#needed to let myself be at least a indulgent. anyway

[mcrdvcks]

what are hands for?

chapter summary: After an offhand comment from your father shakes your confidence, you find yourself spiraling into self-doubt.

word count: 2.4k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: i'm not even gonna lie, this is extremely self-indulgent. i've barely been home for a week and my dad's already called me fat once and it definitely won't be the last time

anyways, i basically wrote this for myself but i thought i'd share it because i know for some people, being home for the holidays is rough! and the only thing i need is for logan to tell me he loves me and everything would be perfect

warnings/tags: insecure!reader, reader has a brother, skipping meals, implied that reader has received rude comments from family before, reader describes herself as 5'7" and over 200 lbs one time (like i said, self-indulgent), curvy!reader, angst, fluff

You have always had mixed feelings about going to your parents’ house for the holidays, or even during your breaks during college. You loved home, it was where you grew up so naturally you were supposed to love it.

But you also hated it. Hated the comments, the looks, the yelling—all of it.

And somehow here you were, standing in your parent’s quaint house, your younger brother and his girlfriend already in the dining room helping your mom with dinner while your dad greeted you and Logan.

"Hey, kiddo," your dad said, pulling you into a quick, half-hearted hug before turning to Logan with a small smile. "Logan. Good to see you again."

Logan gave a polite nod. "Good to see you too, sir."

Your dad’s gaze flicked between the two of you for a moment before gesturing toward the dining room. "Everyone’s in there. Why don’t you join them? Dinner’s almost ready."

Logan looked at you briefly, a silent check-in, before heading off. "I’ll go see if they need help," he murmured, squeezing your hand lightly as he passed.

The air shifted the second Logan stepped out of earshot. Your dad turned back to you, giving you a once-over that was a little too long for comfort.

"You’ve put on a little weight, haven’t you?" he asked, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just landed a verbal punch to your gut. "Must be all that mansion food."

Your chest tightened, heat creeping up your neck. You opened your mouth to respond—what, you weren’t sure—but he didn’t wait for an answer. He just patted your shoulder like it was nothing, muttered something about checking on the turkey, and walked off, leaving you standing there alone.

In the back of your mind, you knew you should’ve put on a different shirt, this one was just a tad bit too tight. But it was one of Logan’s favorite’s, so you didn’t pay too much attention to it.

You pulled on your blouse a few times, trying to get it to not stick to your stomach before walking into the dining room like you always did when you were younger, with a fake smile.

---

You huffed, yanking the seventh shirt over your head and tossing it onto the growing pile on the bed. Nothing looked right—nothing felt right. Every shirt clung too much, hung awkwardly, or just didn’t sit right. And with each outfit failure, the voice in your head grew louder, echoing your dad’s casual remark.

You tugged at the hem of your tank top, staring at your reflection in the mirror with narrowed eyes. “Stupid,” you muttered, turning to the side to inspect your profile. “It’s just a shirt. It’s fine.” But it didn’t feel fine.

After another long minute, you grabbed a loose hoodie from the closet and pulled it on, letting it drown you. It wasn’t what you’d planned to wear, but at least it hid everything you didn’t want to see.

You made your way downstairs to the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast before your class. On the counter were a box of donuts, and without thinking you grabbed the two you normally did in a napkin and made your way out.

But not before pausing at the doorway, a bite already taken out of one donut as you looked down at the food in your hand. You took another bite and threw both away, making your way to your classroom before the kids got there.

You got to the classroom a good twenty minutes early, dropping your bag onto the desk with a sigh. The hoodie you’d thrown on still felt too heavy, too obvious, but you didn’t have the energy to deal with it right now. The two bites of the donut you’d managed to eat sat like a stone in your stomach.

You busied yourself setting up for the day, pulling worksheets out of your bag and lining them up on the desk. It wasn’t much, but focusing on something, anything, kept your mind from wandering too far down the spiral. The kids would be filing in soon, their chatter filling the space, and that would make it easier. It always did.

But for now, the silence was suffocating.

There was a soft knock on the doorframe, and you looked up, expecting one of the students. Instead, it was Ororo. She leaned casually against the frame, a warm, curious smile on her face.

“Morning, Y/N,” she greeted, stepping into the room. “You’re here early. Everything okay?”

You forced a smile, nodding as you shuffled a few papers around unnecessarily. “Yeah, just… wanted to get a head start. You know how Mondays are.”

Ororo tilted her head, clearly unconvinced but kind enough not to push. “If you say so,” she said, her tone light but probing. Her gaze swept over you, lingering for just a second on the oversized hoodie before she caught herself. “Well, let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do. Thanks, ‘Ro.” You gave her another tight-lipped smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

She hesitated for a beat before nodding and stepping back into the hallway. As soon as she was gone, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

The classroom slowly came to life as the students trickled in, their energy filling the room and pushing your thoughts to the background. By the time the lesson was underway, you were almost able to pretend nothing was wrong. Almost.

It wasn’t until later that day, during lunch, that it all came rushing back. The teachers’ lounge was unusually crowded, laughter and conversations bouncing off the walls. You slipped in quietly, grabbing a bottle of water and a granola bar from the counter before finding a corner to sit in.

From across the room, Logan caught your eye. He was leaning back in one of the chairs, arms crossed, but the second he saw you, his expression softened. He gave you a small nod—his way of checking in. You nodded back, offering a faint smile.

You didn’t miss the way his brow furrowed slightly, though, or the way his gaze lingered for just a moment too long before he turned back to his conversation with Scott. It wasn’t like Logan to hover or push, but you knew he noticed things. And he never let them go.

---

After classes you went into the kitchen to put your mug in the sink from hours ago. Out of habit, you grabbed a few cookies Ororo had made yesterday before stopping yourself.

You stared at the cookies in your hand, your frown deepening as your dad’s words replayed in your mind like a broken record. Your stomach churned, and for a moment, you felt like throwing the cookies straight into the trash.

“What’d those cookies ever do to you, darlin’?” Logan’s voice startled you from your thoughts. You turned to see him leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze wasn’t accusing, just… observant.

You hesitated, gripping the cookies tighter. “Nothing,” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just… wasn’t really hungry.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, pushing off the doorframe to step into the kitchen. “Didn’t seem like you were thinkin’ about that a second ago,” he said, his tone teasing but gentle. “Something on your mind?”

You shook your head quickly, putting the cookies back on the plate. “Nope. Just tired. Long day.”

He didn’t look convinced. Logan had a way of reading you like an open book, and you hated it sometimes. Hated how hard it was to hide from him, even when you wanted to.

“Darlin’…” His voice was softer now, his hand reaching out to brush yours. “What’s goin’ on?”

You sighed, leaning against the counter and crossing your arms. “It’s nothing, Logan. Seriously.”

He stepped closer, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “Y/N, you know I don’t buy that. You’ve been off since we got back from your folks’ place.” His voice was low, steady. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. The last thing you wanted was to unload all this on him. But the look in his eyes—genuine, steady, patient—made it impossible to deflect.

“It’s just… something my dad said,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening. “What’d he say?”

“It’s not a big deal—”

“Y/N.” His tone was firm, but not unkind. “What’d he say?”

You exhaled sharply, avoiding his gaze. “He… made a comment about my weight,” you mumbled, feeling your face heat up. “Said I’ve been eating too much mansion food.”

Logan’s expression darkened, his brows knitting together. “He said that?” His voice was low, dangerous. You nodded, still not looking at him. “That’s bullshit,” he muttered, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“It’s not—he didn’t mean it like that,” you tried to defend weakly, though you weren’t sure why. “It’s just how he is. And, it’s not like he’s wrong either, I could lose some weight. I’m 5’7” and over 200 pounds, and sometimes my old pants don’t even go over my thighs or hips. And—”

Logan held up a hand, cutting you off gently but firmly. “Alright, stop. Just stop.” His voice was low, steady, but there was a protective edge to it. “First off, I don’t give a damn what your old pants fit like. And second, your dad? He’s got no right to talk to you like that. None.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Logan stepped closer, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Nope. Not hearin’ it, Y/N. You’re sittin’ here pickin’ yourself apart ‘cause of some stupid thing he said, and that’s not fair. Not to you.”

“But he’s not wrong,” you muttered, looking away. “I mean, look at me. I’m—”

“Perfect,” Logan interrupted, his voice firm. “You’re perfect. And I don’t wanna hear you say otherwise.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re just saying that.”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who just says things?” Logan shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Princess, I’m the last person to sugarcoat anything.”

You hesitated, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. Logan sighed, stepping closer and resting his hands lightly on your hips. “Y/N, you’re strong. You’re smart. And yeah, you’ve got curves—and I happen to like ‘em. A lot.”

Your face heated at his words, but Logan wasn’t done. He gave your hips a gentle squeeze, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think I’d be standin’ here, chasin’ after you, if I didn’t think you were incredible? Come on now.”

“I’m not fishing for compliments, Logan,” you said quietly, still not quite meeting his eyes.

“I know you’re not,” he replied. “But I’m givin’ ‘em anyway, ‘cause you need to hear it. And because it’s the damn truth.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, despite yourself. Logan grinned, clearly pleased to have gotten a reaction out of you. “There’s that smile,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Missed that.”

The knot in your chest loosened just a bit, and you let out a shaky sigh. “Thanks, Logan,” you murmured. “I just… I don’t feel like myself sometimes, you know?”

“I get it,” Logan said, his voice softer now. “We all got our crap to deal with. But you don’t gotta deal with it alone. Not when I’m here.”

You gave him a small nod, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. Logan’s smirk returned, and his hands slid from your hips to the curve of your thighs, his fingers grazing lightly. “Besides,” he said, his tone turning teasing, “you know what these thighs are for, right?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He grinned, his hands squeezing gently before lifting you up. “For my hands. Nothin’ else they need to do, far as I’m concerned.”

You yelped in surprise, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Logan! Put me down!”

“Nope,” he said, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Not until you stop talkin’ nonsense about yourself.”

You glared at him, though the heat rushing to your cheeks betrayed your indignation. “I’m serious, Logan. I’m not exactly lightweight—”

“Good thing I’m not exactly weak,” he interrupted smoothly, his grin widening. “You think a couple extra pounds are gonna make me break a sweat? Sweetheart, I’ve fought Sentinels and lived to tell the tale. Trust me, I got this.”

You groaned, your hands tightening on his shoulders as he adjusted his grip, holding you securely. “This is ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is you thinkin’ you’re anything less than perfect,” Logan countered, his tone softening just a bit. “Now, you gonna stop beatin’ yourself up, or am I gonna have to carry you around all day until you do?”

“Logan, we’re in the kitchen,” you hissed, glancing toward the doorway. “What if someone walks in?”

“Let ‘em,” he said with a shrug. “Not like they don’t already know you’re my girl.” He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against yours. “Besides, anyone’s got a problem with me lovin’ on you? They can take it up with me.”

You huffed, but your lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway,” he teased, setting you down gently but keeping his hands on your hips. “Now, what do you say we grab those cookies and actually enjoy ‘em? ‘Ro made ‘em for us, after all.”

Your gaze flicked to the plate of cookies, and for a moment, doubt crept back in. But Logan’s steady hands on your hips and the unwavering warmth in his eyes grounded you. “Okay,” you said softly. “Let’s eat the cookies.”

“That’s my girl,” Logan said, pressing a kiss to your forehead before reaching for the plate. He handed you one, grabbing one for himself, and took a big bite, chewing with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Damn, these are good. Think she’d notice if we finished the whole plate?”

You laughed, the sound lighter than it had felt all day. “Pretty sure she’d kill us.”

“Worth it,” he said with a smirk, taking another bite.

You rolled your eyes but bit into your cookie, letting the sweetness melt on your tongue. For the first time in what felt like days, the weight on your chest eased just a little.

And when Logan leaned in to steal a crumb from the corner of your mouth, you couldn’t even find it in yourself to protest.

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

stan: how can you be polyamorous and aroace, or…whatever mabel called it?

ford: in my case, i have my family and i have my platonic polycule. i would prefer to never have to interact with anyone outside these two groups

stan: what about soos and wendy? they’re not in either of those groups

ford: first of all, i am soos’ uncle, second of all, are you saying you don’t believe i would both die and kill for wendy?

stan: you’ve got a weird way of defining family, six

ford: it’s my favorite way

[osaemu]

WHEN YOU'RE SICK: STREAMER!GOJO

✩ ‧ ˚. synopsis: you have a cold, and he has a bag of sweets—how does your streamer boyfriend comfort you when you're sick? (streamer!au)

contents: fem!reader. fluff. pet names. very self-indulgent bc i'm sick right now and needed this for myself :,) can mostly be read outside of the streamer!au i guess.

“i brought you some sweets!”

you look up drowsily when your boyfriend’s familiar voice pulls you out of your sleep. your eyes slowly adjust to the soft lighting of your room and to the perfect, sharp features of the face inches from yours. “satoru, how are you here—”

he cuts you off by pressing a finger to your lips, and a moment later, satoru slips some sort of candy into your mouth. “‘cause you’re sick, and i’m a good boyfriend. obviously,” he teases, smiling endearingly when your eyes light up from the sugary taste of whatever satoru gave you. “how’d you catch a cold, anyways?”

you sit up a little bit, resting your back against the headboard and your head on satoru’s shoulder. “i’m not actually sure,” you admit, snuggling into the arm that wraps itself around you.  “aw, you’re wearing the hoodie i got you,” you point out, tapping on his chest. it’s a small inside joke between the two of you—the logo on the top left of the hoodie is the one from the streamer inmaki’s channel, a user who has a long-standing reputation for being one of your boyfriend’s haters.

“only because i practically ran out of the house once i got your text,” satoru huffs, rolling his blue eyes good-naturedly. he notices the little smile on your face and the way you cover your mouth in an attempt to hide your laugh, so he pulls out his phone from his pocket and adds, “hey, what was i supposed to do when i get a message like this?”

random girl i guess i like: can u come over :( i’m sick and imy

“why’d you change my contact to ‘random girl i guess i like?’” you gasp dramatically, snatching satoru’s phone away from him. a nervous laugh slips out of your boyfriend’s lips before you turn on him, squinting your eyes at him suspiciously. “if i looked at suguru’s contact, what would i see next?”

“...you don’t wanna know.”

“satoru gojo, answer me or i swear—” you don’t get to finish your threat before a sneeze cuts you off, followed by two more that leave you deflated in satoru’s arms. somehow, your head slides down from his shoulder and ends up on his chest, and a look of concern overtakes satoru’s expression.

“how sick are you?” he asks tentatively, fishing out another candy from his pocket and prodding at your lips with it. you open your mouth and let him feed you, taking a second to relish the sweetness of the sugar-loaded bite before you shrug and sniffle again. “poor thing,” satoru coos, rounding his eyes down at you while you rub your nose to get rid of the subtle itching sensation. 

“i can’t stop sniffling,” you mumble dryly, staring up at satoru pathetically. it’s as if you’re a wet cat that’s been sitting in the rain for hours, and as if he’s the kind old man who takes you in and dries you off. satoru’s slender fingers thread themselves through your dishelved hair, stroking it and twining it around his hand. “s’ been like this for hou— no, days,” you continue, determined to complain for at least the next couple minutes. “and—”

satoru’s hands move from the top of your head to your cheeks, cupping them intensely enough to hold your face still as he leans down and gives you a quick kiss on the lips. you make a small sound in protest, not wanting to get him sick too, but he ignores you and peppers feather-like kisses all over your face. “you’re so cute like this, y’know?” he murmurs, squishing your face in between his hands. “all rumpled and bedhead-y, aww.”

“satoru, you’ll get sick,” you point out, futilely trying to lean away from his lips when he goes back in for a kiss again. “satoru!”

“i don’t care,” he grumbles, swatting away your hand when you try to pull on the strings of his hoodie. “you’re my girlfriend, and if i wanna kiss you, then i will. and i don’t care if i get sick, ‘cause i have a pretty girl to take care of me anyways, don’t i?”

you stop protesting and let him press his lips back to yours again, and even though you sniffle again about three times, satoru’s as devoted to you as ever. “really?”

“yeah. my mom— ow, i mean, you too!” he adds quickly, grinning playfully even when you swat his chest. “i’m joking, i’m joking. have some candy, sweet girl.” before you can say anything, satoru shoves a handful of bright, colorful sweets in your mouth and kisses your nose. “take a nap. i’ll be here when you wake up, i promise.”

somehow, the moment you hear satoru’s murmured reassurances, your eyes grow heavy and you surrender yourself to his grip. “m’kay…” you mumble, closing your eyes and exhaling softly. and maybe it’s your imagination, but you swear you can feel satoru’s suppressed laughter as you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. 

… 

“wait, now what do i do?”

[ghxstmxchine]

ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇꜱ

☆ ᴀ/ɴ: letting myself be a teensy bit self indulgent on my first post bc this is my favorite thing ever. super excited to start posting more on here!

☆ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟꜱ: SFW // includes: Miles, Hobie, Miguel & Pavitr (x gn!reader) // w.c: 0.8k

ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟᴇꜱ

Not the biggest fan of people stealing his clothes especially when everything he owns means so much to him, but when it comes to you, he’s always willing to make exceptions

He might be a bit shocked when you show up wearing the jacket he’s been tearing his room apart looking for, but he’s quick to reassure you that you can keep it and even wants you to take it

It’s different when it comes to you, he knows it comes from a place of love. You adore him so much that you want at least something of his to keep with you, especially with how busy his schedule tends to be

It’s not a one way agreement though, he most definitely returns the sentiment by taking something of yours. He likes having something that reminds him of you, it makes him feel safer sometimes

Will completely deny that it’s yours whenever you point it out, but his smile is giving him away as you chase him around trying to reclaim your jacket.

“Miles, is that my jacket?” “No? I bought this.” “It’s literally my jacket.” “Okay, then why does it fit me so well? Might as well be mine” “Miles…”

Goes clothes shopping but keeps you in mind while buying stuff

ʜᴏʙɪᴇ ʙʀᴏᴡɴ

Always so quick to compliment how something of his looks on you, He can’t help but be such a flirt and it’s a nice surprise to see something he loves on someone he loves, he has to make sure you know how good you look 

When it comes to things such as his battle vest, he offers to make you one or at least teach you but you stubbornly only take his which he teases you for plenty because you can’t seem to get enough of him

Since you both seem to be sharing it anyways, he’ll let you add on pins or patches that you like. He also never complains if you accidentally tear it because it’s just an excuse to add another patch

When he takes your clothes he’s very loud and proud about it, walking around shamelessly in something you own. (“Don’t I look good? Almost looks better on me, don’t you think love?)

Claims that your clothes are much more comfortable than his but he’s not one to ever care about buying new things so he definitely takes advantage of anything you may have just bought

He’s very careful with your clothes, it’s almost a miracle how he never gets anything (dirt, makeup, blood, etc.) on it. For someone so punk he's so stubborn with keeping your things clean & undamaged

ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ'ʜᴀʀᴀ

He’s tricky, he’ll be a bit annoyed if it’s anything he needs at the moment but doesn’t complain if it’s anything else. He might make a comment about making sure not to ruin it but with the way he’s looking at you all day, you know he’s all bark and no bite

Flips some possessive switch on in his head and suddenly he’s looking at you like you’re some meal, he gets a lot more touchy when he sees you in something of his but won’t admit it

Even when he asks you to give it back to him by the end of the day, he never pesters you about it again, too busy staring at how good you look

Very, very rarely will ever take anything that’s yours. Half of the time it’s on accident when he’s trying to find something of his in the dark bedroom, and it’s even harder to get him to admit that it’s yours

He’s too scared he’ll ruin something of yours if he gets into a fight, especially since you take such good care of what you steal from him. He’d rather accept small things like bracelets or rings to wear

Make him one of those friendship bracelets and he’ll wear it till it falls apart

ᴘᴀᴠɪᴛʀ ᴘʀᴀʙʜᴀᴋᴀʀ

Will completely gush for hours about how good you look in anything of his. He feels so honored that you chose something of his to wear, especially if it makes you feel comfortable

He just can’t get over it, he’s such a hopeless romantic and you wearing his clothes is automatically so romantic to him. He’s also super quick to offer up something of his if you ever need it

It always smells so good, he takes super good care of his belongings and has a very distinct cologne he wears that rubs off on everything he wears. Also his clothes are super soft, overall they’re very comfortable

He’s not one to take anything without asking, he could be freezing to death and still make sure with you that it’s okay for him to take a jacket. He’s very big on respecting others’ belongings

Wears your jacket with him on patrol sometimes, much like Miles he finds it comforting to have something from you while he’s patrolling, especially on taxing days

Washes and folds everything before returning it to you because he’s just an absolute sweetheart. He’ll let you keep anything of his for as long as you want, he’s not one to complain

[murdockparker]

Our Cottage

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: A first anniversary is nearly as important and memorable as the wedding day—if only she had remembered it. Or, at the very least, hoped her husband also forgot. Knowing her husband? Unlikely.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: fluffy fluff!! cheesy as cheese gets I'm afraid, mentions and illusions of sex but no smut (sorry babes maybe next time)

A/N: Another self indulgent fic for me myself and I. You're welcome to read it if you want I guess—I have nothing else to say about it

__

The room was too fragrant. 

Maybe it was her sensitive sense of smell that had awoken her, but something about the near ten bouquets that adorned her bedchambers led her to believe that both could be true. 

“What in the world?”

“Good morning, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said, knocking unceremoniously on the door. “I do hate to intrude on your beauty sleep, but I was instructed to beat the drapes and I’m afraid this is the last room I have left to do.”

“No, no,” (Y/N) groaned, sitting up in bed, “I bet it’s time for me to rise anyway. Can’t sleep the day away.”

“You’re much more forgiving than Mr. Bridgerton,” Mrs. Crabtree smiled, entering further into the bedchambers. “As much as I miss the young master’s presence here at the estate, if he found out that I awoke you early,” she laughed quietly, “I reckon the mister and I would be packing our bags before nightfall.”

“Oh please,” (Y/N) peeled the covers off of her body, stretching her legs, “Benedict loves you both dearly—”

“But he loves you more,” the woman points, making good work of taking the drapes off the wall. “Why, do you think Mr. Bridgerton would purchase the same amount of flowers for me?”

She looks closer at the bouquets—all full of a different variety of blooms. Most filled with her favorites, but a handful were a collection of his favorites as well. “Why did Benedict purchase all of these flowers, anyway? It seems excessive…”

Mrs. Crabtree’s smile seemed secretive at first, fading in realization after looking Mrs. Bridgerton in the eyes. “Oh, my dear, you’re serious.”

“Benedict is usually known for romantic gestures,” (Y/N) said indifferently, “I do not recall a time he did something quite like this, though.”

“Well, I can recall a time Mr. Crabtree and I had to clean up a shocking amount of paint and a few precarious handprints across his study…”

She wished she was still in bed, wanting nothing more than to pull the covers over her bright red face. It was one of the many nights of their honeymoon—Benedict had the bright idea to try and paint with their bodies instead of brushes. She thought he had the decency to clean it all up in the morning. She thought, anyhow.

“I-I’m sorry you had to clean up such a mess,” (Y/N) said, praying the apology could transcend lifetimes. “I will be sure to let Benedict know he needs to be more careful with his oils.”

“Oh, your love keeps me young, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “But as I was saying—do you really not realize why your husband had purchased so many flowers?”

“Not a clue.”

“Perhaps it isn’t my place,” Mrs. Crabtree said slowly. “But you and the master have been married for a year now.”

“Yes, yes,” (Y/N) waved. “Nearly year of marital bliss—”

“A year ago, today.”

“Today is… surely not…”

Noticing a perfectly placed card in the bouquet on her nightstand, she grabbed it and quickly sped over the looping font.

~

Dearest,

I hope these blooms find you well, I instructed the Crabtrees to be extra careful in their delivery this morn. As exquisite as the flowers may be, and I insisted on their exquisiteness, they could never hold a candle to you. Light of my life and song of my heart, how pleasantly perfect the last year has been. 

Happy anniversary, my love.

Yours forever,

B

~

Their anniversary. Their first anniversary, and she had completely forgotten about it.

“Mr. Bridgerton is still visiting Kent until this evening,” Mrs. Crabtree explained, as if the young missus didn’t know. “I’m sure that provides ample time to prepare something for his arrival, at the very least twelve hours give or take.”

“How could I have forgotten?” (Y/N) was beside herself, forgetting her anniversary? Her first anniversary? Surely it wasn’t an omen of some kind. She was holding onto his note rather tightly. “What kind of a wife am I?”

“Not a terrible one,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “Why, I recall forgetting quite a few of my anniversaries as well.”

“Not your first one though, correct?”

“Well, no—”

“We need to go to town,” (Y/N) said determinedly, flinging her closet open, eyes scanning over every sensible dress she owned. “I need to figure out a way to top whatever spectacle my husband has planned for this evening.”

“I’ll call for a carriage,” Mrs. Crabtree sighed, knowing full well that the drapes will not get finished this afternoon.

_

“If we were in London, why, I’d have hundreds of choices on what to get Benedict,” (Y/N) said, skimming through the few booths at the market. Life out in the country was agreeable, favorable even, but it was moments like these that she truly missed the convenience of living in such a populated place. “I just do not see how I am to make a gift with anything here.”

“Perhaps, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said, carrying a basket full of fresh fruit and veg—taking every opportunity of the market while they’re out, “perhaps you should try gifting something from the heart?”

“What to wives usually get their husbands for the first anniversary?” (Y/N) asked absentmindedly, fingers running over a healthy pile of apples.

“I find that most women in your place have the pleasure of gifting news of an heir right around or before the year mark,” Mrs. Crabtree said, a hint of a smile dancing on her lips. “I don’t suppose you can surprise Mr. Bridgerton with such news?”

Her face went red. “No. Decidedly not.”

“Shame,” Mrs. Crabtree clicked, “I was rather hoping to be doting on a babe sometime soon…”

“What did you give Mr. Crabtree for your anniversary?” (Y/N) tried to change the subject, ignoring the perfect thought of a little baby with Benedict’s eyes. Perhaps they would have her nose? Her smile?

“Well,” the older woman’s face lit up, “our Henry was the best kind of gift—for me or Mr. Crabtree. I wish I could be more help in that regard, dear.”

Defeated, (Y/N) threw a handful of apples into her basket. The apples weren’t even all that good this time of year. Perhaps she could convince Mrs. Crabtree to bake a pie. Either way, a snack for the horses and their hard work this morning.  

“Please forgive me for speaking out of turn, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree spoke quietly, “but your husband loves you dearly, I am quite sure he would be most content with any gift you give him.”

“Oh I am sure he would be well suited to accept anything I made or purchased,” (Y/N) agreed. “I rather think I could sneeze on a piece of parchment and he’d write to the National Gallery to induct it into their collection.”

“He would,” Mrs. Crabtree agreed, holding back a laugh.

“Why did I marry such a thoughtful man?” (Y/N) groaned, fist clenching tighter on her basket. “I am destined to be in this predicament every year until the day I perish, aren’t I?”

“To be in a happy marriage, ma’am?”

“To have to deal with my inadequacy for gifts,” she corrected. “We are but a competitive match, after all. Chess is a blood sport with us,” (Y/N) laughed, recalling the last time they had played the game. They both were of the same mind, irritating as it were, it was as if they were playing themselves. It usually ended well regardless, with one under the other in the bedroom. “He probably has been planning something since we were wed, I’m sure. How do I ever top such a thing?”

“Might I suggest the baby narrative again?”

“Mrs. Crabtree, I know you mean it in jest, but it really sounds like my only option at this point.”

“I cannot help my need to see perfect little Bridgerton babies around the estate,” Mrs. Crabtree said cleverly. “But I also know when that day comes and you and Mr. Bridgerton do end up having children, it will be the most welcome of presents. Just, not this year, hm?”

“No,” she sighed, “not this year.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Crabtree nodded. “Perhaps we should head back to the estate?”

“I suppose,” (Y/N) sighed again, kicking a stray rock off of the path. “No use in sulking at the market when I can sulk in the comfort of my own home and await my perfect husband’s arrival with his perfect present.”

“Chin up, dear,” Mrs. Crabtree laughed, putting the baskets away in the carriage. “It’s endearing that you care so deeply about Mr. Bridgerton's gift. I’m sure whatever you land on will be just perfect.” A tease of sarcasm, a tease at her young missus. 

“You’ve made your point,” (Y/N) grumbled, hopping into the cab. “Perhaps I should just accept defeat.”

“Oh, well now that won’t do,” Mrs. Crabtree admonished playfully, closing the door behind her. The carriage begun moving home. “You yourself said you were a competitive match, and I for one would like to see Mr. Bridgerton bested. All men need to be reminded that the wife is the true head of the house from time to time.”

(Y/N) snorted. How she cared so deeply for the staff here in the country, the Crabtrees were always a breath of fresh air. “He’s well aware.”

“Remind him anyway,” Mrs. Crabtree said absentmindedly.

As if struck by lightning, Mrs. Bridgerton knew exactly what she could gift her husband.

_

Benedict was exhausted. His family’s bad timing is never lost on him, needing his immediate attention at Aubrey Hall for one reason or another. His mother’s correspondence begged him to come urgently, a matter only meant to be discussed in person rather through letters. With a heavy heart he left his wife behind, knowing he’d only be gone for a handful of days anyway, even if he would be missing the majority of their anniversary day. 

Benedict grinned wickedly. They still had plenty of the night, however.

When he originally had purchased My Cottage, he never expected to share the less-than-humble estate with anyone else, but like it was meant to be—and he had a very good reason to believe it was—(Y/N) made it her own and took to the country as well as he thought. She had even made fast friends with the Crabtrees, who, by all regards, Benedict thought of as family. 

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Mr. Crabtree greeted, nodding to the young master exiting the carriage. Anthony had sent for him with a family transport—knowing Benedict would not want to leave (Y/N) without—all the more reason for his brother to agree to come to Aubrey Hall. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Crabtree,” Benedict nodded back, jumping down to the dirt path.

“How was your family, sir?”

“Dreadful,” Benedict groaned. “Made even more taxing by the two entire days of travel there and back. Do they not realize how far Wiltshire is to Kent?”

“I am sure the viscount is well aware,” Mr. Crabtree said, treading lightly. “I am also sure that they would not have called upon you for a small matter, either.”

“No,” Benedict sighed, rolling his shoulders. The trip had been a long one, his muscles ached. “It was a good reason for my visit, but it still pained me to be from my wife for so very long, especially today.”

“Ah, well, your missus has not been herself since you left,” Mr. Crabtree said. “I am quite sure that seeing you will be a happy reunion indeed.”

“Please ensure that you and your missus find your lodgings in the cabin, this eve,” Benedict said, as if the thought just occurred to him. Asking his staff to stay at the cabin by the pond became a regular occurance, especially after his marriage. “It is my anniversary, after all.”

Mr. Crabtree smiled. “Already done, sir.”

“Excellent,” Benedict said, trying his best not to grin from ear to ear. “Have a good night.”

“You as well, sir.”

Benedict knew that dinner would be waiting for him inside, Mrs. Crabtree probably having already made his favorites. After his day of travel, he was ravenous—more for food in this very moment than anything else, but he would settle for his wife, too.

“Darling,” Benedict called out, removing his boots by the front entryway. “Your fantastic husband has returned!”

Silence.

“Darling?” He called again, only to be met with the ticking of the grand clock in the foyer. “Playing hard to get, it seems…”

A shimmering of light caught his eye. Candlelight was emitting from his study, his studio, flickering from the crack under the door. 

Odd.

“(Y/N)…?”

He opened the door cautiously, only to find his wife hunched over an easel. She had a streak of blue paint on her right cheek, a smidge of green right across the bridge of her nose. Benedict couldn’t recall the last time he saw something so endearing. 

“Oh! Benedict!” (Y/N) said, nearly jumping five feet into the air. “You’re home!”

“I am,” he laughed, shutting the door to the study. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Cooking,” she deadpanned, posing with a hand on her hip, painters pallet in the other. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“After all my begging to get you to pick up a brush, you decide to do it whilst I’m away?” He pressed his hand to his chest. “I cannot decide if I am touched or hurt.”

“It was meant to be a surprise!” (Y/N) laughed, setting the pallet down. “A gift for you.”

“A gift?” Benedict mused, walking closer to his wife. “And what did I do to deserve such a gift?”

“You married me,” she said simply, wiping her hands of any wet paint. They were still covered in a kaleidoscope of colors, but all dried down and hardly worth the effort to clean at the present moment. “A year ago today, I gather.”

“Oh yes,” Benedict said knowingly. “That is today, isn’t it?” His wife grinned up at him, looking more beautiful than the day he met her, a day he could have sworn was burned into his mind forever. 

“So I’ve been told,” (Y/N) said. “I hate to admit, but I started on this later that I would have liked, only working on it for the last eight hours—” 

“You didn’t happen to forget our anniversary, did you?” Benedict crossed his arms, his voice teasing.

“Of course not!” She lied, keeping her voice even. “You are just an impossible person to make a gift for, that is all.”

“Ah,” Benedict clicked. He did not believe her, but forgave her all in the same breath. “I see.”

“So it is not yet finished—”

“May I see it?”

“No, not yet,” (Y/N) said, turning the easel away quickly. He couldn’t have possibly seen what it was from where he was standing, anyway.

“What if…” Benedict crossed the room, carefully opening the closet in the wall. “We showed them together?” He pulled a similar sized canvas from the contents of the closet, covered in a plain white sheet. Of course he painted her something, it seemed only right. She married an artist, after all.

“Yours is going to be much better than mine,” (Y/N) said, nearly melting into the floor. “I will feel inadequate comparing our work.”

“Nonsense,” Benedict scoffed, walking back towards his wife. “They were both made with the same amount of love, I’m sure of it.”

“Perhaps…”

“Come on,” he said, nudging her arm with the corner of his canvas lovingly. “On the count of three?”

She nodded. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

She spun the easel around just as Benedict removed the cover from the canvas in his hand. 

Laughter filled the room.

“Oh my darling, I could kiss you,” Benedict said, voice full of love, his eyes not straying from her canvas for a moment. “Granted, I have wanted nothing more than to kiss you since I arrived—”

“Out of everything we could have painted,” (Y/N) giggled, brushing hair out of her face. “We picked the same subject?”

On both canvases laid a landscape rendition of My Cottage, one obviously more well-done than the other. Benedict’s gave a sense of perfect imperfection, something worth hanging in a gallery or museum. (Y/N)’s, while being done by the hand of a novice in only a handful of hours, gave it the sense of home, the shared feeling the couple had every day at their estate.

“We share the same mind,” Benedict surmised, setting his work on a neighboring easel, putting both side-by-side. “What a stunning collaboration on our end.”

“You jest,” (Y/N) pushed Benedict playfully. “Yours is far superior to mine. A toddler could have done better work.”

“Nonsense!” Benedict said, pulling his wife into his side, kissing her temple. “You obviously put such care into it, no matter how lopsided the left side of our home may be—”  

“Benedict—”

“It’s brilliant, my love,” Benedict sang, turning (Y/N) to look directly at him. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”

“Truly?”

“Well, I fear I am still waiting on my welcome kiss…” Benedict sighed.

“Needy, needy man,” (Y/N) bubbled, rocking on her toes to reach her husband’s face, all but happy to oblige. 

After a total of four days apart, the kiss was one that was worth waiting for. Saccharine sweet and slow, it was welcoming, it was home. Much like their first kiss, Benedict idly wondered if (Y/N)’s lips were always meant to be captured in his own—as if they were quite literally made for each other. 

“Oh dear,” (Y/N) giggled, pulling away from her husband’s embrace, thumb rubbing soothing circles on his jaw. He needed to shave.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” 

“Paint,” she said, swiping her thumb across his cheek. “Entirely my fault. I’m not even sure how I got it on my face to begin with…”

“Hardly the first time,” Benedict quipped, leaning back in to kiss her once more. 

“Do you really like it?” (Y/N) asked, resting her head on his shoulder—their attention somehow turned back to the canvases. “Or are you lying to me?”

“I would never lie to you,” Benedict said. She believed him. “But, I do suppose a few more hours would boast well to the quality…”

Another playful slap to his arm. 

“Where are we to hang yours?” Her hand grazed his masterpiece. He must have finished it ages ago, hiding it away for just the right moment. “The entryway gets too much sun—” 

“What about our bedchambers?” He offered. 

“No, I want our guests to admire your work of Our Cottage,” she hummed, focusing her attention to the beautiful wreath he lovingly added to the front door. She loved adorning their door with fresh flowers, a detail he surely could have overlooked, but still included anyway. “Perhaps in the drawing room?”

“Our Cottage…” Benedict mumbled happily. “I think it’s high time we changed the name to that, don’t you agree? Seeing as it is no longer ‘my’ anything, not with you here.”

“Considering it still is not a cottage in the slightest, I have a few disagreements on that alone,” she teased. Their estate was nearly the furthest thing from a cottage, nearly a small mansion. “But yes… Our Cottage seems fitting.”

“And where will we hang your masterpiece?” Benedict pulled her tighter into his side. “Shall we hang them side-by-side? Allow our guests to see just how talented the Bridgertons can be?”

“Oh I am quite alright with stowing this away until forever,” (Y/N) laughed. “No guest needs to see this poor attempt when the true artistry falls onto you.”

“Poppycock!” Benedict dismissed. “My wife worked very hard on this, I refuse to just ‘stow it away’.”

“Well, then where do you suggest we hang it?” She said, trying not to smile, his praise flooding her senses from her head to her toes. 

“I may have a few ideas…”

_

The wondrous scent of flowers filled their home once more, something that happened more and more frequently in the summer months, when flowers of all sorts were in season. Benedict made sure he outdid himself from last year, adorning each room in their home with at least two bouquets each, rather than just a load in their bedchambers. His reasoning? They only get the once to celebrate their second anniversary, might as well make it special.

“Should we move this one?” (Y/N) asked, holding a rather large assortment in her hand. “I would hate for her to be overwhelmed by the scent…”

“Darling, she’s fine,” Benedict said, grabbing the bouquet from his wife. “But, if you insist, I shall make an exception on this room.”

“She’s a baby,” (Y/N) giggled, watching her husband clumsily run across the hall to place the bouquet in their bedchambers. “I do not think she has the capacity to admire such a thing yet.”

“We want our daughter to be well versed, do we not?” Benedict said, returning to the nursery. “Best we start her on the language of flowers as soon as we can. An educated lady is a respected lady.”

“You’re impossible,” (Y/N) grinned.

“So I’ve been told.”

“God, she’s so perfect,” she said, looking over the crib with a look one could only describe as lovestruck. “How did we manage to make such a beautiful thing?”

“You did most of the work,” Benedict said, suddenly beside her. “I only showed up the once, if I recall.”

“Oh hush,” (Y/N) leaned up against him, feeling the warmth of his body touching her own. “A perfect anniversary present.”

“She’s been quite the gift the last few months, I’ll give you that,” Benedict hummed, his fingers lazily rubbing shapes on the top of her arm. “But I’m afraid that title still falls to the gift from last year.”

Framed perfectly atop the crib of their precious baby girl was the rendition of their home, the one (Y/N) had worked so hard on a year prior. While it had looked a bit more polished after Benedict offered his wife some very well needed advice, it was still lopsided and patchy, but very much full of love. He had hung it two weeks later, after it had completely dried and framed, causing his wife to sob tears of joy on the placement. 

Their daughter was born only nine months after.

“Our Cottage,” she sighed happily.

“Our Cottage,” Benedict kissed her temple, looking down at his daughter and back at his beautiful wife. “Happy anniversary, my love.”

[catscidr]

// what's the difference between scotch and whisky anyways //

i. note — /edit/ i said i would fix the formatting later and Now is later hi hellooo. sorry for not posting, i suddenly couldnt bring myself to write for more than five minutes at a time lmaoa ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) but i hope the dottore enjoyers like this at the very least. rn im working on chapter 3 of fbbts and a darker, separate dottore/reader one shot and a couple of jjk fics if anyone would even be interested in reading them lol. but in the meantime, here's drunken shenanigans ft everyone's favorite war criminal ii. includes — dottore x gn!reader, webttore (beta) and omega cameos. various mentioned harbingers iii. cw — fluff, crack sorta, alcohol stuff, dottore is ooc because he's Not Sober, everyone is clingy. fun stuff yk iv. wc — 3,5k -> ao3 link

It’s a popular stereotype that Snezhnayans are heavy drinkers, but the fact lies within the fatui. They’re shameless; whether it’s showing up to work inebriated or drinking on the job, they’ll hold onto the ‘snezhnayans have a high alcohol tolerance’ stereotype with clenched fists and a bottle at their lips. 

However, that fact only applies to the lackeys—agents that are stationed for hours on end without a break, agents that, at times, need liquid courage to face the horrors that come with the job. The Harbingers are an entirely different case. 

They balance each other, in a way. Where Tartaglia can down three shots of fire water and come out virtually unscathed, Damselette would rather not be caught within a hundred meters of a drop of alcohol. Where The Knave occasionally enjoys a glass of wine in her office, The Balladeer sneers at the choice of drink. 

None came together to go out for drinks, if not because of their job taking up a lot of time out of their days. No, none of the Harbingers were really close enough to let themselves be seen so vulnerable, if one dared drink themselves to the point of being unable to walk in a straight line. 

Thus, there had only been rumors circulating the halls of Zapolyarny palace. Hushed speculations spoken between coworkers, told with an air of excitement. No one has ever seen their Lords in a state other than wholly glorious, so it’s only human nature to wonder just what they would be like if their dignity were knocked down a peg—how they would be if they indulged in simple human vices. 

There are two kinds of Harbingers; ones that lack any rumors about their drinking habits, and ones that are so intriguing that if you were to strike up a conversation with a fatui agent, you would start theorizing about what kind of drunk they’re like before saying hello. Tartaglia and The Knave are part of the former, along with The Rooster and The Fair Lady. The latter consists of (unsurprisingly) The Balladeer, our sweet Damselette, and the two big shots at the top. 

Rumors of The Captain’s drinking habits are usually quite short-lived. People either have too much respect for him to speculate about something as childish as how he acts when he’s had too much to drink, or fear him too much to risk spreading rumors. 

But regarding The Doctor... 

It’s no secret that, even if he is eccentric and has a penchant for unconventional research methods, he has quite the loyal following. Agents will rally to defend him if they hear anyone slandering him, insisting that he’s reasonable and logical. ‘If you simply do your job, you have nothing to worry about’ is what they’d say. 

Although he’s amassed his fair share of fans within the fatui, they’re unlike The Captain’s loyal following; The Doctor’s subordinates are the first to whisper theories about their boss’ drinking habits. He’s only part human now, so maybe alcohol doesn’t affect him the way it does normal people like Tartaglia. Oh, but he seems the type to need to unwind occasionally, so maybe he has a secret stash of wine somewhere in his office? What if, in his free time, he creates various concoctions and cocktails to drink? 

Seeing as he understands science deeper than anyone else, mixology should be a walk in the park for a scientist as lucrative as him. 

Wrong. 

“Shouldn’t you be working?” 

The glare sent your way is nothing short of vicious. There stood in front of you one of his segments, the one with the infamous short fuse. “Why are you here?” 

You internalize the sigh you want to let out, deciding against making him mad when it seems he can’t even stand straight for longer than a few seconds. 

“Lord Pantalone dismissed me early.” You strategically omit why he let you go in the first place. “Where’s Prime?” 

As per anything retaining to Il Dottore, your relationship was unconventional at best. The term closest to what you were, if you wanted to describe said relationship, would be lovers—but... not quite? Still. Neither you nor Dottore cared enough to put a clear label on it, so you’ve resorted to letting people speculate— it can be quite entertaining to listen to people guess while being loud and wrong, anyways. 

You used to work under him as one of his many researchers. When you both started taking your relationship seriously, he threw in the idea of promoting you to being his personal assistant; that way he could (give you special treatment) have someone more competent than his last assistant take care of “menial tasks” like his tedious paperwork. 

You refused the generous offer, insisting that it would be unprofessional to work under him as his partner. After many late-night discussions (and stubborn headbutting of differing opinions) you both have come to an agreement in which you would work for Lord Pantalone as a financial planner. 

(You finally managed to convince him by bringing up how you could, hypothetically, pull some strings on your end in his favor—that you could persuade Pantalone to allot more funding for his research. If he had any shame left, it would have been embarrassing how quickly he shook your hand to accept your conditions.) 

Now, while you spent most of your time in an office in The Regrator’s office building near the Palace, you occasionally came by to drop off documents. Of course, you would use your short trips as an excuse to go see Dottore (even if you could do so at any time anyways, given how much authority he had.) 

However, sometimes you just want to work. 

You’ll leave the comfort of your cubicle to go see him and the extensions of himself, sure, but you still had a job to do. Papers piled up, clients grew impatient, and even your boss wasn’t immune to their nasty attitude whenever he held a meeting with a particularly irritating client. Thus, sometimes you wished you could truly focus, lose track of time and work until your wrist forced you to take a break. 

This wouldn't happen today, clearly. Seeing as one of Dottore’s lackeys rushed to your office to bring you to the Haeresys, you most likely won’t be seeing your desk until further notice. 

Now you were stuck with a cryptic Beta, trying your best to use what little knowledge about the clones’ machinery you managed to wring out of your stubborn lover. 

“Where’s Prime?” You run a hand over your wrinkled coat sleeve, keeping your voice calm and steady. Patient, else you’d be subjected to the segment’s indignation. 

“Dunno.” 

You sigh. Is he a scientist or a child? “You do know. Where is he?” 

“I told you I don’t know!” He throws his hands up, accidentally striking his mask in the way—effectively leaving it to rest at an angle on his face. Most of his mouth showed now, instead of the half you’re used to seeing. And the holes for the eyes don’t quite go where they should... 

Blinking, you take in the sight in front of you while he calms down. His crimson eyes were glassy, and his lips formed a permanent pout, vastly out of character for a segment that supposedly represented The Doctor at the most volatile stage of his life. Azure locks curled around his cheeks, though they were usually tucked out of the way. His clothes were all wrinkled, in a way that left you wondering if you shouldn’t tend to him instead. Dealing with his attitude is annoying, but it’ll be amusing to think about later, I guess. 

“Do you really not know...?” 

“No.” 

“Then, do you know why I was called to the lab?” 

“No. Yes... probably not. Uh,” he crosses his arms over his chest and loses his balance for just a second, “I think I do.” 

You raise an inquisitive brow, silently encouraging him to continue. 

“Give me a second.” Beta shuts his eyes, shoulders slumping. His mask was still crooked—you had half a mind to fix it, but held back the twitch in your fingers. After a few seconds he pipes up, uncrossing his arms to reach out to you. 

“Come.” 

The segment grabs your wrist and drags you into the hallways of the Palace, ignoring your yelp of surprise and the stares of various agents lingering in the halls. You pass by ornate statues and paintings, the sight more unfamiliar than not. 

“Beta, where are we-” 

“Hush, I can’t walk when you’re talking my ear off.” 

...Right. Something is definitely wrong. 

After about five minutes of running around like headless chickens you tug your arm back, making Beta turn around indignantly. You lift your hands up in front of you before he can speak. 

“Did you mean to bring me to Lady Signora’s office?” you ask, lips curled up into a small smile seeing his mask still laid crooked on his face. With a gentle hand you fix it, cold fingers grazing his burning cheek. 

“...” 

Beta’s brows furrow as he avoids your gaze, huffing dramatically. Poor guy, you mused. 

“Alright, let’s go to the lab, then. He must be there, right? Where was Prime last time you saw him?” 

“...his office, probably,” he murmurs. 

With a nod and a smile akin to someone doing some gentle parenting, you place a hand on his back and help guide him to Haeresys. The stairs were hard to walk down, but with just a bit of patience and a bit of Beta clutching your arm while shouting that you were trying to assassinate him, you make it down in one piece. 

You remove your gloves and place your palm into the scan, then input the lengthy password to open the laboratory’s large doors. They slide open, revealing the absence of normal researchers and noise. You spot Omega standing over the remains of a ruin machine with a clipboard in his hands and look back towards Beta. 

“Go sit, I’ll go ask Omega about Prime’s whereabouts.” 

The clone nods, trudging his legs along to lay down on the leather couch tucked away in the lab. 

As you put away your large coat and hang it up in the small rack near the doors and make your way towards Omega, you notice the slow rhythm of his handwriting—when he’s usually seemingly speedrunning writing down notes, he’s now leisurely writing away, unaware of your presence. 

“Omega.” 

The latter turns to you, masking his surprise with a small smile instead. “My dear,” he practically purrs, putting away the clipboard in a swift movement, placing the pen in his coat pocket. 

“I was alerted that something was... off, with Prime. Do you know where he is?” 

And where you thought Omega would pick up on Beta’s lack of decorum, you were sorely mistaken. The clone walks up to you with that same smile brightening his features, placing both hands on your shoulders oh so gently. 

“He’s in his office. But enough about him, I haven’t seen you in a while, beloved. Why must you keep me away from you?” he muses, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. You tilt your head to avoid being stabbed by his mask’s beak, raising your hands to press against his chest to make some distance. The action proved to be futile, of course. 

We saw each other yesterday, you murmur. “I’m sorry, I’ll get back to you in a moment, alright?” You offer him a warm smile in hopes that he’ll listen, seeing as he seemed to be quite... mushy. 

It works, and he lets you go with a curt nod, retreating to go... somewhere. You didn’t linger around long enough to figure it out, since you knew where to go now. 

Walking across the lab, you note how things seemed to be more out of place than usual. It couldn’t have been a researcher, they always had to clean up after themselves, courtesy of their boss. So, the mess had to be caused by them... 

You finally stand in front of his door, raising a fist to knock. A yelp leaves you as you’re whisked away, the door slamming shut just as quickly as it swung open. 

“Dottor-” 

“Can you fucking believe how inept these agents are? They dare speak to me with such disrespect after delivering the lousiest job I’ve ever seen.” Dottore rambles, pulling you deeper into his office. You observe the state of his workspace, namely the papers scattered onto the ground and the... bottlecap on the floor, right next to his trashcan filled with crumpled up paper...? 

“Showing up in the lab with their damn hands empty save for the half empty bottle of scotch they tried to hide. Idiots were too shitfaced to notice how I noticed.” 

“Okay, Dottore, what are you-” 

He gestures wildly as he speaks, his hands the only way for you to read him as his mask hid most of his features. The blue lines taunt you; though you’re tempted to take it off, you feel like he might just lunge at you if you did. 

“And then they had the gall to insist that the bottle was theirs when I confiscated it.” Dottore pushes you down to sit on the couch, a small oof leaving you in consequence. “Anything that enters this fucking lab belongs to me, I’m the boss, I decide what flies and what does not.” 

Absolutely unaware of your muffled giggles as you piece things together, he keeps ranting, turning his back to you as he stomps away towards his desk. “Not to mention these damn lackeys have had multiple warnings up until now,” he spits out. “Lord Harbinger, we’re sorry! We’ll clean up the lab to make up for this offense! Lord Harbinger, it won’t happen again! Who do they take me for, a moron?!” 

The higher pitch he uses to imitate (and make fun of) the agents almost makes you lose it. But you keep your composure, sitting demurely, listening. 

Dottore comes back with a bottle in hand, orange liquid swirling around the thick glass as he stumbles closer to where you sat. He joins you without warning, creating a dip in the sofa next to you—almost forcing you to lean onto him for support. His free arm drapes over the back as he sighs loudly, making you stifle a laugh behind your hand. 

A pregnant pause stretches between the two of you as his anger simmers down to embers. You lean forward, attempting to take a look at the label on the bottle in his hand. 

“What’re you holding there, love?” you ask sweetly. Glancing up you’re able to steal a peek at his eyes from underneath his dark mask—Archons was he absolutely gone. 

It takes him a second to respond, almost as if he forgot you were even there in the first place. 

“Whisky.” 

“I thought it was scotch.” 

“Same thing.” 

“No it isn’t.” 

“Yes it is.” 

“No it’s n-” 

“It is.” 

Maybe it wasn't the brightest thing to do, messing with him while he’s this inebriated. But it sure was entertaining. 

“Alright. Well, how much did you drink?” 

“A sip or two.” 

As if on cue, he brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a swig. Your grin widens, thoroughly entertained by the show; who else had the privilege of seeing The Doctor so drunk he could barely formulate something that made sense? 

You bring his attention back on you as you place a hand on his knee, leaning close. Dottore immediately snaps into place, gaze flickering down to your lips from the proximity. 

With a swift hand you grab the scotch from his hands, inspecting the amount still left in the bottle. If he said it was half empty when he confiscated it, then... 

“Dearest, did you drink a quarter of this bottle?” You're not even supposed to drink it straight from the bottle, either is what you wished to add, but seeing how defensive he was already, you figured it would just make things more complicated than they needed to be.

As if stung by the Tsaritsa’s delusion, he immediately stiffens and defends himself. “I did not, I told you I only had a sip.” 

The way his bottom lip jutted out was almost cute, if you dared to describe him in such a way. Compliments could wait though; you had answers to seek. 

“Mhm, a sip. Well,” you put the bottle down on a coaster on the coffee table and turn to face him properly, “what happened to the segments? They’re all a little... woozy.” Your fingers trail his arm, tracing circles in their wake. 

Dottore swallows, Adam's apple bobbing as he opens his mouth to speak. “We’re connected, albeit loosely. They could be affected by the few sips of scotch I drank, though I would have some work cut out for me if that were the case. I can’t let them be so weak after all.” 

The way he spoke sounded, for lack of better words, pouty. 

Was he... sulking? 

“And since we’re connected, I know you spoke to Beta ‘n Omega earlier.” 

He most definitely is. He's even slurring his words, now...

“Yeah? I was asking them where you were so I could check up on you, baby.” You chuckle softly, taking the liberty of putting his mask away. Bright, glassy red eyes stare down into you, and you hold back the urge to smother his face in kisses. 

“You didn’t have to talk to them, you could have just asked me.” 

“I was looking for you, so I couldn’t have.” 

“Why not?” 

You scoff, smiling as you adjust yourself on the couch. Dottore notices and takes the liberty of pushing you down, laying his head down so his ear is on your chest, cheek pressed up into you. “I’m sorry, I’ll ask you next time,” you respond. 

That satisfies him, enough to render him silent for a handful of seconds before he speaks up again. 

“...I need to get back to work,” he huffs. 

You bring a hand up and run it through his disheveled locks, careful not to tug at the small knots in the hair at the back of his neck. Twirling the hair of his mullet you hum, noting how his weight seemed to grow heavier as the seconds passed. No way is he going to get any work done if he falls asleep here. 

“Take a break, you deserve it. In the meantime, you can think of a suitable way to punish those stupid agents from earlier, right?” 

A quiet hum is all you get in response. You look down expecting to see his unnerving red eyes to be staring up at you, but you’re met with the sight of his features completely lax instead. Azure hair pools around his face, settling on your chest where his face rose in time with your breaths. 

You would have dimmed the lights and turned off his computer if you knew he was going to keep you hostage on the couch. Though you can’t really complain at the turn of events; it’s rare for Dottore to be the one to initiate skinship in the relationship. 

It was quiet, but you managed to hear the low dear? that left his lips. You hum, not wanting to speak as to not break the quiet atmosphere lulling you to a sense of peace. 

After a minute of silence, you decide to repeat yourself—this time a little louder than before. “What is it?” 

Another minute passes, just as quiet as the last. The sound of his slow, deep breaths fills the room, accompanied by the low scratches of your nails on his scalp. His hair parts where your fingers tread through it, and you quietly note that you should trim his hair soon. 

Il Dottore’s poor alcohol tolerance will always be a mystery to the public, because there’s no way you would ever let anyone in on the way he cuddles up to you when he’s had too much to drink. 

[moodymisty]

Hi, I’d like to request a (nsfw) Perturabo x reader where you’re about to have sex with him, but you’re slowly realising from the way he’s anxiously going about it that he’s never had sex before. Perturabo knows, anatomically speaking, where the clit is, but he’s probably got no clue on what to do with it. (Also he’s probably trying so hard not to be an ass about it but he’s anxious and you’re so pretty and eager and what if he disappoints you and what if you call his sexual ability subpar and what if-) (he’s nervous. Basically)

I just feel like we often forget that a good number of the primarchs haven’t had sex before, which in my opinion could have some interesting implications in terms of x readers. Especially considering who they are and the possible stigmas around sex that they could have learned while on their various planets

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

A soft sequel to this request

Author’s note: I always jokingly quote Bricky when I say Perty is an Incel, so it’s nice I get to defeat the meme. Makes sense that most of the Primarchs probably wouldn’t indulge in such a thing at least often though, physical issues aside most humans tended to treat them like they were above them, which would probably be frustrating.

Anyways, I made sure to stay as close to your prompt as I could with Perturabo. I imagine he would NEVER let anyone see he wasn't a master at something, sex included. But don't worry, he worries internally plenty for you to enjoy I hope.

Summary: Perturabo returns to his new beloved, and indulges in an act he once deemed pointless.

Relationships: Perturabo/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Massive size kink, Perturabo is a little awkward but he tries to hide it, The creampie to end all creampies, A teeny bit of choking kink if you squint, Like 80% smut

Word Count: 2739 ...oops?

“Lord Perturabo?”

Hearing his name, he looks up to see a fresh faced Iron Warrior looking at him between two other of his elders. He hums as a response that he heard them, but that only seems to confuse him further.

“Should I repeat myself?”

Perturabo had hoped the three would take his disinterest in the matter as a tell for that they should continue their current plan, but he suppose they need his verbal approval on the matter.

“No. Take whatever tech priests aren’t already working on the issue and have them assist. I expect this to not be a problem for much longer.”

Throne knows we shouldn’t be waylaid for much longer.

The fact that they even had an engine issue to begin with upset the primarch immensely, but he’s been holding his tongue while it’s fixed. His legion has done nothing but aggravate him this entire mission, even more so than usual.

The three Iron Warriors nod and leave to follow his orders, and let Perturabo enjoy the room in silence once again. Apart from the hum of machinery and the buzz of a projection on the holotable, the room is finally quiet enough for him.

With a soft grunt of exertion he leans forward and places his hands against the edge of the massive table, and shifts uncomfortably in his armor as the issue that had distracted him previous makes itself known once again. It arguably aggravates him even more than this entire waylaid issue has been, his gauntlets gripping the table's edge tight enough that he feels it give way and crumbles underneath his hands.

Perturabo has never had such thoughts of sex take over so much of his head before. Especially ones that were unsolvable on his own, and lingered like some sort of infection.

If rarely the desire struck him and kept distracting him he could take a moment to himself, angrily yank himself to completion in the quiet of his own quarters- usually at his desk- before returning to his work, distraction quelled. It was transactional, just a bodily need to be dealt with before moving along.

But that hasn’t worked this time. He’s already tried and you still occupy his mind- still distracting him. It's all your fault, he should've never allowed you to get your nails into him this deep, deep enough that he can't tear them free.

He’s never felt this way before. He’s never felt any real desire to actually bring another person into his bed; If he needed that sort of release, he did it himself. To touch another, desire another, is new to him.

He knows you're soft, but how soft will you feel in his hands? Not just your own hand, but your entire body? He's never touched a woman before, had no reason to add another variable into his life that would largely serve to only distract him.

He wishes he could just rip all this armor off. He won't, but it's aggravating that now he's distracted enough to find it all inconvenient.

Once they repair the Iron Blood they can return to Olympia. Then he can see you and finally relieve himself of the stress you've put him under, scolding you for things you had no control over.

Unlike the days earlier when you were still working on his puzzle boxes, your workload now is significantly reduced. You mostly clean Perturabo's workshop and most personal quarters now, partly to keep yourself busy, and because he doesn't wish there to be anyone in there he doesn't trust.

He would have someone else he didn't despise to do it if you got bored of the work, the only reason he hasn't is because you seem to do it to keep your mind busy; Especially now that he was gone. He understands the feeling. He too hates it if his mind wanders too far off the path, hence why his workshop is so filled with random things he made when he felt himself drifting.

You enter the workshop and with significant effort close the heavy door behind you, before walking closer to him. He sits at his main workbench, a few partly rolled up plans the only thing in front of him of note. His shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, showing the scars on his arms hands as he leaned them on the table.

"How did it go?"

You say to him with a cautious look. You more than likely know that the Iron Blood was waylaid for a decent while, and you know faulty machinery is a core trigger for his mood to go quickly sour.

"I struggle to imagine a way it could have gone worse." He says with a monotone voice and blunt expression, which makes your lips purse- though before you can come up with a response he speaks again.

"Come here."

He gestures with one motion of his hand, and you walk closer up until you're standing right beside his chair.

It's still a bit surprising when he picks you up however; He's done it before, though the feeling of being lifted off the ground so easily is not a feeling done away with easily. He sits you onto his lap and you ignore the odd feeling in your chest about having been moved around so easily by him, looking down to see his thighs wider than your hips by a significant degree. Your legs dangle unable to touch the ground at this height; You look so small.

Leaning forward you pull some of the scattered blueprints closer to you, looking at them curiously.

"What are these for?"

Perturabo decides to placate at least one of your questions and ignore the ache between his legs for a moment longer.

"Drafts for the auto-targeting orbital defense cannons."

You hum and look at them, fingers brushing over the parchment. Perturabo watches as you lean forward, accentuating the curve of your spine and hips; Even with how light you are, he can also feel the way you soft thighs and ass press against him. He doesn't placate your questions any longer.

“Take it off.”

You’re clearly confused for a moment, taking your eyes away from his plans to look around.

“What? What do you mean?” You utter, before your body tenses as you feel his massive hand grip your waist.

“Take off your clothes.” Your hands suddenly begin to fumble with your dress, shaking. Perturabo settles to quicken the process forgo removing your dress, and simply push up the hem and tear off your underwear instead.

His hand wraps around your thigh easily, swallowing it in the massive expanse of his palm. His index finger slides between the crease at the very top of your thigh, and the closeness puts your lip between your teeth as your thighs instinctively move to close.

But the entire time his hand is less so teasing and more so, explorative. He has no destination in mind, and only lingers if he hears or feels you react to his touch.

He doesn't know how to touch you beyond the simplistic, what makes you sing. He'll learn silently, his pride would never allow him not to.

Pulling it away he moves his hand underneath you, yanking at his trousers. You hold his forearm for support until you see him finally free his cock, and it lays between your legs. You can just barely grind against it at this angle; but your bigger concern is its size.

Perturabo notices it too, but refuses to vocalize such a concern to you. He’ll make it work, he has too. He’s not sure if he would be able to survive if he couldn’t fuck you the way he’s been fruitlessly imagining to the point of being aggravatingly pent up.

His hand pushes between your legs, sliding against your folds and using his thick fingers to push them apart. You clench your teeth and lean back against his chest, feeling as he slips one of his fingers inside of you. Your sitting angle forces him to curl his finger in order to slip it into you fully he quickly realizes, grasping onto his arm for support.

He hears you moan, cunt soaking wet as you sit in his lap, leaning against his chest as he teases you. He knows that you won’t be able to take him straight away, not with your difference in size. It doesn’t take much to realize your tiny, tight little cunt wasn’t meant for him.

“Can you take another?” He says, and you think he’s teasing, but you realize he’s asking a genuine question.

Perturabo slowly forces a second finger into you and you cry out as he stretches you further, but the burn quickly fades into a pleasurable ache that has your stomach feeling tight and legs limp and useless.

"I have been waiting since that pathetic excuse of a ship was waylaid," Perturabo hisses between his teeth and feels his nose wrinkle angrily. "You will take me no matter how long we have to sit here." The sounds of your breathless moans are more arousing than he thought possible, making his cock twitch between his own thighs.

“Lord Perturabo?”

Stirred from his trance watching his hand shift between your legs Perturabo turns to glare at the door, the deepness and distorted tone of voice queues him in that it’s one of his Iron Warriors.

“The Iron Blood is repaired, the tech marines wished to show you before officially declaring it fit for duty-“

Perturabo suddenly places his other hand over your mouth, continuing to drive his fingers into your cunt has he yells. The Iron Warrior shouldn't be able to hear the wet sounds of his fingers curling inside of you, but he would be able to hear your incessant mewling.

“I will advise it tomorrow. Now leave me be.”

Your thighs shake, hands pulling at the one he has over your lower face trying to catch a full breath though his palm doesn’t allow you.

“And do not bother me again this evening.”

The Iron Warrior, clearly confused as to Perturabo’s sudden shift in attitude, responds in understanding and quickly takes his leave. Once gone, he finally takes the hand away from your mouth.

“You liked that?” Your watery eyes can’t see his face, only barely through the reflections on the metal in front of you. “I felt your little cunt get tighter.” He pulls his fingers from you and reaches between your legs to grab his cock, shifting himself to press against your entrance. It doesn't take much for him to lift you up slightly and begin to lower yourself onto him, slowly slightly when he hears you gasp.

Even with preparation, it's still a tight fit, he quickly realizes.

As such it's a slow and arduous process to fit himself into you, feeling your nails bite into the skin of his forearms. When your bottom finally hits the fronts of his thighs again, you feel like you're so full that you won't be able to handle it. It settles not long after however, though the feeling of him being almost right into your stomach still prevails.

"Good girl,"

He mutters as your weight rests in his lap; It slipped from his lips unconsciously, but you seem to respond to it. He internally slaps himself for allowing words to tumble out of his mouth without thinking, and steels himself to hold others firmly within his head for the time being.

He raises you up and down on his lap, holding you firmly at the hips. To hold you but not bruise you is a fine line with his strength, though if he is bruising you, you don't seem to mind. Perhaps you don't mind if he's rougher with you. Your smaller hands grip his forearms to steady yourself, or simply to keep yourself feeling grounded.

You look tiny against his massive expanse of a chest, shoulders barely higher than his ribcage.

"Pertura- Bo,"

You stutter out his name, the hot palms of your hands desperately grabbing at him. He's using you almost like a toy, but it's the only way he thinks is safe; He doesn't know the line, how much a body like yours could handle before it breaks. He knows he hasn't reached it yet, your gentle voice cries for him, leaning back against his chest.

He watches your lips part in a pant, and he wishes to kiss them, but resists it. The angle would be impossible, and part of him feels, off about how much larger his mouth is than yours. He feels like he can't do it properly. Perhaps it's lack of practice; You were the first one he's kissed as well.

A lot of firsts, you were. Largely meaningless to him years ago, but now he finds himself caring a bit more.

He's silently thankful when you finally come, sharply inhaling and digging your nails into his skin enough to leave little crescent moon marks. They'll fade in a few moments, he doesn't care. What he does care about is the way you feel like a vice around his cock, his right hand pulls away from your waist, forms a fist and slams the table as his teeth grit together, unable to hold himself back any longer.

You thought your body felt hot before, but it's even more so as you feel him finish inside of you, so much of it that you feel it almost forced out by the size of his cock. It makes a mess on the tops of his thighs, though neither of you care.

He makes no effort to even pull out until your heart isn't audible to him anymore, and when he does, he hears your whine as your well abused cunt flutters at the empty feeling.

Part of him almost wants to get angry with you; He's never bothered with something like sex before but now after this, with you, he can already feeling himself want to get hard and fuck you all over again until you're limp in his lap.

A smarter part of him wishes he'd never done this, never met you, never kissed you, never fucked you. He would've never known what he was missing, and never loose focus.

However that part of his mind looses, when he feels you lie more against the expanse of his chest. He sighs.

"It is late. I will bring you to my quarters and you can sleep there."

He refuses to let you sleep in that tiny room you called home before. For his own selfishness, and your safely. Now that you're becoming so close to him, your safety is a must. Many will find you an easy target.

"My clothes Bo, let me-" You quickly shut your mouth when you realized you hadn't called him by his proper name. He doesn't comment on it.

He picks you up not long after, bringing you to his quarters at a much quicker pace than you could do on your own. A few of his men give him an odd look at having such a disheveled woman in his arms, but it only takes one look in return for them to right their gaze and move along.

"Are you not going to stay?" You say when he plops you onto his massive bed with a gentle toss that makes you smile, and turns to leave.

"Must I?" He says it laced in sarcasm, but he regrets it when he sees the smile he'd just put on your face instantly bleed away.

"I wanted to hear about your plans, for a little bit. It's been so long since the last time."

Perturabo had as of late shown you more of his private plans, many of them war machines. He'd begun talking a bit out loud, and his deep voice talking rumbled in your chest and always made you feel so warm and comfortable.

He enjoys that you just listen. You don't have an ego to protect like he does.

Perturabo steps closer.

"If I do, I expect you to stay awake." You nod and smile. "I'll try." He sits onto the bed, grips your cheeks, and forces you to look up at him gently. Your lips purse from his grip in a way he finds tempting, and he mentally blames you for the distraction once again.

"You will. I'll make sure of it."

[justporo]

A Love Letter

"Quite contrary to what you might believe, I have never written a love letter. Quick notes with sweet innocents on them or naughty promises, surely, loads of those. But not like this, never."

When Astarion hears that you never in your life have a received a love letter he takes it upon himself to change that.

MASTERLIST | AO3

Author's Note: It's been a while hasn't it? I hope to get back into the saddle with writing after I took a bit of a break. And what better thing to come back with than a very cheesy, self-indulgent thing? I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!

Pairing: Astarion/named Tav (Fox/You) Warnings: light mention of past trauma Wordcount: 2,7k

You had never really been very much into these romantic things. You didn’t have the time for that pretty nonsense. Or maybe it was that you just never had gotten to experience it. And so you made yourself believe that.

So when you mentioned to Astarion that you never once in your life had received a love letter and was imagining how it might be, the vampire felt he had to do something about it. He wasn’t very much into these things either; things that felt just performative.

But after all, he knew with you this wasn’t the case - at all.

So one night, a while after you had mentioned this, and Astarion was out to run errands you found an envelope on the table in your kitchen - and next to it a singular deep red tulip.

On the envelope you saw your name in Astarion’s elegant handwriting written in gold ink - with a few wholly unnecessary but beautiful extra swirls around it.

With a fiendish smile on your lips you opened the letter and were surprised by several pages falling out of it. All of course written in Astarion’s neat hand. You brushed your hair out of your face, feeling that you needed to look presentable for this.

The letter read:

“My darling Fox,

Quite contrary to what you might believe, I have never written a love letter. Quick notes with sweet innocents on them or naughty promises, surely, loads of those. But not like this, never.

This is different, you are different! And you being different means I am now sitting here while you’ve gone to bed already ages ago by dim candle light with several pages of parchment because I know - I know - I will need them to even just scratch the surface. But right now, to be perfectly honest with you, I am a little lost for words as I sit here with a goblet of wine. I’m trying to warm up to this idea of me actually trying to lay bare what I usually don’t share with anyone. Not even with you.

Not because I don’t want to. But because I struggle with letting someone in. But you were so patient with me thus far. I hope you’ll be patient with me for this as well. This is my third attempt to write something that feels right. Something that feels true and not make-believe…

But bear with me as I am working to get the hang of this. Can’t really call myself a consummate lover if I don’t get this one down, can I?

Let’s start over, shall we?

I could tell you about every single little detail I adore about you: like the way your pretty silver eyes light up when you grin at me. Every single freckle you have, which I am sure I know by heart by now - every single one. Or how your smile is so beautiful that it makes even my undead and rotten heart flutter in my chest. How you get these delightful full body blushes when I pull you into my arms, still, no matter how long we’ve been together. How wonderfully sharp your tongue is and how witty you are, my little minx. How you curse worse than a sailor and drink at least as much as one, my little swashbuckling rebel. How you do everything to not be treated by a lady but then swoon when I try it on you anyways.

Or I could tell you how much I adore your kindness. How you worry so deeply about your friends and how loyal you are.

Or how I might roll my eyes every time you stop in the streets to pet one of the stray cats but actually love how you care even for the tiniest and most ragged critters, showering them with your honest affection.

Because isn’t that just like what you’ve done with me?

You looked at me - hells, I held a knife to your delicate neck! - and despite all odds you decided: you liked that one. Despite all the pain, all the suffering, all the trauma, all the patience you needed and all the good will. I couldn’t get rid of you - thankfully.

You kept me, you cared for me. And when I was unable to let you in, you let me in first, taking a leap of faith.

I could see it in your eyes first.

Your beautiful silver eyes and how they always betray just what you think and feel. Maybe not to everyone, but to me. Trust me, I’ve spent quite some time looking at them.

And at some point I looked at you. Your eyes were just so open and I just knew.

You saved me, Fox.

I know I told you before. But I need you to understand that I wouldn’t be here with you if I was without you. You stayed with me through all of this, you helped me every step of the way without really expecting anything in return.

And now I am more than just “still here”, more than just a hollow husk, void of life: I am free - and with you I am even whole.

You radiate so much joy and love and life. You care. Despite your own beatings and betrayals in life, you've never given up on believing that better days are ahead. Not even for a moment.

My stubborn little thing, who couldn't love you when you come barging into people's lives like this. You have your way of just grabbing people by the hand and pulling them with you, saying yes to the good things that happen and fuck off to the bad ones.

And you were right. Better days were, for once, just around the corner.

I feel violently alive when I'm with you.

And it's scary and even hurts sometimes. But it is so incredibly beautiful, joyous and breathtaking that I won't have it any other way.

It's like you pulled me right from that grave into your loving arms. And to my own surprise your embrace and how my name sounds on your lips weighs so much heavier than what has come before.

You haven’t given up on me. For some reason beyond my own comprehension you see something in me. Maybe some day you’ll help me understand too.”

You took a moment to let the words settle with you, your fingertips running over the neat cursive letters. It wasn’t lost on you that there were some specks on the bottom of the page. Like drops had fallen on it. Some had blurred the ink of the final words at the bottom where the handwriting, you realised, had gotten just a tiny bit shaky.

Tears were burning dangerously in your eyes, a knot forming in your throat as your eyes wandered back over the words, not daring yet to move on. And when a teardrop fell from your cheeks onto the paper, mixing in with the others already there you couldn’t help the small laugh escaping you. Knowing exactly the way the writer must have felt bringing these words down onto the parchment.

Then you read on.

“Enough of this sentimental nonsense now, let us move on to more important matters.”

You laughed out loud reading this as the first sentence on the next page. The handwriting as elegant as ever again. And you could quite clearly imagine how the vampire must’ve brushed away his “nonsensical” tears with a pout to regain his composure before he began writing again.

You kept on reading.

“You must’ve realised by now that I am quite a selfish man. I have absolutely no intention of letting you go, my love.

When I told you that you were the first person who I truly cared for, I meant it.

For as long as you will have me by your side and for as long as my immortal life, you will not get rid of me. I hope you thought this rightfully through when you said you wanted to be with me.

For as long as you want me to, I will do everything in my power to keep you as happy and healthy as you are now.

Your light shines so bright, my darling Fox, I don’t ever want to see it dimmed. I always want to see you smile as brightly, laugh as loudly and be as carefree as you are right now.

I want to keep holding you in my arms as you drift off to your dreams with your breaths getting softer and deeper before their soft rhythm lulls me to rest also. And then feel you wake up again in my embrace.

Do you know how incredibly beautiful you are in these moments?

I am not a poet, nor will I ever be one, gods forbid, so I can barely do it justice. But I will try nonetheless.

You are so beautiful and delicate in my arms, completely bare before me, not an inch between us with your limbs all wrapped around me, your hair all messed up. I can feel your comforting warmth. And then this first big breath of you waking up. You always bury your face in my chest as if you’re trying to resist the world of the awake claiming you again. And your arms wrap around me a little tighter while you groan about your fate of having to be awake again. And then you lift your head and blink slowly at me with these beautiful eyes of yours, still sleepy, and red hair all over your face. And your smile grows. You tell me good morning and that you love me with your voice still raspy from sleep and kiss me with your smile growing even broader.

You are everything for me in those moments. Because it feels like every single day you choose to love me again. Aren’t I quite lucky?

 And it’s a gift, every day anew.

And I love you too, Fox, oh how I love you. In those moments and all the others.

I will do everything so I can hold onto these moments with you and create a million more.

Because even though I might have lost the sun, I gained a new source of light. Your warmth makes me want to live again. For you - and for me.”

And then the final lines of the letter were written with a bit more space - and visibly more vigour. The letters tall and proud:

“I love you, Fox, from this moment to the next and for all that are to come.

I love you and I will keep loving you for as long as I live.

I love you.

Forever yours, Astarion”

There weren’t just single tears running over your cheeks and then rolling off your face by the time you finished reading. One hand was clenching the parchment sheets while you simultaneously tried not to ruin them. Your other hand was covering your mouth as you couldn’t stop yourself from sobbing.

You had sat down on the bench sometime while reading without even realising it. Now you were thankful for the support while emotions washed over and through you: overflowing love, bittersweet joy and aching yearning - among others.

Surely, when you had told Astarion that you had never received a love letter you didn’t think he would come up with something like this.

Maybe some cheesy little thing where he got to repurpose all of his favourite stupid lines, but not something like this. Not something so heartfelt and true. Not something that, despite his claims, was showing just how much he was letting you in.

You read the whole letter again.

And then a third time. And a fourth.

All the while your tears didn’t stop. They got worse even, to the point where you had to put the sheets down and cover your eyes while sobs shook your body.

Your chest felt like it was slowly coming apart as you felt it swell to the brim with love for your vampire.

That was the moment Astarion found you: still sitting at the wooden table in the kitchen, crying and sobbing and still clutching the letter in your hands, unwilling to let go. He halted a moment in the doorway.

“Was it that terrible, darling?” Astarion teased as he then entered the room. You hadn’t even noticed him before, too preoccupied with how the words of his confession swam before your eyes.

“I think I did quite a good job,” the vampire continued as he slowly sauntered over to you, hands crossed behind his back. With a huge sniffle you lifted your gaze to meet the writer’s eyes.

“I mean considering that I’ve never done this before,” Astarion finished as he took one last step up to you and immediately sank into a crouch beside you. Long, pale fingers reached out to tug one of several stray strands of hair back behind one of your pointy ears.

Your eyes were on Astarion and through your still welling tears you saw the cautious smile dance around his lips. His tone had been joking, his fingers softly brushing tears out of the corner of your eye lovingly. But his hesitation wasn’t lost on you.

So you took the only measure you deemed adequate to assure him that he had done a marvellous job. And since you could barely put into words how deeply his honest, loving words had moved you, you resorted to show rather than tell.

You threw yourself into Astarion’s arms, making him almost topple over in his crouched position. But the vampire kept his balance as you wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you ever had.

Neither of you cared when more tears spilled onto him and you while more sobs shook through you. “I love you,” you pressed out in between sobs and sniffles. “I love you, Astarion,” you repeated.

And again and again until the words made no sense anymore.

Astarion just held you, burying his face in your hair. And you could have sworn you must’ve felt a tear or two wet your already messed up hair that hadn’t been yours.

The two of you stayed in this tangled and messy embrace, both on your knees, for a long while. Your vampire softly swayed you while your sobs slowly subsided and the tears only remained as softly prickling traces on your face.

That kind of blissful exhaustion that only overcomes you after a long and hearty cry threatened to take you over when you had lost all sense of time in your lover’s arms. So you ripped your face from where it had been buried at Astarion’s neck before you became too tired.

With one hand you rubbed sloppily over your eyes and then your nose. And even without looking you knew Astarion’s nose would scrunch up in disgust. The thought almost immediately made you laugh. But when you looked at him again, finally free of blurring tears, you were merely met with a smirk and a soft mocking glint in his eyes, sparking at you from beneath Astarion’s brows.

“I can’t believe out of all moments you could have picked, you chose to call me beautiful with bedhair, you idiot” you blurted out and swatted the vampire’s arms before you immediately broke out with hysterical laughter.

The vampire immediately hissed at you in response. Then he cleared his throat and put on an air of seriousness when you looked up at him again: “But you are, my love. Even with your face covered in tears and snot you are still quite, eh…” He gesticulated dramatically towards you and his nose scrunched up again as he teased you. It only earned him another hit from you. He hissed at you again, letting go of you to rub the spot you had just hit.

“You punch quite hard, you know that?” he barked at you, his tone slightly offended. And you only laughed more.

“Maybe you should have added that to the letter,” you teased back and stuck out your tongue at him.

“You insolent, ungrateful wretch,” Astarion hurled at you while his smirk returned.

“You pretentious, stupid prick,” you gave back.

Then you leaned in, cupped Astarion’s face and kissed him. He met you with a content hum.

“I love you, Astarion,” you whispered as you broke away and pressed your forehead to his.

His eyes glittered and his smile was so broad it made the vampire’s face ache: “Love you too, my sweet little Fox.”

~~~

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Taglist (DM if you want to be added please): @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess @darlingxdragon @hereliesblackdragon @ayselluna @ajokeformur-ray @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @rikuyrk06 @marina-and-the-memes @somewhatclear @miss-rebel-without-applause

[beneaththebirches]

Liability: Part 1

Pairing: College Student!Rafe Cameron x Cousenlor!Reader

Summary: Rafe gets himself into a bit of a bind with one of the professors at Duke and is forced to see an on-campus counselor, someone he was very set on hating. But she’s extremely hard to hate.

Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, mentions of drugs.

A/n: First of all, I want to mention that this fic is an AU type fic; it will only include Rafe’s mildly destructive behavior and daddy issues but this does not follow allow with the Outerbanks storyline. This is a repost from my original account @sublimecatgalaxy!

“So, what brought you to Duke?” 

My head tilts curiously at him, eyes trailing over his frame as he desperately tries to not tremble like a leaf. He’s either drunk, high or anxious (or all of the above), his eyes flickering around the dimly lit room, his eyes momentarily locking with the lava lamp in the corner of the room. When he looks around, he chooses to not look directly at me but instead at the wall behind me, knee bouncing anxiously as he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. 

He resembles something close to agitation or anxiety and has since he walked in the room twenty minutes ago, not caring to say hi or introducing himself but instead just sat down on the couch across from me and decided to take his sentence in silence. It’s to be expected, especially from someone with his track record. I heard a little bit about him from the other faculty in the office and his professors, mixed reviews on his behavior but how, miraculously, his grades show the opposite.

Crossing my legs, I ready the notebook in my lap, pen tapping against the paper as I wait for him to answer my nth question of the night. After a few minutes of uncomfortable and unfortunate silence, he clears his throat and takes a deep breath before adjusting himself on the couch, eyes flickering up to look at the ticking clock on the wall.

“‘s a good college.” He shrugs simply, eyes flickering up to mine briefly as I let out a small sigh of relief at the sound of his deep voice. His back cracks as he leans back into the couch, biting at his lip as he watches my pen scribble aimlessly across my notepad. I can tell he wants to ask what I’m writing, which is the reason why I lifted the pen to draw a simple smiley face in the first place, knowing the thought of me analyzing him would drive him crazy.

“I’ve seen your grades, you should be proud.” The shocked uptick of his brows makes me laugh quietly to myself, taken back by his response to the simple praise. He nods sternly, a faint blush spreading across the tops of his cheekbones. “So why the self sabotage?” I quiz and his brows furrow cutely.

“What?”

“Keying a professor’s car?” His eyes immediately roll at the recollection of his transgressions, the events that brought him to my office three times a week. There’s a part of me that thinks he’s embarrassed, eyes low as he toys with the thick ring on his thumb but I can see the desperate need to defend himself behind his eyes, but instead he chooses the path of least resistance. 

“Got angry.” He answers simply but it’s not enough for me.

“Yeah, you have a history of that.” I sigh, placing his records on the table in front of him, giving up the gimmick of ‘good cop’, trying to get through to him as a counselor, but it took very little time to realize my coworkers were right- he’d never trust my authority- the little authority I have. He picks the papers up tentatively, almost looking at me with a ‘should I be seeing this?’ look but indulges anyways, flipping through the pages with a tight jar.

Folding my legs beneath me, a sad smile spreads across my lips as he tosses the sheets back onto the table in front of me, his fists clenching in his lap. I can’t tell if his anger stems from insecurities regarding his own actions or if he’s angry that others have had a view into his darker past. I can tell that he’s a closed off guy, that he doesn’t open up unless it’s mandatory and even then, he attempts desperately to not share, to not open up. 

“Look, Rafe, you have to do this- talk to me, I mean. You’re lucky you got mandatory counseling instead of mandatory jail time.” I laugh, trying to desperately ease the tension in the room but he doesn’t crack, just stares down at the packet of paper between us with uneasy eyes. But after a few minutes, my staring breaks through his tough exterior, a heavy sigh leaving him as he finally looks up at me, taken back by my comfortable stance. He mirrors me, folding a leg over his other before tossing his hands up in surrender.

“What do you want from me?” 

“Answer the questions I’ve gotta ask you, ask questions of your own- hell, talk about football or something that’s bugging you.” He cringes at the offer, his eyes fluttering shut to briefly imagine what it would be like if he had taken the punishment the professor originally wanted to force upon him but instead he’s stuck with the peppiest counselor he’ll ever encounter. 

“Are you an actual therapist?” He asks curiously, attempting to take a jab at my credentials but my smile only grows, happy that he’s taking a step in the right direction. 

“I have a masters degree in psychology.” My finger jabs up at the wall to his left, blue eyes following my direction to three diplomas on the wall.

I certainly never expected to end up in a university, tending to the most fucked up age group in the country- my generation. I wanted to go into forensics, to get into the grittiness of the mental psyche but you’d be amazed by the messed up shit you see on college campuses- the dorms, the streets late at night, the blackmail and betrayals. Some of the students that I see, like Rafe, are in mandatory counseling, probably to heal from academic issues or destructive tendencies. But others are girls looking for a way out of toxic relationships, young students who wish so desperately to come out to their parents, or the occasional meltdown where a student just needs me to listen.

 Maybe Rafe needs someone to just listen.

Either way, I’d never go back and change anything that led me to this couch right now.

“A masters- how old are you anyways?” He asks, suddenly confused at the math as he leans towards the diploma to look at the year it was dated. With a shocked huff, he turns back to me with wide eyes, elbows resting on his knees and I let out a small bashful laugh.

“I’m 23.” 

“Oh.” He mutters, shifting in his seat before adding, “I’m 20.” A fond smile stretches across my lips at his subtle attempt to connect, his quiet voice almost boyish and innocent. I’m not sure the connection was intentional or if he’s sizing me up but either way, the realization in our closeness in age sparks something in him, his discomfort seeming to fade more and more as our times goes on.

“I know. I have your chart.” I lift the binder from beside me into the air, waving it back and forth.

“What else is in there?” He asks, fingers rubbing along his jaw as his eyes seem to focus on his name that’s spelled across the front of the binder in big black letters.

“You’re 20, you have a 3.6 GPA, you’re majoring in Developmental Psych- which is interesting to me.” I snort, wanting nothing but to dive deeper into his psyche and understand why a smart, handsome athlete is majoring in something as specific as developmental psychology. They say people go into a psych degree to learn something about themselves, their past or their family. So, in Rafe’s case, which is it? “You’re a tight-end on our varsity football team, you came from the Outer Banks-” There’s a sense of tension that thickens the atmosphere around us at the mention of his hometown, his shoulders rolling and head tilting so he can direct his attention out the window to look at the setting sun,  his strong jaw squared. “I can also see that you spent two nights in jail, you’ve been arrested for drug possession and illegal possession of a weapon-” 

“You’ve got my full rap-sheet over there?” He snaps, voice no longer playful but instead he’s seething, brows furrowed as I pause, eyes widening at him briefly, almost asking him ‘may I continue’ without actually saying it. I fight the urge to ask him all of my questions at once; ‘why are you such a troublemaker?’, ‘why the need for drugs?’, ‘why’d you leave your hometown?’- but instead I bite my tongue.

“You’re not giving me anything else to go off of.” I whisper tiredly, anxiously looking up at the clock, wondering if we’ll even end up getting anywhere in this session and/or if I’ll be able to count it as a part of his punishment. A look of realization passes through his expression, his handsome face relaxing with a gentle nod. “You’re not exactly an open book.” He smiles sadly to himself, eyes focused down at his lap.

Take the path of least resistance, Rafe.

“What do you wanna know?” He gives in, clasping his hands in front of him as I grin, prepared to take full advantage of my power and make him laugh, something I’ve heard he doesn’t do often.

“What’s your favorite color-”

“Oh now you’ve overstepped.” He says, dead serious, but after a few moments of silence he breaks into quiet laughter, a shocked scoff leaving me at his teasing. “My favorite color- really? I keyed a car and this is my punishment?” He asks incredulously, scooting to the edge of his seat, the distance between us only lessening as I bite back a nervous smile, focusing on the job at hand- my job at hand.

“The point of counseling is to have breakthroughs and to form a relationship based on trust and open communication.” He cringes at my explanation, a look of discomfort passing through his eyes as he sucks in a breath. “You don’t seem like the trusting type but I’m willing to take my time.” My voice comes out ten times more flirtatious than I intended it to but it causes his whole body to pause, eyes looking up at me with a teasing look, the gears behind his eyes to turn. “To be honest, I have a bit of a habit of growing on people.” He snorts, biting at his lip.

“I gathered that.” He breathes, running his fingers through his hair before giving it a small tug.

“Are you saying I’m growing on you, Cameron- it’s been like a half an hour.” I tease, loving the innocent blush that covers his pale cheeks as he instantly tries to deny, head shaking immediately in defiance. It’s hard to imagine him doing all of the bad things I know he’s done, things that are more extreme and way beyond vandalism. He seems almost awkward at times, boyish and bashful as he’s slowly sinking into the comfort of my office and my prying- far from the man depicted in his records. 

“New record?”

“New record for sure.”

“Does that mean I’m free to go?” He quizzes and he blows out a breath, rubbing his clammy hands against the tops of his jeans. I ponder letting him go ten minutes early but there’s a part of me that isn’t quite ready to set him free from my clutches just yet.

“Sure.” His eyes light up at my agreement but before he can stand, I hold up a pointed finger at him, urging him to sit his butt back down. “On one condition.” He agrees almost immediately before knowing my true demand, head bobbing in an agreeable nod.

“Shoot.”

“Hand over your phone.” His face pales at my instructions, eyes staring at my open palm that sticks out to him, waiting for him to do what I said. He looks like a deer in headlights right before a catastrophic crash, tongue slipping out to wet his cracked lips as he stutters.

“Wha-”

“Give it.” I ask again, stern voice forcing a shaky, nervous laugh from him as he goes fishing in his pocket. He hands it over to me without any questions, his eyes watching me like a hawk as I go into his contacts, adding myself as ‘best counselor’.  “Only call or text if you’re having an emotional emergency and/or feel like doing something mildly self destructive.” I laugh but as I hand back his phone, he just shakes his head, brows furrowed in confusion as he stares down at the contact. 

“Why?” 

“Why what?” I ask and he shrugs. “Why care?” The nod he gives me is almost sad, my heart aching in my chest at the thought of him being so out of touch when it comes to having people that care about him, people that want to see him succeed and to not key professors’ cars. “Because, it’s what I do. Get used to it.” Slipping his phone back into his pocket, I make my way to my feet and he does the same, awkwardly shuffling towards the door. His hand hesitates to reach out towards the handle, neck craning to look back at me with a desperate expression.

“You know that’s like asking a fish to breathe air, right?”

“Better learn.” I shrug, crossing my arms across my chest as he huffs, pouting like a child. Reaching out, I push him playfully towards the door as he groans, head tilting back at his steps out into the busy hallway. “Behave!”

“You got it!”What a liar.

[humanitys-strongest-bamf]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️ (i dont know if you've already done it due to being offline for a few days, apologies if so! <3)

hi!!! i think this ask was floating around a few weeks ago so some of these are repeats, but i guess extra boosts don't hurt 😅 i hope you're doing well!! sorry for the late response skdjfksd

➼ "get me a damned matcha" - longfic, college x coffeeshop x modern!au

Yes, I just HAD to include this one! It's my baby and one of the few things I've made that I'm actually proud of, even if it's just for the fact that I've actually finished it lmao. I think it's been long enough since I've finished it that I might reread it myself since it is uh, quite self-indulgent and is definitely comforting for me 😅

➼ Needy Little Brat - Post-War!Dadvi

Just a drabble, but I think Levi chasing after his toddler is adorable so I'm including it

➼ Don't Leave Me - Canonverse Angst

Y'know, sometimes you wake up and choose violence, and I chose to write an angst piece that had some people curse me out because they were too sad at the end LMAO

➼ Your Safe Space - Hurt/Comfort

I struggle with emotion regulation because I'm either overcontrolled and stoic one minute and then absolutely off-the-rails and getting triggered by everything the next (thanks mental illness). Anyway, I wrote a piece on it where Levi gives you a safe space to let your emotions out and it's a comfort fic for me

➼ Your Worth - Canonverse Hurt/Comfort

I feel like a lot of us need this!!! I struggle a lot with feeling like I don't have a niche talent or like, am not the one to go to for knowledge/help on certain things. Whatever I think I'm good at, there's always someone better, and I'm always chasing this goal of proficiency that I never seem to be able to reach. So I wrote Levi helping you process through that and realize your own worth independent of external validation 🥺

[abibliophobiaa]

Beyond - s.h. x f!reader

Chapter Four: All By Myself

a/n: here’s chapter four of my purely self-indulgent fun, which shouldn’t be taken very seriously, if at all fic. haha. wanted to play around with one of my favorite tropes, so here we are with modern day!rich!fake husband!steve harrington x afab!reader. 

warnings/tags: hugely unedited (6k words); mention of pet loss; mentions of alcohol; parent loss, both parties; r has a sister and father; smut in later chapters, so 18+, minors dni; additional tags to be added.

masterlist

- 

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. Movies, your favorite songs, vacations, the “wedded bliss” away in the Maldives with your husband. 

Since then, time seems to move faster than you can keep track of. Days slip into weeks, and before long you’re starting clinical rotations and the endless piles of schoolwork you’re certain your professors enjoy assigning every week. 

The desk in your bedroom becomes a host for countless textbooks and notebooks, full to the brim with diagrams you copied, definitions, scribbled up notes. 

Mornings are spent there, afternoons too. It’s fine, and it works, because most days Steve’s gone anyway. The company is working on some new property development. Another hotel on some private island, millions of dollars worth of work, but something has gone awry and Steve’s needed at all hours of the day. 

At least that’s what he reassures you when you perk up at the kitchen island, trying to catch him before he leaves. When you huff out a sigh as he slips his sunglasses on and says to not wait up. 

You never do. 

By the time you’re done with your own rotations, your feet are aching and sleep—albeit often disrupted sleep these days, sleeping in an unfamiliar home still—is the only thing on your mind. That and another massage like the one you had back on your honeymoon, where every inch of your body had been tended to. 

In the time since returning from your honeymoon, you’ve also begun adding things here and there to the penthouse. Pops of color in the form of new couch cushions in a pastel blue, new curtains to cover the ample windows at night. In the halls and on various surfaces you’ve already put some of your new wedding photos up, giving the illusion of a happily married couple for anyone who may pay a visit. 

You’re scheduled for a get together with Steve’s cousin, Theobald Cletus, and his wife, Cami, next weekend. A thought that has you slightly panicked solely because it’s thanks to Steve’s cousin you’re married anyway. Deciding not to dawdle on thoughts of the future, you cast a glance at the oven light in the kitchen, glowing red neon stark against your white walls. Another Saturday by your lonesome, with Steve off to work until who knows when. 

With a huff, you walk over to throw your bowl of cereal into the sink, letting the water run for a moment before shutting it and ripping a paper towel to wipe your hands with. Knowing you’re to pick up your client’s dogs in thirty minutes, you set to work cleaning up the place for when Steve gets home. Not that it takes long, given Steve's words on your honeymoon proved true. 

He’s often not home for most hours of the day and therefore there’s hardly ever any mess, and the few nights you’ve spent time together since you married, it’s usually food ordered to the suite or dinners with his coworkers. Dinners where you sit at his side, nodding and smiling along as they talk about things you don’t really understand, fake fawning over a husband who you don’t understand most of the time. 

There were moments, small ones, that week spent in the Maldives where you thought maybe an attraction ran both ways. And now, his conversation isn’t frequent. You text here and there throughout the day. Questions as to if you’re okay, if your clinicals were running late, if you wanted him to grab you a coffee on his way home. Or on the nights when he stayed at the office until nighttime, you texted him to ask what he might want to eat, if he needed a coffee delivery, if he needed anything. But that’s the extent of it. 

It’s almost as if a wall has fallen down since you touched back down in the city. A wall that divides the two of you, stark as the hall that separates your bedrooms. Neither of you seems keen on pushing those barriers, the parameters of your relationship unspoken and yet written in the sands. 

Pushing the thoughts to the side, you toss the paper towel you use to wipe the counters down into the garbage and shoot Steve a quick message that you’ll be leaving for a bit to walk around the neighborhood. 

He responds quickly. Be safe. 

At least you know he cares enough to worry for your safety. The thought has your lip twitching upward, typing back a simple, Ball and chain, remember? You have three more years of me. 

He doesn’t respond. You don’t expect him to. It’s been more or less that way for a couple weeks now. Broken conversation, fleeting glances, lowered expectations. Wedded bliss is a dream—a dream you don’t allow yourself. Can’t afford to. 

Not now, not as you grab your crossbody bag and shove your phone into the pocket on your leggings, and take to the elevator. 

Your dog walking business, if you could call it that as you only had three clients so far, started on a whim. Over the span of a few weeks, and your constant walks through the main floor of your building on your way to meet Hopper, your husband’s personal driver, you bumped into Mrs. Lowell often. The older woman, likely in her sixties by your estimation, waved every morning as she walked her golden retriever, Mimsy, around the neighborhood. 

It just so happened that one morning you stumbled upon her in the main floor of your apartment building, cradling her ankle as workers scrambled to call the medical concierge on standby. As any good neighbor would, you brought her flowers when you heard she’d arrived home from the hospital. Long stems in varying pretty shades that brought tears to her eyes. She’d requested you come inside, Mimsy leaping up as you entered, clearly adoring endless affection. 

Talking turned into offering to walk her dog as she got better, and conversation about how you were recently married, still getting accustomed to your new life, and juggling school—but that you were looking to help if she needed it. Luckily, she offered to pay, and after a few days, asked if it would be okay to pass your number out to those who might also use a little assistance. 

It brought your grand total of dogs to be walked to  a measly three; however, people in this neighborhood, you found, were willing to pay generously for said services. With the three clients you’ve secured already, you were able to send your father nearly all of what you’d been earning at your restaurant previously. A few more clients, and you’d be able to cover a good portion of his mortgage, if only to help him while searching for a new job position. 

That morning, you were to walk Mimsy, Luca and Jacque. Mimsy, your chipper new golden retriever friend, and Luca and Jacque, two excitable Boston Terriers. The new morning routine gives you a new appreciation for your neighborhood. 

Even if Hopper trails by in his car on the sidewalk, in the event you need him. You never do, and you remind him as such, but he’s been there nevertheless. 

Hopper’s lovely. Over the course of the weeks since you’ve been back from your honeymoon, you’ve become fast friends with the man. From what you’ve learned, he’s been recently married as well to his wonderful wife, Joyce. He talks about her fondly, all bashful smiles hidden behind the mustache that spills over his top lip. 

However, as much as he talks about Joyce, he talks about his daughter, El, all the more. El, his teenager who he’d adopted a few years ago now. Spoke of her like she was a literal sunshine incarnate. He’d also mentioned his step sons, Will and Jonathan. Jonathan, who you remembered, had been your head photographer at your wedding and responsible for all the gorgeous shots now littered through your home that made Steve and you look like a couple deeply in love. Magic, he was literal magic. 

All that in mind, you’d suggested you all get together for dinner—even despite Hopper’s protests that “Mr. Harrington is always busy.” Knowing that, you’d still all managed to get together at your home for dinner one night, minus Jonathan. He apparently had gone on some trip to California with one of his good friends named Argyle, if you’d remembered correctly. But the rest of the Hopper-Byers family arrived for dinner and you watched, with a sinking feeling in your gut, as Steve charmed both of the teenagers. Wondered what it was about him that made people gravitate toward him, and if he even noticed he carried that around with him everywhere. 

You supposed it made sense, given the burgeoning attraction you held toward the man who spoke to children with a kindness that shocked you, and yet spared you fleeting glances at the door before he left each morning. 

Sighing, you stroll down the busy city streets, waving to neighbors in passing, thanking Hopper when he eventually leaves your side long enough to stop and get himself coffee. Or at least you assume it’s just for him, until he pulls out a second drink from his car when you take a moment to stop on a bench, numerous pairs of eyes peering up at you, expectant for a treat. 

“Oh, how did you know what I usually order?” You grasp the cup in your free hand, curling the rest of the leashes around your other forearm. 

“I didn’t,” he says gruffly, coming to settle down beside you on your bench in the middle of the park you wander into most mornings now. “Your husband sent me the order.”

“My husband,” you say, taking a slow sip. “He’s just…so thoughtful sometimes.”

The lie slips out easily, smiling when Jacque hops up onto the bench beside you, nudging your elbow with his snout. You hold out your bare palm, showing him there are no secret treats on your person, and exhale loudly. 

“He thought you might have a long day ahead of you. Think of it as a…gesture. I’m sure he feels bad about spending so much time away now that you two just got back.”

“Oh, I'm sure of it.”

“But he’s a good kid. A good man now. I’ve known him for a few years now, and he means well.”

You take another sip of your drink, nodding. “I know.” A deep exhale falls from your lips, left hand raising in the air. Both your rings sparkle in the early morning light, still heavy around the base of your knuckle. “I married him.”

“That you did.” Hopper chuckles, nodding to your new, furry friends around town. “I think it’s about time we get back home. These three look ready to call it in.” 

And he’s right. Hopper is always right. In a new home, so far from your own father, Hopper’s been nothing short of spectacular. A constant support, even on the days when your clinicals have drained you dry. Even when you want nothing more than to go home and curl up in your pajamas and eat ice cream out of a carton. There with a kind word, a gruff response, a joke. 

So it comes as a surprise to you when you’re walking out of your late evening class, and see your husband waiting on the curb with the car windows rolled down. 

Your friend Daniel, chatting idly beside you, pauses, taking in your husband’s expensive car, before shifting his gaze back to you. Amber, another friend from class, does a double take as well, before settling on the rings on your left hand. 

“Mrs. Harrington. Good j—” Your elbow nudges her ribs. Hard. “Ow!”

“Danny, Amber…this is my husband, Steve.” 

Steve waves. Or rather, unfurls the fingers on his left hand from around the steering wheel, head dipping slightly in introduction. “Sorry to be rude, but we actually have somewhere to be. It was nice meeting you both.”

They wave as you hike your bag up further over your shoulders, opening the door on the passenger side. Your cellphone clatters into his center console when you drop down, his body jerking from the sound, before he seemingly remembers you have an audience. 

It never occurs to you he might touch you, since he hasn’t in weeks, and you can’t really hide as you flinch when he kisses you. A small brush on the corner of your lips, but it jolts you all the same. His lips tug downward as you both wave and pull away from the parking lot, his fingers moving to lower the dial on the music playing from the car speakers. 

“Don’t think it sends a ‘we’re happily married’ message if you do that every time I kiss you,” he says numbly, left hand curling tighter around the steering wheel. 

“Wasn’t expecting it,” you say, shrugging. 

“I’m your husband. Husbands kiss their wives hello.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, training your gaze ahead. “Where’s Hopper?”

“Something came up and he couldn’t make it.” 

“And the ‘somewhere we have to be?’” you ask softly. 

“I’m meeting with someone over video chat tonight. Different time zones.”

“Work meeting.” At his nod, you lean further into your seat. “How was—”

“I’m picking you up the rest of the week.”

Nose wrinkling, you turn to look at him. “You realize today is my only day in class? I have clinicals at the animal hospital every other day.”

He dips his head, though you don’t think he really knows your schedule. “That’s fine. I’m still picking you up.”

“Okay…”

“Danny seemed nice.”

“If this is because you’re jealous, Steve, it’s really not an issue.” Raising your left hand in the air for emphasis, you give your fingers a little wiggle. “I’m married. To you. Till death do us part, or the end of three years in our case.”

The remainder of your trip is spent in silence. Some love song seeps from his Spotify playlist, a crooning voice you recognize, as it’s the same singer for your choice of first dance as a married couple. It’s only been weeks, and yet your wedding, now nearly two months old, feels like a long distant memory. Steve’s dark tuxedo, your flowing gown, endless dancing, twirling feet, lingering kisses. 

Eyes trailing up your husband’s forearm, you sigh, moving to unbuckle yourself when he pulls up and the valet accepts the car keys from him. His hand lingers against your lower back as you walk through the main entrance together, greeting workers as you pass, calls of “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Harrington” meeting your ears. 

That hand, the warmth of his palm drops when you enter the private elevator taking you up to your home, and you’re left with the quiet and the four walls of that silver chamber. Your eyes meet your distorted reflection, catch on the downturn of your lips. 

You want things to change. Need them to, especially if you’ll be married to this man for the next three years, but questions of how rattle around in your brain. Thoughts come up empty as the doors open and you’re home once more, Steve moving to enter the kitchen, and you drop down against the couch in the living room. 

“Maybe we could, I don’t know, watch a movie or something before your meeting?” you suggest airily, grasping the remote from your coffee table, head turned over your shoulder to watch as Steve grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. 

Steve pauses near the island, fingers moving to rub along the hair lining his jaw. He rolls his neck slowly, shoulders audibly cracking, smiling softly. “I’m actually about to head into the gym, and then I have that meeting. Do you mind ordering from that Italian place we got from the other night?”

“Do you want what you usually get?”

Chicken Marsala. He’s gotten it the past three times you ordered. You usually opt for the Penne Alla Vodka, the place you found near your new home fantastic for dinners. You’d know, because it’s often where his work friends eat as well, during those dinners where you’re Steve’s doting wife, arm around his, leaning in close, trying to stay afloat. 

“That would be great,” he says softly, moving out from behind the island. He enters the living area and comes up behind you, giving your shoulder a quick squeeze. You hear the gentle fumble of his pocket, and you know he’s handing you his credit card before you even have a moment to protest. “Here.”

“I’ve got it tonight,” you tell him, glancing up his forearm, locking your eyes with his hazel ones. “I’ve been…working a little here and there.”

“You know you don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to, there’s a difference.” 

You haven’t told him everything about your small business. Haven’t mentioned why most of your pay received from it disappears as quickly as you have it. Him paying for school is one thing; you’re not willing to tell him about your father’s situation, about the fact you’ve been supporting Caroline for a few years now, pushing yourself to work endless hours if only to scrape by so she doesn’t have to some day when she’s older. If there’s one thing you know about your new husband, it’s his desire to go above and beyond for those around him. Highly affluent, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he holds himself. Humble, kind, and caring. Doesn’t matter if your relationship is…barely existent, the truth is the truth that even you can’t deny. He’d offer to help your family and you can’t accept that. 

Hopper’s words ring true: at his core, in every fiber of his being, Steve Harrington is a good man. 

And as much as the strain on your relationship burdens you, life has looked up since you married. A reality that plagues your heart. Because, no, money didn’t make you happy. But having it, the suddenness of your new wealth—it has lightened the weight on your shoulders, given you a chance to breathe, to merely exist without worrying how you’ll manage to cover rent, student loans, Caroline’s necessities, your father’s struggles. 

“Just let me take care of it tonight?” Steve pleads, giving your shoulder another squeeze. “And…if I finish my meeting early, we can rent a movie.”

“Really?” 

He frowns. It’s a subtle downturn of his lips, and yet it’s there all the same. “I hate the way you just said that. I know I’ve been busy. It’s just—I’m just—”

“It’s fine,” you pat his hand gently, giving him a small smile. “Go. Get to your workout and your meeting. I’ll look for a potential movie…if you can make it.”

He nods and slips from the room, leaving you to pick up where you left off on a rewatch of Gilmore Girls. You’re a few episodes in, head propped up in your hand, elbow resting on the armrest of the couch when Steve slips into the living room. 

The sun has long set, the moon bright through the floor to ceiling windows of your home. You catch the freshly washed hair on his head, the thin white tee stretched over the broad expanse of his chest, and swallow at the gray sweats hanging low on his waist as he pads across the plush carpet. 

There’s little time to ogle your husband, as his phone pings and he tells you the doorman said the food arrived. Once Steve’s retrieved it, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, starting a movie you’d managed to find on one of his streaming services. Bellies full, he only manages to make it a half hour into the movie before he’s curling on his side on the couch opposite of yours and falling asleep. 

You can’t even be mad, because he tried. You’ll give him that. 

This time. 

-

You’re mad. And, quite frankly, upset at Steve Harrington. 

It’s pouring in the city. Endless rain droplets splattering across busy streets. Dark clouds flash with lightning up above, the rumble of thunder echoing soon thereafter. People move in and out of puddles on sidewalks, bodies bumping, shoulders brushing, buzzing like the traffic on gridlocked roads. 

Ironic, given the state of the day. 

Ironic, given your mood. 

Your heart aches. Every inch of your body is still reeling over your day of clinicals—over what you witnessed for the first time. Pain of loss first hand, up close and personal, shaking you to your very core. 

You’d been texting Steve. Short quips here and there throughout the day. More mindful than he has been in the past few weeks. Motivated by the silly jealousy he’d felt over Danny, you’re not sure, but if it prompted him to try harder you weren’t going to complain. 

But now he was late. And not even by a few minutes, but an hour. 

Steve. They’re not going to let me stay here much longer to keep dry. The practice closes soon. Am I just taking a train home?

No response. 

None. 

Unanswered like your last few messages. 

Steve?

Dearest Husband?

EARTH TO DINGUS.

Nothing. 

One of the veterinary technicians calls your name where you stand near the front door, her voice high and tight over the light music streaming from a speaker in the distance. Head turning, you tuck your phone into your pocket, walking back down the hall from whence you came, fingers tapping along the countertop. 

“We’re heading out soon,” Valerie says, putting away the last of her things in her pocketbook. “Are you sure you have a ride?” 

“Yeah.” But there’s no vibration of a text in your pocket. A fact that makes your stomach sink further in your belly. “My husband will be here any minute. I’m sure of it.”

Only he’s not. You watch as the veterinarians and technicians leave. As the lights flicker off in the building. As they all wave you goodbye as you sit outside on that bench, clothes plastered to your skin, rain chilling you to the bone. 

There’s no text. No explanation. Only the silence of a message unanswered. Frustrated, and increasingly tired, you thumb at the rings on your hand. Watch as the diamonds twirl around and around, as droplets of rain slash against your scrubs, your backpack, and likely your books as well. 

Then finally, a car pulls up on the sidewalk. Blacked out windows, dark vehicle, and an older man behind the wheel, rolling down the window and waving your way. 

Hopper. 

Not…Steve. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Harrington,” he says, and it’s only then you realize you must have outwardly expressed your disappointment. “Traffic was endless today.”

“I just…” Your voice trails off as you clamber into the passenger seat, eyes locked on the road ahead, drops of rain gliding down the windshield capturing your attention. Staving off the hurt bubbling in your chest. “Today wasn’t a good day. And you’re always a welcomed sight, but I—”

“You don’t have to explain, kid.”

Uncertainty wells, and disappointment grows. It’s hard to pinpoint why. There’s no presently romantic nature to your relationship, but you can’t help but to recall those moments before your wedding, when you’d been overcome with fear and anticipation of what you were about to do. Can’t help but remember his hands within your own, the gentle cadence of his voice, the way his fingers had dragged along the back of your palm. How he’d held your gaze as you walked down the aisle, and never once strayed until you were both ready. Now it’s the realization that he’d told you he’d be there. And, in a sense, you wanted him to be. Wanted to see him, if for nothing at all than to be present. A solid form in a day that has felt like being swept up in a storm and tossed out into unknown territory. Yet you’re left, sitting in a vehicle with a man who you love and adore, and the stone that sinks to the pit of your stomach over the fact that Steve had told you one thing, and done another. 

Said he’d be there and wasn’t. 

That part—that’s the part that hurts the most. 

-

Steve’s neck deep in another issue with work when you come barreling in, scrubs soaked, stethoscope swinging around your neck, eyes reddened and puffy. He’s about to say something from where he sits at the kitchen island when you open the refrigerator door and pull out a bottle of wine left to chill, tossing your things on the counter before pulling a glass out of the cabinet. 

He winces as you slam it down onto the counter, pouring yourself a glass of rosé. “Those are the nice glasses we got from our party!” he complains, watching as you down the first glass and pour a second. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing. Long day,” you mumble, flipping through mail. You pause in the middle of ripping an envelope open, eyes darting to his laptop, and then to his face. “Guess you’ve been busy.” 

“I’m always busy.”

“I know.” 

The way you say it. The coldness in your tone. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t like it. Hates the bite that’s there behind your words. Hates how you won’t even look at him at this moment. And it’s in that he knows something is wrong. 

“What’s wrong?” he tries again, shutting the laptop. 

Your head shakes slowly and he watches as you maneuver around him, making your way toward the hallway leading to your bedroom. A chair squeals along the tile as he follows you, shoulder thumping the corner in his hastiness, fingers curling around your shoulder just as your fingers touch the door handle of your bedroom and start to turn. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, Harrington.”

Harrington. 

It’s not said in your normal, teasing tone. No—there’s only hurt there. A wobbly attempt. 

“Something is wrong, and I can’t fix it if you don’t talk to me.”

“Steve…just stop.”

“No, you’re angry and I want to know why.”

“I told you, I had a long day.” Lie. Or not. Regardless, it’s not the full truth, and it grates on his nerves. “I just want to go to bed.”

He groans. “Then why won’t you look at me?” 

Your eyes flicker in the darkness. Sorrow settles across your features. Brows furrow in the middle of your forehead, lips downturn, shoulders slouch. A low exhale spills from your lips, fingers brushing along one of the many new photo frames lining the walls. He follows the line of your forearm and glances at the picture displayed there; he’s holding you close, arm around your waist, forehead against yours. Your dress trails behind you, bouquet behind your back, the bend of your spine elegant and striking. Beautiful. And happy. 

You don’t look happy right now, though. 

“Do you know what time my clinicals end?” 

The question catches him off guard. “Five thirty. Unless you text me that you’re running late.”

“What time is it now?” 

He looks down at his watch and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Seven thirty. Look, I’m sorry okay? I had a meeting that ran late so I sent Hopper. I don’t see the problem here.”

An empty laugh falls from you, the heel of your palm pressing to your forehead. “I have to study.” 

“We’re not done here.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“I think there is—”

“I have to study, Steve.”

“Fine,” he says, dipping his head. He turns to walk back down the hall, glancing over his shoulder when the creak of your bedroom door greets his ears. “Guess we’re already fighting like an old married couple. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“You’re an asshole, Steve Harrington.” 

Your bedroom door slams, and he flinches, because he knows your words are true. He regrets what he said as soon as you disappear from his sight, and the sound of you crying drowns out the hard beat of his racing heart. 

Guilt seeps into his veins as a half hour passes. Then another. And another. All of which is spent with him sitting in your kitchen contemplating what he can do to rectify the situation. Sighing, he calls his mother and asks for her suggestions. Her resounding laugh on the other end makes him feel like an even bigger idiot, but he’s left with the idea of a “grand gesture” apology. Something to make up for the fact he had, in fact, been an asshole. 

It’s been quite some time since he’s made a home cooked meal, though he knows you tend to shop a bit here and there as of late. Luckily, there are enough things around the kitchen to make your penne dish, and he sets to work. Turns on the radio as he gets everything together and starts. Hums along to Al Green when the song switches and one of his begins. 

Before long, the smell of sauce filters throughout the home, seemingly coaxing you from your hiding. He pauses when he hears you. Hears the soft sounds of your slippers hitting the tile, reddened eyes coming up to meet him where he’s cooking away at the stovetop. 

Whirling around, his fingers slide along the apron around his waist—your waist—muttering, “I’m sorry I’m using your apron. I just—”

“You cook?” 

He chuckles, nervously kneading the back of his neck with a palm. “I used to. Before…my dad. When I had a little more free time.”

“Oh.”

“I made your favorite,” he says, trying to not be too overly chipper. Seemingly to prove his point, he lifts the cover to the pot. You lean in closer, shoulder barely touching his. Shudder as he lifts a hand and brushes at the curve of your shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was an asshole and you’re right and I’m sorry. I’ve just been under a lot of pressure with the company and—”

“It’s fine,” you say softly, shrugging. “I know what our marriage is and isn’t.”

And he hates that too. The fact you only look at him with disdain at present, hoodie you must have pulled on too big on your frame, shoulders slouching, sadness in your eyes. Hates that he’s to blame for putting it there. Placing the cover back on the pot, he turns fully to you. Grasps your palm in his, tests the weight of it against his skin. Watches your face for any reaction. 

When you don’t flinch or pull away he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think and I should have texted you. You’re still my friend and I’m sorry that I just assumed that would be okay.”

You nod slowly. Exhale shakily, brushing at your eyes. “I just…today was really hard. And I don’t know—I know it’s silly but…”

You wanted him there. He knows exactly what you’re trying to say, because he’s often felt it too. The awareness of your presence, even when he can’t spend time with you or offer you more than a fleeting look to keep you at a distance and protect his heart, is still a comfort he can’t quite place. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, looping an arm around your shoulders. Your face presses into his chest, one of your arms coming to curl around his waist. “I’m really sorry.”

“I watched a family say goodbye to their best friend today,” you mumble out against his skin, and the brokenness in your voice as you try to keep the tears at bay has him holding you tighter. “Fifteen years and all those memories. They held him as he crossed the rainbow bridge and I just—”

“Shhh.” His palm comes up to slide along the middle of your back as you start to cry into him. “And I was an asshole,” he adds, chest tightening in his sorrow over seeing you hurt this way. Over the top of your head, he wipes at his burning eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to do that today, and I’m sorry I pushed you. 

You pull back a little in his arms. Back of your hands wiping your tears away, you inhale deeply, then exhale the same. “I can’t live the next three years like this. Like two people who just…exist in the same space together but don’t interact.”

“I know,” he agrees. 

“Something needs to change.”

“I know.” You’re back against his chest, both arms now snug around his waist, keeping him close. “I’m open to any suggestions, because…I think at the very least we need to be friends.”

“You are my friend, Steve. I just wish you were more present.”

“I will be,” he promises, cradling the back of your head with a broad palm. 

“Okay…then I think we have weekly nights in. Like this, where one of us cooks,” you suggest against his shirt, voice muffled by fabric. 

“Done.”

“Phone and laptop need to be away completely on those days.”

“…Done.” He can do that. “And on other days?”

“If you can be off the phone at a certain time, maybe we could actually, I don’t know, spend some nights together? Even if it’s just watching Gilmore Girls or a movie with me.” 

He snorts, knowing you’ve been rewatching the show lately on the nights you’re not holed up studying. “I’ll tell the office after I pick up my wife from school I’m off for the evening. Anything else?”

“No.” You shake your head, slipping free from his grasp. “I think that’s a good start. And I think you groveling by making me my favorite dinner is another good start.”

He barks out a laugh at that and languishes in the smile that tips your lips upward, knowing he, to some degree, put it there. “I called my mom and everything.”

“Oh no! You were scared I was going to murder you in your sleep,” you chuckle, lifting the cover to the pot and taking a deep breath. 

“Can you blame me?” 

“Guess not,” you tease, hopping up onto the countertop. “Hey, Steve?” 

He steps closer to where you’re sitting, his thigh brushing against your bare kneecap. Your fingers reach for his left hand, dragging it to rest it against your lap, thumb running along his wedding ring. He’s not sure why, but the very act itself has him a little breathless, eyes trailing where your thumb brushes against the metal. Then higher, toward your face, the way your eyelashes gently kiss the tops of your cheeks as you glance down to where the two of you are connected. 

“I also think we need to…do things like this more.” Your palm squeezes around him for emphasis. “Define the parameters of touch, so it’s not so jarring when we’re out in the real world and trying to look like a real couple. Kind of like how it was in front of Amber and Danny the other day. If people are going to believe us, we can’t have more of those situations popping up.”

“Okay…” He takes another step closer. “What might that look like to you? I want whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“When we’re out in public in front of your coworkers, I wouldn’t mind if you…I don’t know? Hold me against you. Maybe a kiss on the forehead. A peck. I feel like those are good starts.” 

“I can do that,” he says, giving your hand another squeeze for reassurance. “In front of friends, like your classmates, what I did the other day was fine?”

“Yeah,” you say, eyes meeting his hazel ones. “What about when we’re home?”

“I think at the very least a hug when we’re both home,” he suggests. “Friends hug, don’t they?”

“They do.” You nod. 

He cards his fingers through his hair, sighing deeply. “Again, I’m really sorry. I know I’ve been…distant since we got home, and I understand that the next three years won’t work if I keep doing that. You don’t deserve that, and I never, ever intended to make you cry.”

You glance down at your intertwined hands, and Steve feels the breath in his lungs hitch, until you tip your head up again and murmur, “Can I cash in on another hug? For practice, naturally.”

He’s already slipping between the space you’ve made for him with your thighs, drawing you flush against him, cradling the back of your head. Hopes you can feel the breadth and depth of his words through touch. 

“For practice.”

He can feel you smile against his shoulder and suddenly his chest tightens with a feeling he has no name for. Just knows it sparks something warm, like sweet honey, in his blood. 

“But do it again and you might not see the morning.”

“I don’t doubt it.” 

There, in that kitchen, with dinner simmering and his arms around you, Steve exhales. Because he’s given a new start, a turning page on a hard day in your short marriage. A new start.

And he doesn’t know why, but something shifts. 

The mere thought terrifies him. 

-

-

[letters-of-libertas]

Energy to carry as a single childfree woman

Summary here.

Be more self reliant

You dont have to do everything on your own but you need to be able to count on yourself because for the most part that's all you'll have even as you're around others.

Have more intent with actions

Time & energy is valuable. Where you pour these things into steer the course of your life. Give your time & energy to things that help you (and other likeminded women if you want). You dont have to analyse every action you take but occasionally check in with how/if the actions you're taking are helping to build a foundation for your life as a single childfree woman. Things like donating to female centric causes, improving yourself so you can give yourself (& other women) more, organising/engaging in female centric women only spaces - even if they're just online, goes a long way to set the scene. Even indulging in your hobbies. Dont waste your time on things that wont help you or your motives.

Be more resourceful

Contrary to popular belief this lifestyle isn't a walk in the park, there's a lot more you have to account for especially with a level of reduced support. Being able to adapt/improvise + think ahead to mitigate problems will serve you long term. Also generally building up your resources will make getting through hard times easier.

Living my truth > proving my truth

You dont need others stamp of approval to live this way - just get started ! Convincing others is a waste of time your actions (& results) will speak for you anyways.

Reduce giving benefit of doubt

I once saw a quote "giving others benefit of doubt has never benefitted me" and it rings so true. Giving people benefit of doubt rarely ever works in your favour, the red flags that are downplayed often come back to bite you when you least expect it so trust your instincts on matters. If something is off about something or someone; start backing up. Also pure naïvety is rare, people often know more than they let on so trust + act on your instincts on matters if something feels off.

Be proactive

Instead of just constantly reacting to everything around you; take action no matter how small, it'll pay off more than just outrage. Spend less time on social media reacting to the never ending evil of xys and spend more time building for yourself. Social media can be informative but it can also be an echo chamber that breeds reactionary politics which doesn't move things forward. Ik this is ironic because you're reading this on social media but I'm not saying get rid of it all, just reduce your time on it - particularly around reading & reacting to maIe evil. Focus on tangible things in your life you can control & build instead for yourself and womankind.

Invest in indifference

Taking everything to heart will hurt you. Constant anger/hatred to maIes & their bs is still centering them especially if all you do is react. I'm not saying completely ignore it as they target us & a level of awareness is important, but dont let these feelings consume you. Being indifferent will let you look at things at a face value & make more levelled judgement. It helped my mental health a lot in regards to the climate to grow indifferent, this includes towards maIe identified women and even other types of discrimination like racists, ableists, etc. All theory around maIe violence essentially boils down to them being dangerous parasitic terrorists to not be trusted. I move with this & go. I see through them, I dont argue or waste unnecessary emotional energy on them, I dont care for them to understand me, I dont care to prove them wrong (bc in the end it wont matter all you do is give them more cards to play with; this system isnt erected through logic but violence), I have other stuff in my life to focus on. I cant help the way the world is I can only focus on myself & my actions. Typically the best comebacks arise when you dont give a shit. It wont happen in a day but learn to manage your feelings. Be indifferent to what you cant control, flower what you can control. These comments from the female separatist subreddit explain this well.

Learn to prioritise

Contrary to popular belief we can't have it all. Some are able to do so because they've got wives or staff covering sectors of their lives so they can pour more time into other aspects of their lives like business or leisure. But you wont have that privilege rn so some things will have to take a hit. This is also why you need to be selfish with your time. Things like being resourceful to automate/delegate tasks will buy you time but it's still important to be selfish with your time because as you put time in one area, another area loses time. You need to pick what matters. You cannot give your time away to everyone; make time for yourself & your objectives.

Less theory more action

Having a basis of theory/belief is a good place to start but dont get stuck there.

It's okay to be wrong

Mistakes will be made. Experience is how we learn and grow. Go about your business unabashedly.

Obviously not an exhaustive list but these are some main points that come to mind.

[prinvessdior]

after 8 months I have returned to u, and all I can offer u is vaguely self indulgent blonde lego man 😞 we’re going to also ignore how this was SUPERRR impulsive

sorry for the mostly word vomit of me going crazy but if I did not write at least SOMETHING for this man I think my brain would’ve gone boom still getting back into the swing of things (as always) but please enjoy!

Might’ve been under the influence of a green plant aswell

brief summary: Lloyd breaks down ur window in the middle of the night cuz he wants to watch the stars with you, but you’re the only star in his sky teehee

WC: 850 (ish, tried to get to 1k 😞 didn’t make it)

Tap. Taptaptaptap.

‘nope. better not check that’

Being rudely awakened around midnight wasn’t something most people would appreciate. In the darkness I groaned shifting around in a crumple of sheets and blankets.

sweet silence once again, I blinked back against the darkness of my room. Already awake by the noise, I just got to sleep too. Sighing into the welcome silence. it was probably too early to be alive anyways, eyelids drifting shut once more, lulling me into a peaceful slumber.

Taptaptap THUD.

“GOD- Okay!”

Fumbling, I threw the covers off my body standing on shaky, tired legs as I pushed back my bedhead from my face trying to get some semblance of what was happening anyways.

There were a few more taps at my window as I cautiously made my way towards the haunting item.

‘Okay rationalize first actions second. You live on the second floor so obviously no one is at your window. No plants grow up this high either. Oh what if..’

no that’s silly ghosts aren’t real.

Deciding to give up on rationality, I stepped in front of my window pulling back the curtains quicker than I really should’ve.

“Ah, darkness.”

“Wow, that’s kinda hurtful.”

“OHMY GOD-“

I’d know that voice anywhere, though not at midnight, when my brain is barley working and I’m still reeling in how the hell did my boyfriend get to my second story window.

oh yeah. Ninja. Whatever.

unceremoniously, I threw myself back from the window arms shot in the air not expecting my damn window to respond to me.

“Window god I am sorry for disappointing yo-“

“Can you just let me in please?”

I skipped giddily back over to my window, deciding to ignore my former embarrassment to instead unlock the window for Lloyd, still clad in the green ninja gi, hop down from my windowsill.

“Missed you,” he sighed out dreamily opening his arms to welcome me into a hug. Happily, I extended my own to wrap around his torso as he brought me in close for a much needed hug.

He sat his chin atop my head his arms winding around my waist and resting there comfortably, we stayed like that for awhile. The only noise being the ticking of the clock next to my nightstand and our mixed rising and falling of our chests.

Slowly, I could feel myself falling asleep once again it’d been so so long since I’d seen Lloyd last. Despite how badly I craved to soak up all his attention like a sponge, how warm he was how it felt to be held again by him was too nice.. yeah this is home.

“Are you sleeping standing up?”

“No.”

he laughed, like really laughed the kind where you snort and have to hold a hand up to your mouth to cover the strength of your giggles.

I whined at the loss of his arms falling towards him onto his chest to steal more of his warmth.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet, don’t you wanna go on a ride?” Lloyd asked as he snuck a finger under my chin to tilt my head up to face him, he was smiling. He’s pretty.

“Huh?”

I tilted my head not quite focused on whatever he was saying, he snorted in amusement. “It’s really pretty on the mountain, plus it’s a clear night and we can take a drive up there to stargaze, maybe if-if you want.”

Yep. Totally awake!

I smiled wrapping my arms around Lloyd’s neck especially because of how by the end of his suggestion the tips of his ears turned pink and his pretty green eyes tore away from mine for a moment.

“Yeah, lemme put on better clothes and I’ll meet you.” I nodded pointing down to the pajamas I was still currently wearing, Lloyd’s gaze followed my finger and I had half a mind to curse my half awake brain.

“Oh- yeah Kay.”

He released me with pink cheeks turning his back to me to face the window, I could only giggle at his back and I saw his shoulders sag slightly at that as I made my way to my closet. Well.. these clothes aren’t that bad just a jacket and well, shoes.

“Alright!”

I announced returning dutifully to Lloyd’s side interlocking our fingers together, “Ready?” He asked as he looked down to our joint hands back to my face with a bashful smile.

“Yep! I’ll tell you all about the stars.” I mused dramatically turning to unlock the window with my free hand, though I missed the soft sigh and murmur that passed through Lloyd’s lips as we made our descent.

“Luckily, I have my very own.”

[gothcsz]

fic authors self rec! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. (if you feel like it, no pressure.) spread the self-love ❤️

this took me 4ever i apologize :,) ty for sending me this diva

thoroughfare will always be my #1. she’s my baby, what got me into writing fic in the first place. i love the worldbuilding i’ve done and the development of all the original characters. writing horror is my favorite thing ever and my skill really gets to shine in this fic 🤩 however, my favorite thing about it is javi’s characterization 🥹 i lowkey think i ate with that here. and don't even get me started on how important music is to this fic. we'll be here all day if i start yapping...

have you ever asked yourself: is somebody gonna match my freak? is somebody gonna match my nasty? well i did and from that, the fantasize series was born 🖤 pwp that turned into porn with feelings and i just literally love the dynamic of javi and his gatita. also, all of their smut scenes have been my favorite to write and the ones i find myself rereading constantly! i can't believe it's about to end but at least we're going out with a bang

i fear i would be dumb if i didn't mention unscripted desire because uhhhhh that shit really popped tf off outta nowhere. i swear i've never written 12k words as fast as i did with part 4?! but yeah, this fic as a whole is just developing into something i never expected it to from that first ask i got, lol, but that seems to be very on brand for me.... anyways reader here is my absolute fave like she's a real baddie and only one man is able to handle all that and now he has her and they're about to be a force to be reckoned with within the porn industry.

the most self indulgent fic i've ever written aka purgatory because i just wanna get slutted out by javi and my bestie, okay?! it's literally so hot, i may or may not have watched a few threesome vids to get inspo and i reread it every time i need to feel something. why can't this happen to me irl?! i wanna be javi's diablita...

aaaand lastly, the neighbors series. it deadass feels like a novela i'm ngl 😭 i think what i love most about this is how collaborative it is between myself and my readers. like this is the closest thing we're gonna get to world peace, i fear /j but seriously, i'm loving the angst of it all :,) but don't let me catch neighbor javi out in these streets because i will fist fight him then give him the best pussy of his life whaat who said that

[hitomisuzuya]

Hey there!! saw u doing Nsfw stuff sooo i have a request for scaramouche! I feel like he could really be a mean dom so what about y/n tying his hands secretly to go slow for once (but ending up untyng him cuz getting to needy) hope I explaind it good and this isnt akwaaard <3

a/n: my fingers have been itching to get my hands on answering your request ever since I was saw it. I pop up in my inbox. I hope you enjoy. And don't worry, it's not awkward<3 Scara is def. a mean Dom. I love writing him that way lol

Scaramouche x fem!reader. Smut. Mean Dom Scara. Slight degradation (It's only slight though. I get so easily carried away when I write him that I fear it can be too overwhelming, so I like to try and keep myself in check lol).

Scaramouche was usually rough and dominant with you. To be honest, you were balanced out perfectly for him, you were sharp tongued when the situation called for it, and you were submissive in the ways he needed. It was important for you balance these two qualities if you were going to be in a relationship with him.

He was only ever slow when he was feeling vulnerable. Tonight was not one of those nights. Your neck and collarbones were littered with bite marks, his hands roughly groping any part of your naked body he could he get his hands on as he grinded his erection between your legs.

"Archons, you are so wet, like a needy whore," he bit your lips before he kissed you. You mewled when he pulled away, the kiss was way too brief for you.

Scaramouche scoffed, glaring at you, "Get down on your knees, it's where you belong right now," he said harshly.

You had different plans tonight. At least that's what you started out with anyways. Putting your hands on his shoulders, you gently pushed him back against the wall. Your plan wentnoff without a hitch. Scaramouche was forced to brace his hands against the wall, his tongue exploring your mouth.

Doing your best to keep his attention focused on you and the kiss your lips were locked into, you carefully spider walked your fingers to the ribbon that was on the table next to the bed.

You were relieved that he hadn't noticed yet. You tied his hands behind his back as quickly as you could. You finished just in time when he realized what you were up to.

"What the fuck?" he snapped, "don't forget for one second who is in control here."

"I just want to go slow tonight," you said softly. He rolled his eyes. Why didn't you just say so? Still though, it actually turned him on more that you'd secretly secured his hands behind his back so he indulged you.

Your fingertips ghosted, feather light over his nipples, making him let out a shaky sigh of pleasure. Just because he was relaxing a little didn't mean that he couldn't wait to get his hands on you again. Hooking a leg over his hip, you gyrated against his erection, making his cock twitch as it rubbed between your soaked cunt.

It didn't take you long to succumb to your lust. You yanked the ribbon binding his wrists together, freeing his hands. He laughed. "Still so needy," he said, flinging you down on the bed.

You grinned, gasping loudly in pleasure as he thrust his cock inside of you. He hissed softly when your fingers dug into his shoulder blades. His hiss was out of pleasure. What could he say, he enjoyed a little pain during sex.

"I may be," you mustered out between your moans, "but then again so are you."

This earned you another harsh glare. "Shut up," it was a command and not a suggestion. "I only want to hear you scream." He didn't care if everyone in the Delusion Factory in Inazuma heard you. He wanted everyone to know who was fucking you.

"AH! Faster, Scara, please!" You pleaded, your orgasm coiling to burst in your stomach. You ached for him, writhing beneath him.

"That's right! Beg for me! I'll give you what you want," he groaned as his cum spilled inside of you, ushering in your own release.

[fr-wiwiw]

Gahan art wip ask

@clawbehavior I had to repost this bcs tumblr flagged the gahan sex wip screenshots and the ask message is gone i'm sad, why tumblr whyyyy :')) - anyway, here you go! ------ glad you ask!! it's mostly just me trying to see how far my artskill goes right now so i'm challenging myself to draw illustrations from scene i see in my mind. - for the knight: i've always like medieval era settings and knights are cool especially with capes or cloaks on. i admit i love seeing the armor but it's such a complex and very difficult to grasp their 3D shapes in my head. i usually visualize how does an object / subject look and turn them around in my head as needed. now why gahan? apparently my brainrot keeps me going to get inspired and keep drawing lol. idk if i'm gonna make their face look exactly like gahan or just inspired from. i've talked about this with @gayautisticraccoon too where gahan meets as knights in another AU and they still end up together. they meet as enemy / rival then ended up worrying each other's wounds after fighting/war and then have a secret established relationship. along the way they'll secretly swore an oath to each other - "in this lifetime or new, may our souls be bound as one" here's the wip progress so far. i have to postpone it since i'm working on commissions right now. i struggled with the armor and the face bcs i want to make it look like gaon lol

- now the gahan sex : as we all know, i did promise posting 7 gahan sex post but it got postpone as well bcs i need to redirect my focus to finding commissions first so i can make ends meet. very often my mind keeps coming back to this wip as i want to indulge my own indulgence but i never let myself too bcs of priorities. but i've been trying to at least allow myself to insert some gahan now and then when i can just a bit, in whatever personal project i'm doing. hence the knights fighting i cannot post everything here bcs of censorship, the previous attempt got flagged, but here are some glimpses

I'll keep the rest so I don't spoil the fun ;) but 7 sex poses gave birth to several more and there's a bit of bottom yohan there that i can tell you, for the bottom yohan enthusiasts out here thanks for the ask!! love when people are curious and eager to know of what i'm doing^^ 💖