#posted last week but it's so hard for me to get on here

[miyadollie]

R/CRUSHES : HOW DO I TALK TO MY OFFICE CRUSH ? sillyguy0813 says : dude just borrow a stapler

★ STARRING office worker lee jeno x fem reader ( ft. best friend jaemin ) ★ WORD COUNT 2.6k + 3OO bonus ★ CONTAINS co-workers to dating, fluff !! lee jeno being a cutie, jaemin is a menace to society, workplace romance, ★ MIYA SAYS 💗 this is my first time TRYING to write a long fic :3 pls give me any constructive criticism and feedback thank uu 🧘🏼‍♀️ . update : wow i absolutely dislike my writing here but its been rotting in drafts too long and i gave up on fixing this TT

it starts with a stapler.

one you’re not even sure belongs to you. maybe you bought it once during a sale, or someone left it at your desk during a particularly chaotic week, and it stayed. quietly claimed as yours.

the moment wasn't love at first sight, no grand declaration of love with bouquets or fireworks. just a quiet tuesday morning, your inbox overflowing, the boss increasing your headache by preponing your deadlines, the coffee machine on its last breath and the fluorescent lights above flickering slightly like they, too, were tired of this job. and then there’s him.

lee jeno. clean-cut. soft-spoken. the kind of guy who always says “excuse me” when passing behind you, even when there’s plenty of space. always dressed a little too well for your casual office. not flashy—never that—but tidy, crisp. thoughtful. one cubicle down, diagonal from yours. he’s been here a while. a familiar face in the sea of semi-familiar ones. you’ve never really talked but only ever exchanged the kind of polite nods reserved for coworkers who share nothing but recycled air and a breakroom.

until today. ���could you pass the stapler?” you look up, startled slightly by the voice.

he’s leaning just slightly over the low partition separating your desks, eyes trained on the corner of your workspace where your lonely black stapler sits. he gives you a smile. not flashy. not flirtatious. just—nice. warm. gentle. you blink once. then reach for it. “thanks,” he says. you nod. he returns to his screen. that’s it. except… it isn’t. because the next day, he borrows a pen. the day after that, post-its. then tape. then scissors. always returning everything. always smiling. always saying thank you like he means it. and now you’re wondering. is this flirting? some kind of extremely office-safe, hr-friendly version of it? or are you just painfully, embarrassingly overthinking it? or maybe did you have an unspoken crush on him? not that you can be blamed. - lee jeno is attractive. undeniably so. you’ve seen him once—just once—rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down in the middle of summer, and you swear you forgot how to form a coherent sentence for ten straight minutes. defined forearms. slim but strong hands. that razor-sharp jawline, often tilted thoughtfully while reading something on his screen. dark lashes. deep voice. a gym guy, apparently—you overheard it once when he mentioned it to jaemin (you weren’t eavesdropping, you just… have really good ears). you haven’t initiated anything. neither has he. but those tiny moments? the ones that make your heart skip? they’re adding up

────

FRIDAY | 4:30 PM

“soo… still down to try that new restaurant?” jaemin asks one afternoon, casually leaning on your desk during lunch with a fresh iced americano in hand—probably his fifth for the day. “obviously,” you reply, eyes lighting up. “people have been absolutely glazing it online. thanks for getting us a table!” he grins. “see you at 9 then.” just as he turns, he spins back around like a cartoon character. “oh, also—jeno’s coming. hope that’s cool?” you freeze. your face says i’m fine, but your body language screams mayday. “y-yeah. sure. totally chill,” you manage. “coolcoolcoolcool,” you say, immediately turning your head towards your computer, and then you see your reflection on the blank empty screen. you were blushing. hard. jaemin smirks knowingly as he walks off. of course he knows. he always knows. after all, he’s the mastermind who told jeno to borrow your stapler in the first place. ────

8:55 PM

the restaurant is low-lit and warm, the kind of place where the wood-paneled walls muffle outside noise, and everything feels just a little more intimate than it should. you arrive five minutes early. out of habit, mostly. or nerves. you’re not sure which. jaemin’s already there, somehow sipping an iced americano even here, scrolling through his phone while pretending not to notice your presence with a dramatic sigh. “i told you 9:00,” he says, without looking up. “it’s 8:55.” “still early.” he glances at you now, then raises an eyebrow. “cute top.” you ignore his antics, he’s just trying to get a reaction out of you. typical jaemin. your heart is already thudding too loudly, because jeno walks in right after. black shirt, sleeves rolled up. clean slacks. a bit of cologne, subtle but warm. his hair’s tousled slightly, and his eyes light up just a little when they land on you. “hey,” he says, with that soft smile. you don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just smile back, scooting over so he can sit across from you. the conversation is light, easy. mostly thanks to jaemin, who fills every awkward silence with a joke, a story, an embarrassing anecdote about your office. jaemin and jeno were friends in school, you get to know that night, they were benchmates. jaemin always chose jeno as his partner for every game, every lab, and jeno just liked his company, so he stood with him always. jaemin talks about you to jeno too—how you both were first day interns and hit it off over a conversation about which seventeen album is truly the best. but every now and then, you catch jeno looking at you. not staring. not even for long. just—looking. like he’s seeing something he's trying very hard not to see too obviously. “so,” jaemin says mid-way through dessert, smirking at you over his spoon, “funny how you two never end up talking at work.” you nearly choke. jeno shifts in his seat. “like, what’s with all the stapler borrowing, huh? no small talk?” you glare at him. he grins. “i’m just saying. feels like there’s some unspoken office tension.” jeno lets out a quiet laugh. and then, after a beat—he looks at you. “i guess i just… wanted a reason to talk,” he says, voice soft. and your breath catches. your heart is thudding again. you manage a smile, small and shy. trying not to mess up words or blabber out something nonsensical. “i noticed,” you reply. the space between you feels full, suddenly. full of every little interaction. every thank-you. every passing smile. jaemin stretches obnoxiously. “well, look at the time! i’ve got a meeting with my bed in ten.” you roll your eyes. “you’re so obvious.” he shrugs. “you’re welcome.” and just like that, he’s gone with the wind. leaving you and jeno, two half-finished desserts, and a quiet restaurant glowing gold in the late-night hush. “i can walk you home,” he says, gently. not pushing. just offering. and something in you says yes. to the walk. to this night. to the maybe that’s been building between you both. ────

10:45 PM

the night is cool, with a breeze just strong enough to lift the corners of your coat and make you tuck your hands into your sleeves. the restaurant’s warm glow fades behind you, replaced by the hush of quiet streets and dimly lit sidewalks. jeno walks beside you, hands in his pockets, his steps matching yours. neither of you says anything at first. the silence isn’t awkward. it’s... full. full of unspoken things. of nerves and glances and the way your arms brush every few seconds and both of you pretend not to notice. “jaemin talks too much,” jeno says eventually, voice low. you laugh softly. “it’s his specialty.” he hums in agreement, then adds, “he wasn’t wrong, though.” you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flicker to yours and then away again, like he’s testing the water, like he’s afraid of saying too much too fast. “i... didn’t really need the stapler that day.” your breath catches. “oh,” you manage, and you’re smiling now. you can’t help it. “i just... i guess i liked the idea of you looking at me. talking to me.” he pauses. “even if it was just a stapler.” you stop walking, just for a moment. jeno turns, realizing you’re no longer beside him. there’s a streetlight above him, casting shadows across his face and soft highlights in his hair. “you could’ve just said hi,” you whisper. he steps closer. barely. but enough to make the air between you buzz. “i know,” he murmurs. “i wanted to. every day. but you always looked so focused. and i didn’t want to ruin that.” your heart is a mess of drumbeats and warmth. “you wouldn’t have.” silence again. then he says, barely audible, “could i maybe get your number... just for office related stuff, of course.” you nod, because your voice has already betrayed you too many times tonight. a soft smile tugs at his lips. the quiet kind. the kind you know he saves for only a few people. he walks you all the way to your apartment. and when he says goodbye, it’s not a hug. not a kiss. just a quiet “goodnight” and a look that lingers longer than it should. but your heart knows. it knows everything. ────

SATURDAY | 9:00 AM

the next day, the office is just waking up. it always feels colder in the morning—half because of the ac blasting too early, half because everyone’s too busy chasing caffeine to talk. desks are still half-empty. monitors glow. the printer sputters. someone sneezes. a mug clinks. you step in, trying to hide the stupid smile that’s been stuck to your face since last night. your coat is too warm for indoors but your hands are cold, so you hold your coffee tighter. and then you see it. your desk. something’s different. sitting neatly on top of your keyboard is a brand-new stapler. blue, shiny, absolutely unnecessary. you freeze. right beside it, a yellow post-it. his handwriting. neat. almost too neat. “thought you could use one that wasn’t cursed.     —jeno :)” you almost laugh. it’s such a him thing to do—dry humor disguised as helpfulness. but your heart? it’s fluttering like it’s stuck in a romcom scene, an angelic choir singing along in tandem. you reach out and pick up the stapler.you didn’t even need one nor were you going to use one. but you want to keep this one forever. cherish it. maybe even pass it on as an heirloom.

just then, you hear someone clear their throat. “new office romance i should know about?” you don’t even need to turn around. jaemin. of course. loud, nosy, iced-americano jaemin. “shut up,” you say instantly, trying to sound bored. your cheeks are already heating up. but he walks past you, grinning like the devil, a bounce in his step like he’s in on the joke you’re still figuring out. and then—your gaze drifts. to the cubicle across. there he is. jeno. typing. or pretending to. his posture is the same—back straight, eyes on the screen—but his fingers are still on the home row keys, just gliding about. and when he feels your eyes, he glances up. It's brief, barely a second. but he smiles. like last night wasn’t just dinner. like it meant something.

a few hours later, a message pops up.

jeno lee “did the new one pass inspection?”

you “it’s still under review by the council. but i think they approve ;)”

jeno lee “let me know if it jams. i’ll personally fix it.”

you smile. a full smile this time. the kind that makes you reach for your coffee, lean back in your chair, and breathe in like something in your world has shifted.

jeno 💗 “what’s your go-to coffee order?”

you “anything except that poison jaemin drinks every day. ‘i like my coffee as dark as my soul’ ahh guy.”

jeno 💗 “haha.” “noted.”

the next morning there’s a cup of coffee on your desk, with yet another post-it note. “it’s the new specialty at a cafe near my place. i thought you’d like it :)”

that was truly the best coffee you had ever tasted. and maybe he started getting it for you every day. ────

WEDNESDAY | 9:00 PM

it's another day at the office. rain taps gently on the windows, a soft drumbeat to the silence of overworked employees and abandoned coffee mugs. you’re still at your desk & so is he. the fluorescent lights overhead are dimmer than usual, humming low like they’re tired too. you stretch your back, glancing at the clock. 9:04 pm. “still here?” comes his voice. you look up to see jeno leaning on the edge of his cubicle wall, sleeves rolled up, tie a little loosened. “so are you,” you shoot back. he smiles. “want company for the walk back?” you nod before your brain catches up.

the streetlights blur against the wet pavement, reflecting like oil paint smudged across the road. jeno’s shoulder brushes yours every few seconds—neither of you move away. he talks about the weird way jaemin eats ramen. you laugh. you tell him about your favorite childhood cartoon. he says he watched it too, and suddenly it’s three blocks later and you’re still talking. at a red light, you both stop. he glances down at you. you glance up. it’s a pause so charged you swear the rain quiets. “...you looked really pretty today,” he says suddenly. his voice isn’t confident or smooth—he says it like a secret. you don’t respond right away. just tuck your hair behind your ear, your face heating. he notices. the light turns green and you simply walk on. on reaching your apartment building you stop at the steps. he’s still holding the umbrella. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t either. there’s that moment again—that pause like the world might tilt if either of you moves. “i’m really glad you came to dinner that night,” he finally says, voice quieter than before. “been wanting to talk to you properly for months.” you blink. “...really?” jeno chuckles. “you had the office’s only decent stapler. of course i had to make a move.” you laugh—nervous and shy and full of everything you’ve been holding back. he takes a step closer. just one. not too much. “but also,” he adds, and this time his voice is a little more sure, “i like you. not just the lunch break, passing-notes kind. the kind where i want to sit and mindlessly watch silly romcoms with you, the kind where i want to walk you home every day and make sure you had dinner. the kind where - " he goes on. but words fall on deaf ears. you feel your heart clench, sweet and sharp. you’re about to respond when— “...so, if you’re okay with it,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck, “can i officially take you out sometime? like, not just coffee machine and post-it flirting. a real date.” you blink. once. twice. your face is warm. your chest feels like it’s glowing. “...yes.” you don’t even hesitate. his smile is soft. wide. genuine. and when he hands you the umbrella and waves goodnight, walking back with his hands in his pockets and a quiet bounce in his step. you think, maybe this started with a stapler. but it’s gonna end with something a lot more permanent. ──── BONUS : FEW WEEKS LATER | 2:00 PM

you, jeno, and jaemin were perched on the edge of the rooftop, paper lunchboxes balanced on your laps, chinese takeout - courtesy of jeno. the breeze is nice, the sky a little overcast, and jaemin's halfway through an enthusiastic rant about the company’s new vending machine layout.

“and like .. why did they move the green tea to the bottom row? what kind of criminal.. oh, thanks man.” he says as jeno hands him a napkin mid-rant, like muscle memory.

you say while giggling, “you guys are like an old married couple.”

jeno chokes on his rice. you pat his back helpfullly , still giggling.

jaemin just shrugs. “what can i say? i raised him well.”

jeno glares at him. mouthing ' stop. talking.' he knew jaemin could slip up any moment. for he always did.

jaemin does not stop talking.

“i mean, not to brag, but if it weren’t for me, he’d still be hovering awkwardly near your desk pretending he needed your stapler.”

you blink. “wait. what?”

jeno drops his chopsticks.

jaemin freezes. realizes.

“oh..." he mutters.

your jaw drops. “waitwaitwait. you told him to borrow my stapler?”

“in my defense,” jaemin says, holding up both hands, “i was just trying to save him from dying of heart failure every time you walked past. it was either that or fake a paper jam crisis.”

jeno is silent. fully hiding behind his lunchbox now.

you slowly turn to him. “is this true?”

“…maybe,” he mumbles.

you snort, trying to hold in your laughter. “oh my god. so all this time..”

“don’t act like it wasn’t genius!” jaemin interrupts. “you’re welcome, by the way. this whole slow-burn coffee shop romcom office love story? all me.”

jeno groans. “can i push him off the roof.”

you lean into jeno’s shoulder, grinning. “you should’ve just said hi.”

he sighs. “i wanted to. but every time i tried, you were always typing so fast. and glaring at your screen like it personally insulted your ancestors.”

you snort. “fair.”

jaemin raises his water bottle. “to true love, born from borrowing office supplies.”

jeno snatches it from him and takes a sip without asking. you think that’s revenge enough. read more ❤︎ please like, reblog and let me know your reviews (๑>◡<๑) this work is a piece of fiction and is not intended to reflect the real personalities, actions, or beliefs of the individuals portrayed. the idols mentioned are used purely as fictional characters for storytelling purposes. no harm, disrespect, or objectification is intended. everything written here is entirely imaginative and not based on real-life events or relationships.

[rueclfer]

evergreen

𖤓 part xii. | series m.list | prev | part xiii.

touya’s phone is swiped out of his hands and onto the floor by a dirty wet rag. his head whips to the other side of the room to find you staring right back at him, white knuckled with another rag in hand.

“if i stopped caring, this would be easier for the both of us?” you repeat, taking stepping closer, “are you fucking kidding me?”

he’d be lying if he said that there wasn’t something surging through his body as he watches you storm over to him, abandoning your caddy of cleaning products. was it fear? excitement? attraction?

you throw the rag down against touya’s chest. he watches it fall onto the ground between his legs before snapping his gaze back up to you.

he says nothing for a moment, and instead adjusts himself on the bench of the wooden lunch table. you watch him lean back, cross his arms across his chest, and prop his ankle over his knee with nothing but a smug smile on his face.

he couldn’t bite back the smirk- not even when you looked like you were ready to kill him at this moment.

“i said what i said.” he shrugs.

you lunge at him.

this isn’t you. you’re not the type of person to get into physical altercations. you both know that. last night you couldn't even look at touya after the embarrassment of crying in front of him, but now you wanted to throw him into the ground.

your venom usually comes from your tongue, not your fists, but there's been something brewing inside of you since the summer started and now that you’re here with a two week grounding at your grown age, you’ve come to the conclusion that you have nothing left to lose. 

“it’d be easier,” you grab him by the collar of his shirt, balling the fabric in your fists as you push him into the table, “if you knew how to be honest and communicate instead of being a fucking coward and tip-toeing around the conversation we’re going to eventually have to have anyways.”

you hated how his eyes were gleaming. it was obvious he was enjoying himself, and seeing this reaction out of you may have been the highlight of his summer so far.

“we had that conversation, didn't we?” he cocks his head to the side with a lazy smile.

you shake him a little- tugging him back and forth before digging the edge of the table into his back again.

“stop looking at me like that,” you scold, "take me seriously."

“and there’s that scowl,” he mutters.

the more heat that prickles up your neck, the tighter you grip onto his t-shirt.

“can’t you be fucking normal and have a conversation with me? a serious one? or do you drop off the face of the earth and suddenly lose all of your comprehension skills?”

“well, fuck, sweetheart. when you’re screaming in my face and manhandling me like this, you make it kinda hard to concentrate.”

“you’re impossible,” you scoff, throwing him away from your grasp.

you stand up straight and take a step back, huffing out a breath of annoyance.

you and touya look at each other in silence. you watch him readjust his wrinkled and stretched collar while he watches the blood pool back into your hands. you still have that scowl on your face, and for a second you look like you’re a kid again- post tantrum, pouty, and ready to take your frustrations out on him when you don't get your way.

“there really is nothing?” you exasperated “you grew up and this is just the way that you are now? you turn seventeen and decide that nothing matters to you anymore?”

“seventeen,” he repeats, “is complicated and nothing that i want to talk about.”

not even to me?

there’s still a part of you that still feels bonded to touya no matter how many conversations you’ve had with yourself about letting him go. as if the feeling of being kids together will never leave you, even when he’s sitting right in front of you as living proof that it’ll never be that again.

“would you have ever reached out if you didn’t end up here this summer?” the question slips out of your mouth. you weren’t sure if you really wanted to know, but judging from the flash of shock on his face, you probably already knew the answer. “since you said you didn’t have a choice.”

touya presses his lips together into a tight line.

“yeah,” he sighs, “probably. eventually. i think.”

you slowly nod your head, “and what would you say?”

he blows out a long breath of air through his teeth and shifts himself in his seat, the wooden bench suddenly becoming uncomfortable.

“that i’m sorry? i guess?” he says under his breath.

all the time that had passed, and he still couldn’t get a grip on his words. something about his uncomfort with being vulnerable was comforting for you in a way, like it was the first nostalgic moment you’ve had with touya all summer.

“right,” you scoff, backtracking towards your side of the cafeteria. “nothing like the present, touya. five years later and i’m still waiting for that apology whenever you’re ready. or an explanation. or literally anything to make this summer less shitty than it already is.”

“lotta pressure for a guy like me, don’t you think?” he chuckles, standing up and grabbing his phone off the ground.

“call it accountability. we’re both adults now aren’t we?”

clearly, he thinks to himself, watching you grab your caddy and head towards the exit.

“have fun with the bathrooms,” you call out, throwing your middle finger over your shoulder before the door slams shut behind you.

a/n: drops this and runnnssss!!!! y/n: *screaming at touya spitting in his face about to break his jaw* touya: whoa *blushing* lmmmmaaaooo hi everyoneeee this is the slowest burn i've ever slowburned i need to move shit aasssaappp like 12 parts in and they haven't even had the TALK yet im abt to start losing it and make them makeout sloppy style behind the grimy bathroom shed

tags: (i think im capped out for tags so no longer accepting ppl for taglist sawwwwwyyyyyyy)

@iluv-ace @bitchyfestivalbouquet @redr0sewrites @babylambdietcoke @bnhabadass @hanmastattoos @1ndee @starsryi @nesrynsblog @twoplayergaymers @suksatoru @ita606 @pookiebear16 @fictionalcharactersownmyheart @in-the-marina-trench @haruhi269 @itgetzweird08 @ilophilia @chimimon @emluvs-sugu @punishblue @whorror-complex @akumakitsune21 @maddie-rose-1 @ixeyi @commonmisery @ggriwm @exselily @kryscent @starrmage @vannyinthestars @burnishingbagels @soobhns @kaybug88 @lantsovheiress @0skullyard0 @albakugo @sleepyk0dyz @blu3-l0v3r @bakugouswh0r3 @kaldurahms-lover @thoughtswithbbg @slothsmoths @reocidal @multi-write @stoned-anime-babe @i-simp-to-much @satansdaughter123 @haunted4love @annybah @linmabbe @boreaswrites @lostsomewhereinthegarden @hearts4heidi @makaroni-and-chez

[slut-for-slutty-fictional-men]

Title: Crossing Lines

Pairing: Lando Norris x Piastri!Reader

Summary: You always swore you’d never fall for your brother’s teammate. Lando always swore he’d never touch you. But some rules were meant to be broken—especially when you both know it can’t last.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), angst, strong language, secret relationship, emotional conflict, mild degradation kink (consensual), possessiveness, alcohol mention.

Words: ~2000

masterlist

⸻

You were already tipsy when he caught your eye across the room—Lando, leaned against the wall like he wasn’t watching your every move.

Your brother’s post-race party was in full swing. Monaco glittered outside the windows, but you didn’t care about the view. Not when he was in the room.

He hadn’t touched you in two weeks. Two weeks since you ended it—again. You told him it was wrong. Told him your brother would kill him. Told him you weren’t some secret he could only have behind closed doors.

He told you to stop acting like you didn’t love it.

Now he was standing there, curls damp from the shower, that chain around his neck glinting under the lights, jaw tight like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. But you knew that look.

He wasn’t here for the drinks.

He was here for you.

You felt him move before you saw it—sensed the shift in the air when he pushed off the wall and cut across the room. You turned away, tried to pretend you didn’t notice.

Didn’t matter. A hand slipped around your waist just as you stepped out onto the balcony.

“Thought you were avoiding me.”

You didn’t turn around. “I am.”

“Mm.” His breath brushed your ear. “Doing a shit job of it in that dress.”

You turned then, slowly, because you couldn’t help it. The Monaco night air wrapped around you like silk, but Lando’s eyes were warmer. Darker.

“You’re drunk,” you said.

He laughed, soft and bitter. “I’ve had one beer.”

“Then you’re just being reckless.”

“You love it when I’m reckless.”

You swallowed. Hard. “Don’t.”

He stepped closer, chest to chest. “Why not?”

“Because he’s right inside.”

“Then be quiet.”

You slapped his chest, but he caught your wrist, smirking. “Always so mouthy until I have you under me.”

Your pulse jumped. “Fuck you.”

“Gladly.”

You hated him. Hated how cocky he was. How he knew exactly how to unravel you with one look, one word, one smirk.

“Lando—”

“Say you don’t want this,” he said quietly. “Say it, and I’ll walk away.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

He smiled, just barely. “That’s what I thought.”

And then his mouth was on yours.

It was messy, desperate, the kind of kiss that tasted like punishment. You knew you should stop him. You should pull away. You should care that your brother was twenty feet away.

But you didn’t.

You let him drag you inside, down the hall to one of the guest rooms. The second the door shut, his mouth was back on yours—his hands already at the zipper of your dress.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he muttered against your skin. “Waiting for me. Even when you say you’re done.”

Your dress hit the floor. You stepped out of it in nothing but lace and nerves.

“You always act like I’m the villain,” he whispered, backing you toward the bed. “But you’re the one letting me ruin you.”

You gasped when his fingers slid between your thighs. “Lando—”

His eyes flicked up. “Quiet, baby. Or do you want Oscar to hear you moaning my name?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when his fingers slipped inside you and curled just right.

“Been thinking about this for days,” he said, lips brushing your throat. “How wet you get for me. How you beg.”

You dug your nails into his shoulders. “I don’t beg.”

He laughed, low and rough. “Yes, you do.”

He pulled back just long enough to strip off his shirt, his pants—everything. Your hands moved on instinct, hungry, greedy. He hissed when you wrapped your fingers around him.

“Turn around,” he said, voice tight.

You hesitated.

“Now.”

You did.

His hand gripped your hip. “Good girl.”

He didn’t tease this time. Didn’t give you the usual slow burn. Just pushed inside in one smooth, perfect thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

You bit your lip to keep from crying out.

“Louder,” he growled. “Let me hear you.”

You couldn’t hold back. The way he moved—rough, deep, relentless—it was everything you’d missed. Everything you told yourself you didn’t need.

His hand slid into your hair, tugging just hard enough to hurt.

“Is this what you wanted?” he breathed. “To get fucked like this? In your brother’s house?”

Shame pooled in your chest—but not enough to make you stop.

“Yes,” you gasped.

His rhythm faltered for half a second. Like he hadn’t expected you to admit it.

“Say it again.”

“Yes. I wanted this.”

“You wanted me.”

You clenched around him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “You’re mine.”

You came with a cry, biting down on your wrist to muffle it. He followed seconds later, hand gripping your hip so tight you’d have bruises.

You didn’t move. Just stayed there, breathing hard, skin damp with sweat and guilt.

He kissed your shoulder. Soft. Tender. Too intimate.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“He’s going to find out.”

“I know.”

You turned around to face him. “Then what are we doing?”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize everything.

“Losing,” he said. “But I don’t care.”

[myreallovelymind]

💗Dating life update 💗

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the amazing date I went on with the guy who picked my pink lingerie set. It was honestly one of the best dates I’ve been on with one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. I wish I could share a picture so you can fan girl as hard as I am.

The date was amazing, we went out for pizza and we had a bottle of wine. He was dressed so well, he’s 6’1, speaks with a posh British accent and honestly, I melted when he looked at me in the eyes. I melted so hard, I couldn’t actually look at him so he thought I wasn’t interested in him until we were on my sofa about to kiss… my bad!

Sex was incredible. He’s kinky and dominant but didn’t expect me to submit. We filmed ourselves and we genuinely hold hands when he’s fucking me doggy? Like who does that on a first date?!

It was great butttttttt….

He’s a dad and is part time in London and part time 1 h away from London. He has a flat here but also a house there. Before we started texting, he has decided to rent his central London flat to spend the summer with his child as he had given up on dating apps.

Surpiseeee, I turned up. We then had a few days of talking about logistics and he didn’t quite see it working. He said I’m not the type of girl we would want to see casually and he would want to be together together and try fully but that he didn’t have the time. I was upset. Telling him we should try because I think what we have is special.

When people talk about how someone will make you feel like you’re their dream girl. That’s how he makes me feel. This is going to sound so cringe, but I believe in love at first sight for a second. I met him and thought… I think he’s my person.

Alas, he said he wanted to stay in touch but he would want us to try fully in November when he gets his London flat back. I was upset and told him that don’t want to text him unless we are trying because that would just hurt. So we left it at that.

I posted on Tumblr saying I hate dating bla bla bla. I go on a date which not even 1% of the chemistry I had with hot dad man. I spend a week telling my friends I miss him and I want to text him. I have never been in this situation. I have never been unable to move on. I’ve never checked my phone multiple times a day to see if he texted me. He’s been on my mind all the time.

A week after our goodbyes… I’m edging my denied pussy to him moaning my name on my video… and I get a text from him.

He says he’s been thinking about me every day. He doesn’t want to see anyone else and he wants me in whatever capacity I can give him. He wants to date and really try but he’s okay with casual if that’s what I can give him. I have also, never had a man trying to get me back.

I obviously say yes. I call my friend shrieking like a little girl. Nobody has seen me this giddy before. I won’t be seeing him as often because he is a working dad but I don’t care. I would rather wait for him than shit dates more often.

He wants to be my dom. He wants to control my orgasms and wants me to cum but also respects the fact that I want to wait a year. He made me fuck him whilst looking at him and kept telling me how incredible I looked. I’ve never felt this way before. It’s like every cell in my body wants him.

This sounds like a love letter? Anyway, I’m seeing him on Wednesday, so in a week. He wants me plugged and belted, wearing a dress when I cook for him on our second date. It was his birthday last week and he didn��t get a cake because he was working, which is criminal so I’m going to make him his favourite cake, Victoria Sponge Cake 🍰

It’s not love, it’s lust. My logical brain knows this isn’t love. But what if he was my person? Watch me jinx this but I just wanted to share where I’m at!

Did I mention he was gorgeous and that he called me “my love”?

[scary-grace]

apparently it's not enough for me to roast the main character of BNHA or write so many fixits, I have to take it super literally and also give two middle fingers way, way up to a famous Ursula LeGuin parable by posting this self-indulgent miss-the-point thing. Omelas AU, for child abuse and neglect, hopeful ending, Oboro Shirakumo POV.

one who walks

Why did he have to look?

There’s no thought Oboro has right now, no thought he’s had for the past six months, that feels good, but that one feels worse than all the rest – the wish that he had let the knowledge be enough, that he’d managed to grasp it the way his best friends had, that he’d been outraged and betrayed and depressed and eventually resigned. Shouta and Hizashi reacted normally, the way most people react when they find out the truth. Neither of them wanted to look. But Oboro looked. Why did he have to look?

Oboro can kick himself about that from here to the end of time, and it won’t change anything. Oboro looked, and looking has consequences. For him. For everybody.

The city streets are empty at this time of night, but even if they weren’t, nobody would ask Oboro where he’s going. Nobody in Musutafu questions where anyone else is going, except to ask if they want company for the walk. Everybody’s going somewhere with purpose, or just to admire the view, and no one in Musutafu has bad intentions. Oboro never wondered why that was until six months ago. Never wondered why the things that went wrong in other places – crime, sickness, hatred, murder – never go wrong here. He just thought Musutafu was special, that the people who live here are special, too. And they are. Just not for the reason Oboro thought.

A trade, is how they framed it, when they sat Oboro and Hizashi and Shouta down to tell them why Musutafu is so peaceful, so prosperous, so perfect. You have to give something if you want to get something in return. Oboro and his friends know how trades work. They trade things all the time. They nodded, and Principal Nedzu explained what the whole city traded – and trades every day – so they can keep being happy and safe and free forever. Oboro didn’t get it at first. He could tell that Shouta didn’t, either, but Hizashi picked it up fast, and Hizashi got mad. A kid, he repeated. We can only live like this because you’re torturing a kid.

In exchange for Musutafu’s prosperity, they give up one person – a little kid, locked away beneath the city, left alone and unhappy and forgotten. Always hungry, never spoken to, never cared for. One person’s suffering in exchange for the happiness of six hundred thousand. No matter how many times Nedzu explained, it didn’t sink in – not for Oboro, at least. Hizashi had already gotten up and left, slamming the door so hard that picture frames fell off the wall and shattered on the floor. Shouta sat on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, and Oboro kept asking questions. The same questions over and over again, hoping the answer would change.

It never changed, and finally, Nedzu steepled his paws together and sat forward in his chair. Perhaps, Shirakumo, it would help if you could see.

No, Oboro should have said. I don’t need to see. I get it. I’m not as smart as my friends are. It takes time for stuff to sink in. Give me a second, or a minute – maybe a week – and it’ll all make sense. I’ll take your word for it. I don’t need to see. Yes.

Most people don’t go and look, but it’s not unheard of. And it’s not unheard of for people to be tormented by what they see. Some people have such a hard time with it that they leave Musutafu and never look back, never to be seen again, headed off into the darkness for parts unknown. Oboro’s never known anyone who left, but he always knows when someone’s gone. The whole city seems dimmer, somehow. It takes a while for the light to come back.

Oboro’s thought about leaving. There have been days in the last six months where he’s wanted nothing more than to get up and run. But he looked, and he saw, and that means he can’t just leave. Just leaving doesn’t fix anything. Knowing what’s happening and leaving is the same thing as staying, when it comes down to it. For Oboro to clear his conscience, there’s only one thing to do.

He knows that Musutafu is perfect, peaceful, that there’s no such thing as bad intentions or hidden evil, but it still surprises him that there are no guards outside the building that holds the sacrifice. Everybody knows where it is. Everybody knows exactly what goes on here and what the consequences for changing it are, and they haven’t even set a watch. Oboro knows why, and knowing why makes his jaw clench and his vision blur. They don’t need guards. They don’t think anybody would really do it.

The doors are unlocked, too. Oboro slips inside, his hands shaking, his legs leaden. He made this same walk six months ago, behind Principal Nedzu, still believing somewhere deep down that it was a joke. Just like before, it’s the smell that alerts him that something’s wrong.

Nothing decays in Musutafu. Nothing rots. No one leaves a mess uncleaned long enough for it to mold, or an injury untended long enough for maggots to set in, but the stench that emanates from the storage room at the bottom of the stairs is unmistakable. Six months ago and now, Oboro recoils from it, some instinct yanking at him to get away. He holds his ground. As terrible as this is, it’s nothing compared to what’s going on behind that door.

Nedzu explained it again as he and Oboro stood before the open door, as Oboro froze in horror, too numb and distant even to cry. In exchange for Musutafu’s peace and joy in a dark and dangerous world, something had to be given up – one child, not locked up as a baby but imprisoned once they’re old enough to understand what’s being taken from them, neglected and forgotten forever. Barely fed. Oboro asked about that as he looked in at the kid, whose limbs were stick-thin, whose face was hollow instead of round and healthy. Never cleaned up or tended to or comforted. That wasn’t allowed, Nedzu made it clear. Even being kind for a second would ruin everything.

The kid in the storage room didn’t ask for comfort. It cringed away from the open door at first, then snarled in anger, then cringed away again. Oboro asked if it was a boy or a girl, and Nedzu said it didn’t matter. He asked what its name was, and Nedzu said that didn’t matter, either. Oboro asked what would happen when the kid died, because he couldn’t imagine anybody surviving like this for the kind of long life the people of Musutafu have.

And that was when Nedzu said it. The thing that made Oboro’s head swim and his skin prickle, the thing that clenched his hands into fists at his sides and closed his throat so he couldn’t scream. When it dies, another will be chosen, he said. Sometimes one must be sacrificed for the good of all.

But it isn’t for the good of all. Oboro sees the storage room, the neglected kid, every time he closes his eyes – but when he opens them and looks around, he sees people he didn’t see before. People Musutafu ignores. People who look different or see things differently, people their perfect city doesn’t have room for. Kids, mostly, in families that look perfect from the outside. Oboro wonders how many of them grow up and walk away forever.

Would this be okay if it actually worked? Would Oboro find it easier to swallow, easier to ignore the way Shouta ignores it, the way Hizashi convinces himself, that Musutafu being the way it is justifies this? No, Oboro thinks as he stands in front of the door and lifts the key off the hook beside it. Even if it worked. If it’s built on something like this, it’s not worth it at all.

As he fits the key into the lock, Oboro wonders if he’s being selfish. He’s wondered that a lot since this idea sunk its claws into his head. If he shouldn’t take his guilt and horror as another sacrifice for the good of all, something he can and should bear so the rest of the city can live in peace. He hates reading, and he’s not as smart as Hizashi, but he went straight to the library and read everything he could find about morality, about ethics, about anything. Almost everything he could find said he was wrong.

There was one thing, though. Something old, something stuffed away at the back of a pile of books. Whoever saves one life saves the world entire. Oboro thinks about that, reminds himself of it. One life versus hundreds of thousands is the wrong way to look at it. It’s one life. One life, and Oboro can save it. He unlocks the door, kneels down so he won’t block out the light, and holds out his open hand.

The ground shakes ever so slightly beneath Oboro’s feet, not an earthquake or a foreshock – just a warning. Stop while you still can. Go no further. Oboro’s skin crawls, and his nose wrinkles at the smell leaking out of the storage room. He leaves his hand extended and speaks. “Hi,” he says. The ground rattles again, harder this time, and an odd, wavery sound drifts out of the darkness. “I’m Oboro. You might not remember me, but I was here before.”

There’s that wavery sound again. Nedzu called it whining, said that it was all that was left of the kid’s ability to speak after years down here, but Oboro doesn’t think that’s right. It sounds like sighing, or sobbing, quiet and plaintive. “I was here before,” Oboro says again. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. I just – I’m sorry. But I’m here. I’m here to help.”

Nothing moves in the storage room. The smell covers Oboro like a shroud, making his eyes sting. All he can hear is the kid’s breathing, faster and shallower than before. What does help even mean to them? “You never should have wound up in here. Nobody should,” Oboro says. “I’m here to take you away.”

Even when Oboro was standing here last time, asking questions that couldn’t be answered the way he needed them to be, he had this thought in the back of his mind. The thought of coming here, doing this. So he was careful with what he asked, and Principal Nedzu explained in detail about how even if someone was to take the child out of the room and care for them again, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. It had been in there too long, and something had been wrong with it from the start. It would never speak, never function normally. It must have grown used to its surroundings. It’s scared of people, scared of the light. Why would it want to leave? That’s where it belongs.

It isn’t, Oboro said. You put it there. You made it this way.

Indeed, Nedzu says. There was regret on his face, but not guilt. In any case, it’s too late.

Oboro doesn’t buy that. Not for a second. He leaves his hand extended, ignoring the low rumble from below the surface that rattles his bones. “I’m here to take you away,” he says again, and a small hand emerges from the darkness to brush against his.

Maybe the rattling isn’t some warning to Oboro from the universe. Maybe it’s just his own rage, because the hand fumbling awkwardly against his isn’t whole. It’s missing its index and middle fingers. All that’s left are two stumps barely protruding above the knuckles. Whatever they’ve been doing to this kid isn’t bad enough. They had to chop off the kid’s fingers, too. Oboro’s limbs might be humming with fury, but the kid’s hand is shaking like a leaf in the wind, its arm too weak to support it. The kid makes a weak attempt to hold onto Oboro’s hand, but loses their grip.

Oboro catches their hand in both of his. “Okay,” he says, steadying his voice with an effort. “Can you come out? Do you need me to help you?”

The kid doesn’t answer, but the hand caught between Oboro’s goes tense. Another hand emerges from the darkness, this one missing just the index finger, and with Oboro as an anchor, the kid pulls themselves halfway out of the storage room and into the light.

Their hair is long and matted, their eyes squeezed shut. They smell awful. Their skin is scratched raw all over their body, and there are sores on their feet and legs. Oboro feels a surge of disgust and hates himself for it. If the kid is filthy and starving and smells awful and can’t speak, it’s because they were made to be that way. It’s not their fault, and it’s not their fault no one’s helped them. Oboro doesn’t get to be grossed out. If he thinks it’s gross, he can do something about it.

But first he has to get the kid out of this building. “These stairs are kind of tall, so I’m going to carry you up them. Is that okay?” When the kid doesn’t respond, Oboro reaches for them, and when they don’t flinch, he scoops them into his arms. They weigh next to nothing. It feels like Oboro’s carrying a bundle of dry twigs. “Okay. Let’s go.”

There aren’t many lights on in Musutafu at this hour, but Oboro can see them flickering. He wonders if they always do that, or if it’s something new, something that’s only happening because he broke the rule and rescued the kid. But he hasn’t rescued the kid yet. They’re still inside the city. Someone could still stop him. Oboro picks up the pace, but the faster he walks, the more the kid’s arms and legs flop bonelessly, their head jarring with every step. They can’t even hold their head up. That’s how weak they are.

Oboro can fix that, though. He calls up his quirk, shaping the softest cloud he can manage, and settles the kid in the middle of it, bundling them up tight. The kid blinks up at Oboro through their matted hair. Their eyes are crimson, and too large in their hollow face. “That’s better, right?” Oboro asks, trying to keep his voice encouraging. “We’re just going to walk for a little bit. Just until morning, and when we stop, I’ll help you get cleaned up and find you some clothes and some food. How does that sound?”

Blink. Blink. “Okay,” Oboro says. He picks up the pace again. “We’ve got a little ways to go. Let me know if you need anything. If not, just enjoy the ride.”

He sounds confident, like he actually knows what he’s doing or where he’s going once he passes Musutafu’s borders, like there’s not panic scratching at him, growing stronger with every step. Oboro came prepared to help. He has a backpack full of food and medicine and clean clothes for the kid, and he knows how to defend himself as well as anybody. Better than some, maybe, because he’s taller than most people with the strength to match. It’s not about defending himself. It’s about everything else. Not knowing where he’s going. Not knowing what’s out there. Maybe knowing how to take care of someone but not knowing how to heal them. Having to do all of it alone.

Oboro would have brought Hizashi and Shouta with him, if he could. He spent four months trying to explain, trying to get them to go and see, pointing out all the other things he could see now, too. But nothing he said worked. Nothing he said could convince Shouta to look, or get Hizashi to look past his anger long enough to turn it into something to act on. Eventually Oboro had to stop trying to talk to them about it. If he kept talking, they might guess what he was planning. They might try to stop him. Oboro couldn’t let that happen.

But that means they’ll wake up tomorrow in whatever’s left of Musutafu, and Oboro won’t be there. He won’t have a chance to explain, and he’ll never see them again. If there’s anything Oboro knows about the ones who walk away from Musutafu, it’s that they don’t come back.

[hummingbird24220]

your angst writing is 1000/1000 got me tearing up when i read the zoro x swordsman reader :’)

could i request an angst luffy? i’m sure we all know he HAS to have severe ptsd after saboady and losing ace but no one from the crew ever really directly spoke about it with him. but here comes reader and lets say that something similar happened where they are in grave danger maybe got hit exactly the way ace died or they are kidnapped and then he loses it the way he did after waking up post ace death? maybe he blacks out and the crew have to hold him down like hes mad crazy while chopper is trying his best to make sure the reader survives? and ofcourse after reader is saved/survived, the crew or just reader have a sit down with luffy where he lets everything off his chest tbh i just feel like sobbing this week

Ughhhauh my feeeeeelings. I havent seen ace die in the anime yet, but i know its looming. ill probs cry ;.;

Hope this itches your angst itch. im not sure how i feel about this one, not my best, but its aight.

Enjoy!

What If I Was Too Late

Luffy x Reader

The sky had split open over the island — black clouds gnashing like teeth, lightning carving fury into the heavens. The Straw Hats were scattered across the battlefield, bruised but pushing back hard against the Marine ambush they hadn’t seen coming. You were separated from the others, fighting side-by-side with Robin when it happened.

The enemy wasn’t strong — not really. Not like the Warlords or the Admirals. But they were cruel, and they were precise. One of them had seen it. The way Luffy always shielded you. The way he watched you when he thought no one was looking.

And they used it.

Robin’s scream echoed through the trees.

Luffy arrived too late.

You were already on the ground, curled on your side, a gaping, smoking wound in your chest — right where Ace had been hit.

He didn’t even feel his legs move. One second he was on the edge of the forest, the next he was kneeling beside you, staring down at your barely-conscious body as your Devil Fruit power desperately fought to stitch you back together — but too slow. Too slow.

“(Y/n)...?”

Your eyes blinked open, foggy and unfocused. Blood stained your lips. “Lu...ffy?”

He froze.

The sound of your voice — broken, raspy, faint — was exactly like Ace’s last words.

“Luffy, I’m... sorry.”

No. No. No.

His heartbeat crashed in his ears like waves against rock. The crew started to catch up behind him, but Luffy couldn’t move. His hands were shaking. His vision blurred.

The last time he’d heard that kind of apology, Ace had died in his arms.

And now you — you — were bleeding out in front of him. Just like his brother. Just like the worst day of his life.

“LUFFY!” Zoro’s voice cracked like thunder behind him, but Luffy didn’t flinch.

Then came the scream.

He didn’t even know it was coming from his own throat until his knees buckled, and he fell forward, clutching you. He screamed so loud it felt like his lungs would tear apart, like the sky would shatter under the weight of it.

“Get Chopper!” Sanji bellowed.

Chopper was already running, crying, his hooves trembling as he dropped beside you and tore open his medical pack. “It’s not enough, it’s not enough— I need more time—!”

Luffy didn’t hear him.

He wasn’t there anymore.

He was somewhere deep, somewhere dark, somewhere filled with fire and smoke and the weight of his brother’s body in his arms.

“No—no no no no—” He clutched your face, smearing blood across your cheek as he tried to hold your head up. “Don’t die. You’re not allowed to die.”

You tried to speak, but it came out a wet gurgle.

And Luffy broke.

He surged up with a scream, haki flaring around him like an explosion. Robin fell back. Chopper nearly dropped his tools. Zoro grabbed Luffy’s arm — only to get flung aside like a rag doll.

“HE’S LOSING IT!” Franky yelled. “HOLD HIM—!”

Brook and Franky moved to flank him.

Sanji kicked at his legs. Zoro was back up, bruised but determined. It took all of them to hold Luffy down — muscles straining, eyes wild, voice ragged as he thrashed like a demon born of grief.

“I CAN SAVE HER—LET ME GO! LET ME—!”

“She’s alive!” Nami shouted, tears spilling as she grabbed his face. “She’s alive, Luffy—Chopper’s helping her—!”

He didn’t hear her.

He didn’t hear anything.

He just saw your face.

Your blood.

Your wound.

Just like Ace.

Just like Ace.

-

The trees were gone.

The cliffs? Flattened. Shattered like glass under a god’s fist.

What had once been a dense battlefield was now nothing but a cracked, smoldering plain, littered with the ruins of what the Straw Hats had fought to protect. Fire danced in the craters. The air sizzled with haki that boiled and thrashed like a living beast.

And at the center of it all was Luffy.

Unleashed.

He wasn’t talking anymore. He wasn’t thinking.

He was rampaging.

Every punch shattered the earth. Every scream split the sky.

“LUFFY, STOP!” Sanji coughed through the smoke, shielding Chopper and your body with his jacket. “YOU’RE GONNA KILL US—!”

“He can’t hear you,” Zoro growled, blood running down his temple. “He’s gone.”

Robin and Franky

had fallen back. Brook was covering Nami, who was crying so hard she could barely stand. Usopp was screaming Luffy’s name, waving his arms, trying to reach through the haze — but it was like trying to grab smoke with bare hands.

Luffy turned.

Eyes wide. Unfocused. Ferocious.

And he charged.

Straight at them.

Zoro moved first, swords drawn, haki shimmering — but even he hesitated.

He didn’t want to cut their captain.

But their captain wasn’t their captain right now.

He was a storm. A monster born of grief and guilt and love too big for one heart to bear.

The crew braced—

Then a whisper floated through the smoke.

“...Luffy.”

He froze mid-step.

Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

That voice—

Your voice.

Your body still lay crumpled in Chopper’s arms, still torn open, still healing slowly — too slowly — but your lips were moving. Barely.

“Luffy... ‘m here...”

The haze broke.

His knees hit the dirt with a crack.

His hands gripped his hair as he let out a strangled sound, something between a sob and a gasp, and bent forward like the weight of the sky had finally caught up with him.

“(Y/n)...?” he croaked. “You’re...”

Alive.

You were alive.

His body shook. His fists clenched against the dirt. “I thought— I thought you were gonna leave me too.”

“I’m here,” you whispered again, voice weak and hoarse, eyes barely open. “I’m here, Luffy...”

The crew held still.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Luffy crawled to you like he’d forgotten how to walk, every inch dragging across the wrecked battlefield like penance. When he finally reached you, his fingers barely dared to touch your arm.

You smiled — faint and broken.

And Luffy broke again.

But this time, it wasn’t rage.

It was relief. Terrible, overwhelming, soul-crushing relief. The kind that makes your chest hurt worse than grief.

He collapsed beside you, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice no louder than yours now.

“You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.”

The others started moving in slowly, their breathing ragged, some limping, some crying, all of them watching with wide, hollow eyes asthe Captain they thought they might have to fight finally, finally came back to himself.

-

The battle had long since ended, but no one left.

They couldn’t.

The ground was still scarred, trembling with the aftershocks of Luffy’s rage. No one dared move you — not while your body was still healing itself one heartbeat at a time.

So they built a camp.

Not far from the flattened battlefield, nestled under the remaining trees that had somehow survived, Robin and Franky cleared space. Sanji laid out clean blankets, warm covers. Nami took Chopper’s instructions and sterilized water, cloth, anything that could help.

And Luffy stayed exactly where he was.

He hadn’t let go of your hand.

Not once.

He sat cross-legged beside you on the thickest blanket, head bent low, gripping your hand like it was the last rope keeping him tethered to reality. His thumb brushed over your knuckles again and again, watching your face with fevered intensity, flinching at every twitch.

“Breathe, (Y/n),” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Just breathe. That’s all. Just keep doing that.”

Chopper bustled around you like a tiny storm — checking your pulse, temperature, rate of regeneration. He looked more exhausted than you did, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Not until he was sure.

Luffy startled when your eyes closed for the first time.

“H-hey—hey, no, stay awake, please—!”

You stirred slightly, a soft hum escaping your lips, but your body sagged deeper into the warmth and comfort the crew had piled around you.

“Luffy,” Chopper said gently, “it’s okay. She’s just sleeping.”

“She—” He shook his head. “But—what if—what if she doesn’t wake up?”

“She will.” Chopper moved closer and tugged another blanket up to your shoulders. “Sleep is good. She needs it. The Healing Fruit’s working overtime — rest will help her regenerate faster.”

Luffy didn’t answer.

He just watched you. Watched you breathe. Watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest like it was the only thing keeping him alive now.

“She’ll be okay,” Chopper whispered, placing a hoof on his shoulder.

Luffy didn’t nod. Didn’t move.

But his eyes finally closed for a moment — just a moment — and when he opened them again, there were tears caught in his lashes.

“…I can’t lose her too.”

No one responded.

Because what could you say to that?

The captain who had lost his brother.

Who had failed to protect his nakama once before.

Who had been forced to get stronger not just for the dream, but for the fear.

He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t eat. He didn’t speak.

He just sat there.

Holding your hand.

Watching your face.

Waiting for you to wake up again.

-

Morning came slow.

The night had been thick with tension and the soft, muffled sounds of worry. A few birds had returned, cautiously chirping from the trees that still stood. Smoke from the distant battlefield had thinned into haze.

The crew had made camp around you in a protective circle. Sanji and Brook took the first watch, murmuring quietly while Robin helped Chopper finally lie down, his tiny form buried under a blanket as he snored gently.

Then Zoro, then Franky, then Nami.

Each of them sat near enough to hear your breathing, to glance over and know you were still alive.

Luffy had finally — finally — fallen asleep just before dawn.

It wasn’t peaceful.

His head had slumped forward, his shoulders hunched like a soldier who had never put his armor down. One hand remained wrapped tightly around yours, the other cradling it in his lap as if he were afraid you might vanish if he let go.

And then the sun rose.

Soft pink spilled over the horizon, brushing the earth with warmth that the night had stolen. The light reached your face first, gentle and golden.

You stirred.

A small sound left your lips as your brows furrowed, and your fingers gave the tiniest twitch within his.

Luffy’s eyes snapped open.

He was awake in a heartbeat, jolting upright, his hand tightening around yours instinctively as he turned to you — eyes wide, full of something raw and ragged.

Your lashes fluttered. You blinked at the light.

And then your gaze met his.

“…hey,” you rasped, voice hoarse.

He made a sound like he was choking and immediately leaned over you, his free hand cupping your face with a reverence that hurt to see. His thumb brushed under your eye, down your jaw, thumb trembling slightly.

“(Y/n)… you’re awake… You’re— You’re okay—”

You smiled faintly, trying to lift your other hand but failing. “My hand is sweaty.”

He blinked.

Then laughed.

A real one.

It was broken, breathy, soaked in relief, but it cracked through the air like sunlight through clouds. He dropped his forehead to yours, shoulders shaking.

“Idiot,” he whispered. “You scared me so bad…”

You closed your eyes again, your breath evening out.

And his tears returned — quiet, steady, without shame.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered against your brow. “I really thought… I was too late.”

You wanted to answer. To tell him he wasn’t. That you were here. That the worst had passed.

But your body was too tired.

So instead, you just tightened your fingers around his as best you could.

He felt it.

And he didn’t let go.

-

They moved you just after midday.

It took time — carefully coordinated effort, hushed voices, and hands that trembled more from fear than fatigue. Every step was calculated. Every shift of your weight met with winces and held breath. Chopper barked instructions, his doctor’s voice steady despite his red-rimmed eyes.

The hole in your chest was still there. A deep, awful wound that should’ve been fatal — would’ve been, if not for your Devil Fruit. It wasn’t just healing you. It was working — the edges of the injury knitting themselves closed, hour by hour. Tissues weaving back together with slow, glowing warmth.

But that didn’t make it hurt less.

You flinched when they lifted you onto the makeshift stretcher. Cried out softly when the blanket brushed too close. Your breath caught with every bump.

Luffy was there. Every second.

Helping carry you. Shielding you from sun and wind. When you whimpered, he was the first to react — flinching like he had been struck, whispering your name like a prayer he couldn’t finish.

They laid you in the softest bed the crew could manage — a nest of blankets and pillows set up inside a nearby forest clearing that Robin had chosen. It smelled like flowers and fresh grass, sunlight dappling through the leaves.

You didn’t have the strength to sit up yet, but your breathing was easier now. The pain was still there, sharp and hot, but less suffocating.

And Luffy hadn’t moved from your side.

Not once.

He sat next to the bed, his arms resting on the edge, your hand still held gently in his. He didn’t bounce. Didn’t fidget. Just watched.

Watched you.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t shout. His eyes weren’t filled with adventure or wonder or hunger.

They were red-rimmed, shadowed, and haunted.

Like he was still trapped in that moment — the second he saw your body lying in the dirt.

You stirred, watching him. “You... okay?”

He blinked. The question caught him off-guard. He looked down at your hand in his, and then back to your face.

You’d never seen him like this.

Not even after Marineford.

Not even after Sabaody.

This was quieter. Heavier. Like whatever he’d been carrying in his chest had finally cracked under its own weight.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

You stared at him — at the way he looked so much older in that moment. Not in his face, but in the silence between his words.

“…You can rest, Luffy. I’m not going anywhere.”

He shook his head, eyes burning again. “I thought that last time too.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not yet.

So you just let your hand rest in his, letting the warmth pass between you.

Letting him stay.

Letting him watch.

Because even if he didn’t say it — Even if he couldn’t say it yet — You knew:

He was more afraid than he had ever been.

And not of death. But of losing you.

-

It was late afternoon when the bleeding started again.

Slow at first — a shimmer of red seeping through the edge of your bandages. Nothing urgent, nothing panicked. But Chopper noticed.

He always noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pressed new gauze gently to your skin, replacing layers with practiced hands. But he wasn’t smiling anymore. His ears were flat. His hooves trembled as he worked.

You were still healing — slowly. Painfully. But the bleeding hadn’t stopped. Not completely.

And you were tired.

So tired.

Every breath took effort. Every blink dragged like the world was just a little too far away.

You whispered something to Luffy earlier. He’d leaned in, his forehead brushing yours. He’d smiled — not big, not the usual grin — but a real one. Soft.

Then Sanji called for dinner.

Luffy hesitated.

But you’d whispered, “Go eat. I’ll be here.”

So he’d gone.

Now he sat at the table with the others, plate mostly untouched. Fork in hand, barely lifting it. His foot tapped anxiously beneath the table. Every now and then, his head turned back toward the med bay.

Chopper stood near the fireplace, staring into it, silent.

Robin was the first to notice. “Chopper?”

The reindeer doctor didn’t look up.

“…She’s still bleeding.”

Everyone froze.

Luffy’s hand stilled mid-air.

“She’s healing,” Nami said quickly, her voice soft but shaky. “The fruit’s working, right?”

Chopper’s shoulders sagged. “It’s working. But it’s slow. Too slow.”

Zoro frowned. “She’s strong. She’s held on this long.”

“She shouldn’t have been able to.” Chopper’s voice cracked now — raw, low, quiet. “I didn’t say anything before because… because she was healing. But her blood loss hasn’t stopped. And she’s getting weaker.”

Luffy’s fork clattered onto the plate.

Usopp swallowed hard. “What… are you saying?”

Chopper turned.

Eyes wide. Voice tight. “I’m saying I don’t know how much longer she has.”

The silence that followed felt wrong. Like it didn’t belong on this ship, with this crew.

Luffy stared at Chopper.

Eyes unreadable. Mouth slightly open.

“She’s still breathing,” he said, as if that were enough. “She’s gonna be fine.”

Chopper took a slow step forward. “Captain… any other person would’ve died already. She’s still here because of that fruit — and because she’s strong. But I don’t know how long she can hold out like this. Her body’s not keeping up with the healing anymore. It’s—” He hesitated. “It’s like she’s… stuck. Between recovering and dying.”

Sanji ran a hand down his face, stepping back from the table. Brook stood like a statue. Robin closed her book without looking up.

And Luffy…

Luffy sat still.

His jaw was clenched. Knuckles white.

“…You said she’s still breathing.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going back.”

He stood. No hesitation. No argument.

And when no one stopped him, he walked.

Back to the med bay. Back to your side.

Like if he left again — even for a second — you might disappear.

--

The days passed like molasses.

Some mornings, you woke up clearer — the sky looked bluer, the wind softer. You could smile. You could speak.

Other days, you barely opened your eyes.

Your breath came ragged and slow, like your body was still trying to remember how to do something so simple.

But the wound was healing.

Chopper changed your bandages religiously, marking every millimeter of flesh that reknit itself. From a hole to a deep gouge. From a gouge to a slash. The bleeding slowed. The pain stayed.

But you were alive.

Luffy stayed as close as he could.

He came and went in brief windows — long enough to shower, to eat, to let the others make him leave when they noticed the bags under his eyes. But he always came back, slouching into the chair beside you like the world didn’t exist beyond this room.

He held your hand even when you were too out of it to notice. Talked to you when you didn’t answer. Sometimes he watched you in silence, eyes flicking to your chest every few seconds just to see it rise.

Today was a better day.

You were propped up slightly, a pillow behind your back. The wound still throbbed, but the worst of the agony had dulled to a hot, manageable ache. Sanji brought broth. Nami adjusted your blanket. Zoro sat nearby, silent but present. Chopper hovered like a satellite.

And Luffy was there.

Like always.

You looked around the room — tired, but aware. They were all here.

And so, you asked the question.

“…Luffy?”

He perked up instantly, eyes scanning your face. “Yeah?”

“…Are you okay?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any pain you'd felt.

Luffy blinked, once. Twice.

And then he let out a short, incredulous breath. “Me?”

You nodded slowly, head tilting. “You haven’t… looked okay.”

He stared at you.

Then at the others.

Zoro’s jaw tensed. Nami looked away. Sanji set the bowl down gently. Chopper shifted from hoof to hoof.

Then Luffy laughed.

A bitter, broken sound.

“You’re asking me if I’m okay?”

Your fingers tightened slightly on the blanket.

“I should be the one— I should be the one asking you that!” His voice cracked, his hands curling into fists. “You almost died, and I— I wasn’t even there—!”

“Luffy—” Nami started, but he shook his head.

He was standing now. Pacing a short, erratic line.

“I saw you lying there, and it was him all over again— Ace— Ace was right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t do anything.” His voice was shaking now. “I held him while he died. And I had to wake up without him. You know what the first thing I did was?”

He turned to them, eyes glassy.

“I screamed. I ran. I begged someone — anyone — to bring him back. I broke down like some pathetic, useless kid, and Rayleigh had to drag me off the ground.”

None of them said a word.

He looked back at you, now seated again beside the bed. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I thought I lost you. Just like him. I saw your blood, and I broke again. Just like before.”

Tears were falling now, silent but steady.

“I’ve been scared every day since Ace. Scared that someone else I care about will die and I won’t be fast enough, strong enough— enough. I try to smile, to laugh, but it’s still there. All the time.”

You reached out, fingers trembling, and he took your hand instantly — held it against his heart like he was afraid to let it go.

“…I’m so tired of being scared,” he whispered. “And when I saw you like that, I—I just—”

He didn’t finish.

He just buried his head against your hand, breathing like someone drowning in grief too deep for words.

The others stood still, quiet.

None of them had ever heard him talk like this. None of them had ever seen him let it out like this.

But maybe it was finally time.

Maybe he needed to break — so he could start healing, too.

The silence after Luffy’s confession hung thick in the air.

He still held your hand, forehead pressed against your fingers like he could anchor himself there — like you were the only thing keeping him from sinking again. His shoulders trembled faintly, his breath hitched and uneven.

You stared at him, throat tight, chest rising and falling with effort.

And then something in you cracked.

“…I was scared too.”

Your voice was small — smaller than it had ever been — and the words felt like glass in your throat. But they came anyway.

Luffy looked up.

Your eyes were glassy now, lips trembling, hands shaking. You forced yourself to keep speaking. You had to.

“I didn’t know if I was going to make it. I didn’t know if the fruit was going to… do anything. I’ve never been hurt like that before, and for a while, I didn’t feel it working. I just felt cold.”

Your voice broke.

“And I thought— I thought I was going to die alone in that field. I didn’t know if anyone was coming.”

A sob slipped out, sudden and raw, like a dam giving way.

“I didn’t want to die,” you cried. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to lose you, or anyone. I wanted to fight, but I couldn’t move. I was so scared—”

Luffy reached for you immediately, not hesitating for a second. His arms wrapped around you carefully, like you might still shatter, like he was terrified of hurting you — but you clung to him like a lifeline.

It was the first time you’d cried since you got hurt.

Not just from pain. Not from shock. But from everything else.

From fear.

From grief.

From survival.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you whispered, voice muffled against his shoulder. “I didn’t want to be the reason you were hurting again.”

“You’re not,” Luffy murmured, tightening his hold. “You’re not, (Y/n). You’re here. You made it. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s a miracle,” you breathed. “I should’ve died.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his own red-rimmed but clear.

“But you didn’t.”

The others stood in silence.

Chopper wiped his eyes. Nami looked away, her hand over her mouth. Sanji lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Zoro’s head was bowed, expression unreadable.

“I thought I was ready,” you whispered. “To be a part of this crew. To fight. To bleed. But… I didn’t realize how much it would hurt. Not just my body — but the fear. Of losing everyone.”

Luffy’s hand found yours again.

“You don’t have to carry that alone,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”

You nodded, tears still falling — but slower now. Softer. No longer a flood.

Just a release.

You were still healing.

But now… so was he.

-

Eventually, the crew gave you space.

Chopper gave your shoulder a final, gentle pat. Sanji promised something hot and rich would be waiting when you could eat more than broth. Nami pressed your hand in hers and left with a shaky smile. Zoro gave a small nod. Robin touched your cheek briefly.

Then, it was just you and Luffy.

The tent was quiet now, the air warm and still. A breeze moved the canvas slightly, but it felt calm — like the world had exhaled.

Luffy sat beside you, finally calm himself. There were still shadows under his eyes, still remnants of something broken behind his smile, but the weight of panic had lifted. For now.

He brushed your hair gently from your face, eyes soft.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “at least you’ll have a really cool scar now.”

You blinked.

Then laughed — a small, surprised sound that turned into a wince halfway through. “Ow—ow—okay, okay, not ready to laugh yet.”

Luffy panicked instantly. “Wait—are you okay?! Did it open again?! I’ll go get Chopper—!”

“Luffy.” You reached out and caught his sleeve. “Luffy.”

He froze.

You gave him a gentler smile, a breathless huff escaping your lips. “I’m okay. Just sore. Still hurts when I laugh, that’s all.”

He sat back down quickly, still hovering, hands twitching like he was bracing to catch you if you so much as blinked wrong.

You looked at him — really looked — and then shifted your hand slightly against the bed.

“…Come here?”

He stared at you.

You patted the space beside you. “Carefully. Slow. But… I want you here.”

He hesitated only a second.

Then he moved.

Slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of breaking you all over again. He laid down beside you, propping himself up just enough to curl in around your side, one arm draped gently over your waist, forehead resting against your shoulder — his straw hat resting on the ground beside the bed.

You sighed.

Your fingers tangled into his hair without thinking.

He let out a breath.

And then… silence.

But not a painful one.

Not scared.

Just quiet. Soft. Safe.

His voice came low, barely a whisper. “You feel like home.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Because in that moment — in his arms, in the quiet — You both finally believed it:

You were still here. And so was he.

[killianjonesapologist]

‼️‼️MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SEASON 8 EPISODE 13 OF CRIMINAL MINDS‼️‼️

spencer x gn!reader, where reader goes and comforts Spencer after Maeve’s death

(very short, post-zugzwang, no use of y/n, no specific romance between Reid and reader but reader definitely has a crush on him, angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of Tobias Hankel, found family trope near the end, a little cringe but cringe=happy in my book)

VERY self indulgent bc I need comfort after watching it 🥲

You knock gently on Spencer’s door, hoping he might recognize the silly knocking pattern you two had made up when you both first joined the team, a way of communicating that it was truly you who was at the door. 

He knocked back to finish the pattern, but to no avail, the door never opened. 

“Look Spence, I want you to have time to heal and be alone, but this isn’t controlled isolation by any means.” You took a deep breath to collect your thoughts on the subject at hand, “I’m here to help however you’ll let me, and I know it’s incredibly difficult to ask for help, but I know you need this.” Your voice slowly breaking down to a whisper.

“I need this..”

Your ears perk up once you hear footsteps coming towards the door, followed by the echo of a chain latch being undone. 

He squints his eyes hard as he slowly lets the bright lights of the common area seep into his dark cave of a home. He looks… tired. You could tell he hasn’t shaven in a while, and you can’t blame him. At a time like this, basic hygiene isn’t always a person first priority.

“So uh, did Penelope leave all these—“ you’re cut off by a suffocating hug from him. If there was anyone he would be willing to see right now, it’s you.

You tangled your hands into his hair and whispered comforting mantras as you held him impossibly close. He begins to softly sob into your shoulder, soaking the shirt you had borrowed from him after forgetting to bring your pajamas to a case somewhere across the state.

It may not have been a mistake that you never gave it back.

“I’m not here to tell you to be ok, or to get better, I’m here to tell you that I’m glad you’re still alive and still kicking even after something so horrible as that.” You spoke softly, providing an explanation of why you felt so compelled to visit.

“Why am I cursed?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper. You shifted to look into his cold, bloodshot eyes, giving him a small hum, signaling him to continue his train of thought.

“Sure I remember all kinds of horrors just from our job in general, but I also remember every horrible detail of my own trauma. I used to close my eyes and see-“ he chokes out a sob between sentences and you hold him closer, moving your hand to rub his back, “I used to see Tobias, and now I close my eyes and just see her.” They had made eye contact for the first time mere minutes before she got shot. 

“Even when I’m awake, that’s all I can think of.” Your heart broke with every word he uttered. 

“When was the last time you slept, Spence?”

There was a moment of silence that fell over the room, before hearing him letting out more quiet sobs.

“The day before she died.” 

It had been around half a week since it had all gone down. Spencer Reid hadn’t slept in 4 days. 

“Oh, Spencer…” you coo, placing your hands to cradle his head into your neck as he continues to cry. “We’ll get through this. Me and the whole team are here. I don’t know if you saw, but Garcia left you plenty of gift baskets outside.” You try to lighten the mood, your heart glowing as you hear a little sniff of a laugh come out of Spencer. 

“Yeah, I saw. Please tell her I said thank you.” He picks his head up and tries his best to give you a soft smile.

“Of course. We all care so much about you. We’re your family.”

The BAU felt closer to a true family than either of you had experienced. Of course, Spencer had his mother and his aunt, but it was less than a broken home. Here, you had a weird Italian grandpa, a stern widowed father, a badass uncle, and three wine aunts who you all loved so much. 

The BAU was home to both of you, you were just hoping he could find it in him to come back.

[risingsunresistance]

[gxlden-angels]

I've had this account now for 5ish years now. I've been in therapy for years, not exclusively for religious trauma but it's a major part. I've gotten better. I have a lot of content here I could reflect on, but I don't think I want to. I like knowing I progressed. I don't like looking at what from. Usually religious trauma comes up in therapy as an "oh yea...." instead of by name now. It's indirect. Enmeshment. Parentification. Vaginismus. Scrupulous and Harm OCD. Alexithymia. Derealization and Depersonalization. Paranoia.

I'm like, a real adult now I guess. I have a bachelor's degree now. I walk this upcoming weekend. I live in a house and I'm renting out a room with my own money. It has a backyard my cat likes to run around in. I had a job interview in my chosen field today. It went well

Then I'll go back to my family for the weekend and I find out they're spiraling into AI generated christian conspiracy theory videos. Their pastor is preaching about Trump being the anti-christ, and any non-Trump or Conspiracy message is the same thing he's said for the past decade, sometimes word for word. My uncle is convinced he's a prophet. He tells a story about a girl that was paralyzed after not listening to his message. My grandfather is convinced us black people are the true Israelites and chosen people. I thought I was the only one medically neglected by my aunt who's a doctor. I was not. I show her my emotions chart app. She tells me it's good so I can recognize when I feel bad and remember Jesus's love until I'm happy again. It's not normal for your joints to pop out of place apparently. We all learned this at the same time. It's Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. That explains a lot. My grandfather fell asleep to a video about the Ethiopian bible and how other bibles were made to take out miracles by Jesus and angels again. The remote is lodged in his hand so we can't change it

Then I talk about plants and food with my dad and my grandmother. My dad jokingly complains about his mom making him garden with her all day half a century ago. I give her a little kiss on her forehead before I go. My dad sends me home with leftover peach cobbler he made. I eat it with my lunch at my job. I answer phone calls at a front desk. I paid real taxes for the first time this year. I go to therapy and I talk about everything from my sex life to my graduate school plans to my opinions about generative AI (I hate it). I'm like, a real, breathing adult that has autonomy I guess. I'm not even claimed as a dependent anymore. I built my own desk that I bought from Big Lots.

You get where I'm going with this right? I'm not cured or healed by any means. Far from it in fact. I still get a pang of anxiety using the lord's name in vain and a chill down my spine when manifesting feels too close to confessing. It's harder making a personal post about religious trauma now though. It's not necessarily that I'm cured, it's just so engrained that I've created atheistic excuses to stay stuck in my religious trauma. I can pinpoint the source of it if I think about it long enough, so I don't think about it long enough

I'm not afraid to think lustful thoughts because holding lust in your heart is a sin, it's because I feel like a creep. I'm not worried I'll be sent to hell if I make mistakes that take me further from Jesus, I just think making mistakes would make me a bad person and an asshole. These beliefs popped out of nowhere, of course. They aren't influenced by the religious trauma so deeply buried in my head that taking it out would feel like taking out the gray matter of my brain itself. I'm schrodingers's man where I'm only a human when I'm observed. It used to be a deity but then it was you. I'm observed by you and that proved I'm human just long enough to get by when I most needed it. I still have that problem, but I'm seen outside of here. I see myself more often too

I don't want this post to seem like a good-bye, because it's not. I'm just currently in a period of limbo and I feel like the next generation of religious trauma bloggers are rising. I'm too busy arguing with my therapist about why I'm a bad person in a way that doesn't just boil down to "I'm a sinner in need of redemption" in a desperately-secular way. I'm self-aware enough to know that's what I'm doing, but not progressing enough to stop yet. I think what will happen is I'll eventually get frustrated enough to give up on the secular origins of my mental distress. I think a lot of you are in a similar place. You're out long enough that it feels like it should be over. You don't live in the bible-thumping, belt-wielding, gay-bashing, hellscape you once did. You might even be no-contact. You pay taxes now in your apartment. But it's not over. It's still there. It's just harder to say it's Jesus's fault I'm like this. It feels like it's been too long to still blame the bible.

It's not. It's buried in your synapses and neurons and muscles and bones and skin and hair and teeth and it's hard to remember that after 5 years. It's not oozing out into your bloodstream and filling you with enough cortisol and adrenaline to fuel an elephant anymore. It trickles though like a leaky faucet. I think I've lost the plot at this point, but you get it

Like I said, not a goodbye despite what it seems like. I just have to remember that a leaky faucet is still a concern

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[luck-of-the-drawings]

when i was in highschool one o my biggest coping mechanisms was drawing all the kids i hated getting killed and eaten and killed. and well. time is a slowly ascending spiral. you will find patterns.(i work as a blackjack dealer. gamblers are FASCINATING

[front-facing-pokemon]

[korattata]

I have been. Very anxious about my puppy's mortality tbh but today when talking to the vet she said she'd recommend getting her blood rechecked in 3 months...

3 whole months... She really thinks she's gonna live 3 more months... In 4 months she'll be 17... Cookie..........

(Obligatory old baby photos)

[nexility-sims]

🌷

[jutsuuu]

girl help I’m experiencing

[doodlingwren]

Hiatus

I am going on hiatus for a bit more. I really really hoped the stuff that have been going on lately were already "sorted out" but, uhm... they aren't. I need to take a bit more time offline once again, and try to work things out.

Thank you for your patience ❤

Wren