#if you want me to come up with a deep meaning behind this on the spot:

[pkmn-lillie]

The slumbering Thing lies below Gotham, deep under the twisting caves and labyrinthine tunnels. It was borne from a curse, echoing backwards to the beginning of time. It was borne from love, the love of a people for their city, so powerful as to breathe life into It.

Janet Drake was infertile. No medical intervention could change that. But she wished, and prayed, and deep under her home, the sleeping Thing takes pity.

"I shall grant you a child, body of flesh and blood, soul and mind of mine. He will be a wonderful dream, waking and sleeping at once."

Janet knows that her miracle baby is strange, inhuman, but trying to grasp a specific memory of those nine months leaves her weary and aching. (Truly mortal flesh is not meant to hold a thing such as It, even a sliver, and it is a testament to her fortitude that she came out sane on the other side.)

Tim never sleeps. He naps, frequently and in the strangest places, but he never reaches deep sleep. He knows that he is the dream of something greater, the dozing Thing that exists under Its city. He fears that sleeping so deeply will rouse It from the dream permanently, and he will be forgotten as dreams tend to be.

(Tim has slept that deeply, before, due to being forced unconscious by head trauma or through chemical means. The Thing has yet to truly wake, letting Itself revel in its precious dream once more, but he always fears each slumber could be his last.)

(Tim is running out of ways to avoid the sleep study that Bruce seems intent on him getting, because the risk of a willful sleep is too great to ignore.)

An earthquake shakes Gotham to its core, revealing long-buried caverns and derelict catacombs. By pure chance, a chamber deep under the city becomes accessible from the Batcave. (Tim wants so desperately to trust his family with the truth, even just a whisper.)

Nightwing braves the new passage with cautious glee, the joy of discovery deep in his bones. Signal follows behind, pretending to lament his use as a walking flashlight, just as excited as his eldest brother. The Thing that slumbers deep below feels them coming, contains itself to a perceptible form so as not to break one of its treasured Birds.

"Nightwing. Report."

"Uh, there's something big down here. Really big. Pretty sure it's sleeping."

Tim shivers, sitting at his desk in his bedroom. The conversation passes through Its mind like sand, and his mortal brain can only catch so much.

"Elaborate."

"I... Signal, what do you see?"

"It's some Lovecraft bullshit down here, Batman. It's big, and it's definitely sleeping, but there's really no good way to define it otherwise. There is no word to describe the color I'm seeing right now, and I'm pretty sure that's not what Wing is seeing."

"Your eyes just slip right past it, trying to focus on it long enough to gauge its size gives me a migraine."

Tim's fingers still on his keyboard. For the first time in his life, the sleeping Thing feels dread. It— he— doesn't want to wake up, please let It sleep please please please—

"Come back now. I will contact Justice League Dark."

"... Yeah. Copy that. C'mon, Sig."

<br>

alright prose/drabble over i need to get the rest of my ideas out and then take a nap

when Batman holds a meeting to discuss it, Tim is the only one who suggests just leaving it be. he knows its sus but he's desperately hoping they'll listen.

JLD sets up a bunch of wards in the tunnel connecting it to the cave. Tim starts napping more and more, never actually looking rested, his hands shake, his body aches, his focus is shot. Bruce worries that the entity is hurting his son.

Tim holds steady, though, until one day Batman tempts fate and goes to poke the bear (with a JLD member supervising, of course.) Tim, working in the cave, collapses. He curls into fetal position and pleads, begs, sobs, for them to stop, "let me dream, please, i don't want to wake up, please"

dealer's choice of whether Bruce keeps going (interpreting it as pulling a parasite out of his son) or listens to Tim and stops.

On one hand, the delicious angst of hurting his son by trying to help him, possibly killing the son that he knows. One of his other sons demands that he stop, something is wrong, but Bruce is too stubborn to let this beast sleep below his city unchecked, trying to contain it in its chamber. Tim realising that he can never trust Bruce with the truth, if he survives this.

On the other hand, fluff and emotional angst! The bats learn why Tim is just Like That, maybe they set up something so Tim doesn't have to worry about the entity waking up every time he gets knocked out, the proximity to his true 'body' makes Tim's human form a little more spooky and strange, the world is your oyster!

Short DPXDC Prompts #749

Tim Drake isn’t human, he knows that and is comfortable in his skin. This strange ghost boy very obviously isn’t comfortable in his ghost form around humans. He will help change that.

[runninriot]

Substitute Santa

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles day 22

prompt: Santa | rated: G | wc: 998 | tags: Eddie & Wayne Munson, single dad Steve Harrington, pre Steddie, tbc

"Thank you, son. This means a lot to me."

Eddie grumbles into the phone, says 'No problem, old man. I'm happy to help.' before hanging up, not really feeling his own words despite his uncle's gratitude.

Eddie groans loudly, head tilted back, eyes pinched close - he really should've just said no. But he knows how important this is to Wayne and for all that man has done for him, this really is only a small favour to ask of his nephew.

It's just- ugh.

The prospect of having to sit in a room full of noisy, snotty children for three hours, wearing that ridiculous costume, sweating his butt off underneath the suit, is one Eddie could definitely do without.

For as long as he can remember, every year, his uncle has dressed up as Santa for the Hawkins' annual Christmas charity event at the community centre.

This year, unfortunately, Wayne won't be able to make it because- 'How are the kids supposed to believe Santa will bring their gifts in time when he can't even walk properly?'

Because unlike Santa, Wayne isn't some kind of magical creature, so when he tripped and broke his foot, it meant cast and crutches and rest, even if he keeps forgetting that last part.

Eddie had already made plans to visit him for the holidays, but since his accident happened a few days ago, he decided to take some time off work and head home a week earlier. Which, apparently, gave Wayne the idea that, instead of asking one of the many other possible candidates, Eddie could take up his role this year.

'Keeping up the Munson tradition.'

So, that's what got him into this mess. And although he knows it'll make his uncle happy, he dreads it. Hates it. Wishes it would already be over so he can forget all about it.

The community centre is packed with people. There are little stands where they sell handmade goods and cookies and hot drinks. And at the far end of the room, right in front of the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, he finds the area where half an hour from now, he'll be sitting in the massive wooden chair that reminds him a bit of the makeshift throne he used to sit in while playing his favourite nerd game with his friends in the school's basement.

His DM skills will come in handy today; he was always good at acting, doing voices, and slipping into different roles - so passing as Santa should be easy as pie.

Maybe it'll be half as bad as he thought. Although he's still not sure about handling the kids. Or their parents. Because he knows how impatient and annoying they can get when they have to wait in line for too long.

Two hours in, Eddie is already on the brink of a nervous breakdown. The kid on his lap has been crying for 5 minutes, not wanting to follow his embarrassed mother's plea to 'just sit still and look at the camera'. It's not the first time this happens, and he's pretty sure, not the last.

He already had to bite his tongue multiple times not to yell at someone for cutting the line, or at parents for trying to force their kids to sit on this big, scary man's lap when they clearly didn't want to. No 'nice picture for Grandma and Grandpa' is worth traumatising a child. So Eddie makes sure to always ask the kid in question whether they want to sit or just stand by his side.

When Sobbing Charly's mom has finally gotten a decent enough shot, Eddie takes a deep breath and turns to the next kid in line.

It's a girl, maybe 4 or 5, looking at him with big, curious eyes from where she’s half-hidden behind her dad.

"Robbie's a little shy, sorry. We can just come back later, don't wanna hold up the line," the man says apologetically, and when Eddie looks up at him, he instantly recognises the face.

Standing before him is Steve Harrington, someone he hasn't seen in years, who apparently has a daughter now, and- wow. Eddie needs a moment to process it all. Because he might've had a little crush on the guy back in high school. Okay maybe a massive one. And seeing him now, looking somehow even prettier than he had back then, makes Eddie’s heart flutter.

He shakes himself out of it and turns his attention back to the girl.

"Don't need to be shy Robbie, I know you've been very good this year. Just like your dad. Right, Steve?" Eddie winks at the man whose expression freezes when he seems to realise who is hidden underneath the costume.

"Dad! Santa knows your name!" the girl says in wonder and Eddie has to bite back a laugh.

"Duh, I told you Santa knows everything," Steve answers with a smile directed at Eddie and suddenly the room seems much brighter than before.

Robbie comes out of her hiding spot, still holding Steve's hand tight.

"Can my dad be in the photo with me?" she asks and her big, hazel eyes make Eddie's heart melt.

"Of course, he can."

Before Eddie realises what's happening, he's got both, Steve and his daughter in his lap, cheering at the camera and- Eddie will definitely need a drink after that, if he survives this.

Once they're done, Steve stands up quickly, mouthing 'Sorry' at him, smiling his pretty smile again, and Eddie feels hot all over. Must be the costume, he's sure.

He tries not to let his mind wander to other scenarios of Steve in his lap, turns to Robbie instead, acting as casual as possible when he asks her what her biggest wish for Christmas is.

She thinks about it for a moment, before leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"I wish my dad would find someone that makes him happy."

Oh.

Well. Eddie would gladly make that happen.

[zae-heeyyy]

Piquancy- III

Summary: Arthur courts you properly. Pairing: Arthur Morgan X Female Reader Word Count: 3,108 Tags: fingering, foreplay, LOTS of foreplay, oral, praise

previous next

An: This journal entry is so unserious, but that's all I got today lol I've been re-reading The Odyssey and couldn't help alluding to it, shout out to my guy Odysseus.

piquancy: a sharp or stimulating quality that provokes a strong, often intriguing reaction.

Arthur Morgan wanted you. He wanted you in all the ways a person could want another. His desire for you throbbed like a muscle ache, painful but impossible not to press into. Longing like this had never worked out for him in the past. He was a fool to let himself wade into it, but the allure of you pooled all around him, a fate he could not escape. The memory of you still burned beneath his fingertips. He wanted to feel more: your lips on his, the curves of your breasts cupped in his palms, and your nails digging into his back. And oh, he wanted to taste you, to feel the skin of your neck between his teeth, to clash his lips against yours, and to lose himself in a heady dance of his tongue against the warmth between your legs. He wanted you so bad; the thought was burning him alive. Arthur Morgan wanted you, and if you let him have you, he wouldn't screw it up. Not this time, not ever. 

You were just as enticed with him, your fascination multiplied by his freshly trimmed face and the faint scent of bergamot soap wafting off of him as he greeted you outside the Blackwater Saloon that evening. While your "date" wasn't the sort of proper courting you read about in one of Marybeth's romance books, it suited the lifestyle you and Arthur shared.

The same man who made a living off of coarse intimidation metamorphosized right in front of you, unraveling himself to be a deep thinker, attentive, and tenderhearted. That tenderness made every step feel effortless as he led you up the stairs of the saloon to the room you'd shared the night before.

As the door clicked closed, Arthur made quick work of his satchel and gun belt, then sat on the bed with inviting arms. You walked into him, intertwining your fingers behind his neck, and he mirrored you, locking his around the small of your back. Finally, you allowed yourself to be enthralled by his eyes once more, drawn in like a moth to lantern light.

"Thank you," you whispered, mouth hovering close to his. As bad as you wanted to lean into him and let him swallow you whole, you held back. Making the first move felt too bold, too unladylike, and you cared too much about what he might think to risk it.

"What for?" he asked. You opened your mouth to respond, but he silenced you, closing the distance and kissing you once, quick, like a wave testing the shore. Then a storm brewed within you, and you surged back against his lips, swept away by the force of him. As the moment drifted away, you'd regained awareness of yourself, realizing you'd practically dissolved into the cowboy. The weight of you barely phased him, but he gave your waist a gentle tug, mooring you to his knee. With a slight grin plastered on his face, he nodded, urging you to go on with the thought he'd just unapologetically cut off with his lips.

"Thank you for this, courting, as you call it," You didn't mean for your voice to come out as shaky as it did, but you joked to calm your nerves, "would've got you drunk around me sooner if I knew I had this to look forward to."

He huffed low in amusement, a knowing smile growing as a cheeky thought flickered through his mind.

"Was only ever drunk on you, darlin'."

Tickled, you threw your head back in unrestrained laughter. His head dipped into your shoulder in an attempt to hide his sudden self-consciousness, making his speech come out muffled. "Weren't that funny," he said, trying to brush off his words. As he continued to nuzzle into your neck, he hummed and sighed contentedly as he took in your scent.

Smiling so much made your cheeks ache, but you couldn't help it. "You smell so nice," you mimicked his drunken flirting from the night before. He chuckled again, exhaled warm air onto your skin, and pulled you flush into him, holding tight. You'd never imagined you'd enjoy being trapped in an ursine hug, but Arthur's affectionate grip on you made his arms feel like the safest place in the world.

His lips made contact with your skin, and you tilted your head to give him better access. You could feel his lips curve upward as you sighed. 

"Not the only thing I said," he recalled, tugging at the fabric of your blouse, uncovering your shoulder, and kissing the now exposed skin. A shiver racked your bones as you gave into his shameless attempt to seduce you. Redirecting his attention from your goosebump-covered skin to your lips, you locked onto them, pushing through his teeth to tangle his tongue with yours. Arthur cursed himself as he felt his pants get tighter. Selfish, he thought and tore himself away from you. Damn, he was a greedy, thieving, heartless bastard. If he wanted something, he'd rob for it, but nothing—not even all the money in the world—could amount to you. In that moment, entirely consumed, he realized that everything he had was yours to take—and then some. He'd give it all to you, steal from others, and even kill to make sure you were satisfied. The mere thought of it terrified him, yet it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Your brow crinkled at the loss of his bodyheat but even more so at the frown etched into his features. Your mouth fell open to ask if something was wrong, but he shook his head assuringly. Of course, nothing was wrong; for once in his miserable life, everything was right. 

"Whoever he was– he was an idiot to have you and take it for granted. I won't." 

You wanted to believe him with every part of you. Self-doubt didn't have time to creep in before your attention fell to his hand wandering up and down your thigh. You kissed him hungrier than either of you had kissed anybody before, making his mind race. Closer, closer, closer hammered in his brain, inexorable. Two large hands gripped your backside, prompting you to lock your legs around his waist.

He panted against your mouth, "Let me make you feel good." You could only nod.

Soft pillows cushioned your head as you readjusted, laying on your back. As your eyes roamed up to the ornate chandelier, your legs opened with a mind of their own, giving him space to crawl between them. His bulk lay against yours, heavy in all the best ways.

"Yer'so goddamn beautiful, you know that?" His words came out strained, like he'd lost his breath as he trailed kisses down your neck. You knew he was observant, always finding something to sketch and write in that journal of his. Now, it showed in how he narrowed his eyes to see you better, how he grazed his fingers across untouched skin and looked up to see your reaction. You'd never had a man pay this much attention to you, to soak you in when he was the one doing all the work. Arthur didn't care a second about his own physical pleasure. Making you come around his fingers would be pleasure enough.

You were utterly lost in the man. When had the room grown so unbearably hot? When had he taken off your shoes? How did his hands find the waistband of your bloomers under the fabric of your skirt?

Pausing, his eyes met yours in a silent plea for him to continue. You answered by lifting your hips and forcing your skirt and bloomers down to your ankles. Arthur was swift in pulling them all the way off, grunting in delight as he tossed the garments to the floor, forgotten.

His breath whistled out of his nose loud like the wind of a dust storm, and his chest rose and fell hard at the sight of you. Eyes still fixed on yours, his calloused palm traveled up your leg like he was trying to memorize you. He wanted to be able to close his eyes and remember the shape of you from touch alone, to sculpt you in his mind. All his life, he'd been a nomad, traveling and exploring new places, never calling one home. Now, he realized home wasn't a place but a person–– you were who he wanted to call home yet never stop exploring.

As his hand finished its trek up your leg, almost landing at its final destination, a strange sense of self-consciousness washed over you like never before.

Arthur cared about you. That was evident. You couldn't deny it, and you'd be stabbing him with his own knife if you did. But you couldn't stop the nag of worry. What if this time was like every other time? What if, despite all his effort, Arthur would walk down the same road as the others, seemingly content with their own satisfaction but falling short of meeting yours. The what-ifs doused you like water on a fire, and you brought your knees to your chest, folding into yourself.

The fog of Athur's lust for you lifted, replaced by clarity and concern. Brow knit together, he scooted in close and rubbed his knuckles down your jaw. 

"What is it?" he murmured, nudging your chin to make you look at him, "We don't have to do anythin' you don't want."

He rested his hands so casually worshipping you a second ago on your knees with all the patience of a saint, finding your gaze and waiting for a response. He was so uniquely him, and for him to be yours was the only thought you'd had for forty-eight hours. You didn't just want him in the way he was five seconds ago, hot and heavy; you wanted him the way you were at the poker table, arm around your chair; you wanted him in the way you'd sat downstairs. To want him like that meant more than a one-night fleeting encounter. That meant giving yourself away to him, your whole self, not just your body, but your wants and needs and parts of yourself that scared you the most. Little did you know, he shared the same thoughts about you.

Storm-churned seas of blue bore into your own misty eyes, "want to," you squeaked, "it's just that––"

"I know what you said. I know, darlin'." His voice, tender as it was, broke the dam under your eyes. Silent tears spilled down your face for only a second before he caught them with his thumbs.  He waited, silently pushing you to go on, even though his heart ached at the sight of rivers etching a path down your features.

"What if there's something wrong with me?" You asked, openly admitting what you'd long suspected about yourself.

"Hey," he said as he rose up on his knees and towered over you. His hands tugged at the hem of your blouse and chemise, but his eyes caught yours in another silent ask. You adjusted to let him pull both garments up and over. Stricken by you, he shook his head slowly. Words were coming out of his mouth, but he was fixated on you. He couldn't stop his hands as they traced the curves of your body. "You say that, but from this side of the bed–– well, I reckon you're damn close to perfection."  

You were a siren, your body a beautiful symphony. Though he'd always clung to the mast of his own vulnerability, he would gladly untether himself and plunge to his death if it meant eternity in heaven with you. His declaration was Hermes' moly, making the spell of insecurity nonbinding.

Like the moon and the tide, you'd found yourselves in sync again, working together to shove his suspenders off his shoulders, untuck his shirt, and undo the buttons that were keeping it closed. You flung yourself into him, digging your fingers into his back and shivering as your nipples pressed against his chest. He tasted like tobacco and alcohol and somehow like an alcove of sunlight, fresh water, and vivid color. His suspenders hung loosely around his waist as he dipped you back down into the swell of blankets.

"You just relax now; let me take care of ye'. If you want me to stop, just say the word, alright?" You gave him the go-ahead, and he took hold of your knees, parting your legs to expose you to him again. His beard scratched the inside of your thighs as he dived between them, and you gasped as his tongue and teeth latched onto the skin of your thighs. You arched up off the bed, losing whatever control you had over yourself.

One of his hands snaked into yours. "I said relax, woman." He kissed your knuckles then went back to it, drawing dark marks into your thighs as if you were a page of his journal. Your whole being boiled with desire, a desire you didn't even know you could feel. While he kissed and nipped and sucked like his life depended on it, his hand untangled from yours and danced around your stomach, up your abdomen, and then to the shapely flesh of your chest, squeezing gently. You bit your lip, holding in a whine as he pinched a nipple through his index and middle finger, massaging lightly as he gave the same treatment to your other thigh.

As he neared heaven's gates, you tugged on his hair, urging him closer as the rough stubble on his face scratched your skin, a smile curling against your thigh. A disappointed huff escaped you as his face was level with yours again. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, and you looked up at him bewildered. He'd made a mess of you–– exactly what he'd aimed for.

He chuckled, proud of himself, and then his mouth found yours again, his tongue pushing through your lips to find yours. He kissed you with so much heat you could've broken out into a fever.  

Flames blazed through your veins as he slowly descended back to heaven. Arthur's lips burned like the tip of a cigarette wherever they touched. Just when you thought he'd finally taste you to relieve the aching, he began to kiss your thighs again, and you couldn't help it; you begged him.

"Please, Arthur," you choked out, not recognizing your own voice, shaky and desperate, "Please."

And to your pure bliss, he obeyed, never a rule follower, except for now. He spread you open, using his non-dominant hand to pin your knee to the bed while his shoulder kept your other leg parted.

With a touch so gentle yet purposeful, he drove his index finger from the top of your clit, all the way down until it dipped briefly into your folds. And he swept it back up again, curiously exploring you. He ground his throbbing cock into the bed as you yanked on his locs. Wet sounds of your sins filled the room, and you'd be embarrassed if you weren't entirely delighted. Arthur looked back up at you, his touch unrelenting.

"You okay? This good?" he asked. You could only bob your head up and down, gasping fast and loud. "Good," he said, kissing the inside of your thigh again and teasing the opening of your pussy with his finger. "Keep still for me?" you nodded again, the austere head movement the only thing you could muster.

You braced for discomfort that never came as his meaty digit sunk into you with ease, disappearing to the knuckle. You pressed your head deeper into the pillow only to rise a second later with your mouth agape as you felt his tongue, soft and wet, swipe at your clit.

And fuck, you whimpered.

All thoughts led back to one place now, and all your self-restraint leaked out of you with the movement of Arthur's finger. As your hips rocked feverishly against him, he slipped another inside of you, groaning exultantly. He'd transformed you, turning you into a hollering minx.

You belted his name in time with the rhythm of his fingers, "Oh Arthur, oh Arthur, oh Arthur," over and over again at a higher pitch each time. And the gunslinger couldn't help himself; he withdrew his tongue and pounded his fingers into you, using his palm to feed your needy clit. He wanted to taste you forever but needed to watch you, to see your pretty face when he pushed you over the edge.

"Perfect," he said, his finger thrusting steadily with your hips. His lips crinkled as he felt your walls spasm around him. "That's it, sweetheart, let it go."

A familiar ache built in your gut, one you'd only felt in your moments of solitude. Arthur reached for your hand again while the other steadily plowed. Though his arm muscles scorched with the workout you were giving him, he knew better than to give up now. "So goddamn beautiful wrapped around my fingers like this," he cooed. 

Goosebumps formed all down your arms and legs. Arthur's fucking eyes, staring up at you so proud, so endearing, opened the floodgates.

"There you go," he hummed, feeling your insides constrict around his fingers, "give it to me, good girl, let me have it."

And you did, going from a whimpering mess to silent as your orgasm baptized you, washing away all the doubt you ever had about yourself. Arthur went on babbling whatever depraved thoughts crossed his mind as you came.

"So damn good for me."

His fingers slowed, but he didn't stop, letting you ride them until you couldn't anymore. It wasn't until you gasped his name and squeezed your legs shut that he finally conceded, removing his hand and caressing your thigh. Unusually deft, he rolled over onto his back but turned his head to look at you. The cowboy was smirking like he did when he beat you in a game of dominos, triumphant. You were breathing heavily, returning his glance wide-eyed.

"Shit," you gasped, essentially speechless.

Arthur chuckled, cupping your face in both his hands and kissing.

"Told you," he said, "Told you, I'd take care of you. I'll always take care of you if you want me to––" his last five words came out in a quick jumble, self-doubt creeping back even after it all. You threw a leg over his and begin a slow grind into the leather of his chaps, taking your turn to bite into his neck.

"Take care of me all you want, Mr. Morgan."

You didn't have to tell him twice.

[valentine-cafe]

First time customer here, so kinda nervous (⁠〃ﾟ-ﾟ⁠〃⁠) but can I order a tiramisu and affogato(?) please!

they're in the middle of smexy time when it just gets overwhelming for reader and having to end up using their safe words, and reader being ashamed because they can usually take more than that?? also curious to see what safe words they would have!

[amab reader] idrc if reader is top or bottom, anything that works with you is fine! thank you (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

pssh feel free to reject this order (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕)

˖⁺. ﹙ vampire lieutenant dilf  x bottom male reader x antihero mercenary boyfriend. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . you never have to apologise !! 🍒 :  vampiric ˖ lieutenant ˖ dilf character ˖ antihero ˖ mercenary ˖ enigma character character﹙ verse 781 vespsiano & alessio. ﹚

during your session with your boyfriend, it ends up getting a bit too overwhelming and in the heat of the moment, you say your safe word, only to get ashamed after cw: safeword usage, ending smut, anal

ps: why would we ever reject such a good order? this was lovely to write, thank you dear

﹙ alessio 781. ﹚. . . !! 🍒 : “A-Av - Avo -” Avocadoes.

He didn’t need to hear the entire word before his ramming hips stopped on impact. Cold sweat runs down the back of his neck and spine. Guilt floods his olive features. Shit.

Alessio pulls out of you in a split second. Hands raised in the slightest before he buffs out, his breath still far from him with the chase of release he ran for the both of you.

“Can - Can I - fuck -” he huffs out, attempts to steady his breathing. “Can I touch you amorcito? ‘s over. We done now.”

Your vision bugs, the sight of his face brings tears to the corners of your eyes as you give a small nod of your head. That look your beloved, sweet Alessio gave you was enough to twist guilt in your gut. The overwhelm now replaced by a hole of insecurity.

“I. . . ‘m-’m sorry ‘essio. . . I - I-I can - I can go a bit more actu -”

His thumb is on your cheek in a matter of minutes. A strong arm hooks around your back and hoists you against his warm skin. The frown on his lips sends your tears down your face - and he wipes them before you can even attempt to brush them away. “Hey, hey, sshhh.” his kiss meets your ear and warmth floods you chest from his deep, gentle voice. “Baby, breathe yeah? I don’t wanna do more. Tell me what’s going on.”

The silence followed tugged strings of discomfort through your body, yet you couldn’t bear to speak. Not yet. Instead you dwelled in the touch of his stroking hand

along your head and his soft murmurs telling you it was all alright.

“I. . . I-I can usually go for longer - I. . . . ‘m sorry. Just got overwhelmed.”

His smile brings you back to serenity and his lips press peppers lightly. Tenderly.

“Queriidooo, ssh. Don’t be silly.” You’re on his chest in a matter of seconds. Arms loose yet ever the refuge for you as you slump your head to his collarbone and whimper. “My main concern is you baby. Safeword means no more. I don’t care about you takin’ more in the past. What matters is the you now.”

His finger pokes at your forehead and he flashes you his usual signature grin.

﹙ vespasiano 781. ﹚. . . !! 🍒 : Droplets of sweat trickle down your body. The squeeze around your shaft and the rough pace of your husband from behind you is so overwhelming. More than it has ever been.

As much as you want to keep going. You feel as though you are going to faint from the overstimulation done across your body. Skillful hands working around you.

Grabbing, pulling, moving. His words encouraging as usual, yet the sound of the sugarcoated degradation rings in your ears a bit sharper than usual.

You choke out, looking up at him with wide, teary eyes. Already then he begins to slow his thrusts, double checking and awaiting any words that are to come.

“Ve—esp. Pop-ppopy” The word feels so strangled. But in an instant, you feel the man behind you stop any of the motions and pull out, gently shifting around on the bed to pick you up and slowly lay you down to make sure you don’t collapse.

He tries not to worry too much whether it was too hard or something else was going on. He’s more concerned with helping you right now, and making sure that you stay up and going with him.

Though, the tears of guilt and regret forming in your eyes say it all.

“Hey— heyheyhey, ‘s okay, don’t cry.” He ushers, hushing you gently whilst moving away any strands of hair from your face.

“I jus’ got s’ overwhelmed ‘m sorry— you, you can continue. It’s okay. I can go again—” You murmur, the embarrassment creeping up on you in such great amounts you can’t handle the situation in any proper way.

In response to your words, he shakes his head and smiles. Moving a thumb across your cheek while sitting up to get all of the stuff to clean you up with.

“Amore. Enough is enough, you just need rest. Alright? You did so well.” He reassures, emerald eyes gazing at you with an almost puppy-eyed look. “You never have to apologise for things becoming too much.”

“I just, I can go on for so much longer than this usually. . .” A sigh escapes him at your words, and all he does is once more shake his head.

“So? Today was not usually, maybe tomorrow?”

The soft chuckles warm you up once more, this time with gratitude at his understanding rather than embarrassment.

Grunting as he gets up from the bed, he walks towards the bathroom. Looking over his shoulder and back at you as he stops in the middle of the doorway.

“Let’s get you cleaned up yeah? Get some food after.”

[takes1]

heyy I must tell you all those tsukishima fics were so good😭 i used to literally log on to tumblr everyday just becausd of yoy😭 can I request a mattsun x oblivious reader?? Where he has tried multiple times to tell her thwt he likes her but something or the other happens and he can't and also thr reader has absolutely no idea that he likes her. Maybe in thr end he can be like do you not like me and stuff snd then she is so confused becsue she did not think thwt he'd like her back snd lmao they go out later

mattsun x oblivious!reader

the sheer quantity of tsukki lovers was a shock when i first started posting that old series lemme tell you. i rlly appreciate that!!

warnings. sfw, fluff

details. libero!reader / girls team!reader / mattsun fluff / aoba johsai fluff / oblivious!reader / platonic?cuddling / mattsun is always warm / giving you his jacket trope / rbf!mattsun / thinking he hates you trope / pda / 2k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3. requests OPEN

There was only so much to be done about the bitter cold tonight. The Aoba Johsai teams had their joint biyearly dinner, but thanks to a last-minute close for renovation at your usual spot, you and at least fifteen others were stuck waiting for a reservation outside on the town square.

"Fuck-k!" Oikawa shuddered loudly, teeth chattering as he stepped out from the restaurant you were all barred from.

Somebody whined, "I just wanna sit down!"

Iwa trailed close behind, steam practically coming off of his head as he stared down at his phone. He kept his foot in the door for an older couple, sparing a passive-aggressive look at how easily they were seated.

"It'll be another 20 minutes at least," You overheard him, quiet but frothing with frustration, to your own team captain.

Only a few were properly dressed for the weather outside. It was getting darker fast, and the wind was picking up.

You were able to catch a glimpse of his phone screen. He had the estimated wait time from the restaurant's website; 5 groups were before you, but they were nowhere to be seen.

A harsh wind howled through the street and inspired you to jump behind the nearest body. You and the other liberos were lucky to have your faces protected by the gathered group of shoulders and chests, but that's where your blessings ended. Your cardigan could've been made of tissue paper, how thin it was.

The wind settled and you glanced to see who you had nestled up to- you jumped back with a muffled yelp. It went ignored because of the symphony of complaints, curses to the weather.

Matsukawa was glowering down at you. God, was he warm, but he was so mean.

He was the most unsettling member of the guys' team by far. You got along fine with everyone else, but there was some unspoken hatred in his eyes every time you had to interact with him.

He often tried to speak with you after practice, about receiving of all things, quizzing you about your methods from the games he watched or practices he caught. You didn't like how his questions were made to make you feel stupid, so you tended to keep it short with him and run away as soon as you could.

His stare was harsh and judgmental, his frown deep and unforgiving. It gave the impression that he was tearing you apart in his mind.

"Awww, (Y/n)," Your captain, whom you had backed into, put her arms around you at once.

She didn't offer as much heat as him, but it helped to make you feel safer, and wanted. You turned and pressed your face against her chest as she pulled her jacket around the both of you.

Most of the girls were huddled similarly, choice of attire more of an issue than the heavy-coated guys.

Matsukawa wore a thick, black work hoodie, nice thick pants, boots, and a utility jacket over that. You squinted, jealous and bitter, at how he wasn't shivering at all.

"Tw- t-twenty- minutes?" You shuddered against her, sniffling.

She hummed, her cold, dead fingers no help against your sides.

The wind was so strong that it stole your breath with every gust. Your ears were throbbing, your nose numb, even when another teammate joined the huddle.

Not only had you not dressed for the cold, but you didn't expect to be standing so much, so your heels were killing your feet. Another twenty minutes wasn't doable.

"Hey! There's some benches over here!" Somebody called from down the sidewalk and around the corner.

Those that knew it would take longer, especially in uncomfortable shoes, instantly started to migrate away from the door of the restaurant.

The benches were a little wet from the light drizzle earlier. It made most of your teammates hesitate to sit down, including you. You gave a dismal sniffle, completely exhausted from shivering, unable to get any colder or more glum. You peeled off your cardigan.

"Hey, wait wait-!"

"Noo!"

Your teammates gasped, grabbing at you, as you used it to wipe the bench dry.

You turned, offering them a seat, your ferocious shaking in direct contrast to the point you were trying to make.

"It- was-wasn't keeping me warm-- anyway," You struggled to declare.

The three of you sat down on the freezing metal. At least it was dry now. You stared, twitching hard, at the soggy ball in your numb fingers and tried to zone out.

Your eyes had been closed when someone big squeezed in next to you, at the end of the bench. It was too much energy to open them to see who it was.

But a heavy, warm, and cozy presence over you shocked you to open your eyes again.

"Put this on before you pass out," Matsukawa muttered, hands grabbing at the back of his own hoodie, too.

Your face would've felt warm if not for the conditions. It was already stinging, but it stung some more.

"Thank you," You shivered.

His lowered, studied stare at you as you struggled to put on his hoodie with numbed limbs made you feel like a dumbass. He probably thought you were an idiot.

His arm was so solid as he took his outer jacket back, to put it on over his long sleeve shirt. You quickly put up the plush hood and pulled the drawstrings, ears pounding at the relief of some heat.

Then his arm was back, around your shoulders, rubbing firm to get you warmed up faster.

"Thank you," You repeated, better now, and all you could possibly think to say.

When you glanced at him, you found him looking around. There was a protective air to him, like he was busy watching for something while he took care of you. He wore it well.

His hoodie smelled distinctly like him and you found that you did not mind it in the slightest. You were subtle, pulling it over your nose -breathing deep now that you weren't struggling to filter this icy cold air-, letting your body get wracked by his strong rubbing, your head steadied a little on the inside of his big shoulder. It slowly fell, heavier, on him as you learned to trust that he was being helpful.

The wind picked up again- this time you felt invulnerable to its brutality, but he squeezed his working arm into your waist and pulled you, shockingly easy, into his side with no space left between your bodies.

At this point, you were feeling guilty for enjoying it so much. There was no ounce of softness in his angry face to indicate he wanted to hold you. His nose crunched more at the wind, now that he had less layers to protect him. You could only assume he was just being chivalrous.

It made the remainder of the wait harder, in a different way.

"Oh," Iwa raised his brow at you as you passed him to go inside.

He didn't look at you for long, because he referred his gaze to Matsukawa and exchanged a smirk you couldn't see.

When you were all seated, nobody went to sit right next to you. The table was full except for the one seat while everyone filed in. At first, Watari pulled the chair out, but took one look at you and also said, "Ooh," before sitting elsewhere.

Matsukawa sat down without so much as a look at you.

Every guy at the table was looking at him, so you knew you were right about something. You just didn't know what, yet.

The whole evening, he was quiet and only spoke a few times when directly referred to. Otherwise, you felt the weight of his subtle, unwavering gaze anytime you mustered up the courage to contribute to the conversation at the table.

Surely he just wanted his hoodie back. He wore it so often, so it must have been how pitiful you looked outside to make him give it up like that.

Bellies full, bill paid, and a little more relaxed after a fun dinner out with friends despite his presence, you were all starting to leave to go home.

You stood still outside for a moment, sniffling but content, pulling up a route on your phone to walk back to the bus stop. It was a subtle way to wait for him to come out, so you could give him back his hoodie and brave the freezing journey back.

"You got somebody to walk you back?"

He leaned down to speak quietly, just to you. You watched his hand close the distance and rest on your shoulder. It made you stutter.

"Not- not officially."

Then he was walking you back to the bus stop, making a silent trek more difficult than it had to be if you had just gone by yourself. When you spared some meager glances at him, he had that same vibe about him- like he was preoccupied, displeased, and would be unpleasant if you tried to say anything.

It would be another five minutes for the bus.

He stood close to you, his arm against yours, because this bench was wet and you weren't going to repeat that mistake.

"Do you- uh," He rocked a little on his heels when you looked at him, "Do you not... like me?"

It was a staggering question. You held yourself, painfully aware that you were only standing because of his hoodie around you.

"Sure, I like you," You said in a stilted tone.

It wasn't enough and you knew it as it rolled off your tongue.

You cleared your throat. He looked away.

"I mean- I thought you hated me before today, so," You gave an empty laugh to help ease the tension.

"Hate you?" He turned towards you, hands in his pockets. It was the most emotion you had ever seen on his face.

Clearly, something was off. You squinted at him but only could hold it for a second, "Well, yeah, you're kinda... mean-,"

The shock on his face made you stumble over your words.

"But- uh, today you were so nice! Thank you, for your hoodie, that was very sweet-," You glanced around his face, confused, trailing off, "-of, you..."

He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, eyes closed, pained at your words. You felt astoundingly guilty, more cold than ever, in a way.

"I gave you my hoodie because I like you."

He put the hand back in his pocket, turning to face the street, watching the lamp posts with a forlorn air about him, "I've been tryin' to ask you out for months."

Your mouth hung open. You covered it, after a few seconds, with your hand.

Was that what all the looks meant? Was that seriously what he was getting at every time he spoke to you? Your face warmed- a welcome sensation.

"I... didn't know," You said simply, pressing up to his side.

It worked, thank god, and though it took him a second, he put a hefty arm around you.

"You were really that clueless?" He muttered, rubbing his warm face with his other hand.

The truth did feel pretty obvious in hindsight, but you reminded him, "You're more intimidating than you think."

In the quiet, the bus sighed around the corner.

"So... I can keep the hoodie?"

You looked up at him, excited at what you could see now as his nervousness. He pressed a hasty kiss to the top of your head as the bus rolled to a stop in front of you.

"Hell, yeah."

VIP

@integers @yuchacco

my masterlist. my request box.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toto's obsession p.7

Hey guyss, I hope you enjoy this part and if you've missed part 6 or if you want to read it from the beginning here's my masterlist :)

The afternoon passed in a whirlwind of preparation. You moved around the kitchen with purpose, chopping, stirring, and seasoning with care. Tonight had to go perfectly. You wanted George to see how much Toto cherished you, to feel reassured that this relationship wasn’t some impulsive mistake but something genuine and deep.

You were making George’s favorite dish, hoping it would serve as an olive branch, a way to bridge the gap that had formed between you. The savory aroma of the dish filled the air, and you allowed yourself a small moment of satisfaction—you wanted everything to be just right.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t hear Toto approach until you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his presence warm and grounding.

“It smells incredible in here,” he murmured, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You smiled, leaning back into his embrace. “I just want tonight to go well. I need George to see that this isn’t some fleeting thing. That you… that we… mean something.”

Toto’s lips brushed against your temple. “He’ll see. Don’t worry so much, schatz. Just relax. Tonight is about family.”

You nodded, trying to take comfort in his words. Toto always had a way of making you feel like everything would be okay, even when doubt crept in.

When the doorbell rang, you felt your nerves spike. Wiping your hands on a towel, you hurried to the door, taking a deep breath before opening it. George stood there, his expression neutral but his eyes cautious. He looked past you, and his jaw tightened slightly when he saw Toto standing further inside, his hands in his pockets, exuding his usual composed demeanor.

“Hi,” you said softly, stepping aside to let George in. “Thank you for coming.”

George’s gaze softened as he looked at you. “I’m here for you,” he said pointedly, his tone making it clear that his presence wasn’t for Toto’s benefit.

Toto stepped forward, extending a hand. “George, good to see you. Thank you for joining us tonight.”

George hesitated for a moment before shaking Toto’s hand briefly. “Let’s just get through this.”

The tension in the room was palpable, but you forced a smile and guided them to the table. “Let’s sit. Dinner’s ready.”

The meal started awkwardly, with you trying to steer the conversation toward neutral topics. Toto, ever the charmer, remained polite and calm, his deep voice filling the silences when George refused to engage. You kept glancing between the two of them, hoping for some breakthrough, but George’s guard was firmly up.

“The food is great,” George said at one point, his tone softening slightly as he addressed you. “Thank you for making this.”

You smiled, relief washing over you. “I’m glad you like it.”

Toto raised his glass. “She’s an exceptional cook. I’m lucky every day.”

George’s lips pressed into a thin line, and the atmosphere grew tense again. You sighed inwardly, deciding to focus on clearing the table and bringing out dessert. “Excuse me for a moment,” you said, standing and gathering the plates. “I’ll get dessert ready.”

As you disappeared into the kitchen, the tension in the dining room erupted. George turned to Toto, his eyes blazing.

“What are you playing at?” George demanded. “Do you think you can just walk into her life and take over? She’s too young for this, too innocent for someone like you.”

Toto’s expression remained calm, his voice measured as he responded. “I love her, George. She makes me happy, and I make her happy. That should be enough.”

“Happy?” George scoffed. “You’re manipulating her, isolating her from her family. She doesn’t see it, but I do.”

Toto leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Careful, George. You’re treading on dangerous ground.”

“Is that a threat?” George asked, his voice rising.

“It’s a warning,” Toto replied evenly. “You’re her brother, and I respect that. But if you continue to interfere, you risk more than just our relationship. You’ll risk your career. And worse, you’ll risk losing her entirely. Do you want that?”

George’s fists clenched, his frustration evident. But before he could respond, you reentered the room, oblivious to the tension that had just unfolded.

“Dessert is ready!” you announced cheerfully, carrying in a tray of your homemade creation. You placed it on the table, smiling at both men. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Toto’s expression softened as he looked at you, and he rose from his seat, lifting his glass. “Before we continue, I’d like to make a toast.”

You blinked, surprised, but smiled as you reached for your own glass. George reluctantly did the same, his eyes wary.

“To the woman who has brought so much light into my life,” Toto began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “You’ve shown me a kind of love I didn’t think was possible. And tonight, I want to ask you something important.”

Your heart stopped as Toto reached into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box. Your hand flew to your mouth, your eyes wide with shock.

“Will you marry me?” he asked, opening the box to reveal a stunning ring.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. The world seemed to tilt as you processed his words, his expression, and the sheer gravity of the moment. Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded fervently. “Yes,” you whispered, then louder. “Yes!”

Toto slid the ring onto your finger, his hands steady despite the emotion in his eyes. He stood and pulled you into his arms, kissing you deeply as George looked on, his jaw tight and his hands gripping the edge of the table.

When you pulled back, you turned to George, your smile faltering slightly at his stony expression. “George,” you began, your voice soft, “I hope you can be happy for us.”

George forced a tight smile, nodding stiffly. “If this is what you want,” he said, his tone clipped.

Toto’s arm tightened around your waist, a silent declaration of his victory.

“Thank you, George,” Toto said smoothly, raising his glass again. “To family.”

You clinked your glass with theirs, blissfully unaware of the unspoken tension that lingered between the two men. For now, you were happy, and that was all that mattered.

[nohoney]

i miss writing us series! touya so here's something slightly ooey gooey; cherry hill set the mood for me ♡( ᵕᴗᵕ )

touya can’t help his fascination at times.

he’s mesmerized by how you and keigo fuck. not in a sense that what’s being done is different than how he wrecks you, but that he’s just in awe of watching on the sidelines. that when you’re lost in the fuck, your awareness and the slight shyness you still have sometimes gets tossed out the window.

like right now, keigo’s got you face down and ass up as he fucks himself into you. he fucks hard and fast, leaning over slightly to put his hand on your head and push you back down to the mattress when you attempt to put your weight on your forearms to prop yourself up. you whimper and whine some broken version of his name that’s drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against one another. “fuckin’ take it… fuck!”

he can’t help but want to close the distance.

touya comes up behind keigo, nipping at his ear briefly before glancing down over his shoulder. oh my god, your pussy is so creamy and he can’t help licking his lips when he sees the sticky strings that don’t break when keigo pulls his hips back and thrusts back into you.

fucking delectable.

his cock gets hard but he doesn’t bother to pay any attention to it, at least not in that moment. instead he makes a grab for keigo’s ass, startling him as he presses balls deep into you. his body quakes a little but not in discomfort from the touch; he likes it.

it’s not like they hadn’t explored each other before. there was a time before you came along and became the center of their world. there was a time when touya and keigo kept a distance as strangers, from a connect to a buyer, from making transactions with cash to fronting occasionally if he felt generous and was wanting to fix his appetite rather than fill his wallet.

“pull back a little, i want to see hard how your dick is.” touya whispers in keigo's ear, helping by smoothing his hand from his ass up to his arm, following the muscles of the blond's forearm to where his hand rests on your hip. his fingers fill the small gaps in between keigo's briefly, your skin right under his grasp before touya's hand goes to the small of your back and pushes you slowly away. he thinks it would be enough to just catch a quick glance, that it's not necessary for the blond to pull out completely from your pussy.

fuck me... touya groans inside his head.

you're pushed with enough force for keigo's dick to slip out, grunting as you fall into the bed.

“nngh… please…” you whimper from below, glancing the best you can from your vantage point to see your boyfriends captured in some intimate glance. your eyes drift down and your mouth waters at the sight of touya jerking off keigo's cock, your cum aiding the motion as lube and making it glide easily on touya's grasp.

it’s hot, you like seeing them like this, but god you’re being ignored over here!

you plead again and couple it with a whine that gets no response from either of them.

"spread her open."

keigo's hands smooth over your ass cheeks, his thumbs dipping towards your hole as he helps spread your labia for touya's viewing pleasure. he groans when the pad of touya's thumb smears your cum over his tip before stroking him again. his nails dig slightly into your skin but he's mindful to not do it so hard for your comfort. his body shakes a little, needing the release so badly but being held back. he doesn't care how he cums whether it's by using your pussy or if touya keeps on stroking his dick.

he just wants to cum.

"god, look how fucking hard you are. all from fucking that sweet pussy, huh?" touya mutters into his ear with a light chuckle, "aren't you so grateful that we share this hole now?"

"yes, fuck!" keigo hisses, throwing his head back and his hips shifting forward.

it's almost like you're being left out and it makes you a little jealous. you've always been the center of attention, whether they were being mean or nice to you so you can't help but feel a little indignant in the position you're in now. so you attempt to move, if only just to put yourself on your back because you're tired of keeping your back arched.

keigo keeps his grip firm on you, still spread open but releasing one hand briefly to land a sharp spank on your thigh. you yelp from the strike but it still doesn't earn you anything from either of them. it's like they're only lost in each other and you don't matter. touya can be heard crooning but his voice belongs to keigo's ears right now. "i like watching you fuck, it's hot. you know what i like even more though?"

only mustering a little noise, it's the closest that the blond is able to ask what do you like more?

"i like feeling your cum around my cock when i fuck her."

his words carry an intimacy that makes you melt in spite how filthy they were. because who else would touya do this with if not keigo? no one else could get this close, this loving and adoring version of touya that no one else has seen. it belongs to the two of you only.

"cum in her so that i can have my turn." touya pushes himself off and gives the space for keigo to return to his frenzied fucking. he relishes in hearing you cry out, allowing himself to lower his pants just enough to pull his cock out and jerk himself off. he ears listen to your sounds and cries but his eyes are set on keigo's body and the way his muscles flex as he makes you a fucked out mess.

he loves this. he loves keigo. he loves you.

he wants this to last forever.

"fuckin'... fuck!" keigo curses, fumbling over himself as he cums inside you. his body still tingles as he withdraws from you, wiping the sweat from his brow as he steps aside for touya.

you're roughly flipped over and your knees are pressed to your chest so that touya can survey the creamy mess that is your pussy. keigo's cum drips out and down the seam of your ass. it's a disgustingly sexy sight for him that makes his cock twitch and no longer having any patience.

it's so fucking wet and easy to slip right in, his cock coated with keigo's cum and your pussy stretched open already. when touya goes in first, you're always so tight that he has to ease you open before he can pound away at your guts. if keigo fucks you first, he does the job of leaving you gaping open for him to go in second. it's a routine that benefits everyone. he warms up by watching you and keigo fuck and then he gets his turn without feeing the need of cumming too fast when he gets inside.

"touya! f-fuck!" you whimper, your legs locking in around his hips and feeling your heels dig into his lower back. it's cute to him how cock drunk you get but he has to keep you proper by reminding you of your manners. so touya slaps your cheek and holds your jaw in the palm of his hand, "what do you say? what do you say to kei?"

you whimper, "th-thank you, keigo!"

"i swear to god, you are getting a little more selfish and forgetting your manners." touya tuts at you but it's not that harsh of a reprimand. in fact he likes that you're getting spoiled because it gives him the opportunity to bully you when it pleases him. you're his precious doll and he is going to coddle you for as long as he lives, but touya has to balance you out as well so that you don't get too lazy or bratty on him either.

you seem to disagree, shaking your head and looking to keigo for a bit of kindness which is granted. he rubs at your clit and you choke out a gasp, your eyes shutting tight and the back of your head digging into the bed. "you're such a sweet girl, aren't you? look how good of a fuck toy you are."

again, touya finds himself fascinated as he observes keigo cooing over you.

this is perfect, this is his life, this is love to him.

and when he cums inside, touya remembers that keigo coats him all around too. being together like this reminds him that not all things in life are bad. you're such a mess where he's got you, filled with cum from two of your loves and practically bursting with so much sentiment that it makes you stupid. your glassy eyes and breathy moans are a reflection of that, looking forward at him but your head up in the clouds.

"baby, come back to us. aw, look how cute you are."

touya pulls out of you, letting keigo take the reins of making you comfortable after fucking your brains out. his heart oozes with affection as you kiss keigo first and flash him a lovesick smile before giving the same affection to him. your legs are wobbly as you make your way to the bathroom to clean up, leaving the boys behind in the room.

"think i'll help her clean up." keigo stands up from the bed, stretching his back and groaning at how good it feels in his muscles. he glances back at touya to flash him a smile.

touya stands up too, only taking a small step and leaning down to kiss him. it's brief, not like the long ones he gives to you but it's long enough that he knows it sends the message of how he feels towards keigo.

"love you." he says when he pulls back.

"love you too." keigo returns the sentiment before walking away.

touya isn't the type to feel giddy about anything in particular. but he does get a nice little fluttery feeling in his chest as he walks by the bathroom after putting his clothes back on and briefly listens to yours and keigo's muffled voices speaking to one another. you laugh and he hears some slap that suggests that one of you playfully slapped the other.

he hears a louder slap and you yelp, "keigo! too hard!"

touya chuckles a little, grabbing his pack of cigarettes off the table to step outside, relishing in the glow up until he gets a text from shigaraki.

[vero1shere]

caught in your gravity

pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader

word count: 961

summary: you’ve been getting harassed at work for the past few months. that is until a handsome stranger arrives one night and defends you. 

warnings: very cliche-y bartender stuff, harassment, derogatory language (slut, bitch), alcohol abuse, mild violence

a/n: so i’m back??? ik i haven’t written anything in a long time but umm here i am!!!

masterlist. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁inbox

A frustrated sigh escaped your lips as you wiped down the counter for the fourth time that night, scrubbing at a stubborn stain while silently cursing your job for the thousandth time. The endless mess, the sticky floors, and the clinging stench of stale alcohol on your clothes were bad enough. But the worst part? The relentless parade of truck-stop regulars: sloppy drunks who flirted too aggressively and looked at you as though you were just another item on the menu.

You tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, trying to brush away something that had dried on the counter, when the bell rang on the other side of the bar. You looked up to see a rather attractive guy approaching the bar. It was almost one in the morning, so the place was mostly deserted aside from a few regulars. Once he was closer to the light you changed your mind; a very attractive guy.

Throwing the dirty towel over your shoulder you took a deep breath before walking over to the handsome stranger. “What can I serve you?” You smiled, leaning on the bar. He looked down at you and you felt the air catch in your lungs. He had the most amazing green eyes. You were used to seeing new faces every day, but none like his. He smiled, seemingly checking you out as his eyes traveled through your face, answering the question. 

“Just a beer, please” he replied, his voice deep and rough, like a low roll of thunder.

It wasn’t just his voice that threw you off. The way he looked at you, his gaze lingering as though he saw more than just a tired bartender, made your cheeks warm. Why was someone like him in a place like this at nearly 1 am? 

“Coming right out” you responded, almost breathlessly. You were hyper-aware of his presence, the way his gaze followed you as you moved. Diverting your attention from that beautiful stranger, you served him the beer. Still smiling like an idiot. Your hands trembled slightly as you set the beer down in front of him, and when your eyes met his again, he smiled. A small, crooked smile that made your stomach flutter.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice softer this time, like he didn’t want to break the moment.

Before you could respond, a voice you knew all too well cut through the quiet.

“Hello darling,” Sighing and closing your eyes, you walked up to the drunk guy who was here seven days a week, flirting constantly with you. “What do you want, Carl?” you asked, your voice sharp.

“Wow, I don't think that's the way to talk to your best client,” he growled drunkenly. His breath reeked of bourbon, or maybe whiskey. You honestly couldn't tell, not that you cared.

“Are you going to order something else or are you finally going to get your ass out of here?” You exploded, not having the energy for this.

“I've always liked my women feisty”, he winked at you and a shiver of disgust passed through you. “What would it take for you to go out on a date with me?”

“‘M sorry, but for the thousandth time, I’m not really interested. Now please excuse me, but I need to get back to work,” walking to the idiot's left to clear another table, he grabbed your wrist. It was quite a rough grab and you knew it would leave a mark. You were whipped to face him and tried to hide the fact that you were terrified. He was drunk, strong and almost a foot taller than you.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just go out with me, I mean, you’re just a sleazy bar slut and it’s not like many other people want you” Carl growled, not looking away from your eyes. You tried to appear tough but the situation was getting scary. That’s when someone stepped in the middle of you too, breaking his hold on your wrist. 

“Why don't you do us all a favor, apologise to the lady and get your ass out of here?” A deep voice said calmly. You recognized the voice, but you weren't sure who the person was until you looked over to where the green-eyed stranger was sitting. He was gone, well he wasn't gone, he was defending you. 

Carl scoffed. “Yeah, like I owe any of you anything. A bitch and an idiot who’s fighting with someone on one foot-” he didn't get to finish. He was interrupted by the attractive stranger twisting the drunk’s arm, which resulted in a scream from the victim. He jerked his arm away and ran out of the bar.

You found yourself laughing after he left. After a few months, someone finally got that idiot to leave. Speaking of which, you finally got a better look at the stranger as he turned around, still quite close to you. The light nape of the neck that covers a sharp jaw, the perfect smile hidden behind full lips. Not to mention the eyes. Oh my god, those eyes made you melt.

“Are you alright?" he asked, much less intimidating. You realized he was looking at you and instinctively looked at the ground. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Thank you,” you murmured, feeling your cheeks flush. Then, he gently grabbed your wrist, which was already forming a bruise, and ran his fingers over your skin. Every second you were in contact with him, sparks broke out on your skin. You both looked at each other, staring into each other's eyes. Losing yourself in his eyes once again, you were glad he spoke.

“Dean,” he said breathlessly. “That’s my name,” he added after seeing the confusion in your eyes. “What’s yours?”

[northern-passage]

I really don't get how Lea could ever think they and the Hunter were a team, when apparently they knew about the collar thing while the hunter didn't even know??? They are the literal embodiment of the Hunter's alienation and dehumanization. Will Lea (and the narrative) ever acknowledge how fucking despicable the order actually is??? They're a bunch of child abusers who prey on poor families and practice human trafficking. On that note I actually deeply despise the Hunter's mentor. That fight scene with him forcing us to stand up again and again? I don't care that the same was done to him and he did it to make the Hunter stronger or whatever. That was the same logic my grandmother had when she hit my mother, and she would have done the same to us if my mother hadn't cut ties with her and broke the cycle of generational violence. I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't play this game right now as it very clearly trigger some things within me that I should address elsewhere than in your ask box, but I guess I needed to express how helpless the Hunter made me feel. Especially with Lea. My character (and myself I guess) couldn't sit down and have a normal conversation with them given how blind they were to the Hunter's situation, and that was even before I understood what the collar thing truly meant after replaying the demo and reading the last snippet you published. Lea comes from a powerful family with ties everywhere, they are literally called our 'handler', and they know what the ladder does to someone (both short term and long term, mentally and physically)... And they truly think them and the Hunter are the same??? Equals??? The only explanation I can find is that they grew up their entire life within the order and never knew anything else, and so this is a case of great ignorance and deep denial. They need a good wake up call and a lot of character development, but when I see Noel's reaction and Lea's behavior during their rival route, I'm kinda worried.

well... i mean most of what you've mentioned here is The Point. Lea is a hypocrite, and the hunter can argue with them and refuse their partnership because of it. Jorah is an asshole and treated the hunter poorly at times, to the point that him and Rodrick argued about it frequently, and is why Rodrick attempts to intervene when they spar. the Order does cause harm and coerces people into their ranks, usually children or those that are more vulnerable and lack other options; and this is always true no matter how the hunter tries to justify it and convince themselves otherwise. all of the people and institutions in this game are complex, none of them are righteous, and they exist as they do because i have something i want to say-- all of these are choices i've intentionally made when writing this story.

and we're only on chapter 1 right now (and even before the rerelease, only on chapter 2), all of the characters need character development, none of their arcs have even started yet.

this story is supposed to make you Feel, big feelings and little feelings, my goal is for people to connect with the characters or at the very least just empathize with them and have a desire to see their stories through. i'm not out to trigger people but this game is intended to be a dark fantasy that explores heavier topics. i'm always open to discussing my thoughts behind certain characters/narrative choices and i will always welcome suggestions if you feel i need to add something to the content warning list, but i really don't like asks like this, and i'm not really sure how to respond as a stranger on the internet. you can either trust me and my intent as the author, or maybe it would be better to not continue with the story if that's what is best and safest for you. only you can know and make that choice, not me.

[peppermintquartz]

Rocker's team has gone home and 60-squad is out, so there aren't many people at HQ. Rocker should have gone home too, but he is instead gloving up. Deacon waits at the heavy bag for him.

When Rocker finally gets to the bag, his face is closed off and his eyes stormy. Neither of them say anything; Deacon braces the bag and Rocker starts jabbing and punching, really laying into it.

He hits and he hits and he hits and he hits, and Deacon takes the muffled impact of the punches. Rocker keeps going, sweat pouring from his brow, and he suddenly roars and punches so hard that Deacon staggers back and the entire bag sways dangerously.

Arms hanging limply from his sides, Rocker is taking deep, heaving breaths, and the moment his gaze meets Deacon's, the older man quickly gets to Rocker and wraps his arms around him before they both sink to the floor.

Rocker is crying now, silent and gasping sobs, his entire body shaking from the emotional turmoil. He presses his face into Deacon's neck. Deacon cradles Rocker's sweaty head, fingers rubbing circles at the base of his skull, and his other hand pats him between his shoulders.

A couple of newer officers take one look at the scene when they turn the corner and raise their brows. Deacon glares at them and they immediately backtrack, choosing to detour. Then Luca comes into view, slapping a folder against his thigh. He cocks his head and points to himself and then to Rocker.

Deacon nods before whispering to Rocker, "It's Luca. It's just Luca."

Rocker's crying doesn't subside fully, but he murmurs, "Okay."

Luca joins them, squatting down behind Rocker to pet his head and help him remove the gloves. Neither Luca nor Deacon say anything when Rocker reaches around Deacon to hug him back.

It takes about ten minutes before Rocker regains enough composure to let go of Deacon. Luca helps him to his feet.

"Thanks," Rocker says thickly to them both.

"No need. It was a rough day for your team," Deacon replies. "And you got the bastards."

"If Stevens hadn't been there, I don't know what I'd have done," Rocker confesses quietly. His eyes close again and his jaw tenses. "They were so little. Barely more than babies."

Being SWAT means sometimes seeing the worst of humanity. All three of them know this fact too well, but sometimes nothing can prepare a person for the depths of depravity some people can sink to.

Luca embraces Rocker tightly. "Take a couple days off. I'll pop by with some lunch from the truck, my treat."

Rocker sniffs. "Thanks. I'll be here, actually, finishing up the paperwork." He smiles as Luca lets go. "I still want that free lunch though."

"You'll get it, pretty boy." Punching Rocker lightly on his shoulder, Luca tilts his head and studies them both. Deacon feels like Luca is looking right into his soul. Then Luca shrugs and picks up the folder he set on the boxing ring. "Deac, come on. I need some help with these."

"You sure you're okay?" Deacon asks Rocker, unable to hide his concern.

Rocker manages a small smile. "I'll be fine. Do your job, Deacon."

As they walk away, leaving Rocker to put away his gear, Luca says quietly, "Is there something there I'm not supposed to see?"

Sometimes Deacon wishes Luca is less perceptive. "I don't know what you mean."

"Deacon." Luca pauses, halfway up the stairs. He looks at Deacon and Deacon meets his scrutiny, lets his defenses fall away. Maybe there is something in his expression that tells Luca exactly what he wants to see. Luca exhales and shakes his head. "I'm telling you, Deac. It's not worth it."

"I still don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do, and I'm gonna stop talking about it." He hands his folder over to Deacon. "Help me narrow down the list of recruits."

[oldsoul007]

long journey

nicholas chavez x wife!reader

a/n: heyyyy guys….sorry ive been MIA and not active lately BUT school has been so hectic so i just finished finals AYYYY anyway ill def be more active these days coming cus im finally on break so expect some fun stuff. enjoy ;)

based on this request: Can you do one where Nicholas and Yn have a son and the little boy (even though he's a toddler) he's already taking strides towards independence and Nicholas is feeling the growing pains of letting go and still wants to keep his son little still?

Me and Nicholas sat on the couch, quietly watching our son, Ethan, as he carefully stacked his toy blocks, his little tongue sticking out in concentration. At just three years old, Ethan was becoming increasingly independent, a fact that filled his parents with both pride and a bittersweet sense of nostalgia.

“Look at him,” I murmured, my voice tinged with awe. “He’s getting so big. He didn’t even need our help with that tower.”

Nicholas glanced over at Ethan, a pang of something he couldn’t quite describe tugging at his chest. “Yeah, he’s growing up too fast.” His voice was softer now, almost wistful. “I can’t believe how much he’s learning every day. One minute, he’s asking for me to tie his shoes, and the next, he’s doing it on his own.”

I smiled, sensing the weight behind his words. I knew that Nicholas, a natural protector, was having a harder time adjusting to the fact that our little boy was no longer a baby. He’d been so hands-on, so involved in every little milestone, and now, Ethan was starting to take more and more steps on his own.

“I think it’s a good thing,” I said gently, taking Nicholas’s hand. “He’s becoming more confident. It’s a sign of how well we’ve done.”

Nicholas nodded but still seemed unsure. “I know, I just… I don’t want him to grow up too fast. There’s something about him asking me for help that makes me feel needed, like he still wants to be my little boy. I guess I’m not ready to let that go yet.”

My heart softened. I could see the deep love Nicholas had for our son, the quiet protectiveness that defined him as a father. But I also knew that the process of letting go was part of the journey—one that both parents had to navigate together.

“Ethan will always need you,” she said, her voice reassuring. “Just in different ways. He’s going to keep growing, but that doesn’t mean we lose the moments we have now. We get to watch him become someone new, someone amazing. And we’ll be there every step of the way.”

Nicholas watched as Ethan, oblivious to the conversation, triumphantly added the final block to his tower. The little boy clapped his hands, beaming with pride, and looked up at his parents, his eyes bright.

“Look, Daddy!” Ethan said, holding up the tower with both hands. “I did it!”

Nicholas smiled, his heart swelling with emotion. “You did, buddy. You did.”

For a moment, he realized that even though Ethan was becoming more independent, he would always be our little boy. The feeling of being needed might change, but the love and connection would only grow stronger.

Nicholas reached down to ruffle Ethan’s hair, a tear threatening to well up in his eye, but he blinked it away with a soft laugh. “Guess I’m just going to have to keep up with you, huh, kiddo?”

Ethan giggled and gave him a tight hug, and in that hug, Nicholas found a comfort—a reminder that no matter how much Ethan grew, he would always be his son.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Lilia Silver's father telling Eric Venue that "Hey we should found NRC Single Father Alliance, and I can totally share with you my babysitting and cooking tips!!!"

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

“Single Father Alliance?” Eric lowered his sunglasses. Surprise danced in his glittering violet eyes.

"That's right~" chirped the short man beside him. He kicked his legs playfully, as if he were seated on a playground swing and not a luxurious sofa in the Pomefiore lounge.

Eric crossed his legs and laced his fingers together, setting them on his thighs. He angled his body forward slightly--showing interest, but not full commitment. As a seasoned star, he knew how to wield his clout and charm like weapons.

He brushed a lock of flaxen hair from his forehead, switching roles. The kind, doting dad was stashed away, and out came the business whiz and movie star tycoon.

"... You have my intrigued. Tell me more about your proposal." His tone was friendly, but his words had a hefty weight to them. It was as if each was a brick, laid down one by one to craft a fortress.

"Most parents or guardians come as a pair." Lilia held up two index fingers, making them touch. "There are challenges only we as single fathers experience and understand. Is it not wise, then, for us to band together? There is strength to be found in numbers... and in sharing knowledge."

"Hmm, you make a strong case." Eric stroked his bearded chin. "And you made mention of sharing your babysitting and cooking tips earlier? I take it you are confident in those skills."

"Certainly! I'll have you know that I frequently host my son's childhood friend. I once nursed a bat back to health before releasing it into the night. For a short while, I even tended to a very special egg." Lilia giggled, a proud smile spreading on his lips. "My cooking is second to none! One bite is all it takes to knock you out and send you straight to heaven!"

"Really!" Surprise lit up Eric's famously handsome face. "Your resume sounds about as stacked as the elite nanny I hired for Vil in his childhood."

"My, a nanny?" Lilia's eyes crinkled. "Mmm... I suppose it is a necessity for a man as busy as yourself. But if that's the case, perhaps you won't find much use for my tips."

"Haha, don't be mistaken. I did rely on hired help back then, but I do make time even now to spend with my dear Vil. Movie outings, arts and crafts at home, spa nights..." His gaze softened, and there was a real warmth threading his voice. "After all, he's the apple of my eye--and he always will be."

Lilia clutched at his heart. "... Such a pure, true love. Kufufu, yes, yes, having an honorable man like yourself on the Single Father's Alliance would put my weary old soul at ease. It would reassure me that our future is in safe hands."

"Weary old soul? You barely seem a day over high school age yourself."

Or at least that's what Eric thought. Most of the time when he snuck a glance at this chap, he seemed young. The height, his mannerisms. But his voice and the advice he dispensed with it was deep and worn with wisdom, and sometimes creases and wrinkles appeared where they weren't before.

"I can share my anti-aging secrets with you as well," Lilia offered with a cheeky wink.

"You drive a hard bargain--but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. It's not that you don't make a tempting offer or that I think I'm the perfect father. It's that my Vil's an adult now, and I want to give him that time and space he needs to grow and learn... without me stepping for him. I'll be there for him if he needs it, but Vil's path is his ultimately his own--end of story."

"... What a shame." The fae slowly shook his head. "That's alright though, I accept your decision on account of that moving speech you delivered. That, and I could tell from listening to you speak that you already know what you're doing."

There is nothing left for me to teach you. I know you'll be able to figure things out on your own.

Lilia curled a hand against his chest.

To have a father such as you... Vil is very fortunate indeed.

[msfairygodmother]

HI HII!! I just seen something and it gave me this idea id make it sm better tbh if i were to continue but i just had to write this small blurb about it, its based off grease!! I feel like Sukuna would be a car guy and this is (imo) def something he would do like make the reader fall inlove then when it all ends its like nothing in a way because he doesnt expect to see her again but then BAM he does and when they see each other again he's lwk kinda mean in front of his friends and stuff. idk idk but enjoy this blurb lmk if i should try and make more of it id be down! -🧚🏼‍♀️

╭──────────.★..─╮

You're The One That I Want

╰─..★.──────────╯

It was a nice beach day with you spending every minute of it with your summer fling Sukuna. It was now evening, the sky filled with hues of orange, yellows and deep reds. The two of you were getting ready to depart, kissing romantically, he had his hand on the back of your head pulling you closer to him, the sounds of the waves and seagulls behind you setting the mood as you both pulled away panting slightly hearts beating in sync watching each other just enjoying the comfortable silence.

You knew this, would be the last kiss because everything had to come to an end eventually, after all summer doesn't last forever. Smiling at eachother he walked you to his car, a 1948 Ford De Lux convertible with flames on the front, which over the summer you came to find very fitting for him. As the wind blew through your hair as he drove you home for the last time you couldnt stop the bitter sweet smile on your face— it really was nice while it lasted.

As he pulled into the driveway of your summer home you got out of the car gently closing the door turning to him before walking inside,

"It was nice Sukuna, and thanks for taking me home" you said gently your face heating up as you waited for his response.

"Yeah baby it was nice, anytime" he said throwing a nice white teethed smile back at you with an added wink which made you fluster just a bit more, but he didnt comment on it.

You nodded before turning to head inside as you got to the door you waved at him once more before going in shutting the door with a soft sigh leaning against it.

Why does summer have to end?

[actuallysaiyan]

Always With Me(Dragon!Toshinori Yagi x Fem!Reader)

warnings: angst, Dragon AU, mentions of wounds, scars, blood, love confessions, sadness

word count: 1.6k

pairings: Dragon!Toshinori Yagi x Fem!Reader

summary: you go out into that field from time to time, but today is the day that the dragon comes to you. why does he seem so familiar?

a/n: very very inspired by Spirited Away. I recently gave it a rewatch and I was just blown away. a part 2 of this will come eventually! Big thanks to @cherryblossombankai!

dividers: @adornedwithlight

taglist: @thissaintjessi.  @cherryblossombankai, @thestarsystemsworld @pixelcafe-network

@thoraeth

The sky is so blue, it’s almost blinding. The grass beneath your feet feels so comforting. When was the last time you felt like this? When was the last time you found yourself feeling happy once again? Why couldn’t you just do this all the time?

There you stood, alone in the field, looking up at the clouds in the sky. You watch as a shimmer of gold appears in your vision. You aren’t sure what it is, as it is too far away, but something about it makes your heart skip a beat. You’re desperate to chase after it. It’s like it’s calling out your name.

You begin running towards the golden shimmer. Your eyes widen when you see the majestic sight in front of you. High up in the sky is a beautiful slinky dragon. It floats in the clouds, looking like it’s trying to find peace by just flying in the sky.

When it notices you, it comes down fast. The dragon headbutts into you, making a happy little yelping noise. Your heart flutters at the sweet affection. There’s this deep feeling there that you don’t know where it's from, but you won’t question it. Gently, you begin to pet the fur on the top of the dragon’s head.

“Hello there, sunbeam.” You affectionately give it a nickname.

The dragon seems to be almost smiling. You begin to pet it, longing to feel the cool scales on your skin. You gasp as you feel a part where the scales are missing. The dragon pulls away, almost ashamed of what just happened.

You look at the scar on the dragon’s body. It almost seems to be in the shape of a flower. It’s trying to hide it from you, trying to keep the scar hidden. But it’s much too late. You’ve seen it. You try to move closer, but the dragon hisses at you.

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…I…”

But you’re at a loss for words. How could you ever come up with an excuse for this? This is clearly a large source of shame for the dragon. It begins to fly up in the sky, and then soon shoots off and leaves you behind. A big sadness fills you completely, overwhelming all your senses.

You want to reach up, and fly high. You want to be able to be with the dragon. You’re almost certain that you must have dreamt this encounter, but you didn’t. It was real and the dragon was real and now you’re sad…no, you are devastated that it’s gone.

All because you touched the scar.

Tears sting your eyes as you look up at the sky for a sign of the dragon. You try calling out but your voice gets stuck in your throat. He’s gone and you don’t know if he’ll ever return.

Your heart hurts. It longs for something you can’t have. You finally gather your breath and you scream. You scream and cry, wanting him to return. But after a few minutes, you collapse to your knees and you begin to sob. How could the dragon just leave?

After a while, you gather yourself up and you leave the field. You go back down the winding path you took to get here, feeling a sense of loneliness and longing invading your every fibre. With every step you take into the dark forest, you feel like there’s a part of you that’s crumbling away.

That night, you have the most vivid dreams of being on the dragon’s back. You hold onto him tightly. There’s a soft giggle that erupts from you as he dives down closer to the ground, only to fly back up towards the clouds. It’s such a rush of adrenaline to feel the wind whipping around you like this.

But it leaves you cold and empty once more as you wake up. You’re drenched in sweat, wondering if you’ll ever get over this sensation. The feeling of love and acceptance may never come to be when you’re longing to be with the dragon once more.

It’s weeks before you can head back into the empty field that’s connected to the forest behind your home. You keep dreaming about the dragon. You wonder if there’s some sort of link between you and him. You want to be near him, so desperately.

You sit on a blanket and you place the basket nearby. If he won’t come to you, perhaps you can still enjoy the peaceful afternoon with a picnic. The sun is bright but it’s not too hot. You lay back, looking up at the clouds. Where is he? You wonder if maybe he’s sensed these feelings too.

And just when you’re about to give up hope, you see the golden shimmer once more. It begins to fly towards you, and you notice something off about it. The closer it gets, the more you realize he’s bleeding. 

The dragon crashes down not too far from where you’re sitting, prompting you to rush over. It moans in pain, thrashing about as the bleeding continues. Slowly and carefully, you approach him. The dragon spots you, and you can see tears in his eyes.

“Don’t go! Let me help!”

Your words reach him this time. He allows you to inspect him and you notice that the scar is irritated. The bleeding is coming from there. You shudder as you press your hand on it. Applying pressure to the wound, you are desperate to stop the bleeding.

“I won’t…I won’t let you bleed out. No…I’m here.”

The dragon lets out a sad huff. It lays its head on your lap, tears sliding down its cheeks. With one hand, you keep pressure on the wound. With the other, you begin to pet him. There’s this magnetism going on between you two. Almost as if you two have met before, even longer than just a few weeks ago. There are memories there that you cannot pinpoint, but they flash by in your mind.

The knowledge of how you came to know this dragon, it’s all there. When you were a child, that dragon was there with you. The lonely childhood you had was less lonely because this dragon played with you. It helped shape you into the human you are now.

Tears slide down your cheeks now as you see the crimson blood staining your hand. You’re not sure you can stop the bleeding. But you won’t abandon him. This is the one creature in this world that has cared for you for so long, and now it’s all coming back to you.

“It was you,” you say as you nuzzle your face in his fur. “You’ve been with me this whole time. And I’m not going anywhere! I’m not going to abandon you when you need me most.”

You kiss his snout, your tears dripping down onto his face. You keep your hand on the wound, wishing for him to stop bleeding. The dragon cries with you, then lets out a soft roar. The sound is almost comforting in its own right. Your heart aches, you feel like maybe this is goodbye.

“Please,” you beg. “Please don’t leave me. It feels like we’ve only just met once again. Please.”

The sound of your voice warms him up. He rubs his snout against your face, letting out a very soft growl. You kiss his snout once more, then you focus on the wound. You press both hands on the wound.

“I love you,” you finally say. “This whole time, my whole life…you’re the only one who’s been there for me. I don’t know why I lost my memories of you, but now that you’re here with me again, I’m not going to lose you!”

The declaration of love makes him feel so warm inside. You notice how there’s a shining light beneath your hands. You slowly peel them back to show that the bleeding has stopped. Your hands are stained with a golden liquid. No longer is it crimson. 

Then there’s a blinding light that flashes before your very eyes. You shield them from the light, turning away. When everything settles, you look over at where the dragon was. In its place, it’s now a very tall and lanky man. There’s still the golden liquid coming from him, but it has slowed to almost a stop.

He reaches for you, a soft smile on his face. You lean in closer, a laugh of disbelief coming from you. He holds onto you tightly, his long blond hair tickling your face.

“It’s always been you. You’re the one…my one and only.” He whispers softly. “And now that you’ve shown me true love…”

He hiccups softly as he tries to hold back the tears. Both of you are trying to stop crying, but it’s so difficult when all these emotions come bubbling up. Finally, you just lean in and kiss his lips. 

The wind blows around you both, making you shiver. Toshinori wraps his arms around you a little more tightly, rubbing your exposed skin. Then he rubs his nose against yours, smiling softly.

“It’s always been you.” He says again.

“I won’t ever leave you,” you tell him.

He brings you to rest on his chest carefully. You’ve noticed how the golden liquid has turned back to a crimson color. He’s no longer bleeding, but you will tend to him again. You’ll tend to him when you both overcome these strong emotions that are making you feel so overwhelmed.

“I love you too,” he whispers in your ear.

And in that very moment, everything feels right again.

reblogs and comments always appreciated!

©actuallysaiyan 2024– do not repost on other platforms, copy, translate or edit my works!

[joelsbunnyboy]

𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 ₊⊹⁀➴

while patrolling with Joel, you find out he’s never caught a snowflake on his tongue before.

tags: SFW, Joel knows no joy nor whimsy, grumpy/sunshine duo, Jackson!Joel, age gap (20's, 56), gn!reader

wordcount: 743

the cold was near blistering. you could feel the cold snow sinking under the weight of your shoes. your breath was coming out in small puffs of chilled, white air.  “damn, yer freezing...”  Joel commented.  “shut it. I'm fine,”  you snapped, wanting to appear tough.  but Joe knew better.  all he did was smile and shake his head, continuing to walk alongside you. 

the snow was soft under your steps, crunching and leaving a crisp noise that was audible even through earmuffs.   “this snow is really loud,”  you chuckled, a little weak. Joel hummed, acknowledging your words. then you noticed some snow on your shoulders. you looked up, and saw some snow falling from the sky above, the clouds pearly white as they covered every inch of the sky.  “Joel! it’s snowing!”  you cried, happily holding a hand out, hopeful to catch some.  “so? ‘snows all the time here in Jackson,”  Joel said, not amused whatsoever at the snow. he kept himself professional at all times. he was only soft around Ellie, and possibly Tommy if he wasn’t being a little bitch. you were supposed to be patrolling the area, not playing in the snow like children.  

ignoring Joel’s blatant attitude, you stuck out your tongue, hoping to catch a snowflake.  “what the hell are ye doing?”  Joel asked, disgruntled.  “yer damn tongue’s gonna freeze off.”  you shut your mouth, and turned to look at Joel. did this man not know any whimsical joy? no happiness? I mean, sure it was the apocalypse, but was he allergic to fun or something?  you cocked your head, confused.  “c’mon, don’t tell me you’ve never caught a snowflake before, Joel!”  you laughed. the look on his face told you everything you needed to know.  “Joel! you’re shitting me, right?!”  you laughed, suddenly very cocky.  “hey, knock it off, kiddo. we’ve got work to do, y’know?”  Joel said, crossing his arms. but he had set his gun down, wanting to tag along, even if he didn't want to look too enthusiastic about it.  

you quickly grabbed Joel’s arm and brought him out from under the huge trees. “so, you just stick your tongue out and wait, huh?” Joel asked, his left brow thick as it quirked upward. you nodded, your own tongue out, awaiting a pearly snowflake.

your big eyes were warm and soft, your lashes and hair having some snow in it. your shoulders were dusted with the lamb-colored nature essence as well, making you seem… really pretty. Joel took a deep breath, turning away, needing to recollect himself. fuck. you were barley in your twenties. he’d look like a pervert if anyone knew just the way he looked at you. you were successful as you caught a snowflake.

the snow burned your tongue a little, the icy fragment fresh and near crumbling just from the warmth of your breath. you closed your jaw, your tongue feeling the ice melt and become water in milliseconds. you swallowed, content.

you heard Joel let out a long, hard sigh. “one…” he grunted, holding the sleeves of his heavy jacket. “just one, alright?” Joel said. the smile on your face made him inevitably smile, and he felt his cheeks warming up under his silky chops. damn you and your stupid charm, your stupid smile, and those stupid eyes…

Joel felt dumb holding his tongue out, whirling around like a dog trying to catch his own tail. when he got a snowflake, he choked and barked, “fuck! why does it burn?” he asked, disgruntled and a little embarrassed. “oh, yeah… the snowflakes can hurt sometimes. sorry Joel,” you said timidly. Joel narrowed his eyes at you, but swallowed the chilled water leftover from the ice anyways. “was that fun?” you asked excitedly, bounding behind Joel when he started to walk away. “not really. it hurt, and i looked like a damn dog waitin’ for that stupid snowflake.” Joel said, trudging through the snow, eyes sharp as he patrolled the area. “but you did it anyways.” you remarked, timidly walking closer to Joel. he didn’t seem to mind much.

Joel looked down at you, stopping. he brushed some snow out of your hair, his gloved hand rubbing your cheek affectionately. his touch was so soft, even though the glove was rough. swallowing, Joel stammered, “you’ll need a bath when we get back…”

₊⊹⁀➴

[lottluvs]

Jackie Taylor x Shy! Female Reader (but Jackie brings out your confident side): Childhood best friends to lovers.

Jackie and your parents ran in the same social circles, your fathers being especially close, while your mothers did not get along beyond polite pleasantries. You attend different schools but talk on the phone daily and see each other as often as possible. You both planned your entire future together, and you start dating. Your parents tell you that you’re moving, and no matter how much you beg to stay, it’s non-negotiable. Not long after, you find out about the plane crash.

Thank you! — 🫀

Teathered By Distance, Torn By Fate . (✉️)

gripping at the sheets as my tears stain them. crying. this reminds me of the movie ghost. ( p . s : proofread by scan , apologies for spelling errors ! ) 🌿

paring : jackie taylor x reader , c / w : character death , grieving , hallucinations , heartache , overall total devastation , fluff , hurt/comfort .

summary : childhood best friends become more , growing together , planning a future , when not only does reader move away , but the news of an unfortunate plane crash tears the two completely apart from harsh reality .

words : 5k

lottluvs , feel free to translate with credit . . open to criticism 🌱

a / n : i had to use a few time skips to pair this with all my ideas , my apologies!

Your first memory of Jackie Taylor was at her family’s Fourth of July barbecue when you were five years old. She had come bounding up to you, her confidence as radiant as the sun that reflected off her blonde curls.

“I’m Jackie,” she’d declared, sticking out her hand. “We’re going to be best friends.”

And just like that, she was right.

Your fathers worked together in the same tight-knit business circles, making your families natural fixtures in each other’s lives. While your mothers barely tolerated each other behind thin veneers of polite civility, Jackie and you were inseparable. It didn’t matter that you attended different schools or that she thrived in a social world that terrified you. Jackie made you feel like you belonged wherever she was.

Jackie always had a way of filling the silence you preferred with her own brand of light. When you shrank from new people or doubted yourself, Jackie was there to pull you forward, her hand warm and firm around yours. She made you feel safe and seen.

“We’re going to do everything together when we’re older,” she said one summer, sprawled across her pristine pink comforter, flipping through a magazine. “College, apartments, double dates. Everything.”

You didn’t know what your future looked like, but Jackie’s confidence was enough for both of you.

As you grew older, your bond didn’t fade. Even with your different schools and social circles, you talked every day—on the phone, at each other’s houses, and in the few moments you managed to steal during busy weekends. She told you about soccer practices and her drama with Shauna, and you shared pieces of your life you never thought you’d say out loud.

Then, when you were both sixteen, something changed. Jackie’s touches lingered just a little too long. Her eyes stayed on you in ways they hadn’t before. It was small at first—a brush of her knee against yours under the dinner table, a hand on your lower back that made your breath hitch. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Jackie was affectionate with everyone. But deep down, you wanted it to mean everything.

It wasn’t until the night of her family’s Fourth of July party that your quiet longing turned into something real. You and Jackie had slipped away from the crowd, sitting in the backyard under the fireworks. The colorful lights reflected in her eyes as she turned to you, her voice soft but certain.

“You’ll always stay with me, right? Even if everything else changes?”

“Of course,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to say more.

Jackie smiled, leaning in until her forehead rested against yours. “Good.” Then, without hesitation, she kissed you.

Her lips were soft, hesitant at first, but when you didn’t pull away, she pressed closer. It felt like everything you’d ever dreamed but didn’t dare to hope for. When she pulled back, her eyes searched yours.

From that moment on, Jackie Taylor wasn’t just your best friend— more— she was your everything.

Dating Jackie was like standing in the sun. She made you feel braver, stronger, like the world wasn’t so scary with her by your side. But she also had an image to uphold, so your relationship remained a secret. It didn’t matter. The stolen glances, whispered promises, and late-night phone calls were enough.

“I don’t get how you don’t see it,” Jackie said one evening, her head resting on your shoulder as you lay on her bed. “You’re amazing. You just… don’t let yourself show it.”

You shrugged. “I guess I’m not like you.”

“No,” she said, sitting up and cupping your face. “You’re better.”

Jackie had a way of making you believe her, even when your doubts threatened to creep in.

But good things don’t last forever.

The announcement came one chilly autumn evening: your father’s portion of his job was transferring your family out of state. When they told you, your heart shattered. You begged them to let you stay—offered to live with relatives, promised to make it work somehow—but it was no use.

When you told Jackie, the confidence she wore like armor cracked.

“You can’t leave,” she said, her voice breaking. “You promised me.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face.

Jackie pulled you into her arms, holding you like she could keep you from slipping away. “We’ll make it work,” she said, her voice firm despite the tears in her eyes. “I’ll visit. You’ll visit. It won’t change anything.”

But you both knew it wasn’t that simple.

The days leading up to your move were a blur of heartbreak. Every moment felt heavy with the knowledge that it might be your last together. Jackie kissed you like she was trying to memorize the feel of your lips, held your hand like letting go would break her.

When the moving truck pulled away, you watched her figure disappear in the rearview mirror, and a part of you broke.

At first, you and Jackie tried to hold on. You called every night, sent letters, and made plans to see each other. But life got in the way. Jackie had soccer, her friends, and the pressure of being Jackie Taylor. You had your own struggles—trying to adjust to a new school, a new life, without her. The calls became less frequent, the letters shorter.

Then, one day, the calls diminished altogether.

You tried to tell yourself it was just life pulling you apart. That Jackie was busy, and you were busy, and this was normal. But deep down, you felt the tether between you fraying.

Then the news came.

A plane crash. Survivors unlikely.

The news came over the TV, cutting through the quiet hum of your family’s kitchen. The anchor’s voice was grave, his words slow and deliberate, as though speaking them aloud would somehow make them less horrifying.

“A private plane carrying the Wiskayok High School girls’ soccer team has gone missing. Early reports indicate that the aircraft may have crashed in a remote forest area, as it has been missing for over 48 hours. Authorities have not yet confirmed if there are any survivors.”

Your fork clattered onto your plate. The world tilted sideways as the air was sucked from your lungs.

No.

No, no, no.

Your parents turned toward you, their faces blurred through the haze of panic that had suddenly engulfed you.

“Isn’t that—”

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

Heart pounding, you sprinted to your room, slamming the door shut behind you. Jackie. Jackie was on that plane.

Your hands trembled as you grabbed the corded phone from your nightstand, punching in her number. Each ring felt like an eternity, the dial tone taunting you with its silence. Then came the voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Jackie! You know what to do. Leave a message!”

Her voice, so bright and alive, hit you like a punch to the chest.

You hung up and immediately dialed again. And again. And again. Each time, the voicemail greeted you, that same cheerful tone now cruelly mocking.

The phone slipped from your hand, hitting the carpet with a dull thud. Tears blurred your vision as you stumbled toward the shoebox tucked beneath your bed. It was filled with letters, Polaroids, and little trinkets Jackie had given you over the years. The pink friendship bracelet she’d made at summer camp when you were thirteen. The mixtape she’d handed you last Christmas, scrawled with Our Favorites in her messy handwriting.

Fumbling through the box, you found her old soccer hoodie—the one she’d let you borrow after a game when you’d complained about being cold. It still faintly smelled like her, a mix of flowery deodorant and something undeniably Jackie.

You clutched it to your chest, sinking onto your bed as your sobs tore through the silence.

“No, no, no,” you whispered, shaking your head as though you could will the reality away. “She’s okay. She’s fine. She’s Jackie.”

Your fingers fumbled to rewind the tape deck on your stereo. The mixtape clicked into place, Jackie’s familiar voice spilling into the room as she introduced the first track—“Every Breath You Take,” by The Police.

“Okay, so, this is totally a banger,” her recorded voice said, laughing. “I’m going to make you listen to it on repeat until you admit it’s your favorite, too.”

The first beat riff began, jagged and raw, and you doubled over, clutching the hoodie tighter. Jackie was alive here, in this moment. She was alive.

Desperate, you opened the drawer of your desk where you kept the birthday card she’d given you last year. It was signed in her bubbly handwriting: Happy Sweet Sixteen! To my favorite human ever. I love you more than all the Pop-Tarts in the world.

The tears blurred the words, your chest heaving as you tried to breathe.

“—every move you make, I’ll be watching you.”

When your legs finally gave out, you slid to the floor, surrounded by her things. The hoodie, the bracelet, the mixtape, the Polaroids of you laughing together at the lake. Each item was a piece of her, a piece of what you’d lost.

You grabbed the phone again, dialing her number one more time.

“Hey, it’s Jackie! You know what to do. Leave a message after the beep!”

This time, you didn’t hang up.

“Jackie,” you choked out, your voice shaking. “Please, please call me back. I don’t care when, just… please.”

You knew the plane carried a phone, in your delusional confusion, you thought by calling her, she’d pick up.

The beep cut you off, and you clutched the receiver to your chest, your sobs swallowing the quiet hum of the tape still playing in the background.

The hours blurred together as you sifted through every piece of her you could find, replaying old voicemails, and clutching her gifts like they were lifelines. The sun set outside your window, casting long shadows across your room, but you didn’t move.

You weren’t ready to face a world without Jackie Taylor.

The days after the crash passed in a haze. You barely ate. You barely slept. You existed in a liminal space between denial and despair, grappling with the crushing weight of Jackie’s absence.

Your parents tried to reach you, hovering in the doorway of your room with concerned eyes. But what could they say? How could they comfort you when Jackie—your Jackie—was gone? Their platitudes of “We’re here for you” and “You’ll feel better in time” felt hollow, like someone trying to sew up a wound without stitching the edges together.

You spent hours lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, Jackie’s hoodie clutched to your chest. The cassette mixtape played on repeat, her favorite songs filling the suffocating silence. But even the music couldn’t drown out the gnawing ache in your chest.

You told yourself you needed to keep moving—go to school, do your homework, live your life. But every time you tried, the weight of grief pulled you back under. You’d sit at your desk with a pencil in hand, only to find yourself tracing her name over and over on the margins of your notebook. Jackie Taylor. As though writing it down could bring her back.

Your phone became a lifeline, a relic of hope you couldn’t let go of. You called her number every night, even when you knew it would go to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Jackie! You know what to do…”

You’d listen to her voice until it hurt, your tears soaking into the receiver as you whispered into the void:

“Jackie, please. I don’t know how to do this without you, we— drifted apart I know, I fucking.. hate to admit it, but every ocean connects somehow, someway , right?”

As the days turned into weeks, people around you began to move on. The news cycle shifted, and the world seemed to forget the missing plane and the lives it had claimed. But you couldn’t forget.

You started carrying pieces of her with you everywhere. Her bracelet stayed on your wrist, the plastic beads pressing into your skin like a quiet reminder. The necklace she’d given you—a tiny star charm—rested against your collarbone, tucked beneath your shirt.

You wore her hoodie almost every day, its fraying cuffs a comfort against your fingertips. It didn’t matter if people stared. It didn’t matter if your parents exchanged worried glances. Jackie was gone, but these pieces of her felt like all you had left.

One evening, you found yourself alone in your room, the sun setting outside your window. The fading light cast long shadows across your walls, and for the first time in days, the stillness felt unbearable.

You pulled out the shoebox where you kept Jackie’s letters and gifts, spreading them across your bed like puzzle pieces you couldn’t fit back together. A folded note slipped from one of the Polaroids, fluttering to the floor.

You picked it up, unfolding it with trembling hands. It was from last summer, written in Jackie’s messy scrawl:

You’re my favorite person in the entire world, you know that? Even if you don’t believe it, I do. Don’t ever forget how much you mean to me.

Tears filled your eyes as you traced the words with your fingers. Jackie had always seen something in you that you struggled to see in yourself. Her confidence in you had been unshakable, like a lighthouse guiding you through the storm.

But now the lighthouse was gone, and you were left adrift in the dark.

The first time you returned to school, it felt like walking through a dream. The hallways were too bright, the chatter of your classmates too loud. You kept your head down, gripping the straps of your backpack like they might steady you.

In history class, someone whispered about the missing plane, and your chest tightened. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.

At lunch, your friends tried to engage you in conversation, but the sound of their laughter grated against your raw nerves. Didn’t they understand? Jackie was gone. The world wasn’t supposed to keep spinning like nothing had happened.

You excused yourself to the bathroom, locking the stall door behind you as your knees buckled. Pulling Jackie’s bracelet from your wrist, you clutched it tightly, the beads biting into your palm.

“Jackie,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

The silence was deafening.

Eventually, the world forced you to keep moving, even when it felt impossible. You went to class. You finished assignments. You smiled when people asked if you were okay. But inside, the grief stayed with you, a constant ache that never fully faded.

You started writing letters to her, pouring out the words you could no longer say aloud.

Dear Jackie,

I miss you. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and this will all be some horrible dream. But it’s not. You’re really gone, and I don’t know how to live in a world without you. You always said I was stronger than I thought, but I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m breaking.

The letters became a nightly ritual, a way to tether yourself to her memory. Some nights, you felt her presence so vividly it was like she was sitting beside you, her laughter ringing in your ears. Other nights, the emptiness was unbearable, and you cried until there was nothing left.

But through it all, you held on to the pieces of her that remained. Her words. Her gifts. Her love.

Because even though Jackie was gone, she had left a part of herself with you—a light that refused to go out, even in the darkest moments.

—

It had been nearly a year and a half since the crash. Time hadn’t healed the wound, but it had dulled the edges, turning the raw pain into something quieter, sharper. The grief was no longer a suffocating presence in your every waking moment, but it still lingered, hidden in the farthest corners of your mind. You’d learned to push it down, to carry it like a scar.

You had changed. You weren’t the same shy girl who clung to Jackie’s hoodie and cried herself to sleep every night. You had learned to move through the world without her, even if every step felt wrong. You wore her bracelet still, but her other things—the hoodie, the mixtape—were tucked away in a box at the back of your closet. You didn’t need to see them every day anymore. The memories of her were enough to carry you forward.

It was a quiet evening in your living room when the news broke. You weren’t even paying attention to the TV, your focus instead on a novel you’d been struggling to get through for weeks. The sound of the anchor’s voice was almost background noise until a familiar word cut through.

“…rescue efforts successful after nineteen months in the wilderness. A handful of the Wiskayok High School girls’ soccer team have been found alive…”

Your book slipped from your hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

The screen showed grainy helicopter footage of a group of girls being loaded onto a plane, their faces obscured by heavy jackets and camera angles. The anchor continued, her voice professional but tinged with emotion.

“While the survivors’ identities remain hidden to protect their privacy, sources have confirmed the rescue of Charlotte Matthews, one of the team’s midfielders. Families of the victims are being notified, and authorities are working to provide answers regarding the fate of those still unaccounted for.”

Your heart felt like it had been punched out of your chest. Jackie.

The familiar pang of grief rose to choke you, but this time, it was tangled with something else: hope.

“Mom,” you said, your voice shaky. “Turn it up.”

Your mother, seated in her armchair, grabbed the remote and increased the volume.

The camera panned to a press conference. A man you vaguely recognized as Lottie Matthews’ father stood at a podium, his face lined with exhaustion and relief.

“My daughter is alive,” he said, his voice trembling. “After nineteen months of thinking she was gone, she’s alive—“

The room spun around you. Nineteen months. Jackie had been missing for nineteen months. If Lottie had survived… Jackie could have survived too.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the phone. You didn’t even know who you were calling—your parents, someone, anyone who might have answers.

The line rang, and no one picked up. You hung up and immediately tried again, your breaths coming in short gasps.

“Jackie,” you whispered, her name slipping from your lips unbidden. “Please.”

But the hope burned out as quickly as it flared when the anchor returned, her tone somber.

“Authorities have confirmed that several team members did not survive the crash or the conditions in the wilderness. An official list of the deceased will be released in the coming days.”

Your stomach dropped.

No.

They couldn’t mean Jackie. They couldn’t.

Your mom reached out to squeeze your hand, but you flinched away, the world a blur of sound and motion.

“I need to—I need air,” you stammered, stumbling to your feet. You barely registered your mom calling after you as you slipped out the front door into the cool evening.

The street was quiet, the faint hum of crickets filling the air. You sank down onto the porch steps, burying your face in your hands.

You had spent the last year and a half convincing yourself that Jackie was gone. Trying, trying so hard to heal, but these words— the news— made you feel like blood was spilling from a slit throat. You’d told yourself over and over that she wasn’t coming back, that you had to let her go. But now, the possibility that she might be alive clawed its way to the surface, tearing open wounds you thought you’d closed.

And yet, there was that terrible, gnawing fear that she wasn’t one of the survivors. That the next announcement would confirm what you’d been running from since the day of the crash: Jackie wasn’t coming back.

You stayed there for hours, long after the sky had gone dark, replaying every memory of her in your mind. Her laughter. Her smile. The way she’d kissed you under the fireworks.

Would you ever see her again? Or was the Jackie you’d loved lost forever in the wilderness?

The days that followed were torturous. Every time you turned on the TV or opened a newspaper, there was another update, another scrap of information that sent your emotions spiraling.

The survivors had been flown to a secure hospital. Their names were still being withheld, except for Lottie’s, whose parents had chosen to go public. Speculation swirled about what had happened in the wilderness, but no one seemed to have answers.

Then, two weeks later, the announcement came.

“The identities of the deceased have been confirmed,” the anchor said, her voice heavy. “Among those who did not survive… Laura Lee, Jackie Taylor—“

It felt like the floor dropped out from beneath you.

No.

You shook your head, the word repeating over and over in your mind.

No.

Not Jackie.

But the anchor continued, listing names you barely heard through the ringing in your ears. You couldn’t breathe. Your vision blurred.

Your mother’s arms were around you, pulling you close, but the warmth of her touch did nothing to thaw the icy numbness that had overtaken you.

Jackie was gone. She had been gone all along.

The days after the announcement felt like a relapse into the darkness you thought you had escaped. It wasn’t just grief anymore—it was finality. The hope you had carried, fragile and desperate, had been extinguished. Jackie was gone. Truly, irrevocably gone.

But even as the world seemed to demand you move on, something inside you refused to let her go.

One night, you found yourself sitting in the quiet of your room, Jackie’s hoodie draped over your shoulders. You had slipped back into old habits, listening to her mixtape and rereading her letters until the words blurred together. It was the only way you knew to keep her close.

You stared at the photo on your bedside table—Jackie in her soccer uniform, her smile so vibrant it felt alive. The room was dim, the soft glow of the lamp casting long shadows across the walls.

“Jackie,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The silence was deafening.

Until it wasn’t.

A faint creak echoed through the room, and you froze. The air shifted, growing heavier, charged with something you couldn’t name.

And then you saw her.

Jackie.

She stood in the doorway, just as you remembered her. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her eyes—those warm, familiar eyes—were fixed on you. She was wearing the same soccer jersey she’d worn the day you last saw her, the one you had teased her for calling “too jock.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Jackie?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

She smiled, that small, knowing smile that always made your heart ache.

“That’s me,” she said softly, stepping into the room.

You wanted to run to her, to throw yourself into her arms, but your body felt frozen in place.

“How—how are you here?”

Jackie tilted her head, her expression both tender and sad. “Does it matter?”

Her voice was exactly as you remembered—soft, confident, and full of that quiet assurance only she could bring.

She closed the distance between you, kneeling in front of where you sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands cupped your face, her touch impossibly— there.. warm.

“You’ve been carrying me for so long,” she whispered. “Too long.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached up to touch her face, half-expecting her to disappear. But she didn’t. Her skin was solid beneath your fingertips, her presence achingly real.

“I can’t let you go,” you said, your voice breaking. “I don’t know how.”

Jackie’s thumb brushed away your tears, and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against yours. “You’ve been so strong, even when you didn’t think you could be. But it’s time, my love.”

“No,” you choked out, shaking your head. “Please. I can’t lose you again.”

She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment, the sadness in her gaze threatened to shatter you.

“You’ll never lose me,” she said. “I’m part of you. I always will be. But you have to let go of the pain. You have to let yourself live again.”

You clung to her, your hands gripping her shoulders like she might vanish if you let go. “Just stay a little longer. Please.”

Jackie smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the outline of your jaw. “Okay. You always were a clingy one; Just a little longer.”

She leaned in, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss so soft it felt like a whisper. It was bittersweet, filled with all the love and longing you’d carried for her. For a moment, the world fell away, and it was just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of her presence.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours.

“I love you,” she murmured. “More than anything.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Jackie’s hand slid to your chest, resting over your heart. “Then promise me something.”

“What?”

“Promise me you’ll let yourself move on. Not forget me—never forget me. But don’t let this pain hold you back. You deserve to be happy.”

Your chest ached, the weight of her words pressing against the fragile parts of you. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” she said, her voice firm but kind. “You’ve always been stronger than you think.”

The room grew quieter, the edges of her form beginning to blur.

“Jackie—”

“It’s okay,” she said, her smile soft and bittersweet. “I’ll always be with you. Always.”

Her touch faded, the warmth of her presence slipping away like sand through your fingers.

And then she was gone.

You sat there in the silence, tears streaming down your face, your heart aching in a way that was both painful and strangely freeing. For the first time, you felt the faintest flicker of peace. Jackie was gone, but her love remained—a steady, quiet light guiding you forward.

You pressed a hand to your chest, where her hand had rested, and whispered into the stillness:

“I promise.”

—

The journey back to Wiskayok was one you had avoided for a year and a half. Every mile felt heavier than the last, the weight of grief pressing against your chest. Yet, after that night—after seeing Jackie—you knew it was time.

Your hometown hadn’t changed much. The streets still wound through familiar neighborhoods, the same local shops still dotted the corners, and the Taylor family’s perfectly manicured house still stood as a quiet reminder of the life Jackie had once led.

The memorial was in the center of town, near the high school where Jackie and the team had spent countless hours practicing on the soccer field. It was a simple but beautiful tribute: a polished stone monument etched with the names of those who had died in the crash. Flowers, candles, and small mementos surrounded it, placed there by loved ones and strangers alike.

You stepped closer, your fingers trailing across the engraved letters, Jackie Taylor.

Her name seemed to stand out among the others, though you knew that was just your heart speaking. She wasn’t just a name on a stone—she was your Jackie. The girl who had held your hand when you were scared, who had kissed you under fireworks, who had shown you how to believe in yourself.

Your hand slipped into your bag, pulling out one of the thousands of Polaroids you’d taken over the years. This one was your favorite. Jackie was in mid-laugh, her eyes crinkled and her head tilted back, a half-eaten popsicle in her hand. You’d taken it during one of those lazy summer afternoons when the world had felt so simple, so full of possibilities.

You crouched down, placing the photo at the base of the memorial. It felt like giving her a piece of yourself—a piece of the life you had shared, one she would always be a part of.

“Hi, Jackie,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’ve been… trying. I’m not sure I’m doing it right, but I’m trying.”

The wind rustled the leaves of a nearby tree, and for a moment, you could almost imagine it was her response—a soft, reassuring presence.

“I miss you every day,” you continued. “And I don’t think that will ever change. But I know now that holding onto the pain isn’t what you’d want. You’d want me to live. To keep going. To be happy.”

You took a shaky breath, brushing a tear from your cheek. “It’s hard, though. Letting go is hard. But I’m going to try. For you.”

Standing up, you took one last look at the photo, now surrounded by flowers and candles. It felt right, leaving it there—a tangible reminder of Jackie’s light in a sea of grief.

As you turned to leave, the weight in your chest felt lighter, if only by a fraction. Moving on didn’t mean forgetting. It didn’t mean leaving Jackie behind. It meant carrying her with you in a different way, one that didn’t hurt as much.

In the weeks that followed, you found yourself living in small but meaningful ways. You picked up new hobbies, reconnected with friends, and even let yourself laugh again. But you also made it a point to return to Wiskayok every few months, bringing another few Polaroids, another piece of Jackie’s memory, to leave at the memorial.

It became your way of honoring her—not by clinging to the past, but by celebrating the joy she had brought into your life.

And each time you left a Polaroid, it felt like a promise: to live, to love, to keep moving forward—even when it was hard.

In some way, it made her unseen presence feel even more lively.