it’s high, and I—I don’t know what I’m doing, Jake, I don’t know—” Your voice breaks and now the sobs are here, coming hard and fast. “He’s burning up and I can’t fix it.”

Jake is already on his feet.

“Let me see him,” he says gently.

You pass Robert to him like a lifeline. Jake checks his forehead with calm, experienced hands, the way someone who’s watched enough nieces and nephews survive toddler illnesses learns to do. He doesn’t look worried.

“Okay,” Jake says quietly. “This is probably viral. He’s okay. We’ll keep him cool, give him Tylenol, keep an eye on him. He doesn’t need the ER yet, but if he gets worse, we’ll go.”

You nod, but it’s too much. You sit down hard on the edge of the bed, head in your hands.

Jake crouches beside you. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, look at me.”

You do.

Tears streak your cheeks and your hands are trembling. “I just—he needs Bob, not me. Bob would’ve known what to do. He should be here. Not you.”

Jake’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays soft. “I know. I know he should be.”

Robert lets out a sharp, pitiful whine, and Jake immediately shifts him in his arms, rocking gently, humming low. His voice is rough with sleep and quiet concern.

“You’re doing everything right,” Jake says. “You’re not failing him. He’s got you—and that means he’s already got the best shot.”

You sniffle. “I hate this part. The part where he’s hurting and I can’t help him.”

Jake offers you a small, tired smile. “That part never gets easier. But it gets more familiar. You learn how to ride it.”

The three of you sit there like that—Robert nestled between panic and comfort—until the fever starts to dip, until his whimpers quiet into sniffly sleep in Jake’s arms.

⸻

It’s 4:12 A.M. when you’re finally back in your bed. Jake’s in the rocking chair in the nursery, Robert asleep on his chest. You wake once in the early morning hours and look over at the baby monitor again.

Jake is still there.

Still holding him.

Still staying.

———

There’s a tiny calendar on the fridge—just a cheap one from the baby formula brand, stuck up with a magnet shaped like a jet. There’s a big blue circle around a date just two weeks away:

Robert’s First Birthday.

You stare at it every morning.

Sometimes with a little smile.

Sometimes with a lump in your throat so big you can’t swallow your coffee.

Lately, both.

⸻

You’d never imagined making it this far—much less planning a party.

But one morning, with Robert crawling laps around the living room in his Bob-colored onesie (pale blue with little planes stitched into the sleeves), you finally whisper aloud, “You deserve a day, little love.”

And once you say it, it’s real.

⸻

Jake’s the first to offer help. “Venue? Decorations? Cake? I’m your guy.”

You glance around the living room and shake your head. “I want it here. At home. The home Bob picked for us.”

Jake softens. “Then we’ll make it beautiful.”

You try to plan in pieces, in the in-between moments of diaper changes and nap schedules and bottle washing. There’s a notebook with messy scribbles, a Pinterest board Jake swears he didn’t help make, and a growing list of RSVPs. Phoenix says she’s bringing balloons and a gift that’ll “blow his toddler mind.” Fanboy’s already working on a Bob Floyd baby slideshow. Mav offers to man the grill. Even Hondo texts Jake, asking what kind of onesie “the little admiral” wants.

Every time someone calls Robert’s birthday “a celebration,” your heart stutters. Because it is. And it isn’t.

⸻

The nights are harder.

You sit on the couch with a baby monitor in your lap and the guest room light on. Jake’s stayed most nights these days—not always sleeping over, but lingering long enough to make sure you don’t forget you’re loved.

“I was thinking…” you start one night, voice quiet as Robert naps upstairs. “About doing it in the backyard. With the string lights Bob put up last spring.”

Jake nods slowly. “He’d love that.”

You bite your lip. “I want it to feel like… like he’s part of it. That it’s not just the day our son was born, but the day his son was born. I want to bring him into it without making it… sad.”

Jake’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “You do that every day, y’know.”

You blink up at him.

“He’s in the way you talk to Robert. The lullabies. The photos in every room. You’ve never let him be gone.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod.

Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Let’s throw him the party Bob would’ve wanted. Loud. Messy. Full of people who love you both.”

You smile—soft and small.

“Okay.”

⸻

Two Weeks Out: You pick a theme. Planes. Of course. You find invitations that say “Come Fly With Robert One!” and you know Bob would have laughed and called it cheesy.

One Week Out: Jake helps you paint a wooden sign for the yard that says Welcome Aboard, Junior Lieutenant Floyd. You hang baby pictures of Bob and Robert side by side on a string with clothespins. The resemblance is uncanny. You cry after putting them up.

Four Days Out: Margaret calls. “I’m bringing a photo album,” she says softly. “Of Bob’s first year. I thought maybe we could put it next to Robert’s?”

You nod, tears already brimming. “He’d love that.”

⸻

And then it’s just a few days to go. The guest list is long. The house smells like baby shampoo and vanilla cake mix. And even though Bob’s not here to help carry chairs into the backyard or string lights along the fence, his fingerprints are on everything.

In every laugh.

Every plan.

Every soft moment between you and Jake when the grief gets heavy and neither of you says a word, just sits there, knowing.

———

The night before Robert’s first birthday is quieter than you expected.

Margaret arrives just after dinner, suitcases in hand, tears in her eyes the moment you open the door. You hug her tight, arms wrapped around a woman who lost a son, just as you lost a future. And still, she smiles when she sees the house.

“Oh, honey,” she whispers. “It looks so much like him. You did good.”

She holds Robert like she’s afraid to blink and miss something—presses her cheek to his hair, calls him her boy, kisses his temple again and again.

Jake gives you a moment and excuses himself out back. You see him through the kitchen window, sitting on the porch steps with a beer in his hand, staring up at the stars.

Margaret helps you settle Robert to sleep, humming a lullaby you’d never heard before but instantly recognize as one Bob must’ve grown up on. You watch her from the doorway, hands gripping the frame like it might keep you from breaking apart.

Later, while she’s unpacking and the house is still, you go out back and sit beside Jake on the steps. He doesn’t say anything when you sit, just offers you a sip of his beer and tilts his head toward the sky.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods once. “Just thinking.”

“About Bob?”

“Always about Bob.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “I keep thinking about how much he would’ve loved this. Tomorrow. All of it.”

Jake nods again. “He’d be proud of you.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

You both sit in silence, listening to the hum of the backyard string lights, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The weight of what tomorrow means hangs in the air, but it’s not unbearable. Not here. Not with Jake beside you and Margaret asleep inside and Robert dreaming upstairs.

You whisper, “I’m scared.”

Jake looks at you.

“That I’ll break tomorrow. That I won’t be able to hold it together in front of everyone.”

“You don’t have to hold anything,” he says gently. “It’s his day, but it’s yours too. No one expects you to be anything but real.”

You close your eyes.

Let yourself breathe.

———

The morning starts early.

You wake before the sun, eyes swollen from sleep and nerves and a deep aching love. Robert babbles in his crib, clutching a stuffed jet Jake bought him last week. You pick him up, press your face to his chubby little cheek, and whisper, “Happy birthday, baby boy.”

His laugh fills the room.

By 10 a.m., the house is full.

Phoenix shows up first, carrying a tower of wrapped gifts and a balloon almost as tall as she is. “For the little aviator,” she says, eyes misty when she hugs you. “And the strongest mom I know.”

Fanboy brings the slideshow, plays it on a loop on the TV inside. Half the guests are crying by the third picture—Bob holding a newborn Robert, forehead to forehead.

Payback handles the grill with Mav, who wears his “World’s Best Uncle” apron with pride. Rooster brings a homemade cake shaped like a plane and swears he didn’t bake it, just supervised. Coyote walks in with streamers, sparklers, and a birthday crown.

Jake? Jake is everywhere. Carrying chairs, filling coolers, holding Robert while you change the playlist, keeping the day from unraveling.

You catch yourself staring at him—at how gentle he is, how careful with Robert, how often his eyes flick toward you to make sure you’re okay.

Around noon, Margaret sets up a small photo table with Bob’s baby album next to Robert’s. There’s a framed picture of Bob in uniform, young and wide-smiled, right beside a photo of you holding Robert in the hospital. People take turns walking by it. Some wipe their eyes.

You see Jake linger at the table longer than most.

⸻

When it’s time for cake, everyone sings. Robert grabs a fistful of frosting. There’s laughter. Pictures. Phoenix films the whole thing, sniffles caught on camera.

Afterward, you take Robert inside for a quiet diaper change, and when you come back, the team is sitting around the backyard, drinks in hand, sun setting.

Mav stands. “Can I say something?”

The group quiets.

“I think Bob would’ve loved today. The mess, the food, the laughter. But mostly—he would’ve loved seeing how you’re raising this boy. How you’re surrounding him with love. With all of us. He would’ve been proud.”

You don’t cry right away. You nod. You hold Robert closer.

And then you do cry.

Softly. Openly. With Robert in your lap and Jake’s hand resting gently on your back.

You whisper to your son, “You are so loved.”

And somehow, in that moment, it doesn’t feel like Bob is missing.

It feels like he’s here.

In every laugh.

Every photo.

Every breath of the child that looks just like him.

———

The house is quiet again.

The balloons have started to droop, the last plate has been washed, and the candles on the cake have long since burned out. The air is thick with the echo of laughter, the kind that doesn’t fully erase the hollow at the center. Margaret hums softly from the kitchen while she rinses a bottle, and Jake is outside gathering the last of the chairs.

Y/N stands in the nursery with Baby Robert in her arms, rocking gently, his cheek pressed against her collarbone.

He’s so soft. So warm. Still smelling faintly of frosting and sunshine.

She kisses the top of his head. “We’re going to see Daddy,” she whispers.

Downstairs, she buckles him into his car seat and reaches for the baby bag—diapers, wipes, an extra onesie. Just in case. She grabs the folded photo she had set aside earlier—a picture of Bob holding her belly, face pressed to her bump, laughing—and tucks it in carefully.

As she opens the door and steps onto the porch, Jake is there, stacking empty coolers. He turns at the sound.

“Where you headed?” he asks casually, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes.

Y/N glances down, tightening the strap across Robert’s chest.

“I haven’t visited Bob yet,” she says quietly. “Not since the funeral.”

Jake straightens up.

“I thought…” she trails off, brushing her hand over Robert’s soft curls. “I thought maybe me and Robert could go together. For the first time.”

Jake doesn’t say anything. He just nods, his expression unreadable. His fingers flex slightly against the cooler handle.

And then—

“You should come,” she says, not looking at him. “If you want.”

His throat bobs.

“Yeah,” he says after a second, voice low. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

⸻

They drive in silence. The kind of silence that feels sacred.

Y/N keeps her hand on the mirror, watching Robert sleep peacefully in his seat. Jake rides shotgun, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, glancing at her every so often but not pushing words into the air that doesn’t need them.

The cemetery is quiet when they pull in.

The sun is low, casting long shadows, golden light kissing the headstones. Y/N parks and gets out, careful not to slam the door. Jake gently lifts Robert’s car seat from the base and follows her as she leads the way down the gravel path.

Her steps slow as they reach it.

Lt. Robert Floyd

Beloved Son. Devoted Fiancé. Brave Soul.

Always flying. Forever free.

Her knees buckle a little when she sees it again. The way the stone sits so solid, so final. Jake steps forward, instinctively reaching to steady her, but she straightens on her own, tears in her eyes.

She kneels down in front of the headstone and sets the picture in the grass. Then she lifts Robert out of his seat, holding him against her chest.

“Hey, baby,” she whispers, rocking slightly. “This is your daddy.”

Jake stands behind them, hands clenched, jaw tight.

“He would’ve loved you,” she tells Robert, her voice thick. “God, he would’ve loved you so much. He… he wanted you before we even knew you were real.”

Robert coos, his tiny hand reaching toward the headstone like he knows. Like he knows.

Y/N presses her lips to the baby’s forehead and then brushes her fingers across Bob’s name.

“I wish you could’ve seen him, Bob,” she says, tears finally slipping free. “He’s so perfect. He’s so you. When he smiled for the first time I like to think he saw you.”

Jake kneels down beside her. He doesn’t say anything. Just gently places a hand on her back.

After a while, she looks at him and nods.

“Do you wanna hold him?” she asks.

Jake’s eyes widen just a little. “You sure?”

She offers Robert over without hesitation.

And Jake takes the baby with reverent care, holding him the way he’s held him a hundred times before—but this time, it’s different.

This time, he’s holding Bob’s legacy.

He rocks gently, looking down at Robert, then back at the stone.

“Hey, buddy,” Jake murmurs. “You don’t know me like your daddy did. But I’m gonna stick around, alright? I’ll make sure your mom never has to do this alone.”

He clears his throat, glancing at Y/N like he’s afraid he overstepped—but she’s smiling. It’s watery and broken, but it’s real.

“I think Bob knew,” she says softly. “I think he trusted you.”

They sit there together for a long time.

The sky shifts from gold to blue, and then a soft violet. Baby Robert falls asleep again, his fingers curled in Jake’s shirt.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a goodbye.

It feels like a start.

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lostinlovingrevery · 5 months ago

Note

Logan howlett being gross please 🙏🙏

I so badly wanted to answer this all day but I was busy so thanks for your patience!! I may end up writing an actual drabble of him being nasty BUT since it's 10 and I need to be up by 5 am tomorrow I'm gonna give some headcanons out to keep you freaks (lovingly)(im a freak too otherwise i wouldn't be writing this) satisfied. Love you guys <3

if there's anything specific you want me to talk about, feel free to send an ask!

(logan judging me for putting his nastiness out there)

NSFW stuff under the cut. Beware. some of it's gross. :)

Lets start with what I said in that one post

Yes, Logan would fuck himself in every part of you if you let him

personally not big on anal myself but if you guys are down for that, he would definitely like to try it.

I think it's less of getting himself off or being attracted to it, like your elbow or knees

its more of being able to claim you more ways than one, his animalistic instinct REALLY kicks in on this. Scents probably play a part on this

IF you let him do the things he wants, you're gonna get treated SO GOOD afterwards, believe me. Satisfying his urges in the weird ways he gets em? You're an actual fucking angel to him

I've mentioned foot jobs before. I think honestly the foot job is probably what started this whole thing. It's a body part he never considered getting off from. It's until you guys were in your bedroom, hes walking around naked fresh from the shower and you get playful, reaching your feet out and messing with his cock. He was surprised how hard it made him and then when he cums he's like... "Now what else can I get off on?"

I almost mentioned scents. Logans so big on scents yall we established this. You smelling like him, him smelling like you.

When you're a little more settled in your relationship, he may start making comments on how good you smell after workouts, sex, etc. Its the pheromones man

You don't think much until you catch him straight up inhaling your workout clothes one day

He's a bit flustered over it

claims he didn't know what he was doing (he did) and that he was just getting ready to do laundry (he was not) (he went straight to your laundry with the goal of smelling that shit)

PANTY SNIFFER

Loves your panties and bras the most. Definitely will keep your used panties here and there. he does it discreetly, confidently. He's not so ashamed for you to find him sniffing your panties.

Nasty making out. big fan of this

he wants you both practically drooling into each other. can and will spit in your mouth and wants you to do the same

will make out with you with his cum in your mouth. He doesn't like his cum it's just the fact of it's you mixed with him.

He'll love it if you have each others essence and make out like that too.

It's not every time but sometimes he'll just get these urges to make you both messy as hell. spit and cum, hickeys, scratches etc etc

I've also said this before but period sex period sex period sex

He does not fucking care

Makes him a lil wild actually. Might scare you a bit.

If you initially don't want to do it, he'll leave it alone and eventually get needy enough he'll find excuses and then he founds out sex can help relieve periods and he's like

"I'm just tryna make you feel better baby"

When you finally give in his ecstatic

he will def be careful though. He truly doesn't want to hurt you. He's just a needy lil thing for you

Eating. you. out on your period.

I know, it's gross. But so is he.

The first happens on accident. He tastes it while eating you out and immediately recognizes it. he doesn't stop and doesn't tell you

You realize it when he finishes and looks up and his face is covered in blood

quite frankly you're horrified

he didn't care. just goes and washes himself up and you as well.

You're gonna need to change the sheets though. Logans a messy eater

He will eat and drink food from your mouth

you're telling him "oh Lo! Try this pie its SO good-" as you put the fork in your mouth and you're about to give him a piece and feed it to him and he insteads grabs you by the back of your neck and sticks his tongue in your mouth and tastes it that way

It shocks you (and turns you on)

"Yeah baby, it is good." he chuckles as he smacks his lips and walks away leaving you dumbfounded and a bit horny

(you're just like)

will get so nasty about fucking you too like the dirty talking

"Your pussy so fucking tight and wet. Sucking me in and everything."

"You fucking love how I taste don't you? All that cum and sweat. dirty girl."

"my cum tastes good in you baby"

"cmon, taste how good you are darling"

Ive mentioned about him going into a trance after he cums on you

he's cummed inside you and now staring at it leaks out of you

he's pushing it back in and trying to keep it all in you

doesn't even hear you whining over it

he starts spreading it all over you. it just looks so good painted on your pretty pussy

like i said this man adores you and that means ALL of you

will drool during sex

you're just going at it and you guys hit a point where your mindless and fucking

you feel so good and he can't even think straight. acting purely on instinct and you feel his drool on your back. You look back and his mouth is hanging open and his eyes shut and he's thrusting into you over and over, completely contorted in pleasure

lets talk a little about some other stuff

logan keeps up his hygiene of course. brushes teeth. washes his ass. he may consider himself an animal but he's not gonna let himself go. he IS from the 1800s yknow

but he runs like a heater and can and will sweat

esp with all those fucking layers

sweaty dick and balls. nuff said. hope you enjoy that

his natural musk is strong as hell. honestly though to you it'll smell really really good

leaks a lot of precum when he's horny.

his hairs insane though. So much hair. Its' gonna get in your mouth

actually even if hes groomed it's still gonna get in your mouth. he has a lot of hair

Enjoy nasty logan! <3

#ive can't believe the person ive become #logan howlett #logan howlett x you #logan howlett smut #vans daydreams #wolverine smut #nasty shit in here guys

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iloveyanderes · 10 months ago

Text

EVEN MORE YANDERE/SAGAU IDEAS!!!!!!!!!!! WITH A LITTLE LESS YANDERE ON THE SIDE😉 BECAUSE I FORGOT TO INCORPORATE IT BETTER

1.A girl gets isekai’d after a boy she’d bullied had enough and killed her. She woke up in the body of a really kind girl in genshin that everyone is obsessed with, she decided to pretend to be this girl as a means of survival, as these people would most likely kill her if they found out she wasn’t that kind little girl. Along the way She met a boy who ended up being her first true friend, making her realize what she has done and wrong giving her the courage to want to change. Just when she got better leading to the path of redemption the boy was found dead completely crushing any type of kindness in her heart, she realized all the genshin characters had killed him so she vowed to kill them all but not before ruining all of there lives first(I actually attempted to write this a long time ago on wattpad but it never went into fruition, so this might seem familiar)

2.Small sagau idea but it goes like this: girl has golden blood for a completely different reason then the sagau idea, ends up in genshin and everyone mistakes her for the creator and she's freaking out trying to convince everyone she's not the creator

3.Genshin impact x Ichigo from tokyo mew mew reader. With your transformation, cat ears and tail, and the actual ability to turn into a cat everyone is trying to get a reaction out of you(look online and you’ll understand why) I'd imagine yae would take advantage of it with the whole gorou situation as proof. Also there is no way inazuma doesn’t have a bunch of light novels or manga on magical girls

4.Dragon reader vs bird reader. You’ll get no further explanation

5.Sagau idea where instead of the reader being the creator they are a holy saint/saintness who's supposed to represent the creator as their prophet who will feel nothing but utter devotion when they see the creator. However on the day that you prophesied the creator would descend something goes wrong, when you lay your eyes on them the only thing you feel is fear and disgust. It’s immediately prevalent that This is not the creator but a demon, everyone else believes this to be the creator however so you can’t really do anything without the fear of being killed or worse, so you resolve to find the true creator while pretending to still love this demon. Meanwhile the demon is someone who always believed themselves to be better then the creator, they’re jealousy blinded them until it turned into envy where they wanted to be the creator. Quite literally trapping them down in hell when they were supposed to descend and taking their place. Since they want to be the creator that meant they had to be loved by everyone including you-especially you. The saintness meant to serve the creator and adore they’re every movement, so they casted a charm spell that seemed to work on everyone-except for you. It doesn’t matter they’ll do anything to get your love- because it belongs to them not that creator-they deserve that destiny

6. Not a genshin nor sagau thingy but what if a genshin archon reader accidentally falls asleep(can be any element you want but I chosen dendro for this) and wakes up thousands of years later where teyvat has become nothing but an empty shell, eventually you get picked up by the astral express after wandering the empty planet. you adventure all the new worlds, help the trailblazer while ignoring their weirdness, and find a way to mourn all your lost comrades. It’s discovered that elemental energy had mixed and muddled with each other eventually forming into something more murky and hallow which made the Aeons, you discover this when they start to hunt you down as there obsessed with you and the idea that your the last ‘pure’ being in the universe, something they want to obtain.

#yandere #fyp #fypfypfypfypfypfypdypfypfypfypfypfypfyfpfyfpfyp #platonic yandere #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x reader #sagau #sagau x reader #sagau cult au #genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #genshin imagines #genshin self aware #yandere honkai star rail #yandere honkai impact 3rd

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ghoulishhx · 3 months ago

Note

Heeeyyy I'm back with more Frank Castlr requests cause I can't be normal about him! It's a hurt comfort for past self harm if your not ok writing it I totally understand.

Basically reader was recovering long before she met Frank but celebrates being clean with cake and something nice for herself. Maybe Frank learns about it from an external source or reader explains to him why she's making a cake on a random Tuesday but just all around Frank learning she went through some stuff yet is super proud of her for her progress.

the feeling is absolutely mutual, i also cannot be normal about him so any/all requests with him are wanted!! i also love this prompt, he's such a big ol' softie and i know he would be so understanding with stuff like this!! i hope you enjoy, it's a little on the shorter side so for that i do apologise

i turned 2 years sober myself literally last week, so it was really nice to write this. thank you for the request <3

also heres a lil link for my baddies in the uk who struggle with this and need help, another link for mind. obviously if you're not from the uk, help is easily found online. additionally, if you ever need someone to talk to, my dms are alwaysss open mwah.

18+ MDNI !!

My Masterlist!

──── ୨୧ ────

Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: hurt/comfort, soft frank to the maxxx, fluff upon fluff, praise

TW: mentions and depictions of self harm

──── ୨୧ ────

3..2..1..

You take a deep breath, as you watch the clock down to midnight, as if it were New Years Eve. This holiday for you, however, has no fireworks or bells ringing.

It's a random day in the middle of October, a random day that marks 5 years you've been clean. 5 whole years. You wryly smile to you as you watch the clock on your phone turn to 00:00, humming softly in your boyfriend's arms.

"What ya smirkin' at, doll?" he looks down at you as you're tucked up into his side, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing circles with his thumb along your skin, watching you stare at the lockscreen of your phone.

"It's silly Frankie, don't worry about it." you shake your head, biting your lower lip.

You hadn't explicitly told him about what this day means to you, you had an inkling he knew, having seen every inch of your body naked he must've seen your faded scars littered across your thighs and wrists. He never bought it up however, and you're grateful for this. You've had these conversations with exes before, and it always ends with them kissing your skin and saying some dumb shit like "Please stop.. for me.." the thought of hearing Frank say these words makes your skin crawl from cringe, so you decided it best to just never bring it up.

"Nah c'mon baby, ya gotta tell me now, can't leave me in suspense." he pushes, chuckling and pulling you upwards to look at him.

"Okay, just don't be weird, promise?" you hold your pinky out to him to make him swear.

He takes your digit with his and interlocks them together.

"I promise sweetheart."

"Okay.. well.. today's kinda like an anniversary, for me.." you utter, taking a deep breath. Here it goes, "Before we met I used to uhm, self harm. A-and today it's been 5 years since I did it last." you duck your head, embarrassed to be talking about something like this with him, you kept this secret close to your chest, wanting to avoid him finding out about your dark past as much as you could control.

"Well I'll be, good fuckin' job babydoll. 'M prouda ya." he pulls you into tight embrace, kissing the top of your head, squeezing the life out of you. You deeply exhale into his chest, so grateful he wasn't put off or weirded out by you. You should've known he would be supportive, knowing he's been through shit in his life too, arguably worse than yours but this isn't the oppression Olympics. "So proud of ya sweetheart, do ya usually celebrate this typa thing?"

"It's stupid Frank, but I'll bake a cake for myself or something when I come home from work, maybe get take-out." you laugh into his chest. shaking your head in disbelief at your admission.

"'s not stupid baby, it's adorable. Now c'mon, lets get ya to bed." you yelp has he lifts and throws you over his shoulder, giggling all the way to your shared bedroom. Your heart can't help but beat out of your chest, grateful for him and his acceptance.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You sigh as you come home from work, placing your fingers to your temples and trying your best to rub away the stress and tension of the day, closing your eyes trying to stabilize your breathing. You take a deep breath, and when you inhale through your nose you can't help but get your senses invaded by a smell.

Chocolate cake? Who the fuck is baking chocolate cake in my house?

You turn the corner, eyebrows raises and your heart swells in your chest at the sight before you

Frank fucking Castle in your apron, wooden spoon in hand, whipping up frosting.

"Hey pretty girl." he softly speaks, you feel you may be hallucinating, not once in the years you have been together have you seen him bake.

"Frankie.. What's going on?" you smile, placing your bag and coat down on your dining table.

"Well when ya told me last night about you bakin' a cake for your anniversary, I thought ya should have a year off. Pizza's on the way, and desserts almost ready. Go get comfy, 'm almost done." he winks, patting your ass as you walk up to him and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a bruising kiss.

Your eyes fill with tears at the sentiment, not once did you think you would find anyone like Frank. Someone who understood, was willing to do anything to put a smile on your face, someone who didn't judge you for anything in the past.

"I love you Frankie.. I dunno what to say.. Just thank you.. Thank you so fucking much." you can't help the tears from streaming now, happy tears. He takes his flour covered thumbs and wipes them away, kissing your cheeks where the tears poured.

"I love ya more doll, 'm so proud of ya. I know this shit ain't easy to kick, but you did. My strong fuckin' girl." he kisses your lips, thumbs still on your cheeks. You hum into the kiss, feeling completely at ease, grateful to share this milestone with him.

It all got better in the end.

──── ୨୧ ────

my inbox is open!

#frank castle #the punisher #frank castle x reader #frank castle x female reader #the punisher x reader #frank castle fluff #the punisher fluff #marvel fluff #fluff #hurt/comfort #frank castle hurt/comfort #thank you for the ask!#inbox is always open #frank castle fanfiction #the punisher fanfiction #marvel fic #drabble #one shot

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broad-shouldrs · 1 month ago

Text

Hold On To Me || Chapter 6

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

word count: 2,434

summary: you weren't supposed to be here-stuck at a summer camp your dad signed you up for. but joel's here too: your neighbor, your boss, a single dad, frustratingly competent and infuriatingly attractive.

you shouldn't want him. he definitely shouldn't want you.

warnings: dbf! Joel (but he didn't know you as a kid). age gap. au!no outbreak. pining. slow burn. only the slightest bit of smut

a/n: leaving ya'll on a cliffhanger. sorry not sorry.

find me on a03

Your dad brings you back from camp and the entire drive home your body is buzzing. You're not sure how you plan to adjust to the quiet when you've been surrounded by the chaos and haphazard routine of camp life for the past six weeks. The first thing you do is shower, almost moaning when you get under the spray of warm water. You've missed the privacy and the beyond-decent water pressure. You wash off the remnants of campfire, sweat, and sunscreen until you feel like you're halfway back to being human again. You flop onto your bed and sink into the mattress. But, it’s not just exhaustion you're feeling. It’s something deeper.

Your mind keeps replaying the kiss — the urgency in Joel's movements as he finally pressed his lips to yours, the way his eyes searched yours and didn’t look away, the moment he walked away leaving you breathless. You can't say that you didn't understand why he did it. Still, every time your phone buzzes, a flicker of hope sparks, only to be tangled with nerves and fear. You bring a pillow up to your face, wanting to scream — to forget him. You tell yourself you’ll do nothing for the next few weeks until you go back to Chicago — no overthinking, no chasing feelings. But, your heart and your head aren’t playing the same game.

Less than 48 hours after you walk through your door, you've thrown everything out the door when your phone lights up with his name.

Joel: Sarah’s already askin’ when you’re gonna hang out

You: Sarah has my number

Joel: Smartass

You: Thought ya’ll were coming over on Friday?

Joel: She said that ain’t soon enough

You: You sure it’s her asking?

Joel: Ha ha. Very funny

You: I thought so

Joel: See you Friday, kid

You: What happened to darlin'?

Joel: Testin’ you

You: Mhm. Sure.

——

Joel: Gonna rain today.

You: Thank you Mr. Weatherman

Joel: Shame

You: Shame?

Joel: Was hopin to see you out at the pool

You: Didn’t know you were invited?

Joel: I helped your daddy build it, don’t think I needed an invite.

You: Semantics

——

Joel: You seen Sarah?

You: Good luck. She's 16. You’ll be lucky if she comes home for dinner.

Joel: That how you were?

You: I kept my dad on his toes.

Joel: I bet you gave him hell.

You: I wasn’t that bad

Joel: Mhm. Trouble.

——

You: You ok?

It’s been three days and honestly, you’re worried. It feels weird to be the one to initiate your text exchange, but Joel's truck hasn’t been in his driveway and your mind has gone to the worst possible scenario. Your mind starts to race with what-ifs when the sound of your ringtone surprises you. Joel is calling. Calling. Not texting. You debate about picking up the call, your thumb hovering over the decline button.

“Hello?”

“Sorry, darlin’. Water main up at camp broke ‘n I had to deal with that for a few days. Didn’t mean to worry you.

“No, I was just—“

“M’ on my way back right now. Whatchu up to?”

“Just…reading”

“Anything good?”

“…It’s nothing extraordinary.”

“Tell me ‘bout it. I’ve got 30 minutes left ‘til I get home.”

And from there, you fall into a rhythm.

It becomes a nightly thing, more often than not. You're lying in bed with the fan humming and his voice in your ear, low and steady. You talk about how scared you are to finish school — about your looming thesis deadline and how every time you sit down to write, your brain goes blank. He listens, never rushing you, sometimes offering that dry humor of his.

"Sounds like hell, darlin’. Glad it’s you and not me."

In turn, he tells you about his week — how Sarah’s started asking to tour colleges and how work’s fell apart since he was at camp. He's not overly open about it but he talks about his past one day when you're talking about mistake and regret. You talk like it’s the most natural thing, like you’ve always been that person for him. Sometimes the calls are short, while he’s waiting in the truck for Sarah to come out of soccer practice and sometimes they stretch long into the night, past when both of you should’ve gone to bed. It’s easy and somehow, it's starting to feel like the best part of your day.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

In person, it’s different. When you see each other in the driveway, it’s nothing more than a brief nod, a raise of his hand, a quiet “mornin’.” You catch him, sometimes, one hand braced on his porch rail like he forgot what he came outside for. A glance held too long before he looks away, scratches the back of his neck, and disappears inside.

You try not to let it sting when later that night he's in your ear telling you about how he almost lost it on one of his guys, costing them a half day's worth of work.

It's somehow worse when he comes over to hang out with your dad. Joel's comfortable in your house — more so than you are. He walks right in after a single knock, not waiting to be invited in, and laughs when your dad catches him in the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge like it’s his. He doesn’t speak to you, not really. Just a quiet “hey” when you come down the stairs.

You can't help but linger around downstairs when he's there, pretending not to notice when he glances your way. When he passes by you, on his way from the living room to the kitchen for a second beer, you purposefully brush a little too close to him. He steps aside without a word, and you feel the ache of frustration deep in your bones.

You stomp up to your room and flop onto your bed, your skin prickling still with the heat of Joel’s gaze. You continue to get frustrated when you start reading your book and struggle to get through one chapter, re-reading the same sentence over and over again.

Your phone pings with a new text message from Joel.

Joel: You looked good today.

Your heart stutters, and for a second, you freeze, not sure how to react. His words seem so casual, but the weight of them settles heavy in your chest. In all of your chats, you've never brought up what happened at camp or the kiss you two shared.

Joel: Couldn’t keep my eyes off you.

Your breath catches, the text practically burning in your hands. You know you shouldn’t let it get to you this much, but the idea of him being close again, of feeling that tension up close, makes your pulse jump.

You: Careful, I might start thinking you like me.

Joel: I’ve never not liked you, darlin’.

You: You sure didn't act like it tonight.

Joel: Just complicated.

You: Because of my dad?

Joel: And Sarah.

Joel: Don’t have the right to want you as much as I do.

You: Says who?

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You answer.

There’s a pause, then his voice crackles through.

“S’not right. You don’t leave my head, darlin’. Not when I’m workin’, not when I’m lyin’ in bed. I see you everywhere. And every time I do, it gets harder and harder not to touch.”

You can hear the slight slur in his voice — he's drunk, or at least tipsy. You shouldn't let him continue like this, but it's the most honest he's been with you about this whole thing, so you urge him on. “So why don’t you?”

He hesitates, but continues — rougher now, the restraint right at its edge. “Because I shouldn’t. Because it ain’t just that I want you. It’s that I’m not supposed to. You’re young, smart as a whip, got a whole life ahead of you.”

You swallow hard, your silence giving him room.

“I should let you figure all that out without me muddyin’ the water. But it's hard.” His breath hitches. “I see you and I don’t feel forty-fucking-seven. I feel...fuckin’ alive. And that scares the hell outta me.”

There’s a long pause on the line. You don’t know what to say. You just lie there, clutching the phone like it’s the only real thing in your room.

He exhales softly on the other end like he’s been holding something in for days. “You always do this to me,” he murmurs.

Your brows draw together. “What?”

“Make me forget where I’m s’posed to draw the line.”

You shift on your bed, your voice quieter now. “Maybe the line’s already gone.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. You can hear him breathing, slow and uneven.

“I’ve tried not to want this,” he says. “Tried to keep my distance, be smart about it. But then you look at me like the way you do, say my name, and all I can think is...how much longer I can hold out.”

Your breath catches. He hears it.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he says again, but it’s like he’s trying to convince himself.

“But you do.”

Silence. Long and thick. “Yeah,” he admits finally, voice wrecked. “I really fuckin’ do.”

You feel the heat rise in your chest, spread to your throat.

“All I know is I don’t wanna stop talkin’ to you.”

Your throat tightens. “Then don’t.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear the shift in his breathing. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, darlin’. I won’t.”

He doesn't say anything else that night, and neither do you. You lie awake long after the call ends, your phone warm in your hand, heart rattling in your chest like it’s still listening for his voice. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few days pass quietly — no calls, no texts. Whether from embarrassment, shame, or fear, neither of you is brave enough to break the ice.

You forget that on Friday, your dad invited a few of the neighbors over for a barbecue. No special occasion, just an excuse to grill out. Your dad's outside, cursing about propane and he's asked you to look for the lighter in the kitchen. You're rummaging through the junk drawer when you feel his presence. Joel steps in close, reaches above you into the top cabinet, his entire front pressed gently into your backside. “Matches are up here,” he says, voice low, pulling the box down and closing the cabinet.

You nod, but you don’t move. You don't speak — you can’t. Your hand is resting on the edge of the counter, and he places his next to it — close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin. He’s not touching you. But it’s too close.

You feel him hesitate behind you, just for a second. The only sound is the hum of the fridge and the low crackle of voices outside. His hand shifts just slightly, the tip of his pinky brushing beside yours. You shift your weight slightly and turn to face him, caged in by his arm on the counter. There's a palpable change in the air. “Joel,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He looks down at you, pupils dark and dilated. You don’t say anything else — you don’t have to. His gaze drops to your mouth, your neck, then back to your eyes. One second. Two. And then he exhales sharply and pulls back like he’s been burned. “Fuck, I'm sorry” he mutters, grabbing the matches and heading back outside.You stand there with your heart beating too loud in your ears, the shape of his nearness still pressed into your skin.

You try to shake it off for the rest of the night. You try to enjoy the rest of the night but the heat in your chest that hasn’t cooled down. You hear your dad laughing with someone out by the pool, spatula still in hand even though the grill has long since been turn off. Joel’s somewhere out there, too — you saw him crack a beer and take a seat in the shade. You move inside, wiping down counters that don’t need wiping, just for something to do.

The door creaks open behind you but you don’t turn. You hear Joel step inside. Hear the door click shut. Joel clears his throat softly. “M’sorry.”

You keep your eyes fixed on the counter. “For what?”, you ask with a somewhat biting tone.

Silence. You feel him hovering near the doorway, the tension curling between you. “I shouldn’t’ve—” he starts. “It ain’t fair. To you.”

You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter. “You think that’s what I want? Fair?”

Joel shifts behind you, his jaw ticking, “Ain’t that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” You step past him, your shoulder brushing his arm. He tenses, but doesn’t move.

“God, it's like you only remember me when it’s dark out.”

“That’s not true.” His voice is hoarse now, lower. “I think about you all the time.”

The confession lands hot between you, charged and sudden. Then slowly, you turn to face him. His eyes are set on you, steady and serious. You look at him like he’s not real — like maybe you dreamed all of it — the long nights, the texts, the almosts. But, now he’s here, right in front of you saying what's needed to be said.

“I think about what it’d be like,” he adds quietly. “If things were different.”

You stare. “If they were...”

“If I could have you.”

That unravels you a little. Joel's looking at you like he wants to say more. Like if he won’t be able to stop if he starts. His eyes keep flicking back and forth from your lips to your eyes and you can feel him leaning forward. "Joel..."

Your dad’s laughter echoes from the backyard, causing you to be the one to step back. Joel scrubs a hand down his face, “I should go.” You nod and he leaves without another word.

Later that night, as you lie awake consumed by thoughts of Joel, your phone buzzes.

Joel: Can’t stop thinkin’ about earlier. Joel: The way you looked at me.

You stare at the text, not wanting to be caught in an endless loop of the same old bullshit.

You: Joel.

You: I’m sick of all this back and forth.

You: I'm sick of pretending that this isn't something.

Joel: I know. Joel: That’s what’s killin’ me.

A pause.

Joel: Can I call you?

Your phone starts ringing before you can reply.

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