#is that it just sits with you. for like. months to years.

[spurbleu]

john price and his divorced vibes ring true in my heart and notes app once again. cw. slight suicide ideation.

“it’s me or there.”

that’s when it ended. four words, four years, give or take. snuffed out in the aftermath of a hospital visit that wouldn’t have been concerning if john were younger. if he didn’t have you.

he’s seen the cyst of it. the bloated, inflamed beginnings of a divide. the graves that anxiety digs under your eyes. the tears when he returns home- not from joy but from relief.

(maybe that’s always what it’s been- just assumed they were the same. it took looking at your signature on separation papers to make him realize just how wrong he was).

but tonight, you aren’t crying. not now- not in front of him. he can tell you practiced, by the ridged way you sit under the lamplight he had helped you fix last month, hands crossed over the dining room table (oak from the backyard). eyes that build a wall between your body and the woman he married.

“don’t make me choose.” is what he said, which didn’t sound like a real answer to him.

but there was only one reply that would’ve made you stay.

so he survives like he always has. still takes his coffee black, although has to relearn how to use the machine without your help. wakes up at five to a colder bed. still gets deployed for missions, where he doesn’t talk about it.

(still wears the ring, though.)

and without him really knowing it, years go by. he gets shot again, and this time he isn’t just lucky he’s alive, he’s surprised.

(angry, too. hoped that stupid, bullish operative would’ve made the fuckin shot. gave him an honorable death. born from steel so he might as well die by it. maybe it would have made you understand. maybe you would have spoken at his funeral.)

kate makes him take the office job he hid from you. hates it, but eventually the body aches subside and so does the resentment.

it’s early, when he catches sight of you in a café. can’t help himself, and suddenly he’s ordering his coffee with a little bit of cream, and finding your table.

you’re still wearing a ring, but it isn’t his. the subtle roundness of your stomach isn’t, either. that burns more than the cigars he quit last week.

you ask him how he’s been. he says fine. when he asks you the same, you mimic his response- although you’re telling the truth.

“still working?”

he forces a laugh. it comes out pained. “at a desk, now.”

you nod like you saw this coming. “how’s that?”

he tells you about the long days. the creaky chair that leaves faux leather pieces stamped to his trousers. about the annoying, young coworkers. about the window that overlooks a city he didn’t think could be beautiful- but when the sun hits it right he’s proved wrong.

once he meets your eyes, they’re glossy. a teary shine that shocks him until he’s forced to remember the way you looked at the alter. the flush of your cheeks. the curve of your smile, which is practically the same now as it was then, if not a little sadder.

because it hurts. hurts that he is only now accepting peace. that if he hadn’t idled, he could’ve had the very rare opportunity to keep. his promises, his good ending, his wife.

but he didn’t. and now the both of you have to look “could’ve been” in the face. a face that you had loved. a face that john, despite his best efforts, still does.

you wipe your tears and apologize. say the pregnancy is making you weepy. that you’re just so happy he’s doing well. that he’s safe. alive.

he nods. he understands. he lets you lie. because he knows, that as he stands, you want to ask him why. why it took him so long. why he couldn’t quit it for you, when he was always going to end up doing so anyway.

he leaves you without an answer for a second time, but this time it’s because he truly doesn’t have one.

but he doesn’t leave without saying, “I’m sorry.”

and maybe that’s enough.

you will never see him again. he will see you, once. at a playground, with a stroller, and a man who looks like he’s good to you.

he will walk to the pawn shop across the street and sell his wedding ring. the number they give him is far below what it’s worth, but he doesn’t correct them.

because what would he know.

[swtheartz]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson

Part one Info : Suggestive content, implied spit kink, healer reader, reader is lowk oblivious, slow burn

W / C : 2k A / N : found the PERFECT strawberry divider off of pinterest from a rentry source i lit need to find it again because it’s sooo cute??? like what. anyway here’s ur guys’ treat eat up

You’ve noticed that Mark lingers.

Not even from a distance, either. No. He has to be a fucking weirdo about it. As pretty as he is, because handsome simply isn’t enough to describe him, he isn’t that bright when it comes to you. There is nothing subtle about it. Sam notices. Rex notices. And of course, Stedman notices. Everyone. Notices.

Except for Invincible himself.

And it pisses you off. Because for someone like him, he could at least be more aware outside of combat. You knew he was a dork, but not even you believed it to be this bad—it’s almost embarrassing. No, scratch that, it is embarrassing. Mostly embarrassing for you. Because Mark Grayson simply never. stops. staring.

Especially now.

“You redecorated,” Mark notes, staring at the newer posters on the wall and a new vase with honeysuckle placed inside as he sits on the usual bed you demand he sits on, waiting to be healed. “It’s nice.”

“If you don’t shut the hell up and let me work.” You groan, staring at the samples you’ve been testing. It’s something you’ve been working on for some time, a little over two months now. After accidentally crying over one of your plants, and yes it was because you’d been too busy to water it, you’d realized that it wasn’t just your hands that could heal. For now. . . You were limiting the experiments to tears.

Finding out new ways to cry was getting tiring, though. And your eyes hurt. If Stedman realized what you were working on, he’d be elated; in his own weird and subtle way. A more efficient approach to healing had been found simply because you forgot to water a plant.

To be fair, they were your prettiest African violets that you simply refused to let go of. And you could proudly say they were now thriving.

“What are you working on?” Mark questions, peeking over your shoulder as you test the percentage of how much is necessary for effective healing. You paused for a second, thinking about the fact you had a test subject right there. One that would be more than willing.

Slowly, you set down the tiny cup that had your tears mixed in with water, leaning back into our swivel chair with as calm of an expression that you could muster—before looking up at him through your lashes.

“Mark,” you hum sweetly, immediately, his eyebrows furrow. You’ve been calling him by his full name for half a year, and that was only because he begged you to stop calling him by Invincible for three weeks straight. The confusion in his face made you tilt your head, blinking innocently.

“I need you to test something for me. Nothing life threatening, unfortunately, but it is important. And I would rather be roasted on a spit than have anyone else test it.”

“. . . I feel like you’re trying to poison me.”

“If I wanted to do that,” you smile, grabbing a cup with a higher potency, “I would have done it the second time around when you ended up here. Just drink this.”

Mark takes the cup from your hand, incredulous and curious all at the same time. It’s clear that he’s going over his options here, and he’d much rather die than let someone else be your lab rat, you know that much. A sigh leaves him as he drinks it, and he blinks.

“It’s just water.” He mumbles, confused. It must be tasteless, maybe a little salty, but probably not even noticeable. At first, you think it’s a failure, before he makes a noise and that new gash on his cheek mends itself back together, the bruise on his neck from basically being choked fades away in a matter of moments. Not as quick as your usual method, but still effective and efficient.

The result is satisfying. Though, you sit in your chair and think about how you should’ve given him a lower dose just to study it for a little longer. Regardless, it’s still the effect of you, and that is more than enough in your eyes. Just. . . You didn’t want to waste time trying to make yourself cry and mixing it with water, just to heal some wounds on heroes that could surely wait it out. Heal naturally.

“What was that?” He seems almost dazed, still confused, but somewhat fascinated.

“My tears mixed with some water.”

“Wha-? Your tears? I just drank your tears?”

“I’m gonna try spit next time you come here,” you say absentmindedly, writing something down so you can store away the data for later and even more research. You believe you gave him some that had twenty five percent? Something like that. It’s a rough estimate, but a little more practice and you’ll get something more accurate. No, you don’t notice the way Mark nearly chokes on air at your blunt statement, having to stop himself from making any more noise.

He doesn’t want to ask if you’re serious or not. Knowing you, you’d just stare blankly at him and tell him to figure it out, so instead, he slowly nods and sits back down, finally letting you work in silence as he spaced out.

The next time he does end up there, you decide it’s perfect to test your newer mixture. Arguably, it’d worked pretty good on another plant that you had sacrificed, even better than it did on your beloved violets. It was nothing but a fern, but the result was amazing.

You were excited to see the results on a human. Hell, the first time you’d felt actual excitement in forever. This was, for the first time in a long time, something new. Saliva was most definitely your limit in this little experiment of yours, however, and then you’d let Stedman know of your discoveries after.

After—you have your fun with your annoying fucking lab rat.

“Are you sure this is safe? You could, you know, always heal me the usual way?”

“Mark, are you saying I have a nasty mouth?” You stare at him, holding the small plastic cup in your hand. You’d had the decency to mix it in with water, the same as you did with your tears, and figured he wouldn’t even taste it. The way he softens up as you say his name is something you can’t miss. But it is something you can ignore.

He shakes his head and sighs, but still seems reluctant.

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. If my tears worked just fine, then I’m pretty sure this will too; this is just for confirmation at best.”

Mark stares for a few moments, before he ultimately takes the cup and stares at it. Now, usually, you can read him quite easily. He’s the type to have the worst poker face known to man, and you’re not quite used to the almost contemplative look on his face. It’s quiet for a few moments, before he drinks it.

Slowly.

Your nose scrunches at that, because whether or not he realizes it, he’s drinking it at what you consider a snail’s pace for no reason. Still, you say nothing, simply crossing your arms across your chest as he finishes. As you thought, the effect is much more immediate than it was with your tears. Quicker. Comparable to when you use your hands. A good result—hell, an even better result than you expected.

He takes a second, before shrugging. “Tastes like water.”

“It’s supposed to, dipshit.”

“Strawberries.”

“Yeah.”

“You were grocery shopping,” You glance between him and the random two pound container of strawberries he’d given you, dark red and ripe. “And decided that it’d be a good idea to get your coworker. . . Strawberries.”

Mark exhales, mask and goggles still on, yet you can tell he’s pouting.

“I would prefer it if you just called us friends.”

“We’re coworkers, Markus. And even calling us that is pushing it,” You roll your eyes, opening the container and staring at one of the larger, darker strawberries that looked just perfect enough to bite into. But you had some decorum. You were gonna go home, wash these, let them soak,  and try not to eat them in one sitting. You don’t like how well Mark has started to understand what your tastes were. Especially when you had made it such a point not to tell him anything.

“Mark. Just, for the love of whatever god is out there, call me Mark.”

“I condemn you, Grayson. I curse you.” The groan that leaves him at the fact he’s seemingly downgraded from his full first name back to last name nearly makes you crack a smile, but you refrain from doing so. Letting him know that you didn’t want him to perish in the slightest would make him want to be around more, and you needed to work, and you can’t work with a 5’11” man with pure muscle constantly in your personal space.

The GDA was swamping you with more patients, more frequent incidents, and now you feel like an office worker; which, as stupid as it sounds, is what you were trying to avoid by working here. What you hoped to avoid, because you were different. You were a goddamn healer.

The two of you stare at each other—at least, you’d like to believe it’s a staring contest. You can’t tell if he’s looking or not, but he sure can tell with the way you purposely hold eye contact, not even daring to look away. Like he deserved to be scolded for thinking about you when he saw some fruit.

“Would you have, I don’t know, preferred peaches or something?” Mark’s question is genuine, and he’s the one pinching the bridge of his nose this time, like a disappointed parent. You scowl at that. Again, you plop down in your swivel chair, glaring at him as you cross your legs.

He knows the answer to that. No, you wouldn’t have preferred peaches, even though you have a tendency to inhale any fruit placed in front of you. Strawberries were, frankly, put on a pedestal by you. It undeniably showed, and you didn’t like that one bit. You didn’t like being able to read. And while it isn’t your fault that he stubbornly refused to leave your side, refuses to stop analyzing and staring at you, you’re still upset.

“I want you out. I have work.”

“You always have work!”

“Of course I always have work, do you see what my job is?! You know what, I’m gonna feed these to your little brother in front of you, and then I’m gonna withhold him from you for the rest of the week.”

“His name is Oliver, memorize names. Please, just memorize names and use them,” he pleads, pulling his goggles and mask off with an exasperated noise.

“Oh, I know everyone’s names. And their birthdays, including yours.” You state bluntly, waving your pencil at him, “I just don’t care. I want you to know how stupid your hero name is, too.”

“To hell with you.”

“I cursed you first!”

Later on, Mark watches as Oliver eats the slice of strawberry shortcake you’d given him after the incident with the Mauler twins, which you’d given him in exchange for a promise that he’d listen to his older brother. He watches as Cecil takes you purposely out of earshot, watches the two of you argue, watches Cecil end the argument on his terms and walk away while you give a resigned shake of your head.

Later on, Mark can catch the scent of strawberries coming from your ward as you work late at night, and he smiles to himself. He remembers the taste of that diluted water you’d given him, uncaring for the healing factor of it.

He was more focused on the fact that you tasted like strawberries.

TAG LIST : @lxluvsmoney @koilikesthefishy @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha @tokoyamisstuff @pookiei-bookie @treeteaofversailles

[dannyriccsystem]

so random but could you do one where the reader flashes the driver 😭 during a podium, at home, wherever you feel like lol xx

TAKE A LOOK AT ME!

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

SUMMARY: You flash the drivers

WARNINGS: Mature, nudity, Y/N usage, not proofread

FEATURING: MV1, DR3, LN4, CL16, YT22, LH44, CS55, GR63, OP81

No Kimi or Ollie just because I feel a bit awkward writing them in this scenario 😇

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

Max was a busy guy. As your boyfriend, he always tried to make sure you were a part of his schedule one way or another. He didn’t want the two of you to grow distant, especially considering you were an anchor of sanity for him. Without you, he’d be a madman by now.

You always tried to reward him, whether it be with a gift or your undying love. He didn’t need these prizes, but Max certainly wouldn’t be complaining when he came home to a warm body to worship, or a good meal to keep himself full and happy. You took care of him just as much.

Today, he wanted to surprise you. It was a week off, and he woke up extra early to cook you breakfast. It was simple, nothing that required lots of skill or practice, but he knew you’d be happy nonetheless.

Indeed you were. You came waddling out into the kitchen, still partially asleep. One hand slid up your shirt to scratch your own stomach as you snatched a piece of bacon, humming in delight. “Max, baby,” You pointed to your half eaten bacon. “Cooked to perfection.”

He laughed and shook his head lightly, but you weren’t done. You held the piece between your teeth, using both hands to pull your pajama top up, letting your breasts spill free. His gaze dropped instantly, and he stared silently for what felt like hours.

He finally reached out to lift you, hoisting you up onto the counter. Max gently tugged your shirt back down. “That’s certainly one way to say thanks.” He kissed your lips, and then went back to cooking, leaving you to sit there. “Quit distracting me.” You both laughed.

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

Danny always went all out for you. He pulled out all the stops, and that included date night. You were at the highest rated restaurant in all of Monaco currently— The waitlist was months long, but Danny managed to weasel his way into an earlier reservation. You didn’t know how to show your thanks.

When he left to quickly use the restroom, you got to scheming. You couldn’t just repay him with sex, because you did that anyway. It had to be something new— Something that surprised him. He had all the money in the world, so gifts were a lost cause. What did you get for someone who had nearly everything?

When he returned, you had an idea in the back of your mind. You were both securely tucked away in the corner of the restaurant, with your back to the rest of the room. He sat down, giving you a quick smile before picking up his menu again. There was lots to look at, but the menu wasn’t your biggest concern.

“Danny,” His head snapped up at your voice, and his jaw dropped. You had quickly pulled down the neckline of your dress, and your boobs popped out. He leaped over the table, careful to not knock anything over, and pulled your dress back up to cover your chest.

“Woah!” He settled back down, eyes still wide. “In public? Baby you know I love your tits, and it was a great surprise, but maybe we should keep those for my eyes only.” You laughed, straightening your dress out.

“Alright, alright. I just wanted to surprise you.” You winked, and he huffed a dramatic sigh, his hand over his heart.

“You certainly surprised me.”

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

Even if it was meant to be silly, and he’d never admit it, the nickname ‘Lando Nowins’ had weighed heavily on your boyfriend’s performance. He really loathed it, and was practically seething every time someone dared to call him the mean name. It started way back when you guys first began dating, meaning that throughout his Lando Nowins era, you were still there to support him.

Years ago you made a promise with him that once he made it to P1, you’d flash him while he was up there. Now, in 2024, you were certain he had forgotten that silly little deal, which would make it all the more fun considering he’s just finished first in the Miami Grand Prix. He was already ecstatic with his win, unable to completely process the glory.

You waited until he made it to the top step, holding up his trophy with a victorious stance. Then, as his eyes locked with yours, you made the move. You grabbed the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, only for a split second, but he for sure got a view of your breasts.

He suddenly fell silent, a look of disbelief on his face as Charles and Max sprayed him with champagne. Nobody but him noticed, including the thousands of people watching from the stands. That was a moment for just him, displayed to the public.

He snapped out of it and joined the others in his celebration, but he couldn’t seem to get the image of your topless body out of his mind.

He found you in his drivers room afterwards, and immediately pushed you back up against the door, pulling your shirt up just enough to slide his head underneath, followed by your giggles.

“Did you forget about that promise?” You asked, holding back your laughter as he buried his face between your boobs.

“I did, and I’m glad I did.” He hummed, breathing you in. “A pleasant surprise.”

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

Charles was in one of his slumps lately. Ferrari had not been performing to his liking, and it was taking a toll on his mental state. It was obvious with the way he moped around the house, usually cuddling with Leo in silence.

You tried various things to cheer him up. You offered to go on a walk with him and Leo, made his favorite food, put on his favorite movie— Everything. You even tried terrible jokes, which usually just made him pity laugh. You finally decided to pull out your trump card— Something you had been saving for dire situations. You planned on using it to get out of an argument, or persuade him into doing you a favor, but this was more important.

You approached him during one of his moping sessions. He was sitting on the couch watching TV, that same frown that’s been haunting him the past week ever so present. You stood right in front of him, blocking his view. As he looked up, you pulled your shirt up, effectively flashing your tits.

He couldn’t help but smile, a laugh leaving his lips as he covered his eyes with one hand. “Mon ange, what are you doing?!”

“Cheering you up,” You replied before putting the hem of your shirt between your teeth, and climbing on his lap. He lowered his hands to your hips, staring down at your chest without shame.

“It worked. It definitely worked.” Yeah, you could feel that it worked.

—

YUKI TSUNODA - YT22

Yuki was not a morning person. It took forever to get that man out of bed, and then for the following thirty minutes he’d just complain about how he wanted to go back to sleep. Eventually he’d shut up and carry on with his day, but the whole ordeal was no fun for either of you.

“Yuuuukkki, wake up.” You were sat on your knees hunched over him, shaking his side. He groaned, grabbing his pillow and putting it over his ears— Acting like a drama queen, that’s for sure. “Yuki, it’s time to wake up! Quick, there’s a fire in the house!” No response. This guy had zero survival instincts.

You tried for probably another five minutes, using various tactics to wake him up. You even tried wafting the smell of his favorite food in front of his nose, but it didn’t work. You were finally starting to give up, deciding he could just sleep some more, when you suddenly remembered his greatest weakness: Your boobs.

“Yuki, my tits are out-” You were gonna finish your sentence by saying ‘you have to wake up to see’ but he immediately sat up, staring directly at you. You sat on your knees on the bed, your pajama top lifted to reveal your chest.

“I’m up.”

“I can’t believe that worked…”

—

LEWIS HAMILTON - LH44

Lewis was a guy who loved nature. He was always dragging you along on hikes, despite the fact they weren’t your favorite thing. He wanted to share his passions with you, and since racing wasn’t something you could quickly join in on, he figured hiking would be just as good.

You complained half the time, but then would be super ecstatic when you came back, like it was the best hike of your life. He didn’t really get your weird way of showing enthusiasm, but he found it entertaining nonetheless.

Today, you were extremely tired, but Lewis just kept pushing the limit. Every time you’d stop to catch your breath, he’d tell you “just a bit further.” Every. Single. Time.

You finally got sick of his nonsensical behavior, and decided to give him a reason to turn around. You stopped, taking a moment to catch your breath before calling out to him. He turned around to face you, and then you quickly lifted your shirt, leaving him speechless.

“Can we turn back now?” You asked as you lowered your shirt, leaning over to continue with your deep breathing.

You could hear him swallow, loud as hell. “Yes. Yes we can.” Good use of free will.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

You actually had a good reason for this. Ever since the move to Williams, Carlos hadn’t been feeling quite like himself. He was struggling with the major downgrade, even with the immense amount of support he was receiving. From you, from his new co-workers, from the fans. It certainly made the blow less harsh.

He just kept getting in his head about things. He wasn’t the smooth operator anymore— He was just your average racer, trying to drag a less than perfect car to the finish line. You could tell he wasn’t suffering on the track, so you chose to surprise him.

One day you came home a little later than normal, and he greeted you with a confused expression, along with his normal forehead kiss. “Where were you?” Coming home late typically meant you were running errands, but your hands were empty.

You didn’t give a proper reply. Instead, you lifted your shirt. Your breasts spilled free, but that’s not what he was focused on. Nestled between them was the number 55– His number. He melted on the spot, grabbing your hips.

“Do you like it?” He nodded, unable to say anything. He leaned down, but you gently pushed his head back. “I just got it done, so no kisses there.”

“Fine,” He grumbled begrudgingly, instead opting to kiss both breasts tenderly. “Your support means everything to me…”

—

GEORGE RUSSELL - GR63

Your boyfriend was always without his damn shirt. At home, after races, on his instagram— The world got to see his abs. At first you were always startled when he paraded around your home without a top on, but eventually it became part of the norm.

You could only wonder how he’d react if the roles were reversed. What if one day you just started to walk around with a shirt or bra? The curiosity got to be too much, so one day when you excused yourself to the bathroom, you stripped down to just your pants, letting everything up top hang loose.

You came back, flaunting yourself as if it were nothing abnormal. George noticed immediately, his eyes shamefully staring at your assets as your strutted by. He kept his firm gaze, jaw clenched and all, trained on you. Finally, he couldn’t keep silent anymore and addressed the elephant in the room.

“What are you doing?” You bit back a laugh, turning around to face him. He didn’t seem to mind, but it was definitely out of the ordinary.

“You walk around shirtless all the time. I just wanted to join.” He nodded thoughtfully. He didn’t even seem that fazed by your behavior.

George shrugged, “You got me there.”

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

Oscar Piastri was a gentleman at heart. He knew you were a capable person, but he always held doors open for you, pulled your seat out, offered you his jacket— Everything. He wasn’t stuck up about it, though. If the roles happened to be reversed, he’d politely accept your kind behavior.

Oscar is the type of guy to ask you if you want to come back to his house at the end of the date because he sincerely just wants to continue being around you, not because he’s looking for a quick fuck. He was the perfect guy— You, on the other hand, were his more devious match that paired with his gentlemanly demeanor perfectly.

He could tell you had something up your sleeve all night, because you were abnormally giggly. He just didn’t expect it to quite literally be up the sleeve of your jean jacket, which topped the nice dress you wore to the date nicely.

“A gift for you,” You held out a small photo, face down for him. He raised a brow, and hesitantly took the polaroid picture from you. His cheeks flared up in a bright red cover and he quickly laid it back down on the table, covering it with his hand.

“Why do you have that?!” It was a photo of you, wearing only a pair of heels and his racing helmet. You laughed at his dramatic reaction, sliding the photo back into your own grasp.

“Did you not like it?” You asked, faking a pout as you tucked it back into your bra.

“Well- Obviously I did, but why-?!” He shook his head, laughing at your antics.

“Why not?” Evil laughter ensued.

[bcksbarnes]

flowers in hand

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: unfortunately for bucky barnes, he is head over heels in love with you, and when you want something, it doesn't take much convincing.

word count: 3.6K cw: 🔞 some suggestive content (minors do not interact)

a/n: based off of this request! lots and lots of fluff.

bucky barnes was an ex-brain washed assassin who had been broken down and beaten time and time again. he had seen horrors that would leave most people catatonic, he had done things that most people wouldn’t even dream of. this was not a man that wore his heart on his sleeve.

stoic. brooding. an absolute brute, to put it mildly.

but there was something that bucky never wanted anyone to know. a secret he’d take to his grave and would deny if ever asked about it. 

what was this secret? simple. 

bucky was head over heels in love with you.

he knew it the second the two of you met. when you stretched out your hand and told him your name, he felt his knees buckle. when you asked him for his? a bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. he was nervous. a reaction bucky had never had before.

it sent him into a spiral for several days after the two of you met. weeks, actually, if he was being honest. 

everything after that had fallen into place pretty quickly. you had liked bucky as soon as you met him and before you knew it months had passed, the two of you quickly found yourself in a budding romance that needed nothing but water and sunlight to grow. 

the hardest part of learning to fall in love again was that he was so taken aback by how his body and brain responded to you, it was a bit jarring. it was like his entire brain had awoken a part of himself that had been dormant for years. one yearning for love.

it showed in the way you would get home from work and your favorite flowers would be waiting on the kitchen table, powder blue hydrangeas, with a handwritten note alongside it. bucky’s handwriting was a little scratchy and hard to make out, but you didn’t need to read it to know what it said:

thinking of you always. - bb

or when he took you on a joy ride on the back of his motorcycle, never wearing a helmet himself but making sure the straps were just right when he helped you get yours on. his hands would carefully click the buckle together, biting down on his bottom lip in concentration as he made sure it fit you perfectly.

he didn’t want you getting hurt, not on his watch.

that was it - his big secret. you had him wrapped around your finger. something so mundane and, frankly, obvious.

though you never went out of your way to use this knowledge to your advantage. bucky always came running at the sound of your voice.

“buck?” you called out one afternoon.

the sun was high in the sky, it was a beautiful day - maybe a little warmer than you liked, but the cool breeze offered some relief. 

you were sitting on the balcony reading a book in your favorite spot, overlooking the city that bucky had loved so much, and that you’ve learned to love with him. it was different from the one he lived in all those decades ago, the apartment he had lived in as a child was small, cramped - to look out the window was to face a family he never knew, living their own lives.

now, in this decade, the apartment was spacious, overwhelming, the view encompassing the bridge and the east river separating the two boroughs. 

a different life, a different time.

“yeah?” he called back, the door to the balcony slightly ajar so you could both hear each other.

“can you bring me my sunglasses?”

bucky chuckled to himself at such a simple request. he was working on fixing some issues in the kitchen, a leaky faucet to be exact - the one that kept dripping. bucky had a hard time falling asleep as it was, hearing the pitter patter in the middle of the night made him feel like he was going insane.

“hold on, honey.” 

he was currently laying on his back under the sink, his shirt was discarded somewhere next to him and his black mesh shorts rode a bit lower on his hips than he had purposely intended. 

it only took him a few turns of his wrench to tighten the compression ring around the pipe in hopes that it would stop the leaking. 

“that should be it.”

a few moments passed as he placed the wrench down next to him. he held his breath, but bucky, unfortunately, a second later felt another water droplet land on his forehead: unsuccessful.

“shit,” he mumbles to himself before gripping the side of the counter and pulling himself out from under the cabinet. 

bucky hated that this wasn’t working - honestly, he wanted to run to the store and grab some new pvc pipes and just fix the entire thing from scratch. but, your request ran through his head and he quickly pivoted his priorities as he stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“where’d you put them?” he calls, trying to look in the usual spots before finally stumbling on them. “nevermind.”

you hear the door swing open, his footsteps alerting his presence but your attention stayed on the book in your lap, wanting to finish the page you were on.

“i couldn’t find them,” he says. 

when you finally finished the passage, you placed the bookmark in the between the pages, saving it for another time.

your head turned to look up at bucky, his metal arm glistening in the sun and your sunglasses sitting right on his face - that goofy smile of his plastered on his features as he waits for you to notice.

a loud chuckle passes your lips as you reach your hand out for them, shaking your head as he slides them off the bridge of his nose and into the palm of your hands. once you grab them from him, you put the glasses on, the world dimming a bit, but bucky still shines bright in front of you.

“thank you,” you say softly, tilting your head back to admire his half dressed physique. you whistle lowly, causing bucky to roll his eyes at you. “were you working on the sink? sorry, i didn’t even realize.”

“yeah,” he responds, taking a step closer. 

bucky gestures for you to move over and make room for him, groaning as he finally sits down. his arm rests on the back of the sectional while his fingers run through the hair on the back of your neck.

“i thought i’d be able to fix it by tightening it, but i think the pipe itself has a crack somewhere,” he huffs out, shaking his head. “i’ll have to go to the store later.”

you watch him carefully, your hand holding the book on your lap moving to rest on his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. you could see the concentration in his face, the way his brows furrowed until there was a crease between them. he hated unfinished projects.

“you’re not going to rest until it’s fixed, are you?” you ask, though it’s a question you already know the answer to.

“absolutely not,” he shakes his head. “why? have something in mind for us today?”

“i thought maybe we could go to the park later” you hummed, your fingers tracing shapes into his skin. you tilt your head back to look at him, both of your eyes meeting. “they’re doing a movie night. raiders of the lost ark, if i remember correctly.”

bucky’s other leg bounced anxiously at the thought, it’s not that he didn’t want to go with you - it’s that he really wanted to fix this stupid sink. 

he peaked over at his watch, it was nearly 5:30pm. the store would be closing soon, he’d have to find the right parts then fix the sink, and shower at some point before he’d be ready to go. he didn’t know if he had time to do both the movie and finish this project.

his eyes trail back over towards you and he was greeted with the most beautiful pair he’d ever seen. were you batting your eyelashes too?

“you play dirty,” bucky mumbles.

he brings his metal hand up to your face, squeezing your cheeks softly as he leans in to press a few soft, chaste kisses to your lips. he mumbles something about how unfair it is, but you’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips you don’t even care what he says.

bucky begins to stand from his seat, though he doesn’t remove himself from your lips, hunched over to make sure he stays closely connected to you. your hands now resting on his abdomen as if to keep him in place.

“i have to shower,” he hums against your lips. “and if the movie sucks i’m coming home and ripping the sink apart.”

“you did not just say that raiders of the lost ark is going to suck.” 

bucky chuckles as he trails his lips down your jaw to your neck, giving it a few kisses and a quick bite before he pulls back completely, that same love stricken look on his face.

“i did. i mean it too,” he teases, backing up until he gets to the door of the balcony. 

“you’re going to be very upset when you’re wrong, barnes,” you call out after him.

he gives you a quick wink before dipping back inside the apartment. 

you take one last look over the balcony, the cars that were passing over the bridge and the people walking on the streets below. all of them had their own little story. it makes you smile to yourself, thinking of this little life you had built with bucky.

it kept you both going.

finally standing, you stretched your arms over your head and grabbed your book before heading back inside the apartment. the cover made a soft thud as you set it down on the coffee table on your way over to the kitchen.

the sound of the shower trickling had your thoughts distracted, even as you began packing the tote bag. you tried to keep your focus on all the goods you wanted to bring and not your very naked boyfriend some 50 feet away from you behind one, probably not locked, door.

how easy it would be to slip in.

you shake your head and focus on the task at hand, packing the bag with: a blanket to sit on, two lime sparkling waters that bucky had picked up a few days ago, and a mix of snacks to enjoy. the perfect picnic.

right as you finished, you hear the door open and bucky step out of the bathroom, the warm steam filling your apartment almost immediately. he looks striking with the towel draped around his hips, his almost freshly cut short hair now wet and combed back.

“you didn’t join me,” he teases, making his way past you and into the bedroom.

“i want to make the movie,” you say back, a smirk on your features. you knew well enough that if you took a step in that shower, bucky would never let you leave.

the sound of shuffling comes from the other room as you can hear him looking through drawers and the closet for his clothes. your feet walk you into the bedroom right as he slips his boxers on, a smile on his features as he catches your gaze.

he didn’t want to go out to the park and watch a movie. he didn’t even care about that stupid leak under the sink that he could still hear and was driving him up a wall. 

no, he wanted to stay here with you and show you all the ways he loved and adored you. he wanted to worship you with everything he’s got. 

his hand reaches out for you and he intertwines your fingers together before he pulls you towards him. you happily oblige.

“you’re still thinking about that damn leak aren’t you?” you whisper, your voice filled with jest.

“every fucking second.���

the smile on his face is wide as he brings his hands up to your face and kisses your cheeks once, twice, three times, causing a soft laugh to leave your lips. in one fluid motion his hands are under your thighs and lifts you up, placing you on the dresser behind you.

he slots himself between your legs and watches you closely, your hands moving to grip his wrists.

“let’s stay here,” bucky pleads softly. “let’s never leave this apartment ever again.”

“i’d love to never have to do that, but you know that’s impossible.”

“hmm,” he hums. “not with that attitude, sweetheart.”

he manages to get his hands free from your wrists, sliding them down to your hips and pulling you forward until your legs wrap around his waist, your heels resting on the back of his thighs. 

“bucky,” you groan.

your head falls back softly against the wall, in the same motion bucky rests his head on your shoulder.

“wishful thinking, huh?” he asks, a sigh leaving his lips afterwards. 

it’s not that he hated the power that you had over him, it was that he didn’t know how you managed to affect him so much. you didn’t even put up a fight with him and he folded, all because you said his name.

he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before he untangled himself from you and moved to get dressed - a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt that was a little too tight around his muscles and a sweatshirt he knows you’re going to steal at some point. 

finally ready to go.

it only took a few minutes to get to the park. you’re greeted by a sea of people, most of whom have already laid out their lounge chairs or blankets. the sun hadn’t set yet, casting a warm glow as you two found a spot a little bit away from the rest of the crowd. more secluded, but you two would still be able to see and hear the movie just fine.

bucky helped set up the blanket, a long red gingham pattern one that he may have muttered a sarcastic comment about how cliche it was. you may have, lovingly, given him the finger in response. 

the movie started only a few minutes after you and bucky set up the snacks and drinks. both of you were laying on your sides, elbows planted on the blanket while hands kept your head off the ground. 

bucky was very into the movie, barely sneaking glances over at you like he normally did whenever. it captured his attention almost immediately. you watched as he popped a grape into his mouth, his tired eyes trained on the screen in front of him as he absentmindedly chewed. 

it was calming to see him in this environment. you knew that deep down he would never 100% be present, that he always kept one part of his brain active to scan for any potential threats. but seeing bucky in a state of, mostly, ease felt like finding a diamond in the rough. rare, but valuable.

halfway through the movie bucky moves to sit up, stretching his arms over his head before holding his hand out to you. he always seemed to be reaching for you. once your hand is in his, one swift motion is all it takes for him to pull you into his lap, nestling you between his legs, your back now resting against his chest. 

his hands move to run down your arm and he can feel the goosebumps rising against your skin.

“you’re cold,” he mumbles in your ear.

you want to protest that it’s just from his touch, but the words die in the back of your throat as soon as you feel him sit back from you. he pulls off his sweatshirt and hands it over, watching as you carefully slip on the oversized material. bucky wraps his arms around your torso once you’re settled, pulling you back as close as he can before resting his chin on the top of your head.

“much better.”

your heart flutters, as it seems it always does when he acts this way. 

cuddly. soft. in love.

bucky feels like his heart is bleeding out right through his shirt at this moment, you could tell him to do anything in front of this crowd of people and he would comply without hesitation. he didn’t even care.

maybe that was the thing that kept him going in this life. the little pieces of calm he can get when you are around. when the tides don’t feel as strong.

he didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to enjoy himself: your presence, and the movie.

it’s a little while later when the movie finally finished, you craned your head back to look up at him, a smirk on your lips. he was staring ahead at the now blank screen, jaw slightly dropped. 

“i thought you said the movie was going to suck,” you teased.”

“i didn’t know i was coming to see a cinematic masterpiece.” 

you let out a laugh, and then another one as bucky squeezes your sides as his response, falling back over his thigh as you wriggle to try and get away from his wandering, playful hans. 

god, he wished you weren’t in public right now.

“and here you wanted to stay at home to fix that stupid sink.”

“no, i wanted to stay home so i could –”

“bucky,” you cut him off before he can finish that thought, watching as a family walks past.

he lets out a scoff that sounds more like a laugh and pinches your side again as you start to stand up from his lap. bucky admires you from this angle, the way that you towered over him was so jarring compared to how small you normally were when he stood next to you.

“i was going to say so i could take care of you, but if you were worried i was going to say something more vulgar than you need to get your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart.”

“you’re so full of shit.”

bucky’s smile reaches his eyes this time as he throws his head back and lets out a laugh. you were so right and he loved being called out on it, because he loved how well you knew him.

he stands to help you pack the tote bag again, throwing it over his shoulder when it’s done. you grab his metal hand and intertwine your fingers together as you make your way back to the apartment. 

the city was dark now, only illuminated by street lamps and a few fluorescent signs. surprisingly the neighborhood was mostly empty, you and bucky seeming to take up most of the sidewalk and filling the silence with your chit chat about the movie.

bucky was blown away by the story, the action … well the whole thing. 

you were biting back your tongue to not say i told you so.

“you always get your way, you know that?” he says once you're in the lobby waiting for the elevator. “i don’t think i’m capable of saying no to you if i really tried.”

“that’s not true,” you respond.

though if you take a second to think about it, he’s probably right.

the elevator dings its arrival and dips slightly from the weight of the two of you as you step on. you press the button for your floor a few times before turning your attention back to bucky. he’s standing right next to you, his hand slipping out of yours to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. your head leans to rest against him, it always fits perfectly.

“it’s a little true,” he says with a shrug. “i’m not complaining.”

there’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“i’ve never had anyone to care about. not in this way at least.”

“you cared about steve.”

“that’s different,” he sighs. “i made sure steve stayed alive. i didn’t dote over him. i look at you and i’d drop everything just to see that damn smile on your face.”

the blush developed on your cheeks at record speed, a smile accompanying it that was hard to hold back. sometimes bucky had a way with words that took your breath away. he could be deeply poetic. it made you wonder what he thought of in that brain of his. 

“there it is,” he whispers, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

the ding of the elevator snaps the moment back into reality, but that doesn’t deter bucky in the slightest. 

no, instead he follows you down the hall and into the apartment, waiting for the door to shut before he picks you up from behind and walks you to the bedroom to toss you on the bed - the sound of your giggles filling the air.

the second you hit the mattress, and he crawls on top of you, your hands grab his face bringing him down to kiss him feverishly. it’s rushed and messy, tongues sweeping across lips, teeth biting and pulling. 

you don’t need to tell him you need him for bucky to know it, he can read you like an open book. 

as he kisses down your jaw – his stubble scratching your soft skin, hands moving to slide your shirt up, ready to spend the night devouring you – all he can think about is how his love for you is the worst kept secret in the world. and not about the stupid leaky faucet.

[tokidokifish]

i’m rewatching the hbomb video and decided to check up on james somerton and Whoof

however! a lot of people are thinking this might be fake, so i really wanted to unpack the evidence on our hands.

first of all, this listing has been taken down, but there are still copies on the wayback machine. this version of the listing, with james somerton’s name in the description and a halifax address, was last seen in may 2024. a month later, in june, the address had been changed to mississauga, and james somerton’s name had been removed:

and as far as i can tell that’s how it stayed until it went down after this reddit thread.

so. is it fake? on the one hand, this page would have been launched QUITE close to when james was found to be posting stolen hole on alt accounts after his false suicide scare. and it’s called fucking MEMORY media, after james claimed his blatant and repeated plagiarism was due to memory issues, so either that’s a joke at his expense or the man truly has no shame.

on the other hand, this page was up for almost a YEAR before anyone called it out, which is a long-ass con for minimal returns. and james’ name wasn’t even on it for most of that time. so it seems to me we’ve got a couple of options:

1. it’s fake and created as a joke. no one noticed at the time, though, so whoever made it just kinda had to sit on it before either someone finally found the page or they released the info themselves? idk. the timeline is weird for a fake. and i think the jump to wedding photographer is a weird one for a gag?

2. it was genuinely an attempt at rebranding. james initially launched the page with his name on it, before realizing what a stupid fucking idea that was bc his name is toxic and even if people didn’t recognize him immediately, one google search would get his ass. during this time, they also relocated to mississauga. this also explains why he would have used stock images and fake reviews; it was just to make a fledgling operation look good. it managed to fly under the radar until march of this year, when someone was doing the exact same thing i was: googling him on a whim, whereupon they got a hit for a cached version of the original page, and posted that version.

now, the page hadn’t been updated since 2024, which seems sus, but i think in the “it’s genuine” case there could be a pretty easy explanation for that: it didn’t work. james has shown an almost pathological avoidance of actually putting effort into what he does, and you cannot ACTUALLY plagiarize your way through a career in wedding photography. he had nice, expensive cameras and he couldn’t go back to youtube, so wedding photography probably seemed like a viable option (as someone with a degree in photography, SO many people suggested i go into that after college), but it’s hard work! and either james just couldn’t hack it or lost interest, and left the page up, gathering dust, bc he couldn’t be assed to take it down until the internet took notice.

but! at the end of the day i don’t know and i don’t REALLY care. i was just briefly distracted by the puzzle of it.

James Somerton is working as a wedding photographer with a plagiarized portfolio, btw

YoutubeDrama thread where this came out.

He truly seems incapable of not passing off others work as his own.

[lxzy-bxby]

Like No Other

Babytrapping implied ♡ Unprotected p-in-v implied ♡ Tracking of menstrual cycle

~ ♡ ~ Caleb knows you like no other. Not only you—anything related to you. "That?" He chuckles, pointing to a photo in your yearbook. "That's Jake, honey. Your old classmate, remember? The one who got you roses on Valentine's back in freshman year. Three white, two red." At this point he could gaslight you to anything, and you would believe.

Your favourite color when you was eight? Yellow, because it reminded you of sunflowers—your favourite flowers back then, by the way. You used to be allergic to dust until you got in high school. Your favourite Disney princess was Snow White. When you was fourteen, you wanted to become a teacher. Who reminded you of all that? Right. Caleb. Every time Caleb takes your oldest to pediatrician, nurses stare at him like Second Coming is happening right in front of their eyes. Because in their perception of world there's no way in hell a father who knows his children as well as Caleb does actually exists. "He's allergic to peanuts, so no, not any medical allergies. Yeah, we got the whole family vaccinated last month. Were no side effects, right. He was running a fever, like 99,85. I gave him Tylenol, 7.5ml. Yeah, I know. Been there before." As he walks out of doctor's office, child in one hand, phone in other, "no worries, honey, we're headin' out" rolling off his tongue, every woman in the room is ready to worship him in more ways than one. Caleb couldn't care less. You've never seen a bill ever since you two got married. Nor took a mop in your hands. If you're home late from work, kids are in bed, their teeth brushed, bedsheets changed, yesterday's pajamas are probably in laundry basket—which is always empty by the time you want to get to washing. Your dinner is on the table, in your favourite plate, hot and fresh, but definitely not reheated in microwave. Just prepared on time. Because Caleb knows you like no other. You leave office at 7:30 post meridiem. Hop in the bus at 7:36. By the doorway at 7:49. 7:51—and you unlock the door, finally finding your keys that seem to always get lost in your bag. "There you are," He murmurs with a wide smile, getting up from the couch after spending thirty minutes just waiting for you mindlessly, not moving a muscle. "No, don't bother. I'll hang it for you. Go wash your hands." Before you can even step in the bathroom, your coat is already on the coat rack and Caleb is already by the table, pouring you freshly-squeezed homemade apple juice. "How was work? Ain't plannin' on taking furlough just yet? Just thought, we could go for a spin, yanno. I could tell you about eveeery cloud. Maybe we can find some that are heart-shaped to prove that love is indeed in the air." He grins, chin resting on his palm as he sits across you at the table. "Ah, don't you worry about kids, honey. They all tucked in. I dropped by their PTM today. Everyone doin' good. What to expect with a mother like that, right?" Caleb smiles at you with heart-shaped pupils. "Nah, no any missions in the near future. I'm all yours, honey. All yours." As soon as your plate is empty, to the dishwasher it goes. He quickly wipes the table so he has more time in the morning with you that he doesn't have to waste on cleaning, then nuzzles your shoulder. "I'll join you in bed soon." You nod, your tiredness suddenly disappearing with his subtle promise, quickly moving upstairs. And Caleb moves to the guest bathroom. Master one is your space, your haven, than he ought to provide. Definitely doesn't want to ruin the vibe of your perfectly arranged beautiful skincare bottles with his. Hops in the shower. Makes sure he's shaved perfectly smooth so any remains of stubble won't scratch you. Cuts and cleans his nails. Sprays deodorant and a generous amount of cologne. Brushes his teeth. Applies chapstick. Moisturizes his hands. Finally gets upstairs. Then fucks you into oblivion. Wets a towel. Cleans your thighs. Stomach. Chest. Forehead. Anything that's sweaty or sticky.

Puts a fresh cotton pair of underwear on you. Throws bed sheets to the laundry basket. Manages to change the bedding with just one hand while holding you with another. Takes a quick shower to make sure he looks presentable and smells nice for you come next morning. Turns A/C on. Draws blinds shut. Then finally gets to his side of the bed. Next morning greets you with a terrible cramp. Groaning you already feel the annoyance at staining the sheets, but surprisingly you did not.

Then you feel a pad at the gusset of your panties. As embarrassing as it is, you’re thankful.

“Morning, honey. Did your period come?” Caleb’s face, looking too good for someone awake at this ungodly hour, appears in the doorway.

Him tracking your period always felt kinda overboard.

“Painkillers, heating pad, chocolates. Anything else?”

…Actually not overboard at all.

Preparing a fruit bowl for you in the kitchen downstairs, Caleb carelessly hummed a song you two danced to at your wedding.

Just two more weeks until ovulation.

If he’s lucky, it’s gonna be his happy month.

Prenatals are gonna come in mail just in time.

Then he’ll finally get you all to himself. God bless maternity leaves.

He knows you wouldn’t mind.

He’ll make sure you won’t mind.

Because, after all, he’s the one who knows you like no other.

Even better than you know yourself.

~ ♡ ~

[suuuupernovaaa]

healer

Summary: Joel survives.

Warnings/tags: fluff, age gap, jackson joel, HEA always

MASTERLIST

Fuck. Shit. Christ. There’s blood everywhere. She shot him. She shot him, fuck, right in the leg.

I’m going to vomit. Or pass out. I don’t know which. That bitch, that menacing little bitch, is prancing around and yapping, she won’t shut the fuck up.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

I’m not quick or stealthy but no one seems to be paying attention to me - all eyes are on Joel.

On Joel. Bleeding on the floor. Joel, in pain. Joel, suffering.

I shoot the man right in front of me first, quickly, giving it little thought, and turn the gun to her next. Quickly. Through the shoulder and she goes down, then another through the neck.

Two. I’ve killed two people today.

Joel is suffering. Joel is bleeding. Joel is staring at me as chaos erupts in the room.

Six Months Later

Joel sits on the porch, a cup of coffee in his hand, rocking back and forth in his chair as the sun rises.

It’s going to be a warm day, he can feel it already. It eases the aches in his muscles, especially his knees, when it’s warm like this.

She emerges from the house, holding her own cup of coffee, dressed in only shorts and a t-shirt, the same outfit she fell asleep in the night before.

She places a kiss on his forehead and sits next to him in a matching chair. She looks beautiful this morning. Her beauty is the quiet kind, that sneaks up on you, and then overwhelms you. It’s not just her face and her body, it’s her voice and her gentleness. The way she cares for those around her, especially Joel and Ellie. The way she’s so thoughtful and always kind, so worried about how people are feeling. There aren’t many people like her left, not how.

Six months later and she still has nightmares about the killings. Even in this world, nearly 35 years old, she’d never killed. She’d never wanted to, not until it came to saving him.

She did it then without so much as a second thought, and Joel lies awake at night thinking about it.

He knows she does too. He tries to soothe the ache with words, but sometimes they aren’t enough.

She smiles over at him. “What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

He takes a sip of his coffee and looks out at the orange sky. “You, darlin’. As usual.”

She laughs and reaches over for his hand, gripping it so tightly. He knows her nightmares aren’t just about the lives she took. They’re about losing him, too. He still doesn’t understand why she loves him so much, but he’s stopped trying to figure it out.

“I had a nightmare,” she tells him, her smile cracking a little.

He clears his throat, then sets his coffee down. Joel pats his lap. “Come tell me,” he says.

She obliges, moving from her chair to the safety of his lap and arms, and rests her head on his shoulder as she talks.

She’s such a small thing, light as a feather, he feels so driven to protect her and keep her safe. Sometimes it’s all he can think about.

The nightmare is different this time. He expects her to say she dreamed about that day, or about living without him, but this time, the nightmare was that he lived, but left anyway.

“Where the hell did I go?” Joel asks, and she cannot stop herself from laughing.

“Well, I don’t know! Probably to one of the many women in town who admire you,” she says teasingly, and he rolls his eyes behind his crooked glasses.

“Sweetheart, you’re the only one who wants my tired, old ass.”

She sits up and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“What I can’t figure out is why you want me at all,” he adds.

She shakes her head. “No more of that. You know why I love you. You know I’d do anything for you.”

He squeezes her tight, his arms around he waist, and she presses a kiss to his lips, gently at first, but as it often does, it deepens and grows urgent.

“Gross!”

They pull apart to see Ellie walking by the porch, her bag slung over her shoulders “Go inside, please.” But she waves as she jogs off, and Joel waves back.

“That’s a good idea,” his love says, looking back to him. “Let’s go inside and I’ll show you just how much you mean to me.”

He stands up, holding her in his arms like a bride, and walks towards the door.

“The day I say no to that, darlin’, is the day I truly die.”

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #46

Monks?

Imagine dis…

I don’t know if im late to the trend or what, but recently a feed came and it featured Batman’s ridiculous set of skills and when asked he always answered the Tibetan monks.

Like come on, I would understand if the sorcerer supreme taught you how to astral projection and the mental barrier against I don’t know against a species that have evolved telepathy,

But this isn't Marvel.

…..

The Tibetan monks, an enigmatic, unknowable, and allegedly not real, were the whispered origin of some of Batman’s more peculiar skills. Astral projection. Mental shielding. The ability to remain entirely unreadable even to a Martian. When asked how he learned such things, Batman only offered a cryptic, “I trained with the Tibetan monks.” He never elaborated.

That was all it took to spark a minor obsession in his children and allies alike. If the monks could turn him into Batman, surely they were worth finding. And so they searched from combining every high-tech gadget, satellite scan, magical locator, and favor they could think of. Damian even tried to guilt-trip his father using a technique called “puppy dog eyes” courtesy from Dick. Nothing worked. Every lead crumbled like dust. The monks, if they ever existed, were impossible to trace.

The truth? The monks didn’t exist.

There had only ever been one monk.

And he was not a monk at all.

Years before the cowl, before Gotham knew the name Batman, Bruce had limped and escaped out of the League of Assassins with more bruises than bones and a fresh set of enemies. Refusing Ra’s al Ghul and his daughter had not gone over well. He’d wandered half-dead into the snowy wilds of the Himalayas, not sure where he was going, only that it needed to be far, far away.

Then darkness. Cold. Silence. A silhouette. And unconsciousness.

When Bruce woke, he was alive, bandaged, and lying on a bed of hay that smelled suspiciously like goat. A fire crackled nearby. His host was tall, silver-haired almost white, and moved like a shadow in silk robes. He claimed to be a monk. He never gave a name. He also radiated the kind of energy that made even Bruce’s paranoia sit up and go, “Hmm. That’s not normal.”

Bruce watched him from the sidelines. The man sparred with the air itself, performing forms Bruce had never seen before effortless, fluid, almost theatrical in how they ignored gravity. Despite claiming to seek peace, he kicked boulders in half during his morning stretches. Bruce knew what a formidable warrior looked like. This guy wasn’t just good. He was absurdly good.

Eventually, Bruce asked to be trained.

The monk agreed but with a devilish smirk that should have warned him.

It started with traditional exercises. Then came... less traditional ones. One day Bruce was balancing upside down on one finger. The next, he was chasing wild goats through the mountains with a blindfold on. There was a week he still refuses to talk about, involving fermented yak milk and interpretive dance. No explanation was ever given. Just a barked command, followed by a smirk, and Bruce reluctantly obeying because despite everything he was learning.

And the monk? He never moved when Bruce attacked. Not once. Bruce would lunge, strike, ambush, even beg the man to just flinch, and every time, the monk would remain motionless. The result was always the same with Bruce face-down in snow or mud, groaning, while the monk calmly re-wrapped his bandages and offered nothing but that smirk. That infuriating, soul-crushing smirk.

Name?

Bruce had asked and rasped, wheezing after yet another humiliating fall.

The monk merely chuckled and replied.

When you land a hit.

Bruce did not land a hit. Not that week. Not that month. Not ever.

And eventually, it was time to go. Bruce bowed, still never having won, still never knowing the monk’s name and returned to Gotham.

He never forgot the man.

….

What Bruce didn’t know was that his “monk” had a name, Dan.

Or, more accurately, Dan Fenton. Known in his own dimension for blowing up timelines, developing catastrophic anger issues, and eventually retiring from ghostly overlordship after a few centuries of introspection and really intense therapy. He took a page from Ellie and become a traveler, He’d been vacationing across dimensions, mostly avoiding interdimensional politics and his own mess of a reputation as well to avoid his younger self of a king when he stumbled on Bruce half-dead in the snow.

On a whim, maybe redemption, maybe boredom, maybe the sheer novelty of it, maybe his younger self and clone had finally rubbed of him, he saved him. And since he had time to kill, not that he would ever hurt Clockwork, he trained him.

Using ghost powers very subtle about it, just enough to freak Bruce out and maintain the illusion that he was a living, breathing über-warrior with mystical vibes and killer reflexes. The smirking was mostly for fun. The cryptic one-liners? Also fun. No wonder Clocky liked to say weird shit to his younger self.

What Dan didn’t expect was to actually like the guy. Sure, Bruce was intense, broody, and had the emotional range of a brick, but watching him faceplant into snow every morning had been surprisingly somewhat therapeutic. There was something calming about teaching someone who didn’t know who he was, who didn’t flinch at his name, or whisper “Phantom” like it was a curse. It helped Dan heal too, in his own weird way.

Years passed. Dimensions that he traveled and went. Dan forgot about it.

Then he remembered.

He missed his “student.”

He remembered Bruce mumbling something about Gotham in his sleep, something about a cave and a promise and since Dan had nothing better to do, well other than to laugh at his younger self for winning and taking the crown of the Infinite Realms, he decided to pay a visit.

On foot. Across dimensions. Because why not?

….

Meanwhile, in Gotham…

Bruce was panicking.

A letter had arrived. Just a simple, handwritten note. No return address. No explanation. But the handwriting sent a shiver down his spine.

I’ll be visiting soon. Hope you’ve gotten better.

Bruce dropped his coffee.

His children thought it was a threat. Jason offered to shoot whoever it was. Tim tried to trace the paper’s origin with four different forensic tools. Cass read the note and signed something to the others about posture and unresolved duty. Damian called it a threat that someone could rattle his father with one sentence.

But Bruce knew.

He was coming.

His old teacher.

The man who once made him wear a llama costume for a full week to “teach humility.”

He was coming to Gotham.

Bruce wasn’t sure whether to install extra security or book out every gym in the city to train. He hadn’t stopped pacing in two hours. Alfred found him shadowboxing in the Batcave while muttering things like, “I’ve got better reaction time now,” and “Surely… surely I can land one hit.”

Across the city, chaos was brewing, but not because of the letter.

Gotham’s entire vigilante network, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Spoiler, Orphan, Batgirl, even Signal were neck-deep in the investigation of the Joker’s sudden, mysterious death. Dead, now struggle no physical or chemical cause somehow. No evidence.

No struggle.

Just… gone. The only lead was a single blurry silhouette from a rooftop security cam. The figure was massive, hooded, and moved with a kind of fluid, terrifying grace none of them had ever seen before.

Nobody recognized him.

And Bruce hadn’t said a word, too busy to train or join Alfred in cleaning the manor.

While the rest of the Batfam poured over footage, mapped potential escape routes, and debated theories, Batman was notably absent, still in the Cave, still pacing, still trying to steady his breathing every time he glanced at the letter.

Because Bruce knew who it was. And for once in his life, Batman was torn between abject dread… and the tiniest, most humiliating spark of hope.

Maybe this time, I’ll land a hit.

Maybe I’ll finally learn his name.

Maybe I’ll even win.

…Or maybe he’d end up face-first in an alleyway again while his teacher laughed and handed him his own blend of yak milk smoothie.

Either way, Gotham was not ready.

And neither was Bruce.

…...

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this, you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me, though.

PPS: I felt like posting a bit early. How was it?

[swtheartz]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson

Part two

Info : Reader is a healer, canon typical violence, slow burn, one sided beef to lovers type beat W / C : 1.6k.

A / N : silas actually uploading an entire fic??? this is unheard of!! uncharted territory!!!!! jk though. i was burnt out for NO reason and suddenly got a surge of spite against my depression and wrote this. lol. it WILL in fact be a series, this is only part one i fear

The first time Mark meets you is after the fight with his dad.

Cecil had told him he’d be fixed right up—in the physical aspect, at the very least. “The kid hates sob stories. Try not to say too much.”

So, he took the old man’s advice, and hadn’t said much to you while you were healing him. He’d argue that the silence was awkward. Foreign and strange, and he didn’t know how to not sit there and manage to not look out of place. The room you primarily worked in wasn’t like a hospital room, no.

It didn’t have those weird posters of kittens with something that said ‘believe in yourself,’ or something dumb like that, it wasn’t just pristine white walls with blinding fluorescent lights that gave patients headaches, and it didn’t smell like pure bleach and chemicals. No. It smelled of something floral and sweet, almost like fruit; but not quite there. The walls were more a peach color than anything, easier on the eyes than the standard American hospital. Not to mention that the walls were decorated.

All in all, it was strange. Like someone as bruised and bloody as Mark didn’t belong in there. Somewhere sweet and almost gentle, and the wounds that had made him feel as though they’d stay forever—stay etched into his skin, down to the bone, alongside the blood that wasn’t just solely his—mended themselves back together. The bruises and aches faded away.

The smell of blood lingered.

“Well,” the sound of your voice nearly startled Mark off the bed you’d had him laid across. “Take a shower and do a rain check with Stedman, and you’re all good to go, Invincible.”

“. . . What? Just- that’s it? That’s all?”

You’d stared blankly at him, arms crossed in the chair you were seated in. Though you were a healer, you did look as though you belonged amongst the official medical staff that’d be seen literally anywhere else. The slightest tilt of your head had him shifting uncomfortably.

“Did you want there to be more?” The question comes across as somewhat annoyed. Mark could see why you’d probably be agitated—but it was a genuine question!

“It’s just, uh,” he starts, swallowing nervously. “I expected it to take longer or something. Like an actual healing process, precautions I’d have to take and stuff.”

The hum of acknowledgment you let out as you nod your head makes him look at you again, and you speak. “Not when I’m the one healing you. My power is called that for a reason, and it’s so heroes like you can get back out on the playing field. To skip the healing process. If I hadn’t been here, it would’ve taken you months.”

Right. A healer. Mark himself had never really thought someone like you could exist. He’s seen powers like that only in his comics, and there weren’t any other supers capable of doing whatever you just did. The way you move is skilled and practiced, years of experience and heroes in and out of your ward showing through it.

“Huh. Okay, wow. Thanks?”

“Go home, Invincible.”

“Invincible.”

Mark grimaces. “I am begging you—literally just call me by my government name.”

He doesn’t miss the way your nose scrunches ever so slightly as your eyes never leave the clipboard in your hands, clearly focused; but not too focused. “You and I are not on friendly terms. We’re associates by definition.”

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up slightly in mock surrender, contemplating his response. Over the past few months, he’s noticed that you don’t quite like him. At all. You’re annoyed by how thick his file has grown in such a short amount of time, annoyed by all the times you’ve documented the amount of injuries he’s had, how much energy it takes you, and whether or not you want to quit working for the GDA after making his acquaintance all those months ago.

“. . . But hear me out.” Mark adds on, noticing the way your hands clutch even more at the wood and paper. “We’re associates when we’re on duty. By definition.”

“And I am on duty,” you retort, setting your papers down and pressing a hand to the bridge of your nose. “Constantly. The same way I’m on duty while watching you get your ass beat on live television, all because you seem to love pulling your punches. Like a fucking idiot.”

He winces at that, unable to deny the blatant distaste in your tone as you remind him of all the times Cecil has sent him your way, all the times you’ve scolded him and downright berated him because you watched as he actively held back.

“Your strength went up over one hundred percent, and you don’t even use it properly. Every fight you have, your file gets ridiculously thicker, Markus.” The way you say his name—

“Don’t say it like it’s a slur.” Mark pleads, a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, “and it’s Mark. Just. . . Just Mark.”

“Get. Out.”

“Markus.”

“Mark.”

“Why are you here?” You sigh out the question with exhaustion, annoyance, and a dire need to rip your own hair out as Mark sits there on one of the patient beds, uninjured this time—shockingly. He’s sitting there like a lost puppy, just. . . Much larger, more awkward, and disgustingly pathetic.

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his response carefully. “I’m benched for a while. At least until Cecil figures out what to do with me.”

The sound you make is unsurprised. “Good. Sick of seeing you bleeding whenever you come here.”

“I know.”

“So stop doing it.”

Mark’s lips purse into a thin line. You’re so mean, and it’s not like he can’t see why. But you haven’t asked him to exactly stop talking to you (yes you have), and it’s not like you genuinely hate his guts. . . At least, in his eyes, you don’t. The Teen Team would beg to differ after seeing the way you speak to him.

“I’m just wondering,” he starts, unwilling to leave. “Are there like, any other heroes you’re sick of seeing? Besides me?”

You pause at that, and turn your head towards him. As always, your eyes are narrowed and tired, a little scrunch in your brow and a slight frown on your lips as you look at him. He’d really give anything just to see you smile—just once. He wonders if you have dimples. What your laugh sounds like, what you look like when you’re peaceful and calm for just a moment.

“Why?”

“Morbid curiosity,” Mark states simply. And to be fair, it is just that. Surely you don’t just dislike him and solely him, there has to be another hero you hate. Maybe even multiple. Mark likes hearing your voice, even if you’re just talking about the things you dislike.

He wonders what you do like. What you find solitude in.

“Hm.” For a moment, you exhale, and push away from your desk to think about your answer. “. . . Immortal,” you hum, thinking about it. “Can’t seem to keep his head on. Or stop charging into fights he can’t handle.”

“Like me?”

“No,” you shake your head and go back to focusing on your work. “You can handle your fights. It just seems to be a deliberate choice of yours not to handle them.”

“Ouch.”

“I hate it when Rex comes in here.” You ignore his little comment and continue, actually giving some thought to your responses. Usually, your conversations with Mark consisted of you insulting him endlessly before telling him to go home and sleep it off. Rinse and repeat.

“He can talk someone’s ear off. It’s sickening, really,” the last part is a mutter as you sort through a barrage of papers, clearly going back to focusing on what you were doing before he’d come and interrupted your rather quiet day. He’s been dropping by more often, and over time, you’ve began to hold actual conversations with him that didn’t involve you telling him how you should let him heal on his own, and him begging you to not leave him stranded in such a state—

“What’s your favorite kind of food?”

You pause for a second, pretending to not have heard, before ultimately you set your papers down again and turn your swivel chair to face Mark. “What?”

“Your favorite kind of food,” he repeats, staring right back at you. “Like, do you like spicy, or?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.” You grumble, rolling your eyes as you shake your head. Just for a moment, you glance back up at him, watching him pout ever so slightly at your answer.

“I’m serious. It’s just a genuine question, y’know?” The two of you enter a staring contest of sorts when you glare at him, looking genuinely offended at the fact he was asking about something so minuscule and stupid. As though the two of you were friendly. . . .

“Fruit.”

Mark blinks at your response, opening his mouth to say something before closing it again, gears turning in his head. “Okay. . . So, sweet stuff?”

“Sweet stuff,” you mutter, turning back around. “Not artificial sugar. Natural. It’s better for my energy, helps me heal better.”

He nods as though that makes sense. You seemed the type to prefer natural things over the overproduced, sickeningly and overly sweet candies that left a bitter aftertaste. It makes sense in Mark’s mind—as though he should’ve known, should’ve been able to tell. The room you work in smells soft and sweet, just like honey and strawberries.

You smell like strawberries. Ripe, sweet. Tinted a dark red and soft when bitten into.

“Okay.” Mark whispers, more to himself than anything. A confirmation. A new alignment in the stars, the very universe itself as a whole. “Yeah, that seems like you.”

“Don’t stereotype me, Invinci-Boy.”

“Oh my god.”

TAGLIST : @lxluvsmoney @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha @koilikesthefishy @tokoyamisstuff @pookiei-bookie

[valeisaslut]

what are reader’s and ellie’s MOST traumatic life moments or childhood i just need to know this i LOVE shit like this

oh. babe. you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

i’ve been WAITING for this one. i’ve had this little heartbreak tucked away, saved under my sleeve, because if i dropped it casually y’all would’ve sobbed yourselves into another plane of existence. but... since you asked... i will deliver.

Collide rockstar!ellie’s most traumatic life moments:

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 the last time she saw her mother she doesn’t really remember her mom’s face. just a blur of auburn hair, a cold hand pushing her toward joel’s front porch. the door slamming shut behind her. the smell of rain and car exhaust as a blurry figure walked away, not looking back once. joel scooped her up, mumbled something like “you’re safe, kiddo” but she wasn’t stupid. even at two years old, she knew. the first person who was supposed to love her didn’t. some nights, when she’s alone and high enough to let the cracks show, she still dreams of that door. closing. again. and again. and again.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 being told she was a mistake. at nineteen, bright-eyed, full of raw talent and hope, sitting in a fancy office in LA signing her first deal. some big-shot exec laughed too hard at a joke she didn’t understand, leaned back and said, “guess your dad forgot to wrap it up, huh?” everyone laughed. she smiled. she went home and smashed her first guitar against the wall. stared at herself in the mirror until sunrise, wondering if her whole life was just one long accident.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 losing joel in slow motion no screaming matches. no slammed doors. just... less. less texts. less visits. less warmth in his voice when he called. until the only thing left between them was old songs and heavier silences. sometimes she sees dads hugging their daughters backstage at shows and it feels like a knife between her ribs. joel never stopped loving her. he just didn’t know how to love her through the wreckage.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 catching joel’s voicemail after not speaking for six months she didn’t listen to it right away. she couldn’t. but one night, drunk and high and lonely, she pressed play. his voice, crackling and old and tired: “i’m proud of you, kiddo. no matter what. just... stay safe, alright?” and then nothing. just static. she still has it saved. she’s never answered.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 the first time the stage felt like a curse sold-out show. lights flashing. the crowd screaming her name like a prayer. and she stood there, guitar in hand, heart hammering, feeling absolutely nothing. not pride. not joy. just a black, sucking emptiness so loud she thought it might swallow her whole. and she realized: this was the dream. and it was still killing her.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 the groupie incident. it was early fireflies era. ellie was nineteen. young, cocky, drunk on success and whiskey. the tour was everything she'd dreamed of—loud, messy, free. the fan found her backstage. older, confident, too confident. flirted with her like they already knew each other. said all the right things in all the wrong ways. the kisses turned sharp. the hands got too fast. and the woman—god, the woman wouldn’t shut the fuck up. kept whispering “joel miller’s kid” against her mouth, like it was dirty talk. a kink. kept asking "is your daddy proud now?" between bites against her jaw.

ellie froze. laughed it off, weak, because what the fuck was she supposed to do? tried to pull back but the woman dropped to her knees, trying to take care of her. touched her like she was owed something.

ellie shoved her away hard enough that the woman stumbled back laughing, calling her a tease.

ellie left. didn't tell anyone. showered until her skin hurt. locked it away somewhere dark.

and after that night? she swore she'd never be vulnerable like that again. swore she’d never give up control like that again. she'd top. she'd be the one in charge. always.

(there were nights when someone's hands brushed too close to her throat and she flashed back. when someone kneeled too fast, and her whole body locked up. no one knew why she tensed. she just smiled and said she’s picky.)

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 the night the drugs stopped being fun. it wasn’t dramatic. no ambulance, no near-death collapse. it was quiet. she was alone in a luxury hotel suite she didn’t even remember booking, scraping up a line with a hotel key card, staring at her reflection in the marble bathroom counter. eyes glazed. skin pale. soul gone. she snorted it anyway. and realized she didn’t even want to get high anymore. she just didn’t know how to be alive without it.

Collide popstar!reader's most traumatic life moments:

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 the day her grandparents found out she liked girls she grew up really close to them, deep in the south, raised on sweet tea and silent judgment. she loved them deeply. but that day, the kitchen smelled like cornbread and disappointment. her grandma’s hands shaking over the table. her grandpa’s voice sharp as a knife: “you’re going to hell.” she was sixteen. just figuring herself out. she slept on the floor of her best friend’s bedroom for two weeks after that. they still call ellie “your friend” on the phone. like your love was something shameful. something less.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 the moment she started hating her own body — they told her she had the “perfect popstar face.” but her body? every photoshoot. every fitting. “we love you, babe, we just need you a little tighter in the waist.” “just a few pounds, sweetheart. you’ll thank us.” at 18, she was living on black coffee and air, stepping on the scale twice a day, crying in hotel bathrooms when the number didn’t drop fast enough. sometimes she still pulls at the skin on her stomach, even when ellie kisses every inch and calls her perfect. some lies are hard to unlearn.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 being booed on stage after being outed her first tour. small crowd. industry showcase. utah. someone leaked a photo of her kissing a girl at a party. they booed before she even opened her mouth. she smiled. sang the whole set. then threw up backstage, shaking so hard she couldn’t unzip her own dress.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 being used by her own label signed at seventeen. bright, obedient, hungry. they told her she could be america’s sweetheart if she just— smiled more. wore the short skirts. let them pair her up with a fake boyfriend for PR. handed her a packet with new hair colors. hobbies to start talking about in interviews. every day, chipping pieces of herself off to stay marketable. there’s still a contract framed in her manager’s office with her seveteen-year-old signature with a heart on it. sometimes she wants to burn it.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 the day she realized success doesn’t cure loneliness 3 mtv moon men. debut album. one of the most successful debuts in pop’s history. photographers screaming her name. champagne on her lips. legends of music clapping and smiling for her. and no one she loved in the crowd. the afterparty felt like a wake. she went home alone. took the awards out of her bag. stared at them for a long, long time. then shoved them into a closet and closed the door.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 being laughed at by her own family about her dreams and sexuality not even cruelty. not even rage. mockery. “baby girl, nobody from here makes it.” “when are you gonna get a boyfriend? oh.. right.. i forgot.” “music’s cute. not a real job though.” every family barbecue, every graduation party. smiles just a little too wide. hands patting her shoulder like they already knew she was gonna fail. every charting single now feels like a middle finger they’ll never see coming.

bonus trauma moments bc i'm evil and i have so much secret lore ab this i feel like im gonna explode:

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 ellie once showed her mom’s old photo to jesse in a moment of vulnerability, only for him to accidentally leave it at a hotel room. it got posted online. he apologized a hundred different times, but tabloids ran it for months. and it made ellie barely talks about her real life anymore. it’s why she hides the realest parts of her.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 reader got her first real paycheck from her music, bought her grandma and mom flowers and concert tickets, and her grandma said, "we don’t celebrate sin here.” her mother only nodded. didn't even look at her. she left the flowers on the porch. and cried all the way back to LA.

and they carry all of this—their bruised knuckles, their wounded hearts—into each other’s arms. sometimes fighting it. sometimes failing. always trying.

because trying is still loving. even when it hurts.

[hedwig221b]

Kinda random but do you know any fics where Derek calls Stiles baby or sweetheart (or something similar) and Stiles gets all flustered?

Can I offer you, like, my entire collection lmao 😭💖 It's baby, sweetheart, angel, kitten, sunshine... I love pet names

tbh when you mention sterek and pet names, siand is the first who comes to mind. Like, truly, a sterek pet name connossieur, and the one who got me addicted to 'kitten' as a pet name for Stiles

Tax Evasion by standinginanicedress

Stiles chews on his thumb a bit harder, and for a second he thinks about saying no. He thinks about letting the whole thing go and just going back to his life, the safe and easy way out. He considers just settling for someone who’ll never really get him, some boring guy who touches him the wrong way and buys him flowers sometimes. He’s been doing it for years upon years, now, and really, what’s a little bit longer? And then, what’s the rest of his life? What’s the worst that could happen, he wonders? Trying something is better than not trying at all.

Stars and Their Meanings by standinginanicedress

"You’re older,” Stiles begins counting, on his index, “you’re bad news,” on his middle, “you were recently accused of murder,” ring, “and we have not a damn thing in common,” his pinky. “I mean, come on. You just want to mess around with me if you want me at all.” “Mess around with you?” Derek shakes his head, like that blows his mind. “What is that supposed to mean?” Stiles waves his hand. “Like, ohh, you’re a bad boy, and I’m the Sheriff’s son, so it’s all so hot. I get it.”

Helen of Troy by standinginanicedress

Stiles can fake laugh, fake smile. He can play coy and he can be demure and barely eat anything in front of them, and he can sit still and do his little song and dance of feigning interest. But this is a little out of his scope. They want him to fully become someone else. They want him to be who everyone wants him to be, and it scares the shit out of Stiles, because he doesn’t know if he can do it for hours and hours while cameras watch his every single move. It’s a lot. It’s more than he bargained for.

You're My Sanctuary by lilmissdaydreamer

The Argent Wolf Sanctuary. It’s been Stiles’ dream since he was five years old to work with the wolves, ever since his mother took him up there to see the magnificent creatures on one of their ‘full moon runs’ that the Sanctuary does once a month. The wolves are beautiful and much larger than Stiles would’ve thought, or at least, the newest wolf is. The owner had said he’s a special breed. Stiles just didn’t realize quite how special he is.

You Were Already My Baby by SterekLoverForEver

Stiles would like to preface that he is NOT dating Derek. Even if Stiles wishes with all his heart, he knows he never has a chance with Derek. Stiles has seen such a positive change in Derek in almost 2 years of knowing him, and he doesn’t want to get in the way of his progress. Stiles has seen the hard work and dedication Derek has put in, Derek has become the most kind and special alpha the pack loves and relies on. Stiles knows that Derek has worked on uniting the pack together as well as developing a bond with each member of the pack. Derek has been able to level with each member and have their own unique friendship because he wants to be someone each member can turn to. While Stiles and Derek’s friendship may look different from the others, it’s only a friendship. So despite what others may say, Stiles would definitely know if he was in a relationship with the most perfect specimen that is Derek Hale. Or 6 Times (I couldn't help myself) Stiles Didn't Know He and Derek Were Dating + 1 Time He Did

Stay by wulfarchival (wyrmwolf)

In which Stiles just wants to loose his virginity and goes to The Jungle to do just that. But instead gets himself a hot Dom and a werewolf boyfriend. Except, he just doesn’t know about the werewolf part. Yet.

Baby by Little Spoon (JaydenNara)

When Stiles was fifteen, he dubbed Derek Sourwolf, and unfortunately for Derek, the name stuck. In retrospect, Derek didn't really mind all that much, especially if it was a breathless whimper in his ear. Funny thing is, Derek didn't have a pet name for Stiles.

The Arrangement by Arver7

Through blackmail and lies, Stiles and Derek are forced into a marriage neither of them wanted. If they each want to survive each other, they must learn to coexist. But the more they get to know each other, the more they seem to care about each other. But will the lies stop them from falling in love?

Other fic recs: angsty fics + pt2 + pt3 | possessive Derek | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort | magical!Stiles | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | BAMF!Stiles + pt2 | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles + pt2 | oblivious Stiles | oblivious sterek | bad friend Scott | pack mom!Stiles | unrequited love | werewolf!Stiles | dark sterek | single parent!Stiles | feral Derek | feral Stiles | arranged marriage | Stiles is underestimated | mpreg w/o abo | accidental knotting | jock!Derek | jock!Stiles | alive Hales | spanking | royal abo au | longfic | void!Stiles | sheriff dissaproves | Stiles doesn't know about werewolves | soft fics | hales love stiles | somnophiIia | secret relationship | childhood friends |

[seventhconsumedsigil]

The following is a record of the infamous Speech of Defiance by the heretic wizard known as Ao, formerly proscribed by the Tower under penalty of immediate execution, indisputably the pivotal point between the Age of Hierarchy and the Age of Madness. This copy is kindly produced by now-Archmage Vath, who was in attendance at the time as the scribe and only other direct witness, and so could make this copy after that proscription became dead law.

Archmage Telluric - We meet here today to discuss the "alleged" heresies of Mage Ao, who stands before us. Under my powers as Archmage, I shall sit in judgement over this case, and serve as executioner when it concludes. Apprentice Vath holds position as Scribe and will ensure the transmission is clear and properly archived. The courtroom is sealed against any trickery your fetid allies might pull, so don't-

Mage Ao - Oh do shut up, you withered old windbag. We all know why we're here, and we all know what's going to happen. Stuff the formality.

Telluric - [A lot of spluttering that I don't see the point in writing down. Heretic, lich, blasphemer, none of it really coherently strung together into a sentence. He did heat the air a by 20 degrees through the whole chamber while doing it though, which was an impressive display of unchanneled power if not for how uncomfortable it made my seat. This isn't helped by the subsequent effort of will Ao made. It would take us months to work out what he had done, but at the time it felt like being suffocated by very soft pillows. An uncomfortable combination, let me tell you]

Ao - Sweet silence. Ah, that's better. What, surprised that I can do that without you opposing it? Because I'm not effecting you, Archmage. The air around you, that's another matter.

[This was patently ridiculous, as effecting non-discrete objects like that should have required a ritual circle to manage the definition by common understanding. I know this sounds horribly archaic now, but magic was a lot rougher back then. For example, the wards sealing the courtroom were on a hard-set timer of 1/23rd of a solar cycle and would not budge unless blasted down before that time. Appreciate how we can do things in non-prime numbers nowadays.]

Ao- Now, I don't much care for defending myself to the likes of you all, but let me get a few things straight, since if I'm going to be condemned I want it to be accurate. Lichdom, the act of binding one's dead and dormant soul back into the body, has a few important differences. It loses the ability to naturally grow, leaving consumption the only viable path for increased magical potential, but more importantly it deforms the soul through shear forces. It tears at it, opening holes that cannot be healed without more raw material, leading to the legendary soul-thirst. What I have done is much simpler and far, far stupider, despite the fact it works! I just filled in my skull with raw magic and let my soul press against that to induce cognition instead, at least where the scraps that used to be my brain were. That causes stress, yes, but compressive stress. My soul is a mass of calluses and grows so slowly I'll probably reach Archmage level potential... approximately never, or at least an order of magnitude late, but there are upsides. You would not believe how badly optimised that sack of fat in your skull is. We've spent over ten thousand years killing anything that strays from the nice safe bounds of known magic, and arguably for good reason in some cases, but the rest... no, you've all been sat on your thrones for too long, got too comfortable with being right in the ways we teach even the dumbest apprentice not to be, before the immortality abrades their common sense away. And here I am rambling almost as bad as you are, in front of such an audience. Terrible habit, spent too long lecturing and not enough fighting. Well, I suppose a little class demonstration to end it off is due then. Watch closely, oh Archmage, and consider this. If I can run on a substrate of magic, why should I remain constrained to one piece of meat?

[At this point, Ao proceeded to fall over stone dead, in what was shockingly actually his plan. The autopsy revealed that was in fact his body, but the first sighting of one of his crystal spiders a week afterwards confirmed that he was in fact perfectly alive and had figured out body-transference a whole month before, and it was almost safe when he used it. The Hivemind of Ao would go on to become, as Ao liked to style himself, A Big Damn Problem. They still called him a lich for the next sixteen years though, and I have it on the best of authority it drove him demented that entire time.]

When a mage is badly injured, magic sometimes "fills in the gaps"—growing an arcane hand or leg. You suffered brain damage that would have killed most. Magic filled in your mind.

[spideyjimin]

Bloodlines entwined: epilogue | jjk

⤷ having a baby alone was supposed to be easy. but an accidental twist of fate pulled you into a hidden world of werewolves, and ancient bloodlines. navigating your already complicated life becomes even harder as you uncover your past; one tied to a legacy you never knew existed. and in the middle of this chaos stands jungkook, the werewolf king… and the father of your child. 

—  pairing: werewolf!jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: strangers to lovers, parents-to-be au, royalty au, werewolves au, soulmates au, angst, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  words: 3,077

—  warnings: swearing, breastfeeding, mention of blood, mention of abortion, and teasing

—  author’s note: the adventure with this jk and oc has come to an end, and it honestly makes me so so sad! 😭 i am not ready to say goodbye to them because man, i enjoyed so much writing this series 🫶🏼 i’m gonna drop a little note because i’ve so much to say and don’t want to make this part long as hell 😅 thank you for everything, guys!! hope you’ll enjoy this last part of the series 🫶🏼

Epilogue: papa and mama

SERIES MASTERLIST | previous

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans the second your baby’s loud cries echo through the house.

The cries yank you out of sleep like a slap. You throw a hand over your ear in an attempt to muffle the noise, but it’s useless. With your werewolf super hearing, it’s like your baby is crying right into your ears.

“I’ll go,” Jungkook whispers into your mind before dragging himself out of bed.

Slowly, you turn around to grab your phone from the nightstand. It’s 6 am, so it’s time to wake up. In a matter of time, Kai and Arya will storm into your bedroom. With a quiet groan, you sit up against the bed’s headboard, rubbing the sleep from your face and bracing yourself for the chaos about to hit.

Seconds later, Jungkook makes his way to the room, holding your third child, Minho, tightly in his arms. A smile grows on your face as you see them. Minho isn’t crying anymore, he seems absolutely delighted to be in his dad’s arms.

“This little man is starving,” he says.

Jungkook places your baby in your arms so you can breastfeed the little monster. When your eyes meet your son’s, it’s like the world stops moving. Your hand caresses his sweet face. Even though it isn’t easy at all to raise a little being, it is so fulfilling and filled with love.

While you breastfeed your youngest, Jungkook—or should you say your husband—sits next to you. Three years after the birth of Kai, you got married to Jungkook. You wanted to take your time because marrying him wasn’t a small thing.

Through this marriage, you’d become the werewolf queen, and you’d leave behind your normal and human life. You took your time because you wanted to mentally prepare yourself for it. Saying goodbye to your students was hard, but it felt like a new chapter was starting.  

A year before your marriage, you had given birth to your daughter, Arya. Just like her brother, she was a very desired child. However, she wasn’t born from an insemination. She was born out of an act of love. Well, a very dirty one, but still a loved one.

Right after your marriage and coronation, you got pregnant. Well, actually, you got pregnant on that exact day. Minho was born a couple of days earlier than the due date, but yeah, nine months after that special day, you gave birth to your third baby. Minho was a surprised baby. It was not in your plans to have a baby at that time.

At the time, Arya was still very young, you had just become queen, and you wanted to give yourself a little time to adjust. But life had other plans. Minho arrived sooner than expected. Now, with Jungkook, you're both open to the idea of a fourth child, but you're not rushing it. You're not actively trying for another baby, just leaving it to fate. After all, Minho is only six months old. There's no need to add a fourth little one just yet

Having three young kids is quite a challenge. They run everywhere, constantly want to play, scream whenever they aren’t happy, but they love with their entire hearts. Minho is a bit too young for that, but he still screams when he’s not happy. And let’s not speak about their powers.

All three of them are incredibly powerful for their young age, far stronger than any other werewolf you’ve ever known. Kai, as the firstborn of a ruling king, seems to hold the greatest strength. You believe that’s why his power surpasses even Arya’s and Minho’s. Both of them radiate a fierce energy too, but like all young ones, they haven’t yet mastered control over their abilities. At least not fully, because when it comes to being silly, they seem to know how their powers work.

You and Jungkook have been trying to guide and help Kai and Arya to deal with it. But sometimes, they don’t get it, which you understand perfectly. How can a four and a two-year-old child understand how to control their powers? Thankfully, they haven’t turned into a wolf yet, which reassures you and your husband. Since this is all uncharted territory, you’re constantly scared that they’ll shift too early.  

Together with Jungkook, you’ve been running blood tests on your babies, searching for answers to the mysteries behind their strength. Their blood is remarkably close to yours, a clear proof that they are fully hybrids, carrying almost as much human blood as you do. But it’s their father’s blood that gives their werewolf side an extraordinary power. And layered on top of that, the Shadow’s blood stirs a force that neither you nor Jungkook ever possessed.

With Kai, you’ve already seen what that means. He inherited both the Blood’s healing abilities and the Shadows' vanishing powers. When he loses control of his emotions, he can simply disappear, turning invisible even to Jungkook’s keen senses. Only you can still see him. For his healing abilities, you remember the first time so clearly: Kai healing a bruise on Arya’s knee with nothing but a touch, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What you've learned is simple, yet staggering: your blood and Jungkook’s are equally strong. Neither side overpowers the other, and the human blood didn’t collapse under the sheer force of the wolf; it stood its ground.

And because of that, because of the balance inside them, your children are something rare, something powerful. A new beginning.

The three of them were born with a blue and a red eye, making them the first three werewolves belonging to two packs. They clearly are the new generation of the royal family. They are going to be the first mixed and hybrid werewolves. And you’re proud to be their mother.

“I wish we could sleep a bit more on weekends,” Jungkook mumbles while pressing a gentle kiss on your shoulder.

“Then, you shouldn’t have had kids,” you say, looking at him.

“I know,” he whispers. “Can’t wait for them to be older.”

You shake your head with a big smile on your face.

“And you’re also the one begging for a fourth,” you add.

Before Jungkook even gets to answer, you hear little footsteps behind the door. Very slowly, the door opens before Kai’s head pops out to check if you’re awake. As he notices you both sitting in bed, he opens the door and walks with his sister to the bed. They literally push Jungkook and sit down between you and your husband.

“Always pushing me away from you,” Jungkook says through thoughts.

The good thing with this soulmate connection is the fact that you can speak through minds without being heard by your kids. Jungkook definitely uses it to whisper the nastiest things when the kids are around.

“Good morning,” they both say while looking at the two of you.

Arya instantly goes into her father’s arms. She’s definitely a daddy’s girl, and Jungkook isn’t going to complain at all about that.

“Grandpa Felix is coming today to pick you up,” you tell your kids.

Felix will be looking after these monsters for the next four days because you’re going on a little romantic trip with Jungkook. Since you became parents, you have barely had any alone time with your husband. You do get some, but the kids are always around. This time it will be just the two of you. There won’t be Kai, Arya, and Minho.

“And you will be staying with him and Iris for four days, okay?”

Your father found love again almost three years ago. He was very hesitant at first, but man, he’s head over heels with her. Iris is an incredible woman, and she deeply loves your father. She has three children of her own, and they became like family, too.

“Will Atlas be there?” Kai asks.

Atlas is Lexi’s child. Surprising, right?

Atlas wasn’t supposed to exist, he was a little accident. The result of a broken condom. Lexi and Elias, her boyfriend, didn’t want to keep him because it was never in their plans to become parents. But after a lot of thinking and consideration—and a lot of crying too—they decided to keep him. However, they made sure that Atlas would be their first and last child. She got her tubes tied, and he got a vasectomy.   

Kai was only ten months old when Atlas was born, and they are very close today. You hope this bond will never be broken, and you’ll make sure it never does.

“Yes, and maybe, Iris’s grandchildren will be there too,” you add.

Iris already has quite a few grandchildren, and they regularly visit her. Your babies and Atlas have been growing up with her grandchildren, and you’re glad your children have more cousins to play with.

“Yeaaah,” Arya jumps with excitement.

“No jumping in bed, Arya,” Jungkook scolds her.

“But papa…” she pouts, trying to push her father to let her do whatever she wants.

“There’s no papa,” he tries to resist. “We don’t jump in bed.”

Jungkook is, without a doubt, the coolest dad on earth. He showers your children with affection, always prepared to whisk them away on spontaneous adventures or sneak them a treat when no one is looking. With him, laughter is never far away. He makes even the smallest moments feel magical.

But as much as he spoils them with love and attention, he’s also firm when it comes to what truly matters. Rules are rules in the household, and Jungkook stands by them. Respect, kindness, and responsibility; he ensures they grasp the significance of these values.

He’s the kind of father who can turn discipline into a lesson of love, making your children feel safe rather than scolded. And somehow, he strikes that perfect balance: being their hero and their anchor, all at once.

“Pff,” she mumbles before sitting down next to you.

“Now she doesn’t love me anymore,” he says to you through thoughts and rolls his eyes.

You smile while brushing Minho’s hair with your fingers.

“You know it’ll only last 5 secs,” you answer. “She loves you too much.”

“So,” Jungkook begins. “Let’s get dressed while mama finishes nourishing Minho.”

Your husband grabs your son and daughter, carrying them on his shoulders before disappearing. Your eyes focus once more on your youngest.

“Very soon, you’ll be joining those two munchkins and make our lives miserable,” you whisper to him.

Even though he can’t speak yet, his powers express everything his tiny heart feels, and the words he hasn’t learned to form. A strong, tender warmth wraps around you like a second skin made of pure love. It hums in the air between you, vibrant and alive, pulling you closer without a single touch.

This energy, this invisible bond, was something you felt even during your three pregnancies. Each of your babies radiated the same fierce, protective warmth before they even opened their eyes to the world. It never gets old, never loses its magic. Every time, it settles into your soul like sunlight through the clouds, comforting and anchoring you all at once.

Around them, you feel safe in a way that nothing else could ever replicate. Like nothing in the world could ever truly harm you, not while these little lights exist.

“It never ceases to surprise me how strong you are,” you add. “Just like Kai and Arya.”

Arya and Minho were different babies than Kai. Since they both heard their siblings' voices during the pregnancies, they instantly protected them as well once out. It’s always so incredible to see. And to be honest, you can’t wait to see what they will become once older. You also want to see their wolf shapes, but there is still time for it. Hopefully, you still have six years before Kai has to navigate through his first shift.

Once Minho drank all the milk he needed, you both decided to join Jungkook, Kai, and Arya in the dining room after putting on some clothes. The two little monsters are already driving Jinwoo, Jungkook’s footman, completely crazy. Poor man. You absolutely feel sorry for him.

There’s a little crib in the room, and you put Minho there so you can take your breakfast. It’s definitely not going to be a peaceful one. There hasn’t been one since Kai’s birth.

“Arya,” Jungkook says with a threatening voice. “Sit down and stop running around with the bread.”

She looks at you, searching for a savior, but you only shake your head.

“Listen to your dad,” you tell her.

The little monster vanishes, a move she's mastered whenever she doesn't want to be caught. But Jungkook, ever prepared, doesn’t even stand. He slides his chair back, extends an arm, and effortlessly grabs the back of her t-shirt, pulling her right out of thin air.

Out of the three kids, Arya is the troublemaker. Bold and mischievous, she does as she pleases. She’s already skilled at wielding the invisibility power she inherited from you. She doesn’t bother trying it with you anymore, she knows it doesn’t work. But Jungkook always knows how to catch her.

“Do I need to punish you this early in the morning?” Jungkook’s voice cuts deep.

Kai, sitting quietly on his chair with a piece of bread in his hand, attentively watches his dad holding firmly his sister’s shirt. Clearly, this isn’t new to him.  

“Papa,” she whines.

She reappears before he places her on the chair next to his.

“Now stay here and finish your bread,” he says. “Then, you’ll apologize to Jinwoo for the mess you made on the floor with the bread.”

She only nods, cheeks puffed out in defiance. You almost laugh, but you keep your poker face. A skill you’ve perfected ever since your kids decided your life was a full-time comedy show.

“Don’t laugh,” Jungkook’s voice echoes in your mind. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“But you’re dying to…” his eyes meet yours. “Should I also punish you?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s too early for that shit, Jungkook.”

“It’s never too early.”

“You’re so nasty,” you almost sound disgusted.  

“Last night, you weren’t complaining…”

Before he even continues, you cut his thoughts short.

“Don’t ever continue that sentence with the kids around.”

Jungkook bites his lip, trying and failing not to laugh, especially after scolding Arya. The kids wouldn’t understand that you’re talking silently. They would probably think that the situation is funny, which it shouldn’t be.

As Jungkook struggles not to laugh and you hold onto your last shred of parental dignity, a sudden thud pulls both your attention. You both turn just in time to see Kai standing on his chair, trying to spread jam on his bread, and managing to get half of it on his face instead.

"Kai, sit," you say, trying to sound stern, but your voice wavers with amusement.

"I'm making it fancy, mama!" he beams proudly, showing off the very questionable, and very sticky piece of bread.

Jungkook shakes his head, a chuckle slipping out despite himself. It was surprising that Kai hadn’t done anything yet. Kai and Arya always create a mess when having their breakfast. It’s like they can’t start the day without going wild.  

"Artist in the making," he mutters, wiping his mouth to hide his grin.

Arya, now back on her chair and pretending to be the model of good behavior, speaks up.

"I'm better at making fancy bread,” she says, shaking her bread in the air.

"Nooo, I'm better!" Kai insists, waving the jammy bread dangerously close to his hair.

Before a full food disaster can unfold, you lean over and steady his hand with a smile.

"You're both amazing," you say sweetly. "But maybe let's keep the fancy on the plate, okay?"

“Papa, can you put more jam on my bread?” Arya asks as she keeps shaking the piece of bread.

This little girl has been leaving breadcrumbs everywhere in this room. You already feel sorry for the staff who will need to clean.  

Jungkook grabs the bread, places it on her plate, and carefully spreads the jam. Arya studies his every move, making sure he’s putting enough jam.

“Good?” your husband asks her.

She nods before grabbing it and resuming to eat it.

As you look around you, a big smile spreads across your face. The house is a mess, the bread is on the floor, and two of your children are showing off their jammy breads, but you wouldn’t trade a second of it. Even amidst the chaos, nothing fills your heart more than being in the middle of it all.

Your entire life, you dreamed of having even just one child. That desperate, stubborn hope led you down the path of insemination, a journey paved with fear, strength, and a faith you had to hold onto even when everything seemed uncertain. And you got your miracle, and then life, in all its wild generosity, gave you three.

The past four years have been a beautiful blur: filled with laughter that shook the walls, cries that shook your heart, and love so big it sometimes felt overwhelming. There were sleepless nights, tearful days, and moments you doubted yourself, but there was never a moment you wished for another life.

Watching Kai, Arya, and Minho grow into their mischievous, stubborn, endlessly fascinating selves fills you with a pride so fierce it almost hurts.

The journey you started alone, driven by pure longing, didn’t just give you Kai. It gave you a partner who loves you fiercely, two more children you never knew you needed, and a life that is louder, fuller, and infinitely richer than you ever dared to dream. Being their mother feels as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the sunrise.

And when you think back to life before them, it feels distant and pale, like a story that belonged to someone else.

It isn’t easy every day. Some days, it’s messy and frustrating and exhausting. But even then, even in the hardest moments, their laughter cuts through the noise. Their smiles light up the darkest mornings. And their love—raw, unconditional, and chaotic—is the purest magic you’ve ever known. You wouldn't just live through it again, you would choose it. Every single time.

This is the life you fought for, and it’s more beautiful than you ever dared to imagine.

[lilazooo]

More Life

in honour of today being my birthday <3

Jason Todd x Reader / soft, fluff

It’s a few minutes past midnight, the city is quieter than usual. Gotham somehow holding its breath.

You’re sitting at your windowsill, legs dangling out, hoodie pulled up around you even though it’s not cold. There's a strange ache in your chest: a mixture of growing up, nostalgia, loneliness. You should be celebrating, right? But all you feel is the weight of time, heavy and slow.

And then — there’s a familiar sound against the fire escape.

A low thunk. The creak of boots on metal. You glance down and there he is.

Jason Todd, standing on your fire escape, looking up at you like you’re the most important thing in the universe. His helmet is off tonight. His hair is a mess, like he drove way too fast to get here. His leather jacket is half-zipped and he’s holding a paper bag — no ribbons, no fancy wrapping, just pure Jason.

"Hey, birthday girl," he says, voice low, warm. His smile is real. Soft at the edges.

You roll your eyes, pulling your hoodie tighter around yourself.

"Don't remind me," you mutter, voice half-buried under the weight of turning twenty.

Jason laughs — a real, low laugh that rumbles in his chest — and drops the bag onto your bed.

"Yeah, well," he says, "too bad. You made it another year. Gotta celebrate that.”

To save you from answering, Jason leans forward and holds out the bag smiling, like a kid showing off a treasure. Inside you find:

Your favorite kind of candy (because of course he remembers)— the one that’s always hard to find but somehow, somehow, he managed to hunt down.

A LEGO set — small, a little chaotic looking, definitely something he'd think would be "fun as hell to build together at 3 a.m."

And a book — worn, dog-eared at the corners. It’s one you mentioned months ago in a throwaway comment he clearly didn’t forget.

"Figured you'd need something for tonight and something for… when shit gets heavy," he says, scratching the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed.

You look up at him; the most dangerous man in Gotham, standing awkwardly in your bedroom with gifts like some rogue guardian angel.

Jason shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, giving a small, crooked smile. "And before you ask, yeah, I got the LEGO 'cause I wanted to build it too. No shame."

He flops down next to you, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him, he smells like leather and soap and cold air — grounding and safe.

You sit there together in the soft glow of the city lights, surrounded by candy, LEGO pieces, and the quiet promise of a better year ahead.

It's not fireworks.

It’s not confetti.

It’s not a perfect, Instagram-worthy celebration.

It’s just Jason.

Just you.

And somehow — that's more than enough.

[lxzy-bxby]

Sitting in a Tree

~ ♡ ~

Caleb thought that it would get better over years. You two had your fair share of anniversaries already—yet he still drooled over you.

Just like this morning.

When you descended downstairs, you found your husband at his usual place—by the stove. Might sound reverse-sexist, but it was true nonetheless. Caleb said that if you ever do as much as lift your finger, he owes you a divorce.

Frankly speaking, having househusband is nice. Having househusband who fucks your guts until you drool all over the bed is even nicer.

Just like last night.

You two went at it around four times, and you suppose you passed out right after his cock slipped out of your worn-out cunt. Usually Caleb would carry you to shower and bathe you himself, or at least wipe your body all over with a towel and change your clothes with bedsheets—but he was exhausted, too.

Hence dried-off sticky cum between your things this morning. You threw stained sheets in the laundry basket, hoping Caleb won't notice—since 'it's his duty to keep the house'. That's what he said next day after your wedding.

You move forward to the room, pressing kisses to the temples of your twins, settled in their high chairs. They babble something like greeting, making Caleb turn towards you to see why are they chattering.

You swear you notice his eyes widening a little. As if you was wearing a thong with no bra—but you was wearing his shirt, long enough to cover your knees.

Which is ways sexier, in his eyes.

You cast a glance towards carrier on his bare chest with your eight month babygirl in it. Caleb swore he has zero gender preferences when it comes to kids made with you, but it was so comically obvious he was happy to be a girl dad more than anything.

Caleb blinks a few times, finally snapping out of it. He felt like going through puberty all over again.

And his puberty was torture. He was sure it was inappropriate to get a boner caused by your childhood bestfriend.

Thank God now his childhood bestfriend is his wife. He still gets a hard-on every time he sees her, though.

Feeling blood from his brain rushing to his cock, Caleb groans internally. Great. Just great. A semi at 8 AM. Exactly what he wanted.

Ignoring relentless twitching of his dick in his sweatpants, he clears his throat, feeling suddenly so wrong for getting rock-hard with his children present in the same room. "Good morning, honey! Breakfast gonna be ready in a minute. Bacon, eggs... Want me to make you coffee?"

You want him to let you breathe, honestly. And putting a shirt on wouldn't hurt—he probably had no idea, but his back was painted with lines your nails left on it the night before.

But you nod, because coffee honestly would be excellent thing to have right now. He immediately moves to coffeemaker, managing to coddle little one on his chest, check on the eggs and pour your coffee.

"One latte for pretty Mommy, incoming right up." He grins smugly, carrying cup of coffee to you carefully.

You huff out a quiet chuckle, taking an opportunity to peck your infant's head. She looks extremely adorable today—Caleb dressed her up in a colorful green onesie with little red apples, and there for a fact is nothing cuter than adorable babywear. Especially when the baby wearing it is adorable as well. And babies made with Caleb can't be anything but adorable.

Caleb chuckles, but you see the way his eyes darken slightly from the feeling of neglect—he always makes sure you have nothing to care about so you can give himself your all. Seeing you showing affection to someone else, as much as his own kids, made him feel both warm and pained.

"Is there a kiss for me as well, ba-by?" He hums, leaning in way too close, taking all of your personal space.

Ah, right. You stopped having any upon marrying him.

"Maybe. Think you earned it?" You tease, stroking his bottom lip.

Caleb's eyes glint as he murmurs the words practically against your ear. "What's your pricelist, wifey? How many orgasms per kiss? Ah, nevermind. How many should I give you for a makeout session? ...Oh, then again, forget it. Just gonna keep makin' you come unless I get a discount for life."

"Caleb!" You hiss, gently swapping his forearm.

"Mhm. Exactly what you're gonna keep screamin'."

With a glance at your kids, who are blissfully unaware of his dirty talk, you sigh with relief.

Then his huge palm cups you chin, turning your head towards him, and when you part your lips to say something, he just latches on to them.

Caleb is PDA ambassador, actually.

And yeah, for you your kids count for public, too.

His lips caress yours reverently yet hungrily, his kisses always bordering on something in-between. You sigh, cupping his face and just giving in.

"...Mama and Dada sittin' in a twee!" One of the twins squeaks, clapping his small hands.

Of course. Beware of toddlers.

You pull away first, chuckling, "Were they?.." You mutter under your breath to yourself.

Caleb grins like a Cheshire cat, walking over to the twins, letting his hands brush against your hip while he's at it. "Yeah? Then what, buddy? Oh, wait. You can't even spell 'kissing'. Tough luck."

Caleb ruffles both boys' hair, making them giggle. You clear your throat indifferently, sipping on your coffee.

"Other than that, you're right. First came love... then came marriage. Then came Mommy with... actually two baby carriages. And then came Mommy with a baby carriage, again." Caleb snorted, his eyes glistening with amusement.

"And then again?" Twin brother of your little tease in the making piped in, giggling and grinning so hard his gums started to show.

"Oh shoot." You mutter under your breath. Kids and their tongues.

Caleb raises an eyebrow. "Dunno, buddy. Probably she will. Most likely, she will."

He glances at you with a devilish sparkle in his eyes, and you curse internally. Two under two would be wild. People gonna start talking.

Caleb eyes you up and down, his eyes lingering on your curves and smooth skin of your legs, his throat bobbing with a swallow. "You wanna know what, champ? One hundred percent she will."

Twins squeal with delight as if they both were the only children who had zero siblings to play with.

And Caleb looks at you so smoldering as if it's your first wedding night.

After all, maybe skipping Plan B just this once wouldn't hurt.

~ ♡ ~

[gaysindistress]

Hello children time for angst. The 141 boys come home and their SO has packed up and left while they were deployed. Left a breakup note on the bed, and just left. Who's tracking them down to sort this out, all proper like? Who's getting smashed at the pub? then blasting a boom box of love songs outside their apartment? (it's probably Soap).

Gather round children, mother has been asked to tell an angsty story.

Cap John Price is tracking his love down but waiting a bit to say anything. He wants to check in and make sure that you haven’t been kidnapped or anything like that. Before he dives head first into what could be a suicide mission, he needs to know all the details. Deployment has always been difficult and you’ve been through it before but this one was the worst yet. It went months longer with particularly no communication whatsoever. You didn’t even know if he was alive for most of it and you couldn’t do it anymore. You’d already been having issues prior and this extending deployment was the last straw. A note on the bed with a clean house is how you told him.

He’d probably spend a few days to a week observing you before he knocks on your door with a bottle of scotch and a jewelry box in hand.

“No not here to propose, love. I know we’re long past that. Just here to talk,” is what he told you as he settled into your new living room and deposited the box on the table. It was the cameo necklace that you’d be wanting for years but could never justify the cost of. He’d meant to give it to you before all of this happened albeit now is as good a time as any.

Johnny MacTavish

Soapy boy is blasting music outside of your window but he’s stone cold sober. He probably spent the first week or so at a pub every night. He definitely called and texted you while drinking like a fish but he never went to your apartment. It wasn’t until he called you one night and heard someone’s voice in the background, using a tone with you that warranted a visit from Johnny boy.

He started by leaving the boom box under your window and then snuck around to the front door. He could hear this other voice saying something in a foul tone as they came to open the door. Your voice could be heard trying to convince them to quiet down but it was no use. They swung open the door and there was Johnny with his Glock drawn, aimed right between the eyes.

“This arsehole been bothering you, Bonnie?” He seethed behind a smile as he pushed the barrel between their eyes and forced them back into the apartment.

It’s safe to say that the blasting boom box caused a few noise complaints and covered up a bloody reunion.

Simon Riley

This is the first thing I thought of 😂

Simon hasn’t touched a bottle of alcohol in years but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t tempted when he saw you’d left. The bottle of whiskey you bought for him before you knew he was sober sits on the table, staring back at him. He won’t drink it but he’ll stare at it until he’s coming up with a plan.

He’s not waiting a second longer than he has to once that plan has formed. He’d be sitting, waiting for you to come home within hours of him coming back and being cleared.

“Sit, dove,” he told you from the shadows of your kitchen, “start talking.”

Kyle Garrick “Gaz”

I’ve need to be so honest with you guys, I barely know Gaz so I’m running off of a few posts and prayers that this is accurate.

Gaz is panicking the moment he doesn’t smell you when he opens his door. He’s trying to keep from absolutely losing it when he notices that your shoes are gone by the door. He’s holding back tears when your books aren’t piled up on the coffee table. His knees are buckling when he sees that little note in the middle of the bed with your ring in front of it.

He’s the one who’s calling everyone he knows trying to figure out where you are as he’s racing around his place for any clues.

Gaz shows up at your door a quarter past midnight, soaking wet with tears streaming down his face. His chest is rising and faking rapidly as he stares at you. He can barely muster up a word before he just grabs you and pulls you into a tightest hug imaginable. You’re both sobbing in the rain on your doorstep by the time he pulls away enough to ask you why.

Fast forward to him desperately holding you against him as you make love. There will be bruises where his hands gripped at your body in the morning but either of you care. All that matters is that he’s here with you.

Colonel König

This man wears a hood because of his anxiety. Do we really think he’s going to be busing your door down?

No. He’s not doing any of the above. He’s going to see the note, read it in disbelief, and drink the most expensive bottle of alcohol he has while staring at the note. He’s going to accept and agree with your reasons for leaving without question. The colonel will of course keep tabs on your safety, not because he can’t let you go.

He’ll occasionally watch your place when you ask because you trust him and he knows your cat’s routine, not because he feels the need to be a security check. He’ll agree to go out with your old friend group because he needs to get out there again, not because he’s desperate to catch a glimpse of you.

König knows that you left for a reason and he respects that reason full heartedly. He just has a hard time letting go when he knows that you love him still and it’s his name that you call out every night