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velaenam · 2 months ago

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𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧

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𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. when the sky took caleb, all you got back was a folded flag and the echoes of everything left unsaid. you thought that the hardest part would be losing caleb– turns out, it’s learning how to keep living without him. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – ANGST, swearing, mature themes. loss of life, grief. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬– not proofread. couldn't sleep, so i wrote this in one go. please excuse the inconsistencies. i hope you guys enjoy. i may write an epilogue ^^ — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

11.6k

3 years previous.

“let’s give a round of applause for your valedictorian– caleb xia!”

the sun is brutal, but caleb looks unbothered standing at the podium—uniform crisp, cap tilted just right, smile at ease. he scans the crowd, his face unbroken by the intense amount of bodies that showed up for today’s celebration. the applause fades. the wind shifts. and then he starts his speech.

“i thought flying would be the best thing that ever happened to me. i trained for it. worked for it. sacrificed a lot to get here. i made a lot of friends– a lot of life long connections. but somewhere along the way, something… better happened.”

his voice doesn’t shake. doesn’t rush, cool and calculated. he glances down at his notes like he needs them– but it’s not his notes it’s his bad drawing of a plane. must’ve gotten the wrong paper on his way here. he clears his throat, very well so improvising.

“i’ve written this speech more times than we’ve flown in the simulations. i wanted to write about everyone that helped pave the way for me, but, you see, the best part of my life didn’t come from the sky. it came from someone who kept me grounded. someone who made sure i never forgot who i was when everything else got loud. she sat through my late-night calls, my stress meltdowns, my terrible ramen phase. and she’s the reason i’m still standing here, sane, intact, and apparently valedictorian.”

there’s light laughter, scattered claps. he holds up a hand. but he’s not looking at his classmates. he’s looking straight at you.

“can you come up here for a second?”

you blink. once. twice. you point at yourself like an idiot. caleb just nods. still smiling and someone behind you shoves your shoulder gently. “go, go!” you stumble forward, heat crawling up your neck. you can feel everyone watching, whispering, wondering. your heels were the only noise that was heard as it clicked across the pavement. his classmates cheer.

caleb reaches his hand out to help you onto the stage like this is a movie and he’s memorized every line. you lean in, voice low. “what are you doing?” and he doesn’t answer. instead, he pulls a small box from his uniform pocket. and just– goes down on one knee. your eyes widen, lungs deplete of air. the air vanishes. the world stops.

“i want to fly a thousand missions and still come home to you. i want to grow old with you before i grow old in the cockpit. you are the love of my life, and i can’t envision my life without you.…..will you marry me?”

gasps. someone in the crowd yells “holy shit!” caleb’s hand doesn’t shake. his eyes are soft. wide open and waiting for your response. your body was stilled, it was just so mesmerized at this moment. you don’t cry right away. you’re too stunned. but you nod. and laugh. and nod again. and then tears flow. you cried at how, despite that this was his moment ,he decided to share it with you– decided to share it with the one he loved the most.

“yes,” you say. then again, louder: “yes!”

the crowd erupts. his classmates lose it. someone sets off a confetti popper they definitely weren’t cleared to bring. caleb slips the ring on your finger and pulls you into his arms, spinning you like the cliché he swore he wasn’t. you don’t care. you’re dizzy. you’re full. you’re his. and for one perfect second, the sky has never felt closer.

the knock is soft, almost hesitant at first—three measured taps that echo in the hallway like a heartbeat. you’re curled up on your couch, the low hum of the tv a distant comfort, when the sound reaches you. for a moment, every instinct tells you it’s caleb; maybe he’s finally returned, his voice promising that he’d surprise you with flowers and that worn-around-the-edges smile. you set aside the book you were pretending to read, rise slowly, and shuffle toward the door with bare feet and trembling anticipation.

when you swing the door open, the sight that meets your eyes makes time momentarily stop. there is no caleb, no familiar face framed by the doorway– just two military officers in crisp uniforms, their expressions a blend of duty and gentle sorrow. one of them, a woman, taller than the other, offers a respectful nod while the shorter man carefully holds out a small, unassuming box. resting on top of the box is a folded flag, pressed down as if to protect it from the chill of the unknown. the flag’s fabric is soft and worn. it looks reverent. of the highest importance. the most precious gift to be given. its creases speaking of countless memories. you feel a sudden, disorienting numbness replace the hope you’d clung to just moments before.

“good morning ma’am. are you mrs. xia? colonel caleb’s wife?” you steel your nerves, as you give a meek nod.

the three of you stand there, intensity piling over each other nonstop. your eyes start to water, as one of them start to speak, “we.. regret to inform you..” the man says, voice low, smooth, practiced, “colonel caleb xia-” and that’s when it breaks you. you were about to face the music. face the fact that they’re about to announce that your husband, childhood best friend, the man of your life.. “..-was involved in a flight incident three days ago. a systems malfunction. his aircraft lost contact over the water- and there was no distress signal. search and rescue operations have ceased as of this morning.”

presumed. lost. presumed lost. presumed. presumed.

the words echo in your skull like your heartbeat as if it wont sync with the rest of you. the officer keeps talking, and you don’t register most of it. words like sacrifice, and service, feel far away. like they’re happening to someone else. not to you.

your knees buckled, but your legs don’t give up. your throat is stuck. you couldn’t say anything. the pain that was slowly boiling over as the officer set’s the box down on your coffee table. as she walks past you once more, she doesn’t meet your eyes, but leaves you with one final sentiment, “we.. offer our deepest condolences.” she says gently as they leave. your chilled fingers find their way to the doorknob, closing it gently.

as the officers walk to their vehicle, they hear a blood curdling scream coming from your house. followed by screams of crying. they tense up, as they head into the car, forlorn amongst each other.

you stare at the box. the box sits there on your coffee table, untouched and solemn, as if it holds the final echoes of his laughter, the soft echo of his whispered promises, and the bittersweet memory of a love that once soared higher than any runway. in that quiet moment, every fiber of your being is caught between the hope of a return and the harsh, unyielding pain of loss—a loss that is carved into each fold of the flag resting there, a silent tribute to the life that was, and the heart that must now learn to continue without him.

the room feels too big now. it stretches wide and hollow, filled with quiet corners that used to hold his voice. your body is folded in on itself on the living room floor, back pressed to the couch, legs drawn tight to your chest, like curling inward might make the ache stop echoing.

the tv still hums softly in the background, forgotten, casting dim light across the walls that shifts every time the screen changes. none of it feels real. it’s like you’re watching yourself from far away—like you’re not really here, not really in this moment, not really alone.

for a while, you try to pretend it’s not real. you stare at the floor. you pick at the skin around your thumbnail until it bleeds. you blink too fast to see straight. you wait for someone to wake you up.

but no one does.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until your lips part and the first sob slips out—shaky, strangled, helpless. like your body is trying to warn you that this is going to hurt more than anything else ever has.

your face burns with pain. tears stain your face and neck, as if you have cried for years. your hands tremble at the sight of that fucking flag. that fucking flag that doubles down as a reminder that he was fucking dead. you were slowly unraveling. becoming ballistic.

your face crumples and the sound that follows is raw. ugly. gutted. you press your forehead to your knees and cry like you’ve never cried before– like it’s ripping something from inside you just to let it out. your shoulders shake. your breath stutters. you grip your sleeves so hard your knuckles ache.

you cry for the stupid way he used to tap on your door in threes. you cry for the voice that used to call you “baby” like it meant something holy. you cry for the way his arms wrapped around you perfectly, like you were the most priceless item in the world. the way he would wake up early just so he could take care of your daughter without you having to do it first. the silly plans he makes for you when you had a hard day. just to see you smile. you cry for the fact that your baby will never see her father ever again.

you cry because he promised he’d come back. and now there’s a flag sitting on your coffee table instead.

when the sobs finally slow, you’re left in the quiet aftermath—your body trembling, your cheeks sticky with tears, your throat raw. the room is still. the only thing you can hear is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the muted static from the tv you forgot to turn off.

you lift your head.

your eyes land on the box again. it hasn’t moved. but something in you has. your heart thuds unevenly as you crawl forward on shaking hands and knees, closing the space between you and the thing that holds whatever’s left of him. you hesitate when you reach it. your hand hovers above the lid, fingers twitching. your breath catches.

you don’t want to know what’s inside. you don’t want to see the things he left behind. but not knowing hurts worse. because at least if you open it, part of him will still be here. you press your hand to the cardboard. it’s warm from the sunlight filtering through the window, but the weight of it is cold in your chest.

you let your palm slide to the flag. the fabric is soft, neatly folded, impossibly precise. you wonder who folded it. if their hands were gentle. if they cried.

your fingers curl around the edge of the box. and with a breath that doesn’t feel like enough,

you lift the lid.

and the world goes quiet again.

your fingers grip the edge of the lid and lift slowly, carefully—like opening it too fast might break whatever’s inside. the cardboard creaks. the air shifts… and then it’s open.

you don’t know what you expected. maybe you thought it would feel colder. heavier? louder? but it’s quiet. inside are his things. small and simple. personal. they sit still, like they’ve been waiting for you.

your hands tremble as you reach in. the first thing you pull out is his flight jacket—brown and worn, creased in all the places you remember him folding it. the left sleeve still has your hair tie around it. the one he stole from your nightstand. the one you never asked him to give back.

you press the jacket to your chest and close your eyes for a second. it still smells like him. like apple soap, his favorite that he stocked up on at the flea market, and jet fuel and something warm you can’t name. you hold it a little longer before laying it gently on the couch behind you.

next, there’s a ziplock bag. inside is a small flash drive, black with a chipped corner. You recognize the sticker stuck to the front. his messy handwriting. your name. a little heart next to it. you don’t touch it yet.

you pull out a small notebook. it’s filled. the cover is creased, the spine soft from being carried around too much. you flip it open to a random page that was sticking out and find his handwriting again—neater than you remember. a list of things he wanted to do when he came home.

go to that lake and teach her how to ride a bike learn to make bouquets for wifey fix the chair in the bedroom or she’ll kick my ass again go on a date. super overdue.

your vision blurs again. you blink hard. your thumb brushes over the last line, like touching it might make it real. beneath the notebook is a small envelope. no postage. no seal. your name is written across the front in ink that’s faded just slightly at the edges. you set it down gently, like it might explode. every touch made you feel hotter. like you were about to erupt yourself.

and then– at the very bottom– is a photo.

creased. softened at the corners. well-loved. it’s one of you. you’re smiling, barely looking at the camera, sunlight catching in your hair. he must’ve taken it when you weren’t paying attention. on the back, written in pen:

love of my life. my heart. my once-in-a-lifetime

your tears didn’t give you any time. your hiccups come fervently. you crouched down, your forehead hitting the dark floor, not caring if the impact hurt you in the slightest. your hands balled into a fist– as you slammed down on the floor repeatedly. this was a curse. did you piss off a god? did they want to punish you? you wailed, not caring if neighbors or a passerby hears you.

the first time he took you flying.

the airfield was quiet that afternoon, touched with golden light and the distant hum of activity. caleb had been pacing near the hangar, hands shoved into his flight suit pockets, pretending he was calm. pretending this wasn’t a big deal but it was. you knew it and he knew it too.

he’d talked about this day for weeks. “when the weather’s perfect, and the schedule clears… i’ll take you up. just us.” and now here it was– sunlight stretching across the tarmac, barely a breeze, and the world wide open.

“you sure you’re ready for this, lieutenant?” you teased as you approached, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunglasses half-slipping down your nose. “don’t call me that,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “you make it sound so formal.” “you’re about to fly a whole ass plane with me in it, caleb,” you said, grinning. “that’s kindaaa formal.”

he didn’t laugh—not at first. he just stared at you for a second, lips pressed together like he was holding something back. his fingers twitched at his side. not nerves about flying. you’d seen him pilot with calm precision under pressure.

no. this was different. this was you.

you followed him out to the jet, heart racing. it wasn’t big, but it was beautiful– sleek lines, pale blue paint kissed by sun. the cockpit door was already open. he helped you up the steps like it was second nature. you didn’t need the help. he still offered.

inside, the cockpit was warm. the leather smelled like old vinyl and the faint smell of caleb’s cologne. you settled into the co-pilot seat, buckling in, glancing sideways just in time to catch the way his hands lingered on the controls—steady, but shaking. just barely.

“you okay?” you asked, quieter now. he nodded, adjusting a dial. “yeah. just… haven’t done this ….with you before.”

you blinked. “you mean flying?” “no,” he said, turning to look at you.

the plane hummed to life beneath you. the engine low and alive.

he looked at you like the sky had nothing on you. like this– being here, with you– was the risk and the reward.

“you trust me?” he asked. you didn’t hesitate. “always.” and god, the way his face softened. the way his eyes held yours for that extra second, like he was memorizing the way you said it.

then the wheels lifted from the ground, and the sky opened for you both. you looked over at him mid-flight—hands sure on the controls now, wind sweeping against the windows—and thought:

he was never more beautiful than when he flew.

the knock doesn’t wake you.

it’s the doorbell that does—bright and insistent, slicing through the heavy quiet like sunlight through curtains. you stir against the couch, body aching from how you must’ve curled up at some point during the night. your throat is dry. your eyes sting. your limbs feel like they belong to someone else.

it takes a second to remember. then it all hits. the box. the photo. the letter you still haven’t read.

you sit up slowly, blinking against the light. your hand is still clutching the edge of his flight jacket, twisted in your sleep. you press your face into it once– just once– before the doorbell rings again.

you move on autopilot, feet bare, blanket slipping off your shoulders as you make your way to the front door. when you open it, you don’t expect her. you don’t expect them.

his sister stands there with a soft expression, one hand resting on the shoulder of the tiny girl standing beside her—the girl with his eyes.

your daughter.

you freeze in the doorway, one hand still gripping the edge of the frame. you’re not sure if your face is blotchy, if your hair is a mess, if your grief is still showing like blood beneath your skin. but she doesn’t say anything.

she just offers a quiet, “thought i’d bring her back a little early,” and a soft smile, almost apologetic. like she knows.

your daughter doesn’t wait. she sees you and beams, eyes crinkling, arms lifting like flight.

“mommy!”

you kneel before you can think, before you can stop the tears that spring up all over again– this time, different. she crashes into your arms with the full weight of someone small and unbreakable, her hair smelling like strawberries and sunshine. you wrap her up. hold her so tightly it nearly hurts. she giggles against your shoulder. “you squishing me.”

“i missed you,” you whisper, voice barely there. “i drew you a picture,” she says proudly. “it has a plane in it. like daddy’s.”

your heart twists. your eyes close. you nod against her hair, swallowing hard.

caleb’s sister steps inside without needing to ask, her eyes scanning the living room, the box still open, the flag still folded, the quiet aftermath still lingering like smoke. she says nothing about it. just rests a hand on your back as you sit with your daughter, fingers brushing through her hair.

“do you want juice?” you ask, voice a little steadier now. “yes! and waffles.” you kiss the top of her head. “you got it, captain baby.”

she runs off to the kitchen like it’s the best morning in the world. you stay kneeling there on the floor for a moment, staring after her. the ache is still there. the hole caleb left behind hasn’t shrunk. but right now, in this soft, impossible moment, it doesn’t feel quite so wide.

because part of him is still here. in her laugh. in her joy. in the way she runs like she’s never known anything but love.

you feel arms envelope you, like a cocoon. your sister in law pulls you in her arms, her voice trembling as her jaw tightens. “i’m sorry..” she musters as her tears land on your shoulder. she was strong in her own way. she was a rock to you when things went wrong. when you needed help she was there. she hadn’t even found out the news– but from her glance at the folded flag.. she knew… she knew.. she couldn’t even beat around the bush.

the next day felt like death.

you wake up in his hoodie. not because you meant to sleep in it, but because at some point in the night, you stopped trying to be strong.

your phone is buzzing. again. and again. you don’t want to check it. you already know what you’ll see. but you do. thumb slow. screen too bright.

and there it is– his name. everywhere.

not in headlines, not yet. but in comments. stories. posts from people you barely remember.

“can’t believe it. he was the best of us.” “my heart goes out to his family.” “rest easy, colonel caleb xia.” “you were so loved, man. you didn’t deserve this.” “sending prayers to his girl and daughter.” “we’ll take it from here.”

the words blur.. you scroll until your thumb aches. you like none of them. you reply to no one. you close the app, but the weight of it stays. he’s gone. and now the world knows it.

you ignore the messages and missed calls from your family and in laws. you even ignored his sister.

you hear footsteps– tiny ones– padding down the hall.

“mommy?”

you look up. your daughter is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, still in her apple pajamas. hair wild. eyes puffy from sleep. she hugs her stuffed rabbit tighter to her chest. the one caleb bought her. the one she never sleeps without.

“when is daddy coming back? i’m starting to miss him.. he always makes me waffles when i wake up..”

your breath stops.

she says it like it’s happened before. like it’s normal. like she expects a phone call later. a video. a souvenir. you kneel slowly, legs weak beneath you. your hands reach for hers, steadying even though you’re anything but. “baby,” you say softly. “come here.”

she walks over, all sleepy and innocent, and crawls into your lap without hesitation. she rests her head on your shoulder, small fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. you rock her gently. back and forth. back and forth. and then— you try.

“remember how we talked about how daddy flies really high in the sky?” she nods. her voice is small. “with the big plane.” you breathe in. it hurts. like hell. “sometimes,” you whisper, “the people we love go up so high… they don’t come back down.”

she frowns, brows furrow, in that cute way she does when she doesn't understand. “but daddy always comes back.” you press your forehead to hers. your voice shakes. you didn’t plan this. how do you explain death to a child who still thinks love can fix everything? “i know, baby,” you say. “but this time… he couldn’t. something went wrong. and he had to stay up there.”

“he forgot?” the way her lip trembles nearly breaks you. “no, sweet girl. he didn’t forget. he would never forget us.” she’s quiet for a long time.

“is he… in the stars now?” she whispers. you nod, even though your eyes are full again. “yeah. he’s in the stars.” fuckfuckfuck- you rapidly look to your right, away from her eyes, so you can blink the tears away.

“can he see me?” you nod harder. “always.”

she buries her face in your shoulder and says nothing. and you hold her like she’s the last tether to your heart. like maybe if you stay still enough, quiet enough, caleb might still be listening.

you rock her gently. back and forth. the morning sunlight spills across the floor. the phone buzzes again on the counter. you ignore it. right now, the world can wait. you’re too busy holding what’s left of him.

it was a beautiful day. of course it was.

clear skies. gentle breeze. birdsong carried over the low hills of the memorial field like it didn’t know what today was. like it didn’t matter that the only thing missing from the funeral was the one person it was for.

they called it a ceremony. a tribute– a celebration of life. as if any of those things made up for the fact that they never found his body. as if a flag folded with precision and placed on velvet could replace the man who used to carry your daughter on his shoulders through grocery stores. as if taps, played too perfectly, could echo louder than the silence he left behind.

you sit in the front row, wearing black you didn’t remember picking. hands clasped tightly in your lap, nails digging into your palms. your breathing is slow. measured. because if you breathe too fast, you might feel it all. and you can't. not here. not now. not for her.

caleb’s photo sits on an easel beside the podium. he’s smiling in it—smiling like he always did when you were behind the camera, like he was in on the secret that life could be beautiful. you can’t look at it.

the general speaks but you don’t hear him. his mouth moves, his voice low and reverent, but it all feels like it’s underwater. like someone pressed pause on the world and forgot to tell you. your fingers tighten around the small hand holding yours– your daughter. sitting beside you in a navy blue dress she didn’t want to wear.

she doesn’t understand why there’s no casket. no goodbye.no daddy.

she fidgets in her seat. you glance at her once, eyes glassy, and see that she’s clutching her stuffed rabbit like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

someone begins to read caleb’s accomplishments. his rank. his record. his honors. you hear the word “sacrifice.” it lands like lead in your stomach.

your vision blurs, not from tears— but from distance.

you’re floating somewhere behind your own eyes, not really here, not really now. watching your body sit perfectly still while your heart bleeds out across the grass.

and then…

a sob.

not yours.

small. sharp. your daughter.

“where’s daddy?”

the voice cuts through the speech. the silence after it is instant, jarring. you feel every eye shift.

her bottom lip quivers, hands balled into fists. she stands up, turns to the crowd, and says it again—louder this time, more broken:

“where’s my daddy?!”

your throat seizes. you try to reach for her but your arms feel far away. in a split second– she’s running towards the general.

“why isn’t he coming?!”

your vision breaks. the disassociation splinters. everything crashes back into you— the sunlight, the wind, the sound of her crying, the echo of a man they call fallen but you still want to believe is just late. like he’ll burst out of wherever he’s hiding, and laugh at the sick and stupid joke.

your body doesn’t think, you’re already running towards her as you scoop her into your arms, dragging her back into the chair. her fists beat weakly against your chest, her wailing unmatched. “he said he’d come back!” she sobs. “he promised!”

you hold her so tightly you’re not sure where she ends and you begin. you press your face into her hair and finally, finally cry. loud. unrestrained. not for the ceremony. not for the image. but because she said what you couldn’t. because she’s five, and she understands the truth you’re still trying not to choke on.

he’s gone.

he’s not coming home.

and you’re still here, letting her cry, in a world where taps plays for people who never got to say goodbye.

everyone was gone.

they left with soft smiles and casseroles in their arms, careful condolences tucked into envelopes you haven’t opened yet. they whispered, they nodded, they touched your shoulder like grief could be comforted with just enough gentle hands.

but now it’s quiet again. just you, the breeze, the wildflowers at the edge of the memorial field.. and him– or what’s left of him.

your knees are pressed into the grass in front of the stone they gave him. it’s smooth. too new.. his name carved into it like that makes it official. Permanent.

colonel caleb xia. loving husband, brother, and one hell of a pilot.

“you asshole,” you whisper.

it slips out soft, breathy. your voice cracks around it. you huff a laugh, and then the tears come–again.

“i can’t believe you left me here to raise a mini-you,” you say, rubbing your thumb over the stone . “she’s got your eyes. your smile. your attitude.”

you look up at the stone. at his name. your chest tightens.

“you should’ve seen her today. she stood up and yelled at a man in uniform because she didn’t understand why you weren’t there.” your voice trembles. “i didn’t know what to tell her. how do you explain to a baby that her father is now a folded piece of cloth and a few medals in a box? a tombstone?” you wipe your face, trying to pull it together, but you’re shaking.

“and i can’t–i can’t do it like you could. i don’t know how to make waffles the way she likes them. i don’t know the airplane sounds you used to do at bedtime. she asked me last night if you still brush the stars with your plane and i–” you stop. you choke on the sentence. then laugh through the tears.

“you’d be so smug right now, wouldn’t you? hearing that. you’d say something like ‘told you she was gonna be a handful just like me.’ and then you'd flash that dumb grin and i’d want to punch you but kiss you at the same time.” you look down at the marble and press your hand over it.

“i miss your voice,” you whisper. “your stupid jokes. the way you used to braid my hair for me.” you look at the stone again, and something crumbles in your chest.. something deep. you couldn’t let go.. you don’t want to. coming to terms with him being gone would be the end of you, and you knew it. this was your soulmate. the soulmate who is now laid down in the ground, never to return, and you had to just.. live on?

“god, i loved you,” you say. and now you’re sobbing. “i loved you so fucking much.” you lean forward, forehead resting lightly against the stone. the breeze picks up around you, brushing through your hair, tugging gently at your sleeves. you felt delusional as you think that maybe the tugging was him in the afterlife.. some sort of comfort yields to you.

you close your eyes. you stay like that for a long time. just breathing. just existing in the space where he should still be. “i’ll take care of her,” you whisper finally. “i swear. i’ll make sure she remembers how soft your hands were. how you laughed when she tried to salute you. how you cried when she called you daddy for the first time.”

“but you’re gonna owe me for this,” you add, voice hoarse. “when i see you again, you’re explaining everything.”

you pause. smile, just barely. “and you’re making waffles.”

three days later

the house is quiet. the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like it’s waiting for something. your daughter’s at school. you packed her lunch this morning with shaking hands and kissed her forehead twice before she ran off with her backpack bouncing behind her. she’s resilient. But she’s tired around the eyes lately. quieter. you didn’t say anything. she didn’t either.

you told yourself you’d clean. maybe eat something. instead, you’re here. kneeling in front of the box again. the one that’s been sitting on the floor beside the couch since the funeral. untouched. you’d meant to leave it closed for a while. give yourself space. time. but that never really helps, does it?

you open it slowly, like it’s a wound you’re reopening on purpose. his jacket still smells like him. the notebook still rests inside, half-written. the photo of you is curled slightly at the corners. you press it flat again without thinking.

and then– the flash drive.

small. black. a little chipped at the edge, but still intact. your name is written on the sticker in his messy handwriting. next to it, a tiny drawn heart.

you hesitate.

then you stand, walk to your laptop, and plug it in. it hums quietly as the screen flickers to life.

two folders appear. one labeled "for you." the other, "for our girl." you click the first one. a single video file. “if something happens.”

your heart starts pounding before you even hit play, tears brimming to life as you read that. you click. and there he is. your breath catches so hard you nearly sob right there. he’s sitting in what looks like the base’s rec room—his hair a little messy, flight suit unzipped just enough at the collar, like he’d rushed to record this. he’s smiling. not nervous. not rehearsed.

just him.“ hey,” he says, and the sound of his voice– god, it hits like thunder. you felt a shock, like the first time you heard him talk all those years ago. “if you’re watching this, something went wrong. and i hate that. i hate that you’re hurting. but i didn’t want to leave without saying what i needed to. i'm hoping i can delete this video after i come back from my flight.”

you press your hand to your mouth. his eyes are soft. like he’s looking right at you.

“i love you. not just the easy kind of love. not the kind that fades. the kind that roots itself in your bones. the kind that makes you want to be better, because i get to come home to someone like you.”

you watch him as he pauses, running a hand through his hair. your tears cascading down to your collarbone and beyond. you take deep breaths as you swallow just as hard.

“you made everything make sense. you gave me a life i didn’t think someone like me could have. and our daughter–”

he swallows. his eyes shine just a little.

“she’s the best thing i’ve ever helped create. every time she smiles at me, i think, how the hell did i get this lucky? and i couldn’t wait to give her a brother. or a sister. or both. i wanted more mornings. more bedtime stories. more bothering mommy while she’s doing her woman stuff. more late-night snack raids. i wanted it all with you.”

your shoulders shake. tears are spilling down your face, hot and uncontrollable. you don’t try to stop them. his voice keeps going, steady, like it’s holding you.

“if i’m not there– please tell her every single day that i loved her. that i still do. and that i was trying to come home.”

he smiles, soft and full of everything he never got to say in person. even though he was persistently smiling, you could tell that his eyes glossed. he was trying to hold himself together.

“there’s another file on here. it’s for her. just… in case she ever needs me at night. i love you..”

the video ends. the silence it leaves behind is deafening. you stare at the dark screen, your reflection, then look down at your hand. you sob into your hand for a long time. the kind of grief that splits you apart, the kind that wraps you in warmth and ache at the same time.

eventually, with trembling hands, you open the second folder. “for our girl.” another video. you recognize the cover of the book instantly.

“the airplane that could.”

her favorite. you hit play. and there he is again.

this time, sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, the book open in his lap.“ okay, kiddo,” he says, voice soft. “bedtime story, dad edition. you ready? his one’s for brave girls who fly high and land even higher.”

you laugh through your tears, hand pressed to your heart, as his voice fills the house again. reading each word like he’s still here. like he never left. and for a few minutes, he hasn’t.

you don’t know how long you sit there.

the laptop screen dims every few minutes and you keep tapping the touchpad to wake it, desperate not to miss a second. your fingers hover near the video file like they’ve made a habit of it already. you watch the story once. twice. three times.

and on the fourth playthrough, you press your palm to the screen. his image is pixelated under your skin. but it’s his voice that gets you.

the way he makes the little airplane’s “zoom!” sounds. the way he laughs when he trips over a sentence and mutters, “she’s gonna call me out for that one.” the way he pauses after the final line and says, “night, kiddo. dream big. daddy loves you.”

you rewind that last part. three times. you don’t realize you’ve been crying again until a drop falls onto the keyboard. you wipe it away and sniff, laughing softly—like he’d just caught you.

the sun’s shifted by the time you hear the door open. your daughter’s back from school, jacket half-off, hair windblown from recess. she drops her backpack in the hallway, calls out, “mommy?” you swipe your cheeks with your sleeve. “in here, baby.”

she walks in, still hugging her stuffed rabbit, and climbs up beside you on the couch. her head rests against your shoulder like she’s done it every day of her life. you close the laptop for a moment.

“can i show you something?” you ask softly. she looks up. her eyes are wide, curious. “is it daddy?” you nod. “he made you something. before… before he left.” her lips press together, and for a second, you think she might say no. but then she nods. “okay.”

you open the file. press play. and you don’t watch the screen this time. you watch her. her eyes light up the second he speaks. “that’s daddy,” she whispers. her hand tightens around yours.

as he reads, she mouths along to her favorite parts. laughs when he makes the airplane noises. leans in when he says, “you can do anything, little flyer. you just have to believe.” you hear her whisper the words with him. she’s memorized them. and when he finishes, “night, kiddo. dream big. daddy loves you.” she smiles through tears.

you’re crying again. silent. broken in the most beautiful way. she looks up at you. “can we watch it again?” you nod. “as many times as you want.”

and you hit replay. and you both sit there, curled together on the couch, wrapped in a blanket watching the man you both loved tuck her into sleep from somewhere beyond the sky.

a few days later

it’s raining. soft and steady, the kind of rain that doesn’t demand anything from you. the kind that just stays. your daughter is asleep—finally. she asked to hear “the airplane that could” twice tonight, and you let her. every word caleb read, every silly sound, every warm pause—it fills her room like he never left. you made tea but, you haven’t touched it.

instead, you sit on the floor of the bedroom in an old hoodie and sweatpants, the box beside you, your fingers resting on the envelope you still haven’t opened. it’s thinner than you remember. lighter. but it feels like the heaviest thing in the world.

you run your thumb over your name again. the ink is slightly smudged, like he held it for a while before setting it down. and you take a breath– and you open it.

the paper shakes in your hands as you unfold it. it’s his handwriting. no doubt. you’d know it anywhere—slanted, a little messy, confident.

you read:

my girl, my woman, my wife, my life, if you're reading this, something happened. and if something happened, you’re hurting. and god, if i could change that, if i could tear the sky open just to get back to you, i would. i’d do it a thousand times.but this is my backup plan. because you always said i needed one. so here it is. my heart on paper.

your hand flies to your mouth. your eyes burn. you keep reading.

first: i love you. not just the everyday kind of love. but the kind of love that made me rethink everything. the kind of love that made base housing feel like a palace, made ramen feel like a meal, made 3am deployment calls feel like they could wait a few more minutes because you were still asleep on my chest. i love the way you laugh. the way you fight. the way you love. i love the way you yell at me from the hallway to get my clothes out of the washer. i want more with you. i wanted more. more babies. yeah, i said it imagine a tiny version of you with my ears–terrifying. but perfect. i wanted to put another crib in the corner of our room. i wanted to teach our daughter how to ride a bike, and let you laugh at me when i ran beside her like an idiot. i wanted home with you. every version of it. i was gonna ask for the instructor position when i got back. no more deployments. no more taking off without knowing if i’d come home. i was ready to teach. to stay. because you made staying feel like the only dream worth chasing.

you stop. your vision is too blurry. you blink, wipe your face, your chest heaving. but you keep reading.

but if i don’t come back– promise me something. i know that i told you before that i’m obsessed with you– deeply devoted– and i am. i always will be, and i wanted you to be the same.. but this is different now.. don’t put your heart in a box with my name on it. don’t shrink just to keep loving me. be happy. fall in love again if you want to. raise our daughter to be wild and brave and soft the way you are.and when the house is quiet, and the world feels big and empty, pull out the notebook. it’s all in there. the first day i saw you. the night i almost kissed you but chickened out. the fight we had over burnt toast. it’s messy. real. it’s me.and it’s yours. always yours. —caleb

your hands are shaking. you fold the letter against your chest and sob. not the sharp, sudden kind. this one is slow. broken. like letting go and holding on at the same time.

you reach into the box, pull out the notebook. the leather cover is worn. familiar. you press your lips to it. you don’t open it. not yet. but you will.

and when you do, you know it’ll be like hearing his voice again. not a goodbye. just a continuation. just love, written in the only language he had left. you stare at your tea that’s been on your table this entire time. it was cold, long forgotten. you look at the window, watching and listening to the rain still hitting against the glass. finally, you look back at the book, tracing the edge of the notebook with your thumb for a long time. just sitting there. the only thing that matters is what’s inside this worn leather cover.

you open it slowly. his handwriting greets you like an old song. the first page is dated 6 years ago. early fall. just two weeks into your first year of college.

september 9 dorms are hell, someone stole my towel and i think my roommate sleeps with his eyes open.but today i saw her. i don’t know her name. she was in the common room, sitting cross-legged in front of a vending machine like she was trying to make peace with it. said it ate her dollar and she refused to let it win. she had on a nasa sweatshirt that was way too big, and i think she’d forgotten she had a pencil behind her ear. she muttered something about orbital mechanics and kicked the machine. it gave her a snickers. i think i’m in love.

you laugh. it slips out through the tears, a sound you didn’t think you could still make. a memory rises with it– you, hunched in front of that vending machine, furious and hungry and too broke to lose another dollar and him, standing behind you with a bag of chips and a look on his face like you’d just rewritten the sky.

you turn the page.

september 15 her name is gorgeous. she’s in my aero engineering lecture. i sat two rows behind her and spent half the class trying to think of something cool to say if we bumped into each other outside. i said “hey.” she said “you look like the kind of guy who brags about parallel parking.”i don’t know what that means but i think she’s right.

you cover your mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter and ache. god, he remembered every detail. the next few pages are scattered—little notes about campus, sketches of planes, scribbled song lyrics he never finished. but you keep flipping. page after page of a boy slowly falling in love with a girl he hadn’t even kissed yet.

october 3 she said she wanted to be the kind of woman who builds things that fly. said it with her eyes half-closed, on the roof at 2am, wearing my hoodie like it already belonged to her. i don’t even remember letting her take it, but it looks better on her. i told her i wanted to fly them. she said, “guess that means we’re stuck with each other.” i wanted to kiss her. i didn’t. i just said “yeah.” i should’ve kissed her.

you’re crying again. you hold the journal to your chest, just for a second. because he wrote these things for himself. but maybe, deep down, he always hoped you’d read them one day.

and now you are. and he’s here again, word by word, memory by memory– falling in love with you on the page, like he never stopped.

you flip through the journal carefully, the pages worn and full of little smudges from where his hand must’ve lingered. his writing gets a little more rushed as the months go on—like his heart was moving faster than his pen could keep up.

you find it, tucked between two pages. a folded napkin taped inside– faded ink, the logo from that burger place near campus. and beneath it, a date you’ll never forget.

october 14 – first date i picked her up at 7. i say “picked up,” but we both know i walked across campus in a panic, stopped twice to fix my jacket, and almost tripped on my shoelace outside her dorm. she was already waiting by the door. hair tied back. that stupid nasa sweatshirt again. she smiled at me and i forgot my own name.

you laugh, pressing your fingers to the page. you remember it exactly– how he blinked at you for a full five seconds before remembering to speak.

we went to that burger place with the wobbly tables and the jukebox that only plays sad 80s songs. she said she liked the milkshakes there. i said “me too.” i don’t even know how the milkshakes tasted. i just wanted to match her. she talked about stars and i listened like they were falling out of her mouth.

your chest aches. you flip the napkin up to read what’s scribbled underneath.

she drew a rocket on this napkin. i told her it looked like a shoe. she punched my arm. i’ve never felt more in love. after dinner we walked back to campus. slow. like we didn’t want the night to end. she said her favorite part was when i didn’t talk too much. i said my favorite part was when she laughed with her head tilted back. she said that was a dumb favorite. i said i was a dumb guy. and then– she looked at me. really looked. i stopped breathing. in love or terrified? the world may never know.

your heart’s pounding. you turn the page.

she asked me if i was going to kiss her or just stand there looking like a scared intern.i panicked and said “both?” she kissed me. it was fast. messy. perfect. she pulled away smiling. i didn’t know where to put my hands. i think i said “wow.” stupidstupidstupid she said, “took you long enough.”

your hands are trembling as you close the journal for a moment, hugging it to your chest. you can still feel that night. the cool air. the neon lights of the diner behind you. the taste of vanilla shake on his lips. the way he looked at you like you were a miracle he’d never stop believing in.

he wrote it all down. because even then– he knew: he knew he’d love you forever.

you flip further into the journal. the entries start to space out a little, scattered between class notes, training schedules, coffee stains. but one page stands out—creased at the corners, the words pressed harder into the page like he couldn’t write them fast enough.

bold letters across the top:

november 17 – I WON.

you smile immediately.

i fucking won. nationals. first place. best time of my life. my lungs are burning. my legs feel like they might fall off. my hands won’t stop shaking. and all i keep thinking is— she was there. she saw me. her voice was the only one i could hear.

you remember it. you feel it still—your throat sore from screaming, the way your hands ached from clapping, your whole body buzzing with pride. you were near the front, right by the finish line. you jumped so high when he crossed, you nearly fell over the railing.

she was wearing my jacket. the big one. said it made her feel “official.” i saw her before the race—she blew me a kiss and said “don’t lose. i bet snacks on you.” i think that’s when i knew i had to win. couldn’t let her down. or lose snacks.

you laugh, pressing your fingers to the words. he was always like this—charming and ridiculous and so sincere it hurt.

when i crossed the finish line, i didn’t even look at the clock. i looked for her. found her jumping up and down, hands cupped around her mouth, yelling like she wanted the world to know i was hers. i’ve never felt more like i belonged to something. not the medal. not the track. her. she ran down to meet me after. shoved people out of the way like it was life or death. she threw her arms around me before i could even catch my breath and kissed my stupid, sweaty face. said, “my champion.” i wanted to cry. i wanted to marry her. i will.

you close your eyes. the sound of the crowd still echoes in your ears. his arms around you, shaking from the race, from the weight of it all. how he buried his face in your neck like the win didn’t matter half as much as the fact that you were there. how he whispered, “i did it for you.”

he always did.

december 12 – i said it. i told her i love her. and i meant it so hard i thought my chest might give out.

your breath catches before you even turn the page.

it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. not that night. not like that. we weren’t dressed up. there weren’t candles. it was just us. just the couch. just a shitty movie playing in the background. she was curled up next to me, stealing all the blankets. hair a mess. feet cold. skin warm. she was ranting about something—some professor she didn’t like, or the terrible sandwich she had for lunch. and i wasn’t even listening. not really. i was just looking at her. and i thought, god. i love you. and it came out. just like that. out loud.

your fingers tremble as you turn to the next page.

she stopped talking. just blinked. looked at me like i’d thrown a brick through the window. i panicked. i froze. i didn’t even try to take it back. i just said it again. “i love you.”and then, quieter: “i didn’t mean to say it right now. i just—i mean it.”

you laugh—soft, broken, a sound from somewhere deep. you remember the way he said it. like it had been sitting behind his teeth for months.

she stared at me for a second. and i swear, my whole life happened in that silence. then she kissed me. slow. full. like she was trying to memorize me.. sappy... and then she whispered, “took you long enough.”

your chest tightens. your fingers press to the page like touching his words might let you feel him again.

i don’t care how long i live— that moment? that kiss? the way she smiled after? that’s the one i’ll take with me. that’s the one i’ll keep. forever.

you close the journal against your heart. tears fall in silence. not from pain— not only. but from knowing, absolutely, that you were loved. so fully. so honestly. and that even now, he’s still loving you in every word he ever left behind. your lips tremble as you part your lips, “why’d you have to defend this country you stupid man.. you should’ve just became a fucking scientist or something.” you half laugh half hiccup as you held the journal tighter against you.

after some time you peel from it, readying yourself for the next excerpts.

april 4 – first time. i don’t know how to write this without it sounding like every dumb teenage diary in every coming-of-age movie, but— we slept together. and yeah, it was sex. but it was more than that. it was her hands in my hair when i couldn't stop shaking. it was how she made me feel safe even when i felt like i didn’t know what the hell i was doing. i’ve never been looked at like that before. like i was something worth loving. like i could mess up and still be enough. she kissed my shoulder after and whispered, “we’re good, yeah?” and i said, “we’re so good, baby.” and i meant it with every damn cell in my body.

august 28 – the scare. she was late. not by a day. by five. i didn't sleep the whole week. and it’s not that i wasn’t ready—hell, i don’t know if anyone’s ever ready. but i wasn’t scared of being a dad. i was scared of what it might do to her. of her giving up the sky she wanted for diapers and night feeds and stress.but when she told me it was a false alarm— we just sat in the bathroom, laughing. half from relief, half from how stupidly close we felt to everything changing. and i think that’s when i knew. if it had been real, i’d have loved that kid so hard they’d never doubt who their father was. because she’d be the mother. and that alone would’ve made them magic.

february 2 – ring shopping, kinda. okay, okay. technically i said we were helping james pick out a ring for his girlfriend. technically, that wasn’t a lie. but also, i wanted to see what she’d pick. what made her eyes light up. what styles she hated. what made her whisper, “i could wear something like that forever.” and damn, she did. there was this one—gold, thin band, little oval-shaped diamond tucked in the center. she didn’t even say much about it. just touched the glass in front of it and smiled like she saw a future. our future. i didn’t buy it that day. but i went back. and i swear, when the time comes— i’ll put it on her finger like a promise. like everything i am belongs to her.

you didn’t think it would hit this hard.

you thought this one would be sweet. nostalgic. the kind of memory you keep behind glass and smile at when no one’s looking. but the second your eyes land on the words

your throat tightens. you know this one.

you pull the journal closer, your thumb resting against the page, and you start to read.

may 25 – graduation. i asked her. i was valedictorian. they called my name last. the applause was loud. i smiled, shook hands, made jokes. i gave a speech. i don’t even remember half of it. because all i saw was her. and i also forgot my speech paper at home.

your eyes sting immediately. you bite down gently on the inside of your cheek—like maybe if you anchor yourself hard enough, you won’t fall apart. you remember where you sat that day. front row. wearing his jacket even though it was warm out. hands trembling in your lap.

she was front row. wearing my jacket. eyes red from crying. hands clutched in her lap like she was trying not to run up onstage and tackle me.

you let out a shaky breath, tears sliding slowly down your cheek. it’s like watching a memory through someone else’s eyes—but it’s yours. it always was.

i had the ring in my pocket the whole time. heart racing so hard i thought it would give out. after the speech, i asked her to come up. she looked confused. nervous. and when she finally walked up there— i dropped to one knee in front of the entire class.

you smile through the tears. god, the way the crowd erupted. how you covered your mouth and shook your head in disbelief, even though you knew. you always knew.

i said, “i want to fly a thousand missions and still come home to you. i want to grow old with you before i grow old in the cockpit. will you marry me?” and she said yes.

you press your fingers to your lips, like you can still feel the kiss you gave him onstage—fast, breathless, the only answer you could give. Yes. a hundred times yes.

i’ve never won anything more important. not the title. not the speech. her. she’s it.

you close the journal slowly, but your fingers stay pressed to the cover, unmoving.

his handwriting still lingers behind your eyelids. the way he wrote her—not even your name, just her, like it was enough. like it said everything. and maybe it did. you lean back against the couch, cradling the journal like a heartbeat. your voice is barely a whisper when you say it out loud.

“you were it for me too.”

you open to the next entry. the page feels heavier.

september 10 – wedding day. i don’t know where to start. maybe with the way her hands shook when she laced them with mine. maybe with how she kept adjusting her veil like it wasn’t already perfect. maybe with the way i saw her walking toward me and forgot how to breathe.

you exhale shakily. your hand lingers on the ink where he pressed a little harder—where he wanted the words to stay loud, like that moment still echoed in his chest.

she looked like sunlight. like warmth. like she was born to ruin me and rebuild me in the same breath. and god, she did.

you smile through the tears, lips trembling. you remember the way he cried first. you remember laughing at him—softly, not to tease, but because it was so unmistakably caleb to weep like that and pretend he wasn’t.

she made fun of me for crying. i said, “have you seen yourself?” she rolled her eyes. and then she promised forever. and i promised it back. with every cell in my body.

your smile was forlorn. you stared at this entry just a bit longer than the others.. eventually you flip to the next entry, dated not long after.

november 14 –she’s pregnant. i’m writing this with both hands shaking. she told me this morning. came into the room holding that little test like it was a secret, like if she said it too loud the moment might disappear. i was brushing my teeth. i almost dropped the toothbrush. and then she said, “you okay?”and i said, “i think i’m in love with you all over again.”

you cover your mouth. you remember the way he dropped to the floor like his legs gave out. how he kissed your stomach before you even had a bump. how he whispered, “we’re gonna be parents,” like it was something holy.

she kept pacing. said she wasn’t ready. said she was scared.and all i could think was— i get to build a life with her. a home. a child who’s half her, half me.and if this baby has even an ounce of her fire— the world better watch out. …maybe we should name it apple.

your eyes squeeze shut. your hand shakes against the page.

august 12 – she’s here. our daughter. i don't even know how to start this. i've rewritten the first line seven times. nothing feels big enough. no words feel like they belong to what just happened. but she's here. our little girl. and she’s perfect. her name sounds different when i say it out loud now. heavier. real. it used to be a name we whispered over dinner. a maybe. a dream. now it’s a person. a whole person. and she has my eyes. i swear to god the second they handed her to me— i thought the whole world paused. like even time wanted to watch.

you smile through the tears. your fingers rest over the date on the page, like holding it might take you back to that room—where everything changed.

you flip through more pages, just details of his experiences with your daughter. he was sweet, adoring, and the sweetness may have fooled you if your eyes didn’t land on this page;

february 18 – i’m leaving in the morning. deployment orders came in. she tried so hard not to cry. held our daughter in one arm, kissed my cheek, told me she’d hold the sky down till i came back. she always says things like that—poetic and steady. like if she can speak it into the world, it’ll make it true.i wanted to believe her. i do believe her. but i’m scared. not of the mission. not of flying. i’m scared of missing too much.

march 4 – base is loud. hot. everyone’s tired. i think about them all the time. i have a picture taped to the inside of my locker—one of the three of us on the couch, blankets everywhere, popcorn stuck to our shirts. my daughter’s head is in her mom’s lap. her mom is laughing. i look like i’ve already won the war. i stare at that photo every morning before briefing. whisper to it, “i’m coming home. wait for me.”

you flip through more entries, until you get to the last page. you almost didn’t want to read it. head light, breath staggered, the paper felt thinner now. you take a deep breath– or as best as you possibly can, and continue.

may 3 – in case something happens. i need this written down. i don’t know why i feel like writing this now. maybe it’s just a quiet night. maybe the wind sounds different. maybe love makes you preemptive. just in case. if i don’t make it home— if you’re reading this—god, i hope you know i loved you with everything i had. from the moment you kicked a vending machine to the day you said “i do.” from the time you placed our baby girl in my arms to the last voice note you sent before this mission. you’ve been my gravity. my sky. my reason to fight, and the softness i always returned to. and if i don’t get to hold her again— tell her i never stopped trying. tell her she’s brave like her mommy. and kind. and funny. and too smart for this world. tell her i was hers from the first time i felt her kick. and you. you, baby— live. laugh again. love again. fall asleep in someone’s arms and know that it’s okay. you were my forever. and i’ll be waiting at the edge of every sky. until you find me again.

his final entry is burned into your mind. the words feel heavier than paper has any right to be. your hands are shaking. your lips part like you want to say something, maybe to him, maybe to the empty room— but nothing comes out. just air. shallow. trembling.

you press the journal to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. and then it hits. not slowly. not gently. like a punch straight through your ribcage. the kind of grief that doesn’t knock. it takes. your body curls in on itself. your shoulders begin to shake. and the first sob breaks out of your throat like it’s been waiting days to escape. you try to muffle it— fist pressed against your mouth, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a cry. but it keeps coming. a second sob. then a third. and then you’re full-on breaking.

you bury your face into the hoodie still stained with his cologne, the one you’ve worn three nights in a row. your knees draw up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re trying to hold your heart in place.

you can’t wake her. your daughter is down the hall. so you cry as quietly as you can. but the pain still slips through. in your breathing. in the way your body rocks slightly like he used to do when she cried in the middle of the night. like you’re trying to soothe yourself the way he would’ve done.

you were my forever. and i’ll be waiting at the edge of every sky.

your hand presses to your mouth to stifle the next sob, but it still escapes—loud enough to crack through the silence, not loud enough to wake her.

you whisper his name. once. twice. like a prayer that’ll never stop aching.

and then, quieter: “i miss you, caleb. i don’t know how to do this without you.”

you sit there in the dark, with his words against your heart and your tears soaking the only piece of him you still have left to hold. and for the first time in days, you let yourself fall completely apart. because tonight, you don’t have to be strong. not for her. not for anyone.

just for this— this goodbye you never got to say, and this love that never stopped living inside you.

a few days later

the house is quiet. soft sunlight spills through the kitchen windows, painting the floor in gold. the kind of morning that doesn’t ask much of you, just presence. just breath.

you’re at the sink, mindlessly rinsing dishes that weren’t even that dirty. the journal still lives on the table behind you. closed, but not untouched. you haven’t opened it again—not yet. you will. just… not yet.

and then— the front door swings open.

“mommy!” your daughter calls, her voice high and full of breathless excitement.

you turn, startled. she’s carrying a basket. no, dragging it, really—too big for her tiny hands, but she’s determined. a woven handle hangs off her wrist, stuffed to the brim with pastel-colored wrapping and little ribboned items peeking through the top.

she marches straight into the kitchen and sets it down with a loud thud. you blink at it.

“baby… what’s all this?”

she beams, huffing and puffing, “lukey and kiereny’s dad gave it to me at pickup! he said it’s for you!” you freeze. luke and kieren. you know those names. they’re in her class. and their dad— that’s…

you kneel down slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “he gave you this? for me?”she nods hard. “he said it was to make you feel better. and he said you could call him if you were sad.” you glance at the basket—carefully curated, clearly thoughtful.

bath bombs in calming scents. artisan chocolate. a small jar of lavender honey. a soft-rolled pair of cozy socks.

and nestled between everything, a sealed envelope with your name written across it.

you take it with gentle fingers. your daughter leans against your arm, watching. you unfold the note.

i’m sorry for your loss. i understand how you feel. if you ever need anybody, don’t hesitate to reach out to me.

— sylus

and below was his phone number.

you read it twice. then a third time. short. simple. but it lands softly in your chest like something warm against all the cold. he didn’t overstep. didn’t try to fix it. he just… offered his hand.

you let out a slow breath, blinking hard. “do you know him?” your daughter asks, looking up at you. you smile—small, tired, but real. “not really,” you say.

“but maybe i will.”

#lads x reader #love and deepspace #lads caleb #lads #lads mc #loveanddeepspace #caleb x reader #lnds caleb #lnds #calebmc #caleb lads #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x non!mc reader #mc x caleb #non mc x caleb #non!mc x caleb #xia yizhou #caleb angst #caleb x y/n

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lynaferns · 6 months ago

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Redraw (well, third attempt) of an old drawing from 2022.

Alright, this is a big one, so, PC users: left click the image, right click the image, open in another tab, zoom and see all the details you want.

Phone users: press down on the image, download, find image in your phone gallery, it will download at full quality so you can zoom and see all the details.

The fancy stars and the inside of the piano were a pain in the ass, everything else went pretty smoothly, or at least the average complications. I'm proud of how I mixed the colors in the piano. I was convinced I'd end up making a mess but it turned out nice.

Once again, this is finished because I decided so. I have no energy to make the final look I had in mind.

The piano alone, close ups (cuz the jpeg won't let you zoom at the very max and that sucks, so I screenshot from my art program) and an idea for an AU + youtube playlist I made that I relate too much to the AU under the cut. vvv

SO!

This was never supposed to be an AU, and I probably won't do anything regardless, but I got the idea while I was working on it last month. And since I have a liiiiiiittle basic knowledge of music and experience, specially in piano... well...

I had bad experiences learning music as a child so probably the story would reflect on that lol.

An old astral auditorium that's abandoned and in ruins during the day and gets all shiny and nice at night when it's illuminated by the light of the stars.

Sun, Moon and Eclipse are in charge of the place, they do their best at keeping the place standing… and are the main musicians that play for the stars every month, once or twice. The day and night transformation affects them too.

Violet (y/n that's not really a y/n at this point) is a young altruist and selftaugth violinist (yeah yeah, I'm very original with the names, hush) that came across this old auditorium. She starts visiting the brothers to play music during the day and decides to join them in the auditions to play for the stars, and help them modernize a little bit to attract human audience too.

The brothers play several instruments to be able to acompany each other if necesary buuut they each have a "favourite". Sun mainly Piano, Moon mainly Harp (can also play piano and viola to accompany Sun) and Eclipse can play any instrument Sun and Moon can and more, but likes accordion :)

Sun is the most strict one when it's about playing music even though he likes to mess around with songs and improvise during day hours when no body is around, but will feel guilty afterwards... Moon is a gremlin that likes messing up and playing with the instruments in ways you are not supposed to (like using the viola bow as a sword). Eclipse is easy going and will match the energy of their brothers while keeping them out of trouble. Clip doesn't really like playing for the auditorium and prefers improvising silly songs alone or with Sun and Moon.

You can ask me about this AU if it got you curious, I'll be glad to answer!

I still want to make the MC design at least. And maybe some sketch comics if I have the energy for it.

#my art #lyna arts #dca au #Astral Auditorium AU #drawing #artwork #ilustration #fnaf daycare attendant #piano #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf eclipse #sundrop #moondrop

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e-vay · 4 months ago

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("Sonic") Hands Study

I get asked a lot how I draw hands, and particularly how I draw hands in the "Sonic" style. Let me preface by saying I am mostly self-taught, so please do your research and study what techniques work best for you. The following demonstration is what I personally use to help me draw hands in general and–more specifically–how I draw “Sonic” hands. This is less of a tutorial and more of a series of observations.

*And remember, there are always exceptions to the rules!*

I personally believe before you can go about stylizing hands, you have to understand how to draw hands in the first place. Afterall, I think you have to know the rules before you can best bend/break them. Think about super stylized hands in animation like the characters from Atlantis or Hercules. Even though these hands are unlike what we see in real life, they still look and feel ‘natural’ because the artists understand how hands function and are able to bend the rules while still demonstrating proper anatomy.

Sources: [x] [x]

I highly recommend studying the anatomy of a hand. It’s educational and fascinating! There are plenty of free resources online!

I understand many people find hands intimidating to draw, but the best way to learn how to draw anything is by breaking it down into shapes. Everything is made up of shapes.

3 is the magic number

In simple terms, our hands can be seen in patterns of 3. Your palm can be broken into 3 segments that can move semi-independently. Your fingers are composed of 3 segments each (proximal, middle, distal). There are 3 phalangeal joints per finger. The average shape a person’s fingertips make when aligned is a triangle (a 3-sided shape), with the middle finger being the highest most point of the triangle and the other fingers cascading down (there are exceptions to this rule). Keeping the number 3 in mind will help you remember how hands/fingers articulate.

Everything is connected

Even though elements of your hand can move somewhat independently, every movement influences the other segments of the hand. Notice when you put one finger down how (most likely) at least one other finger moves slightly? Or notice how you can only do certain gestures with the assistance of your other fingers or sections of your palm? Keeping in mind how segments of the hand affect the others will help make your drawings feel more organic and less stiff.

I usually start with the palm (or back of the hand) first and that determines where everything else falls into place.

Once you grasp how hands work, that’s when I believe you can determine how stylized you want to get. There is a very large range of drawings hands from super realistic to very simplistic.

If you’re wanting to emulate a certain style, you have to study it and learn how it works.

"Sonic" hands

As far as Sonic hands go, it depends on which version you’re best hoping to emulate. Notice how the styles vary even throughout the franchise?

In the 3D video games, Sonic characters tend to have what I classify as more ‘cartoon-y’ hands while in illustrated media, it often leans more towards realism. (Note I said ‘leans towards,’ not full realism). How and why is that?

Let’s break it down into shapes again, Sonic Style! Pt 1

In many of the 3D rendered media, the characters’ fingers are made of more round shapes. The models also don’t conform to realistic proportions. The tips of the fingers are usually larger than the segments closer to the palms (the middle and proximal phalanges), and this helps to deviate them from a more realistic look. Speaking of proportions, the hands overall tend to be disproportionately larger than the rest of the characters’ bodies. This also makes it feel more like a cartoon, even without resorting to a super simplified, 3-fingered hand like Mickey Mouse or Bob Belcher.

Breaking down shapes, Sonic Style! pt 2

Illustrated samples vary depending on the artist/studio, but I’ve noticed that in general, illustrated Sonic characters’ hands tend to have more square/rectangular shapes. The phalanx proportions often resemble what we see in real life, with the fingertips tapering down in size compared to the segments closest to the palm. The overall size of the hands in proportion to the body are still larger than that of real humans, but they tend to be closer in proportion compared to their 3D counterparts. This is why in illustrations, the characters are more capable of crossing their arms, interlacing their fingers, or making other natural hand gestures.

Also, notice in these examples, there’s more detail to the hands than what you’d find on a Looney Tunes character? There are often folds in the material of the gloves, some knuckle definition present, more natural bends to the fingers. However, the hands are almost never as detailed as that of say, a Dragon Ball character where you’re seeing muscle tendons, veins, definition of each finger segment, finger nails, etc.

Sources: Dragon Ball Z, The Looney Tunes Show

MY STYLE

With all that in mind, I happen to find the sweet spot for the Sonic character style right in this range:

Everyone has their own preferences and it’s up to you to decide what you like best, but this is what I prefer.

MY STYLE - Cont’d

I use a blend of the two previous Sonic styles I mentioned, Cartoon-Round + SemiRealistic-Square. I like to go with a more “Squoval” shape (rounded squares) to the fingers. I try to keep the fingers in a naturally proportionate scale with the ends tapering down in size, but the overall size of the hands are still bigger than what you’d see in real life. I like to add a bit more detail when warranted, but I personally rarely resort to definition in the tendons/veins or complex wrinkles in the bends of the fingers (unless it suits a specific character or emotion).

Like I said, this is less of a tutorial and more a series of observations. But perhaps looking at hands in the way that I do might help you with your own drawings! You should absolutely do your own studies to find what works best for you. But I hope you found this helpful in some way!

#study #art study #hands #drawing hands #cartoons #sonic #reference #long post #advice #tutorial #sth #sonic the hedgehog #sonic trash

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limarkova · 5 months ago

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Yandere Batfam x Neglected Reader x Yandere Al Ghuls

Pt 5.

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The library was quiet when you walked in. Since it was still early in the morning many people hadn't shown up yet. Your luck of finding a tutor were slim right now. It was best to start independent so you could tell a tutor what you needed to learn more about anyway.

You wonder the shelves contemplating where to begin. Maybe the computers to look up what fourth grade standards? Didn't those vary though? Okay maybe you should have goaded your 'family' into telling you were the 'boarding school' was supposedly base. Science sounded like a good option. It used a mix of math and reading comprehension.

You had to choose a science fourth grades typically learned, though. Honestly you wished you could just pick any science and say the school had specialized classes. However you didn't know what type of boarding school Bruce claimed you went to. The slightest misstep and your siblings would alert him that something was up.

Being realistic Bruce could send you back at anytime. By playing into his lies, you would appear compliant or like you don't suspect he was involved. That could buy you time. If it seemed like you were truly trying to integrate back into the family and not expose the experiments, he might let you stay for a little longer. Why get rid of someone if their potential as a threat was limited by their ignorance?

For now you need to match the cover story. Whatever books were labeled fourth grade level than. Maybe a few fifth grade books. You had implied that you were doing more advanced work. Maybe you could safely make the claim that you were placed in advance classes. They had been talking about those during your last year at Gotham prep.

The kids section was full of basic cartoon style books. You browsed a few before frowning. Most of the information was the bare bone minimum. Half the books mark 4th grade level only covered surface level knowledge.

You pulled out a book on human anatomy and almost bursted out laughing. The drawings were over simplifications of the organs, nothing compared to how they really looked. Slimy, covered in veins, shades of pink or gray you didn't expect once the blood was removed. That thought brought back a haunting memory. You shoved the book back on the shelf. Medical research would come later.

Grabbing any books that caught your attention, you headed over to a secluded area. Most of the information was basic understand. Yes, you learned some new things and were fairly certain your reading comprehension was ay the appropriate level. But there was nothing involving math. "Maybe a few tutors have shown up or a librarian can help me call one."

Standing back up you wondering over to the librarian desk. No one was there. You yet out a heavy sigh. Oh course they weren't there, that was just your luck.

"Hello, are you looking for something?" You jumped at the sudden voice behind you. Spinning around you saw a woman with long dark brown hair and green eyes. She carried herself confidently but some part of you screamed the she was capable of violence.

"I was looking into what's available in terms of math tutoring. Maybe social studies or history if that's an options." You angled you body away from her.

She laughed slightly more to herself than you. There was a gleam in her eye, like she was impressed by her assessment. "Well you're in luck. I happened to home schooled my own son in math and know a lot of teachers. What do you need to know?"

"Pretty much everything above adding and subtracting." You scowled down at the books in your arms. It they had and hadn't been useful. Maybe you should take advantage of this woman's help. You needed a tutor, it shouldn't matter who it was also long as your family didn't find out. "What’s your name?"

"I'm Talia." She crouched down to your level and held out a hand. You stopped thinking.

Talia.

The woman mentioned in your mother's diary. It couldn't be. Though she mentioned having a son. No Talia might have been an older flame and Damian's mother had a different name. Maybe you had been to quick to get in a fight with him. Now you couldn't ask him about his mother. What if he sent her to spy on you because you had pissed him off? Not good, really not good.

"I'm (Fake Name)." You gave her the wrong name and watched. If Damian had sent her, she would probably already know your name. So by giving her the wrong one you could figure what she already knew about you. It wouldn't be through her words or actions. No the hints would be subtle. Some kind of disappointment or a sign she felt slighted.

Yet her face remain pleasant. That slight hint of being impressed remaining, "It's nice to meet you. Let's do a few tests so I can see where you are first." Just like that you were swept away into a world of learning.

Talia was beyond impressed with the young Wayne girl. First she correctly identified Talia as a threat. It was obvious by the way she angled herself away from the older woman. How her eyes flicked for the nearest exit, probably a subconscious reaction. Without Talia's weapons or reputation, the girl had pick up on danger.

Next was the wrong name. Said so surely like it truly was her name. The girl shifted so fluidly into the new identity too. Talia would have believed it if she hadn't already done research. Never once did she catch the girl not responding to the name. All without proper training.

However, that all paled in comparison to her true shining trait. The girl's intelligence was well beyond average. She caught trick questions and picked up topics quickly. Talia was willing to bet her intellect could rival Bruce's. Obviously not at her current state, she need guidance to reach that level. Still all the material was there.

"Thank you for the help, today." Her voice was quiet. Movements quick to put away the notebook she had written all of her work in. They had moved from mathematics, to English, social studies, sciences, and the one that she seem the most interested in Criminal Investigation. Damian had taken his father's intelligence but was held back his ego. She didn't have that fault.

Talia smiled, "of course. Will you be returning tomorrow? I would love to continue our lessons. There's a chance I might be able to teach you Arabic."

"Arabic, the language?"

"Yes. I taught my son but well he lives with his father now and I don't get to speak it with him anymore." Talia said the information to get the girl to relax but the opposite occurred.

(Name) bit her lip, "I apologize if this is sensitive to you but what's your son's name?"

"Damian." Talia observed the girl's reaction. Her shoulders tense, body angling again, one deep breath. "Too bad his father turned him against me."

"How?" The girl blinked after saying the word. Her face was too blank to be natural. The information was throwing her for a loop as she tried to make it fit her reality. They would need to work on that.

Talia shook her head sadly, "I'm not a hundred percent certain what he told my boy but I think... I think he made Damian believe that he was in love with me and I broke his heart. Even though it was the other way around when he cheated on me."

Talia watched as the words hit home with the girl. Oh she had chosen the right story to turn her against Bruce. The girl gave her an easy smile that was a smidge too tense in the corners, "Yeah. I'll be here tomorrow. Can I ask one last question?"

"Go ahead." Talia gestured with her hand.

"Do you happened to know any self defense teachers?" Determination morphed her features. It made her come alive in a sense. That fire she saw yesterday back in her eyes and brighter. Confidence shifted her stance into one more sure.

"Oh I know several material arts teachers."

Bruce sat in his car, rubbing his brow. In a little over twenty-four hours since his youngest had shown up at manor things had arguably gotten worst. First the information coming out about (Name) never being at school followed by a full blown investigation by his kids. Than there was what the others had officially dub "The shit list". Damian had become so upset he secluded himself in the barn. Last but certainly not less were the changes the other reported in his youngest.

Dick's last phone call said she was at the library researching for 'school'. They had decided to watch her through the cameras believing space was what she actually need. Yet one thing was clear from the little time she had spent in the manor since coming back. Whatever had happened was traumatic and she was not going to tell them directly. Perhaps whoever had her was now stalking her to ensure she wouldn't cooperate.

Bruce would double the manor's security. He wouldn't fail one of his kids a second time. She hadn't arrived home from the library yet, so Bruce had time to prepare. Taking one last deep breath he exited the car. First stop the Batcave to get an update on investigation.

Bruce might as well have entered a war zone. At least there he would know where to start. Dick and Jason were in a screaming match about who should have been checking in on her. Tim was two steps away from drinking coffee straight from the pot, while pouring over financial records. Barbara looked like she was having an aneurysm. Cass was analysising video footage taking notes on presumably her body language. Duke was being interrogate being Steph on how (Name) acted while the two were out and what she could have been writing in "the shit list."

"Status report." His voice shattered the chaos in a matter of seconds. "Oracle you go first."

"I searched through city wide surveillance feeds and found some video footage from a few days ago. It seems like who ever had her did chase after but..." Oracle, Barbara trailed off. The screen flash to show (Name) being chased by an armed pursuer. In two seconds, she had turned thrown a knife of some kind than ran down an another alleyway. Her pursuer fell to the ground weapon lodged in his throat. "Police reports identified him as James Lenon, a low level criminal with a history of violence. He had a scalpel in his trachea and was pronounced dead on arrival of the scene."

Bruce now understood why Barbara looked ready to have an aneurysm. This footage showed (Name) committing murder. Just to get away from whoever was holding her captive. He could only imagine what might have pushed her to that point. That or she didn't know the guy was dead. It would technically count as self defense either way but not a good sign.

Barbara typed something on her laptop before another video appeared. "Than there's this one." It show (Name) running off screen injured. When she reappeared the injuries were gone, not even a speck of blood. The video ended with (Name) throwing a mangled bullet at the camera. An act of defiance, but towards who.

"Has this video been edited?"

"No. This is the orginial video. Do you think she might actually be a meta?" The room filled with anticipation at that.

Bruce nodded once, "we'll need to test her DNA but the odds are good. Red Robin what do you have?"

"She was telling the truth about her card being stolen. It would seem whoever stole it though knew better than to use it to pay for something directly. All of it's cash withdrawals, the ATMs used are in Gotham though so it's all local. Oracle any updates on ATM footage?"

"Na-da. They're smart, covered their faces with sunglasses and sick masks. Generic brand sunglasses and disposable mask so no identifying markers. They wear them on video until they disappear." Barbara brought several still shots onto the screen.

Bruce nodded to the two, taking in the information. It assumable from the ATM footage alone there were multiple people involved in this. They would need to identify which group had the most to gain.

"Nightwing, Red Hood. What did your investigation of the PO box reveal?"

"They scorched the damn place the night she escaped." Jason dropped a picture of a burnt and destroyed PO boxes on the table. One box in the third row was circled "Also destroyed any mail going to all the PO boxes on that wall. Feds are looking into it since the post office was involved, I couldn't get closer than that."

"The person who orginially opened the box, Marcus Antonio, was found dead last night." Dick placed crime scene photos on the table. A man with a singular bullet wound laid in a pool of blood. There were tipped over and rifled through drawers, books, coffee containers. The scene was mess. "Decided to take a look around. It was a clean hit but catch this. The guy had loads of cash stashed all over the place. GCPD thinks it was a robbery gone wrong since they didn't take all of it and left in a hurry. With what we know, I think it was a targeted attack. They mostly just took the cash they could find, figuring they were going to get cut off"

Tim interrupted, "I second that. All cash withdrawals stopped the day after she escaped. They pulled more than they usually did so the bank flagged the card. It's shut off pending investigation."

Bruce nodded. It was likely that most of the people involved were going to leave Gotham. Cash would be necessary for that. "Any sign of the mail?"

"No but he had a burn bucket in the bedroom." Dick shook his head. Leaning against the table he sighed. "They're getting rid of evidence quickly and have a three day head start."

"Orphan."

"She shows signs of hyper vigilance, avoids cameras, and I think she probing us for information." Cassandra looked up from the tablet she was using one.

"Wait, she's probing us for information?" Tim stopped typing on his laptop before throwing his head back and groaning. "She's become one mystery after another."

"At the breakfast table. She was trying to figure out if we read her diary, was gauging how we all reacted to her mentioning school, and was ensuring the debit card got closed out. The roommates she referred to as troublesome were probably the gaurds."

Everyone nodded. Bruce looked to Barbara, "I want a video of breakfast this morning. I need to know exactly what was said. Spoiler, Signal."

"If she doesn't have PTSD I don't know what she has." Steph leaned back in her chair rubbing her eyes. "Though this one wasn't pay any special anytime to her behavior."

"I didn't know I was supposed to. I genuinely thought she was upset because Damian attacked and having to leave 'school' early." Duke ran a hand over his face. "In the hours we spent at the mall, she implied she had to leave school quickly because something really bad happened. That and she's..."

Duke froze, pieces connecting in his head. When he looked at Bruce, horror started to mix with realization. "Was she a Meta two years ago?"

There was a pregnant pause as everyone in the room thought. Bruce shook his, "No. She never showed signs of being a Meta."

"Disappeared for two years, comes back with meta abilities, refers to the thing making her leave as really bad with potentially two triggers for her being needles and the smell of disinfectant." Duke looked at all of them more pieces falling into place. Bruce's eyebrows knitted together. Duke was on to something but for the life of him, Bruce could piece it together? "What was happening two years when she disappeared? Other than that Joker attack."

It finally hit Bruce what Duke was getting at. Two years ago Meta Human traffickers stop looking for ways to find 'product'. Instead they began looking for ways to create new it. There were reports of them doing horrifying things to create new meta humans. It didn’t work because most of them lacked the funding to get the necessary chemicals and equipment.

Yet, with a Wayne kid's debit card that gets weekly deposits. He even gave her a higher amount than the others because she was supposedly aboard. It was possible but there was one missing component for this. "There are no meta humans in my biological family. She wouldn't have the gene to activate."

"And her mother's half of the family?" It was a valid question for Duke to ask. Bruce thought for a second, had her mother had a meta in her family. She mentioned an aunt that was disowned but that was it.

"Spoiler I want you looking into her mother's side of the family." Bruce gave the command before looking across the room again. "Red Hood start looking into Meta Human Traffickers who went off the grid two years ago. Red Robin you're in charge of looking into whoever made those withdrawals. Find out where that cash went. Oracle, look into the two people we've identified as being involved, get contacts, favorite hunts, anything you can. Send that information to Oprhan and Signal. You two are with me in tracking them down."

"What about me B?" Dick gave Bruce a questioning look.

"You're going to talk with (Name) and get her to open up to you." Bruce nodded at Dick, "Go be her older brother."

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Taglist:

@stove-top96 @mysticalhills @00hellohello00 @a-lurking-fae @yhin-gg @twismare @charlenexoxo1 @moondust-clouds @darkumbreon92 @jsprien213 @bellethesleepypotato @time-shardz @randomlyappearingartist

#yandere batfam x neglected reader #yandere bruce wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere damian wayne #yandere cassandra cain #yandere barbara gordon #yandere stephanie brown #yandere talia al ghul #yandere ra's al ghul #villian reader #no beta we die like jason todd #no beta we die like men #yandere duke thomas

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lovekawaas · 5 months ago

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"munchies" ft matuskawa issei

a/n: i miss him so bad; not proofread

1.1k wc

content: nsfw (MINORS DNI), cursing, drug use, smut, pussy eating, afab reader, sex w/no plot

"such lazy eyes."

you think to yourself as you watch matsukawa lean back on the couch, lazily dragging the joint up to his lips. his hair disheveled and wild softly draped over his face. you scan over his whole body as you watch his rough fingers light it. he's just so big. years since his days in volleyball but still holding onto his athletic build. toned arms and abs hidden behind his hoodie. and he just takes up so much space.

he's a tall man, that's no surprise. but it doesn't dawn on you how truly large he is until he's sitting across from you on the cheap couch you bought. it's enough space for you alone. but with matsukawa sitting on it with you, you guys can't help but be tangled between each other. matsukawa, stretched out across the full length. one of his long legs still dangling off the side. you, curled up in a ball on the other end with his other leg tucked underneath you.

and those eyes.

already so droopy, sure to only get more sleepy once the high comes and permeates you both. the tv show you picked out, now long abandoned, buzzes faintly in the background being the only source of light for the two of you now as the light of the day has since left the sky. you feel a soft kick to your thigh from him, drawing you out of your thoughts.

"what are you thinking about right now?"

"nothing issei"

"doesn't seem like nothing"

he takes a long pull from the joint and lets the air fill his lungs before he slowly breathes out. he takes another hit before his arm extends over to you to pass you the joint. you grab it and the feeling of his course fingers touching yours sends a zap of energy through your whole body. more specifically straight to your pussy.

after passing it to you, he closes his eyes and leans back once again. his hoodie rides up to reveal his abs and dark happy trail that disappears into his sweats. you can feel yourself start to drool. funny. you thought weed was supposed to make your mouth dry. but whenever you're with matsukawa, things never really are how they seem. a deep sigh rumbles from his chest breaking the silence once more.

"come here"

you blink. once. a beat passing as the smoke trails from your plush mouth. the leg that was underneath you shifts to allow him to open up a larger space between his legs. and with your mind all hazy and your eyes glossed over and the high starting to make your body feel like the static buzz of the forgotten tv, wordlessly, you climb over and slot yourself between his legs. laying your head on his chest, he brushes your hair behind your ear and plucks the joint from your hand to take another hit. your mind is soothed by the rise and fall of his breathing.

at first, you think it's just the remote. the hardness underneath your stomach. but you know better. and you know matsukawa. and maybe it's the weed. but you take your hand and lay it on the crotch of his sweats where his hard-on has been growing while the two of you smoked. and with his next exhale, you can hear the tense grunt release from his lips as you palm him. his strong arm tucks under your arms to lift you up so that you're facing him. he takes another long pull from the joint and leans forward into you.

his lips press against yours and you inhale all of the smoke he pours out from his mouth into your lungs. you breathe out. and then you breathe him in again as you go back for another kiss. his hand falls down to the flesh of your ass, massaging it as your tongues slot between the lips of the other. your hand breaches the waistband of his sweats and you let out a soft gasp when you learn he has no underwear underneath. he chuckles at your innocent realization.

"lay back for me pretty"

and you do. his deep voice washes over you like a warm shower. it gets you every time. your back hits the couch with a gentle thud and he gets off entirely. kneeling on the floor, he adjusts you slightly to face you towards him. and he peels your his boxer shorts off you. you're embarrassingly soaked, a dark spot seeping through your panties. he presses his nose to your cunt and nuzzles his face as he takes in your scent. you let out a quiet moan at the intrusion.

"shh, just relax. i'm hungry. let me eat"

and with that, he hooks a finger on your thong and drags it to the side so his meal can be on full display. glistening, sticky strands cling to your panties as he moves them out of the way. his tongue licks up a long stripe lapping up all your wetness. the sensation of it jolts you awake, almost knocking the high out of you entirely. but the weed flowing through you makes the feeling of issei in between your soft thighs more blissful than anything.

"fuck pretty, you taste so good". issei starts with little kitten licks on your cunt. the feeling of each one was even better than the last. and before you know it, he's slurping up all of your slick like it's water. he slithers his muscle up and down, darting it in and out of your pussy. he clamps his lips on your clit begging to suckle the soft bud driving you crazy. the fingers pulling your soaked thong aside move to your opening.

one finger slips inside.

and then two.

easily inserting themselves with how wet you are. his thick fingers almost knock the wind out of you. he's pushing and prodding at your insides, searching. curling in your cunt until he finds it, your g-spot. and that's how he gets you. you can't help but buck and moan against him. his touch is overwhelming. every sweet sound you make only motivates him, clearing his foggy head and red eyes. rubbing your slick cunt against his face, issei clamps strong arms around your thighs to get you to stop. it's a warning to you. that he sets the pace here, not you.

you almost start to whine, upset at his dominance. but before you can even get the protests to leave your mouth in words, issei stops. "you wanna whine? really? I'll give you something to whine about"

"let me show you what happens when you interrupt my meal."

a/n: there was originally gonna be more but i got a tad lazy oops! maybe i'll continue this another day

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omaano · 3 months ago

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UPDATE 03/06/2025

Commissions are closed for the summer. Thank you everyone who showed interest and asked for a slot! If I had added you to the queue I will be in touch with you about your request as we have agreed in the DMs or email! 🧡

⭐COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN⭐

Reblogs are deeply appreciated even if you cannot afford to ask for a commission ❤️ And if you'd like to support me and my artwork n any other way - like with a small tip - I have a ko-fi too ❤️

I’d be happy to draw your OC, favourite character or ship for you; you may check out my art tag for other examples of my work on top of what is in this post, as well as previous commissions I had drawn. If you have further questions don’t hesitate to DM me, or send me an email at [email protected] - detailed descriptions, and reference pictures are greatly appreciated! I truy love learning more about your characters and their backstories through the art process :)

Text transcript of prices, DOs and DON'Ts and additional information under the cut, I encourage you to check that out as well ->

Prices, payment and refund options

All prices are in USD and to be paid through PayPal invoices upfront. Cancellation of the commission is only possible before work on the piece is started. Once the sketch is finalized no refund is possible.

Prices:

Headshot/bust: sketch $25, lines+light shading $40, full render $50

Half-body/waist-up: sketch $40, lines+light shading $55, full render $70

Full body: sketch $50, lines+light shading $70, full render $90

Art Nouveau Inspired full illustration (frame and flowers or text included in price):

Headshot/bust: $60

Half-body/waist-up: $90

Full body: $120

Extra characters are +75%

Simple background is included in the price, anything more complicated (background, very detailed clothing/armour/jewelry/tattoo etc. - clone armor is the baseline) can be negotiated for extra ($15+, or 50% of the full price for a detailed background. Let it be its own supporting character :) ).

DOs and DON'Ts

I WILL draw: OCs, fan characters, self insert characters, fanart, ships/couples, mild nsfw (e.g. blood, scars, suggestive themes, if an antique statue could get away with it, then so can I. If unsure please ask)

I will NOT draw: mecha, anthro, shio art with real life people, or anything I feel uncomfortable with

How it works

Commissioner will receive digital goods - I'll send the high-res version of the commissioned art piece via email. Check-ins can be done via DM or email.

3 minor changes are allowed (e.g. hand placement, flat colours etc) at check-ins with the sketch and colour concepts. Other major changes (like changing the pose after the idea of the sketch is finalized) will cost extra $10+.

I have the right to refuse to accept a commission. The work is for personal use only and cannot be used for commercial purposes. I retain rights to the artwork. The commissioned drawing is not to be used in any AI training program or any NFT-related project.

You may post the finished piece to your social media accounts with credits to me as the artist. I might want to post the piece to my own socials as well but I will ask for your permission for that first.

For detailed Terms of Service and further information please check out the following link.

I’m looking forward to working with you :)

#commission #commissions #commissions open #commission info #commission sheet #my art #art commissions #commission open #open commissions

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pukefactory · 5 days ago

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What would ENA do if the reader dies?

(Thank you for the confirmation plus might request a Dandy’s Word version as well)

•☽────✧˖��˖ GLOOMY SUNDAY ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Salesperson ENA Trying To Cope With The Reader’s Death

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): Mentions Of Death And Corpses

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ There is no funeral. Not for someone like you. Not in her world. When ENA learns you are dead, she doesn’t react. Not immediately. Her Salesperson side politely thanks the messenger for the update with a nod and a vacant smile, “Oh? You’re certain? Great, that’s quantifiable data.” But the moment she’s alone, Meanie punches a hole through the nearest wall, screaming about inefficient grief protocols and how she told you to wear a helmet around those malfunctioning mannequins. “WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL THESE STUPID FEELINGS NOW?! SELL THEM?!!!”

☆ She holds business meetings with your ghost. Every day at 3:15pm sharp, ENA sets out two chairs under the busted megaphone tower—one for herself, one for you. She prepares a pitch deck made of laminated regret, a pie chart of her pain-to-pizza ratio, and a mug with your name on it. She talks to thin air, “So, your quarterly haunting report is incomplete. What’s the excuse this time? Ghost traffic?” She laughs. A bit too hard. A bit too alone.

☆ She rewrites time. Incorrectly. On purpose. She becomes obsessed with data entry. She tries inputting false memories into the broken reception desk, typing feverishly: “They didn’t die. They took a lunch break. They’re alive and terribly lazy.” But the machine beeps in mournful contradiction, and Meanie rips the power cord out, yelling, “NO! We’re NOT negotiating with the Truth today!”

☆ She attempts to bury your corpse in the Department of Melancholy. It refuses you. Dragging your limp, uncooperative body through glitching corridors, ENA is turned away by every landscape. The Casino’s bouncers cite a no-dead-bodies policy. The Lonely Door closes before she can knock. The Forest of Faces spits leaves in her direction. Finally, she leaves you propped against a vending machine and mutters, “Fine. Be decor. I’m sure someone will appreciate your artistic intent.”

☆ She builds a cardboard replica of you and argues with it constantly. Salesperson paints your eyes a little too lovingly, Meanie smears them out with charcoal and declares, “They’ve never looked this stupid. This is disgraceful. I’m offended. RE-DO THE CHIN!” But when it topples over in the wind one night, both sides fall quiet. The silence lasts too long. She cradles the cardboard in her lap and whispers, “Sorry. I just… wanted to keep you around a bit longer.”

☆ She forgets how to sleep. Then forgets what sleep is. Then forgets you ever died. There comes a point where the lines between memories and hallucinations blur so violently that ENA starts assuming she dreamt your death. In her mind, you’re simply “running late”—“probably stuck in traffic, or quantum purgatory, or something equally boring.” She sets a plate aside at dinner. Then two. Then seven. Until the table is full of plates but she doesn’t eat anymore.

☆ The green form starts appearing more often. She doesn’t remember walking there. That cracked, leaking version of ENA, the one that doesn’t speak, starts waking up under streetlamps and atop rooftops, clutching your old sock or your last drawing or a burnt-out lightbulb you once admired. When she sees her reflection, it’s bleeding purple and blue, face full of hairline fractures. Something inside her has started breaking. It whispers your name in symbols she no longer understands.

☆ The mannequins learn your name. They repeat it like prayer. As if infected by her grief, the mannequins begin chanting your name in warped, digital tones. ENA walks through them without flinching. “Yes yes, say it louder. They don’t remember how important you were.” Salesperson treats it like an ad campaign, handing out leaflets about “THE LATE, GREAT YOU™,” while Meanie grabs a bullhorn and shouts, “YEAH?! WELL THEY’RE NOT DEAD! THEY’RE JUST BUSY!”

☆ The Boss appears in her dreams. Wearing your face. The Boss, who she was meant to kill, no longer has his own identity. In her nightmares, it’s you, smiling with the wrong mouth. Your voice glitches mid-sentence. You tell her to finish the job. She stares, unblinking, then lunges forward, only to wake up in a puddle of oil, sobbing. “I don’t want you to be him. I don’t want you to be gone.”

☆ She tries to call you. Just once. On an old rotary phone near the Genie’s lair, she dials every number she can remember. One by one. Again. Again. Her hands are shaking. Salesperson speaks calmly: “Just need to make sure your voicemail’s still up. That’s all. Nothing morbid.” Meanie bites her knuckle to keep from crying. When the line finally rings, once, twice, a third time, she drops the receiver and bolts. The message left behind: “Hey. Sorry to bother. Just…ping me in some moments, yeah?”

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theskywithin · 1 month ago

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🕯 8th House Ruler Through the Houses

✨ At the bottom, I’ve included a link where you can read the entire Moon chapter from my book. If it feels like it’s speaking to something in you, the full book is linked in my pinned post.

8th House Ruler in the 1st House

You are shaped by what no one else could hold. The storm didn’t start with you, but it wore your face into the wind. You walk into rooms and people react before they understand, not because of who you are, but because of what you stir. You carry tension like a scent, memory like posture. There’s a kind of ancient electricity in your presence, not aggressive, but undeniable. It’s the imprint of lives where survival meant becoming the container. Now, your body remembers before your mind does. You feel things break before they’re even bending. But you are not a vault for other people’s ache. You are not a monument to what came before. Let your name belong to you again.

8th House Ruler in the 2nd House

You don’t trust what stays. Even comfort makes you restless, like it might rot if you hold it too long. You’ve known too many good things that ended in silence, in unraveling, in hands that once steadied you pulling away. So now, you hold with tension. You love with a pause. You receive with a question mark. Your body braces for permanence because something in you learned that keeping was dangerous. That having made you vulnerable. But belonging isn’t always a setup. Not everything you touch is preparing to leave. Let stillness arrive without suspicion. Let softness exist without the threat of collapse. You’re not here to guard the door. You’re allowed to live inside it.

8th House Ruler in the 3rd House

Your mind was built in the ruins of what wasn’t said. There are words you’ve spent lifetimes trying to form, but they arrive out of order, like echoes coming through a cracked speaker. You search for language that feels like a door. You write because paper doesn’t interrupt. You speak to make silence smaller. You don’t think, you unravel. And sometimes your thoughts chase ghosts instead of clarity. Because some truths were buried before you got here. And now you’re the one holding the map, even if you didn’t draw it. Let your language be strange. Let it be incomplete. It doesn’t need to solve the mystery. Sometimes it’s enough that the weight became sound.

8th House Ruler in the 4th House

The past is still breathing through the floorboards. You were born into a lineage of unshed tears, of anger folded into lullabies. You know how to read emotional weather better than names. Love was not always a balm, sometimes it was a locked door, a quiet room, a presence that never fully arrived. And now, your heart tiptoes through memory, waiting for the sound of collapse. You expect the warmth to evaporate. You call it home, but what you really mean is: the place I return to when the world becomes too sharp. But you don’t have to keep remaking a house out of ache. Let comfort arrive without a warning. Let softness live in your roots without apology.

8th House Ruler in the 5th House

You create from the part of you that still aches. Joy isn’t casual here. Expression carries risk. Something in you remembers being punished for being visible, for laughing too loud, loving too fully, existing without armor. So now, even beauty feels dangerous. Even delight feels like a door you shouldn’t open too far. You don’t just fear being seen, you fear what might be taken once you are. So you ration your radiance. You offer only what you can lose without grieving. But your light was never meant to be hoarded. You’re not here to audition. You’re here to unhide. Let joy move through you unedited. Let it be raw. Let it be whole. Let it be yours.

8th House Ruler in the 6th House

Your body keeps trying to solve what your spirit never agreed to carry. Not in dramatic ways in patterns, precision, in rituals so quiet they go unnoticed. You rearrange the external to manage the internal. You organize chaos that isn’t yours. You scrub the surface to avoid what’s rising underneath. This is not people-pleasing. This is pattern survival. Somewhere in your lineage, control became the only antidote to collapse. And now your system still moves like there’s something to prevent, a mess that might spill if you stop tending to every corner. But not everything that aches needs a solution. You don’t need to earn rest by unraveling first. You are not here to be efficient with your grief. Let stillness become a practice. Let disorder exist without apology. You are allowed to leave things unfinished, especially the pain that was never yours to resolve.

8th House Ruler in the 7th House

You magnetize what mirrors what you’ve buried. Not because you’re broken, but because some part of you believes that intimacy should sting a little, that if it’s too easy, it must be shallow. You seek out the ones who make you feel something sharp, something old, something almost remembered. Love, to you, is not romance. It’s recognition. And sometimes, that recognition feels like walking into a room where you were once hurt. You reenact the ache, hoping this time it ends differently. But you are not a repetition. You don’t owe the past a new ending. Let someone love you without unraveling you. Let connection soften the scar instead of reopening it.

8th House Ruler in the 8th House

You live close to the undercurrent. What others avoid, you feel in full color. What they bury, you name without flinching. You sense the shift in a room before the storm hits because your soul is tuned to the silence beneath the surface. This doesn’t make you dark. It makes you honest. But honesty can be isolating. You’ve been the one who knew too much, felt too much, asked too many questions no one wanted answered. Your task is not to fix the wound you carry. It’s to listen to it. To stop treating your depth like a problem to be solved. Let your knowing become a gift, not a burden. You are not too much. You are the part of life that refuses to look away.

8th House Ruler in the 9th House

You’re always looking for something that knows more than you do. Not because you doubt your mind, but because part of you believes there’s an answer big enough to make the ache worth it. You trace pain into philosophy. You give meaning to what others dismiss. And sometimes, you use insight like armor: If I can name it, it can’t undo me. But not every wound becomes wisdom on command. Some truths are soft, some never arrive, some weren’t meant to be explained, only outlived. Let yourself learn without turning everything into a lesson. Let your faith be allowed to tremble. You don’t need a system to sanctify your grief. You just need something that listens back.

8th House Ruler in the 10th House

You learned to bury the chaos under competence. To hold it together. To be composed in rooms that never asked how you got so still. In another life, maybe power meant protection. Maybe visibility kept you safe. So now, you lead with poise, but behind it lives a tidal pull no one sees. You keep your pain behind a glass wall. Polished. Untouched. Respected, but unreachable. But you weren’t meant to be admired from a distance. You were meant to be felt, not just perceived. Let the cracks show. Let the image distort. Not to fall apart but to let the real story breathe through.

8th House Ruler in the 11th House

You’re always a little outside the moment. Close enough to see it clearly. Too far to feel it fully. You watch connection like someone standing at the window of a party they were once invited to. Smiling, nodding, never quite inside. There’s a subtle ache in your timing, love that arrives late, intimacy that shows up after you've already taught yourself not to need it. You keep telling yourself it doesn’t matter. That the ache is abstract. That maybe it’s just you. But the grief is real. And it’s not about people, it’s about proximity. You want to be met in real time. Not remembered later. Not almost chosen. You’re allowed to want to be touched exactly when you reach. You don’t have to keep pretending you’re okay with the echo.

8th House Ruler in the 12th House

You inherited what no one could name. Not through words, through atmosphere, through dreams that don’t belong to you, through fears that arrive before the reason. There’s a fog to this placement, but it’s not confusion. It’s memory without timestamp. Pain passed down like smoke through a closed window. You live at the edge of what can’t be explained. And sometimes, you carry it alone because explaining it would only make it smaller. But you are not here to be haunted. You are here to feel it, move with it, and let some of it go. You don’t have to understand it to release it. You don’t have to translate it to be free.

THE MOON CHAPTER - from my book "The Sky Within"

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #natal chart #birth chart #natal astrology #natal aspects #astrology tumblr #astrology blog #astrology notes #astrology observations #astrology book

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allmightstoehair · 24 days ago

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﹒Haikyuu!! Boyfriend + yachi headcanons pt. 2 !⟡﹒- heyy……

characters: Tobio Kageyama, Tadashi Yamaguchi, Bokuto Kotaro, Sugawara Koushi, Kuroo Tetsuro, Yachi Hitoka (1 aged-up headcanons for all of them) beware!

————.————.————.————.————.————

Tobio Kageyama

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who at the start of your relationship, has no idea how to act—like, does he need to adjust his entire personality now?? he overthinks every interaction, silently panicking before realizing he just needs to be himself.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who expresses love through simple practicality. “Did you eat? Drink water? Stretch properly?” —not because he’s overbearing, but because caring about you is natural to him when it comes to practicing with you. volleyball, i mean.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who doesn’t get flirting, but when he compliments you, its so unintentionally heart stopping. “You look good today, but then again you always look good. You look better,” he’ll say. sometimes you aren’t sure how to take it but you laugh and kiss him on the cheek in response so he must be doing something right.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who leans into touch more now with you than ever. he’s experienced your full love, and now he never wants to be without it.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who when learning to be affectionate, asks seriously, “Did I do it right?” after kissing you for the first time—like its a skill that needs feedback rather than instinct.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who when resting next to you, subconsciously matches your breathing, falling into your rhythm without realizing how deeply it shows his attachment.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who randomly catches himself looking at you, staring even. and when you notice—he just blinks at you instead of looking away. he mutters—“You’re really pretty,” like it’s just a fact he’s stating.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who gets frustrated when his body isn’t cooperating with him and he gets sick —“I’m wasting time. I should be practicing. “—but when you brush his hair back and whisper, “You need to rest, Tobio.” his entire demeanor softens immediately.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who when you grab his collar in playful annoyance, his brain short circuts. his lips part, as if they’re ready for you to lean in and kiss him already.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who if he walks away during a heated argument, it’s never out of apathy. never out of just abandoning you because he’s upset—but because he doesn’t know how to process everything at once, because he needs space before saying something he’ll regret. he’s done it in the past with friends, but he wont let himself do it with you.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who if you hold his hand, lean on him, or steal his hoodie, he gets all stiff for a second like his system is rebooting—but after the initial shock, he softens instantly.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!tobio who finds you incredibly mesmerizing when you're fully in the zone—whether it's reading, drawing, or working on something. His stare is intense, but it’s full of admiration. If you catch him looking, he’ll immediately pretend he wasn’t. (Terrible liar, by the way.)

————.————.————.————.————.————

Tadashi Yamaguchi

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who grabs your fingers and traces them when your other hand is buys writing notes for a big test coming up that you needed to study for.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who laughs loudly at your jokes even if they’re bad. like, full—hearted, genuine laughter. he thinks you’re hilarious and that its fascinating the things you come up with.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who is your biggest fan. literally. whatever passion, hobby, or interest you have, he automatically asks a million questions about it. he loves when you ramble and it gets him excited when you’re excited, so it’s a mutual exchange. sometimes he’ll get side tracked, and just likes to look at your lips when you talk. ‘yeahp. yeah. so..interesting. god, fuck I wanna kiss you so bad.’ he’ll think to himself.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who loves those sleepy, groggy conversations with you over the phone when you’re overtly tired.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who lays in between your thighs like he’s in heaven. “man, am I at the pearly gates or what?” he’ll joke. it made you laugh so hard he himself giggled. he’s obsessed with them. always finding ways to be near them when you guys are alone.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who texts you the dumbest updates ever. at any time of the day. “I think Tsukki’s mad at me, I tripped, bumped into him and made him drop his dinosaur shaped ice cream. send reinforcements😕!” you giggle at his text, like you can hear him saying these exact words, picture his exact expression.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who winces ever so slightly when you raise your voice at him during argument, but never cries. he just hates when you raise your voice but understands you’re trying to get a point across.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who gets so frustrated with you when you don’t open up to him. he’s here. “Oh, for god’s sake just talk to me, Y/N!” he’ll plead, but with no success.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!yama who asks you to try and practice volleyball with him. (if you play) “You’re so good, awesome, amazing even, come on,” he says as he leads you outside your home, buttering you up so you don’t say no.

————.————.————.————.————.————

Bokuto Kotaro

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who is incapable of hiding his excitement when he sees you. expect wild hand waves and dramatic squeals. “BABEE!!!” greetings with a bunch of kisses to your nose and cheeks.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who randomly goes soft mid-chaos. one second he’s goofing off, telling you meaningless things, the next he’s leaning his head to the side with a “..Man, I love you so much.”

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who loves play-fighting but sucks at holding his own strength back. sometimes he’ll literally lay on you and you have to hit him seriously for him to get off.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who sings while doing household chores. and in the shower? it’s like ariana grande shit in your ears. it’s bad.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who considers grocery shopping a date. he gets way too invested in picking the best snacks. “OKAY. WHO CAN GET THE BEST CRUNCHY SNACK FIRST. READY. GO.” and you guys are off running to different isles while getting weird stares.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who refuses to let you carry things he deems heavy. he swoops in and grabs it whenever you try. “Babe, it’s just a bag of flour—“ “IT’S TOO HEAVY.”

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who steals bites of your food without shame and gives you kisses right aftewards to makeup for it.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who tries to teach you volleyball but often forgets how beginning people learn. he speaks too fast and waves his arms back and forth while explaining certain things.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who physically can’t handle seeing you cry. it’s not a good strain on his chest and he always massages it gently and sighs. he pulls you into tight hugs, knowing the pressure helps your synthetic nervous system relax.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!bokuto who you introduced to ‘Paramore’ and he’s officially obsessed.

————.————.————.————.————.————

Sugawara Koushi

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who was starstruck from the first moment he saw you. he couldn’t believe how someone could be so radiant and beautiful. as cliche as it sounds, it was love at first sight.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who when he’s jealous, you can barely tell. he’ll just brush it off and smile because he reassures himself that you’re his. he trusts you with his heart and knows you won’t break it.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who wraps his arm around your waist from behind when you’re in the kitchen, or standing up doing something. he won’t let go until he’s gotten a few kisses in return.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who calls you ‘lovely’ or ‘love’ it’s a simple name, but uniquely his for you. “What’s wrong, love?” he’ll coo if he sees you having a rough day or “‘Course, lovely,” he says with a big grin when you ask him if you can watch his practices.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who tutors with kisses. he’s very aware you have a mildly short attention span, so he likes to kiss you to keep you engaged. “Now, if you get this right,—“ he points to the paper, tapping his finger up and down. “You get a kiss. Get it wrong, I pinch ya.” you groan, but never get an answer wrong when you start.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who asks Daichi for help on things to do for you on your birthday like he has more experience than him.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who doesn’t get along with his parents. they’re tough people, so they tell him he’s ‘too soft’ or ‘too feminine’ which really works him up. he runs to you for guidance and comfort.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who brings you baskets of your favorite things when you tell him that you’re on your period. he’s done his research and even asks you what you like so when it’s that time of the month, he goes out and buys those things to bring them to you. he’ll skip practice if he has to just to be with you and comfort and hold you.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!suga who even if you guys have been together for more a while, gets shy with an unprecedented kiss on the lips in front of other students. especially his teammates because he knows they’ll tease him about it later during practice.

————.————.————.————.————.————

Kuroo Tetsuro

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who started off as an academic rival. you two would compete in all of your classes that you had together, giving mean glances when the other got higher on a test, cliche stuff like that.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who gets way too invested in dumb conversations when he’s bored. And he fights like he’s an attorney trying to win a trial. “A pizza isn’t a pizza with fruit on it, Y/N. Pineapple is a fruit. Therefore you don’t like pineapple on your pizza. That’s just a blob of shit—“

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who has a habit of fixing you up or providing acts of service. If your tie is messy he’ll pull you in aggressively and fix it for you, or if strands of hair are annoying you, he’ll pull a clip out of nowhere and clip it back. phone battery low? look no further. he’s got a charger and WILL find a port for it.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who plays those ‘Guess my Chapstick’ games with you but ends up eating your face. not—literally but he kisses you endlessly like there’s no tomorrow.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who rambles when he’s nervous. you don’t see it often, but if he’s trying to mentally prepare for a game, he’ll talk your ear off, switching topics at the speed of light. it’s a moment where he’s not so tacky with his teasing—a moment of vulnerability.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who hoovers you about doing your homework. “Stop procrastinating and get it done or no kisses for a day.” he’ll tell you. “A day? Psh. I can handle that” “A week.” “FINE OKAY.”

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who talks about his pet goldfish he used to own like he’s a dead relative. his name was Ponyo, and he’s very dramatic when he tells the story of how Ponyo was dead on the floor when he came back from school one afternoon. He jumped out of the tank.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who loves to slow dance in convenience stores when theres romantic music playing. he doesn’t give a shit who’s watching. he’s pulling you into a lazy twirl away from your shopping cart. “Just humor me,” he’ll say cheekily.

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo who fills silence with dumb hypotheticals. “What if we switched bodies for a day,” he asked you one day during a dinner date when you both ran out of things to talk about. or that one time at lunch when he asked, “Would you still love me if I had a handlebar mustache?” (why is he like this)

﹒⪩⪨ boyfriend!kuroo whose first instinct in small arguments is to joke, defuse tension with a smirk—but the moment he sees frustration flicker in your eyes, his grin fades, his expression sharpens, and he quietly says “Alright. Let’s talk.” and he’ll sit you down and talk with you

————.————.————.————.————.————

Yachi Hitoka

﹒⪩⪨ girlfriend!yachi who is flustered towards every single romantic gesture you throw her way. just a tuck of hair behind her ears and she squeaks quietly under her breath. she knows she loves you, but sometimes her brain just short-circuits over the fact that you love her too.

﹒⪩⪨ girlfriend!yachi who accidentally gets possesive over you. if a player from the team, or even some random eyeballs you for too long, she catches herself glaring a little. when you tease her, she’ll deny it. “WHAT? NO I WASN’T THATS—okay maybe a little..but they shouldn’t be staring at my beautiful Y/N!”

﹒⪩⪨ girlfriend!yachi who struggles with compliments even though she makes them so effortlessly. “Gorgeous? Me? Whaaa—don’t be such a sweet talker I’m not all that,” she’s wave her hand and brush it off.

﹒⪩⪨ girlfriend!yachi who worries about her presence bothering you. her thumbs will hover over the keyboard after her second text was sent, wondering if she should add more. “Maybe I’m bothering them..” she’ll mumble to herself as she shuts off her phone.

﹒⪩⪨ girlfriend!yachi who takes pictures of everything to save and show you later. flowers? saved. another fight between Kageyama and Hinata? saved. weird posters in the club rooms? saved.

﹒⪩⪨ girlfriend!yachi who murmurs soft confessions while you’re cuddling. an “I love you so much,” or “You’re awesome..” will slip past her lips before she dozes off into the comfort of your arms.

﹒⪩⪨ girlfriend!yachi who can’t handle spicy food but she knows you love it so she’s constantly getting you those spicy chips you like, or buying you spicy ramen.

﹒⪩⪨ girlfriend!yachi who gets so nervous during serious conversations, but she takes deep breaths and makes sure you know she’s listening because she knows communication is important to you and your relationship.

(oh. my, god, i love yachi.)

153 notes · View notes

hockeyluvrr · 2 months ago

Text

The Moment It All Began

au masterlist all other works

pairing: umich luke hughes x plus size oc

summary: the first meeting and everything after...let's just say, feelings are hard huh?

warnings: mild language, internalised fat-phobia, body image/insecurity, self-isolation, angst, self-esteem issues, unresolved tension that is eventually resolved, mutual pining, vulnerable moments, emotional vulnerability, body image issues, panic response

word count: 4,690

It started, like most disasters, with a favour.

“He’s not dumb,” Emily had insisted, propping her chin on her palm as they studied in the common area. “Just… distracted. And you’re the only one I know who can explain physics without making someone cry.”

Phoebe snorted. “So naturally you thought of me?”

“Come on. You’re good at this. You make that professor sound like a guy who actually knows what he’s talking about.” She nudged her. “It’s just one session. Two, tops.”

“Fine,” she sighed, like it wasn’t already a yes. “But he better not be an asshole.”

Emily grinned. “It’s Luke Hughes. He’s literally a golden retriever in human form.”

That should’ve been the first red flag.

———

He was ten minutes late. She was packing up her notes, already annoyed, when he stumbled into the library lounge with a lopsided smile and wind-tousled hair.

“Sorry—practice ran late.” He dropped his bag like it had personally offended him. “You’re Phoebe, right? Emily’s friend?”

“That’s me,” she said, folding her arms, trying to ignore the way he smelled like cold air and something expensive. “You’re lucky I’m patient.”

Luke grinned, sheepish. “I’ll owe you big. Physics is kicking my ass.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—you missed the lecture on Newton’s Third Law because you were doing, like, a triple axel on ice or something?”

He blinked, then laughed, a full-body kind of laugh that startled her with how genuine it sounded.

“Not exactly, but close.”

It was just tutoring. A few sessions here and there. Explaining concepts like vectors and momentum and resistance, drawing diagrams in her notebook because he said it helped him to see it. He was a little scattered, sure, but not in the way she’d expected—he listened. Took notes. Asked questions. And he was funny, in a boyish, easy way. Always a little bit of a mess but never mean about it.

Which made it so much worse when she caught herself watching his hands one afternoon, pencil tapping thoughtfully against his bottom lip, and thought: God, his mouth is pretty.

The thought hit like a freight train. She blinked down at her notes, horrified.

No. Absolutely not.

She shoved the thought down hard and buried it under the safe, familiar weight of physics.

———

The sessions continued. Luke got better. She got worse.

Not at physics—never that. But worse at pretending she didn’t notice the little things.

Like the way he leaned in when he was confused, brow furrowed, lashes dark and long. Or how he laughed with his whole chest, loud and unfiltered. How he always offered to carry her bag, even when she told him not to. How he looked at her—not like she was invisible, or just another tutor-for-hire, but like he actually saw her.

And that terrified her.

Because somewhere along the line, she’d started looking forward to him. To the texts that said “u around? i have no clue what a free-body diagram is”, to the quiet walks back across campus after late-night study sessions, to the smell of cologne and coffee and cold air that followed him everywhere.

And once she’d noticed that? Everything started to unravel.

———

The breaking point was stupid.

A Thursday afternoon. Mid-March. The sky was heavy with the threat of snow, and the library was almost empty. They were hunched over her laptop, going over sample problems, when he stretched his arms above his head and said, “You know, you’re really good at this.”

She shrugged. “I like it. Explaining things helps me learn too.”

“No, I mean…” He sat back, tilting his head. “You’re smart. And you’re nice about it. Most people make me feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she said, too quickly.

He smiled at her then—soft, grateful. That smile that cracked something open inside her every time.

“I like hanging out with you.”

It was such a simple sentence. But it hit her like a punch to the chest.

She looked away. “Luke—”

“What?”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just stood up too fast, heart hammering, stuffing her notebook into her backpack like it had personally betrayed her.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I forgot I—I have a thing. I have to go.”

“Phoebe?” His voice was puzzled, concerned. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she lied, already halfway to the door. “You didn’t.”

———

She didn’t cry until she was halfway home.

And when she did, it wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was the kind of quiet sobbing that felt like shame in motion—tears she didn’t want, for a truth she didn’t want to admit.

She liked him.

God, she liked him.

And how pathetic was that?

Luke Hughes: 6’2”, soft-eyed, NHL-bound, with a smile that could melt glaciers. She could already hear the voice in her head: Delusional much?

Because girls like her—soft and wide and invisible in the way society decided some bodies should be—didn’t end up with boys like that. No matter how sweet he was. No matter how many times he offered to buy her coffee or walked her home or laughed at her dumb jokes. That was just Luke being Luke.

And she—she was ridiculous for thinking it meant something.

She curled up on her bed, stared at the ceiling, and hated herself a little for hoping.

———

She avoided him for four days.

No texts. No library sessions. No walking paths that cut across the hockey facility. When she saw his name light up her phone.

Luke: hey, everything okay?

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t know how to explain that she wasn’t mad at him. She was mad at herself. For slipping. For letting him get too close. For thinking—hoping—that maybe she could be the exception to the rule.

By Sunday, Emily cornered her in the hallway outside their dorm.

“You ghosted him.”

She looked away. “I’ve been busy.”

Emily crossed her arms. “He asked if he did something wrong. He looked like a kicked puppy.”

Don’t say that, she wanted to snap. Don’t make him sound sweet when I’m trying to erase him.

Instead, she muttered, “He didn’t. It’s fine.”

“Then tell him that,” Emily said, gentler now. “He’s not a mind reader.”

The thing was—she wanted to. She missed him. Missed his voice, and the way he chewed his lip when he was stuck on a question, and the way his laugh made her stomach flip even when she hated herself for it. But she also knew that if she let him back in, the feelings would follow. And if he didn’t return them—if she caught a flicker of pity in his eyes—it would ruin her.

Hope was a dangerous thing. She’d spent most of her life learning how to live without it.

———

Tuesday night, he caught her.

Literally—rounded the corner outside the library and nearly walked straight into her.

“Oh shit—Phoebe?”

She froze. Too late to run. And honestly, she didn’t have the energy to pretend.

“Hey.”

Luke blinked, then gave her a cautious smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “Just busy.”

“Right.” He shifted his weight, awkward. “You, uh… weren’t answering my texts.”

Her stomach twisted.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A pause. She could feel him watching her—really watching, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“Did I do something?” he asked finally, voice quiet.

“No,” she said, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Okay. Good. I just—I wasn’t sure. You kinda vanished.”

“I know,” she said again. Her fingers curled around the strap of her backpack. “I just needed some space.”

He nodded slowly, and something about the way he stepped back—gave her that space—made her heart ache even more.

“Well,” he said, voice lighter now, “if you ever wanna go over the review packet, I, uh… I still don’t know what the hell potential energy is.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

“I’ll think about it.”

———

She didn’t mean to let him back in. But a few days later, she found herself at their usual table, notes spread out, laptop open, when he dropped into the seat beside her like no time had passed.

No questions. No guilt. Just his usual grin and a half-empty smoothie in hand.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, sliding the packet over. “You’re gonna keep me from flunking.”

“God forbid you be academically ineligible,” she teased, grateful for the normalcy. “Then who would they use in every single recruiting post?”

“Exactly,” he said with mock-seriousness. “You’d be letting down the entire future of hockey.”

She rolled her eyes, but her throat felt tight.

Because he was still here. Still looking at her like she mattered.

And she still didn’t know why.

————

It happened again the next week.

They were sitting in the back corner of Bert’s Cafe, rainy afternoon light bleeding through the windows, and Luke was chewing on the sleeve of his hoodie while she tried to explain electric fields for the third time.

“Okay,” she said, tapping the diagram on his tablet. “Think of it like gravity. But instead of mass, it’s charge. Opposites attract, remember?”

“So like… if I’m positive, and you’re negative—”

She gave him a look. “You calling me negative?”

He grinned. “You said it, not me.”

She shook her head, biting back a smile—and that’s when he said it.

“You’re cute when you’re frustrated.”

The words landed with a thud in her chest. She went still.

“What?”

Luke blinked. “What?”

“You said—” Her voice caught. “Never mind.”

But he was watching her now, head tilted, brow creased. “Did that make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she said too quickly. Then again, softer, “No. It’s fine.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else. But the moment passed. And she was already pulling the conversation back toward electric fields and potential difference and the safety of things that didn’t make her want to cry.

———

Later that night, alone in her room, she stood in front of the mirror and tried to understand what he saw.

She wasn’t soft in the way magazines liked. She wasn’t curvy in the way Instagram liked. She had thick arms, a round belly, wide hips that pulled at the seams of her jeans. Her thighs rubbed holes in leggings by week two. She knew what people like her were called. Knew the names muttered under breath in middle school, the backhanded compliments, the jokes.

And Luke—he was tall and golden and seen. He existed in a world she’d only ever watched from the outside.

So why would he look at her like that?

She squeezed her eyes shut. Swallowed down the guilt of even asking the question.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t mean it. It was just a throwaway comment. A stupid flirt without weight. A joke.

It had to be.

Because the alternative—that he saw her, wanted her—was something she didn’t know how to live with.

———

The physics midterm came and went, and Luke passed—with a B+, no less.

He texted her the second he got the grade.

Luke: ur a genius. my saviour. my queen. how do i repay u

Phoebe: one coffee and maybe a sticker that says “I’m smarter than a hockey player”

Ten minutes later, he showed up at her dorm with two lattes and a pack of glitter star stickers.

“Put one on your forehead,” he said, grinning. “It’s only fair.”

She did. She didn’t even hesitate.

———

After that, the tutoring faded into something else.

They still studied. But now he invited her to late-night diner runs. Walks after class. Study breaks where he begged her to explain memes he didn’t get or tried to teach her how to flick a mini hockey puck across a table using only a spoon.

It wasn’t tutoring anymore.

But it also wasn’t anything else.

Sometimes, she caught him looking at her when he didn’t think she’d notice. And it wasn’t like the way people looked when they were comparing sizes or judging or assessing.

It was soft. Focused.

And God, did that mess her up.

Because she wanted to believe it meant something. Wanted to let herself fall the rest of the way. But the voice in her head always pulled her back.

Don’t be stupid. Don’t embarrass yourself.

She couldn’t afford to lose him. And wanting more? Wanting him?

That was a risk she didn’t think she could take.

———

One night, late April, they found themselves sitting on the grass outside his apartment building after a study session. The air was warm and smelled like budding leaves and cheap beer from a nearby frat house. Luke had his hoodie pulled halfway over his head, eyes squinting up at the sky.

“You ever think about how dumb stars are?” he said suddenly.

She laughed. “What?”

“They’re just… balls of gas. But people write poetry about them and make wishes and shit.”

“That’s not dumb,” she said, pulling her knees to her chest. “It’s kind of beautiful. That people want to believe in something that far away.”

He turned to look at her. “You believe in stuff like that?”

She hesitated. “I want to.”

Luke was quiet for a second. “I think I do. Believe in that stuff.”

She looked over, and he was still watching her. Really watching her. Like he could see right past all the things she tried to hide behind sarcasm and notes and perfectly rehearsed explanations of Coulomb’s Law.

“Do you ever wish for anything?” she asked before she could stop herself.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, just for a second.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

The silence stretched. The air went still. She could feel the pull between them like gravity—heavy, inescapable, terrifying.

She turned away before he could see the hope in her eyes.

———

After that night, everything felt different. Closer. Louder.

He texted more. Sat closer. Let his leg press against hers and didn’t move away. He played with her pen during study sessions, let his fingers brush hers when he handed her his notebook. All little things. All nothing, probably. But to her, they felt like cracks in the dam.

And still—she didn’t say anything.

Because what if she was wrong?

What if this was just how Luke Hughes was with everyone? Warm. Open. Easy to fall for. And what if she confessed and ruined it? Lost him entirely?

She would rather take the ache than the silence of a goodbye.

———

The day it nearly all came crashing down, it was raining.

Not just drizzling—pouring. She’d left class without an umbrella, already soaked by the time she made it to the library steps.

Luke was there.

Waiting.

He was holding an extra hoodie and a coffee, like he’d known exactly how her day would go.

“Jesus,” she said, breathless. “Are you psychic now?”

He grinned. “I knew you’d forget your jacket.”

He draped the hoodie over her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was warm and smelled like him—mint and soap and something woodsy she couldn’t name.

She stared at him. Something in her chest cracked.

“Why are you so nice to me?” she asked quietly, almost too quiet to hear over the rain.

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… you don’t have to do this. Bring me coffee. Wait in the rain. Let me steal your hoodie. Why do you—” She broke off. Her throat was thick with it. “Why do you treat me like I’m—special?”

Luke was quiet for a long time.

And then, softly, he said, “Because you are.”

It felt like the world stopped spinning. Just for a second.

She stepped back. Shook her head.

“No,” she said, too fast. “Don’t—don’t say that. You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying.” His brows knit, confused. “Why would I—?”

“Because I know how this works,” she snapped, voice sharp with hurt. “I’ve seen the girls you hang out with, Luke. I know what people expect you to want.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about me!” she said, voice breaking. “Look at me. I’m not—God, I’m not the girl guys like you fall for.”

Silence.

Luke looked at her like she’d said something impossible. Like she’d just told him gravity wasn’t real.

“That’s bullshit,” he said, voice low.

Her breath caught.

“You think I don’t see you?” he continued. “You think I don’t notice the way you light up when you explain something? Or how you make everything easier just by being around?”

She shook her head. “Don’t—”

“I’m not playing with you,” he said. “I don’t do that. Not with you.”

She stared at him, rain clinging to her lashes, hoodie soaked through. Her heart beat so loud she thought it might split her ribs.

“I don’t get it,” she whispered. “Why me?”

His voice cracked, just a little.

“Because you make me feel like I’m more than some dumb hockey player. Because I like you. I’ve liked you.”

The words were soft. Real. Terrifying.

She didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Because if she opened her mouth, she might say I like you too—and she wasn’t ready for what came next.

So she turned.

And she ran.

———

She didn’t sleep that night.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Luke’s face—wet hair stuck to his forehead, eyes wide and confused and hurt. Heard his voice: Because I like you. I’ve liked you.

She pressed her palms over her ears like it would make it all go away.

It didn’t.

————

The next morning, Emily was already in their room, curled up with a blanket and laptop, when she stumbled in.

“You look like you fought God,” Emily said around a spoonful of yogurt.

She dropped onto the bed. “I ran away from Luke.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

“I mean literally ran.” She stared at the ceiling, voice hollow. “He told me he liked me. And I panicked and left him standing in the rain like a goddamn rom-com cliché.”

Emily’s spoon hovered in midair. “Wait—he said he likes you? Like, actually said it?”

She nodded.

“And you ran.”

Another nod.

“Okay. First of all, what the fuck, and second of all—WHAT THE FUCK.”

She groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.

Emily yanked it off. “Phoebe. I love you, but what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t!” she snapped, sitting up. “I was—scared. I am scared.”

Emily’s face softened. “Hey. I get that. But you’ve been pining over him for months. And now he says he likes you back and you think what—he’s lying?”

“Not lying,” she mumbled. “Just… confused.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “You really think someone like Luke Hughes confuses liking someone with what? Friendship? Pity?”

She didn’t answer. Because that was exactly what she’d thought.

Emily sighed. “You know, just because you’ve been told you’re not the kind of girl someone could want doesn’t mean it’s true.”

She didn’t respond.

Because some truths lived too deep to root out in one morning.

———

She didn’t hear from Luke the rest of that day. Or the next.

He didn’t show up to their usual study spot. Didn’t text. Didn’t like her dumb meme about Schrödinger’s cat. His silence hurt more than anything else he could’ve said.

But she didn’t blame him.

Because she knew what it was like to reach out and get burned.

She’d just never imagined she’d be the one holding the match.

———

By Thursday, the guilt was eating her alive. So she did what she always did when she needed to think: she went to the library.

Their table was empty.

Her heart sank.

She sat down anyway, pulled out her notes, and tried to pretend she wasn’t scanning the door every five minutes.

And then—like her thoughts had summoned him—Luke walked in.

He looked tired. Not angry. Not even sad. Just… guarded.

She stood the second she saw him.

“Hey.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Hey.”

They stood there, books and silence between them, until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to run like that.”

Luke didn’t say anything.

She tried again.

“I panicked. It’s not because I don’t—” She swallowed. “It’s not because I didn’t want to hear what you said.”

He looked at her then. “Then why?”

God, she didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to lay herself bare like this. But he deserved the truth. Even if it came out ugly.

“Because I don’t understand why you’d like me,” she said, voice cracking. “I don’t look like the girls you’re supposed to want. I’m not skinny or pretty or—whatever.”

He stared at her like she’d slapped him.

“That’s what you think this is about?” he asked, low.

She blinked.

“Jesus, Phoebe.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You think I care what other people expect me to want?”

“You’re you,” she whispered. “And I’m just—me.”

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just enough to make her feel it.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything.”

She looked away. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” he said. “But I want to.”

A pause. He softened.

“Let me get it.”

She blinked fast. “I don’t want to be someone you regret.”

Luke’s jaw clenched. “I could never regret you.”

The words sat heavy between them.

He looked at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “I’m not going to push you. But I meant what I said. I like you. And not in some passing ‘oh she’s cute’ way. I like the way your brain works. The way you ramble when you’re trying not to smile. The way you take care of people even when you’re breaking.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears stinging behind her eyes.

“I don’t want this if it’s going to hurt you,” he added. “But if it’s just fear holding you back—please don’t let it win.”

Her heart cracked open.

“Luke…”

“I’ll wait,” he said gently. “Just tell me there’s a chance.”

She looked up at him. Really looked. Saw the honesty, the warmth, the hope he hadn’t let go of—even when she’d tried to push him away.

And for the first time, she let herself believe it.

“Okay,” she whispered. “There’s a chance.”

Luke’s shoulders dropped, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time.

“Okay,” he echoed, soft and sure.

————

They didn’t kiss that day.

He didn’t pull her into his arms or say anything grand or cinematic.

But he did sit beside her, closer than usual, and opened his notebook.

And when their hands brushed, neither of them pulled away.

—————

They didn’t define it right away.

There was no official we’re dating talk, no grand proclamations. But after that afternoon in the library, everything shifted.

Luke texted her good morning now.

He walked her to class, even when it was out of his way.

When they studied, he let his thigh press against hers like it belonged there. Sometimes he brought snacks. Sometimes she brought extra pens because he always lost his. He started saying things like missed you today or this song reminded me of you or you looked really pretty earlier, just so you know, and he said it so easily—so genuinely—that eventually, she stopped flinching when he did.

Eventually, she started believing him.

The voice in her head—the one that told her she wasn’t enough—still lingered. Some days it shouted. But when Luke looked at her like she hung constellations, it was easier to quiet it. Easier to say, Maybe he sees something I don’t. Maybe that’s okay.

————

One night in early May, he texted her.

Luke: come outside

She blinked at the message.

Phoebe: ??? it’s almost midnight

Luke: and? bring a hoodie. trust me.

She found him standing outside her dorm, hair tousled, smile soft, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms. He had a blanket tucked under one arm and two milkshakes in hand.

“You kidnapping me?” she teased.

“Nah,” he said. “Just stealing you for a bit.”

He took her to a hill just outside campus—secluded, grassy, high enough to see the city lights blur in the distance. It was quiet. Private.

He spread out the blanket. Handed her the chocolate shake. Sat so close their shoulders touched.

“Remember that dumb thing I said about stars?” he asked after a while.

She smiled. “That they’re just gas but people still write poetry about them?”

“Yeah.” He looked up. “I get it now.”

She tilted her head. “Yeah?”

Luke turned to her, and his expression made her heart stop. So open. So gentle. Like she was the only thing he saw.

“Some things are beautiful because of what they make you feel,” he said quietly. “Even if they don’t make sense. Even if they’re far away or hard to reach.”

She swallowed. “Are we still talking about stars?”

“No,” he said, soft. “We’re not.”

Silence fell again—but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was full. Buzzing. A calm before something that felt like lightning.

Luke leaned in, slow and careful.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

When he kissed her, it was gentle. No fireworks or fanfare. Just warm, steady lips and the feeling of finally, finally, landing somewhere safe.

Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his hoodie. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye. He pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, heart pounding.

“Yeah,” she said. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Pressed another kiss to her temple like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

————

After that, there were words.

He started calling her his girl.

Introduced her to his teammates—who, shockingly, didn’t bat an eye. If anything, they seemed happy to see Luke looking so settled. (One of them winked at her and said, “Thank God. He’s been unbearable. You’re doing God’s work.”)

Luke held her hand in public. Let her wear his hoodie even when he pretended to pout about it. Texted her things like thinking about you during team meetings and wanna come over and watch dumb sci-fi movies so I can pretend to understand physics.

He never made her feel small.

Never made her feel like he was hiding her, or settling, or choosing her in spite of something.

He just chose her. Over and over again.

And that did something to her.

Something healing.

————

Finals came and went in a blur of caffeine and highlighters and three a.m. breakdowns. She helped him study. He brought her snacks.

On the last day of the semester, after they submitted their final lab report, he took her hand and said, “I think this is the first time I’ve ever liked physics.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Even after all the crying over projectile motion?”

He grinned. “Especially after that. You looked cute when you yelled at me about parabolas.”

She shoved him lightly, but she was smiling.

————

The night before she left for home, he showed up at her door with takeout and a bouquet of wildflowers.

She blinked at them.

“You know this is such a rom-com move , right?” she said.

Luke just shrugged. “You deserve rom-com shit.”

He kissed her like he meant it. Like they had all the time in the world. And when he whispered, “I’m gonna miss you like hell,” against her collarbone, she knew this wasn’t a temporary thing.

They’d figure out the summer.

Figure out everything else, too.

————

A week later, she got a text.

Luke: my mom wants to meet you. she already stalked your Instagram. she thinks you’re cute.

She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

And for the first time, that voice in her head—the one that told her she’d never be enough—didn’t say a thing.

Because maybe she was.

Maybe she always had been.

250 notes · View notes

cup-o-stars · 10 months ago

Note

How to draw like you no borax

Good question!

I'd warn against following my process (at least if you want to learn), but I'll be honest and show you, lol. (Heads up: this is just how I do FAN art. When having fun, I generally care less about the fundamentals.)

1. I slap down super rough sketches, jotting lines/expressions like bullet points of my idea. Pretty much stick figures with just enough detail to remember who's who later. Not shown here, I also move, resize, and add details to express the intended composition if I'm planning something larger. You may notice a lot of curved lines / haphazard circles.

2. I refine the sketch by drawing it with more intention and build structure with slightly blockier shapes. If I'm really struggling with a pose, this is also where I'll find references or look at myself for bits and pieces to fill in the gaps. (When practicing, I would highly recommend using a reference from the start so all your limbs are an appropriate length and you don't need to say things like "that's passable" right before posting. If you're a perfectionist you'll leave that thought with the rough sketch.)

3. I'll decide around here whether or not to leave the sketch as is or commit to lineart (not likely). I guess I'd say I "shape the lines" here by going over some to add thickness/weight, and by adding basic sort-of-shading to break things up a little. Then I'll just fill in space if the page looks empty. (Usually this is where I incorporate the borax, but I hear baking soda works nicely if you're worried.)

4. Onto coloring. I don't feel confident enough to pretend I know what I'm doing here, lol. I just choose my base colors, imagine the general direction of the light source, then add minor gradients to the light and dark layers so they don't look flat. Then I just add some BS highlights and outline them. I've only recently found the motivation to properly practice coloring and just go with the flow tbh.

You may notice that Nami's forearm is too long, her hand looks like a pancake and Chopper has no joints! My kind sibling explained to me once that my anatomy is poor, but cohesive enough that nothing stands out too bad, lol. That's why it is important to use references!! And if you're me, practice all parts of anatomy at the same time with full bodies so that even when you're at a loss, your hands aren't that much better than your feet.

All in all, to draw like me, just have a very hedonistic approach to art, ha. Draw what you want, avoid getting burnt out on any single piece (sometimes that happens when you try to perfect drawings one at a time), and follow my personal motto:

Make fun, not masterpieces.

Idk how helpful this was, but there you have it!

#drawing #one piece #fanart #nico robin #luffy #ask

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shuenkio · 3 months ago

Text

Lover Demon — 제이크

Paring: Jake!Demon X M!reader

Synopsis: Summon the wrong type of demon consequences with something you never thought would ever happen.

Genre: Smut without plot. Cw: curse, smau.

Non proof read | Eng is not my 1st.

Witchcraft is a quiet, curious thing—something that seems to catch only your eye. In a world so full of technology and science, there’s little space left for whispered stories, magic, or the old myths that once felt so real. Those tales have grown faint over time, gently brushed aside by facts and reason, leaving behind a world that’s slowly forgotten how to dream.

Yet you can’t help but gather books on witchcraft—magic, power, rituals, spells, summoning—anything that catches your curiosity, even if most of them are likely just clever tricks for profit. But that doesn’t really matter. It’s enough to quiet your mind, to feel that familiar comfort in studying, in learning about the things that draw you in, no matter how unreal they might seem to others.

The sun sank below the horizon, leaving the sky to rest as a radiant full moon took its place, flooding the earth with silver light. It was the perfect night—the kind you’d been waiting for. Months of study led to this moment, the chance to perform a ritual, to summon a demon that haunted your thoughts. Wishes you’d longed for danced on the edge of possibility. Whether the books were lies or truth didn’t matter. It was worth the risk.

Behind your grandparents’ backyard, surrounded by trees that whispered in the night breeze, lay the perfect place for this ritual. Hidden from prying eyes and safe from interruption, it was the ideal spot to summon the demon that had lingered in your thoughts. Under the full moon’s watchful gaze, the air felt heavy with possibility.

“Finally, I’ve been SUMMONED—” the demon stretched, his body cracking with a sound that echoed through the small, broken-down house. He sighed, clearly relieved to be back in the human world. His glowing eyes scanned the room before landing on you. He blinked, his expression shifting from smug to surprised. “Wait... you’re a guy?” he asked, pointing at you with one sharp claw.

You stood there, clutching the book to your chest, heart pounding as you stared at the towering figure. His horns nearly brushed the ceiling, and his presence filled the room with an aura that made it hard to breathe. You swallowed hard but forced yourself to stand tall. Clearing your throat, you tried to keep your voice steady. “What’s wrong with being a boy?” You scoffed, turning your nose up just a little. “You know damn well you can’t do anything to me since I’m the one who summoned you.” You tried to sound confident, hoping he couldn’t see how your hands were trembling just a bit.

The demon looked at you for a long moment before rolling his eyes. “Ugh, fine. So what do you want? Must be something big if you went through all that trouble.” He crossed his arms, his muscles flexing under his dark skin. “Just so you know, my name’s Jake, and I’m the Demon of Love.” He paused, his face twisting into a scowl. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I know it doesn’t sound all that terrifying, but it’s not what you think. I’m no damn cupid.”

You stared at him, your mind blanking for a moment. Demon of... Love? Your stomach sank as the realization hit you. You’d summoned the wrong demon.

“Uh... hey, so... I think I made a mistake summoning you,” you started, your voice wavering as you tried to keep your composure. “I was... actually looking for a wish demon, not... um... a love demon.” You could feel your face heating up with embarrassment. “So... can you, like... go back by yourself? Or do I have to, uh, do another ritual or something?”

Jake’s glowing red eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable as he stared at you. For a moment, you were convinced he was either furious or just incredibly disappointed, but then he let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Of course. Should’ve known. A rookie,” he muttered, his voice echoing with that eerie double-tone that made your skin crawl.

He crossed his arms, his massive form leaning against the crumbling wall. “You humans never read the fine print, do you?” His eyes roamed over you, lingering just long enough to make you uncomfortable. “Alright, since you’re... kind of handsome and clearly clueless, I’ll tell you the truth. There’s only one way to send me back.”

You waited, holding your breath.

“Mating,” Jake said lazily, as if he were discussing the weather. “Since you’re my summoner, we’d have to... you know, perform a ritual of love. It’s my rule.”

Your jaw dropped, and for a moment, you forgot how to speak. “W-What?” you finally managed, voice cracking in disbelief. “You’re kidding... right?”

Jake just smirked, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Hey, don’t blame me. You summoned the Demon of Love. What did you expect?”

////

Right on the spot, your body was naked where your clothes had been torn into pieces by the love demon. The moment you couldn't even take time to react, that was when it changes to the state that you're in right now, completely butt out and length kiss the cold air. However that's just the beginning, The love demon— shape shift himself into the human version of his, in order to intimate the rule he just spit, for a better saying was to FUCK Jake to send him back.

A flash red light flickering, before Jake stands proud in front of you with his exposed flesh. His build masculine body makes you question whether this is a reward or a punishment? Not to mention in detail was that— even though Jake was a demon, he understood the human need... A bit all too well for how lustful they are in bed, and he isn't any better from humans, Jake likes it more than they ever would.

The 12 inches cock hanging between his legs, the balls are covered in a heavy skin stretching like a cauliflower. Jake's tense thighs only to fuel your desire to just kneel right there before him and begging for his to fuck your brain out of you.

Yet you made no move. In a blink of an eyes you find yourself on the red comfortable mistress to the unknown, the dark absorbed any surrounded which all you see is blank plain ancient walls around.

Jake wastes no time before Lough into your smaller frame which caused you to yelp in a surprise manner. As your back hits the cold bed before his hip enters your closet personal space. Your groin of course. The demon itself tends to know a lot of people's daily life and stuff, nevertheless he doesn't know how to kiss, to intimate more sexual love making, to bond more yet all he knows was to mate and fuck, that's all he's good at.

"If you dare to PUSH me off right now darling, I'll be forever stuck here with you for a century, and boy—I do not care if you have a manhood to make children, i fuck whoever summon ME!" Cool sweat dripping down on your forehead, with a shriek were heard inside the chamber once Jake's enormous largely cock entered the tightness of yours.

For once in his whole life— Jake could finally find pleasure for the first time in humans, resulting in him throwing his head back, goosebumps running down in his vein as his both reds glow eyes disappear into white. The pleasure of his cock burying the inside of your hole alone already turning Jake into a wild animal.

"Holy Demon— mhmm why is it SAUR GOOD I fucking love it, need to BREED with my fucking FERTILIZER SEED ARG" The demon shriek to the undeniable lust he felt in this moment, his growling alluring through your ear drum.

"Unghh... fuck! So goddamn tight...!"

Your eyes turn white of the intense pleasure, my ass hole is too taunt better than a vice, make him fold into two even though he was pounding me just like demon possessed. It was too much for us yet it was too overstimulated for Jake, to hold on to the point he needed something to hold on.

The taller frame grunts and pants harshly, sweat beading on his brow as he struggles to maintain his relentless pace, your incredibly tight hole clenching and fluttering around his pistoning cock like a silken vise. "Shit... M/n... your fucking ass... it's too goddamn tight!"

He snarls through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

His hips slap against your ass with brutal force, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room along with his animalistic grunts and groans. The couch creaks and shakes beneath you with the force of his thrusts, threatening to topple over.

Jake leans forward, his chest pressing against your back as he tries to find some semblance of stability. His hot, ragged breaths fall against your neck and ear, his lips latching onto your skin to bite and suck. He's quickly losing himself in the tight, wet heat engulfing his cock, his movements becoming more erratic and desperate.

Suddenly, he hilts inside you, grinding his pelvis flush against your ass, his heavy balls slapping lewdly against your taint. He stays there for a moment, just savoring the feeling of being completely sheathed in your clenching channel before he starts rolling his hips, stirring his thick cock around inside you.

His hand snakes around your body, grasping your own weeping erection, squeezing and stroking it in time with his relentless thrusts. "Unghh... fuck... I can feel every throb, every twitch of this greedy little cunt... like it's sucking me in fucking deeper...!" Whimpers sniff painted his face, he's absolutely destroying himself.

He changes the angle of his thrusts slightly, aiming straight for that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside you. With each snap of his hips, he grinds against that spot, determined to make you fall apart on his cock.

The pressure builds rapidly in his heavy, churning balls as he chases his pleasure, his strokes becoming shorter and sharper, his grip on your hips tightening. He's getting close... too fucking close. But he won't stop, not until he's pumped every last drop of his hot, thick seed deep into your guts.

His hips slap against your ass with brutal force, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room along with his animalistic grunts and groans. The bed creaks and shakes beneath you with the force of his thrusts, threatening to topple over.

Jake collapses heavily against your back, his entire body shaking and twitching with the force of his intense orgasm. A guttural, almost feral roar tears from his throat as he empties his aching, overstimulated balls deep inside you, painting your inner walls white with thick ropes of his scalding cum.

His cock jerks and pulses wildly as it pumps what feels like an endless stream of jizz into your spasming hole, the sheer volume of it causing some to leak out around his shaft and drip down onto the couch. He grinds against you, making sure to push his load in as deep as it can go, marking your insides with his essence.

But the overwhelming sensations and the intense pleasure pushing him over the edge also have an unintended consequence. As he's lost in the throes of his release, feeling your body clench and milk his spurting cock, he loses control of another bodily function. A warm, unfamiliar sensation rushes through his shaft, and suddenly, he feels a strong, forceful stream of piss erupting from his cock, mixing with the thick cum already flooding your ass.

Panic rises in his chest as he realizes what's happening, but he's too far gone, too consumed by the all-encompassing pleasure radiating from his core. He can only let out choked, strangled groans as he continues to empty his overstimulated body into yours, the heat of his piss momentarily startling you, even as it washes away the excess cum.

After what feels like an eternity, his release finally starts to taper off, leaving him slumped against your back, both of you coated in sweat and the remnants of his spending. His softening cock, still buried deep inside your cream-filled hole, gives a few last weak pulses, a few last drops of piss and cum dribbling lazily into you.

The man remains in place, his entire body heavy and sated, his breathing slowly returning to a somewhat normal pace after the intense workout. He nuzzles into your neck, pressing soft kisses to your sweat-slicked skin, a rare moment of gentle intimacy. He's utterly spent, but a part of him is still marveling at the incredible tightness of your body, the way it took everything he had to give and then some.

"cum... It's coming...."

Jake could feels the hot spurts of your release splattering against his fingers and your stomach, mixed with the sweat and other fluids already covering both of your bodies. A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his face, his chest rumbling with a deep, approving groan. "Heh... that's it, M/n... come for me just like the needy little slut you are. I can feel you fucking soaking my hand with it...— I guess I won't fucking leave this human world you're now forever mine— My you"

The slave mark appears on your lower tummy.

A/n: Some part might be confused so I'll left into your imagination. This was inspired by bff of mine— from my famous friend @angelsfat3

Funtalk: Dare to get rail by demon Jake?

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