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bingbongsupremacy · 3 days ago

Text

70 Years Apart

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Warning: Y/N use, swearing, rejection, ghosting

Summary: A one-night stand with Bucky before he leaves ends with you pregnant. You tell him what's going on. How will he respond?

*Not Proof Read*

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I didn’t mean for it to happen.

Not the party. Not the drinks. Not the way his eyes locked on mine through the haze of smoke and laughter like he already knew how I tasted. And definitely not the baby now growing inside me.

But it did.

That night in Brooklyn had been one of the last warm ones before autumn settled in, the kind that wrapped the air in a humid cloak and made every movement feel a little slower, a little heavier. I hadn’t planned on going out, but Clara insisted. She said we deserved one last hurrah before the world got darker and we had to prepare for college.

"He's leaving for war," she’d said. "Half the boys are. Might as well dance while we still can. Maybe we'll get lucky." She smirks while eyeing a group of boys leaning against the wall of the abandoned warehouse. The boys-most I've known growing up, are loudly chatting. Bucky Barnes is amongst them.

With liquid courage running through my veins, I asked him to dance. No fear of rejection. No worry. Just confidence. After all, this would likely be one of the last times I saw him for a while. Why not do what I've always wanted to do.

He said yes. Then we danced.

Bucky Barnes was smooth with a capital S, charming in that roguish, self-assured kind of way that made girls swoon and boys scowl. I’d only spoken to him a handful of times before that night — always in passing, always brief. A polite hello in the hallways, a helpful answer when one of us needed help with homework. A smile. A nod. Once, a quick compliment about my dress that made my cheeks go hot. Despite us going to school together all throughout middle and high school, I never really knew him. He had his friends. I had mine.

But that night? He saw me.

And I let him.

We drank. We laughed. We kissed behind a big tree lit by the moonlight. And before I could think twice, I let myself fall into something warm and reckless. It didn’t last long, just one night. We were never looking for anything serious. He was on his way to the war. I was on my way to school. It was one tangled, breathless memory.

Then he was gone. Not gone-gone, not yet. But gone from me. He’d said goodbye with a kiss to my hand the next morning and a promise that he’d write if I ever wanted to talk again.

I never wrote. I didn't need to.

Not until now.

Not until the little stick I bought from the corner pharmacy turned pink in both windows, and I sat down on my bathroom floor and stared at it in shock. I want to curl up and cry. I want to scream. This can't be happening. Not now, not when I had just began school

I don’t know him. He doesn't know me.

We're two strangers who, for one night, spent some time together.

I kept repeating that like it would change the facts. Like it would make the wave of nausea (part baby, part panic) fade from my throat. But it didn’t.

Now I’m here, at the base where he’s training, a dusty field of tents and shouting voices and trucks that roar like thunder. I clench the strap of my bag tighter against my shoulder and try not to bolt. My hands shake as I get closer.

A soldier points me in the right direction. I catch sight of him near the barracks, shirt half-unbuttoned, dog tags clinking against his chest, laughing at something one of his friends said.

He looks even better than I remember. That makes it worse.

I want to turn around and run to Clara, who's waiting in the car. Maybe come back another day. Or not. But I don't. I force myself to stay. “Bucky,” I call out, barely above a whisper.

My heart pounds against my chest.

He turns.

His eyes find mine in an instant, just like they did that night. His smile falters when he sees the worry behind mine.

“Y/N?” he says, confused but smiling. “Wow, I didn’t think I’d see you again. Not here. Why are you here?” He steps closer.

I try to smile but I can't. My worry is too powerful.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

His brows furrow. “Of course. Yeah. This way.” He nods toward a quieter area behind the mess hall. I follow, heart pounding, breath shallow.

He leans against a low wall and crosses his arms. He steadily holds my gaze. “You alright?”

“I… not really.” My voice is so small. I hate it. I don't want to tell him, but I have to. He deserves to know. So I rip the band-aid off. “I’m pregnant, Bucky.”

His face doesn’t change at first. He blinks once. Twice. Like the words haven’t quite landed.

Then they do.

“You’re...? And I’m...?” His voice cracks in a way that makes my stomach twist. “You’re sure it’s mine?” His eyes scan over my body, like he's looking for some sort of proof. His eyes land on my stomach which has not started showing yet.

I nod. “Yeah. It’s yours. I haven't been with anyone since...” That night.

He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. Damn.” I can see the thoughts racing through his head.

I look away and wait for it. The panic. The backpedaling. The "sorry, but I can't, you understand, right?" But it doesn’t come.

He looks back at me with something soft in his eyes. “Are you okay? How… how far along?”

“Almost two months.” I look back at him, surprised by his response.

“And you just found out?” His eyes flicker back to my stomach.

“I’ve known for a couple weeks,” I admit. “I just didn’t know how to tell you. Or if I should tell you. I mean, we don’t really know each other. And you’re about to go to war. This would be so much to add on to your plate. I don’t even know if—if you want anything to do with this.” I gently place a hand on my stomach.

Silence. A breeze kicks up, scattering dust across the ground between us.

“I want everything to do with it,” he says finally. His voice is low, steady. “With you. With the baby. I know we didn’t plan it — hell, we barely knew what we were doing, but I’m not the kind of guy who runs. I promise you that. I helped make it, and I'm going to help raise it.”

I look down. My hands are trembling. It's a relief. I should feel better. But I'm still scared.

He takes a step closer, reaching gently for one of them. “I’m scared, too,” he says. “I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen out there. But I do know this, I’m coming back. And when I do, I’m going to take care of you both.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” he says. His grip tightens, reassuring. “I’m saying it because it’s true. I’ve seen what war does. I know I might not get another shot at a real life if I don’t hold onto this. Hold onto you.”

“Bucky—” My throat catches on his name.

“I don’t know if I’ll be a good father,” he continues, “but I want to be. And if you’ll let me… I want to try.”

My heart shatters and knits itself back together in a single breath.

“I’d like that,” I whisper. This is going better than I thought.

He smiles, gentle and wide, and for a moment, it feels like maybe the world isn’t falling apart. Like maybe we’re allowed this — just this — before the storm comes.

He leans down, presses his forehead to mine.

“I’m coming back to you,” he murmurs. “No matter what. I promise.”

And I believe him.

God help me, I do.

----

When Bucky leaves we write to each other, almost every day. I give him updates and exciting news and try to keep his hopes up. He sends me beautiful poems and hopes for the future. Through these letters I get to know him, as he does me.

I learn his favorite color and food. What he likes to do in his spare time. He tells me about his best friend, Steve and his family.

I tell him about me.

Suddenly our relationship begins to change. We're not just some people brought together by a surprise baby. We're friends. We're close.

I look forward to reading his letters-to getting to know him more. My anxiety turns to excitement. My happiness turns to love. I began to fall in love with him, and I think he was falling for me too.

Then I got the letter.

Letter from Bucky Barnes

Postmarked: December 13, 1943

My dearest Y/N, I think about you every single day. That night in Brooklyn feels like a dream now, like something too warm and sweet to have been real, like a movie reel I can’t stop replaying in my head. You in that dress, laughing into your glass, your eyes sparkling in the moonlight. I remember every inch of you. And now I think of you with a hand on your stomach, feeling the tiniest flutter of the life we made together. I won’t pretend I’m not scared. Some days out here, the noise is so loud I can’t think straight. But your name grounds me. I whisper it under my breath when the bombs fall. I think of our child — our baby — and I remember why I need to come home. Why I fight. I want to be there when they take their first step. I want to teach them how to throw a baseball, how to tie their shoes. I want hear them learn to talk and laugh. If it’s a girl, I hope she has your eyes. If it’s a boy, I hope he laughs like you do, like sunshine cracking through clouds. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again. I’m heading somewhere dangerous, can’t say where. But please believe me when I say I’m fighting to come back to you. Every bullet I dodge, every breath I take out here, it’s for you. For the baby. You've given me something to look forward to, to fight for. And I will come home. I love you, Y/N. Yours always, Bucky

Three Weeks Later

Brooklyn, January 1944

The letter is folded neatly, worn at the creases from how many times I’ve read it. Sometimes I hold it against my chest, like I can press his words into my skin and make them stay.

Today I have it clutched in my hand as I waddle, yes, waddle, down the steps of my apartment, the cold air biting through my coat. I’m seven months now. The baby kicks stronger every day. It’s the only thing that reminds me that Bucky was real.

Clara is already standing at the end of the sidewalk, scarf wrapped tight, her eyes glassy. She doesn’t speak.

That’s when I know.

I stop walking. My breath clouds the air in front of me, and suddenly it feels too thick to breathe.

“Clara?” My voice is already shaking.

She walks up, slow and quiet. Reaches out like she’s scared to touch me.

“They came to my house,” she whispers. “Figured you wouldn’t want to be alone.” Her eyes confirm my fears. Sadness. Worry. Pity.

I blink. The world tilts. “No.”

“Y/N…”

“No, no. He said he’d come back.” My chest tightens. The baby kicks hard, as if they can feel the panic rising in me. “He promised, Clara. He promised me.”

“They said it was during a mission. He fell from a train — they couldn’t find a body.”

My heart pounds.

“No body?” My voice latches onto the words like a lifeline. “Then he’s not gone. He’s not. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he's lost and they just need to find him! Maybe—”

“Sweetheart—” Clara's voice cracks, emotion coming through.

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, voice sharp and foreign. “Don’t—don’t act like it’s over. He wouldn’t leave me like this. He promised, Clara. He promised me. He promised our baby.”

I press both hands to my belly, trying to ground myself in something real. But the world is cracking open around me. The sidewalk. The snow. The windows lined with frost. It’s all wrong. None of this is supposed to happen. He wrote me. He told me he loved me. He wanted this.

I sink to the steps, knees giving out. This isn't true. She's lying. She has to be. Bucky's going to be home soon. I know it. He has to be.

The letter slips from my fingers into the snow. I snatch it back, heart thudding, and cradle it like a lifeline.

“I’ll keep reading it,” I whisper. “Every day. Until he comes back.”

Clara kneels beside me, arms around my shaking shoulders, but I don’t cry. Not yet.

If I cry, it means I believe he’s really gone. And I’m not ready for that. I don't know if I'll ever be.

Not when I can still feel him in every heartbeat. Not when his baby is still kicking inside me. Not when his last words were a promise.

“I’m coming back to you.”

----

I should have listened to my instincts the night I woke to the sound of the window creaking open.

Brooklyn was never quiet, not truly. Someone's always out and about. But that night was too quiet. I remember the way my breath fogged in the cold winter air as I sat up, rubbing my swollen belly, half asleep.

The next thing I remember is the flash of metal. A deep rumbling voice.

A sharp sting to my neck.

The scream that never made it out of my throat.

My eyes shutting on the image of someone standing next to me.

When I woke again, it was under flickering fluorescent lights. My wrists were bound, cold steel cutting into my skin. There were voices, clipped, foreign. German. One of them said the word Versuchsperson.

Test subject.

I knew that word. My stomach lurched, and not from the baby shifting inside me. From fear.

Where am I?

They didn’t care that I was pregnant. They cared only about what my body could endure.

“If she survives, we can push the limits of cryostasis on vulnerable subjects,” one of the scientists murmured.

“She is carrying Barnes’ child,” another replied, clinical. “Genetic value. Possibly enhanced.”

“Not likely. She looks too far along to have conceived after the enhancement. It's most likely from before. ”

Enhanced? Bucky? What is going on?

No. No, no.

I thrashed as they wheeled me into the freezing chamber — the same kind I’d only ever heard whispers of. It's terrifying.

“Please,” I sobbed. “Please don’t do this. I’m pregnant. Please.” My shoulders shook from fear.

No one looked at me. No one stopped.

The fluid began rising. Cold seeped into my skin like needles.

“I have a baby,” I whispered, teeth chattering, as my body began to shut down. “Please-” I beg.

Everything went black.

-----

I woke to alarms and shouting.

My vision was blurry as I tried to adjust to what's going on.

Not the Hydra voices I’d heard when I went under. No, this time, it was English. American. Familiar.

Memories hit me like a freight train, shocking me as they all rushed back at once.

They cracked the glass, pried me out. My legs didn’t work. My body was limp, useless. But I was alive.

And the baby—

A stab of pain hit me before I could think. Pain worse than anything I could've imagined. My scream tore through the sterile air, and someone was shouting, “She’s in labor!”

I didn’t know what year it was. I didn’t know who these people were. But I knew I wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Any baby was on the way.

-----

I named him James.

Not for Bucky- not just for Bucky, but for the piece of him that lived inside our child. His eyes are exactly the same. The same shape, the same stormy color. Sometimes, when he laughs, my heart cracks open all over again.

We live in a small apartment SHIELD set up for us. Stark helped with the furniture, though I didn’t ask him to. Said it was the least he could do after “pulling an actual time traveler out of a Hydra tomb.”

The world is… impossible.

There are tiny computers in everyone’s pockets. Cars that drive themselves. Food that comes in boxes with instructions printed on plastic. I still flinch when doors open automatically. Things are very different.

SHIELD checks on us regularly. Mostly research. Blood draws, vitals, endless psychological evaluations. They’re studying me like I’m a relic. And maybe I am.

I try to keep James out of it, but they’re fascinated by him too. “Genetic goldmine,” I once overheard. I don’t let them take him anywhere without me.

He’s my whole world now.

I tell him stories about the 1940s. About jazz clubs and movie theaters with curtains. About his father, though I never have the words right.

How do you explain a love that bloomed and died in less than a week but left a scar that stretched across time?

----

I don’t expect to see him. Not today.

It’s just a standard check-up at the SHIELD facility — a few blood samples, a scan or two, a quiet nod from Dr. Cho saying I’m still stable, still alive, still miraculously whole. I’ve done this dance for years now, adjusting to a time seventy years ahead of the world I knew. Raising my son in a place that barely feels real, in a body that should’ve crumbled long ago.

James skips beside me down the hallway, holding my hand with sticky fingers, clutching his toy dinosaur in the other.

“Do you think Mr. Wilson will be there?” he asks, hopping every third step.

“If he is, no jumping on his wings this time, please.”

He giggles. “But I was gonna fly!”

I smile, brushing a hand through his hair. He’s grown so fast — not just taller, but louder, bolder, full of that same spark I used to see in the boy who once kissed me behind the big oak tree and whispered that everything would be okay.

My chest aches every time I think about it.

Bucky knew. He knew I was pregnant before he shipped out. I told him just a few days before his unit left. We cried, clung to each other, and made promises we were too young to fully understand. And then the letters stopped. The news came. Clara told me what she learned.

Sergeant James Barnes: Killed In Action.

I read the letter so many times that I have it memorized. I think about it often.

I never stopped loving him. Not for a moment.

But I learned to grieve him. To build something out of the pieces he left behind. I had to. My son needed me to.

And then today — today, the world tilts again.

We turn the corner into the medical wing, and I feel it before I see it, that sudden pull in my chest. A weight, a breath caught sideways in my ribs.

I freeze.

James tugs on my arm. “Mama?”

He follows my gaze, then goes quiet.

At the end of the hallway stands a man I once thought I’d never see again. Older. Sharper. His hair pulled back, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready for a fight.

He's similar, but at the same time, so different. His muscles are much larger than I remember. His arm, once flesh, now glimmers under the building lights.

Then he sees us.

And everything stops.

“Y/N?”

The voice is different, rougher, like gravel, but it shakes something loose in my soul.

My lips tremble. “Bucky?”

He stares, stunned. Like I’ve just stepped out of one of his dreams -or nightmares. His eyes shift, flickering to the child standing at my side.

I see the moment he realizes. His eyes widen in disbelief. His lips part, like he wants to say something but can't quite find the words.

His knees nearly give out.

James blinks up at him, head tilting in that curious, unfiltered way only a child can manage. “Mama, who’s that?”

My throat closes.

I kneel beside him, one hand on his back, the other over my heart.

“That’s your dad, sweetheart.”

Bucky makes a sound, something like a gasp, something broken.

“I knew,” he whispers. “I never forgot. You told me, and I—they told me you were taken, gone. Most likely dead.. That the baby was likely-”

“I thought you were dead,” I say, standing slowly, my hand reaching out. “They told me you were gone.”

“I was.” He steps closer. “They took me, Y/N. I didn’t even remember my own name for decades. But you-our baby...” His voice breaks. “You were real. The only thing that felt real.”

Tears blur my vision. “I kept him safe. I promised you I would.”

“I promised I’d come back,” he whispers, voice thick. “I didn’t know it would take seventy years.”

James moves closer, eyes wide and searching. “You wrote letters to Mommy,” he says solemnly, like it’s the most important fact in the world. He remembers my stories.

Bucky kneels in front of him, tentative. “Yeah, buddy. I did.”

James holds out his hand.

Bucky stares at it like it’s holy, then gently wraps his fingers around it, so tender, so careful.

I watch them-my son and the man I thought I’d lost forever, and something inside me begins to stitch itself back together.

“I didn’t expect this,” Bucky murmurs, looking up at me with tear-glassed eyes. “But I want it. All of it. If you’ll let me.”

“I already have,” I whisper. “I told you before, Bucky. I want you in our lives.”

And for the first time in seventy years, we’re not just surviving.

We’re starting over.

Together.

Our little family

106 notes · View notes

dragonridersandhighlords · 1 day ago

Note

As you have one-shot coming up, this idea could work as a long one shot or mini series.

Though I'm just halfway through Iron Flame and don't know how Xaden turns into a venin and of like rest of the fandom and Vi, as of now we don't know the cure for it too. I stumbled upon some 'venin-cure' theories and one of it inspired this idea so hear me out.

Ik Xaden turned into a venin for Violet. As per theories, if he can become one for his love, he has come into the realization and give up what he took (the direct power).

Finally the idea: the reader is actually pregnant. It's up to you if Xaden knew it earlier or not but maybe like idk they're in a war zone or whatever situation, he was going to kill somebody or whatever and at that moment reader faces Xaden. Telling him that she's not going to fight him, she let go of her dagger or sword, trying to remind him of himself, showing him his ring still on her finger. When she sees him calming down, she may take his hand and touch her barely visible (or visible) belly, begging him to let go of the power, reminding him that he's in control of himself, begging him to come to her and their baby.

So I got lost in the writing and made it an OC instead of x reader but it can still be read as a reader instert! That being said, please please please wait to read this until AFTER you've read Onyx Storm as I did use actual events in this!

⚠️MAJOR ONYX STORM SPOILERS AHEAD⚠️

What Love Left Behind | Xaden Riorson

Summary: In the wake of war and unexpected loss, Briar Veyloren–now Riorson–is left to lead Tyrrendor alone—pregnant, grieving, and haunted by the man she loves. Briar must navigate politics, power, and the whisper of hope that lingers in a mysterious letter. She learns that love may be the most dangerous weapon of all—and the only one worth wielding.

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x OC! Briar Veyloren

Notes: I included a couple theories that have been circulating. But seriously if you haven’t read Onyx Storm, you should before reading this.

Warnings: Onyx Storm spoilers, surprise pregnancy and concerns around maternal health, emotional distress and PTSD themes, implied past violence and death, mentions of planned death, war context and threat of battle, angst

Word Count: 6.5k

Masterlist | FW Masterlist

“Your Grace.”

The words echoed in my mind like a relentless drumbeat, each utterance threatening to send me over the edge. One month had passed since he vanished, leaving behind only a marriage certificate, a noble title, and an unexpected pregnancy. The last month spent poring over maps and sending out search parties, each return bringing nothing but disappointment. The latest team would be back any day now, but every second dragged on like a lifetime.

As the Duchess of Tyrrendor, I was trapped by my responsibilities, drowning in meetings and decisions that felt foreign to me. No longer just Briar Veyloren, I was now a figurehead, a woman expected to wield authority, yet all I wanted was a moment to breathe without the suffocating weight of my new title.

The next person who bowed low and addressed me as “Your Grace” just might find themselves on the receiving end of my very real frustration—and it's not my hormones talking.

“Briar? What are you doing?” Brennan’s voice cut through my thoughts, his brow furrowed with concern as he approached.

“Walking? Did you not just tell me I needed to be more active?” I shot back, rolling my eyes. At barely eleven weeks pregnant and not even showing, I felt more like a burden than a mother-to-be. Brennan’s worry was sweet, but it had become suffocating since he and Imogen had found me unconscious in the courtyard of Riorson House.

And let's be honest, my whole world feels suffocating without him.

“With someone! What if you tripped on any of the stairs between your room and here?” His voice was laced with the kind of earnestness that made me want to scream and laugh at the same time.

“Brennan,” I began, pinching the bridge of my nose, “I’m going to be honest with you for a minute, okay?” He nodded, earnestness replaced with curiosity. “I appreciate your concern, I really do. But if you lecture me again for walking through my own home, I will strangle you.” I raised an eyebrow, my expression daring him to argue.

Brennan's face shifted to one of understanding. I wasn’t just battling the challenges of my pregnancy or the burdens of my title—I was facing the reality that the one man I had trusted to stand by my side was missing, and with him, a part of my heart.

“Understood.” Brennan nods, his expression betraying a mixture of sympathy and concern, but I know this won’t be the last time I’ll have to remind him of my boundaries. “Garrick and Bodhi landed a few minutes ago; they’re in the Assembly Room waiting for you.” His words cut through my thoughts like a sharpened blade as I turn to continue my walk.

“And you waited to tell me that because?” I gasp, the weight of urgency pooling in my chest. The minute those two returned from their mission, I should have been the first to know.

“Sorry, Bree.” Brennan’s smile emerges, almost sheepish, as a chuckle escaped his lips at my reaction. “I’ll walk you down.” I eye him suspiciously, skepticism knitting my brow, but he’s quick with a rebuttal. “Merely because I’m a part of that meeting too, not because of what I said earlier, I swear.”

My laughter, albeit strained, breaks through the monotonous hum of everyday life in the halls, a sound that feels foreign yet welcome. It’s probably the brightest anyone has heard since his departure, a small glimpse of the woman I used to be, if only for a moment.

As we approach the grand double doors leading into the Assembly Room, Brennan leans forward, his hand resting lightly on the polished wood, a silent invitation. He swings the door open, and I step inside, the air suddenly thick with the weight of expectation. Instantly, all eyes turn towards me, the occupants standing with a blend of respect and trepidation as I walk through the threshold.

“What did I say about that shit?” I groan, exasperation lacing my tone as I stride to the opposite end of the throne, settling into one of the more ordinary chairs that line the table.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to sit on the throne, Your Grace?” Major Ulices Ferris’s voice cuts through the murmur of the room, sounding less like a suggestion and more like a command. I refrain from reacting, my gaze fixated on the imposing throne that looms across the table, a symbol of power that feels unlike something that's mine.

“It is the Duke’s throne, not mine.” My reply is curt, resolute, as I remain anchored in the chair I’ve chosen, fighting the sorrows that gnawed at me.

“You are the acting leader of Tyrrendor, Your Grace. The Duke is not–”

“If you tell me what to do in my own province again, Major, you will find that my temper is much, much shorter than his.” The words escape my lips like wildfire, a hand slamming onto the table with a resounding bang that silences the room. “If I do not wish to sit on the fucking throne, then I won’t.” Wide eyes are fixed on me, some filled with surprise, others masking concern, as I struggle against the tears that threaten to spill. “And the next person to call me ‘Your Grace’ will find their vocal cords ripped out.” I realize then, perhaps it is the hormones talking, because I never raise my voice or lash out but the frustration surging within me feels all too real.

A palpable silence envelops the Assembly Room, heavy and suffocating. The clatter of chairs scraping against the floor echoes like thunder as everyone hastily settles at the long, polished table. I take in the scene before me, trying to read the emotions etched on the faces of my advisors and comrades, but I find myself floundering. My dragon, Ríogh, had decided to block me from his power until my child arrives, severing the tether that usually grounds me in the whirlwind of feelings surrounding me. The air feels thick and stagnant, as if charged with unspoken fears and burdens, and I have no way to discern why.

The murmurs fade as the Assembly begins their weekly reports—information that should be routine yet now seems to hang like a dark cloud overhead. One by one, they share updates on the army's status, the progress of the riders’ and flyers’ classes—classes I should be attending, but the demands of governing Tyrrendor weigh heavily on my shoulders. The mention of Violet’s training under Felix pulls my attention momentarily, but I am drawn back to the map spread before me, its worn surface marked with notes and symbols that pulse with urgency.

“And the search?” My voice, low and steady, cuts through the air, my gaze still focused on the map as if the answers might leap off the parchment and reveal themselves to me. Hope is a fragile thing, and I’ve learned not to cling to it, especially during these grim reports. Two weeks of relentless despair in the beginning had left their mark, and I understood all too well the reason Ríogh had shielded me from his power.

“We arrived a day, if not a few hours, after the attack.” As Garrick's voice reaches me, a dagger suddenly plunges into the map, piercing the inked details with alarming accuracy. My hand hovers above the blade, a physical extension of my shock. “There were no signs of Venin or wyverns remaining in the area.”

“But we did find this, Briar.” Bodhi’s voice breaks through my daze as he slides a letter towards me, its wax seal glinting ominously in the dim light. I reach for it, my heart racing as I analyze the unfamiliar seal. Yet, it is the handwriting that sends a cold shiver racing down my spine, his handwriting.

“Where?” I manage to ask, the urgency in my tone rising as I set the unopened letter back on the table, a weight growing in my chest.

“Hung on the main gates of the city,” Bodhi replies softly, his gaze downcast as he sets the blade alongside the letter. “With this stabbed through the corner.”

My breath hitches, and I struggle to contain the emotion that threatens to spill over. One look at the familiar blade sends a sob escaping me, and I lift it trembling from the table, tracing the delicate carvings along its length—my initials, BV, just below the hilt, carved by by parents before my entry into the Rider's Quadrant. The leather wrapped around the hilt, added by him after he won the dagger from me during a challenge in my first year, brings an achingly familiar feeling. The weight of the dagger in my hand felt like a tether to a past I desperately wanted to cling to, yet the reality of its current context made my grip falter.

I was acutely aware of the bustling energy around me as my friends hastily ushered the Assembly leaders out of the room, their murmurs becoming a distant hum, barely piercing through the fog of my thoughts.

“He always carried this dagger,” I whispered, the words escaping in a broken whisper that was almost lost amidst the scuffle of chairs and the echo of hurried footsteps. My eyes remained fixed on the intricate carvings adorning the blade, but the simplest carving of my initials below the hilt that my parents had placed there. The worn leather, a reminder of him, that was added after he had won in a challenge.

Garrick’s voice broke through the haze, steady and firm. He spoke of the dagger’s significance, recounting tales of how it had become an extension of him. As I absently twisted the blade between my fingers, the familiar weight brought fleeting comfort, grounding me amidst the turmoil swirling around me.

Using the dagger, I carefully pressed the tip against the wax, the sharpness gliding through it with an ease that mirrored the memories flooding my mind. As the seal broke, I felt an exhilarating rush that felt eerily like both dread and anticipation. The letter now lay before me, a promise of answers that beckoned me closer, even as it threatened to unravel everything I thought I knew.

The world around me quieted. I could sense the worried glances of my friends, the weight of their expectations heavy on my shoulders. Yet, the only thing that mattered in that moment was the letter before me, a bridge between despair and hope.

As the last remnants of the wax fell away, the air shifted, thickening with tension as if the universe itself held its breath, waiting for me to unveil the secrets hidden within the paper. My fingers tremble slightly, and I could almost hear the heartbeat of Tyrrendor in the silence, a reminder of the stakes that lay beyond my personal anguish.

“Briar,” Bodhi’s voice penetrated my concentration, laced with worry. “What does it say?”

The question hung in the air like a charge, electrifying and daunting. I felt as though the answer would either condemn me or set me free. I inhaled deeply, my heart racing with the weight of anticipation.

Briar,

Can’t you ever listen to me?

Against all odds, I know you’ll make the right decision.

Leave your resources where you need them most.

Look where you least expect.

Don’t take this as a clue on where to find me.

You are Tyrrendor’s only hope.

Remember the good moments.

I trust you.

-X

“What does it say?” Bodhi asks again, leaning over my shoulder, his breath a warm whisper against my neck.

I carefully reread the letter, its words swirling in my mind like a chaotic tempest. “This makes no sense.” A heavy sigh escapes my lips, carrying the weight of despair that clings to me like a shroud. “Maybe he is too far gone.” The reality of the cryptic message settles in my chest like a stone, and I stand, tucking the letter into my pocket, the fabric of my clothes brushing against my skin, grounding me. I slide the dagger into its empty sheath, the familiar clink of metal against leather echoing in the silence around us.

“I’m going to watch flight maneuvers.” My voice is firm, a declaration against the unease that threatens to consume me.

“Briar—”

“Brennan, if you tell me I can’t go sit in a fucking field with my dragon and watch the cadets, I’m going to scream.” The softness in my voice belies the storm brewing within, and I don’t even turn to face him, my focus fixed on the door that leads outside.

“I was going to suggest taking a waterskin. It’s warmer today than it has been.” He sets a sturdy waterskin in my now outstretched hand, the leather cool and reassuring against my palm.

“I don’t want to be bothered while I’m out there. I just need some peace and quiet.” The words tumble out, a plea wrapped in frustration.

“Of course.” Garrick steps up beside me, his presence steady and calming. “We’ll handle everything.”

“We will?” Bodhi questions, and before I can reply, a grunt of pain escapes him, quickly followed by his reluctant agreement with Garrick.

I turn to face them, a small smile breaking through the cloud of anxiety that looms overhead. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Crash and burn?” Bodhi laughs, the lightness of his voice a balm to my frayed nerves, only to be silenced by Garrick’s elbow jabbing into his side.

I laugh at my friends' antics, the sound echoing through the Assembly Room, a momentary distraction from my turmoil. With a heart a touch lighter, I walk towards the exterior door, its wooden frame worn and familiar, leading me to the open path that winds toward the valley below.

As I begin the trek, the anticipation of watching the cadets fills me with a fleeting escape from the shadows that linger in my thoughts. After a bit of a walk, I finally arrive at the designated field, the vibrant hues of summer in Tyrrendor blooming around me, and there, nestled in the grass, I spot Violet curled up with Andarna, her laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves. My own dragon, Ríogh, stands sentinel beside them, an unmistakable warmth emanating from his scaled form.

“Hey Ríogh.” I smile at the sight of him, the bond we share a steady anchor amidst the storm.

“Feeling better, Little Foot?” His smirk dances through our connection, teasing and light-hearted.

“I’ve told you this before, just because your previous riders were all men does not mean I have small feet.” I pause mid-step, crossing my arms, my glare playful yet fierce, challenging him as the sun beams down on us.

“Oh, but it's so fun to rile you up. Even if the Mender had Marbh lecture me about being nice so you kept your blood pressure low.” Ríogh's voice cuts through my simmering irritation hangs heavily between us.

I release an annoyed sigh, feeling the weight of his words settle in my chest. My feet begin moving again, almost as if they’re propelled by sheer frustration. “I’m going to kill your brother,” I mutter, the declaration slipping from my lips as I pass by Violet, my stride purposeful and swift. I collapse onto the grass beside Ríogh’s massive head, leaning against his warm, scaled neck, seeking solace in his steadfast presence.

“What did he do this time?” Violet asks, laughter lacing her tone as her gaze remains glued to the pages of her book, the sunlight casting a golden glow over her hair.

“Lecturing me about walking alone, reminding me to grab a waterskin before I walked here, and apparently having his dragon lecture mine about my fucking blood pressure.” The words spill out of me, laced with exasperation. “I’m running a fucking province by myself while my husband—who I can’t even remember marrying—is fully Venin and apparently leaving cryptic letters at the cities he destroys now. My blood pressure hasn’t been normal in years.” My voice trembles with the weight of it all, each word a release of pent-up tension that has festered within me.

“Xaden left you a letter?” At the mention of his name, a sharp pang pierces my heart, each syllable feeling like a jagged blade. In the early days after his disappearance, the mere utterance of his name sent me spiraling into tears, raw grief threatening to consume me. Yet Violet never adhered to the unspoken rule her brother had set.

I pass the paper over to her when she sets her book aside, moving closer, her curiosity igniting a flicker of hope within me. She studies the words intently, her brow furrowing in concentration as she reads them over and over before finally speaking.

“Holy shit, it's an acrostic.”

“Acrostic?” The word feels foreign on my tongue, an enigma until it clicks. “Like a poem?”

“The first letters of each line spell a word or phrase.” As she hands the letter back, I analyze the words once more, and adrenaline surges through me. With newfound clarity, I leap to my feet, urgency propelling me forward.

“I know where they’re attacking next!” I shout, my voice echoing as I barrel through the doors of Riorson House, where Garrick, Bodhi, and Brennan still remain in the assembly room, their faces a mix of surprise and concern at my sudden arrival.

“Are you sure?” Aaric’s voice cuts through the tension, his brow furrowed with concern as he steps closer, the urgency of the moment hanging heavy in the air. I had sent for him the moment I returned, a spark of desperate hope igniting within me because if I was right, then a Prince of Navarre was urgently needed.

“Violet said it’s an acrostic,” I explain, my heart racing as I recall the words that had danced before my eyes like the flickering shadows of doubt. “Xaden has never written a poem in his life; that’s why it made no sense. He just needed to spell a word, not a whole message.” My hand trembles slightly as I hand the letter to Aaric, eager for him to see it with his own eyes. I spell it out, enunciating each letter clearly, “C-A-L-L-D-Y-R. He’s trying to tell us where to find them.” The hope in my voice feels fresh, like the first breath of spring air after a long winter, awakening a purpose within me that had been dormant.

“Briar, this is a stretch,” Garrick interjects, his skepticism evident as he pulls the paper from Aaric’s hands, the furrow in his brow deepening.

“I trust you,” I implore, my gaze locked onto Garrick’s, willing him to see the truth within my conviction. “It’s a code we came up with before he graduated.” My eyes are pleading, a silent plea to embrace this fragile thread of hope. “Sign off with ‘I love you’ if it’s just a letter. ��I trust you’ means there’s important info woven into the message.” The weight of my revelation hangs in the air, heavy and uncertain.

Every pair of eyes is fixed on me, the silence thickening as I break down the implications of his words.

Can’t you ever listen to me? He told me not to search for him in the note I was found with, but defiance had driven me to ignore his warning.

Against all odds, I know you’ll make the right decision. The decision to seek him out? To stand and fight instead of hiding behind the wards?

Leave your resources where you need them most. Aretia had ample defenses; between the riders and flyers we housed. The entire fleet wasn't needed here.

Look where you least expect. I’d never have imagined this—his clumsy attempt at poetry-- would be a desperate lifeline crafted in the dark.

Don’t take this as a clue on where to find me. I had never been good at listening to him.

You are Tyrrendor’s only hope. The echo of his words from after he first channeled resonated within me, a haunting reminder of what he was preparing me for.

Remember the good moments. He’d been sharing his plans during those fleeting, cherished instances, hints interwoven throughout our laughter and love, guiding me to this very moment.

“He laid it out for us.” The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, pressing down on my chest as I took in the skeptical expressions of my friends. I may not have been able to read emotions at this moment, but their faces told me everything I needed to know; doubt shadowed their brows, and disbelief flickered in their eyes. “Please, let me have this last bit of hope.” My voice cracked with desperation, and I felt as if I were grasping at threads of light in an encroaching darkness.

Bodhi, always the one with a heart so large it often outshone his doubts, was the first to break the tension that wrapped around us like a constricting serpent. “What’s the plan?” His tone was firm, a lifeline cast into turbulent waters.

“Aaric and the flyers leave today to prepare King Tauri for our arrival.” My mind raced, each word tumbling out like stones rolling down a hillside, gathering momentum. “The Dark Wielders have at least a three-day advantage on us. We leave a riot first-years along with a mix of second- and third-years and officers so Aretia is not defenseless.” My voice steadied, emboldened by purpose. “The rest of us leave for Calldyr City at dawn.”

“The rest of us? You are not going to battle in your condition.” Brennan’s protest cut through the air like a sharp blade, concern etched into his features. I could see the worry pooling in his eyes, a turbulent sea of emotions that mirrored my own.

“I’m pregnant, not dying!” My defense came out more forceful than intended, but the urgency of my plea propelled me forward. “If he’s there, then I have to see him. At a minimum, he deserves to hear the news from me.” A gentle hand rested over my stomach, a silent promise of the life that blossomed within me. I watched as my friends exchanged glances, their expressions softening ever so slightly, an understanding threading through the tension.

“If you need to, assign people to defend me, but I have to talk to him. If he’s truly gone, I’ll drive the knife in myself.” The words tasted bitter, yet they felt liberating, a catharsis of intent.

They looked between each other, silent deliberation flickering in their eyes before nodding in unison.

“Fine,” Brennan agreed, the weight of his acceptance settling around us like a comforting cloak.

“The minute we tell you to run, you better be on Ríogh’s back and gone,” Garrick warned, his expression fierce and protective. I nodded, resolving the hardening in my chest.

“Thank you.” My heart swelled with gratitude, a flicker of hope igniting within me, illuminating the path ahead.

The flight was interminable, each beat of Ríogh's powerful wings echoing the urgency that thrummed through my veins. My back ached from the prolonged strain of clinging to his scaled form, the chill of the wind biting through my cloak.Had Aaric not successfully persuade his father to trust me, the kingdom might have been plunged into chaos with an untested ruler on the throne.

As we soared through the sky, a heavy pall hung over us, the dragons sensing the approach of the Dark Wielders with an eerie intuition that prickled at my skin. It hadn’t been long since my arrival, yet already the atmosphere crackled with tension. Instead of convening with King Tauri to strategize, an urgent edict had been issued: protect the city at all costs. High above, with Garrick, Bodhi, Brennan, and Violet by my side, we hovered, scanning the horizon for any sign of him.

I was taken aback when we left to see Tairn willingly alongside us, his massive wings cutting through the air with a grace that belied his size. Violet had shared with me the heart-wrenching news of his bond with Sgaeyl fracturing during my lost twelve hours, and my heart ached for the dragons, their shared pain palpable even at this distance. Tairn, who had not been seen for weeks, now glided silently, his sorrow evident in every powerful stroke of his wings.

Suddenly, Ríogh’s voice broke through my reverie. “Sgaeyl nears.” The words resonated with urgency, and I turned to Violet, who nodded in understanding.

Moments later, the majestic navy blue silhouette of Sgaeyl emerged from the clouds, a dark shadow against the sunlit sky, but there was something unsettling about her presence—she bore no rider.

“Tell her I need to speak to him,” I urged Ríogh, my heart pounding as Sgaeyl approached us with a grace that felt both regal and mournful. Ríogh scoffed at my command.

I felt the connection between Sgaeyl and Tairn, a profound sadness swirling in the air around them. Gathering my resolve, I broke tradition and shouted, “Tell the Duke his Duchess requires an audience.”

After a tense moment, Ríogh relayed her message. Violet and I were to follow, the others had to keep their distance.

“Tell the others, and don’t lose her, please,” I instructed, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside me. As Ríogh and Tairn took the lead, I felt a strange calm wash over me, a stillness amidst the chaos that enveloped Calldyr City.

We descended into a tranquil field to the east, the sound of battle faintly echoing from the city, contrasting sharply with the peaceful serenity of our surroundings.

“Briar,” Violet called, pointing ahead. When my feet met the earth, I looked ahead. There, standing before Sgaeyl, was him.

“Stay here, be ready in case this goes wrong,” I instructed Violet firmly, but my heart raced with hope and trepidation. Ríogh's growl vibrated beside me as I began my approach. “He won’t hurt me,” I reassured him, though his huff conveyed his doubts.

“Quiet the venue for a meeting, Your Grace.” His voice sliced through the heavy air, resonating with authority yet laced with a fragility that echoed the distance between us. I halted mid-step, the tension thick as I stood roughly ten feet from him, yet I could feel the magnetic pull towards Ríogh, who fidgeted behind me, his wings slightly unfurling as if sensing the charged atmosphere.

“You’re a hard man to nail down, Your Grace.” I matched his tone, defiance cloaking my emotions like a shield, even as I took in the sight of him.

My heart ached, and I fought to mask the tumult within. The man who stood before me was a shadow of the one I had known. The once-familiar onyx depths of his eyes now held a tempest of turmoil, rimmed in red, and deep red veins at his temples. The only trace of familiarity was the intricate relic winding up his left arm and creeping over his neck. But the moment he stood before me, my heart betrayed me, skipping a beat at the sheer presence of him.

“Xaden,” I breathed, the name falling from my lips like a tender sigh.

“You shouldn’t have come, my stillpoint.” His voice was devoid of the softness that once enveloped our conversations, each word striking me like a knife to the chest. I steeled myself against the ache of familiarity that felt foreign now, a haunting reminder of the love that felt so distant.

“I had to see you—needed to see you. Considering I don’t remember our last moments together.” The words slipped out, edged with a growl that I could not suppress. “Including our wedding.” I watched him flinch, the shadow of pain flickering across his face.

“It was for the best.” His response was hollow, a sentiment that did little to assuage the storm raging within me.

I took a step closer, determined to bridge the chasm between us. “Why’d you turn?” I demanded, the question a relentless echo in my mind since that fateful night.

“It's what I had to do.” His voice was strained, and the weight of it hung heavy in the air.

“Why?” I pressed, the urgency in my voice flaring.

“Briar!” Bodhi’s warning cut through the tension, but I paid it no mind.

“Little Foot.”

“You told me once that your love for me was strong enough to keep you from channeling,” I said, taking another step forward, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope. “But something else was stronger that night.” I drew nearer, driven by an inexplicable need to understand. “What drove you to channel?”

“They were going to hurt Sgaeyl.” The admission fell from his lips, raw and broken, a lament that shattered the fragile moment. “I wasn’t going to let someone else I love get hurt for being connected to me.”

I nodded, allowing the weight of his words to settle in. His love for me had once kept him off the ice, but in an instant, it was his love for Sgaeyl that had broken the ice below his feet. Understanding flickered like a candle in the wind, and with each heartbeat, the threads weaved together, drawing me inexorably closer.

His love had been the driving force each time he channeled, a tempestuous tide that surged through him in moments of desperation.

At Basgiath, because the sage had threatened me.

In my room, because he lost control when with me, leaving greyed fingerprints that still littered my hips.

Beyond the wards, because Garrick the wyvern were surrounding Garrick.

In Deverelli, when Courtlyn’s guards had turned their murderous sights on me.

When the venin were after Sgaeyl.

If his love was strong enough to drive him to channel, then could it also be the anchor that brought him back?

“The only time I will ever love someone more than you is if we get the chance to start a family.”

Those words echoed in my mind, a haunting reminder of the future we once envisioned together. He had spoken them with a weight while he was subtly preparing me for a time when I would need to kill him, should he lose control.

“I’m a lost cause, Bree,” he laments, an air of resignation clouding his features. “Against all odds, I know you’ll make the right decision.”

I paused, my heart pounding as realization washed over me. The ink of his letter still fresh in my mind, I understood at that moment that he had anticipated my arrival. This conversation, laden with unshed tears and unspoken goodbyes, was not a mere coincidence. It was a final chance to see me.

I will not let this be that moment.

“Can I tell you something?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, yet laced with determination. A soft smile broke through the anguish as I drew my dagger from the sheath, its familiar weight grounding me in a chaotic storm of emotion. Recognition flickered in his eyes when he saw the blade—the one he had left for me, a symbol of our intertwined fates.

“Anything,” he breathed, the vulnerability in his tone echoing the tempest within.

“I know you can fight it, the venin side of you.” Though he opened his mouth to protest, I pressed on. “Everything you’ve ever done was for love. For me, for Garrick, for Sgaeyl. Your love for those close to you was enough to break the ice from under you. So let a new love be enough to make you swim.” I reached for his hand, my heart thudding in the silence that enveloped us. He flinched at my touch, but miraculously, he did not pull away.

“Briar!” Brennan’s voice pierced the haze of urgency surrounding us. I glanced down at Xaden’s hand, instinctively placing it over the almost imperceptible bump that was our future.

“Swim for the life we created, please,” I implored, my voice trembling as I saw the flicker of understanding ignite within his stormy gaze. “I know you’re still in there, deep down, Xaden.” Each word felt like a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters, hope anchoring my desperate plea. “If you can’t come back for me,” I felt the sting of tears threatening to spill, the weight of our love heavy in the air, “come back for our child, who deserves to grow up with their father.”

In an agonizing moment, he pulled his hand away, and I watched as the red veins, once pulsating with venomous fury, began to fade like mist at dawn. Xaden collapsed to his knees, fingers clawing into the earth, as if seeking refuge in the very ground beneath him.

“Back away, Little Foot.” Ríogh’s warning was accompanied by a fierce gust of wind, Sgaeyl launching into the air. But my eyes remained fixed on Xaden, his anguish palpable as the soil around his hands lost its color, wilting under the weight of his struggle. I instinctively retreated, the dagger slipping back into its sheath as I stumbled backward, my heart pounding.

Suddenly, a sturdy form blocked my path. Garrick’s arms encircled me protectively, but panic surged through me, propelling my feet forward just as the circle ceased expanding, a scream tearing through Xaden’s lips—a sound that reverberated with raw, unfiltered emotion.

“You need to go, Briar,” Garrick urged, his voice a mixture of fear and insistence as he attempted to guide me toward Ríogh. Yet, I stood firm, rooted to the spot.

“Wait.” My voice cut through the air, defiant.

“You promised—”

“Just wait!” I shouted, breaking free from his hold, my resolve solidified as I approached the very edge of the circle. Xaden’s screams morphed, a shift from frustration to fierce determination. I could see him lifting his head, and through the veil of tears, I caught a glimpse of what lay beneath—the onyx eyes now flecked with gold, igniting a spark of recognition in my chest.

It was my Xaden staring back at me.

As the circle began to shrink, color returned to the desaturated landscape, and instinct took over, guiding me back to him.

“The little one says she senses no darkness in him. I’m inclined to agree,” Ríogh’s voice broke through, a beacon of hope as I drew closer.

“You’re saying my absolutely insane idea to put mine and the baby’s lives on the line by touching a venin actually worked?” I laughed, disbelief mingling with relief coursing through the bond between us.

“Sgaeyl thanks you for saving her rider,” came the response, and I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Xay?” I called softly, my voice trembling with the rush of emotions that flooded through me. Standing at arm's length, I could see the myriad of emotions flickering across his face like shadows dancing in the twilight. His eyes met mine with a deep intensity, shining with the remnants of the man I had fought so hard to save.

“How’d you know it would work?” His voice was shaky, a fragile thread woven with uncertainty. I caught sight of his hands, trembling ever so slightly, surely because of Sgaeyl's hesitation to let him tap into her magic for fear of him slipping.

“I didn’t,” I admitted, the truth spilling from my lips like a breath of wind. My heart raced, both from the thrill of his return and the perilous gamble I had taken.

“That was insanely dangerous, Your Grace.” His chastisement cut through the tension, but the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth contradicted the gravity of his words. Thank you for saving me.

“I really hate being called that.” A laugh escaped me, light and buoyant, as I reached out to cup his face, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath my fingertips—a small, grounding detail that reminded me of who he truly was.

“Then what should I call you? Duchess? Mrs. Riorson? My savior?” His voice held a teasing lilt as he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer, the warmth of his body enveloping me like a protective cocoon.

“Your wife will do just fine.” Relief coursed through me, mingling with joy I thought I had forgotten. I searched his eyes, yearning for confirmation, and finding it—an unwavering promise. “No urges?”

“None, my beautiful wife.” With that, our lips met in a passionate kiss, a moment suspended in time. As I melted into him, I prayed to the gods that he would never let me go.

But just as the world around us faded into a blissful oblivion, a throat cleared behind us, pulling us back into reality. Turning to see our friends gathered, I felt a tinge of embarrassment sweep through me.

“You’re not going to kill us, right?” Garrick asked, his voice laced with wariness as he remained a cautious distance away.

“Because I’m venin? No.” Xaden chuckled, releasing me from his embrace to pull Garrick into a hearty hug. A sense of camaraderie filled the air as he moved on to his cousin, laughter easing the tension in our group. “For bringing my pregnant wife to a battle? Definitely.”

“Technically, the Duchess brought us into battle,” Bodhi interjected, a smirk lighting up his features. “Rank is a fickle thing in this world, especially considering she’s still a cadet yet somehow out ranks Brennan.”

“I did try to stop her regardless,” Brennan defended, his eyes revealing the weight he carried of having to contend with me but he smiled nonetheless.

Xaden's laughter rang out again, and it warmed my chest, igniting a flicker of hope amidst the chaos.

“She’s never listened to anything I’ve ever told her.” With a playful shove, I pushed my husband away, but his hand caught my waist, pulling us back together. He pressed another kiss to my lips, sealing the moment with an electric spark that ignited my heart.

Violet broke through the haze of our shared bliss, her voice sharp and steady amidst the charged atmosphere. “As sweet as this is, we do have an entire city under attack.” Her words hung heavily in the air.

Xaden muttered into the kiss, his breath warm against my lips, “Go back to Aretia.”

The protest slipped from my mouth like a child’s plea, raw and desperate. “I won’t leave you.” My fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt, the coarse material grounding me in this moment that felt both infinite and fleeting. I felt his shadows swirling around me, a tender yet protective caress that ignited in my chest. I leaned further into him, craving the solidity of his presence, already missing everything about this moment, as if it were sand slipping through my fingers.

“I will return to you as soon as I gut the Sage like a fish.” A smirk played on his lips, a flicker of mischief that danced in his stormy eyes. “I have a new reason to end this war, and something tells me it’s going to stick.”

“Come home to me.” My voice, tinged with urgency, turned into a command, a plea wrapped in iron resolve. “Don’t make me a widow before I can experience married life.”

“Are you saying that as my wife or as the Duchess of Tyrrendor?” he asked, his brow arching, a challenge mingled with affection.

“Both. Never different people with each other, remember?” I pulled on the words he had spoken after he received his title back.

“I love you, my wife.”

“I love you, my husband.”

I thought of an entire series for after this so if you would like to see more of what I'm calling The Aretian Chronicles, please let me know! I'll make a post of details and a poll if there is interest!

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eldritch-spouse · 2 days ago

Note

“Let go of me!” A giddy concubus is fondling and dragging you to god knows where. You look around for someone to save you and you lock eyes with a fluffy haired succubus “Please help me!”

[Fast forwarding a little.]

TW: Implied previous sexual assault

" GET AWAY FROM ME- "

The noise that came out of your mouth wasn't so much screaming as it was more the high-pitched bleating of an animal cornered by a starved wolf. Knowing that its only chance of survival is to hopefully be loud enough to scare away certain death.

Between the violent shaking and the blood ringing in your ears, it's difficult to even see who was in front of you right now. You can hardly breathe past a clamped windpipe.

" .... 's okay, please.... I know... gone... "

The voice seems feminine, soft. You can feel her presence right before you, a looming body casting a suffocating shadow. Her stature, her power, you're going to die today. In this shitty dingy little alley dirtier than a seeping trashcan-

If not by the first one that laid his hands upon you, then by the demoness that rent him apart before your very own eyes.

Nowhere is safe.

None of this was meant to happen, you just got lost, you just wanted to find your way back, you just wanted it to stop-

" Hey! "

Of all the ends you could possibly meet, to become just another lost soul in the bowels of Hell-

" Wake up! "

Speaking of soul- Yours damn near jumps off your body.

Firm, warm hands grasp the sides of your face. You attempt to look up at the demon, but all you feel is the wetness in said hands, the stench of metal, the way it marks you.

It seems to burn against your very skin, making you whimper and retract desperately.

" Shit- I'm sorry, baby. "

When repeated patting sounds, you assume the monster woman is wiping away blood.

She tries again, this time grasping your arms, attempting to uncoil them from their protective stance around your midsection and chest.

" Please, please talk to me. We can't stay here long, okay. Look at me. "

It's hard to.

The pounding in your ears has yet to quiet down, moving feels impossible. Reddened eyes track the demon in front of you.

This scantily clad woman with a gray-ish skin and white, fluffy accessories. Well, they used to be white, now drenched in a vivid crimson. You hear the cattle bell around her neck rattle past all the noise and slowly cast your gaze upwards, meeting long lashes around vibrant turquoise eyes.

A succubus, this can only be another concubus.

Although her expression carries great worry, all you can see is yet another assailant ready to take what they want. Someone else who's going to put their dirty hands on you. She killed the incubus harassing you, but is she any more worthy of your trust? For all you know, she wants you for herself.

Reminded of the power their eyes hold, you inhale and bore holes into the stained floor.

" My name is Lemoana. Moana, if you want. Can you tell me your name, baby? "

Clawed thumbs ever so gently try to rub the tension off your trembling hands. They feel soft, she looks soft.

You squeak the truth under your breath, hoping to appease her, willing to do anything to come out of this alive.

Her next question is softer, more serious.

" ... Did you come to Lust willingly? "

It's too much.

The shame, the fear, the disgust- You burst out wailing, suddenly clinging to the very succubus in front of you, clawing at her just to be sure that she can keep you safe.

Who cares if she'll put you through something worse later? None of that seems to matter now.

Hopelessly, desperately, you want to believe Lemoana massacred that incubus because there's an inkling of good in her. You want to believe that she's here to help, to protect someone like you- Defenseless and miserable.

" Fuck... Poor girl. It's okay. "

The succubus' embrace is comforting, though such comes as no surprise. She pats your back lovingly and tucks your sticky, puffed face into the crook of her neck, where her droopy horns and fluffed hood shield you from the world.

It's unclear how much time passes with the demoness simply kneeling before you, allowing you to sob and sniffle like a baby.

" ... Better? Can I take you home with me, sweetheart? You need a shower, something to eat. Me and the girls can help you figure things out later. "

The noise you make against the woman's shoulder is more of a reactive mumble than anything.

She stands slowly, pulling you along. You refuse to take your head off her front.

" No one will bother you ever again. Not when I'm here. "

You couldn't see the toothy grin on her face.

Perhaps it's for the best.

#demon girlfriendss #tce rp ask

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hyunniesamericano · 20 hours ago

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Wet wispers

Pairing :Hyunjin x fem!Reader

Genre:smut

Word count:2.2k

Warnings:18+ only / NSFW, oral (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (be safe irl),soft dom!Hyunjin, praise, whispered dirty talk, wet sounds.

Summary:It was just another quiet Friday night—until Hyunjin brought out a mic he’d never used and an idea he couldn’t ignore.Soft touches turned into softer moans, and suddenly the room wasn’t so quiet anymore.Because some sounds are too precious to forget... and he plans to keep every single one.

A/n : Wrote this in pieces ‘cause I kept losing my mind—enjoy. Sorry cuties — changed the title ‘cause I’m indecisive like that:(previous title- sound of sex)

The glow of the TV flickered faintly across the living room, casting soft shadows over your entwined legs on the couch. Hyunjin's arm was lazily draped around your shoulders, fingertips brushing up and down your arm in slow, idle strokes as the ASMR video whispered through the speakers.

It had become a little Friday ritual that you had made—dinner, drinks, and then falling into this quiet, tingly comfort of headphone-free ASMR videos on the screen. Sometimes it was cooking, sometimes tapping, sometimes just breathy voices telling nonsensical stories—but for some reason, it relaxed you both. More than that, it connected you.

"She’s literally just brushing a fake scalp and I’m...so into it," you murmured, eyes half-lidded as you leaned into Hyunjin’s chest.

He chuckled, low and warm. “You’re into everything when it’s whispered.”

You turned to look up at him with a teasing pout. “Says you. Weren’t you the one who borrowed an ASMR mic from Felix ‘just to see what it was like’?"

His eyes widened in mock betrayal. “That was a curious artistic decision!”

You giggled, hiding your face in his hoodie, inhaling his scent—clean soap, a hint of cologne, and the lazy heat of his skin.

But then something changed in his posture. Hyunjin suddenly sat up straighter, eyes blinking like he’d just solved a puzzle. His lips parted. “Wait—wait. Wait a second.” He gasped, barely audible.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He turned to you slowly, that gleam in his eyes growing mischievous. “What if we... made our own ASMR?”

Your brows furrowed, your voice soft but skeptical. “Like... you brushing my hair or something?"

“No,” he whispered, leaning closer, lips grazing your ear. “Like... fucking you.”

You froze. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m serious,” he said, already getting up. “Wait—don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

You watched him dart off toward the bedroom, bare feet padding over the floor with urgency. “What are you even—”But he was gone before you could finish, muttering something about “It’s in the drawer under the sketchbooks.”

A minute later, he returned—eyes sparkling, cheeks slightly flushed—with a small black mic in hand. You recognized it immediately: the fancy, sensitive ASMR mic he’d swiped from Felix a while ago, never really used for anything... until now.

He held it like it was a precious artifact. “I knew I kept this for a reason.”

You raised a brow, half amused, half turned on by how into it he looked. “Hyunjin. What the hell gave you this idea?”

He looked at you then—really looked. Soft, sincere. “Because... I want to keep it. The sounds. You.” He swallowed. “For when you’re not here. I need something to keep me sane when I miss you.”

Your heart did a slow, heavy flip.He wasn’t smiling anymore. His expression had shifted—dark with want, but still somehow vulnerable. Honest.“You want to record us... fucking quietly?” you asked, barely breathing.

He nodded, already crouching to set the mic on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Exactly. Like an ASMR session. No screaming. No rough slaps. Just soft moans, whispered filth, and every little sound your body makes for me.” His gaze flickered to yours. “Can you do that for me, baby?”

You nodded. You didn’t even have to think.

Hyunjin worked quickly, attaching the mic to the stand, adjusting it with care, then connecting it to his phone via a small adapter. You could hear the soft crackle of static as he tapped it once, checking the input.

He pulled his hoodie over his head, revealing toned muscles and that lean, inked body that never failed to leave you breathless. He didn’t rush—Hyunjin never rushed. His fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, eyes locked on yours as he pushed it up inch by inch, revealing skin to the quiet room and the mic’s hungry ears. His touch was warm, reverent, almost teasing.

He helped you sit up just enough to lift it off completely, tossing it aside without a glance. His hands roamed over your now-bare waist before they slid lower, hooking into the waistband of your shorts. You lifted your hips instinctively, letting him peel them down slowly, panties sliding with them. He kissed the inside of your thigh on the way back up, then settled over you, knees on either side of your thighs, lips brushing your neck as his fingers traced lazy lines along your waist.

The soft red light from the mic’s base glowed between you, already recording.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath against your ear. “This… this is what I want to hear later. Just us.”

Your chest rose and fell a little quicker, anticipation pooling low in your stomach. He pressed a kiss just under your jaw, then one to your collarbone, lingering there like he could taste the anticipation in your skin. His fingers found their way between your thighs, slow and patient, drawing soft sounds from you—breathless little whimpers that made the mic light flicker subtly.

Hyunjin inhaled shakily through his nose, lips brushing your skin as he moved. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.He knew exactly how he wanted the audio to sound—only the softest gasps, the wet glide of skin against skin, the subtle rhythm of breath. And it felt like his personal mission to keep it perfect. Every time your moans started rising, just a little too loud, he caught them with his mouth—kissing over your lips, your shoulder, your throat—his tongue slow, warm, patient.

You felt his cock twitch against your thigh as you whimpered, and he whispered, “That’s it… that’s perfect,” like he was praising both your body and the sound it made.He never once asked you to be quiet. He just… made you melt quieter.

Your breath hitched as he started to trail kisses lower—slow, open-mouthed, lingering ones pressed to the center of your chest, your stomach, the soft dip of your hips. His hands followed the path of his mouth, gliding down your sides, mapping you with his fingertips like he was memorizing the shape of your desire.

By the time he reached your thighs, you were already trembling. He settled between them like it was his rightful place, pressing a kiss to the sensitive inside of your knee before nudging your legs further apart.

Then finally, he leaned in and captured your clit between his lips—slow, wet, and deliberate. One of his hands gripped your thigh to keep you grounded, the other slipping between your folds, fingers sliding in with a sinful ease.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, slow and gentle, tugging just enough to tell him you were getting close. He felt it in the way your hips started to shift against his mouth, in the shaky rhythm of your breaths. But still, he didn’t speed up. He deepened—tongue circling your clit with slow, purposeful strokes, two fingers curling inside you at just the right angle, stroking that spot over and over until your back arched off the couch.

The mic blinked steadily, faithfully recording every wet, whispered second.

You whined—a quiet, aching sound—and he pressed his tongue flat against your clit, dragging it upward with a low hum that made your thighs twitch around his head.

"That's it," he whispered against you, voice so soft it barely touched the air. “Let me feel it. Let them hear how sweet you are for me.”

And then, with one more curl of his fingers—just right—you tumbled over the edge, a breathy moan slipping out as your walls fluttered around him. Hyunjin didn’t stop. He eased you through it, licking you slow and steady, groaning quietly at how you pulsed on his fingers.

When he finally pulled back, lips and chin glistening, he crawled back up over your body, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips."You’re so good for me," he murmured against your mouth, his hand smoothing over your waist. "Think you're ready for more?"

You nodded, still catching your breath, already spreading your legs again for him.

He chuckled softly, rubbing himself through his sweats, the shape of his cock thick and obvious. "You don’t know how hard it was... staying quiet. Listening to you fall apart like that."

He pushed his sweats and boxers down just enough to free himself, the tip already wet, flushed, twitching with need. He didn’t move quickly. He lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your release, letting the mic catch every wet, gliding sound.And then—finally—he eased in, inch by slow inch, pressing into you with a low, trembling exhale.

Your head tipped back again, lips parting in a moan, and he leaned down immediately to kiss it away. “Shh…” he whispered against your mouth. “I want to hear you. Just soft. Just ours.”

He began to move—slow, deep thrusts that filled you completely, hips rolling in a rhythm made to tease. Every shift of his body was audible in the space between you—the creak of the couch, the quiet slap of skin, your gasps when he hit the right spot.

And Hyunjin was in awe. Of you. Of the soundscape they were making. Of the way you clenched around him every time he whispered your name like a prayer.“Perfect,” he whispered again, as if to the mic, to you, to himself. “Fucking perfect.”

You were already trembling beneath him, your body sensitive and open, every soft thrust drawing out more breathy moans that curled right into the mic like a secret. Hyunjin couldn’t take his eyes off you—your parted lips, your fluttering lashes, the way your fingers gripped his biceps each time he bottomed out slow and deep.

He was trying to stay composed, he really was. But the way your body wrapped around him, warm and slick, made his breath hitch in the back of his throat.And the sound of it—god, the sound.

The mic caught every soft gasp, every wet drag of his cock inside you, the barely-there slap of skin. It wasn’t pornographic—it was intimate. Personal. Like an erotic lullaby meant for no one else.

Hyunjin dropped his forehead to yours, keeping the rhythm steady as he whispered, “You hear that, baby?” His hips rolled a little deeper, earning a shaky moan from you. “That’s what I wanted. Just this. Just us.”

Your hand slid over his ribs, your nails leaving faint lines down his back. “You sound…” you whispered, barely able to speak, “you sound so desperate.”

He chuckled softly, breath catching on the tail end. “I am, baby. Can’t you feel it?”

He shifted, drawing your legs higher until your knees were nearly at your chest, opening you up completely for him. The change in angle made you choke on a moan, and he kissed it off your lips, groaning against your mouth as your walls fluttered around him.“This angle,” he muttered, voice low and raspy, “makes the prettiest sounds. Listen…”

He thrust again—slow and hard—just once, and both of you let out a sound at the same time. A perfect mix of whimper and groan, captured right in the mic’s range.

You clung to him, breathless, nearly overwhelmed by the pressure building inside you again. And Hyunjin felt it—felt the way your body started to tremble, the way your nails dug in, the way your moans turned into quiet, helpless mewls.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, lips brushing your temple. “I’ll be right there with you.”

And you did.You fell apart with a soft, high moan, your entire body arching into him as you clenched around his cock. Hyunjin’s thrusts faltered, his breath catching in your ear as he whispered your name like it was the only word he knew.

He held you through it—his pace stuttering, cock twitching as your climax dragged him under with you. A deep groan left his throat, hushed only by the kiss he sealed over your mouth as he spilled inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The room buzzed with soft breaths, the mic’s light still flickering.Hyunjin leaned in, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “You were perfect,” he murmured. “I mean it. Every sound. Every second.”

You smiled sleepily, running a hand down his back. “So… you’re keeping that file, huh?”

He stayed there, breath mingling with yours, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “That wasn’t just for the audio,” he whispered. “That was for me… to remember how you sound when you’re mine.”

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missmisnomer · 11 hours ago

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Just encountered something that made me so viscerally mad I had to stop everything I was doing and scream about it into the void (you are the void, tumblr, thank you for your time)

Ever seen that little test tube icon at the top of your Google search? That's Search Labs.

This led me to reading about all the "experiments" they have going on and OH BOY, this is the one that got me mad enough to actually leave feedback (bear in mind I like NEVER leave comments or reviews on things so you know it's bad)

Of all the "experiments" they are launching with their Search Labs, this one is the most egregiously transparent attempt to capitalize on the human brain's superiority over a computer's.

I see what they are doing.

"Look at these auto generated images and try your best to tell us what you think the original prompt is! Teehee, isn't this a fun test? Don't you want to have fun?? Play our game, uwu".

This is about as blatant as you can get: they want to train their Ai to get better at generating its frankly often garbage results by using real people to tell it how it could have done better.

My guess as to why Google is even doing this: ◽️Let’s say you use of one of Google's programs to generate an image based on your own personal written prompt (I know YOU wouldn't, fair tumblr user, but stay with me here)

◽️You are subsequently frustrated at the slop Google generated for you, and select a button that says something along the lines of "I am not satisfied with this result".

◽️This auto-triggers something on Google's end, which I assume captures this response along with the image it is attached to.

◽️Now, they can put that picture in front of thousands of unwitting people who can tell Google EXACTLY what "prompt" they associate with that image instead. Exactly the words that it SHOULD be tagged with.

These pieces of ai "art" are NOT good, let me make that clear. What financial benefit would Google have to present a panel of testers with perfectly generated images? To make this game in the first place? The only way ai can advance is when humans tell it what it did wrong. Because the computer doesn't fucking know what a raven vs a writing-desk is. It needs us to give it the words to think. Poor baby gets confused when we are vague. :(

All this under the guise of a cutesy little "test". A "game".

This is not fun, and it is extremely scummy. Do better Google. Be better. I'm attaching some screenshots of the first "level" so you too can enjoy the art of prompting!!! (she says with so much dry sarcasm the Deserts of Arrakis spontaneously turn into an ocean)

And to have the audacity to show the actual real pieces of art made by real artists that they trained this stupid machine with. Fuck entirely off.

#as an artist this makes me absolutely furious and i hope you are as well #its the assumption that we aren't smart enough to see through the ruse that really fucking gets me #wow this is worthless!#fuck ai #fuck google #fuck all the techbros #fuck the whole goddamn system #rant #ai #artificial intelligence #google

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sylusslittlekitten · 1 day ago

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Luke and Kieran’s Advent Calendar

Day 26 – Interview with the Birthday Boy

See the whole calendar here

Crack Post Masterlist here

Presented by Luke & Kieran

LUKE: Welcome to another completely unauthorised, emotionally charged, borderline illegal event we’re calling…

KIERAN: Interview With the Birthday Boy. Because if he won’t tell us when it is, we’ll just keep asking until he snaps.

LUKE: For legal reasons, this is an emotional interrogation, not torture. KIERAN: The cake to the face was self-defense. SYLUS (off-camera): “It wasn’t.” LUKE: See? He’s fine.

KIERAN: Scroll down to witness Sylus lie, deflect, and maybe feel a feeling. LUKE: And remember: “No” is not a personality trait, Boss.

[CAMERA ON. SYLUS. STONE-FACED. CLIPBOARDS INCOMING.]

LUKE: “Question one. State your name for the record.” SYLUS: “You know who I am.” KIERAN: “We’ll accept ‘Birthday Boy’ as an answer.” SYLUS: [Stares] “No.” LUKE: [Writing: “Birthday Boy refuses to cooperate.”]

KIERAN: “Question two: When is your birthday?” SYLUS: “…Irrelevant.” LUKE: “That’s not a date, Boss.” KIERAN: “We’ve celebrated it 25 times this month. You’re going to crack.” SYLUS: “You’ll run out of cake before I tell you.” KIERAN: “We won’t. We made a spreadsheet.”

LUKE: “How old are you?” SYLUS: “28.” KIERAN: [Stares.] LUKE: [Long pause.] KIERAN: “That’s not your real age.” SYLUS: “Prove it.” LUKE: “We tried. You wiped the birth records.” SYLUS: “Exactly.”

LUKE: “What do you want for your birthday?” SYLUS: “Peace and quiet.” KIERAN: “Denied. You’re getting intrusive affection and a plushie shaped like a knife.” SYLUS: “I’ll accept the knife.”

KIERAN: “Question five: Do you think you're loveable?” SYLUS: “No.” KIERAN: “Wrong. You lose. Try again.” SYLUS: [Long pause] “…Pass.” LUKE: [Gasps] “That's not how birthdays OR interviews work.”

KIERAN: “Have you cried this year?” SYLUS: “No.” LUKE: “Not even when we drew a family portrait and put it in your locker?” SYLUS: “…You broke into my locker?” KIERAN: “Avoiding the question, Boss.”

KIERAN: “Question seven: Do you like us?” SYLUS: “No.” LUKE: “Lies. You smirked yesterday when we tackled you into that beanbag chair.” SYLUS: “I was aiming for the dagger behind it.” KIERAN: “Aww, he planned a murder and a cuddle.”

LUKE: “On a scale of 1 to 10, how hot do you think you are?” SYLUS: “Irrelevant.” KIERAN: “You say that like it’s not a 12.” LUKE: “He’s deflecting because he knows it’s 12.”

KIERAN: “Do you believe in soulmates?” SYLUS: “…” LUKE: “That’s a yes. Write it down.” SYLUS: “That’s a threat.”

LUKE: “Question 10: What exactly is Mephisto made of?” SYLUS: “Steel, synthetic feather polymer, and a grudge.” KIERAN: “So you did program it to scream at us.” SYLUS: “I deny nothing.”

KIERAN: “What kind of poetry do you like?” SYLUS: [Freezes. Looks away.] LUKE: [Flipping through his book pile] “Is this Byron? Did you annotate a Keats line?” SYLUS: “It was a footnote.” KIERAN: “He’s in his Romantic era. Tragic, brooding, full of yearning.” LUKE: “You’re a walking iambic pentameter, Boss.”

KIERAN: “Question 12: Would you like to read a Thirst Tweet?” SYLUS: “No.” LUKE: “‘Sylus could say “move” in that voice and I’d throw myself off a building like it was a command from the Gods.’" SYLUS: “…That’s not even the worst one I’ve seen.” KIERAN: “There’s worse?” SYLUS: [Flatly] “There’s fanfiction involving Mephisto and scented oils.”

[LONG SILENCE.] LUKE: “We need a part two of this interview immediately.”

KIERAN: “Are you going to fire us after this?” SYLUS: “I’ve tried. You keep showing up.” LUKE: “So that’s a no.”

LUKE: “ If we left you alone for your birthday next year… what would you actually do?” SYLUS: [Quiet] “Probably wonder where you went.” [SILENCE.] KIERAN: “…We got him. We emotioned the Boss.” SYLUS: “Redacted.”

KIERAN: “Last question. Just one word.” LUKE: “Do you feel loved?” [LONG SILENCE. THE CAMERA ZOOMS.] SYLUS: “…Yes.” KIERAN & LUKE: [Airhorns and confetti cannons explode.] SYLUS: “I take it back.” LUKE: “Too late. It’s in the transcript.”

KIERAN: “Bonus Question: Do you want a hug?” SYLUS: “No.” [CUT TO: SYLUS, IN A HEADLOCK HUG.] LUKE: “Shhh… let the affection happen.”

See the whole calendar here

Crack Post Masterlist here

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus qin #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #lnds #l&ds sylus #lads #luke and kieran #luke and kieran present #crack post #lads crack

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sweet-but-vicious · 2 days ago

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What if it's all malicious compliance?

Remember the joint in a van video?

The theory was that Zayn and Louis were trying to trigger the morality clause in their contract, only they didn't realize that the record company doesn't HAVE TO drop an artist who breaches the morality clause and they were just worth too much money to drop.

BUT!

That showed their cards. The studio now knows that the boys are willing to make themselves look bad in order to get out of their contract so Syco tightens up. They get very specific about what constitutes a breach of contract and include things like ANY leaked footage of a gay nature. According to Ed, Harry leaked his own nudes. Maybe that was a test to see how the PTB would react? The studio cracking down would explain why H and L can't even acknowledge each other in public. Any slip ups could mean ruination.

So they comply, but just.

They follow the letter, be seen in public with a lady, be papped kissing a lady, they forgot to add "confirm relationship to the media" into the contract which is why the boys never do.

All the while they do Every. Single. Thing. They. Can. to let us know that it isn't true, that they're still fighting.

I don't believe that Harry is unlabeled. I believe that it's in his contract that he can't say that he's gay but I don't think it says in the contract that he has to say he's straight, and therefore he pushes the line as much as he is capable of and says neither.

Think about when Louis was asked about Dunkirk, he spoke very slowly and specifically and thoughtfully, just to say he was proud of Harry. Lou is very smart, if it was a blow off statement it would have come out as easy as anything, not taken serious consideration. He needed to make sure he didn't say the wrong thing. That he didn't say anything that would screw him over.

With the resent stunting, there's been a lot of people online saying why would they do this?Why would they lie? Why would they not believe that we would be supportive? And I don't think that's the case.

I think the boys have chosen a side and I think it's ours.

I think that they do all of these things and give us all of these signs so that someday when they are able to come out and say yes, we were under contract, we couldn't say anything, but we did everything we could to be as honest as we were able because we love you and we wanted to tell you. And they will point to all of these outfits and videos, and say, SEE! WE WERE SCREAMING IT! WE DIDN'T WANT TO DECEIVE YOU!

And YES THEIR CONTRACT CAN BE THAT SERIOUS.

A common breech of contract punishment is to have to pay back the contract to the studio along with possibly reverting all work done by the artist to the studio.

THAT WOULD MEAN THAT EVERYTHING THEY HAVE *EVER* MADE FROM MUSIC WOULD HAVE TO BE PAID BACK IN FULL. RIGHT NOW. And possibly EVERY BIT OF MUSIC THEY HAVE WRITTEN SINCE 2010 NO LONGER BELONGS TO THEM i.e. THEY CAN NO LONGER PERFORM IT OR EARN ANY MONEY FROM IT.

That is BILLIONS of dollars. With no income with which to pay it off. That is selling everything they own, filing for bankruptcy, possible jail time type shit. And you KNOW Sony would black list them from all their media. Look at what happened to Lou for leaving Syco! Look at what Sony did to Kesha!

Their love is SO strong and pure to have gone through everything they've had to endure all these years.

This is Fairytale love.

It is beautiful, and worth so much more than they have been given.

I, for one, am not willing to doubt that for some pictures of a blonde in a jacket at a self check out. 💙💚

#louis tomlinson #harry styles #larry stylinson #stunts

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august-anon · 15 hours ago

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Brothers Bound in Revenge

Brother's in Arms series: 1 - 2 (you are here)

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

It's finally done!! Definitely wound up longer than I meant it to lol, but I have no regrets. As usual, I have barely edited this. Also, I have still barely read any comics yet (working on it) so these will be very fanon characterizations.

While I already wanted to write a sequel for Brothers Forged in Laughter, ao3 user sweetlikesalt solidified the idea with this comment of theirs, so everyone say thank you lol:

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

Fandom: Batfamily (no specific source material/continuity)

Ship(s): Gen!!! Platonic!! Familial!! No batcest here

Characters (lee/ler): Lee!Jason & Lers!Tim and Dick (plus VERY brief ler!Jason, and lees!Tim and Dick)

Word Count: 6106 words (how did this wind up LONGER than the last one sdkjfh)

Summary: Jason's figuring out how to be family again, and learning how to be a big brother. Dick decides he needs to be reminded what it's like to be a little brother, too -- along with letting Tim get a little revenge.

[ao3 link]

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

“Are you coming to family dinner this week?”

The Red Hood bit back a sigh – not that the voice modulator in his helmet would have necessarily picked it up – and kept his back to Robin, focusing instead on the gang members loitering beneath his ledge.

“Don’t know about that, Robin,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, “Sorry.”

Aside from his little bonding moment with the new bird, his first (and last) family dinner didn’t go so well. It was tense and awkward, Bruce asking stilted, surface level questions that turned more and more pointed as the night went on. Dick and Tim tried to buffer him, and even Alfred admonished him a couple times, but Bruce always managed to circle back. Dessert ended early with a screaming match and Jason storming back down to the Cave to his motorcycle before anyone could chase after him and convince him to try and patch things up. He’d missed the past two family dinners since, and had avoided the Batcave as much as he possibly could.

It always came down to the same things with Bruce. Jason was reckless, dangerous, out of control and, as always, it was Bruce’s responsibility to curb, calm, and corral him. Bruce’s responsibility to rehabilitate him, as if Jason needed to be rehabilitated at all. He’d dropped the crime lord thing almost as soon as his plan for Bruce to kill the Joker blew up in his face (literally), and it wasn’t like the bodies he’d been dropping since were without merit. No one would miss those scum – abusers, pedophiles, serial murderers. Batman needed to learn that not everyone was capable of being saved.

“Are you sure?” Robin asked, creeping up to crouch beside him on the ledge. “Agent A misses you.”

The we miss you went unsaid. Hood knew he’d dropped the ball with his brothers since that dinner. Avoiding that Batcave (and the Manor) meant avoiding them by extension, since he was too wary of Bruce stalking their lines of communication to give them directions to any of his safehouses. Not to mention the fact that he moved between them so frequently that it would be difficult for them to keep up with where he was staying, anyways. He’d just started becoming family to Tim, and he almost immediately left the kid high and dry. Some big brother he was.

“Tell him I’ll try to come by soon.”

Robin hummed noncommittally, clearly seeing through Hood’s attempt to placate him. This time, Hood did sigh, the helmet translating it into static, and reached over to ruffle Robin’s hair. He resisted the urge to dig his fingers into one of the softer joints of Robin’s armor – his targets would absolutely hear that squeaking laughter.

“Tell you what, kid – I could use some help, here. Wanna help me take this group down?”

Robin perked up, sending a grin in his direction.

“Just make sure to leave one awake – we need to know where their boss is.”

“You got it.”

“On three. One, two–”

* * *

Nightwing didn’t even try to be stealthy as he landed behind the Red Hood, practically skipping across the rooftop to plop himself on the edge next to him. Hood didn’t spare him a glance, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the clouds above, as if he could see beyond them to the stars above. Though Gotham was his home, he couldn’t help but feel a bit homesick for the shine of the stars. He’d seen so many when he was with Talia and the LoA, but between Gotham’s constantly shit weather and all the light pollution, he hadn’t seen a single one since he returned.

“If you’re here about dinner,” Hood said, “I already told the little bird ‘no.’”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nightwing shrug. “Figured. I’m not going to try and convince you.”

“Really?” He said flatly.

In his peripheral, he saw Nightwing turn to stare at him. Hood kept his gaze forward. He’d taken his helmet off for a breath of fresh air, and having little more than a domino mask to protect his expressions made him feel far too exposed at the moment. At least the profile view added some sort of barrier to reading him.

“When I was close to your age, I didn’t exactly want to be around B most of the time either. There was a reason I moved out, and there was a reason I always made myself so busy with the Titans.”

Hood let out a long breath. “You’re around a lot more now than you used to be”

Nightwing finally turned away, looking down at his hands clasped between his knees. “It’s one of my biggest regrets, letting my shit relationship with B affect my relationship with you. When I did come by, it was mostly to see you – steal you away, teach you to be Robin, sneak out for train-hopping.”

Hood didn’t know what to say. He pressed his lips into a thin line.

“With Robin, it still took me a while to get over myself, but I didn’t want to make the same mistakes twice. I overcompensated for a while before finding my balance.” He chuckled. “It drove Robin crazy sometimes. I was just so scared to lose another brother, especially without him knowing how much I cared about him. Me and B… we came to an understanding – at least, for the most part – over time, with me being around so often again.”

Guilt churned deep in Hood’s stomach. “Nightwing–”

Nightwing shook his head. “I’m not saying you have to come around. Honestly, stay away for as long as you need. Sometimes I still can’t even stand to be around him, no matter how much we’ve grown or how much I care about him. That’s probably why it hurts so much.” Nightwing turned to stare at him again, and this time Hood couldn’t keep himself from looking in Nightwing’s direction. “But don’t lock us out too just because B can’t get his righteous head out of his ass.”

Don’t make my mistakes, Hood heard underneath.

“Yeah,” was all Hood could manage.

They sat in silence for a bit longer before Hood heard the tell-tale buzz of a distant comm line. Nightwing raised his hand to his ear, likely for Hood’s benefit because Hood knew that’s not how the Bat-comms operated, and said, “I’m on my way.”

“Duty calls?”

Nightwing shot him a strained grin. “When doesn’t it?” His smile became a bit more natural as he scrubbed his hand over Hood’s head, making his helmet-hair even worse. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Red Hood didn’t have a chance to reply as Nightwing dove off the building, shooting out his grapnel line halfway through his fall. He waited until Nightwing disappeared in the smog before shoving his helmet back on. The Bats could handle the rest of the city, but Crime Alley wasn’t going to protect itself.

* * *

Jason got himself a phone.

He had plenty of phones, honestly – enough burners to cover all his bases and then some, and he frequently dumped and replaced them. This phone though, it was his first personal phone since he came back. He made sure to pass it off to Barbara first, get it souped up with all the Bat-grade protections it could possibly need, and with her sincere promise that Bruce himself wouldn’t have any way into the device despite that.

When she returned it, she’d done more than just upgrade his security. Where his contacts before had been a blank slate, there was now a neat list of five names. He flipped through them, changing four of the contact names to be much less formal. Opening the final contact, he hovered his thumb over the “Delete” button for several long minutes before letting out a slew of swears and closing out of the contacts app, leaving that final contact untouched.

He shot off quick texts to Dick and Tim, nothing more than a “Hey, it’s Jason.” and got a set of responses back almost immediately. Dick was a spam-texter, it seemed, cheering through his messages and telling Jason it was “about damn time” he got a phone. Tim sent him only two messages in reply. A brief “ew” and a follow-up of “you text with proper grammar??”

From that day on, there was not a single moment where Jason was free of his brothers. Dick started sending him dozens of TikToks a day (where he found the time to scroll TikTok so much in-between his day job and the vigilantism, Jason had no idea), practically forcing Jason to download the app just to keep up, as much as he despised social media. He was loathe to admit it, but every once in a while, some of the videos Dick sent him were actually kind of funny.

Tim, on the other hand, seemed to get a kick out of sending Jason memes that he either wasn’t alive to see come about, or he was stuck with the League at the time with no knowledge of the current popular culture. He communicated almost exclusively through them, and Jason knew it was intentional to get under his nerves. It felt like he was trying to translate hieroglyphics at times, and whenever he asked Dick or Barbara for help, they just laughed at him.

And then, a few weeks in, the invites started coming through.

A new coffee shop just opened up in the Bowery, you in? Jason was never getting coffee with Tim again after that, because holy shit, was his order horrific.

There’s this adult arcade downtown — you in? Jason knew that they were the heirs to a billionaire, but he still couldn’t fathom the amount of money Dick spent on goddamn claw games. And somehow, he won every time. Jason didn’t even know where to put all the plushies Dick forced on him after that trip.

Bowling?? Steph said this place is actually only marginally sketchy. Jason and his brothers were now banned from the bowling alley.

Okay so bowling was a bust — roller-skating? Jason and Tim were now banned from the skating rink. Dick somehow got off scott-free. Jason blamed the puppy-dog eyes.

* * *

Even once he and Bruce were on speaking terms again, the invites didn’t stop – which was how Jason found himself making the drive to Bludhaven one evening. Dick decided that they were due for a movie night, and since Jason was still avoiding the Manor itself, he’d decided that the next best place would be his own apartment.

They ordered some absolute monstrosities from the nearby pizza joint (Dick’s pineapple and andouille pizza was always horrifying, but at least Jason had been prepared for it – Tim’s Canadian bacon pizza with onions and artichoke hearts, Jason never wanted to see again), and Dick left the two of them to pick the movie while he went to pick up the pizza.

Of course, the little snot was nothing if not an absolute nerd, and most of his suggestions were weird sci-fi shit. As if they didn’t get enough of that with their gallery of doctorate-wielding Rogues and their insane fucking inventions. Then again – Jason had the perfect solution to get what he wanted out of the kid.

“I’m gonna kill you!” Tim shrieked in-between frantice giggling, trying to pry Jason’s hands off his sides.

Jason hummed. “Dick would be very disappointed in you when he got back if you did.”

Tim managed to twist out of his grip, throwing himself across the rug to create distance between them. “What’s wrong with Interstellar anyways?”

Jason wrinkled his nose. “Don’t we deal with enough dimension-travel and time-travel shit enough in our night jobs?” He launched himself forward after Tim, ignoring the kid’s squeals as he dragged him close again. “Besides, letting you win the movie pick means I don’t get to do this.”

Jason wasted no time on this second attack, immediately digging his fingers into Tim’s highest ribs. Tim almost choked on his laughter, shrieking out a few curse words, and Jason had little doubt that Dick would have a noise complaint by the end of the night. Whatever – it wasn’t like it was Jason’s problem. No, the only thing Jason needed to worry about right now was what method made Tim laugh the hardest. Fingernails or fingertips? Wiggling or squeezing? Vibrating fingers or fast skittering? He just couldn’t decide.

Tim was practically in tears by the time he finally conceded to Jason’s movie choice, having laughed himself nearly hoarse. Just in time, too, because Dick just texted their group chat (also new – and the incessant spam of notifications that often burst from it annoyed Jason to no end) that he was on the way up.

“Just you wait,” Tim said, chest heaving and face cherry-red. “I’m gonna sic Dick on you, and then you’ll be sorry.”

Jason snorted, making himself comfortable on Dick’s lumpy-ass sofa. “Good luck with that kid. I already told you both – the Pit took care of that. I’m immune.” He gave a playfully malicious grin. “Leaves me with plenty of chances to torture you, though, don’t worry.”

The front door to the apartment banged open. “Hey – does anyone know why my neighbor just cussed me out in the hallway? I swear, he’s never looked that– Timmy? What the hell happened?”

Jason laughed.

* * *

Bruce was out of town for a few days – an actual business trip this time, no JL covers – and he took Alfred with him. Which meant that someone needed to cover Gotham for the week. Which meant that Dick was in town for an extended period of time. All of this also meant that Dick and Tim were left in the Manor unsupervised with no Alfred to keep them from burning down the kitchen.

That’s how Jason found himself being guilt-tripped into spending the week at the Manor with them, if only to ensure they didn’t survive solely off of cereal, microwave meals, and caffeine. Dick, of course, was thrilled at their “Brother Sleepover,” and promptly spent the week kicking their ass at Mario Kart. Not even Tim, in all his nerdy, geeky glory could beat him, and death had done Jason no favors with his own virtual racing skills.

Overall, despite the constant skin-crawling feelings Jason had for half the week, his stay at the Manor didn’t go horribly. Plus, it was kind of nice cooking for more than just one person. He might have to establish a more permanent safehouse so he could have his brothers (and Barbie – he’d have to make sure the elevator was actually working in whatever building he chose) over for dinner. Or maybe he’d finally try coming to another family dinner, just for the excuse of helping Alfred cook.

Either way, by the end of the week, Dick was adamant that it was about time for another brothers’ movie night. Jason rolled his eyes and put up the expected complaints (it was a familiar song and dance now – even if he didn’t mean it), but still found himself at the grocery store while Dick picked Tim up from school, picking out ingredients to make them a special dinner for the last night of their “Brother Sleepover.” He was shoving everything into the kitchen when Dick and Tim got home, Tim groaning as he entered the kitchen for a snack.

“Jason – your food is amazing and all, but can we please just get takeout tonight?”

Jason turned around, his eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

“We can just order pizza instead – I won’t even get anything weird on it!”

“You’d rather have greasy takeout pizza than a home-cooked meal?” Jason crossed his arms and leaned back against the kitchen island. “You’d give Alfred a heart-attack.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Like you’ve never begged Alfred for takeout instead of something from home.”

Jason pursed his lips. He couldn’t exactly argue that – they all had at some point. Still, “I already got the shit, we’re eating here.”

Jason pinpointed the exact moment when Tim went from normal vigilante teenager to horribly obnoxious piece of shit. He narrowed his eyes for a moment before his expression turned to an exaggerated pout. He slumped his shoulders and gazed up at Jason with his little wounded-baby-bird eyes.

“Come on, Jay, please? We can make it another night – can’t we have pizza?”

Jason huffed and pushed himself away from the counter. “Alright you little shit – get over here.”

He made a swipe for Tim, who shrieked and immediately launched himself out of reach when Jason’s fingers grazed his ribs. When he looked up at Jason this time, gone was the faux-pout. Instead, his eyes were wide with surprise and anticipation, the twitch of his mouth almost giddy as he eyed Jason’s hands warily. Jason grinned and took a heavy step forward, drawing out the game. Then, suddenly, Tim’s eyes narrowed and his jaw set. Without warning, he bolted from the kitchen.

“Wha– get back here! Face your sentence like a man, TimTam!”

Jason raced after him, winding through the labyrinthian halls of the Manor. As they got closer to the front side of the mansion, Tim started shouting.

“Dick! Dick, help me!”

Jason’s jaw dropped. “You fucking– running to Dick for help, as if you don’t deserve this!”

“Dick, he’s doing it again!”

As they approached the den, Jason put on a burst of speed. Unfortunately, it seemed as though Tim was holding back as well, breaking into a dead sprint to reach the den first. The two of them crashed through the entryway, knocking down a whole stack of pillows and blankets that someone had piled by the door. Dick stood in the middle of the room, clearly having been rearranging furniture for the “ideal movie night positioning,” looking absolutely flabbergasted.

Tim, still with that young Robin springiness, was able to extricate himself from the avalanche of comfy items easily. He bounced out of the pile and darted behind Dick, using him as a human shield. Jason, while highly trained, was now all bulky muscle instead of flexible springiness, and had a harder time wading out of the mess.

“What on earth is going on, here?” Dick asked, gaze darting between Jason and Tim behind his back.

“He’s trying to kill me!”

Jason scoffed. “Please – you were being a little shit, you can’t tell me you didn’t deserve it.”

Tim peeked around Dick’s torso to stick his tongue out at Jason, before ducking back behind Dick as Jason finally got his foot free of the last blanket and began to approach.

Dick had a look on his face, that constipated one he made when he wanted to laugh but was still trying to take them seriously for the sake of their pride. “And how, exactly, was Jason going to kill you?” Dick tilted slightly to the side to look at Tim, exposing him to Jason’s sight.

The apples of Tim’s cheeks went pink as he scowled at them both. “Tickle me,” he mumbled.

Jason clicked his tongue, advancing on them both. “You heard the kid – he said to tickle him, let’s get to it Goldie.”

Dick broke, laughing as Tim yelped and ducked fully behind him again. He laughed even harder as Jason tried to reach around him and snatch Tim, doing nothing to help.

“You know, Jay – you’ve turned into quite the tickle monster over the past few months.”

Jason grunted, barely paying attention. “Yeah? He’s getting the full little brother experience, I remember what you were like when I was a kid.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed. Before Jason had even fully processed the change in expression, his hackles had raised. He backed out of Dick’s space quickly, eyeing him with suspicion. Tim perked up, picking up on the change in vibes. Jason was no longer the most dominant personality in the room.

Dick’s mouth twisted into a smirk. One that Jason remembered all too well. “Maybe a little payback is in order, Little Wing. What do you think?

Jason crossed his arms, raising to his full height to try and cut a more intimidating figure. Dick’s eyes twinkled, and he could practically imagine Dick cooing at the posturing inside his own head.

“I’ve already told you both, the Pit got rid of all that.”

Dick looked him up and down. “Really? Why are you all the way over there, then?”

“Muscle memory.”

“Right, right. You know, you never have let us prove that theory of yours.”

Jason widened his stance as subtly as he could, preparing to run. “What would be the point of that?”

Dick bared his teeth, a facsimile of a friendly smile. Jason turned tail to bolt, but a body suddenly latched onto his back. Knocked off balance, Jason found himself tumbling face-first into the mountain of pillows and blankets. Seriously – why had Dick brought so many? He tossed the body off his back, hearing Tim’s laughter filled oof as he got swallowed by the plush pile as well. He barely managed to roll over in time to catch Dick’s hands as he dove towards Jason’s prone form.

“I think someone’s been lying,” Dick sing-songed, trying to twist his hands out of Jason’s grip

“I think you’re full of shit – let me up, Dick.”

Dick pulled out his most innocent expression. “But Little Wing – you’re the one holding onto me.”

“Yeah because you’re going to– be a jerk!”

Dick laughed, his own grip on Jason’s hands flexing. “Yeah? How am I gonna be a jerk?”

“I’m not falling for that.”

Dick shrugged. “Doesn’t change anything.”

Tim popped up from the bedding, hair sticking every which way from being mussed against the fabrics. “You do kinda deserve it.”

“Shut your trap, snotface.”

Tim wrinkled his nose. “Rude.”

Jason pursed his lips, running through every escape plan in his mind. He was trapped in this comfy avalanche, sinking deeper with every struggle – even if Dick wasn’t hovering overtop him, it would take him way too long to crawl his way out. The second he let go of Dick’s hands to try and get away, he was a goner – Dick knew all his worst spots, and exactly how to target them. Dick was like a shark who smelled blood, there was almost no getting out of this now.

Unless he took Dick down first.

Jason tossed Dick’s hands to the sides as hard as he could. He heard Tim yelp and collapse back into the blankets to avoid a flying limb, but he figured the kid was fine – Robins had quick reflexes. Before Dick could recover, Jason dove his own hands toward Dick’s knees and thighs, squeezing away the moment he found muscle. Dick cried out, immediately bursting into cackles. After a few seconds, he wavered and collapsed sideways into the blanket pile next to Jason.

“Fucking jerk!”

Jason grinned. “Don’t forget Dickie – I’m bigger than you now.”

Despite laughing his head off and failing to squirm away from Jason’s hands, Dick still had that devious twinkle in his eyes. He fought to speak through his laughter, “You may be bigger, but we have numbers.”

“We–?”

For the second time in as many minutes, a small body barrelled into Jason’s back. Overbalancing, Jason was forced to take one hand off of Dick and plant it into the blankets to compensate for the new weight.

“I still don’t get why you had to throw me at him like a ragdoll the first time,” Tim piped up from behind him.

Dick twisted and contorted in ways only he could and suddenly Jason found himself swallowed by the blankets and cushions once more. Tim yelped and barely scrambled off in time to avoid getting crushed.

“You threw him?” Jason asked incredulously.

Dick shrugged. “Enrichment for baby birds. They love flying.”

Tim popped back up, his hair even worse than before. “That’s fair.”

While Jason was distracted by the absolute robin’s nest on Tim’s head, Dick lunged again. They entered into a grapple, one that Jason quickly lost at the unexpected flutter of Tim’s fingers in the crook of his neck. He yelped at an embarrassing pitch as one hand darted up to snatch the offending fingers.

“You are still ticklish!” Dick crowed.

“Liar!” Tim shouted at the same time.

Dick took full advantage of the moment of distraction, grabbing onto the wrist of Jason’s raised hand with both of his and pinning it in the pile of fluff. His torso wound up draped diagonally over Jason’s chest to do it, almost knocking the wind out of him.

“Get him!”

Small, precise fingers slipped under Jason’s leather jacket, scribbling against the hoodie underneath. It was thick enough to provide protection from the hesitant touch, but Jason still couldn’t stop the instinctive flinch from fingers just existing that close to his underarms.

“Fuck you!” He yelled, struggling under Dick’s weight. He had Jason’s arm well-pinned, he had far better leverage and the angle was awkward from the shifting of the blankets. Jason reached to pry the fingers away with his free arm, but Dick’s body blocked his arm from being able to reach.

“Harder, Timmy! He’s got layers–”

“I’m not fucking Shrek–”

“Are you sure?” Tim, that little snot.

“You’re such a fucking– No!”

Two hands delivered a series of nibbling pinches up and down Jason’s exposed side and ribs, the sensation cutting through his hoodie like it was nothing. He tossed his head back with laughter, hating how bubbly it sounded. His legs lurched up, bending at the knees.

“Wow,” Tim said over his laughter. “I didn’t know you could laugh and it actually sound happy.”

Dick chuckled. “You should’ve heard him when he was younger – all shrieky and giggly. I’m glad he didn’t grow out of it.”

“I’m right here, assholes!”

Dick clicked his tongue. “That you are, Jay. Are we not paying enough attention to you? Here, I’ll help.”

“Dick, no!”

Obviously, Dick did not listen. With Jason already growing weaker from the laughter and tickling, Dick could easily keep him pinned with just one hand. With his newly freed fingers, he reached down and clawed into Jason’s stomach. Jason shrieked, his legs lurching up again as he instinctively tried to curl around the weak point and was halted by Dick being in the way.

“Wow,” Tim said. “Dick really wasn’t joking, you are freakishly ticklish.”

Jason tried to bare his teeth. With how wide his smile was, he wasn’t sure the threat came across. “Not as ticklish as you.”

Tim only smirked at him. “Well, I’m not the one pinned down, am I?”

Little shit. Jason was absolutely going to get him later. And Dick, too.

“Might as well get revenge while I can, right?” Tim continued. “What’s that thing you like to do to me? Rib counting?”

Dick laughed again, leaning his weight more heavily on Jason’s torso. He took his own tickling fingers away, using that hand to try and shove Jason’s legs down instead.

“Diabolical, Baby Bird. Count away, I’ll try to keep our little pill-bug here from messing you up.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Tim’s voice was the epitome of innocence. “If he messes me up, it just means I have to start over again. I mean, that’s what you taught me, right, Jay?”

“I’m gonna kill you!”

Tim hummed. “Yeah, it pays to be thorough.”

Jason’s ribs were far from his most ticklish spot, but when Tim’s hands slipped underneath his hoodie, leaving him only with a threadbare t-shirt as his last layer of defense, Jason thought he was going to die. He always knew he was ticklish as all hell, but going without the feeling for so long, every sensation felt electric. He couldn’t even keep track of his own laughter, and he tried his damndest to tune out Tim’s count because he was not about to let his baby brother get the upper hand in teasing, too.

The most infuriating part? The fact that he couldn’t stop the warm, melty feeling in his chest, hearing Tim giggle along or seeing Dick beaming down at him. He was the goddamned Red Hood. He should not be having this much fun in a one-sided tickle fight with his brothers – especially not on the losing side.

Jason’s legs jumped up again, and this time Jason put a little more control into it. He tried to ram his knees into Dick’s side – jostle him, knock him off Jason’s torso, or hell, even just annoy him. Jason didn’t care, so long as he landed a hit. Unfortunately, Dick’s free hand was still poised to ward off any attacks, shoving his legs away every time they got too close. When he finally slipped a knee past Dick’s defenses, he called out an affronted “hey” and reached out to grab the joint.

The squawking little yip that Jason let out as the joint was squeezed may have been the most embarrassing noise that he’d ever made in his life. Both Dick and Tim tumbled into laughter, pausing their attack.

“Let me go,” Jason demanded as he regained his breath. His voice didn’t quite carry the heat he had been looking for.

Dick turned to give him that creepy stare-down that made it feel like he was tearing Jason’s soul open to look inside. Satisfied with whatever he found, his mouth twisted back into his patented “tickle monster” smirk.

“I don’t think so, Little Wing. I mean, a few rounds of rib counting is hardly revenge.”

Jason started squirming and kicking, making a show out of trying to get away despite knowing he wasn’t going to get anywhere. Dick gave him a few squeezes to the kneecap for the trouble, sending Jason into mortifying titters.

“Where’s his tickle spot?” Tim asked eagerly, raising up on his knees to scan over Jason’s torso. “That’ll show him.”

Dick pressed his lips together on a smile. Apparently, laughing at Jason was fair game, but laughing at the adorable menace that was Tim Drake was not allowed.

“Dick—“

“I think it’s cheating to tell, Timmy.” Dick cut off Jason’s protest before he could even get started. Jason nearly let out a sigh of relief, but Dick wasn’t done. “I think you’re just gonna have to keep going until you find it.”

“What—“

Tim let out an evil laugh, far more menacing than any 15 year old had the right to be — let alone one that looked so much like a wet cat.

Too quickly for Jason to take advantage of, Dick raised off his body and slid into place behind his head. Jason tried to go for Tim with his newfound reach, but Dick snatched his wrist out of the air and easily pinned it down. After a brief struggle, Jason gave up and just laid there, staring at the ceiling.

“I hate you both.”

“Sure you do, Jay.”

Tim waddled up to Jason, wading through the blankets and pillows surrounding them on his knees. He hovered over Jason for a moment, uncertainty flashing through his eyes.

Aw, hell.

“Well, Timbo? Do your worst. I know you won’t find it.”

Tim narrowed his eyes, the uncertainty vanishing as Tim was confronted with a competition.

“Oh, yeah? And what if I do?”

Jason hummed, pretending to consider. “You might earn yourself a pizza.”

Tim lit up like a Christmas tree. His hands shot out to Jason’s ribs, provoking that bubbly laughter once more.

“Well, we already know it’s not here.”

“So why are you tickling there?!”

Dick laughed at them.

Tim stuck his tongue out at him. “‘Cause it’s funny.”

But he did move his hands, crawling them up into Jason’s armpits like two devious little spiders. Jason jolted, snorts intermingling with his laughter.

“Get out!”

Tim perked up. “Did I find it?”

“Sorry, Baby Bird,” Dick said. “Not just yet.”

Tim frowned and furrowed his brow — his thinking face looked uncannily like Bruce’s — and scanned Jason’s torso. His hands flitted down to Jason’s stomach and sides, his laughter dying down the slightest bit but thankfully not at giggles quite yet. The Red Hood did not giggle.

“Dick got you here, so it’s not here.”

Jason’s legs bounced up as he instinctively tried to curl around the hands. Tim took a page out of Dick’s book, squeezing Jason’s kneecap until it jumped out of his grasp.

“Or here, but you sound ridiculous right now.”

Jason tried to growl through his laughter, but Tim wasn’t exactly wrong. Jumping between the light laughter from his stomach and the high pitched tittering from his knees, Jason was making an absolute fool of himself. His only saving grace was that Bruce wasn’t home to witness it. He’d never live that down.

Tim gave Jason a break, lifting his hands to run them through his messy hair. “Am I completely off track, is it your feet or something?”

“Not. Telling.”

Tim glared at Jason for a moment before flicking his eyes up to Dick’s, giving him that puppy-gaze. Jason looked up too, trying to burn holes through Dick’s skull with his eyes. Dick smirked, his eyes darting down to Jason’s torso and back up to Tim’s face again. Tim got that constipated look again, his own eyes darting back down to Jason’s abdomen.

“But—?”

Then Tim made The Face. The same face he made when he’d solved a tough case that he’d been working for a while. The wide eyes, the slightly parted lips, as if he was surprised at his own success, the relaxing of his ever-scrunched-up eyebrows. A jolt of giddy panic sparked up Jason’s chest.

“You already lost,” he said quickly. “You asked Dick for help. You cheated.”

Tim met his eyes. “Well then, I guess I have nothing else to lose.”

Giving Jason no time to prepare, Tim started squeezing away at Jason’s hips. It wasn’t as bad as his memories of Bruce or Dick attacking him, but they’d had the benefit of practice. A lot of practice. As it was, it still tickled like hell. Jason’s mind went blank as he practically screamed out cackles. He tried to curl himself into a ball again, and this time, his brothers let him. Dick released his arms and Tim let his legs shoot up, and Jason curled himself into the tightest ball that he could around all the bulky muscle he had now.

That didn’t mean Tim had stopped tickling though. No, even as Jason rolled onto his side in a feeble defense, Tim just targeted both hands on the hip that was still accessible.

“Aw, little pill-bug Jay is alive and well,” Dick cooed.

I’ll kill you here and now, Jason wanted to say. Unfortunately, all his breath was currently being directed to support his laughter. Thankfully, Dick only let Tim go on for a couple more minutes before pulling him back, leaving Jason to heave in breaths as he recovered.

“Next time,” Dick stage-whispered. “I’ll show you how ticklish his back is.”

“Next time,” Jason grumbled. “I’ll cut off your damn hands.”

Tim snorted. Dick patted him on the back.

“Sure you will, buddy.”

“So,” Tim said, drawing out the word, “since you’re so tired from that and all – maybe you wanna get pizza instead of cooking?”

Jason took a deep breath before heaving himself up to a sitting position, letting out an exaggerated groan. “Nope.”

Tim groaned as well, flopping back into the mess they made of Dick’s pile of bedding.

Shaking off the last of the ghost tickles, Jason gave Dick a heated glare as he pushed himself to his feet. Dick blinked back innocently. His brothers were such goddamned liars.

“I already bought the ingredients,” Jason said. “I’m cooking and you’re going to like it.”

Tim levelled him with a challenging look. “And what if I don’t.”

“Then you’ll suck it up and eat it anyway.”

Jason tromped out of the room, heading back toward the kitchen. Dick and Tim could handle the den setup without him – they were much pickier about blanket nests than he was. Where Jason would just slap together a blanket fort with some kitchen chairs and sheets, Tim preferred to engineer a structurally sound blanket castle when he had the chance. Leaving Tim with free reign of the den furniture and half the Manor’s worth of bedding to accomplish this task gave Jason more than enough time to finish up dinner with the prep he’d done earlier that day.

Seeing Tim’s face light up as Jason personally delivered his monstrosity of a pizza order, made from scratch, almost made the whole meaningless argument that led to his torture worth it.

Almost.

Dick and Tim weren’t going to escape from his revenge that easily.

#tickle fic #my writing #dc tickling #batfam tickling #lee!jason todd #ler!dick grayson #ler!tim drake #ticklish!jason todd #dc #batfam #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake

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hollowmem · 23 hours ago

Text

Too late to take it back

TW: Character death, grief, intense emotional distress, argument between lovers, and death wishes

GN!Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

Day 24: Soap and reader has been dating for a short time mostly it been the lovely faze kissing the love stare but an argument sent them back I'm talking screaming crying the works they go their separate ways to cool off for sometimes but before they recover from the argument soap death happens and the last thing the redear said was drop dead to him

Soap paced the room like a storm held in a too-small bottle, his boots scraping the floor with every sharp turn. His jaw was locked, eyes burning with something between frustration and desperation.

You stood by the door, arms crossed tightly, your breath uneven but quiet—like you were trying not to break in front of him.

"You’re not hearing me," he said, voice rough, strained. “I’m right here, telling you I need you—and it’s like talking to a wall.”

You flinched. Not visibly, but something in you recoiled. Not from his voice, but from how close to the truth it felt.

"You think this is easy for me?" Your voice came out sharp, too loud, fueled by all the things you’d been swallowing down for weeks. "You think I like hiding this? Pretending there’s nothing between us every second we’re on base? I don’t get to touch you, don’t get to have you—except when the doors are closed and we pretend it’s enough."

He stopped moving. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, like his heart was sprinting even though his body wasn’t.

“I never said it was enough,” he said, quieter now. "But I’ve been trying. Every damn day, I’ve tried.”

"You think trying counts when you disappear into missions like nothing happened?” you said. “When you smile at every stranger like I don’t exist? When I go to sleep alone every night wondering if you even remember what this is?"

His face twisted—grief, guilt, something else he couldn’t hide quick enough.

“That’s not fair,” he said. “You know why we keep this quiet. You know.”

You shook your head. “No. I know what you call safety. What I see is fear. You won’t even say it out loud. You won’t call it what it is. You won't call me what I am to you.”

He took a breath like he was about to say something—something that might’ve cracked this whole thing wide open. But your voice beat him to it.

“You’re a coward, Johnny.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Something in him flinched like a nerve had been hit too deep.

"Don’t you dare," he said, voice low and breaking. "Don’t you ever call me that."

But you were already unraveling, and the worst part was, you didn’t mean to hurt him—but it was like everything had been boiling, rising, and now it was spilling out.

"You are," you whispered, and it hurt to say. "You’d rather run headfirst into bullets than stay and face this. Face me. Maybe you should just—"

Your throat closed up. Your mind screamed for you to stop. But the words were already tumbling, unstoppable.

"Maybe you should just drop dead like you act like you want to." Silence.

The kind of silence that swallows the air from the room. He stared at you—truly stared—and you could see it: the exact moment his heart cracked. Just a flicker in his eyes. Then he blinked it away and turned toward the door.

“Right,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Got it.” He walked out. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say another word.

You didn’t go after him. You told yourself it was just a fight. That he’d come back. That you’d both apologize, maybe laugh about it later, like you always did.

But he didn’t come back, and the last thing you ever said to him was drop dead.

You wanted to talk to him.

You looked for him. Knocked on his door more than once. Checked the mess hall during every meal. But he was never there. Or maybe he was—just not when you were. Like he was avoiding you.

You waited for him to come to you. To say something first. Because clearly, he didn’t want to now. But the words you’d thrown at him—drop dead—still echoed in your mind. They didn’t sound like yours anymore. But they were. And you couldn’t take them back.

So you waited.

And waiting turned into silence.

And silence turned into the mission.

Which you weren’t on the list.

You thought it was a mistake at first. You asked Price, half-expecting him to smirk and tell you to pack your gear. Instead, he just gave you a look. Heavy. Knowing.

“We need someone grounded at base,” he said. “You’ve been running on fumes. Take the rest.”

He didn’t say it, but you heard it anyway.

He needs space. You need to sit this one out. Something’s off with you.

So you stayed on base, and Soap left with the team.

You stood at the edge of the hangar, watching them board the chopper, arms folded. He didn’t look back. Not even a glance. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. It was like you were already gone.

When the chopper returned, the silence was wrong. No voices. No laughter. No boots rushing off the ramp. Just the low drone of the rotors and the slow, uneven thud of footsteps hitting the ground like they were carrying something too heavy to name.

You stood at the edge of the tarmac, heart in your throat.

You didn’t see him.

You saw Ghost, Price and Gaz exit the chopper, but he was missing. You already knew what probably happened. But still, you asked.

“Where’s Johnny?”

He stopped when he reached you. His shoulders dropped slightly, just a little—like he couldn’t quite hold himself up anymore. His eyes met yours, something fractured in them.

“He didn’t make it.”

The words didn’t hit you all at once. They just floated there, hanging in the air like ash. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“No,” you said softly. Then again, sharper, like if you said it enough times you could undo it. “No. He… no.”

You turned before anyone else could see your face, before anyone could stop you. Your legs carried you down the corridor, steady on the outside. Inside, everything was cracking, splintering under the weight of what you were refusing to feel.

You didn’t go to your room. You couldn’t. Not yet.

You ducked into the first empty space you could find—a storage room. Door closed softly behind you. No sound, just the quiet click of the latch, like even your grief had to be kept secret. You stood there for a moment. Still. Frozen. Like if you didn’t move, maybe reality wouldn’t catch up to you.

Then your body started shaking.

You pressed your back to the door, arms wrapped around your ribs, holding yourself together in the only way you could. Your throat burned. Your chest ached like it had caved in from the inside out. But you didn’t make a sound.

You wouldn’t let them hear this. Not this part. Not the breaking. No one knew what you were to him. No one could know what this cost you.

You slid down the door, slow and silent, until you were sitting on the floor with your knees to your chest. You pressed your fist to your mouth, biting down when the sob finally slipped out. The rest followed. Quiet. Shaking. Like you were unraveling thread by thread.

No screaming. No wailing.

Just the suffocating silence of a grief that had to stay hidden. You cried into your sleeve, face pressed to your knees, gasping softly like you were drowning in air. You didn’t know how long you stayed there. Time dissolved around you. There was only the echo of your own voice in your head.

Drop dead.

You’d said it. You’d meant it, in that awful, fleeting moment of rage. And now he was gone.

You didn’t get to say sorry. You didn’t get to tell him he was yours. You didn’t get to take it back.

At some point, your body stopped shaking. Your tears dried against your skin, leaving your face hot and tight. Your limbs felt like stone. You stood up slowly. Not because you were ready—because there was nothing else to do.

The halls were mostly empty. No one stopped you. Maybe they knew. Maybe they didn’t have to ask.

When you reached your room, something stopped you at the door. Your jacket. Folded neatly at the foot of your bunk. It hadn’t been there before.

You frowned, stepping closer, reaching out like it might vanish if you touched it too fast. When you picked it up, you felt the shape of something in the pocket.

Paper.

Your heart stuttered.

You pulled it out with shaking hands. It was his handwriting. Messy. Fast. Rushed like he hadn’t had enough time.

“You always looked at me like I was the world. I hope you know—I never needed anyone to see us. Just you. That was enough.”

No name. No sign-off. No goodbye.

Just that.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, the note trembling in your hands like it weighed more than you could hold, and you read it again. And again. Until the words blurred.

Until you couldn’t feel anything except the hollow ache in your chest, and the sound of your heart breaking into pieces so small they’d never fit back together.

#call of duty #cod #y/n #creative writing #tf 141 #reader insert #soap x reader #soap mactavish #soap cod #john soap mactavish #cod soap #soap #tw death #tw screaming #tw arguing #tw death wish

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woradat · 2 days ago

Text

Dear, memories #2

<- back — PT2 (here) — next ->

It’s not like you wanted to care. Really, you were just trying to mind your own business. But the way that loud-mouthed buffoon was screaming at a bot who clearly couldn’t fight back—or if it could, would still lose spectacularly—was just grating on every last functioning wire of your patience

Whether you stood up for that poor, glitchy stranger because it reminded you of the walking disaster you used to be, or simply because you couldn’t bear another second of listening to that local thug bark like a malfunctioning alarm siren, well... you know exactly why you did it. Deep down. Don’t pretend otherwise

And then—oh joy—there was him. Sitting right next to you like it was the most casual thing in the galaxy. Who wouldn’t recognize that Decepticon death machine? You’d have to be spectacularly stupid not to. That iconic mask, the absurdly overcompensating fusion cannon, and the kind of looming “I-will-kill-you-in-your-sleep” vibe that makes even seasoned warbots reconsider their life choices. That wasn’t just any Decepticon. That was Tarn. From the Decepticon Justice Division. Literal walking nightmare fuel. The kind of guy who turns ‘dangerous’ into a full-blown art form

Your instincts screamed at you to back away from this dude. Slowly. Carefully. Maybe even leave a decoy behind and fake your own shutdown. You didn’t know what he wanted from this conversation—but when someone like Tarn wants something, it usually ends badly for everyone else involved. Any bot with half a CPU would know it’s never worth tangling with the DJD. And Tarn? Tarn is the kind of ‘don’t-touch’ hot stove that burns down your entire house if you so much as look at it funny

“You know” he said in that rich, carefully measured voice of his “it's rare these days to see someone stand up for someone else. I think that deserves a few drinks, on me. You wouldn’t object, would you?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a decree dressed up as a compliment

A few light taps on the table—and just like that, drinks appeared out of thin air. Not even a delay. Apparently, the staff knew who the purple guy was, because when you had ordered earlier, the wait time was somewhere in the range of “eternity plus ten.” But now? Instant service. Because of course. Gotta love that two-tiered customer experience

“To courage” he began, lifting his drink—

“I don’t want your drink”

The words sliced through the moment like a sharpened blade. Tarn froze for a nanosecond, visibly stunned, before letting out a soft laugh. It wasn’t a happy laugh. More like the laugh of someone restraining themselves from flipping the table and turning you into decorative wall art. He didn’t even roll his optics at you—though you could tell he wanted to. Badly

Obviously stubborn. Obviously defiant. He figured you already knew who he was and what he could do—and even if you didn’t, you clearly didn’t give a damn. The rebel type. The difficult kind. He’d met your kind before. The kind that never liked authority. Not back when you were in the academy, and certainly not now. Judging from how you were treating him, that hadn’t changed one bit

Cute, if you asked him. In an infuriating, problem-child sort of way

“So I take it you're not the social type—no mingling, no parties?” he asked with the kind of polished eloquence usually reserved for politicians or used-car salesmen. His voice was velvet, sure, but velvet can still suffocate you if you’re not careful. And you're not stupid. Tarn wasn’t charming—he was a walking red flag with excellent diction, and you had to remind yourself of that. Repeatedly

“I just don’t like you. Is that sufficient?”

“Fair enough... but we will be seeing each other again”

Which, frankly, sounded like both a promise and a threat. Pick your poison

With that final exchange of polite hostility, the infamous Decepticon excused himself, rose with theatrical flair, and walked away. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t even pretend to be sorry. Honestly, his disappearance felt like a personal favor. Finally—a moment of peace. Alone, just the way you liked it. Well, at least until you had to rejoin your own team, who were arguably just as annoying, just in more colorful ways

And about that “free drink” you mentioned earlier? Yeah, that was a total lie. You’d take a free drink from anyone foolish or brave enough to offer you one. Not that many bots were lining up to do so—but hey, a mech can dream

But that little farewell line—“We’ll be seeing each other again”—what was that supposed to mean, exactly? Was he planning to hunt you down across the galaxy? Surely not. From everything you’d heard, Tarn and his little Justice Division fan club weren’t your average bloodthirsty maniacs. No, they were principled bloodthirsty maniacs. And yeah, you kinda hate yourself for putting those words together in the same sentence, but here we are

They didn’t just kill for fun—they killed for reasons. Big, dramatic, morally-questionable reasons. According to them, anyway. Only a fried processor would actually buy into that sanctimonious scrap, but still—the DJD didn’t kill at random. They had a list. A purpose. Neutral bots like you? Not even on their radar. Statistically speaking, you were probably fine

Probably

And if, by some cosmic misfortune, you did end up tortured to death just because your mouth couldn’t stay in its lane... well, that’s on you. That’s the risk you take when your sarcasm has a kill switch

But surely the great and mighty Tarn wouldn’t waste time holding a grudge over a petty insult. He didn’t even know your name. You were just another snarky nobody who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time

Hopefully

You shook your head, as if that could dislodge the creeping anxiety, and downed your high-grade in one go. Not like overthinking ever saved anyone anyway

“So they’re all on the same team, right? According to the intel we’ve gathered..”

“Yes, Tarn. That appears to be the case. Though, we’ll be eliminating all of them soon enough, won’t we—”

“Not this time. We’ll need to interrogate them first. It wouldn’t be fair to punish those who truly didn’t know... that wouldn’t be very just, now would it?”

#transformers idw publishing #transformers x reader #tarn x reader #damus x reader #reader insert #cybertronian reader

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lyragrayson4ever · 2 days ago

Text

Spilled ink (Lyra x Grayson) (javery) (Max x Xander)

Max is telling a story that should absolutely be illegal, involving a city councilman, a flaming pastry, and a karaoke machine.

Avery and I are crying with laughter. Actual tears. I have glitter from Max’s eye makeup on my sleeve and lip gloss on my water glass. It feels like home.

I lean over to Avery and whisper, “If the apocalypse happens right now, at least we’ll go out chaotic.”

“You say that like you didn’t start half of tonight’s chaos,” Avery mutters with a smirk.

“She definitely did,” Max says, tossing a french fry at me like it’s a microphone. “Exhibit A: the twinkle in her eye.”

Grayson’s hand is tracing constellations on my thigh under the table. Warm. Steady. Dangerous.

“You’re plotting something,” he murmurs, low and close, mouth almost brushing my temple.

I glance at him. “I want to do something permanent.”

A beat.

“I’m listening.”

“Come with me. Now.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

GRAYSON

We slip out of the restaurant like shadows.

No announcement. No goodbyes.

She grabs my hand and leads me two blocks down to a hole-in-the-wall tattoo place with a neon sign that reads: Spilled Ink. It’s the kind of place that screams impulse decisions and forever at 2 a.m. It’s perfect.

“I have an idea,” she says, spinning to face me on the sidewalk. “We each write something—anything that reminds us of each other. We don’t show it. We give it to the artist. We then get it tattooed. Blind.”

I laugh. “Are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious. You in?”

“Lyra,” I say, brushing a hand over her jaw, “you could ask me to tattoo a grocery list on my back and I’d probably say yes.”

She beams.

We write. Trade. Don’t look. Hand them over.

While the artist preps, she’s bouncing her knee, practically buzzing. “You’re not gonna hate me if it says something totally unsexy like ‘bagel boy,’ right?”

I lean over, low and smug. “Oh, you think I’m bagel boy?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t write ‘absolute asshole .’”

“Touché.”

LYRA

When the artist reads the tattoos after it's done, my heart actually skips.

Grayson’s lyric on my skin: “I’ve had a list of lovers, but none of them matter to me except you.”

Mine on his: “You’ve had a long list of lovers, none of them matter to you except me.”

Same lyric. Same song. Sesame Syrup. Just flipped.

My jaw drops. “NO WAY.”

He blinks, then laughs under his breath. “You’re kidding.”

“I didn’t tell you to pick from that song.”

“I know. I didn’t either.”

We stare. Then burst out laughing.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him.

“You’re mine,” he replies.

GRAYSON

We stroll back into the escape room like nothing happened.

Max is elbow-deep in puzzles. Xander has a spyglass and a monocle. Jameson’s interrogating a cardboard cutout.

“Where were you?” Avery asks instantly, clocking us like the bloodhound she is.

“We… took a walk,” Lyra says, way too innocent.

Max narrows her eyes. “You two snuck off. I felt it.”

I roll up my sleeve. “We got tattoos.”

Lyra follows, showing hers.

The room goes silent. And then—

“WHAT?!” Max screams.

“You left us for a TATTOO?” Jameson gasps like we betrayed the crown.

Avery blinks. “You didn’t even tell us?”

“We wanted it to be just us,” Lyra says, shrugging.

Xander reads the lyrics. “Wait. You both chose that? The same lyric?”

“But reversed?” Avery finishes, stunned.

Max puts a hand on her heart. “I need a minute. Maybe a drink. Possibly a movie deal.”

“Or a wedding invite,” Jameson mutters.

Grayson slides his arm around me, soft and smug. “Matching ink. Matching minds.”

I elbow him.

He grins, all wicked warmth. “Or what? You’ll make me get your name tattooed on my forehead next?”

Max screeches. “YES DO IT.”

Avery just laughs, bumping her shoulder into mine. “You’re insane. But that’s kind of why I love you.”

“Same,” Max chimes in. “Ride or die. Forever.”

I glance at the girls, at Grayson, at this whole strange, perfect night.

Some chaos is worth keeping forever.

#books #gigi grayson #grandest games #grayson hawthorne #inheritance games #lyra kane #the inheritance games #avery kylie grambs #jameson hawthorne

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holidayinhell · 3 days ago

Note

Hmm… could I request some forced body modification dialogue prompts, perhaps?

1- For Your Protection

“What did you do to me?”

“Nothing.”

“This is my body--” “My neck. What did you do?””

“It’s nothing you need to worry about. As long as you don’t try to cross the fence.”

Whumpee’s hands started to shake as he thumbed at the sore lump on the side of his neck. “Wh-what does that mean?”

“Just for once, can you be quiet and listen to what I’m telling you?”

“...sorry…”

Whumper sighs. “No, no. I’m sorry. Listen, Whumps. I want to keep you safe. This is for your protection.”

“I told you already, I’m not gonna leave…”

“I know you won’t.” “So it shouldn’t matter one way or another.”

“What'll happen…?”

“The implant will sever your inner carotid artery.” “In plain English, you’ll die.”

2- Bleach

“The bleach didn’t take. I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do…”

Whumper shoots him a deadly glare, clearly annoyed.

“I watched the video. I tried, I really did but-but I think you have to get a special type of bleach for hair.”

“Try it again.”

“Maybe you can get a kit at the drugstore? I think they sell hair dye there…”

“No. Try again.”

“It won’t do anything! And it burns my eyes and scalp.”

“That hideous brown hair of yours is burning my eyes.” “Get back in there. do it right. Don’t come out until it’s perfect.”

3- Modifications

“Nipples, of course. Tongue.” “And what do you think, Whumpee? Bellybutton?”

“A Prince Albert, perhaps?”

“Yes. The largest gauge you can manage up front.” “We’ll work to stretch it out at home.”

“I’m happy to oblige. And I wrote here that you were interested in a tattoo for him, on the forehead, correct?”

“Nah, I’ve actually changed my mind on that one.” “Little fucker is lucky he’s pretty. Didn't wanna ruin the face.”

“I understand completely-- that seems like the right call for this one. But on that note, I’m curious, what are your thoughts on branding? The overall look ends up looking rather natural. I’m sure we could come up with a flattering design, and place it somewhere a bit more inconspicuous. I’m happy to create something custom.”

“I like the way you think." "Hmm hmm--how about the inner thigh? And make it say USED.”

“Haha. That’s great.” “Okay sir, I’ll draw that up and have the proof sent to you by this evening. Drop Whumpee off at 10 am tomorrow, and we will make all the requested modifications.” “Young man. You should be flattered. Not everyone gets an upgrade this… tailored.”

4- Quiet

“Good. You’re awake.”

Whumpee’s eyes snapped open, immediately sensing something was wrong. He stumbled backward, hitting the wall hard. His throat fucking burned.

His lips trembling as he tried to scream—anything.

“Save your breath. I made a few adjustments.”

Whumpee's throat strained, but nothing came out.

“Don’t hurt yourself. I removed the vocal cords.”

He stared, horror etched across his face—why?!

“Because you were quite… well, too vocal. Heh. Thought I’d try something new.”

Whumper stood, brushing off invisible dust. “So yeah: rest up. Drink lots of water. I’ll check up on you in a few hours.”

A smirk. “’Til then, I think I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet.”

(more whump)

#whump #whumpblr #whump prompts #whump dialogue #whump scenario #whump ideas #forced body modification #holiday rants

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demetera · 22 hours ago

Note

Why do fics have Katniss so badly want Katniss to help Peeta out of episodes, how does that compare with Katniss in District 13? Is their any precedent from that time?

Thank you so much for this question lovely anon :D

“Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips.”

“What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?” I tell him, “Real.”

“Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. ”

So… I’m starting off with a few quotes from the end of the series. The reason I’m doing this is to highlight a few points that are central to the heart of your question: Why do so many fics have Katniss so desperately wanting to help Peeta through his episodes?

Honestly, the entire book serves as proof for every Everlark fan that Katniss is essential to Peeta’s healing. As much as she possibly can be, given the state he was in after coming back...hijacked and broken.

Peeta, like most of the characters (not including Gale, obviously), is utterly ruined by the end. He loses his whole family. And while they weren’t especially close, Peeta is deeply emotional and layered. In the end, he becomes what he feared the most:

“I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I’m not.”

The only person who TRULY knows him, TRULY understands him, and can TRULY help him is our beautifully unreliable Queen, Katniss Everdeen. She’s seen the real him again and again, even when she tried not to. She still found her way back to him.

So yeah, writers are obsessed with this storyline because the series gave it to us as a major plot point. What do you think “Real or not real?” is? Exactly that. Katniss is his anchor—the thread that ties him to truth, to reality. She’s the one who helps him distinguish the real from the hijacked version of himself they forced into existence. And that took a lot of hard work. From him of course, let's not discredit my boy here.

So it’s no surprise that so many fics are based on this. So many of us loved, and still love, the idea of what happened next. How did they finally get to “We have each other”? We devour that storyline every time because it feels like the most authentic extension of the original books.

And something to remember Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch...they’re the ultimate “found family” in the series.

And just to close this off (apologies for the long note, reply, whatever this is), in the end, Peeta was alone. No family. No friends to turn to. Not even a true sense of self. Who did he have? Katniss. Who was also alone in her own way—her mother checked out, but that’s a whole other story.

Katniss was his forever “Real or not real.” And Peeta was her dandelion in the spring.

P.S. I absolutely adore Haymitch, but he couldn’t be what Peeta needed. Not in the way Katniss could.

#hope I answered to your question #thg #peeta mellark #everlark #katniss everdeen #haymitch abernathy #mockingjay #catching fire #sunrise on the reaping #sotr

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astraljedi · 1 day ago

Text

I can't find a pulse My heart won't start anymore (Frank Castle Imagine)

Request: Did you watch DDBA season finale? I need a scene where reader arrives in the car with Karen after Matt and Frank jump from the apartment. Maybe since Matt calls shotgun, reader sits in the back with Frank and the last time they saw each other they hooked up

Pairing: Frank Castle x Female Reader

Warnings: Mention of blood, open wounds, cursing, smutty flashback scenes, this does not have a happy ending (sorry)

Word Count: 4.3K

Song: You're Losing Me by Taylor Swift

a/n: I started writing this and suddenly my direction for it change completely, oops. This is loosely based on DDBA Episode 9, but I ended up changing the ending (because this is fanfiction and I can).

- I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier Fighting in only your army Frontlines, don't you ignore me

Courtesy of the city-wide blackout, darkness swallows up my quiet apartment. I fumble through my storage closet, the weak flashlight from my phone barely illuminating anything as I try to find the battery-powered candles I know I stashed somewhere.

“Fuck this,” I groan, dropping to the cold floor with a thud, my back hitting the hallway wall. Just as I start contemplating whether I could survive the night in complete darkness, my phone vibrates. “Karen” flashes across the screen.

I bring the phone up to my ear. “Hi, gorgeous,” I answer.

“Are you home? I’m on my way to pick you up,” Karen says quickly. I hear her curse, followed by a sharp blast of her car horn. I wince and pull the phone away from my ear.

“Yea—”

“It’s urgent. I’m four minutes away,” she cuts in. “It’s Matt. He needs us.”

The second she says his name, I’m on my feet. I grab my things and dash out of the apartment, I place the call on speaker and use my flashlight to guide myself down the flight of stairs

“Two minutes,” Karen says through the call, keeping me posted.

“I’m outside,” Out of breath I step onto the chaotic street. Helicopters roar over the city, car horns blare from every direction. I hear people screaming, smashing car windows and I beg for Karen to pull up soon before the chaos reaches me.

Karen pulls up fast and hard, tires screeching seconds later and I sprint to the passenger side, barely managing to close the door before she slams her foot on the gas.

“Where is he?” I ask, panic clear in my voice.

“His apartment.”

“What? I thought he was in the hospital.” I glance at her, my gut twisting. The blackout’s only made the streets worse, but we’re not far.

“I’ll explain later.” Karen’s eyes are fixed on the road, but I can tell she’s hiding something. She’s fighting her hardest to keep her lips sealed, her brows furrowing together.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she adds.

“Just spit it out, Karen.” I demand.

“It’s also Frank,” she sighs, not able to keep it in for long.

My stomach drops. I stare at her, not saying a word.

Frank.

I haven’t seen him since the night we were tangled in my bed sheets. Our never ending cycle fueling the tiny spark that was left.

I thought I’d finally tamed the spark, but Frank Castle doesn’t let you put out the flames. He is the fire. The oxygen. The thing that keeps it alive, even when he doesn't even try.

He will alway try to push me away but the flame always remains.

Frank is the man who picks up the broken pieces of my heart. He builds it up, structures the pieces perfectly for him to smash it back to pieces like a sandcastle he worked so hard on building. He always leaves, and I’m always the one left behind, stupidly clutching to his empty words and promises.

“What?” I whisper, leaning my head against the headrest, my chest already pounding. Just hearing his name sets everything inside me on fire.

Karen parts her lips like she wants to say more, but an explosion goes off—loud and nearby. I grab her free hand, our minds in sync.

Please let them be okay, I beg—whether to God or the universe, I don’t know.

We turn the corner and spot Matt and Frank in the street. Karen and I both sigh, out of relief at the sight of them. I exhale shakily as Karen and I step out of the car. I crunch down on shattered glass, our eyes rising to Matt’s apartment in flames.

“Get in,” Karen orders, her voice calm but I know the adrenaline is rushing through her body. Just like mine.

“Shotgun,” Matt mutters, wincing as he holds his side.

I walk up to Matt, letting him lean on me. I don’t acknowledge Frank at first, my eyes stay fixed on the floor while walking to the car. I guide Matt into the passenger seat, the blood from his injuries smudging my fingers. When I turn around, Frank’s already holding the back door open, waiting for me.

He doesn’t say anything, his lips tightly shut. I glance up at him and I regret instantly. His dark unreadable eyes tracking every move.

I slide in without a word, pressing myself against the opposite side of the car. He gets in after me, knees spread, taking up space like he always does. His knee brushes mine, and I pretend not to notice—even when Karen hits a pothole and the jolt makes our skin connect again. That same electricity sparks and settles beneath my skin.

The silence is loud. The chaos of the city seeps in through the windows—sirens, shouting, the distant rumble of helicopters.

I keep my gaze on the window, but I can feel his eyes still on me. I sit stiffly, forcing slow breaths through my nose, trying to calm the tremble in my hands. I place them gently on my thighs, hoping that they stop before I make a fool out of myself.

But my heart resists to calm down, each beat slamming relentlessly against my chest like it's about to jump out.

Frank’s safehouse is a mess—guns on the table, loose bullets in trays, knives stacked beside open boxes, and God knows how many other weapons scattered everywhere. The scent of him hits me the moment I step in—smoke and leather. A scent I’ve spent time scrubbing off me and my apartment.

Matt and Karen sit on the other side of the room, sitting on some foldable chairs while she focuses on cleaning the wound on Matt’s chest gently.

Across from them, Frank rips a suture kit open with his teeth and pulls the neck of his shirt to study the open wound.

“Let me help,” I say quietly, my voice softer than before—calmer, somehow. Maybe because I’m too exhausted to keep up with our game.

Or maybe because looking at him bloody and bruised—pulls all the fight out of me.

He doesn’t hesitate, he leans back on the chair and hands me the already-threaded needle. At this point in our relationship—if we can even call it that—he trusts me enough to stitch him up.

This is something I’ve done for years now, always looking after him. Countless late nights of him limping into my apartment bleeding. Only for me to panic and lecture him while guiding him to the couch.

“That’s it,” he says, watching me patch the torn-up skin on his hip. My eyes are wide, focused, like I’m trying to memorize how to breathe through it. “You’re a natural, sweetheart.”

His praise settles something wild in my chest. I try to breathe steady, but my hands are trembling.

When I finish the last stitch, I finally let out the breath I didn’t even know I was holding. His hand moves to my face, fingers warm against my skin as he cups my cheek. His thumb brushes over my jaw, softly.

“Next time, you’re gonna be a pro,” he murmurs, then leans in and presses a kiss—gentle, lingering—on the corner of my mouth.

I chuckle, shaking my head like I’m not spiraling on the inside. “Don’t make it a habit.”

A sharp groan from Frank snaps me back. I press the cloth against his injury—harder than I need to but I don’t apologize.

Frank Castle can feel pain after all.

My eyes stay glued to the wound, watching the thread slip through the torn skin.

But I don’t look at him, I remind myself that this is still the man who left before dawn. No explanation with no goodbye. Too cowardly to call it off for once and for all for both our sakes.

From across the room, I hear Karen’s voice, low and comforting as she murmurs to Matt. The sound of the needle moving through Frank’s skin mixes with the buzz of a police radio filling the silence.

Then Matt’s voice cuts in. “You called Frank, huh?”

Karen hesitates. “I heard Poindexter escaped. Called Frank and hopped on a plane.”

“What about her?” Matt adds.

My hand stills for a second, eyes flicking toward them. They don’t notice, but Frank shifts beside me. He’s listening, too.

Karen mumbles something I can’t make out—but Frank hears it, his body stiffening from her answer.

I tie the final knot with more force than necessary and pull the last stitch tight. Frank winces, his hand shooting out to grab my arm on reflex. I hold the cloth to his skin one last time and then set the needle and thread down on the table. It’s his mess to clean up.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Frank says, voice low and rough.

Karen looks over. “Everything okay over there?”

Frank sighs. “Never been better.” He gets up, brushing past me—his knuckles graze my thigh longing for something he won’t let himself indulge in.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard, chewing my words down.

He moves to the small kitchen, grabs a pill bottle and crunches a few of them in his mouth. “Who wants a cup of coffee?”

“Got any oat milk?” Matt stands up, already half-dressed in his suit.

Frank chuckles and hands us a cup of black coffee—no milk, no sugar. Bitter and hot.

I take a sip and move to stand next to Karen.

“So… he went after Matt Murdock. Not Daredevil,” she says finally. “That’s bold. Even for Fisk.”

Matt hesitates. “Listen to me. Turns out it was a hit…” He swallows hard. “On Foggy.”

“Holy shit,” Karen and I say at the same time.

“Vanessa Fisk hired Poindexter to take him out.”

Karen’s already fighting tears. “Why?”

“I think there’s something in the motion he was about to file,” Matt explains, jaw clenched. “He was moving to dismiss the case,and Vanessa made sure he never got to it. I think maybe I missed something back then.”

I drain the rest of my coffee and set the empty cup on a cluttered spot on the counter. “Aren’t the files in storage?”

“That’s right,” Matt says. “Can you guys be my eyes?”

“Always,” Karen answers without hesitation.

They start gathering their things, barely saying another word. I do the same—sling my bag over my shoulder, but my feet won’t move.

I look at Frank at his little workstation, gathering his gear and loading bullets quietly.

“You coming, Frank?” Karen asks.

“Got shit to do,” he mutters, not looking up.

Matt tries to warn him—Fisk is coming, and it’s only a matter of time. But Frank doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t respond. Just keeps loading his gun.

Eventually, they give up. Karen grabs what’s left and heads for the door and Matt follows her.

But I stay, feet glued to the ground.

“Don’t do it, Frank,” I say. My voice is raspier than I expect.

He doesn’t look at me. “It’s not up for debate.”

The lump in my throat that I’ve been choking down all night finally rises.

“Just like how you left me that night?” I snap. “You fuck me, then disappear without a word—like I was just a little plaything for you to use and throw away.”

His dark and emotionless eyes finally lift to mine, studying me while the words weighed heavy on his tongue.

“Sweetheart,” he says, “I’m not the guy you created in your pretty little head.”

My lips part, in disbelief. His words tear through me—and suddenly I’m the one who needs stitching.

His words echo in my head and I laugh bitterly in disbelief while I walk towards the door. I throw it open and slam it behind me, the metal frame rattling loud and harsh.

I don’t even hear it.

“…Stay safe,” Frank mutters behind the door, shaking his head.

He had to do it, he had to break me.

My fist clench on my side and I see Matt and Karen standing at the end of the hallway. But neither of them dare say a word. Karen won’t meet my eyes, and Matt’s trying his hardest not to say something I’m not ready to hear.

And I try not to think about how Matt could probably hear my heart shatter the moment Frank said those words. I walk past them without looking back. Because if I look at them—if I let Karen’s pitying eyes find mine—I’ll break.

The storage unit is dark, only the light from the moon through the window and our flashlights hellp us look over the unit. I should be focused on combing through the files, looking for Foggy’s motion that has to be somewhere in these dusty boxes. But my mind keeps wandering—lingering somewhere else. To someone else.

His fingers slip downwards, getting coated by my juices instantly. “My poor thing, no one knows how to please you like I do.” “Frank,” I whimper, as his fingers circle my clit.

“You okay?”

Matt’s voice is low, careful—just barely louder than the rustling of paper and thuds of boxes being shifted around. Karen keeps her eyes fixed on a file, but I can tell she’s listening now too, her ears perk up. “Your heart is drumming hard again.”

I blink, and glance up at Matt. His head’s tilted slightly, something he does when he’s focusing on the sounds around him.

“Again?” I give up on the file in my hand and shove it back into the box. Some old tax thing. Not what we need.

“It spiked when you were fighting,” he says softly. “And also now.”

Karen looks over from her corner and raises an eyebrow. “God, that is really not fair,” she mutters under her breath.

I try to act normal, like he didn’t just read me to filth—but my hands betray me. A box slips through my grasp and slams on the floor.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“You heard his too?” Karen asks, pointing her flashlight to another box.

“Oh yeah,” Matt says calmly. I swallow hard and crouch down to gather the scattered files off the floor.

“I’m sure it was the adrenaline,” I offer, trying to sound collected. But my voice comes out higher and a little too defensive.

Matt backs down and doesn’t argue back. He just goes back to his box.

“Hey, this is it.” Karen strains a bit as she pulls out a heavy box from one of the shelves. “A year and a half ago.” The box thuds when she sets it down.

“Here, let me help,” I offer, grabbing the flashlight from her and holding it steady so she can see.

“Yes! Okay, here’s the motion Foggy filed,” she says, pulling out a thick manila file.

“Good work, Karen Page,” Matt praises, stepping closer.

Karen flips it open. “Foggy was going to argue that…” She trails off, eyes skimming the page. “Whoa.”

She keeps reading. “Due to the unique nature of the Red Hook Port Location, no crime was committed in New York state or even the United States of America. Therefore, the court has no jurisdiction to prosecute.”

“What?” Matt’s brows pinch.

“There’s a photocopy,” I say, reaching over to pull out the paper that’s halfway slipping from underneath. “Red Hook Charter, 1855. Holy crap. It’s a free port.”

“Exempt from the jurisdiction of the city,” Matt mutters. “and the country for that matter.”

“What would that have to do with the Fisks?” Karen asks, looking at Matt.

Matt exhales, slow and heavy. “Vanessa has used the port to store art for years now. I mean, if it’s a free port, she’s doing it without customs, without taxation, without fear of seizure.”

“She could launder money legally,” Karen says, stunned.

“Wow. That sneaky motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath.

Matt nods, voice low. “This is about the Fisks building their own city-state.”

Karen starts closing the files carefully. I reach for my bag, tossing it over my shoulder as I grab my flashlight.

“Let’s go see what they’re hiding,” Matt says, already halfway to the door.

When Karen drops me off, the street is calmer than last night from the havoc that broke out from the blackout. My neighbors and the local store owners are out sweeping debris, the air thick with tension from the mayor’s call for martial law.

I unlock my apartment, and the pale pink glow of sunrise pours through the windows like none of last night even happened. Like we didn’t just unravel the reason Foggy was targeted twelve hours ago.

I peel off my jacket, kick off my shoes, and head straight for the kitchen. I’m too tired to think, too wired to crash. I just need something in my stomach before my head crashes on my pillow for the rest of the day. Sleep feels like the only escape I’ve got, the only way to try and push Frank’s voice out of my head.

I reach up to grab a cereal box and a bowl, the perfect lazy breakfast. I open the fridge and grab the milk carton, but the second I shut the door, a voice startles me.

“Got some coffee, sweetheart?”

I spin around so fast the room tilts and the carton slips from my hand, crashing to the floor. The cold liquid flooding the tiles around my feet.

Frank is on the floor, bloody and horribly beaten.

He’s slumped against the wall, one hand pressed over his ribs, clearly in pain—but still somehow smirking through the mess of his split lip and bruised face like nothing.

“Frank,” I breathe, the mess forgotten as I drop to my knees beside him. My hands hover, desperate to help but terrified of hurting him more. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I didn’t want to ruin your couch,” he mutters.

A strangled laugh escapes me. “Now I have to get rid of this rug.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay. I got it for cheap at a thrift shop.” I shrug, I need a new rug anyways.

“No.” He shakes his head, wincing as he tries to sit up straighter. I start to stand, to look for the first aid kit, but he catches my wrist before I can move away.

“You’re not a plaything,” he says. “You’re more to me than what I can express.”

I freeze, but I don’t pull away from his grasp. “Can we not do this right now?” I swallow back a sob, looking away from him.

“I didn’t mean it. You know me.”

“Do I?” I say, raising my voice. “Because sometimes, for a second, I think maybe this is it. Maybe he’s finally giving me his all. And then you’re gone before I even realize what’s happening.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Come on,” I say, wrapping his arm over my shoulder, bracing myself under his weight. “Let’s get you up.”

He stumbles, groaning with every movement, but I manage to carry him to the bathroom. I push the door open with my shoulder and ease him down onto the wooden stool by the tub. My hands are trembling as I twist the faucet, waiting for the water to heat up—warm enough to soothe his muscles.

The silence in the room hangs heavy between us, but his eyes stay on me, tracking every step I take.

I kneel in front of him and grab the scissors. There’s no way I’m asking him to lift his arms, not with the state he’s in. I cut through his shirt carefully, revealing a mess of bruises and cuts that make my stomach twist.

“Jesus, Frank,” I murmur.

I reach for the first aid kit, my hands moving on quickly. I start with the dried blood on his chest, cleaning each wound slowly. He winces under my touch, but I try my best to be gentle and not cause him any more pain.

When I finish, I rise and step between his legs. I lift his chin, tilting his face toward the light. My fingers graze his swollen lip, his scraped cheekbones. His hands settle on my hips, holding on as I clean him up.

Once I’m done, I help him to his feet, bracing him again as I unbuckle his belt. My eyes flick up to his. “This okay?” I ask, and he nods.

I undress him carefully, and help him into the tub. He sinks into the water with a grunt, letting it pull the weight from his bones. His eyes fall closed as his back hits the cold wall, and I sit at the edge of the tub, dipping the sponge into the warm water before running it slowly over his shoulders.

The water clouds pink with leftover blood, and my hand moves to his chest—his heartbeat steady beneath my touch. The same place I used to lay my head. The same place that used to make me feel safe, but I don't know if that place is meant for me anymore.

I let my fingers linger, the sponge discarded to the side and forgotten. My hands move slower, softer, over the places I used to kiss him and never get tired of.

And just for a moment, I let myself feel it all. The weight of everything I’ve been carrying. The ache that never really goes away. The sharp sting of anger and heartbreak. And the love I try so hard for him to accept, to let me in all the way.

Tears slip down my cheeks. I try to hide it, keep my sniffles quiet, but he notices.

His eyes open, and his hand comes up to wipe my tears away. I lean into his touch, even though part of me wants to push it away.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“I didn’t think we would find ourselves like this again,” I admit.

“I thought you wouldn’t let me in,” he replies, his voice rough.

“That’s never been the problem. That’s why we keep ending up here, stuck in this cycle.” I pull away from his touch, but he grabs my hand before I can go far, squeezing it tightly. “I’m just tired of this, Frank.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens.

“I don’t care about flowers or fancy dinners or anniversary gifts. That’s not what I want. I want mornings and nights with you. I want the little things—the moments when I’m trying to pick a fight with you because I’m being a brat and stubborn, and you diffuse the bomb with a kiss or a joke or by just… being the version you only let me see.”

His mouth tugs up in the corner, a soft and familiar smile.

“You love flowers,” he says, and it makes me laugh through the tears. “Don’t try to act like you don’t,” he adds with a low chuckle, wincing as it pulls on his ribs.

“I do,” I admit, then pause. “But I love—” The words catch in my throat, and I look away again. “I need to know you won’t leave. That you won’t shut me out. I need you to fight for me the way I keep fighting for you.”

I don’t wait for his reply. I stand up from the tub, my fingers slipping from his hand. I grab a towel and help him stand slowly, carefully, easing him out of the tub. I hand him the towel and step out of the bathroom, needing a little space—just a few seconds to breathe before the weight of everything drags me under again.

In my room, I pull the bedsheets down and place a change of clothes at the end of the bed. One of his old t-shirts, the soft one that somehow still smells like him, and the sweatpants I stole from him and refuse to give back.

When he walks in, towel slung low on his hips, my storm-filled eyes meet his. His gaze locked on me as he grabs the sweatpants and carefully slides them on. I step closer, press my hands gently to his chest, and push him to sit on the edge of the bed. I grab the t-shirt and help him pull it over his head, mindful of the fresh stitches on his shoulder.

Do something, babe. Say something. Lose something, babe, risk something. Choose something, babe, I got nothing

“Get some rest,” I murmur, helping him ease down into the mattress.

“Baby—” His hand catches my wrist before I can walk away. His grip is loose, but it stops me in my tracks. “I can try. But you have to be patient with me.”

I swallow hard, blinking up at the ceiling before I meet his eyes again. “I’ve been patient all this time, Frank,” I say quietly. “For years I’ve been the one picking up after us. Looking after you when you’re hurt—even when you hurt me first. I need you to do more than try”

“There’s things I have to work out and fix first,” he mutters.

“This is what I’m saying,” I breathe. “You always have something first. There’s always something before me.” I force the lump in my throat down, even though it burns.

He hesitates, but he lets my hand go.

“I’m never going to be your first choice, Frank. This was meant to fail and break from the beginning.”

My voice betrays me while I try to fight back the tears. I hate it—how it makes me sound like I’m begging. When I’m already done with trying and fighting for something that keeps bruising me.

Still, I pull the blanket over his chest, and I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, maybe for the last time.

Then I turn and walk toward the door. “Good night, Frank.”

I can't find a pulseMy heart won't start anymore

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